Frantic

I get frantic. It's what I do. I think, unfortunately, it's just how I am.

I get all jittery inside: like a pinball machine. Or, better: one of those bouncy balls my kids get out of coin machines. You know the kind...a tiny, rainbow-patterned swirl of rubber boing!-ing around all over the place. Your kid bounces it "just once," and then it's gone...each time it hits a surface--the wall, a kitchen counter, the TV table--it seems to gain more speed...and pretty soon it's going in so many different directions, you can't keep up with it. Until, someone finally wrangles it into containment. That is usually one of my little boys, pouncing on it, throwing his whole body onto that little extra-bouncy bouncing ball, as he giggles so loudly and uncontrollably that it makes the "It's-going-to-break-something!"-situation worthwhile.

Yep, that's me. The bouncy ball.

I'm working on the containment part.



Good. Bad. It doesn't matter. I get like this as much (possibly more) with Good Stuff, as I do with Bad. But the Good Stuff...it can be minor, silly, stupid stuff that really...really...does not need all this frantic, frenetic, bouncing energy.

My kids' pre-k graduations.
A Mother's Day show.
My favorite band's concert.
A vacation.

C'mon. I mean, these are all really awesome things. But I suspect that maybe, just maybe, I would enjoy them even more if I calmed down a bit.

And it's not like a logical thing. It's not like "Oh, I'm frantic inside because I forgot and did not get the tickets for the show." or "Oh, I'm only this frantic because there is a traffic jam and I may not make it to see my 4-year-old looking incredibly cute as he wears a teeny tiny cap and gown and walks down the aisle to the graduation march."

No, no.
I wish.

'Cause, really, then maybe it would make more sense. Like, I could actually explain why I'm all jittery inside. Then my friends and my husband may not think I was totally crazy. (Truth is, I don't care too much about that, but I do know that I am, in fact, a bit crazy, and it does, actually, drive me totally crazy.)

No, it's not logical. Sometimes, I don't even realize I'm all bouncy inside. And then, when I do--because I notice my face feels hot, or because my heart is racing, or I'm talking waaaaay too fast--I pause and ask myself "Why?" I check in to see what it is, exactly, that I have missed or forgotten to do or is still pending that has put me into this State Of Emergency Feeling.

And, the answer?
Usually?
Nothing.
Not.
A.
Thing.

'Cause here's the thing about me, too: I'm not just frantic. I'm Type A. ("Diligent" my therapist once called it, thank you very much.) And diligent people tend to get shit done in a timely and organized manner. So diligent people don't usually forget to buy the tickets. Diligent people take into account possible traffic jams when calculating the time it takes to arrive to a destination. Diligent people don't usually have a valid reason to be frantic for a big (good) event.

So.

At least I'm checking in on the bouncy ball frantic feeling, right? At least I'm asking myself what's going on? At least I'm catching myself and becoming aware and noticing the ball boing!-ing all over the place on my mental surfaces?

And so.

The containment part...

I'm working on it.

I had not been too successful in the past. I would either dismiss any accusations of unnecessary crazy, or defensively claim "That's just how I am!" (and secretly wonder, "Why aren't you like that too?").

"I can't help it." I would say, in fact.

"I can't help it"?!?

Really?  I really said/thought/believed that? Really?

Yes.

(Disclaimer: And sometimes, I still do.) But mostly, I have realized that more important than actually being able to "help it," is wanting to.

I want to help it.
I want to calm myself down.
I don't want to be in a nearly perpetual state of emergency and claim that it's my intensity or my passion or my writer's head.
I have realized that, for me, at least, there is no glamour or glory in this.

I used to like drama and all that. It made me feel, I suspect, important. Like: I must be pretty important and my life must be pretty important if I make this fill-in-the-blank THIS big a deal.

But who the hell wants to live like that?

Not me.
Not anymore.

I'm so much more into mellow, now.

(Another disclaimer: I'm not saying I am mellow--at least not most of the time--but I do like mellow.)

I have come to realize that I can enjoy Good Stuff just as much and get through Bad Stuff even better if I am mellow. Calm. Present.

So I attempt to contain the bouncy balls these days.

I breathe. A lot.
I talk to myself (in the good way). A lot.

I am not always successful. I have realized, too, that this really is "just how I am," but there is no judgment or beating myself up for being frantic. And although there are more times now than ever before that I can, in fact, pounce on it, throw my whole body onto that little extra-bouncy bouncing ball and stop it, there are also those times when the ball keeps going...gaining speed as it hits that damn kitchen counter or that living room wall.

But it's okay. because like my little boys, I will keep chasing after it as it keeps boing!-ing around, and I'll make sure to remind myself to giggle loudly and uncontrollably along the way, so that it's all worthwhile.

Life Lessons Learned in an RV

For the last week, I have had no clue what day it is. I mean, not even a vague notion as to whether it was…say…Monday or Thursday. I didn’t even realize when June turned to July.

Do you know how absolutely and completely freeing that can be?

Eight days ago, we packed up our 22-year-old RV with our 2 kids, lots of anticipation, and a few prayers, and headed out for our longest road trip yet. The itinerary included 6 stops along the way, putting us in four states in a little less than 3 weeks.

Being on the road and going from place to place,  worrying only about spending time with your family, playing on the beach, and finding a good local place to eat have a way of making you lose your bearings a bit. I was amazed by the realization that I had, literally, lost all sense of time.  I was completely and totally disconnected.

For someone who usually adheres to an extremely tight, self-imposed schedule, it is liberating to not know what day it is-- and most importantly, not care.

I think I have decided that this is my favorite part of owning our old little beat-up RV.

The longest I have ever been away from home is 11 days. This trip is scheduled to last 19. I say “scheduled,” because when you are traveling this many miles in a motor home that is this old, you just never know for sure. Take the first day, for example: we left Miami mid-morning in order to make it to Cocoa Beach, Florida so we could spend the day with our friend who lives there. Instead, we spent about 4 hours dealing with a suddenly-not-working-in-spite-of-being-serviced-generator. We made it to our friend’s house barely in time for dinner.  And, take the second day, too, for example: we left our friend’s house at 6 a.m. in order to make it to Savannah, Georgia by lunchtime. Instead, we spent 9 hours in a parking lot with a busted water pump and shredded something-or-other belts. We skipped Savannah and made it to Charleston, South Carolina with barely enough time to check in to our campground and go to sleep.

For someone as superstitious as myself, I would think that maybe the darned little guardian angel thingy that Hubby brought along might not be as guardian-like as he’d hoped. And for someone as mathematically-inclined as himself, he would think that, statistically, we should be good for the rest of the trip. (Just in case, we have now taken to saying a prayer out loud when we turn on the generator. It started out as a simple “Please, God, let the generator start” in unison, but then the boys turned it into “Please, God, let the generator fart,” and that seems to be working, so we’re going with it. And just in case, I have now taken to saying a prayer--silently as to not further stress Hubby--whenever he starts the engine. We are very religious these days, apparently.)

And, I have to say, as much as I have hated (I can’t italicize and bold and underline that enough) the calling-the-RV-version-of-AAA moments, I think they may have contributed (albeit painfully) to my sense of freedom.

When you are this controlling in your own head, it is almost a relief to realize that you really have very little control over situations. And, at the risk of sounding corny and cliché, it is a little empowering to realize that you can, however, control your reactions to situations.

When the generator broke down not an hour into our trip, I couldn’t will it to work again. I could, however, make jokes, play with the kids, paint my nails, and declare that surely this mishap would guarantee that The Thing That Could Go Wrong With The RV has already happened. And when the engine suddenly started to make ominous noises and we were sitting on the side of the expressway only 30 minutes away from our destination, I had no other choice but to admit that crying wasn’t going to replace the damned water pump or any of the belts its spontaneous combustion shredded. In fact, it would have only made the situation worse (obvious but poignant!)

For a few hours there, we had no idea how bad it was going to be: was this even repairable (one guy told us they didn’t even make those replacement parts anymore)? Would we be able to find a hotel if we needed one (the twelve we called in Savannah were booked solid)? Would we have to explain to our boys that, after a year of planning this trip, we might have to go home after the first day (and how the hell were we going to get home if we did)?  I had absolutely no other choice but to go with the flow, and worry only about the moment at hand—two things at which I am notoriously bad.

I’m realizing these little trips are not only giving us, as a family, an opportunity to bond and play and laugh and be away from everything, but it’s also giving me an opportunity to practice some of the things I really want to be better at in life. And if it just so happens that I can learn these lessons as I watch my little ones squeal with glee while they chase down crabs, or while I’m  enjoying  an ice cold beer on a beach in the Outer Banks, then all the better.

Here’s to not knowing what day of the week it is…Cheers.

 

This New Year's, I'm ignoring the countdown

New Year's Eve is all about reflecting on the past year and looking ahead to the next. Tonight, in fact, is probably the one night where you are expected to NOT be in the present moment, not be mindful of the Right Now. But the thing is, I'm always looking backwards or looking ahead. I'm never in the Now.

It's a problem. Has been for as long as I can remember.

And really, tonight, of all nights, I don't want to look back (too much) or look ahead. I am trying, once again, to make it a point to be in the Here and Now. As much as possible, although, really, all the time, would be totally stellar.

What does it say about you when the same issue haunts you, over and over again? When you say you're going to work on this, you're going to make it your focus, your goal, when your closest people who know you best in the world tell you it's a problem, and you know it's true, and yet, you're still here, another new year resolving to fix it. Is it like this for everyone? Or am I the only one who has written a blog post about changing something about myself, only to have to write the same post again, the following year, or the one after that, just in different words? But what other choices do we have? Do we give up, then, and shrug our shoulders, and blow it off: "Ah, that's just how I am."?

No. I refuse.

One of my favorite quotes: "When you stop trying to be better, you stop being good."

So here I am, another post reflecting on how I need to be more present, need to focus on the Now, need to stop multi-tasking, stop thinking about everything all the time, worrying about what's coming or what might come or what might not happen, and just Be Here. Now. In this moment. Each moment.

And really, what does all the worrying and the planning and the overthinking help, anyways? Absolutely nothing. It gives me a false sense that if I can plan out every possible scenario and worry about every possible problem, then maybe I can preempt it. But really, 2012 is proof that whatever's gonna happen is gonna happen, and all you can do is raise a toast when it's good, and step up to the plate when it's bad.

2012: What a year. It started out with an entire TV show crew at my house giving my front yard a makeover. (Well, technically, it started with a hangover from our first ever New Year's Eve house party, but that's another story.) We took road trips in our new (old) RV. We went to Paris for our tenth wedding anniversary and realized we were the exact same couple we were when we went the first time on our honeymoon...just more in love and with better outfits. I got my first new car in 12 years. We spent a couple of months passing strep and hand-foot-mouth disease and every virus imaginable back and forth to each other. There were family issues. There were friendship issues. There were money issues. My sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. I turned 40.

It's amazing how many things can be squeezed into 365 days. It's amazing how many lessons there are, sitting there, within the celebrations and the scares, if you look.

So I'm not going to reflect and ponder too much tonight. I'm not going to plan ahead for 2013. I'm not going to spend too much time dramatically looking back at the highs and lows (both of which were quite extreme this past year), either. I'm just going to try to sit  here, in my PJ's, listening to the neighborhood fireworks and my kids' congested snores, snuggle with Hubby under the covers, and be grateful for This Moment, This Night.

Happy New Year's.

What if...

just once

I allowed it all to be

whatever it is

if I didn't obsess

over every last detail

if I settled for

less than perfection

wouldn't that imperfection

be

perfection

after all?

Desperate Dreams

We were never really the corner lot type.

When Hubby and I started looking for a place together, we looked for something small and near the beach. Once we learned that even a cardboard box near the beach was out of our price range, we switched to small and "with personality." Our first home was a small townhouse with cedar beam ceilings, a loft, and tons of character. We gutted it, made it our own, and loved it. We planned out our lives together: cheap cars, small house, big life.

This worked out really well until we decided we wanted a second baby. It had already been challenging to fit the three of us and all of our stuff into the tiny spaces of the townhouse: Hubby's racing bikes (note the plural) were often stored in the dining room; his rappeling gear and our camping equipment hung in the baby closet; the baby's playpen was more often a storage container than an actual area for Ben to play; and our kayak was stored in a relative's garage. There was absolutely no way we were going to be able to add another person to this adorable little box with character.

So we started to look for our first real Grown-up House. Due to some really crazy and serendipitous circumstances, we were able to buy our dearest friend's house from her ex-husband...the same house where we had taken our first photo together as a couple, the same house where we had celebrated our graduate degrees at a dinner party hosted by our friend, the same house we had seeked refuge in when we needed advice and our friend's guidance. The house was outdated and her ex had not really kept up with it after she moved out; we could not even consider living in it until we gutted the whole place. But it was way bigger than we ever dreamed we could afford and had a pool and a two-car-garage and was on a corner lot and had such special meaning to us from our early years of dating. So we swapped our Big Life plan for the Big House version and told ourselves it was still Our Dream--just a different one.

It wasn't that we wanted a fancy home. Anyone who knows us can tell you we are not fancy people. We just wanted the most we could get in a time when South Florida real estate was at its most ridiculous peak. And we figured if we were going to give up our big trips and our big outings and get ourselves into a massive mortgage, it may as well be for a place that held some meaning for us (a pool and an extra room didn't hurt, either).

Fast forward 4 1/2 years.

The inside of our home, although not fully furnished yet (if ever), was airy and modern and inviting. The backyard was our Key West-themed tropical paradise. We had put it all into this house: money we had and money we didn't; time gutting it all and time replacing everything...it felt as if we had sold our souls in order to have The House. But despite our efforts, we still had not finished it. And as we sat at the sparkly granite bar counter of our sparkly remodeled kitchen in our sparkly spacious house, lists of bills and notes of pending projects confronted us, and we couldn't see how we could ever complete the rest. We had left the biggest and most overwhelming project for last: the front yard was a disaster and an embarrassment. Between the mortgage payments, the preschool payments, the debt we had gotten into because of the house repairs, we just didn't see how we were ever going to be able to come up for air.

For the first time, we considered the possibility of letting go of the house. We were tired of the mortgage payment. We were tired of pulling up to a house that looked like it had been abandoned. We were tired of giving up weekends away so that we could have a paved driveway. Facing the possibility of selling the house, I was overcome with emotion. I became unreasonably petulant: why couldn't I have it all? The house and the life we wanted (even if it had to be toned down a bit)? We began to wonder if maybe we had made the wrong decision.

This conversation took place in July.

A month later, Hubby applied us for "Desperate Landscapes," one of his favorite DIY network TV shows. The show does complete (and often over-the-top) facelifts to front yards that are the laughing stock of the neighborhood. And although we certainly qualified, the cynic in me didn't think we had a chance. So...I scoffed. I poked fun. I complained when I had to help with the application process. I even went so far as to declare to Hubby: "Okay, here's the plan: if we get picked for the TV show it will be a sign that we did the right thing with this house and we stay." Yeah, right.

We got the news that we had been selected the week after Thanksgiving. Hubby suggested that from now on, I just listen to him.

Hmmm. He might have a point.

Last Thursday, at 6:45 in the morning, the first of many trucks arrived at our home. By 8:00 am, we had three camera crews, a catering tent, a full production studio tent, the host of the show, 25 workers, and 10 of our nearest and dearest (who took days off from work, shuffled their children and responsibilites, and did what they had to in order to be there for us). By 4:00 pm, our front yard had had a $30,000 make-over.

Thanks to Hubby's optimistic nature, our friends and family, the DIY network, and perhaps a little of that What-are-the-chances-kind-of-luck, our house was suddenly finished. As I looked around, I wondered how the heck circumstances changed so drastically (and sort of weird-ly) in such a short period of time? It was as if the Universe had paid us back for our hard work.

In addition to all of this, right around Christmas time our mechanic (of all people!) told us about a new refinancing loophole. Hubby chased that tidbit like a maniac. We closed on that the week before the TV shoot. Somehow, we went from a mortage we could barely afford on a house that looked like a construction site to a monthly payment with breathing room and the nicest house on the block.

I'm not really sure how all of this happened. In less than 6 months, we've gone from total doubt and frustration to freedom. I am a big believer of the Universe, Karma, God, whatever, and I'd love to chalk it up to that. But really, I know that plenty of hard working, good people are stuck in houses they can't afford (or losing houses they can't afford), and are not waiting for a TV crew to show up and landscape. I understand how lucky we are right now. I am just sort of still in a daze...incredibly grateful that Hubby insisted on taking a chance, that the producer liked us enough to pick us out of 100's of applicants, that I had a boatload of friends and family members who dropped everything to dig holes and shovel dirt, that now when we make our mortgage payment we can actually truly afford it, and that somehow, suddenly, we no longer feel "desperate" about swapping a Big Life for a Big House.

P.S. I will post an update when I have the air date of the show....we are not allowed to post any before/after shots until then! So these are some of  the "durings"!


Being a star is such hard work....here we are filming the moment when the show's host, Jason, reveals the suprise plan.



And this is only a sampling of the people on our front lawn!




Between camera crews, catering (!), producers, helpful friends, trucks, dumpsters, equipment, they took up half our block and then some!



The producers' tent

 

Jason Cameron (the show's host), ME!, Tracy (producer & overall kick-ass person), Hubby

What are the chances?

When I was 16, I had my tonsils and adenoids out. I had to spend the night in the hospital for observation because I bled too much during the surgery, according to the doctor. A week later, I sneezed in the middle of the night and burst something, which caused me to hemorrhage through the back of my nose. I spent 4 days in the hospital. That sort of shit never happens from a routine tonsillectomy.

When I had my second son, I felt something "funny," and called the nurse. It turned out to be a prolapsed chord (click here for the full story on that adventure), which is really, really serious and "never happens." In fact, during my whole recovery in the hospital and even when I went back for my follow-ups, several nurses, doctors, and interns greeted me gleefully with "ooooh, you're the prolapsed chord!"

This past Friday, I went in for an endoscopy and Bravo probe test, a procedure that should have taken 15 minutes and one my doctor has performed "hundreds of times" without any issues at all. But this is me, and at this point, you should be noticing a pattern. The first probe (a tiny device they implant in your esophagus to measure for reflux disease) was faulty. Hmmm. That never happens. They try with a second probe. It, too, is faulty and does not latch onto my esophagus. "Must be a bad batch," figures the doctor, which he says has never, ever happened, and proceeds to pull the second one out. Upon its exit, the little shit decides to fall into my throat (the capsule, not the doctor), and lodge itself behind my sinus cavity. Now, this really never happens. Afraid it will slip into my trachea and go into my lungs (something "of concern," as the doctor explained later), my gastro now has to call in an ER ENT and put me under general anesthesia (as opposed to just the lovely dose of Michael Jackson drugs they had used to lull me to sleep) and use special tools to free this damned tiny capsule that is supposed to be oh-so-easy-and-effective-and-is-really-a-nothing-sort-of-test-but-yields-such-great-results.

Bottom line? I am that 1%. You know, when doctors say "sign here because here is the fine print of what could happen, but never does"? Yep. Me. Not always. But 3 out of 4 of my surgical procedures have yielded these amazingly fluke-y results.

I came home from the hospital Friday a little pissed off. I had been waiting to have this test done for weeks now, and had been looking forward to getting it all over with. I had expected to be at work all afternoon and, other than having to carry around a little device to monitor the levels of acidity from the implanted capsule, I should have been no worse for the wear. Instead, I could barely chew, I had blood clots coming out in my tissues, and swallowing felt like I had glass embedded in the back of my throat.

And, I admit, I have a propensity for all things pessimistic. Not always. But often. I have been known to go down the path of doom and despair and throw myself quite the pity party.

And, on top of all of this, I have had a rough few months. (I always feel the need to pop in the disclaimer here that "it could be worse"....that "I am grateful it hasn't been anything serious"...that I have just had "some minor medical annoyances," lest I tempt fate because I really, really do know that what I have been going through for a few months is, really, in the grand scheme of things nothing. But all that said, I have felt, pretty much, like shit in one way or another for the last few months.)

But despite all of this, for some odd, unexplainable reason, I didn't feel that bad Friday after all of this. Mentally, I mean. I just sorta shrugged my shoulders and chuckled at it all. I figured it could have been a lot worse, and I was home and was okay. The doctor said he'd make sure I would not be billed for the procedure (which was going to be almost 2K out of pocket because of this oh-so-special-probe-capsule-thing), and that the endoscopy showed nothing serious. I had been symptom-free for a few days, and perhaps with the results of the endoscopy alone, I would be able to resolve the whole problem. And as if that attitude wasn't enough to surprise me, I was also like: "Well, being that 1% sometimes is a good thing, because all sorts of amazing things have happened to me in my life that, statistically, probably never really should have."

What?!? Who said that? Was that really, truly me looking at the silver lining, without even being reminded to do so? That never happens...

But it's true...I immediately thought of all those times I've had the same reaction ("I can't believe that happened!") to good stuff...

Like ending up living in the very house where I took my very first picture with Hubby...the same house I slept in one night when I was running away from my old life, in the very room that now, 12 years later, belongs to my son.

Like after spending 4 years and all of our money (and some we didn't have) on fixing up said dream house, and feeling like maybe we had bitten off more than we could chew...cause really, how are we ever going to get it all done?...and what are we going to do about the thousands of dollars of work that still needed to be done to the outside?...after giving everything up for this place and thinking maybe we had been nuts all along and looking for a sign that we did, in the end, do the right thing...we got selected out of  "hundreds and hundreds" of applicants who tried to get their front yards made over for the DIY Network TV show "Desperate Landscapes."

Like I walked out on a terrible marriage, despite what everyone around me thought and advised, and not only lived to tell about it, but truly ended up with my happily-ever-after.

Like the second time around I married someone who truly turned out to be my Soulmate (I know how a lot of you feel about that term; if it makes you feel all uncomfortable and cynical-like, feel free to plug in any other appropriate term there instead, such as "great provider," "best friend," "Mr. Right," whatever, just as long as you get the gist).

Like that crazy, terrible 1% chance thing that happened with Aidan's delivery? Well, there is even a smaller chance that babies who are born with a prolapsed chord suffer absolutely no trauma or injury...and he never so much as missed a breath.

Really, what are the chances of any of those things happening? So sometimes, being in that crazy-minority-percentage-of-that-never-happens is a really, really good thing.

I am so damn tired of being negative, of expecting the worst, of worrying and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was as if it took more energy to be pissed, depressed, and worried about what had happened, than to just accept that it did, look for the good, and move on.

I know: obvious for some of you.

Completely earth-shattering for me.

So maybe, just maybe, I'm evolving...? Learning?

And really, what are the chances of that?

My Life, In Lists: Please Pardon My Dust

Currently under construction:


1. My body (again): It seems as if my body has been under some sort of renovation project so many times in its lifetime, that it's no wonder parts of me are starting to sag and complain and wither. I mean, really, how many times is one's tummy skin supposed to be expected to actually suck back in to its original smoothness and tautness, between all the preteen-chubby-years, adolescent crash diets, vacation-dieting, holiday weight gain, post-holiday weight loss, pregnancy 1 and 2, and now the official "Approaching-My-Last-Birthday-In-My-30's-And-I'm-Going-To-Paris-Soon-So-I-Wanna-Be-Ultra-Skinny-So-I-Can-Wear-Chic-Black-Cigarette-Pants" era...?


2. My backyard: My parents, who are the most amazing human beings in the world and cutest little old couple EVER, are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary this weekend, complete with a renewal of vows ceremony. Yep. After 50 years, my dad says (and I quote) "if I were to be born all over again and start my life over, I would still pick your mom and marry her and do things just as I did." And my mom, who is still known to giggle and squeal when she gets excited about something, and still matches her lipstick to her outfits, will "walk down the aisle" in what I am sure is her first-ever designer dress, bouquet and all. And so where does my backyard come in? It is the place where all of this is going to happen. After 14 months of planning, Hubby and I are hosting this event on Saturday, and Hubby has literally done minor construction in order to hold up the 1000+ twinkling white lights he strung over the pool and throughout the backyard in honor of the "bride and groom."


3. My family room: Because of #2 (see above), my family room which usually houses 8 large bins filled with toys, a Little Einstein's Art Table, two computer desks and chairs, indoor soccer goals, an art easel, and whatever else happens to end up there, is now being transformed into a party room of sorts: plants, white drapes, a collage of black and white photos of my parents' original wedding, and a cake table. Seems minor, but when you've got that much crap belonging to 2 little boys, it's not.

4. My health: I've had this little stint over the last few months with some random and minor (but highly annoying and disruptive) medical issues. Doctors, unfortunately, sometimes pose as many questions as patients do: "Is it asthma? Is it bronchitis? Is it migraines? Is it GERD?" All of this has--much to many of my friends' and family members' politely restrained amusement--led to a persistent eye twitch. Yes. An eye twitch. For over two months now. So if you see me and think I'm winking at you or doing my best Elvis snarl, just ignore me. Or, point and laugh.

5. My personality: Yes, I have come to the conclusion that for my very own benefit, I am currently desirous of a slight personality makeover. A little therapy perhaps? Some meditation? Pondering dramatically by the seashore? Cocktails with friends? High quality conversation with Hubby over average-quality wine? Yes, please. All of the above. I need to get a better handle on how I handle everyday stress, everyday life, and live more in the moment. (This item on the list, interestingly enough, is kinda like #1...When it comes to my ass or my attitude, I think there is always room for improvement.)


6. This blog: Well, I don't know if I can honestly drape this place with the "Caution: Construction Zone" tape, since I'm not here enough to actually justify wearing a hard hat. But this little blog, my little blog, is still here...and I'm still here...rebuilding, remodeling, reinventing.

Roll Call

Someone recently told me that I'm "never present" and my mind is "always on a million things."

Well, duh.

Have you not read my blog profile? I've spent most of my life trying to find a way to drown out the noise in my head. Believe me...I know.

When I'm eating breakfast, I'm either packing 3 lunches or checking my email.
When I'm driving, I'm putting on my make-up or eating.
When I stop at red lights, I check my phone for text messages, clean out my purse, or tweeze my eyebrows.
And when I can't do more than one thing at a time, I'm thinking about the things I will be doing, need to be doing, want to be doing, or should be doing.

Yep. When they take roll call in life, I'm never actually "here."

My initial gut response to this person was to throw my hands up in the air and go: "Well, then, fuck it. Cause, really, I'm kinda tired of working so hard at Me. I'm kinda tired of constantly dealing with my crap, identifying what's not working for me and those around me...and really, if it's not noticeable, if I'm still in the same place I was Then...well, then, fuck it. I give up."

But then...well then...after the initial indignation was gone, I had to face myself, and I had to admit that perhaps being aware of a personal issue does not necessarily equal riddance of said issue. And that realization left me with: "OK. So now what?"

I can't change who I am. I can't change how I'm wired. I will never be Zen. I will never be that happy-go-lucky, easy-going, nothing-bothers-me, I'm-just-chillin person. And I've realized that no matter how many times I tell myself to just relax, to live lighter, well, it seems I'm just not listening. So I have to focus on the action. The behavior.

So I've come up with a little project, a little experiment, if you will.

Rather than beating myself up emotionally, I've been practicing consciously doing whatever it is I'm doing in that exact moment. I'm going to force myself, even if it feels unnatural, even I have to fake it, to literally be thinking about what I'm doing, and stick to doing one thing at a time.

Today, for example, I went on a run. Normally, the iPod starts blaring the minute I take the first step. And I don't stop fiddling with the playlists until I'm done with the run. Recently, I told Hubby that I couldn't run my upcoming half-marathon with my shuffle (which is significantly smaller than my iPod nano but doesn't allow you to control the songs played) because I like to change the songs and playlists according to "my mood." Hubby's reaction: "Good God, so you can't even download 100 songs you like onto a shuffle, run an event, and just enjoy the music that comes on? You even have to control the order in which the songs play?" I stood there, blinking, confused. It had never occurred to me to just go for a run and settle back and listen to whatever was coming through the headphones. Now, not only have I decided I will be running my race with the shuffle and not the ultra-controllable nano, but I ran today with absolutely no music at all. In spite of the fact that I strapped on my music player and popped in my headphones, I decided to try the hour-long run in silence. I focused on my breathing, I paid attention to my posture, I noticed the change in the weather from when I started to when I finished. It was very calming, and, amazingly, I didn't miss my Black Eyed Peas even a little bit.

Yesterday, I let the boys play outside in the front yard and on the street--their absolute favorite thing to do in the world, and something I usually pass on to Daddy. On the rare occasions I have been out there with them, I read a book in between my shouts of "Car!" or do my nails (yes, seriously), or count the minutes until I feel justified in taking them back inside. Yesterday, I put my cell out of reach so the texts didn't tempt me. I laced up my sneakers, and I played with them. I even played with the neighborhood kids. I raced Aidan on scooters, I sat on the floor and drew chalk outlines of the kids, I even tried out Ben's Razor 360 thing-a-majig. And, admittedly, I did not enjoy all of it. Admittedly, I thought a few times about the laundry that was waiting. I thought about the book I could've been reading. And I thought about how, the bottom line is, as much as I love to play boardgames, draw, paint, read, or spend time with my boys, the whole-hanging-out-in-the-front-yard-free-play-thing is not my thing. But it's okay. Because I was with them. And because I was There.

I have no doubt that this is going to be tough. I am sure that on more than one occasion I will find myself multi-tasking and barely focusing on any of the four things I'm trying to accomplish. And I am absolutely positively sure that I will find myself thinking/fretting/obsessing over something else while I'm doing something completely unrelated. But, hey, don't they say it takes 21 days for a behavior to become a habit (or something like that)?

Here's my hope in all this:
The ideal turn-out would be that after a while, I actually start being That Type of Person...the kind of person who doesn't worry (so much) about something until she can actually do something about it...the kind of person who is actually paying attention to the book she's reading to her kid at bedtime instead of planning the packing of her gym bag for the next morning.
But if that doesn't happen, then maybe I'll start being at least a little better at focusing on the really important stuff and eliminating some distractions, and get rid of that nasty habit of uber-multitasking.
And if in the end, Project I Am Here is a total bust, well then, at least I can say I gave it a shot...and obsess over that failure while I text, pack lunch, and re-shape my eyebrows.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop

I can have anxiety.

It's not there, all the time. It used to be much worse. You might have even referred to me, once upon a time, as a bit of a hypochondriac (I hate that word). Every symptom paralyzed me with fear and every non-symptom prompted me to imagine one. After years of learning that most of the time, it was "nothing," or, in the rare cases when it was "something," I was able to deal with it and move on, the anxieties eased. Somewhere along the line, over the last few years, I stopped being so afraid.

But recently, I've noticed it lurking...the old familiar fear, seeping back into me, stalking. It's subtle, and definitely more manageable than it used to be. But I sense it.

Thankfully, I've grown enough (and spent a few good years in therapy) to recognize it now, even before it takes hold of me. And so I've spent some time contemplating: why? Why now? Why, after all this time, are some of my old ways coming back, messing with my head, my days, my life? And then, it hit me: It's all good.

Life, I mean.

It's good.

Things are calm. Happy. Easier.

I've been pretty busy the last few years...having babies, buying houses, becoming a real grown-up (albeit begrudgingly at times). Life's been frenetic: sleep-training, potty-training, weight-training...and then, trying to keep my job, my marriage, my social life, and my sense of self all in working order. But lately, things seem to have settled. Hubby and I don't have to fight for quiet time (as much). We aren't waking up in the middle of the night (as much). We're planning exciting adventures again. I find that we are no longer "in survival mode"...we have made it through the infant years, we have settled in, gotten comfortable with parenting, found our groove, and have continued on with our plans for This Grand Life. And so...

There it is.

The anxiety.

The fear: When will the other shoe drop?

It can't be this good. I can't be this lucky. It can't be this easy.

* * *

It reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the Sex and the City movie (yes, I am going to refer to SATC in the middle of a pretty serious blog post...and to those of you who know me: Why are you surprised?) when Charlotte admits to Carrie that she's scared because she has everything she has ever wanted:

Carrie: What makes you think that something bad is gonna happen?
Charlotte: Because! Nobody gets everything they want! Look at you, look at Miranda. You're good people and you two both got shafted. I'm so happy and...something bad is going to happen.

That is exactly how I feel. I have everything I could possibly want: a husband I am so in love with I can hardly believe he's mine; two healthy, smart, sweet little boys who grin and squeal "Mama" when I walk in the door; a home I never thought I could buy; amazing family; and my list can go on and on. Nothing "bad" is happening. Every one is "good." I am blissfully happy.

And terrified it's too good to be true.

The worst part of it is that the older I get, the more I know of people and their stories...their sadnesses, their losses...and like Charlotte thought: Why not me? Why not us?

It's a terrible way to think. I hate it. I detest it. It is not even easy to write about, to put "out there," because then I almost feel like perhaps I'm making it more real, more me. And I absolutely do not want That to be a part of Me ever again. I refuse.

The crazy thing, the contradiction, is that I don't actually believe in any of this. I believe in surrendering to the universe. I believe in God. I believe in karma. Energy. Trusting. Letting go. I believe in optimism, the strength of spirit. All of it. But sometimes, it's hard for me to apply, to live. And I well know that living in fear, in worry, only has a negative power on my psyche, my day to day, and my health. I get frustrated when loved ones (who I've obviously been influenced by) expect the worst. I want to hit them over the head, yell and scream: Expect the best! Only the best! Let go! Trust! Believe! And most of all, Live! Live life and drink it in...all its joys and blessings and good. Perhaps, it is myself I am really trying to remind.

Closed for Summer Vacation

Photo courtesty of www.zazzle.com

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I am a thinker.

A ponderer.

A muser.

I like to reflect, analyze, and then over-analyze.

I like to sit and think.

But apparently, not in the summer.

It turns out, this summer, I just like to sit.

I think about my blog all the time. I think about my online world of friends and fellow-thinkers. I think about all the drafts I've started. I think about how many days it's been since the last time I was on...

And then, well, then, I stop thinking.

I pack the beach bag and leave the house with my three favorite men.

I flip through the channels and watch the day's stage of the Tour de France yet again.

I call my friends and meet up at the local bounce house place.

I go to the gym.

I do laundry.

I eat chips and salsa.

I am very, very lazy this summer.

All the projects I had in my head in May: the two-years-worth of photos to be organized and put in boxes? The photo books to be designed and ordered back from when I was pregnant with Aidan? The closets to be purged and cleaned? The massive behind-the-sofa-spring cleaning? The steam cleaning of the boys' rooms' carpets? The every-other-day blogging?

Nope.

Not one.

I feel guilty about it when I'm in bed, mainly, at the end of the day, trying not to count how many weeks are left of this no-work, no-school, no-schedules kind of life for the four of us.

There will be so little accomplished, I think.

And then, I stop thinking.

I go to sleep.

And I wake up the next morning to more of the same lackadaisical living.

And you know what?

It's nice.

For someone whose brain is always frickin' noisy, whose mind is always on hyper-speed, whose lists of to-do's are endless, it's nice to just wander a lot instead of wonder.

And on those nights when I lay in bed and think for a bit about all the things I have not accomplished this summer, I also realize that maybe this has been one of my most successful summers ever...one in which I've actually been able to Just Be.

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Afraid of the memories that are to be

I live in fear that I will look back on these memories--the ones I am building right now--and have regrets.
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I worry that I will look back on my children as they are now...little, growing, almost babies...and love them more in my memory than I am, right now, in the present tense.
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I worry that I will look back and have missed out on laughter and ease with my parents because I spend so much of the present tense annoyed by the idiosyncrasies of 2 old people who have never really understood me, but adore me and do more for me than probably anyone in the world ever could.
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I try, so often, to check myself, give myself a psychological wake-up call, when I am in the midst of the chaos or annoyances of life.
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When the kids are fighting, when the kitchen still needs cleaning, when I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, and yet little boys still need to be fed and bathed and dressed and tucked in at least 4 times...while my child-less friends go out every Friday to the local happy hour in their eclectic neighborhoods...when I see couples sitting at Starbucks, sipping and lounging and chatting because they have no pressing demands, to-dos, errands, grown-up stuff...
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When I am with my parents and they say something silly, something typical and expected and frustrating, an exaggerated version of what I grew up with: sentences and questions and lectures that serve as evidence that I was never really understood, that I was always the odd one out, that in spite of their unconditional love and support, they still silently, subconsciously pass judgment, question, wonder...
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When I find myself in these moments, I try to envision what it will be like when the years pass...when the boys no longer beg for my time, when my parents are no longer around, when the Memories Of Now will be actual memories.
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And then I am able to realize and understand that it will be then that I will remember my parents' annoying behaviors as endearing...
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...and I will wish I could swap a moment of parental independence for a sniff of Cheerios-baby-breath and a constant chorus of "Mama, Mama!"
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But I can not always snap myself into gratitude with this little psychological game of mine.
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More often than not, I silently long for the time to pass so that there will be no more diapers or baths.
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More often than not, I snap inappropriately at a comment made at a family gathering or make an excuse to hang up the phone.
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And so I live in fear that the Memories Of Now will make me sad one day...sad that I did not live more in the present, that I did not love enough, that I did not appreciate enough, that I missed out simply because I took for granted.

This post on MEMORY was part of "Five for Ten Again." Click on the link or button to join in the discussion.

Sorting it all out (but perhaps still not making sense)

I admit it: I hesitated before hitting "publish" on my last post.

What if they all think I'm nuts?
What if they read it and are like: Awww, poor thing.
Or worse, what if they read it and think: "Oh shit. She's fucked up." (Or, for those of you who don't even think with the f-word: "Oh my, she needs help.")

I even texted Hubby: "Just posted. Hope I don't scare you into leaving me for someone simpler."

It's a good thing I posted.
The responses were completely the opposite.

Hubby? He laughed. Laughed. When I asked him what he thought, he shrugged: "Nothing. I know all that about you. And, most of the time, I love that about you."

And you all? Your comments were therapy. Anti-depressants. Magic. I don't think I have ever fully understood the power of a comment until this post. Those of you who "know" me, those of you who I consider my Blog Peeps...you all came out in full force. And then there were those of you who have never commented before, who I don't even know, and you wrote heart-felt, honest, revealing comments. Nuggets...little nuggets of wisdom is what you all threw at me...most of you empathizing, commiserating, admitting that you, too, feel that way sometimes. (So I guess it must be pretty normal to be abnormal?)

Your comments made me realize something that perhaps was incredibly obvious: I needed to just allow myself to be out of sorts. I needed to stop trying to figure out why it was happening, when it was going to end, and what I was doing "wrong." I needed to Just Be. Surrender. Surrendering: such a recurring theme in my life, my head, my posts (I went back to check...I've got 12 posts labeled "Surrender"!). When you mix "control freak" with "intense," you get a pretty potent cocktail. And often, I end up a little hung-over.

Your comments were like the morning-after aspirin and coffee:
HG: "Girl, if I were you, I would marinate in the funk you're in and ride it out."
Stacia: "I think funks are "normal,"(probably because I'm a funk-haver, too). I just have to let it run its course, like the flu. And maybe that's OK?"
Lindsey: "I try to remember, in the low points, that the highs will come back..."
LouBoo: "...the point being that I needed to not panic about my out of sortness as it would pass..."
Kelly: "Believe in yourself, ride out this funk, and know you are not alone."
Maria: "...sometimes, you got to simmer in it a little, so that it propels you out of it..."

Let it go. Ride it out. Surrender. Just Be.

It was so relieving to know that I was not alone in this. It was so relieving to know, especially, that I was understood...that there were others out there who feel "this"...whatever "this" is...and that it is, in fact, not a bad thing, not something to fight or hide, but something to embrace, something that makes us who we are, something magical:

KiKi: "Madness, envy, funk...the marks of a true artist. There is no medium, no mediocrity, because you feel so deeply--and that is a gift."
Inannasstar: "I too have really high highs and really low lows and don't do medium. My response? It's part of my charm."
Gilcelia: "I'd rather be chaotic and intense than simple and boring. I'll take complicated over comforming anyday."
Kristen: "But I have to believe that those high highs that come with the low lows make it all worthwhile in the long run - and that maybe we get light and not just heat by trying so hard to get to the sun."

All of this made me wonder:
What happens if you can't get this stuff out? What happens if you don't have a blog or a friend or a spouse to turn to? What happens if you are walking around, as I was, with all of this inside, festering, ricocheting around in your head? The craziness that is, in reality, normal, and possibly almost always healthy...doesn't it inevitably turn into something bad? The wondering turns into worry. And then don't you shut it all off? Don't you just try to shove it all down, close it up, snap it all shut...those things you feel that make you very high or very low? Those intense, chaotic moments of insanity that make you, in the big picture, sane? Don't you end up telling yourself to just stop? Stop being the way you are, stop thinking the way you think, stop feeling the way you feel, because surely, definitely, it must not be normal, and most certainly can not be healthy...
And then, when you manage to find a way to make yourself go slightly numb to your own Self, don't you stop being You?

"...the only people for me are the mad ones..."

Making no sense at all...

I am out of sorts.

So much so, in fact, that I have been unable to write. I have no coherent thoughts. Lately, my brain has been a jumble of mashed randomness. Or, completely blank.

This emptiness can sometimes be a welcome reprieve for me, but it's been going on too long. So I thought I would write about just that: my out-of-sorts-ness.

It seems this may not have been such a good idea, however, because it has taken me 11 minutes just to write this little bit. And that's not even counting the several minutes during which the cursor blinked on my screen, urgently, expectantly, right after I wrote that first sentence:

I am out of sorts.

And then, I had nothing.

Hubby once told me: "Your highs are really high, and your lows are really low." It's true.

I don't really do "medium."

This is both a blessing and a curse, 'cause when I'm happy...woo-hoo! But when I'm not, well...it's not good.

I struggle with this, because I'm never really sure what's "normal."
Is it "normal" to have as many mood swings as I do?
Is it "normal" to be giddy one minute and overwhelmed the next?
Is it "normal" to feel lost for no reason at all?

Am I normal?

There are days when I think it's just physical: I need to get back in the gym. I need to take my vitamins. I need to eat right. I need to be on my routine. I do well on routines.

Then there are days I think it's more than that: Maybe I'm just an overly sensitive person. I over-think everything. I get wrapped up inside my own head. I dream. I plan. I stress. I worry.

It's normal to be in a "funk", no?

I am intense, and usually, I have little tolerance for those who walk around unmoved, blase.

But sometimes I am jealous of those people.

It must be so much easier...walking around with quiet simplicity in their heads. They must not struggle, as I so often do, with the everythings and nothings of Life. Do they ever feel indefinably out of sorts?

I have a Jack Kerouac quote on my refrigerator:

"...the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop..."

I am sure I am mad, and certainly desirous of everything at the same time. I'd rather have a mad, loud existence than a quiet, simple one.

But sometimes I think perhaps sanity and nonchalance are a much easier way to live.

If I didn't officially call it a resolution, can I give up on it already?

My promise to myself for 2010 was to live lighter. This meant stress less, worry less, laugh more... I envisioned myself shrugging things off.

Here's the problem I'm already encountering, and it has not even been a full month yet: I am not a light person.

I'm not.

I'm more on the deep and heavy side.

Intense.

About everything.

It's who I am.

This means that I worry, I stress, I anticipate catastrophe. I overanalyze. I overreact. I panic.

This also means that I am loud. I am passionate. I am energetic. I like to live big, dream big, laugh big.

Hubby once told me, many many years ago: "Your highs are real high. But your lows are real low."

That's me. You can call me a lot of things, but moderate I am not.

Here's the conundrum: I like the high highs. I like the big, the over-the-top, the enthusiasm, the flair for the dramatic. I like the loud.

And with just as much passion, I hate the stress. The anxiety. The make-myself-crazy-side of my personality. About everything. About nothing.

I am not sure if there is an answer here, or even a point. I just know that I am totally and utterly exhausted from reminding myself, over and over again, to live lightly. It's really starting to weigh me down.

A Lighter 2010

It's here. 2010. A new year. I don't know what it is about New Year's Eve that always makes me feel especially introspective. I feel like I should be doing something. Thinking! Pondering! Reflecting! Resolving!

It never fails: as the famous Times Square ball starts to drop, I get anxious. Antsy. Hyper. "It's almost here! It's almost here! Hey, everybody! A new year! Everyone, quick: Make a plan!"

I get a little crazy on New Year's Eve.

I'm not really sure why, exactly. It's not like I'm into the whole resolutions thing. Personally, I like to take more of a holistic approach to change for the new year.

Every year, I try to look back upon the past year and figure out how I can be better...what was missing...what I enjoyed...what I needed more of... And then I try and focus on that for the new year. Yeah, I guess you could call it a resolution. But new year's resolutions tend to be pretty concrete, as in: "My resolution is to lose 10 pounds." I don't know how resolution-y it sounds to announce: "My resolution is to live lighter."

Yes. Live lighter. That is what I want to focus on for 2010. What, exactly, does that mean? No, I don't mean lighter on the scale (although those couple of pounds gained from waaaaay too much red velvet cake...post probably forthcoming...would be good to get rid of). I mean lighter in the way I approach life.

I am happy to say that a call from my doctor with good news about my test results has already lightened the load on my shoulders. I thought I was going to have to wait until at least Monday for my results, but the gift of relief came early enough to warrant an extra flute of champagne this evening. I want to carry this good news into 2010.

Lighter. In spirit.

I want the load of my anxieties, my stresses, my pessimism, my perfectionism, my temper, my essence to be lighter.

In 2010, I want to smile more. Giggle more. Laugh. Really laugh...throw my head back and snort (yes, I snort) in gleeful laughter when my husband makes one of his ridiculous jokes or my kids do something silly.

I was told recently I don't laugh so often anymore. Apparently, I am too tired or too busy or too stressed about work or dishes or laundry or ear infections or bills or all of it. Who the hell wants to live with someone like that? Who wants to be someone like that?

Light. I want a lighter 2010. More sunshine, more smiles.
That is my non-resolution resolution.
Happy New Year's, everyone.

I WILL enjoy the holidays, DAMMIT!

I am exhausted.

Exhausted and sick and discouraged and stressed.

And feeling guilty about it.

It is The Holidays. I love this time of year. It's my favorite. Christmas has always been a big to-do around my house, ever since I was a teeny little kid. Add my birthday to the mix...exactly one week before Christmas...and well, December has always been good to me.

And I'm big on the gimmicks, too. On my mental To Do List every year is: watch holiday movies, drink hot chocolate, take pictures with Santa, wrap presents together, count down the days on the advent calendar, participate in every Secret Santa available, buy extra special gifts for everyone on the list, send out cool Christmas cards, take kids to a snow day event (we're in Miami, people), listen to Christmas music, decorate the house, go to a holiday park....the list is endless. This year? Um, we've managed the tree, some lights outside, and maybe a Rudolph movie or two (but not really to enjoy as a family...more to get the kids to sit still and be quiet for 28 minutes).

When I complain about all of this to Hubby (oh, wait, sorry, I mean Chris), he laughs: "What do you mean, 'We haven't done anything this Christmas'? Sure we have...we've done pink eye, multiple ear infections, throat infections, bronchitis, stomach viruses, fevers, colds....We've done plenty this season!"

Funny.

I realize I shouldn't take it so seriously. I understand that what we've been dealing with is nothing...simple, inconsequential, annoying stuff. I know that we are incredibly lucky. Just this morning I found out about an acquaintance of ours, 42 years old, an athlete, a competitor, a health nut...died last night from stage 4 colon cancer. 42 years old. I realize his wife and family would give anything to be dealing with colds and ear infections and eye gunk. I should not whine. I have no right. And that's when the guilt kicks in. And then I'm more stressed because I think I'm so damned ungrateful and whiney.

But...
I am exhausted.
Sick.
Discouraged.
Stressed.

I think the lack of sleep is finally starting to affect me. It's been a couple of weeks now, and my head is in a perpetual fog. Even now, as I write, I have all these points I intended to make...these themes I planned on writing about...but now, I feel like I'm still participating in the Half Drunk Challenge, because although I'm sober, I'm pretty damn sure I'm not making any sense.

Even this blog (and all those I love to follow and comment on)... it has become yet another thing to be stressed about. I have no time, no energy, no...zest.

Yes, that's it. Zest.

My zest has been all zapped out of me. And I'm usually a zesty kinda girl, you know? I like things big. I like things loud. I like things fun. I'm all for the whimsy, the silly, the metaphorical tinsel. But I feel like we're running on empty around here. It's been 10 weeks now. 10 weeks of colds and infections and fevers and complaining (mostly, mine). I'm sick of hearing myself talk about it, write about it, think about it. I just want to enjoy these next couple of weeks...my upcoming birthday trip, Christmas Eve, Christmas morning, my family, the kids, us. All of it.

So perhaps I have to force myself to let go of all of those things I think I am supposed to be doing in order to enjoy the holidays, and just...enjoy them. Maybe the less pressure I place on myself, the more I will actually get out of all of this? It always comes back to the same stuff...whatever our issues are...they keep coming back at us in different scenarios. My issue has always been letting go, surrendering, just existing. And it creeps into everything I do: work, losing weight, relationships, blogging, traveling, even Christmas. It's no wonder I'm exhausted. It's not the kids making me so tired; it's myself.

I guess this is evidence of how important writing is for me. It really is cathartic. Just by writing this all out, by going almost stream-of-consciousness, by complaining and venting and explaining it, I almost snap myself out of it. I remind myself of everything I need to learn: surrender, stop stressing, stop demanding perfection, be grateful. Breathe.
Let go.

"You take after your Mommy." Is this a good thing?

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.

Letting go = Gaining control

"Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference."

That is the banner hanging over the white board in my classroom. It is one of those cheesy, supposedly-motivating banners you buy at the teacher store.

The secret?

I didn't put it up for my students. I put it up for me.

The banner faces my desk, and I try to read it...really read it...everyday. And you know what? Attitude really does make a big difference.

I can be a pretty glass-half-empty kinda girl. I get really frustrated (indignant, my husband says) when people behave in "inappropriate" ways. When someone does not do his job properly and it then affects me, I can go around pissed off for days. But somewhere along the line I have realized that my indignance, my rantings and ravings, my general pissiness does not change a thing. The problem is still there. The incompetent coworker is still there. People still do and say the wrong things. So I've realized I have a choice: I can deal with the situation and be pissed off or I can deal with the situation and not let it get to me. Either way, I have to deal with the damned situation. My anger does not make it go away. So, I'm learning to "go with the flow"...to "relax"...to "be positive"...to "not stress": all things I've been told and scoffed at.

My first week back to work, I was constantly conscious of my attitude. I walked around trying to be a light of positivity. I almost couldn't stand myself. When people made snippy comments (as co-workers so often can), I did not throw out a zinger (as I so often do...and do well). When stuff went wrong, I shrugged it off and either solved it myself or ignored it if it could not be solved. I smiled at everyone. I made small talk. I was cheerful and pleasant. And exhausted.

I think I was more tired from trying to be so damn positive all the time than I was from actually setting up an entire classroom, going back to work, and dealing with my 2 kids while Hubby was out of town. I felt like the pressure to be positive and stress-free was a literal weight on my shoulders. At the end of the day, I felt like a smoker who was trying to quit: I just wanted one puff of a sarcastic, negative complaint.

But as the days have gone on and I've gotten more used to the idea of not complaining, of being more positive, of not letting things get to me, I'm starting to really notice "those people" more and more: the ones who sit around the lunch table and complain about everything, the stuff which warrants complaints and even the stuff that doesn't. I used to be one of those people. I'd join in with them, always feeling justified: 'See? Everyone else feels the same way I do!' But now that I've removed myself from that talk, I'm realizing I don't even like being around those people. I walk away from them feeling like the life has been zapped right out of me. I don't want to be those people anymore. And the most amazing thing is that I thought it was easier, more natural, to complain and get stressed and pissed about stuff. Now I'm realizing the exact opposite is true: I feel like I've been liberated. I am free of that feeling I'd get in the pit of my stomach when I was indignant about something, when I made a list of all the things that were going wrong, when I expected the worst from people.

I had heard it before: sometimes if you want to be happy you just need to be happy. Oh, so simple. Oh, so cheesy. But oh, so true. Being the control freak that I am, I was always upset because I couldn't control situations, people, circumstances. But what I've realized is that I am in control...of myself, my reactions, my attitude. And I'm just now starting to understand what a difference my big attitude was making...

The Rule of 3's

They say bad things happen in 3's.

Well, let's see now...
On Tuesday, I fell mountain biking and injured my wrist.
On Wednesday, Aidan Kai woke up with a fever of 104.
On Thursday, a shopping cart fell over on top of Ben with Aidan still strapped in it.

OK. So are we done now?

Tough week.
But hey...this is the Not-Quite-New-and-Improved-but-Working-On-It-Me. The Old Me would be dwelling on the terrible luck we've had. The Old Me would have been going on and on about how bad of a week it's been. The Old Me would have been fretting and stressing about how out of control I feel right now. But if you've been reading the last few posts, you know I've been doing some self-reflection. You know I've been trying to become more self-aware. You know I've been working on my control issues and my pessimism and my worrying.

So, ready? Watch this.

1. Today I found out my wrist is not, in fact, fractured. No cast necessary.
2. Yesterday we found out that Aidan's fever is due to a throat infection and he should be fine in a day or so. No mystery illnesses.
3. The shopping cart accident could have been really severe, and yet the angels were looking over us. No major injuries.

It seems that we're having a pretty good week. Good things happen in 3's too, right?

P.S. For those of you with small kids, I feel the need to elaborate a bit on the shopping cart incident as a precautionary tale... I have never particularly minded when Ben stands on the bottom rack of the shopping cart and hangs on as I push him around. It never would have even occurred to me that his tiny 32 pound body could tip the whole thing over. We were at Party City, where the carts are more narrow and shorter than traditional grocery carts. Aidan Kai was strapped in the top seat and Ben must have climbed up onto the side of the cart, his feet on the bottom ledge. I was standing right there and happened to look up to take something off a shelf when I heard a noise and saw the entire thing tipping over. Aidan's head hit the rack of products on the side as it went down and the cart landed on top of Ben. I think what saved Aidan from a very serious head injury (other than pure luck and grace) was the fact that I had buckled him in. His head never hit the floor, because he remained suspended there. We were very, very lucky. It could have been very, very bad. Aidan got a slight bump on his head and a scratch on his ear. Ben got 2 little scratches on his ankle. So Moms, just keep it in mind when out shopping with your little ones.

Maybe I should take up scrapbooking...

Disclaimer: I may not be as witty, clever, and overly wordy as I usually am, since I am currently typing with only 9 fingers. No, I did not lose one. Thankfully. But my left thumb has been temporarily imprisoned in a wrist brace. It seems there is a possibility I might have yet another fracture.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned a mountain biking accident during which I fell on my left elbow...hard...twice. It turned out that I had, in fact, fractured it, but because I waited too long to see a doctor, all I could do was physical therapy. Today, I went out by myself, for the first time ever and fell...again, hard...on the same side. As of a few weeks ago, I started riding "clipped in", which basically means that my shoes are clipped into my pedals. I have to twist my ankle out slightly in order to disattach myself from my bike. I have fallen four times since I have been riding clipped in, and all four times I was unable to get my left foot out in time. This means that when my bike stops and I start to fall, I do so with full force, bike and all, down on rocky, rooty terrain. Today, as I started to fall, my instinct was to put my hand out in an attempt to protect my now nearly healed elbow. It worked. Sort of. My elbow? Good to go. My wrist? Not so good.

The pain this time was immediate and searing. I could barely ride my bike out of the trail. I went straight to my doctor, who did x-rays and sent me for an MRI "Stat." Although the x-rays did not show any fractures, he said there is a chance I might have one in the scaphoid bone, which, apparently, as would be the case with my luck, is one of the most worrisome if it does fracture. Yay. Lucky me. If it is fractured, I will have to be in a cast for "at least 6 weeks, possibly even up to the shoulder." Oh, so practical for a mom of 2 small children. Oh, so practical for a person as active as I am. Oh, so practical for a person who can barely stand a band-aid for longer than a minute.

There is a possibility, the doctor says, that it may be just a bad sprain. I will know on Thursday. That is in 2 whole days. In case you have not figured me out yet, I am not so good at waiting. I am really bad at not worrying. And I am even worse at not "horribilizing" to the worst possible case scenario. In fact, today while showering, I tried to plan out how in the world I will manage to shower for "at least 6 weeks" with a cast.

Why can't I assume that it is, in fact, just a sprain? Why can't I just not worry about the diagnosis until I actually get it? Why can't I stop replaying my ride over and over again and how I could have/should have avoided the fall? Because there is that pesky theme again... Surrendering. Letting go. Not worrying about everything. Accepting that I can not control things. Trying to be positive.

Damn it. How many lessons will the Universe throw at me?

And once I get my results...another "demon" to face: will I return to mountain biking? For those not familiar with it, it's a tough sport. I have been told, in fact, that "it's a guy's sport." It is rigorous, exhausting, dangerous, and exhilarating. (And for those of you who are thinking "There are no mountains in South Florida!"...that may be true, but the mountain biking here is so technical that they say that once you learn down here, you can ride anywhere.) I am a fairly clumsy individual. I became athletic late in life. I trip over my own two feet on a pretty regular basis. Maybe I have no business clipped into a mountain bike. Because another one of my "issues" I deal with on a regular basis? My biggest secret? I am not very brave. I pretend to be. I try to be. I've done some pretty courageous things in my lifetime. But the truth is, deep down, I'm a big chicken.

So what to do now? Wait. Try to surrender. Try to learn something from this life experience too. But...hey...the good news? Apparently, even with only 9 fingers, I can still be just as wordy as I usually am! Lucky you.