My babies are in high school...together

Today my babies went to high school together. The same babies for whom I started this blog. The same babies I thought would never grow up and let me sleep in late on a weekend or take a shower in peace. I started this blog to survive the early years of motherhood...a time I found awe-inspiring, disorienting, overwhelming, and exhausting. Now, here I am: standing in my driveway, waving, taking pictures, watching them walk together to Ben's car, put their backpacks in the trunk almost in unison, get in the car, and drive off. 

For the last 12 years, we always had one or both of our boys with us at our school where we teach. We drove the 40-minute commute in different combinations: somedays all four of us; other days split into pairs (those mornings when we knew the boys sitting in the back seat together for that long was going to be a really bad idea); and yet other days split into a ratio of 1 to 3 ("You take them today because I have them in the afternoon and I really need some quiet time this morning.").

For the last 12 years, they were always around...hanging out in our classrooms in the mornings or afternoons, being excused from class to see us because they needed something for a headache, or a form they'd forgotten to get signed, a snack, or just because they were running an errand for their teacher and stopped by on the way to say "hi." And my husband's and my favorite moments: those spontaneous, unexpected sightings in the hallways which would usually result in a high five, a passing joke, or (especially these last couple of years with our "gentle giant") a body-jarring hug.

Today, Aidan Kai (aka The Baby) started high school.

We overhead them talking about it last night:

"Don't worry, Kai. We'll get there early and I'll walk you around to all of your classes so you'll know where to go. And maybe I can even meet you in between some of the classes." 

"Ok, thanks, Ben. And oh, can we use our phones in class, or is it like elementary and middle school?"

"No," Ben held back a chuckle. "You can use your phone."

"Then can I text you during the day?"

"Yeah. Sure." 

We were ready, as parents, for this new chapter. We were ready to be, for the first time, just Mom and Dad, and not Mr. and Mrs. A...to be able to let go after having them with us from kindergarten to 8th grade...to know they will be in situations--academically and socially--that we not only will know very little about, but will also not be able to step in and intercede. We have no "pull" now.

Knowing Aidan Kai, who has always been a little shyer, a little less daring socially, will have his big brother there to guide him gives us peace of mind. And to know Ben actually wants Kai there...that gives us a satisfaction we cannot express. We spent their whole lives trying to get them to bond, to rely on each other, to be kinder to each other than to anyone. Years spent camping and traveling and playing and talking...we think they are paying off now. 

Towards the end of last school year, Ben told me: "You know, I'm excited about Kai coming to school with me next year. I think it's going to be fun to have him there, to be at the same school again."

Our boys...

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Today when I got home from work, before I wrote this post, I went back to my first-ever blog post about the boys. It made my heart ache a little for those babies, but it also made my heart swell with pride and joy and excitement watching who they are growing up to be as individuals, but also, as brothers. 

*Here's my original post from March 8, 2009.

Introducing: The Boys

Here they are...the source of much of my joy and frustrations: The Boys.

Ben's 3 1/2. He's a rock star, for sure. And not only in his parents' very biased minds. Everyone who knows him thinks he's a rock star. So does he. Fortunately, on most days, we totally lucked out with this one. He really is everything you'd want your kid to be: funny, smart, athletic, and (almost always) sweet. But we are well aware that we need to keep a tight leash on this one. He's scary bright. He also inherited some of his parents' "best" qualities: stubborn and opinionated. His favorite sayings? "Watch me," "Try to catch me!" and "I know that."

Then along came Aidan Kai. The name "Aidan" means "fire." The name "Kai" means "ocean" in Hawaiian. So there you go...a walking contradiction. He's only been around for 7 months, but he's already given us our share of contradictory feelings as well: "Isn't he the cutest thing EVER?" and "Why the heck did we want another one, again?" He spent the first 4 1/2 months of his life wailing, shrieking, crying, and making everyone around him state the obvious: "But Ben was never like this!" And although he now spends most of his time flashing his dimples, he's still known as our "High Maintenance Boy." I feel strangely protective of Aidan Kai. Perhaps it's all the sibling comparisons from everyone, perhaps it's the dimples, perhaps it's the High Maintenance label that has been permanently affixed to him, but I can just relate to him. I can't wait to see what kind of kid he's gonna be.

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The More the Merrier (as in more friends, but yeah, more writing too)

I've been revisiting a lot of my old writing lately.

Since I recently started taking online writing workshops, I needed to carve out some sort of daily work space for my writing and lessons. Silence has always been big for me. And no clutter. I like a space that feels my own and is silent.

Reality check.

I live in a tiny, noisy, love-filled house that I share with my three favorite humans. (Two of those humans are boys--teenage boys.) They are all amazingly respectful of my writing time: they turn down their TVs (to still-audible-in-the-other-room-levels), always apologize after they interrupt me, and only roughhouse and bond loudly over inappropriate jokes with their dad until they remember I'm sitting there.

I realized the writing had not been happening for way too long, so it was time to stop making excuses and find a way to adjust (anyone who knows me probably chuckled right there..I'm not known for my flexible adaptability). So here's what I did: I completely commandeered the dining room table (which is literally only used for actual dining when it's my turn to host book club and the rest of the time is the holder of all things random and pending). My shiny new red laptop and adorably kitschy turquoise mouse now sit there, along with printed reminders of my writing. My writing notebook. The 9 instructional books I wrote. The anthology in which one of my essays was published. And my blog books which hold 12 years worth of my writing.

Twelve years. Lately, every time I looked here, on this blog, instead of noticing how much I had written over the years, I would focus on the gaps of time between posts. I would focus on how many ideas never got put to paper (or screen). So while taking these courses...recreating and rebuilding my writing practice...I needed some reminders of what I've created through the years. Now, when I sit at my no-one-ever-dines-here-dining-table, I feel like it's my space. It is far from silent and somewhat cluttered, but I'm using the noise in my head to tune out the gaming noises and episodes of "Breaking Bad," and the clutter that sits on this table inspires me to remember what I have done and what I can do. 

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The following essay was published in The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship (edited by Jessica Smock and Stephanie Sprenger of The HerStories Project.) It was originally posted here on September 30, 2010.

The More the Merrier

I've been thinking a lot about friendships lately.

My dearest friend's 7-year-old granddaughter is having some issues on the playground. She can't quite understand how her best friend can be her best friend one day and completely ignore her the next.

"That's just rude, Gram. And it hurts my feelings."

It's tough being a girl. Women are difficult creatures. We desperately need each other but we push each other away, claw and snap and bitch, and talk behind each other's backs.

My friend assured her granddaughter that "one day" she'd find that one true best friend:

"Really, Gram? You promise?"

"I promise."

I told my friend that I thought that had been a terrible promise to make (we're honest like that). I'm not sure I really believe in the notion of a best friend anymore, although lately (and here's the truly ironic part) I feel I am in some of the healthiest relationships of my life. The notion of That One True Best Friend--the promise that little girl is holding out for--puts a whole lot of pressure on her and especially on the girls around her. No one person should be responsible for being every thing to anyone.

That little girl may be so busy looking for that One Girl that she may miss out on all the ones skipping happily around her on the playground.

* * *

In spite of the fact that most people would probably describe me as very outgoing, I've actually spent most of my life being somewhat anti-social. Growing up, I was never accepted into any of the Cliques Of The Moment, and more often than not, I'd find somebody who was "like me" (read: a little too loud or a little too dramatic or a little too awkward or a little too whatever I happened to be at the time) and I'd latch on. I'd found her: my friendship soulmate! And eventually, as is almost always inevitable with females, she'd screw me over. There was Marilyn in 3rd grade, who one day came back from lunch and abruptly and silently pulled her desk a few inches away from mine and refused to speak to me. I remember Lena, in middle school, who decided hanging out with "the other girls" was way cooler than hanging out with me (she was probably right). The list goes on and on. I realize there were probably many times that I, too, had disappointed them...I don't doubt that I said something completely inappropriate to Marilyn that day at lunch, but couldn't she have told me what that something was?

What I've come to realize over the last couple of years is that all that time I spent excluding everyone else to be with my One True Best Friend, I had missed out. A lot. On people, outings, experiences, adventures, life lessons.

I now find myself surrounded by a lot of really remarkable women...some I had pushed aside for years because I simply "didn't have the time" to spend with them. I am more open, less judgmental, and having a whole heck of a lot more fun. My "collection" of girlfriends are all incredibly different: with some I can discuss, in great details, Marc Jacobs's personal make-over...others shop "exclusively" at Walmart and Target. For some of my friends, sweating is restricted to dancing and sex...others are game for anything from a 5k to a full-out adventure race. I would not call any one of these women my Best Friend. I know who I can call in the middle of the night when my kid is running a fever of 105. I know who I can call when I'm desperate for a night of dancing and drinks. Some of these women know secrets about me that the rest of the world would be shocked to know. Others, I'm just starting to truly trust.

Today, I "asked a girl out." Well, that's what it felt like, anyway. I recently started to talk to someone at work who seems to be so amazingly interesting and intelligent and just plain "cool," that I stepped out of my old comfort zone and, after 30 minutes of chatting about designer galoshes, world-wide travel, Christian Louboutins, mamas' boys, marriage and children, I decided to make a plan to get together next week. This may seem like a totally normal thing to do. But for me, it felt foreign. This woman may become one of my girls. Or, perhaps we will get together and have absolutely nothing to talk about (although after that 30-minute-all-inclusive-chat, I doubt it!). But the point is that I have finally figured out that I don't need one Best Friend. I need lots of really fantastic friends. I am no longer disappointed, because I don't put all my eggs in one basket. I have lots of baskets, and I'm skipping happily around with them on the playground.

Returning to my writing and my self

After taking another hiatus from my writing, I realized (yet again) that I simply cannot not write. As it so often happens with The Universe, something perfectly timed landed in my lap (or my inbox, really), and I jumped back in. After completing the writing course with The Herstories Project, I decided to go down the memory lane of this blog and found this poem, which I wrote--how appropriately--after another one of my writing "breaks." I don't even remember writing it, but I thought: what a fitting way to come back here, to this space, and put my voice back out there.

Wish You Were Here

if you come back

to your words

your space

after a very long time

if you come back

does it matter

if anyone missed you

or only if

you missed yourself

if you come back

do you have to explain

to yourself

or anyone else

why you were gone

*originally posted here on October 4, 2014

Look who's on Mamapedia (again)!

This is the second time I hesitate on posting a piece, fearing it's not "good enough," and then I'm contacted about having it featured on Mamapedia.com.

Surely, there is a lesson to be learned here...

Honored, once again, to be the featured voice today! 

Look who's on Mamapedia today!

My simple and happy post about my simple and happy life is being featured on Mamapedia today!

Needless to say, I'm quite happy about it.

It's funny: when I wrote that post, my only intention was to get my feelings down on paper. I was sitting in my backyard, listening to music, watching my boys playing in the pool, and wanted to capture the simple bliss I was feeling at that moment...the feeling of gratitude and contentment. It was one of those experiences I have sometimes where I just put pen to paper and go. The words sorta come out of me without any effort or self censorship. I was happy when I finished it, and here's the thing: I almost didn't post it on the blog. I was worried it would seem boastful or pointless. And then I had to remind myself that my blog is, first and foremost, for myself. A couple of days later, I was contacted my Mamapedia. It was another reminder that I shouldn't second guess myself and my words so much.

So yeah, no big deal...just go on over to Mamapedia...'cause I'm right there...ya know....where it says "Mamapedia National Voices" and "Mamapedia Miami Voices". 

Writer's Apathy (Or: Sh*t. That Didn't Work Either.)

The only thing I seem to be writing about lately is not wanting to write.

Every time I think about a possible blog post, I tell myself I'll do it tomorrow. Every time I psych myself up that I need to spend some time on here, I go do laundry. Every time I remember that I am not "writing enough," I turn on HGTV.

And every time this happens, an urgent, nagging little voice inside my head violently whispers: "What the fuck is wrong with you lately?"

I'm a writer. It's what I've done and who I've been since I was old enough to peck away at my older sister's typewriter, feeling very important and wise and creative and inspired.

Inspired.

Maybe that's the problem here.

How can I get inspired to write again? Where can I find the inspiration to miss my blog, to need  to write?

Hmmm...writing...inpiration...blogging....hmmm....

Eureka! I've got it!

I thought I had hit the obvious jackpot when it occurred to me that I needed to go back to my favorite blogs, my favorite writers, the women who have inspired me all of these years since I had started my own blog. You see, not only have I not been coming here, to this space, to write; I have also not gone to anyone else's space to read.

I sat down today and started at the top of my personal blog roll of faves, and caught up with some of these old friends. But a startling thing happened....something that has never happened before.

Yes, I smiled as I revisited these favorite blogs. Yes, I read great stuff. Yes, they gave me important stuff to think about.

But that was it.

When I was done, I still didn't want to write.

In fact, I was almost...(my fingers literally hesitated over the keys just now because I feel like I'm selling out; not sure on who)...tired.

Tired.

Instead of feeling re-energized and inspired, I felt tired.

Sounds like a bad poem.

There.

I wrote a bad poem.

Does that count?

Hesitation

I would love to declare that my absence from this blog was some sort of conscious uncoupling. Then it would seem that I did it for the better of...I don't know..this blog? Myself? My family? Not to mention that it would make me seem sorta enlightened and very Gwyneth Paltrow-y.

Oh, wait.

I don't really like Gwyneth Paltrow that much.

Okay, so, the truth is: I just got lazy.

At first, I felt totally justified: I was swapping one life for another and things were hectic and busy and exhausting and I was sure I'd be eaten by one the many boxes that were multiplying like Gremlins in my (former) house.

Then there were the perfect moments to blog: saying goodbye to a house I thought was My Dream House (which was pretty good, since I never got the Barbie version when I was a kid); the slight insanity of the four of us living temporarily in my parents' house; the nearly-crippling, irrational fears of taking on yet another house to remodel on our own...  The opportunities for writing were endless.

I could have (should have?) written every damn day.

But I didn't.

Again, the rationalizing: I was tired. I was overwhelmed. I was tearing down walls and wondering what the fuck we had done and obsessing over possible asbestos and fantasizing about what this new little house would look like when we were done.

But again, the truth: I was just lazy. I couldn't get motivated enough to sit at the computer at the end of the day. I didn't care "that much" about writing about all of this. When I had free time, I chose to watch reruns of HGTV or drink some wine or sleep.

And then here's what happened: the longer I was away, the harder it was to come back.

Do you remember double dutch back in your elementary school phys ed days? I remember. The two kids would swing those ropes and I'd stand there, next in line to jump, my weight on my front foot, my body slightly rocking to the ropes' rhythm, waiting for that perfect moment to go. So often, I'd nearly go, ready to go. I was good at jumping. I knew what I was doing. This, shockingly, was not one of those P.E. moments when I was stressed and fretting and feeling completely incompetent. I could fucking double dutch. Yet, there were still so often those moments when I'd flinch forward, the timing perfect, ready to make a smooth entrance into the swinging ropes. But I'd hesitate. No, no. Wait. Not now. Wait. 1...2...now. No, wait. Now. The longer I stood there, body rocking, watching the alternating ropes forming perfect smooth arcs in front of me, the harder it was to jump in. More often than not, when that happened, I'd miss it...maybe by a millisecond...maybe by a millimeter, but I'd hit one of the ropes. The perfect rhythm would stop. I'd get tangled up. My turn would be over. All that just to get back at the end of the line. Damn.

This was sorta like that. I'd open the laptop. I'd wait for the perfect rhythm, the timing, and then, I'd hesitate. No, no. Wait. 1..2....

I figured the longer I was gone from here, the more poignant the "return post" would have to be.

How incredibly narcissistic and self-important of me.

I figured I'd have to write about what's happened in my life the last few months: some great post on my new life in my little house, the obstacles and fears that were overcome, the things given up, the rewards, the lessons learned. But no, apparently, instead I thought some random frivolous Halloween post would be just perfect. And then (oh no, here comes the over-thinking), I started worrying about how ridiculous and pathetic it would be if I never blogged again and my Last Blog Post Ever was some drivel about a bad Halloween costume.

Again, how incredibly narcissistic and self-important of me.

So here I am. I'm not really sure if I will get back in line when this turn is over and go again.
But the ropes are swinging over my head and under my feet, and I'm jumping.

Wish You Were Here

if you come back

to your words

your space

after a very long time

if you come back

does it matter

if anyone missed you

or only if

you missed yourself

if you come back

do you have to explain

to yourself

or anyone else

why you were gone

Happy belated birthday to my neglected third child

While I've been busy trying to dodge the man-eating boxes invading my house, this blog turned 5 years old. Five! That's a biggie, no? I mean, when my first-born turned 5, we threw him a full-blown party--complete with an acrobatic, wall-climbing Spiderman impersonator (trust me: it was one of the rare times in our parenting history when we did something really expensive and over-the-top, but thankfully, it was actually worth it).

Half a decade.
Five years.
269 blog posts.

When I started, I wondered if I'd survive the year (and early motherhood). And look at me now: preparing to switch over to Wordpress all by myself, with a brand new domain name and everything (and no longer crying hysterically from sleep deprivation and the identity crisis that often comes with becoming a new mom).

My blog and I are all grown up.

This blog was born of need and desperation. I was out running and doing what I usually do when I hit that good runner's high: attempting to recreate myself in my own head. (Maybe this is why I'm getting boring as I'm gaining weight--my knees have finally decided to strike in protest until I give in to the surgeon, and running is a distant memory.) I was thinking about how much I miss writing--the words, the sentences, the musings, the freedom. As my feet pounded the asphalt, my brain pounded out ideas, much like that  "I Love Lucy" episode in the bonbon factory.
I need to write again. I used to write a lot. Maybe I should write a book. Could I really write a book? I have no brain cells lately. I can barely stay awake, let alone write anything. How could I come up with a plot and characters when my own life is a dizzying whirlwind of diapers and potty training, bottles and sippy cups, first steps and tantrums?
The main characters of my own real life, Ben (then, 4) and Aidan Kai (a few months old), were draining the creativity and energy out of me. That's when it hit me: write about them. Write about how hard and wonderful and funny and scary this--Motherhood--all is.

I remember walking in the door at the end of my run, sweaty and red-faced, and proclaiming to Hubby "I need a minute!" I marched straight over to the computer that sat tucked away in a corner of what was supposed to be the family room, but was really the toy-bin-and-baby-floor-mat-area/indoor-soccer-field/general-room-of-crap-and-miscellaneous. I opened Word and typed nearly frantically. After a few minutes I was done, and on the screen, where the cursor still sat blinking, were several sentences and a mishmash of notes on essays I thought I could throw together into a book. Musings on what my life had become since I'd had my kids, how I'd changed as a person--in ways I had wanted to and in ways I absolutely had not. Anecdotes, basically.

What I thought, at that moment, might be chapter titles soon morphed into blog posts.

The title But Then I Had Kids came relatively easily. It seemed to me, then (and sometimes still now), that all my reasons and excuses for not being able to do something--anything--were related to my kids.
I used to be cool. I used to travel. I used to go to fancy martini bars. I used to be interesting. I used to be thin(ner). I used to skip undereye concealer. But then I had kids. I walked around in a daze, for about 3 years, eyes unfocused, disoriented, tired, overwhelmed, and feeling guilty about all of it, while my boys were babies.

Those 269 blog posts not only helped get me through those early years, but they helped me rediscover my writer's voice, my craft, and my sense of self. They gave me an outlet for venting and connected me to other women and writers who felt the same way. They helped me be a part of something bigger than my often-cramped world, and pried open my head so some of the noise could escape.

I've beat myself up quite a bit over neglecting this blog. No matter the stage, it's never been enough:
I'm not writing enough or I'm not writing well enough. I don't have enough comments or I haven't followed other blogs consistently enough. I'm not social-media savvy enough or I'm not disciplined enough to keep up with it like I should. I don't put enough into it--ever.

Over the last year, I've tried to take in some of the advice I've learned from other writers: that I need to approach the work as I can, and sometimes that means dedicating hours to it a week, while other times, it means only a bit at a time, if at all. I have to remind myself constantly that I am a full time teacher, wife, mother, friend, and individual...and that all of those roles need my attention. My role as Writer might sometimes monopolize a lot of my time, but more often than not, the best I can give it is a few inspired but exhausted minutes at the end of a long weeknight.

I had hoped to have my new blog site up and running by my fifth anniversary. Not only did I not meet my self-imposed deadline (I am really starting to think I should have a section dedicated to the word "self-imposed" on the blog), I actually forgot my blog's anniversary...and then even after I remembered, only got to writing about it nearly a month later. You do know I fretted and beat myself up a bit over this, right? I guess after 5 years,  you all know me pretty well. But it's all good. You know I ain't going anywhere.

Happy 5th Birthday, Little Blog. Thanks for the ride.

A case for disconnecting

My husband rarely checks his phone. He is harassed often by his friends, his mother, and occasionally his wife about how long it takes to get a hold of him. Those of us who know him well know that it is not personal or purposeful. And those who know us well, know that if you need to get a hold of him right away, text or call me. Because my husband is rarely looking at his phone, while I, on the other hand, have been slowly becoming that person who rarely does not.

Back in 2009 when I first started this blog, I wrote a post bashing Facebook (and pretty much mocking the people who use it constantly). Now, I refer to FB as my rabbit hole: I open it up to post something or peruse, and I fall in...

I text. Constantly.

If my phone is on the kitchen counter and I walk past it, I will pick it up and check it even if it hasn't rung or beeped or vibrated or dinged, "just in case."

I used to get really, really, really pissed at my friends who had their phones out during dinners or when they came over to visit. Once (possibly more than once), I snatched it away from my girlfriend, hissing about how insulting it was...was my company not enough? Last month, I went away for my annual girls' getaway, and this time it was one of my girls hissing at me (albeit more gently, because, well, let's be honest, I have a reputation for being harsh): "Put. That. Away."

So a couple of weeks ago, when Hubby and I went to Disney World with the kids for four days, I declared a moratorium on all things connected. No Facebook. No texting. No "just checking" either. (Okay, disclaimer: I did post ONE picture on Facebook, but it was with Hubby's blessing and it was too good to pass up...Here it is:)

"Mr. Miyagi would be proud..."

I admit that there were a few moments I wanted to capture and text immediately to a friend with a clever comment, and there were more than a  few times I wanted to post something for the world to see, but for the most part, it was easy. There was something incredibly freeing about clicking off my phone and dropping it in the backpack...never fumbling around and checking my pockets frantically to find it...never missing a moment or a conversation because I was reading a text message. I remember the trip much more clearly, because I was actually present for all of it; I wasn't multitasking or trying to maintain ten conversation threads at once.

And I know what would have happened had I not made that promise to myself and my family at the beginning of the trip: I would have had my phone out in every line, while walking from ride to ride, while sitting on the resort bus.... And I would have been able to rationalize it by saying that I was "only doing it" when nothing else was going on. As a result, I would have missed out on all the conversations and all the comfortable silences, the spontaneous jokes and hugs, the parenting and family time, the snuggling up against my Hubby's shoulder in exhaustion while waiting in line, the great people watching that can only be seen in a place where that many people from that many places congregate.

Something else would have happened too: I've realized I get overstimulated. You know, like when you're a new mom and you're reading the baby books, and they tell you that for some babies, too much stimulation can make them overwhelmed and cranky and unbearable. Well, over the last few months, I've been working a great deal on all that "noise" I talk (and write) about that's always in my head, making me exhausted and stressed out all the time. I've realized that a lot of that comes from the external stimulation I inflict upon myself: not only the phone and the computer, but also the attempts at multitasking, the endless To-Do lists, the self-imposed demands and unrealistic expectations to keep up with it all. So I would have been just one more cranky, annoying, crying baby waiting in line for the Dumbo ride.

I came back from that trip pretty oblivious to what was going on in my social media groups and the blogs I follow. I felt disconnected enough that I neglected (purposefully and consciously) this space for a while, too. I didn't sit on the couch with the laptop open. If I absolutely needed to look something up, I used my phone so I wouldn't linger too long. When I posted something on FB, I tried to resist my Alice in Wonderland incarnation. On Christmas Day, I avoided the internet completely. Although I have to admit that some stress has come from all this (What if my followers stop reading my blog? What if I lose my niche in the little author groups I've joined? What if someone is waiting on me for a response to something?), for the most part, it's been calming. I have had more time to talk to my children. I have had more time to interact with my husband. When I've been with friends, I've been fully present. It's the same old thing we keep reading about and discussing out there regarding the society we live in and all its hyper connectedness: as amazing as it all is, to a great degree, we are missing out on the people who stand before us and the experiences we are literally having in an attempt to post, text, and "connect." 

That's my name...in a REAL book! Launch Day for The HerStories Project Anthology

 

The four of us were stalking the UPS truck. I was totally trying to pretend it wasn't such a big deal.

 

But then my oldest turned the corner on his bike and yelled, "Mommy! Look!" and my youngest followed him on his drifter and announced, "It's the brown truck with the golden stripes!" 

 

The book arrived and I opened it up and turned to page 17, and I couldn't pretend anymore.

 

This was a very big deal.

 

I was giddy.

 

High.

 

There was my essay: "The More The Merrier."

There was my full name: Elizabeth Suarez Aguerre.

A real byline.

 

Perhaps I was a bit biased, but I thought the book was beautiful: pink and purple, the exact shades of my teenage bedroom. The cover was simple, but appealing. Just heavy enough in my hands.

 

A real book.

 

I have been published before (nine times to be exact!). You'd think that would be more than enough. But although I am extremely proud of those projects, they do not hold my true voice. This book is the real writing Me. It is the style and genre of writing that I have dreamed about being published in for as long as I can remember.

 

My essay sits there, sharing space with 49 other amazing women writers, and I am honored. These amazing editors, Stephanie Sprenger and Jessica Smock, found my words, my piece, and thought it was good enough to be in this anthology on women's friendships. Thank you.

 

After showing the book to my boys ("Look, that's Mommy's name!"), Hubby and I toasted with a bottle of champagne. I carried it around the rest of the afternoon, under my arm, crystal flute in hand. After this experience, after feeling this feeling, I can no longer deny that I. Want. This.

 

This byline...this book...this opportunity has lit a fire under my ass. I can no longer pretend that my writing doesn't matter.

 



That's ME!!!!

To buy the book, click HERE or on the book's Amazon link at the top right corner of the page (pretty please?).

Learn more about the book, how it all started, the editors, and the rest of the awesome women writers featured at The HerStories Project. And please help us spread the word....tell your friends and family about it. The book really is a frickin' awesome collection of essays on "the joy, pain, and power of female friendship!"

I am a writer

I don't write for an audience.
I write for Me.

That's what I tell myself, anyways. And, for the most part, it's true.


I've been a writer for as long as I can remember.

That sentence, there, is hard for me to form:
I have been a writer for as long as I can remember.

Usually, it's more along the lines of:
I love to write...or...I have always loved writing...or...I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid...or, my favorite disclaimer of my artistic ability: Yes, I've had several books published, but that doesn't really count, because they were educational books, so I'm not really a writer, I just love to write.

"But ultimately, a writer is someone who writes," according to Dani Shapiro, author of Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life.

And write, I do.

All the time and everywhere and for as long as I can remember: scribbled sentences on coffee shop napkins, diaries and journals and notebooks filled to the margins, pages and pages of typed up "chapter books" on my sister's typewriter when I was eleven, love letters, hate letters, poems filled with angst and dripping in narcissism, musings and essays and blog posts...

I write.

Always have.

And for the first time in my life, I am just starting to realize that I no longer want to clean that up, or tack a disclaimer onto it, or apologize for it, or explain it. It's a very, very big part of who I am. It's the one thing I found all on my own, when I was very little, and figured out that not only could I do it pretty well, but I loved doing it, and even more consequential: I needed to do it.

It's because of this need--this internal thing--that I write for myself. I write because I have to. I write because when some thought starts pinging around inside my head, I can't get it out until I put it to paper (or, in this case, screen). So yes, I was being truthful when I said: I don't write for an audience. I write for myself.

But I never said it didn't matter if someone else reads it, or says it's good, or tells me I moved her or made her laugh or made her feel relief. I write for myself, but when someone is out there and notices it, well then...it makes the rapture of having written something all the more...rapturous.

That's why when Stephanie Sprenger and Jessica Smock of The HerStories Project contacted me and asked if they could include one of my pieces in their upcoming anthology, it was a really, really big deal. I don't think I realized, in fact, how much I actually cared if there really was an audience out there until this happened. I keep saying how "honored" I am to be included amongst these 50 contributing writers for this project, but I feel like it sounds so cliché. Everyone says I'm honored, all the time. But I am. I am honored.

It is a honor.

...An honor that they found me, that somehow out there in the blogosphere, someone read my words and thought they were good enough and important enough and relevant enough to include in this project.

I wrote the essay that will be included in the anthology for Me. I wrote it because, at the time, I needed to. I wrote it because I'm a writer. But it sure is nice when someone else is sitting out there, in the audience, listening and applauding.

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"The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain, and Power of Female Friendship is a collection of essays from over 50 women writers, encompassing tales from the sandbox to the inbox."
All the info on the book can be found here.  Read some of the early reviews, find out how this project got started, and of course, look for li'l ol' me on the "Contributor" tab. And then, make sure you sign up for updates...you'll receive all the information on the book's upcoming release, as well as sneak peeks and discount information.

Exhaustion: How am I supposed to write when my brain is fried?

Image from James Harris Gallery

So I've decided to participate in Just Write Tuesdays, although I'm thinking I might lose my audience if I am in the same frame of mind each Tuesday that I am tonight. The concept is you Just Write (duh, right?) without trying to over-analyze or edit yourself too much. It's pretty open: I can describe what I'm experiencing around me, a recent situation, whatever...but it should be pretty fresh (or at least recent) and "free."

Considering I'm feeling pretty wiped out right now, I'm not sure this is going to go off so well.

You know those days when you just feel Done? You're like, you can't go any further. You can't clean up one more dirty dish. You can't put away one more piece of clean laundry. You can't contribute one more thing of any value to this earth in this moment? Yep, that's me. Right now.

I know...lucky you.

My day has been a whirlwind of the usual day-to-day stuff: students and children and meetings and grading and my pants don't fit and don't forget to buy bread and I don't feel like making a salad for tomorrow's lunch. And all day, I've wanted to come back Here. To write. To feel like I did Something Important. Something that makes me feel good, just because it's all mine.

But then Life happens.

Your kid develops a fever two days before you are leaving for a trip.
You have a major blow out with a major friend.
You realize that damned salad still has to be made or those damn pants will still refuse to fit.

And then you wonder: how the hell am I going to put anything Out There when you have nothing left?

When you don't want your kid to be just like you: Throwback Thursday

So I feel like I've been at this blogging thing now long enough that I've earned the right to re-post every once in a while. Recently, I was surprised when I went back through my old posts and reread some of my old stuff. Some of it is good. Good enough that it surprised me (as in: I wrote that sentence?!?). Some of it is barely okay (as in: Wow, I was really reaching with that post!). But all of it was a cool skip down memory lane...

I started this blog, initially, to talk about being a new mother. Writing has been my passion since forever. And I've always been an over-thinker. So when I was struggling (and I do mean: struggling) with new motherhood, I felt stifled in more ways than one. This blog became my outlet. It was a way to get out the words and phrases that were dancing around in my head. And it was a way to get out the frustrations and the fears that were banging up against my brain. So it's incredibly amusing (sometimes in that bittersweet way that only parents can fully appreciate) to go back and revisit some of my old crazy (and even the semi-normal) posts.

So I've decided that for a little bit, I will have my own Throwback Thursdays. (Disclaimer necessary here: I would love to say that I came up with that on my own, but Hubby has told me that I am required to give him the credit that is due. So here it is: He came up with the term and the day of the week I should use for my reposts. It was not my idea. It's not super original, I know, since I've already seen it all over the place out there in the internet world, but really, what is original these days? And in his defense, his internet time is limited to this blog, travel stuff, and probably porn so it was super original and clever for him. And honestly, I am super grateful because I probably would have wasted so many days trying to come up with The-Perfect-Catchy-But-Not-Too-Forced-Label for my reposts, that this post would still just be an idea in my head, with notations on my phone's notes app, for at least several more weeks.)

I picked today's repost as a shout-out to one of my blogging idols (she's probably gonna think I'm really weird for calling her that), Kitch Witch. I admire her so much that even Hubby knows her just by "Kitch," which is the pet name I have for her that she doesn't know about and is going to make me seem even weirder to her. Last night, I read one of her posts, and it haunted me all night long and into today. Because it was so well-written, it was so her writing style, and I could so relate to the pain she expressed as a mom about something that may seem like a minor thing to others. Her whole focus was on how she didn't want her daughter to be like her, in a very specific, particular way, and so I sorta dedicate this post to her and her Hummingbird, cause although my post is nowhere nearly as well written or as poignant as hers, it is a similar, shared fear.

"You take after your Mommy." Is this a good thing?
posted originally here on September 21, 2009

It can be heartbreaking when you realize your child takes after you...has inherited your worst traits, the ones you have to work every damn day to repress.

I think for the most part, people would describe me as bold, adventurous, a bit in-your-face. All of that is, in fact, true. But I've said it before: I'm really just a big chicken. I'm scared. A lot. Often. I get anxious about things. I worry. I fret. I over-analyze. When I want to try something new, I think about all the things that could go wrong.

And then I do it anyway.

See? There is the repression. It can be exhausting, spending so much of your time trying to go against your nature (or, possibly, nurture, since my parents spent most of my childhood trying to protect me from the world and most of my adult life trying to protect me from myself).

I don't want my child to grow up like this. I don't want him to have to live life, often, afraid or worried or anxious. I want him to be like his Dad: balls to the wall (as he'd say...sorry), no worries, just get out there and do it. All of it. Any of it.

But as Ben is growing up, I am realizing more and more that he is more and more like me. And I hate that. I hate that he thinks before he leaps (literally). I hate that he worries about being the slowest on his soccer team. I hate that he absolutely refused--the fear evident on his little face--to go down the slides at his own birthday party.

Over the last few days he has developed a new anxiety: peeing in his underwear. Mind you, this kid has been potty trained for a year or so. He has been sleeping through the night with no issues for months. Now, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he is obsessing over going to the bathroom...constantly. (Yes, we took him to the doctor.) We have tried both ends of the spectrum: from paying close attention and discussing it to all-out nonchalance and ignoring. But last night, after almost an hour of constant trips to the bathroom, we had to step in. We tried to explain he was "empty." We tried to be soothing. We tried to be intimidating. In the end, we had to give him an ultimatum ("choice" as we, parents, call it): either you go to bed now as is, or you go to bed with pull-ups on. He went to bed...after several minutes of a full-blown panic attack. To see his little face so out of control, so frightened by his own anxieties...it was heartbreaking...and remarkably familiar.

"He takes after you, Liz."

I hear it often.

He is stubborn, strong-willed, verbal, and a thinker. He loves the spotlight, likes to make people laugh, and can negotiate you into thinking it was your idea. He likes order, routine, and rules. And when he has an idea he likes, good luck trying to change it.

It can be hard to see yourself in your child. It's like yet another reminder, everyday, of how important it is to be brave. Bold. Free. Because now that I'm a mom, I don't just want that for myself. I want it for him, too.

Project Underblog's 31Days31Voices: Sometimes I Don't Like My Kid

Today I am honored (once again) to be the featured blogger at Project: Underblog, in celebration of 31 Days 31 Voices. After checking my post here, snoop around and read all the other wonderful voices being featured this month.

I chose to share a post that has obviously struck a chord with many readers out there, since I am still getting comments on it even now, a couple of years later. Apparently, lots of moms out there Google the phrase: I don't like my kid. That, apparently, is how they find me.

It was a post that, back then, was difficult for me to write, because I was still sorta new to this whole motherhood thing, and I wasn't sure if my son's behavior was my own fault. And, even more worrisome, I wasn't sure if it was normal to not like my own kid.

Fast forward to today, and not only have I learned that it is absolutely completely normal to not always like your own kid (sometimes you absolutely can't stand your own kid...that's normal, too), but I've also learned that it's not my fault...that parenting is not always an if-then sort of thing.

I've had so many women contact me via email and through comments to thank me for writing that post...to tell me that, because of my honesty, they felt better, relieved, understood, and not alone.

That, for me, was the main reason I started blogging back then: I needed to express what I was going through as a mother, and I needed to be honest. I couldn't take the Motherhood-is-all-rainbows-and-teddy-bears-and-warm-fuzzies. Sometimes it is. Most of the times, it's not. And I needed to talk about it. So go check it out. Read it for the first time, or, if you've been following me for a while, read it again. And while you're doing that, I'll be playing with my oldest son, Ben, who, luckily, today I like a whole damn lot. (But tomorrow might be another story...)

Guest writing at Project: Underblog

"Project UnderBlog is a place where bloggers are accepted based on the power of their words and not on the reach of their numbers – where they can be heard, promoted, and celebrated no matter their size. It is about celebrating the fierceness of the 'underblog.'"

I am honored to be "heard, promoted, and celebrated" today on Project: Underblog! Please go read one of my favorite posts here and celebrate the "underblog."

What's on my...

One of my favorite magazines is Marie Claire, and I'm totally diggin' their "What's On" section, so I decided to do my own version (not only because it's fun and frivolous, but also because it gives me an opportunity to play I'm-A-Superstar-And-The-Public-Really-Wants-To-Know-This-Kinda-Stuff-About-Me).


What's on my...

Vanity: A ton of toiletries for our upcoming 3-week RV road trip; a candle with sea stars; too much make-up; our toothbrushes; excessive contact lens paraphernalia.

Perennial To-Do List: Organize my photos, do more yoga, lose 4 pounds, yell at my kids less, meditate.

Refrigerator Shelves: Blueberries, strawberries, blackberries (notice a pattern?); milk; creamer; beer.

Itinerary: Melbourne, FL; Savannah, GA; Charleston, SC; Outer Banks, NC; Blue Ridge Mountains, GA; Destin, FL.

Fantasy Itinerary: The Hawaiian Islands, with enough time to explore each one like a local.

Playlist: Anything and everything by Dave Matthews Band; "Chicken Fried" by Zac Brown Band.

DVR: "Up All Night," "E! News," "What Not To Wear," "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," "Jake and the Neverland Pirates," "Ninjago," and the movie "Unfaithful."

Nightstand: Several books on Buddhism (only 2 of which I've read and one I've skimmed); 2 novels I haven't even opened; Book 2 of the "Dante's Inferno" Trilogy (which I have decided I could absolutely care less about and to which I will apply my "Life is too short to read bad books" philosophy); 5 journals; 3 pens; eye drops.

Qualities-in-a-Friend List: Authenticity, versatility, honesty, and a sense of fun.

Workout Plan: In the summer, it's just get in whatever I can, whenever I can, in an attempt to minimize the damage of "No Work And All Play Summers." Mainly weight training a couple of times a week at the gym and short run here and there. When I'm desperate and the beer calories are starting to show, I torture myself with a P90X video at home.

Bucket List: Spend one full summer in Hawaii with my kids and Hubby; live in Hawaii for at least a year after retirement; live walking distance to the beach.

Mind: Learning how to quiet it!

Liquor Shelf: Grey Goose Vodka; Hendricks Gin; lotsa wine.

Quote to Live by: "There's no real point in mourning all the sadness and suffering in the world....So this is my therapy, to sing about the end of the world and dance. We don't find solutions in despair--we find solutions in the defiance of it....Everybody needs a little horn section."  -Dave Matthews

Where'd the writer go?

 

 

not sure what has happened

 

 

it's been the longest

I think

that I have not written

Here

since Here came to be

 

my friend called me out on it recently

 

Damn

 

I was sorta hoping

no one would notice

 

or maybe

 

I was hoping

everyone would

 

Lord knows there's plenty of stuff

to write about

 

there's so much

maybe

inside my head

 

that's the problem

 

is it?

really?

it's a problem when you have too much to say?

 

I think that might indicate

a Real Problem

 

cause

really

if I'm not coming to talk

Here

then where am I talking?

 

 

Things I've Been Doing Instead of Blogging: My Life, in Lists

1. Starting a new school year for my 1st grade little boy (I can't believe he's in 1st grade!)
2. Starting a new school year for my pre-k little boy (actual homework!)
3. Starting a new school year with my students (48 fourth-graders, to be exact)
4. Moving classrooms twice in a three-week period
5. Stressing about work and the general state of public education
6. Ignoring my broken computer
7. Trying not to stress about my broken computer
8. Having to face the reality that my computer is broken
9. "Writing" blog posts in my head
10. Stressing about the blog posts that are not making it into the blogosphere
11. Trying to lose the 8 pounds I gained over summer vacation
12. Realizing that as I approach 40, losing summer weight is not that easy
13. Waking up at 4:35 a.m. to make it to the gym (see #s 11 and 12)
14. Going to bed at 10:00 p.m. (see #13)
15. Entering the world of Soccer Mom (Soccer practices are how many times a week for a 6-year-old?!?)
16. Entering the world of tennis (how cute is a 4-year-old who actually asks to take "tennis classes"?)
17. Missing summer

Age: Turning Forty and F*cking Fabulous

I'm turning 40 this year. Forty. It's weird. I didn't think it would be. But it is. I don't feel forty, although, really, what does forty feel like? I keep reminding myself: Gwen Stefani...isn't she like 42? And SJP...way over 40. Jen Aniston. So yeah, forty is still super hot and cool and hip, although really, I know: perhaps using celebrities as a comparison as I approach this major milestone is not the most brilliant or rational of ideas.

When I saw today's Five For Five topic, all I could think was: 40.

Although I will still be in my 30s for more than half a year, it is looming.

I debated just posting a bunch of images that have been floating around in my mind: the perfect party dress, the perfect pair of shoes, me in the perfect party dress and perfect pair of shoes surrounded by my homies in Vegas...

Yep, I decided a little alcohol, some friends, my Hubby, and a room at the Bellagio will soften the blow.

If I'm gonna turn 40 (before any of my friends and Hubby, mind you), I figure I should do it Big. Grand. Loud. Over-the-top. Tacky, even. And preferably while holding a martini in a feathered cocktail dress.

I'm not really sure what the big deal is. I never really used to have an issue with age. But then again, I've never been 40. And it's not like I'm hiding it: if my friends didn't think it was waaaaaay too tacky, I would make everyone wear shirts proclaiming: "Liz is turning 40 and she is fuckin' fabulous." That's the theme, anyways. Yep. I have a theme. And before you think I'm totally nuts, seeing as it's in December, for heaven's sake, just know that the airplane tickets are already booked. So see? I'm not getting that ahead of myself. I'm not obsessing that much. So it's official: I guess if I have a non-refundable ticket (along with several others that will be flying over there with me), then I guess I really am turning 40.

So you'd think, as much of a ponderer as I am, that I would already have plans...big, big plans for my new decade. Goals, adventures...  But nope, I haven't gotten past the shoes and the party dress. So as of right now, I'm gonna ignore the weird posing-questions-about-life-and-wrinkles-and-mortality-stage and just call this year's birthday an excuse for one hell of a party. I'll worry about the rest while recovering from my hangovers.

Vegas, babyyyyyyyyyyyyy.......!