Perfectly Imperfect

I have been seeing a lot of posts and memes swirling around the internet stating things like, “No mom is perfect,” or “No one's life is as perfect as it is on Facebook,” or “Perfection is impossible.”

It is making me a little sad. Has “perfect” become a four letter word? Do we truly believe that perfect is unachievable? That our lives will never be perfect? Have we collectively given up?

Except, I don’t agree with any of this. I believe that people need to redefine perfection. All of us. I see perfection everywhere. Perfect isn’t a straight line, like we have been led to believe. Perfection is that squiggly line our toddlers draw across a piece of paper for the first time. It is in their smile, their pride in their creation. It is in our darkest moments, in our frustration, in our weaknesses. It is in the hope for the future, in the kindness of strangers. It is in simplicity and complications. It is the details, the moments in between the milestones.

My life is chaotic and messy. We have ups and downs, dark hours and hours of joy. The noise is deafening, the mess is maddening but, you know what? It is perfect. Even when my daughter is ignoring my words and I am trying my best not to vomit with morning sickness, it is perfect. It is perfectly imperfect and just the way I want my life to be. Every choice, every mistake, every moment has brought me to this place in time. To my family and my life. To me, that is perfection.

I don’t want a house out of a magazine, the ones all white and shiny and untouched. I want my 50-year-old house, with peeling paint and messy kitchen table. I want a sink full of dishes and a hallway that works as a megaphone for laughter. I want the mess because it shows that we are living our lives. We are having fun. We are not so focused on this crooked ideal of the “perfect home” that we loose touch with our dreams. We know that sometimes the perfect day is saying no to chores and yes to outside. Sometimes, it is saying no to outside and yes to chores. Either way, life fills these walls and no interior decorator could replicate that kind of perfection.

I don’t want the children with perfect hair and clothes. I don’t want pressed dresses and a scrubbed clean sheen. I love my dirty, happy, smiling child. I love her grass stained knees and her elaborate stories.  The smell of dirt and fresh air in her wild hair is tangible proof of her adventuring spirit. A spirit we nurture in the name of our own version of perfection. Not one we quash to achieve the ideal kid. To us, she is perfect.

Maybe our perfect is different than yours. I actually hope it is. That is the beauty in it all. There is no one-size-fits-all ideal for perfection. YOU make it what YOU want it to be. Maybe you want the magazine home and children. Maybe, to you, that seems impossible. But to me, perfection is achieved the moment your life takes your breath away and is renewed with every breathless moment thereafter. Every tear that is shed is an opportunity to relish the joys in life. How perfect is that?

Please, do not stop talking about how happy your life is. I will not stop sharing photos of the chaotic love we share, of the moments that make me melt into a pile of sobbing gratitude. Please do not look at a smiling mom or dad and think, “There is no way their life is THAT perfect,” because, to them, it may just be. I promise to also share in my challenges and my frustrations. I will give them the attention they need so that when the storm passes, I can see the rainbow with that much more relief.

With so much sad in the world, so much anger and hate, I choose to redefine perfection. I choose to see the opportunity for lightness on the other side of the dark. I choose to balance the good with the bad. I choose to live a life filled to the brim with gratitude and if it comes across as unbelievable perfection, I hope you choose to believe it. Believe it because I fought for my perfection. It is built on years of struggle and tears, disappointment and fear.

Believe it because it is mine, I made it. I believe in yours. This is our perfect, it is perfectly imperfect and messy as hell, let’s not change it for anything.

Life's Work

Some people are born knowing their direction in life, what they are to be. Others receive a calling

later. A clear sign of what direction they should head in.

I am part of the latter.

I spent many, many years pursuing various interests only to realize that they were not what I was meant to do. I watched as people around me worked and sacrificed to realize their dreams. They moved across the country, they worked numerous jobs to pay for school; they stayed awake longer than humanly possible, all in the name of their life’s work.

I was envious. There wasn’t anything I was willing to move mountains for, nothing that I would up-heave my life in order to obtain. I wondered if somehow I had missed my sign. That maybe I had been sent the calling but never realized it enough to answer.

I drifted along, trying to avoid eye contact with my future. When conversation turned to “someday” I stayed as vague as possible. My “someday” consisted of a family; a career, a calling, never entered my daydreams. 

I wanted to be a mom. But after so many years of fighting for women’s liberation, for equality, was I doing my gender, myself, a disservice by wanting to be “only” a mother? I didn’t know, so I kept my goals to myself.

I was told my life would change the moment my first child was born. I was told it would never be the same. The tones of these warnings were always cautionary. “Enjoy your life while you can,” style warnings.  I appreciated the concern for my impending loss of freedom but approached motherhood the way I approached most things in my life, I would have to figure it out on my own, making my own opinions and conclusions along the way.

The moment my eyes met my daughter’s for the first time everything changed. My life, for the first time in 30 years, had meaning, direction. I had found my calling. My life would never be the same and I wouldn’t change a thing.

I wasn’t raised in a strong religious family. My grandparents attended church and I would occasionally tag along. I envied the people who worshipped with such faith and conviction. I hoped that I would find that some day.

Then I became a mother. I finally knew what it was like to have complete and utter faith in something. To believe so strongly that you would lay your life on the line for it. I understood what it was like to believe, unwaveringly, in something I could not see, smell, or touch. I had found my faith in my child and in love. Pure, absolute, love.

I finally found something that I would move mountains for. Something I would lose sleep to make happy. I had found the thing I would walk across the Earth to keep. I found my calling in motherhood, in love.

Some days are hard. I wonder if this really is what I was meant to do. I struggle to keep my head above water meanwhile the bathroom is flooding. But then, just as I am about to take a giant breath before my head submerges, she says it. “I love you mommy.”

I gasp for air. I can hear those words every day for a million years and they will always take my breath away while somehow making it easier to breath.

She gives me faith in myself. She makes me believe that I can, in fact, do this. She makes me want to be a better person, so she will have someone worth looking up to. She, and her unborn sibling, are my calling.

During my darkest days, when I feel like I am failing, I sit quietly and look at the life I created with my husband. I think about how big she loves. I think about all she is to do. I think about how blessed I am to know her, then I allow myself to realize, this was my doing. I am raising one hell of a kid; clearly I am doing something right.

There will always be days full of tears and fits. There will be fights and struggles. But, through it all I know that I chose this life. I chose to have a family, to become a mother and in doing so, I found myself. I found my potential, I found my dreams, I found my voice.

This Mother’s Day, I celebrate my children. I celebrate the life that will never be the same. I celebrate the sleepless nights and the spread too thin days. I celebrate the good and the bad. I celebrate love. I celebrate it all because it is all that I have, and I couldn’t be happier.

A Rainbow Of Hope

A “rainbow baby” is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of

the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of light, color, energy and hope.

We have endured multiple storms in our quest for a family. Our daughter was born after a devastating loss. She softened the damage that storm had caused. It was easier to heal with her presence. She gave us hope. She was our dreams and love personified.

Becoming parents was one of the best things to ever happen to my husband and I. (Tied with meeting and subsequently marrying.) The moment I locked eyes with this tiny person that I had helped in creating, my purpose in life became clear. I was born to be her mom.

The long nights of the newborn months were laced with sweet moments all making the exhaustion worth it. Involuntary smiles became intentional grins. Coos became words. Belly flops soon turned into steps. Before we knew it, our baby was a toddler.

Adding to our family became our next great project. We would create yet another masterpiece. Unfortunately, it didn’t go as planned. We struggled to conceive. And when we finally did, I miscarried. Three times. After the last loss we were unable to conceive again. We tried for two years with no results.

My heart was in a million pieces and I needed to heal. I couldn’t look at my husband’s worried face without wanting to cry. I needed to stop. We needed to stop.

After a discussion that spanned weeks and miles, we decided that our family was everything we ever wanted. We were all happy, healthy, and there was an abundance of love. If this is what was in the cards for us, we would consider ourselves blessed. We didn’t want to spend another minute worrying about what may or may not be and instead wanted to focus on what was.

We had endured some turbulent storms. But we endured. We never lost hope we just shifted our dreams. We spent weeks and months cleaning up the wreckage from our storms. Healing and practicing gratitude for all that we have, all that we love. Our focus was on the here and now, no longer living in a cloud of unknowns and uncertainties.

At some point during our healing something happened, a miracle of sorts. A tiny little change, an unperceivable shift. We may never fully know what happened, it may forever stay a mystery. All we know is that something major was about to happen. A dream, revisited.

Hope is a funny thing. You may give up on it. You may even change what it is you are hoping for. But hope never gives up on you. It stays there, in the way back of your mind, just waiting to be fired back up. Same theory goes for dreams. Especially the ones you shelved, thinking it was what you wanted, the right thing to do.

Slowly, but surely, a rainbow is forming. Our storms are gone, but will never be forgotten. We will bare the scars forever but those scars will be softened by this counterbalance of hope. The clouds are slowly giving way to sunshine but the darkness they cast will be felt forever.

After holding our breaths for two months and realizing that a dream we thought we had moved on from was still very much in our hearts, we are, still cautiously but optimistically, expecting our second child later this year. This is one of those dreams that you do not seek out. It finds you, on it’s own terms, in it’s own time.

My heart will always ache for the babies that should have, could have been. It was an honor to be their mom, even for the briefest of moments. I am beyond grateful for this chance to have another child. There are so many families that never get this moment. I know that we have been blessed with miracles twice. I will never take a moment with them for granted. We weathered too many storms.

This week we got to hear our baby’s heartbeat. Listening to the beautiful thumping reduced me to tears. Of happiness, of relief, of hope. Hope that refused to give up on us.

Hope Over Fear

*NOTE: This piece was originally written on April 19, 2013, days after the Boston Marathon bombings. Later that day,  Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was found hiding in a boat in Watertown and arrested. This was published in the Brattleboro Reformer a week later on April 27. 2013.*
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I had woken before my daughter. A rarity, but to be expected after a fitful night’s sleep filled with anxiety. Shootings at a Boston area college, officer down, suspect fatally wounded, the other on the run. Morning had seemed unattainable.

A swirl of emotions and exhaustion clouded my brain as I checked my sleeping daughter one last time before heading into the living room. I clicked the power button on the radio. NPR had a special broadcast. “People across Boston and surrounding suburbs have been told to stay indoors amid a massive police manhunt for one of two brothers suspected of carrying out the Boston Marathon bombings.....”

I set about my morning routine, listening, thinking. An entire city on lockdown. A 19 year old child, who may have committed crimes beyond my comprehension was seriously wounded and on the run. Somewhere a mother had lost both her sons. One to death and one to today’s events. A manhunt and ultimately, I predict, a long prison sentence. Both gone to her as soon as they made the decision to attack a city. Meanwhile, my child was safe and asleep in our bed, just like every night since her birth 32 months earlier.

I folded laundry and organized my thoughts. Washed the dishes and tried to soothe my swirling mind. Behind me I heard the distinct and light steps of an awake and smiling girl.

“Hi Momma!”

“Good morning, sweetheart! Hungry?”

NPR droned on while I made my daughter pancakes. Speculation flowed from the speakers while I poured maple syrup onto her plate. She thanked me and smiled. Had the grieving mother had these moments, too? My thoughts must have shown on my face or maybe her perception is stronger than I could have imagined. Either way, my daughter looked at me through the steam rising from her breakfast, her big blue eyes sparkling.

“You ok, Momma? What’s happening?”

How was I to explain to her, in words she could understand, if I couldn’t comprehend a bit of it? What do you say to an innocent child? Her world is so happy, so full of goodness, so full of love. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe her question wasn’t so she could have an answer but so I could shift my perspective.

Her world is my world. It is so happy, so full of goodness, so full of love. She is the center of that world and is the shining bright beacon of hope for the future. I sat back for a moment and just watched as she devoured her pancakes. I smiled at her sweetness.

“I am ok, baby. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Momma!! I go play now.”

And just like that, her question was answered, her world was happy and she was off on another adventure. I picked up her plate and tiny cup and brought them to the sink. Out the kitchen window I could see the many signs of Spring in our yard. Robin’s hopped around in search of worms, the giant maple tree was pregnant with tiny new leaf buds. Our grass was making the shift from brown to green and the air was filled with the sounds of children laughing from the nearby schoolyard.

In the background NPR was still reporting. I chose to fill my heart with love and hope. I saw all the signs that we will be ok. We will grow and even thrive. The world is not a bad place it’s just that people do bad things, sometimes. But, in order for them to truly be a force of evil, we must let them win. We must succumb to their fear. I chose to not let them win. I will not live in fear. I will not live in great sadness. I will live in the knowledge that there is hope and love in every corner of this great big world. I see it in my tiny corner every day.

I put the dish towel down and walk into my studio where my daughter is playing. She sees me and smiles.

“Me and Clover [her doll] are making snow angels on the floor for you, Momma!”

And just like that, I am reassured that yes, there is hope and love and goodness even in these difficult and trying times.

“They are beautiful angels, baby.”

“You happy, Momma?”

“Yes, baby, I am happy. I love you.”

“To the moon and back, right?”

“Right. To the moon and back.”

Online On My Mind

“Don’t forget your helmet!”

I can remember my mom yelling that after us as we tore out of the house for the day. Her reminder was her way of protecting us as we headed out into the world. She had talked to us about strangers and how we should never, under any circumstance, get into a car with someone we didn’t know. She taught us our phone number and address in case we got lost. She taught us to scream at the top of our lungs if we were in trouble. She did all this to keep us safe.

I figured when I had kids I would do the same. After our daughter’s second birthday I started teaching her our last name, the town we lived in, and mommy and daddy’s first names. I did what I thought was the basics of protecting her, keeping her safe. Then, I stumbled across an article. It was about a man who was stealing photos of  children from parenting pages on Facebook. Pages JUST LIKE MINE.

The article never said if he ever did anything unsavory with the photos other than sharing them as his own. But it got me thinking and honestly, freaked me out.

I already don’t use my daughter’s name out of respect for her privacy. I decided to take down any photo that showed her face. I removed them from this column, my blog and my Facebook page. I am not one to become paranoid, but the idea of people with less-than-desirable-intentions scared me. It brought out my mama-bear instinct.

I never thought that I would have to protect my child from the internet. I grew up in a time where we didn’t even have a computer at home. There was no need for it. I am in uncharted waters and am surrounded by sharks. I am trying to walk the line between embracing technology, acknowledging the need for it and protecting my most valuable asset. My daughter.

To compound an already challenging issue, we also have to teach manners. Online manners. In addition to the “pleases” and “thank yous” in person, I need to teach my daughter what is appropriate online behavior.

Someone throw me a lifesaver, these waters are rougher than I thought.

If I take a step back and look at the situation I can see that the two things are related. Online manners and online safety share a common ground. You can’t teach one without the other. I got this. I hope.

“What are you doing, Mommy?” She asks as I upload a photo of her for my Facebook page. “Why is there a heart over my face?”

I take this as a chance to start the 21^st century conversation. “Your face is covered because I don’t want everyone knowing what you look like, Peanut.” I keep my answer simple and factual. I don’t want to scare her and the complexities that I struggle with would surely confuse her 3-year-old brain.

“Like strangers?” She asks.

“Yes, sweetie, like strangers.”

“My face has a heart on it cause we need our privacy, right?”

Maybe she understands this better than me.

“Right!” I answered. She smiles at me, kisses my cheek and runs off to play.

I uploaded the photo and skimmed through my newsfeed. I am constantly shocked by the lack of social graces social media has. When did it become ok to say awful things about other people? When did it become acceptable to use four letter words as a comma? And, where, oh where, has all the punctuation gone?

So, not only will we have to teach our daughter how to be safe online but we will also have to teach her etiquette.

The water just got WAY deeper.

Respect, conducting oneself with integrity, and honesty translate to the cyber world. But somehow it all gets lost in that translation. Social interactions online should be no different than in the real world. Simple rules like, never say anything online that you wouldn’t say to the person’s face, don’t put up photos that you wouldn’t hang in public, and never post anything that you wouldn’t announce in the middle of a busy downtown. These are the things we will have to teach our daughter. All it takes is one bad decision, one inappropriate photo and the ramifications could last a lifetime.

We are living in a world where our kids are growing up in cyber-space. Instead of yelling, “Don’t forget your helmet!” so we know they are being safe in the neighborhood, we will say things like, “Don’t forget to friend me!” so we can make sure they are being safe online. Times are changing and change can be good, if you are prepared. I have my dingy, my life vest, and a whole lot of shark repellant.

I’ve got this. And if I don’t, I’ll Google it.

The Light Of Tonight

“Mommy!?”

The familiar voice calls from her bedroom. I open her door and see her eyes peering above the fuzzy pink blanket. “Will you turn on the outside lights?” I can barely make out her voice above the softly playing lullabies. It is quiet and tired. I tell her I will and can see the smile form in her eyes. “Thank you, Mommy.”

As I walk to the other side of the house to turn on the outside lights I see our favorite baby carrier, draped over the hamper, waiting for its turn in the washing machine. It is soft and floppy, the deep burgundy had faded and worn with age and love. The once shiny black plastic clips were worn and matte from use.

I smiled at the memories of that carrier. It was once the only way our tiny baby would fall asleep. Securely strapped onto Daddy’s chest, snuggled into the plush cotton, she would settle and eventually sleep while he paced the length of our apartment. If the weather were warm enough he would wander outside into the neighborhood, dog in tow, wearing our restless child until she finally would succumb to the steady rhythm of his heart. A heart that would do anything for her.

My fingers traced the buckles, memories of helping to unlatch the carrier and transfer our sleeping infant to bed rushed in. We would pray silently that she wouldn’t wake. I would hold my breath and quietly unclip the straps while my husband gently scooped her out of the carrier and onto the bed. Some nights we were successful and would fall next to her into an exhausted heap. Other nights, as soon as she felt the mattress beneath her, she would stir and fuss. I would hold her close, nursing her until she finally gave in and her breathing became slow and deep. Sleep would win, for that moment. I would breath it in. Bask in it.

I blinked back tears of nostalgia. Those seemingly endless nights somehow managed to slip away so quickly. The carrier that we couldn’t imagine an evening without now collected dust, waiting for its turn in the washer and I was walking to turn on the outside lights. I remember being in the midst of the sleepless storm, thinking it would never end. Thinking that the ache I felt from exhaustion was permanent.

I flipped the switch and headed back to her room. “They are on. Is that good?” I asked her.

“It perfect, Mommy, thank you.”  Her eyes smiled at me once more, but this time with more sleepiness in them.

“Good night, peanut. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mommy.” She murmured as she slipped into a calm sleep.

I know there may be other requests tonight. Water and new jammies, most likely. Maybe even another story. Possibly a cookie. I will comply with a couple and tuck her back in. We will laugh when she asks for a cookie or if she can sleep in her party dress. I will remind her that she needs her rest and to close her eyes, try to sleep. I will not allow frustration or exhaustion in. I will remember when she would not sleep on her own. When she needed me to be touching her to sleep. When she needed Daddy’s heartbeat to soothe her.

After the final request of the night, I silently close the door as she drifts off to sleep in the glow of the light outside her bedroom window. I stop and close my eyes. Soaking up this moment, right now. I smile and walk down the hallway, still hearing the lullabies coming from her room. I know someday, not too many years from now, we will be decorating for Christmas. We will be hanging lights outside and I will remember when my little girl couldn’t sleep without the soft glow of the light through her bedroom window. I will laugh at the memories of her post bedtime requests to sleep naked and have a snack.

Tonight’s tiny irritations will become tomorrow’s fond memories. I don’t want to look back and feel like I rushed through. I don’t want to look back and wish I had done things differently. So, for now, I will help her out of her jammies and under her softest blanket. I will tuck her into bed for the second time and we will have Christmas lights hanging and lit in February.

Love.

“Mommy, do you still love me?” Her giant blue eyes were welling with tears, her lip quivered.  My heart shattered.

“Of course I do! Why would you ask that?”

I couldn’t think of a single reason or event that would justify such a gut-wrenching question from a three year old. From my three year old.

“I dropped my toy. I thought you were mad,” she replied while wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“I will always love you, no matter what. Even when I get mad, I love you. Nothing will ever make me stop loving you. Nothing. Ever. You understand? I will love you forever.” And, with that she smiled and hugged my arm. She told me she loved me and bounded off to play. I was left trying to figure out what just transpired.

I was working on this column when she had come in to tell me she dropped her toy. It has fallen from her hands and hit her lip. She wasn’t hurt, but felt the need to tell me about it. I had checked her face and made sure she was ok. I had kissed her and gone back to my work. I couldn’t think of anything I had done to make her think I had ceased to love her.

Maybe, in her mind, I had gotten mad. Maybe, in her still developing brain, being mad meant no longer loving. I tried to brush it off. I tried to write about something else. But the question kept creeping into my head: What is love to a child? I never remember teaching it to her. She never once mentioned it in her barrage of questioning everything. Love was something she instinctually knew. It was something she felt and learned, somehow, to associate with the word. Her daddy and I had been saying, “I love you” to her since before her ears were functional and she was still occupying the space behind my belly button. Did she learn by osmosis? Did she absorb the love we have for her and figured it out that way? Or, what if, she wasn’t actually sure of what love was at all, and that was why she questioned my stance?

The only way to find out was to ask her. I called her back into the kitchen where I had been contemplating. “Kiddo, what is love?”

She thought for a minute, head slightly cocked to one side, eyes looking off into the distance. A smile slowly formed and grew larger as her thinking took shape and then formed words, “You mommy!!”

I melted on the spot. Scooped her up and held her tight. I blinked back tears, not wanting her to see me cry. Happy tears were still an oddity we discussed frequently. She asked me if I was done hugging her yet.

“Almost,” I lied. After her response, I may never be done hugging her. I managed to peel myself away before out sweet embrace became a full-fledged wrestling match. She scampered off to do whatever it was that she was up to at the moment and I turned back to my computer screen.

I was the definition of love for my daughter. If I took a step away from my own emotions and looked at her answer objectively, it made sense. Perfect sense. I embody safety, warmth, soothing, and happiness for her.  I have been the center to her slowly growing universe for over 3 years. It would make sense that she would describe such a complex emotion with one word. Mommy.

My thoughts turned to other kids. Do they have a similar description? Does age change their definition? Do we adults over complicate a basic human emotion by trying to define it? I took to my Facebook page and asked parents to have their kiddos fill in the blank:

Love is ________.

Here is a little of what I received.

“Mommy.” -2 year old

“Kisses. True love is best friends.” -4.5 year old

“The most important thing in the whole wide world.” -5year old

“Something that keeps you together no matter how far away you are.” -10 year old

“Strong.” -14 year old

“The force that keeps this world alive and gives us meaning to survive."-15 year old

Their answers showed that, as adults, we tend to overcomplicate things. Dictionary.com has over 27 definitions of what love is. After reading what the kids said and then the 27 things the dictionary had to say, I had a thought. What if we just let go and loved. Ignored preconceived notions of what love is and what it isn’t. What if we started to define love by what we know instead of what we think it should be? What if, when we fell, we enjoyed the plunge instead of praying while we plummet that we land with our hearts and heads intact? What if we love thoroughly without constraints and fear?

What if we loved like our children? 

Forgiving Flaws

My feet were cold and wet, she was taking forever. My patience drained away too fast, I couldn't hold onto it. I got angry, raised my voice, and immediately regretted it. Her quivering lip and sad eyes made me feel terrible. It wasn't her fault. She had done nothing wrong. I created this situation, this day, this stress. She was just an innocent bystander caught in my storm.

I buckled her in and apologized. "It ok mommy," she said, "I wuv you. So so so much." I fought back tears until I was out of her sight. I didn’t want her to think she had made me sad. Her forgiveness came so easily. I didn’t feel worthy of it. Would it always be like this? Me losing my temper, her quickly soothing me? Or, would the day come when she decided enough was enough. A day when my apologies no longer carried the weight that it currently did.

I wiped away my tears and got in the car. I glanced into the rear view mirror and caught her eye. She smiled one of her huge grins, the kind that lights up her entire face while simultaneously melting my heart. She asked me for music and immediately started singing to herself. She is happy. She loves me so completely. She wasn't holding a grudge. It never even occurred to her to remain upset by my actions. My angry voice was a thing of the past. I had apologized, she had accepted and she had moved on.

But I hadn't. I was angry. At myself. For not having the patience that this incredible little girl deserved. For not having the self-control to not lose my cool. Why did I have to get so angry over things that just did not matter? I held a grudge.  I held on tightly. Angry at myself and my many faults and failings. The singing in the backseat snapped me out of my loop of loathing.

Once we got home and my feet warmed up, I started to feel a little better. She asked to do my hair. As she brushed and put clips in she chattered away. I pushed any negative thoughts out of my head. When she was done she looked at me and called me beautiful. I fought back tears once more. In her eyes I am flawless. She hopped down and danced and sung for me. She was putting on a "fashion show." At the end I clapped, she bowed. How did I get so lucky?

I need to start living up to the person she thinks I am. I owe her that much. It wasn't her fault today that I was cold and wet it was mine. I am the adult; I know what it is like when it rains in January. I know that the shoes I was wearing were not practical. I know that she is only three years old and deeply in love with puddles. Her fascination with just about everything makes her move slower than I do. I am busy focusing on the next thing on my to-do list while she is in the now. Focused on her surroundings and the beauty in it all. She had nothing to do with the root of my anger, she was busy being herself, being the kind of person I dream of becoming. Yet, she had to hear the anger at myself in my voice. She had to catch the brunt of my frustrations. It is my responsibility to make sure it doesn't happen again.

But, it will. As much as it pains me to admit it, it will because I am human. All I can do is try my best to be the person my daughter needs me to be, to be the person she already is. When I act flawed, I will own up to it. I will teach her that no one is perfect, even mommy. I will lead by example and apologize. I will work on bettering myself and never take advantage of her willingness to forgive me. Lost patience will become lessons I need to learn. She will become my role model while I am her's. Together we will learn and grow.

I will breathe and appreciate what I have. She, and I, deserve that.

Believing Beautiful

“Watch my fashion show mommy!!”

In front of me stood a little girl, my little girl. Somehow, without any warning, she had burst through babyhood and entered her childhood.

“You watching?”

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Side ponytail swinging with every dance move. Purple flashing microphone in hand, she bounced and twirled, her blue ruffled tutu catching the air as she spun. Seriously, has anyone seen my baby?

“Did you like it?”

I burst into the loudest applause one person can muster. What an incredible kid, a born entertainer. Her confidence is enviable. Unshakable.

This past weekend she and I got our hair cut. Hers was just a trim of her overgrown bangs. Her biggest concern was if she would be able to still wear the clips I had been using to hold her fringe out of her eyes. Once I assured her that she could still sport hair clips, she was game. The moment we got home she ran to the mirror and exclaimed, “I look beautiful! So very beautiful!!”

And she meant it.

We could all learn a thing or two from that kind of confidence. Why is it, as we grow up, our ability to compliment ourselves disappears. Shouldn’t I be the easiest person in the world for me to compliment? Or do I feel like I know myself too well? I know my flaws, my shortcomings. Or, maybe I don’t know myself well enough?

Tell my daughter that she looks cute and her answers alternate between a polite, yet grateful, ‘thank you’ and a self-assured, ‘I know!’ When was the last time you said ‘I know’ when someone paid you a compliment? Or even a sincere ‘thank you?’ I know I have never said ‘I know’ and I choke out ‘thank you.’

And why shouldn’t I know? Why shouldn’t I be able to agree with someone when they say I look good? Because it isn’t polite. Because I don’t think it to be true. Because I have been taught that even a small ego is too big. But, if I cannot accept myself as being great, who will?

My daughter asks to do my hair. Her tiny fingers pretend to braid. She needs help with the clips but directs me as to where they should go. When she is done she steps back and surveys her work. “You look beautiful, mommy! You love it?” I do. I love it. I have 5 different flower clips all on the right side of my head. My hair has been brushed straight back and directly up at the same time. I look like I spent an hour in a wind tunnel but I have never felt more beautiful.

We are blasted with a visual assault on our confidence daily. Everywhere we turn airbrushed perfection is smiling back at us, trying to get us to spend our money on things we don’t actually need. Electric white teeth, thighs that do not touch, and impossibly small waistlines, are shoved into our faces as the ideal. Meanwhile, only a fraction of the population actually possesses any of these attributes but they are being passed off as the ideal for all.

So much energy is put into becoming physically perfect. But what if we already are perfect? What if perfection is more than the color of your teeth or the inches of your waist? What if it is measured by how we feel? How we are loved and how we love. I know that if that was how we measured perfection, I would feel pretty incredible.

Maybe beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder. It is, after all, subjective. Maybe next time I am paid a compliment, I will force myself to really take it in, to actually believe it. Clearly the other person does, why can’t I? I will fight my urge to disagree. I will stop focusing on the details I don’t like and instead listen to the compliment. You can’t see the forest for the trees, right? Maybe it is time to take a step out of the woods.

What if we switched our thinking? Rejected this unattainable ideal of beauty and instead aimed for happiness. What if we quieted our grown up minds and turned to a three year old for advice? Listened to our hearts. Do whatever it is that makes us truly happy. Find beauty in our differences.  Look into the mirror and proclaim, “I look beautiful! So very beautiful!”

And truly mean it.

My Village

"The tow truck is on it's way. Don't worry, we will figure this out. It'll be ok."

Like a lot of families we live on a budget. Stretching dollars to make sure ends meet, trying to shuffle expenses so those ends can comfortably overlap. Add the holiday season to a fragile budget and, well, financial woes are inevitable.

Our only car, one of many budget cuts we made to finance one of us staying home with the kiddo and for me to pursue my dream of writing, was not the best. It was cheap, safe, ran, and we owned it outright. It met all of our criteria until that November day when it stopped meeting the "ran" part. As I coasted it onto the side of the highway a million thoughts flew through my mind. 'Why now,' was the frontrunner of worries. The holidays were fast approaching and having to do major repairs was not in our delicately planned budget. We would make it work, somehow, we always did.

Then the news. The engine was shot. Not worth repairing. We were without a car with absolutely no room in our budget for at least the next few months. My husband could rely on the bus system to get to work and back but what about the appointments, meetings, errands and play groups? We had more questions than answers. We were at a loss and, for the first time ever, didn't have a plan B. We made a few phone calls. We put aside our pride and asked for help.

The response was humbling.

My husband's co-worker offered her car for us to use, whenever we needed.

"If I have something  that someone else needs, I am more than happy to share."

Our family friend went into high gear to search for affordable options.

"I'll do whatever I can to help you guys out."

Friend's drove 14 miles our of their way to pick us up to attend play groups.

"Don't worry about it. You'd do it for me."

We didn't have a plan B but somehow it was working. Groceries were bought, appointments were kept. The world didn't fall to pieces and our fragile budget stayed intact. We didn't have a firm end game but we were making it work. Today. We would make it work tomorrow. With the kindness of others, we would make it work.

Some days were tough. Events were missed. Sacrifices were made. But, through it all, we never lost sight of how blessed we were to have such incredible support. We could have easily found a car that didn't fit our budget, added an expense, and debt, we could not afford. But we didn't. We kept the faith that it would all work out.

Five days before my birthday there was a knock at the door. I opened to find our family friend standing there. Car keys and a bill of sale in her hands. I knew she had been looking and was trying to help us. I knew that we had looked at this car and it seemed to fit into our budget. I knew it was a possibility. But, to see her standing there, well, I had no words.

"Just glad to help out. Especially this time of year. Feels good. We will talk details after the holidays. Meanwhile, enjoy and Merry Christmas."

And just like that she left and I cried. Tears of relief. Tears of gratitude. No matter how hard the evening news tries to convince me that the world is evil, I believe otherwise. I have seen the selfless, good side of people. I have experienced the very essence of kindness. It is humbling.

I wish there was a way to thank everyone. Words just don't seem adequate. The only way we can think of is to pay it forward. To keep this kindness going. To make love and generosity a way of life. 

It is said it takes a village to raise a child. I'd like to alter that. I think it takes a village to help a village thrive. Life is so much better when we can lean on one another in times of need instead of fighting to one up each other. This story could easily be anyone's. Replace "car" with job or housing. Change it to be an illness or new baby. It could be anything life throws your way. What this tale is about is kindness. Complete and pure, kindness. My family has been blessed with an exceptional village. We will forever be grateful to them.

Thank you all for being a part of my village. Because of you, this year, I have realized my dream of writing.  Thank you, thank you, thank you. I wish for you a  happy new year filled with kindness and dreams coming true. XOXO

Believe.

I believe. I believe in love. I may not be able to see it but I feel it. I believe in hope. It doesn’t always look or feel the same but I believe in it’s power. I believe in the inherent goodness in people. Despite what the evening news tells me, I think good outweighs bad. I believe in wishing on a star. My husband and daughter all I the proof I need that it works. I believe in faith. I believe that just because science can’t back you, doesn’t make it impossible. I believe in the magic of childhood. In all the wonder and awe of experiencing life for the first time, through untainted eyes. I believe in Christmas. I believe in the spirit of the season. I believe in giving unselfishly.

I believe in Santa.

I understand that there is no man who resides in the North Pole. I realize that it would be impossible for one man and eight flying reindeer to deliver gifts to the world’s children. I am under no illusion that elves manufacture millions of toys all year. All that being said, I still believe.

I believe in the spirit of Santa Claus.

I believe in preserving the magic of childhood and what is more magical than Christmastime? Houses decorated with trees and lights. Pageants and letters to Santa. Church services full of familiar hymns and candlelight. The anticipation of Santa’s arrival the night before Christmas.

To me, Santa was an integral part of my childhood. My memories are not of what he brought but that HE brought it. To me. This man, known by millions, brought little me, in my little New England town, in my little white house in the woods, a gift! Be it handmade or store bought, it did not matter. In my young mind, I was important enough for Santa to remember. He had saw that even though I was not perfect, I was good. I was worthy.

I never once added up how much was spent on me for Christmas. I knew money was tight for my family. That made Christmas morning all the more special. Clearly Santa was real, we could never afford all that! But somehow, we did. Some years were bigger than others but the smiles stayed the same. The laughter was the same. The love was the same. Money didn’t buy our Christmas. The magic paid for it all.

Eventually I figured out that Santa, as I knew him, was a myth. I was not disappointed. I was not sad. I had lost nothing. Instead I gained a deeper sense of faith and hope. I knew his spirit was alive. It was in the look on my mom’s face as she watched her four children open gifts and squeal with delight. It was in the hearts of people as they gave their hard earned money to those in need. It was in each child as they watched the first snowflake of the season drift to the ground, illuminated by Christmas lights.

Santa has lost a lot of clout recently. He has been accused of being the biggest lie of childhood. I see him in such a different light, it makes me sad to hear these things. I never once felt lied to. I feel honored and thankful to have grown up being included in the tradition of the Santa Claus story. Santa taught me that the world is neither black nor white. That in between the lies and the truth lives magic.

I want to give my child the world, I just can not afford it. It can be stressful and make me lose sight of Santa’s spirit. I know I am not alone. The magic is hard work when you become the embodiment of Mr. Claus. Like so many others, I do my best. I balance store bought toys with hand made items. All carefully picked out with a lot of thought and even more love. Our budget is small but so is she. Only her dreams are big. When she wakes up on Christmas morning to a handful of toys with tags that say “From: Santa” her faith will grow. Her belief in magic will root itself deeper. The magic of her childhood will stay intact for just a little longer.

We live in a world filled to the brim with science and technology. Children can explain the magic of a rainbow away with scientific accuracy. Thunder is not someone bowling in Heaven, it is the noise heard after a lightning flash due to the expansion of rapidly heated air. Frost wasn't mischievously painted on our windows by Jack Frost, it is simply frozen moisture due to condensation. Soon enough my daughter will be teaching me the science behind the magic. I just prefer it not be this Christmas.

Parenting: LIVE!

Cold weather inevitably drives everyone inside. Playground equipment is left vacant and frozen. Library story times and Children's Museums overflow. Moms and dads stretch their imaginations trying to come up with ways to tire out their young offspring.

Ah, winter.

Today a friend and I bravely ventured out with our three children to our local recreation department's Open Gym. It is exactly how it sounds. They open up a full sized gym, slap some toddler sized plastic climbing structures, slides, and ride on toys in the middle, toss some balls onto the floor and charge you a whopping dollar to have free reign over toddler town for an hour and forty five minutes. It is more exhausting than that run on sentence I just typed, but the kiddos love it.

We all piled into my friend's van, made a quick jaunt through the drive-thru for coffee, then headed to the gym. Just getting inside was a feat. My friend has an 8 week old and a two year old. Add to that my 3 year old, our two cups of coffee, and our obligatory kid-related luggage. Needless to say, getting everyone into the building, alive, made herding cats look easy.

Once inside the kids took off into the sea of toddlers and pre-schoolers. My friend and I piled coats and, clutching our coffees like steaming, delicious life preservers, dove in after them. Trying to keep an eye on your own child, while allowing them the freedom to have fun, is a lot like playing a real life version of "Where's Waldo." Except in this case, "Waldo" is a young child hopped up on peer interaction, capable of taking out smaller kids in one fell swipe. I like to approach Open Gym as more of a game of "Marco Polo."
 I listen for either the sound of my child yelling, "mommymommymommymommymommy" or the undeniable screech of a younger kiddo who has just (unfortunately) met my cherub.

My kiddo seemed to be playing nicely for a moment. I decided to sit with my friend while she nursed her baby. We joked about how the gym was like a top 10 parenting styles list come to life.  I started to look around and saw that every style was well represented.

The hovering/helicopter mom was there. Always right beside her 3 year old, telling him what a great sharer he was or dictating his play. I have to respect her for her dedication but know nothing about her because she is always with her child.

To the left of her was the pajama mom. Sleepily following the general area her kid is playing in, she looks like she could lay down and nap at a moments notice. Her outward appearance matches my inward one. I make a mental note to ditch the skinnies and wear pajama pants next week.

In front of her was cell phone mom. She had started off standing next to her playing child but then a text came in and now she is standing alone typing on her phone. Meanwhile her kiddo has moved onto a new area unnoticed. I can totally relate and curse my eyes for not being able to do two separate things. Then, I check my own phone.

Then there is the fancy mom pack. They have been friends since high school al la Mean Girls. They are always perfectly groomed and accessorized. They travel as a pack and are unapproachable. Their children play with one another but never allow outside kiddos to join their ranks. I envy most of them and want to steal their wardrobes and personal trainers.

Walking by the fancy moms is the friendly mom. She knows everyone by name and even knows their kiddos names and dates of birth. She is the nicest person you have ever met and will make you feel like her BFF within minutes of chatting with her. Her kiddos are polite and bubbly. This is the mom I hope will offer to adopt me someday.

Directly across the gym is the loner mom. She comes to every Open Gym but doesn't talk to anyone. She sits on the bench, alone. If I smile and say hi she will reciprocate but not pursue a conversation. She may be shy, she may be meditating. Either way, I think everyone envies her solitude on occasion. I know I do. If only I could be as Zen as she seems while watching the kiddos reenact The Lord Of The Flies.

Then, over on the slide is the Peter Pan mom. She will never grow up and I love her for it. She is the mom that is running and playing right along side the tots. When it is time to clean up and go home, she protests the loudest. If I could have a fraction of her energy I would be happy.

As I hear the undeniable sound of my own child repeating "mommy" a record breaking number of times I finally stop mom-watching and head over to her. On my way across the gym I pass the "where the hell are my kids" mom. She asks me if I have seen them and I point in the direction I last noticed. I wish she knew just how much I can relate to that feeling. Those little suckers are fast and I can never keep track of mine. Give me a second one and I would have to put tracking devices on them.

I finally reach my own kiddo. She is playing with the offspring of the picture taking mom. I love the picture taking mom. No matter what your kids are doing she always sees it as a moment to capture. The result is a minute by minute photographic documentation of her child's day. She is also amazing at uploading and tagging all the photos my child appears in on Facebook. It's like having the paparazzi around, minus everything annoying.

It is finally time to go. It is then I notice the last type of mom. It's the Stay-At-Home-Dad. This is the rarest of the parenting types and highly coveted. Usually, the Stay-At-Home-Dad is a combo of every type of mom. He takes the best of every other type and makes it work. The kids flock to him like he is the Pied Piper. When Stay-At-Home-Dad shows up, the moms cheer inside. They know that when daddy is around, mom is temporarily off the hook, even if he isn't your child's dad.

My friend and I manage to gather our children and dress them for the outside chill. Another successful Open Gym has come and gone. The end always means whiny voices and exhausted bodies. The kids are pretty worn out, too. We grab our kid-luggage and head out into the sunlight. The downtown traffic sounds hushed after being in an acoustical nightmare for 90 minutes. We pile them all back into the van, turn on music to soothe the baby and head back to my house. I look behind me and am met with two very exhausted but very happy tots. That is why we do it. Regardless of which kind of parent we are, we all have the same goal, happy kiddos.

Mission: Accomplished.

A Handy PSA

Once every few years my immune system decides to take a vacation and I catch every single bug that is flying around. This is one of those years. It all started a few weeks ago when I caught a pretty terrible cold. Just as I was starting to feel better, it progressed into the worst laryngitis I have ever had.

Let me take this moment to remind you of my three year old daughter. And her million questions a minute tendencies. You can image how fun that was with absolutely zero ability to talk. A full week of her asking me a question, me trying to pantomime the answer and her yelling at the top of her lungs:

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!! YOU NEED TO TALK!!!!”

It was a blast.

My voice and my health finally returned and I contemplated throwing a party. Being sick is never fun, especially when sick days are not an option. I vowed to stay healthy and, literally, washed my hands of the experience.

Three weeks later and I started to feel run down. It was just a few days post Halloween so I contributed my fatigue to a few too many sugar overloaded late nights. The fatigue quickly progressed. I was sick. Really sick. By the end of that day I was bedridden praying for mercy. I had a whole host of terrible symptoms including a fever.

I never, ever, have a fever. Ever.

I decided to do exactly what most sane people warn against in this situation. I Googled.

In my defense, I wanted to make sure this wasn’t anything too serious. As much fun as it is to drag a three year old to a doctor’s office while feeling terrible, I try to avoid it. I looked up my symptoms and ruled out the classic flu.

Good.

Then I looked up “stomach flu/ stomach virus”. All sorts of scary sounding medical terms popped up. All pointing right back to what I had. Norovirus. A bug. A (not so) fun virus that will leave my body when it is good and ready. No doctor needed unless my symptoms continued on for a week or more or I felt like I couldn’t keep fluids down.

Next I clicked my way over to how this viral gift I was given was spread. So far neither my husband nor the kiddo had any symptoms. I really wanted to keep it that way. That, my friends, is where this fun adventure in Google-land made a turn for the absolute worse. “Norovirus, or stomach flu, spreads via contact with the feces of an infected person."

Uhhh, what?

As panic and disgust set in I continued to read. Apparently when your mom told you to wash your hands after using the bathroom, she was on to something. Norovirus is extremely contagious and can be passed easily if the infected person doesn’t wash their hands after using the loo. They touch anything, the doorknob, a phone, a vending machine and suddenly the very next person to touch that will be exposed to the same virus. If that person rubs their eyes or puts something into their mouths before the can wash their hands, they can plan on a 3-7 day staycation from hell.

This would explain why my family stayed healthy while I didn’t. I am an avid handwasher. (Although I clearly didn’t wash after touching whatever was infected with this virus. It could have been anything.) I always have hand sanitizer in my bag for those times we can’t wash. I do my best to not contribute our germs to the cesspool of viral goodness.

If you are anything like me, handwashing is a no-brainer, especially after using the restroom. However, there are a staggering amount of people who do not wash up after using the facilities. Today at the co-op, my daughter and I were washing up and I counted 3, yes THREE, grown women, leave without washing their hands. I would love to give them the benefit of the doubt and say they used a waterless hand cleanser from their purse, however, my still queasy stomach and pounding head say otherwise.

So here is your annual Juicebox Confession Public Service Announcement:

The power to stay healthy during this cold and flu season lies in your hands. Every time you cough, sneeze or use the bathroom and every time before you eat, wash your hands thoroughly for 20 seconds* with water AND soap. Go ahead and sing a couple rounds of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” or “Happy Birthday” to know you have washed for the full 20 seconds. If you do not have access to soap and water go ahead and use an alcohol based hand sanitizer. (It has to contain a minimum of 60% alcohol to be effective.*)  The choice is in your hands. Literally.

*A big thank you to the informative and slightly terrifying CDC website.