I am fast approaching my 25th birthday. While I have enough common sense to understand that 25 is not old no matter how I might be feeling about it, it still is looming ahead of me like it's intending to have some sort of significance.
I am, by all accounts, a full blown "adult" and am expected to act accordingly. My early twenties went a little differently than some, with a small child and graduate school and other things..but I think the overall experience remains fairly universal.
By the time Grace enters her twenties, I'll have forgotten what this time felt like. How the edges of the world were stretched full up with possibilities. How, as years passed, you felt like you were missing out on your chance to "be" someone.How you learned to tip-toe around adulthood until you couldn't hold out any longer.
This is the "wisdom" I'd like to bestow. A smattering of what I have learned about this decade of my life, halfway through...
When you graduate college, something within your universe irrevocably shifts. You have spent the entirety of your life on the same track as the majority of your friends and all the sudden you are forced to find your own way.
Sometimes, it will feel too good to love the wrong people. There are people in your life whose sole purpose is to make you realize things you never wanted to figure out.
Form the habits that stick with you forever. How you take your coffee (skim milk, please)... how much sleep you truly need to avoid becoming a shell of your former self.
Burn the candle at both ends. You will struggle to find a balance between being young and growing up. There is a certain kind of beauty in being reckless with your body and your mind, but eventually you will get tired of testing yourself and your limits.
Enjoy hating someone. A friend, a boss, an ex. Because it means you are able to love yourself a little bit more.
Embrace your parents as flawed individuals. It will make you so grateful to have them.
Learn that love is there. Until it's not. It may or may not have anything to do with you. This will seem unfathomably cruel during your first legitimate heartbreak. When you break someone else's heart for the first time, it will make perfect sense.
You are too young to be truly happy or to really know what you want. Be wary of people who think they have it all figured out.
People change and outgrow each other. You will most likely leave your early twenties with less friends than when you started them. It might be a big blow out fight, or a slow and steady drifting apart.
You will wake up after a morning of being out too late and will find yourself suddenly unable to laugh at the ridiculous things you did but will be geniunely horrified instead.
A lot of your friends actually suck. You won't figure this out until you begin to depend on them for more than the location of that night's party or a ride to the mall.
2 am cheese fries will seem like a really great idea, until you wake up with orange goop caked on your finger nails and the feeling of a brick sitting solidly in your stomach.
Everyone goes through hard times and allow themselves to feel completed alienated from their surroudings. You will need to start figuring out which emotions are legitimate and which are not.
Spend too much money on frivolous things, even if you have bigger responsibilities than yourself. It will feel good at the time and occasionally that's all you can count on.
Meet people who excite you. Who make you nervous. Who force you to question things. Don't push these people away, even if it means you wind up with a couple scars.
Discover that loving someone is a balancing act. There's you. There's them. You mix and stir and whisk and hope that it comes out ok. Eventually, you'll realize that if someone really loves you they don't want you to change. They simply want you to be the best version of yourself.
Your friends will start to get married. And have babies. And buy houses. Avoid envy and panic. Enjoy the open bars and house warmings. Your time will come and you will suddenly find yourself nostalgic for simplier times. Try not to get stuck in that waiting place. This is your life and this time is not simply a placeholder.
Love your body. Form healthy habits that are sustainable. Wear dresses that are a little bit too short and outfits that might embarrass your father.Embrace non-ridiculous trends. Get it out of your system before it's too late.
Find that friend that you can call and talk at for hours to dissect your latest personal drama. Who will fit in seamlessly with your family. This is the same friend who will pick you at the airport at midnight and who google the guy you just went on a blind date with. Don't let go.
There will come a moment, normally after a bad day or week or month, where you question your career path entirely. You will panic, wonder how hard it would be to start over. And then your paycheck appears in your bank account and you realize it's not so bad after all.
You'll spend a Friday night (or several) at home alone, watching a movie and being asleep by 9. This does not consistute a social failure. It means you are learning to take care of yourself.
Develop a backbone. Or at least wish you had one, or think about trying to get one.
Disappoint yourself by making a bad decision (or several) that felt very good at the time. This is a necessary lesson in humility.
Find a passion that doesn't involve the work you do to make a living. Do yoga. Take pictures. Play the guitar. Do something that makes it impossible for you to question whether you're interesting enough or not.
Stop buying bottom shelf liquor or cheap beer. When you're out of college, it's just not cute to show up to a party with a 30 rack of keystone.
Attend less house parties, especially if the host still lives with their parents.
Induldge. For me, it's as simple as buying a new color nail polish every time I go to Target. There was a time in my life when I couldn't afford something that small and my growing collection reminds me that I've gone forward and upwards.
Drink more wine. Out of legitimate wine glasses.
From bottles, not boxes.
Learn to cook. If you're male, this will serve you VERY well. And, as a woman, I don't care if it's sexist- I find pleasure in being able to prepare meals that are healthy and delicious (perspective: in college--- I burnt ramen noodles. Full circle)
Paying bills will always be horrifying, no matter how much money you have.
Stressful days are a necessary precursor to happiness.
Keep secrets.
You will question every decision you make. This uncertainty triples when you become a parent.
You're going to get a lot of things wrong. Try not to beat yourself up over it. The things you do to "screw up" your life may end up being, ultimately, whats needed to repair it.
You're going to wake up one morning in total awe of a life that suddenly feels like it belongs to you.
Every year goes by faster than the last and before you know it this time will be over.
I've run out of cliches and half-truths and advice that I sometimes forget to take myself. But between the letting go and holding on and growing up and staying young and the millions of other contradictions that define the young twenties- it's a pretty awesomely terrifying time.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
On why my three year old is probably trying to kill me
Gracie,
This morning, I picked you up from your crib and you instinctively wrapped your arms around my neck and squeezed, burying your head of sweaty, sleepy curls into my shoulder. The sunlight was streaming through your window and for a moment, I stood, breathing in the scent of you, feeling the weight of your body against my chest and appreciating the potential of the day.
Because not every morning starts this way. More often then not, you stir as soon as you hear me enter your room and begin to screech with a ferocity I naively assumed was reserved for moody teenagers "Mama, I'm just trying to sleep! Leave me in my bed!!!"
Listen little duck...I get it. The internal dialogue I have when my alarm goes off at 4:45 am is even less pleasant. But starting my day literally dodging your flailing limbs and trying to reason with you about why rain boats are not appropriate footwear for a 95 degree day? No fun. Did I mention I attempt to do this before I've had even a single cup of coffee?
The term "terrible twos" is a joke. I don't know if it is evolutionary inflation or what- but, only a few months in I can tell you that three is undeniably harder than two.
A few weeks ago we were out having breakfast with Mimi and Grandpa. You had taken off your shoes, covered every available surface with maple syrup and were doing everything but eating your breakfast. I looked at them and in full seriousness, trying to mask the panic in my voice, said "I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can actually be the parent of a three year old child"
They politely attempted to hide their sly, satisfied grins. They had been waiting for this moment at least since I has hit adolescence and gained an affinity for eye rolls and door slams and blatant defiance (probably earlier). This is the just desserts, karmic comeuppance that every parent holds on to, clinging to the hope that just one day, their child will understand the beautiful and almost unbearable disaster that parenthood ultimately becomes.
G, you push every last button I have. And when you find one that evokes a particularly interesting response? You push it again and again and AGAIN. Our house will not stay clean for more than 5 minutes, unless you are not home or are sleeping. Our living room looks like an entire pack of toddlers breezed through on a seek and destroy mission and our kitchen floor is covered with pebbles because it was easier to let you "plant" them so I could finish cooking dinner.
The laundry? Oh the laundry. For a tiny person, you certainly dirty a lot of clothes. I just can't keep up and on more than one occasion I find myself picking an outfit for myself up off my bedroom floor, checking to make sure it appears to be reasonably clean and wondering, only for a minute , if I had already worn in that week.
You have this look, where you throw your hands on your hips squint your eyes and say phrases so loaded with disbelief and disdain that I swear someone has hit the fast forward button on my life to the time when you will discover that you obviously know better than I do. Because this is played out in miniature, tiny human fashion, I have to turn around so you can't see me laughing, every single time- which only serves to infuriate me more.
Just today, you poked me in the stomach and asked me if there was a baby in there because it looked like there was. Last week, we had an enlightening conversation about female anatomy and you informed me that you had "small boobs" (please don't repeat this at daycare) just like me. I can forgive you these discretions because I have a distinct memory of telling my own mother that her bum resembled jello jigglers (for the record, my mother is one of the tiniest human beings I know- I can't even begin to imagine a world where any of her body parts resembled jello) Children are not kind.
By the time our nighttime routine is finished, I am tired. And I don't mean a little bit tired. I mean to the bone, don't want to move a single muscle or exercise the use of even one brain cell, exhausted. I crawl into bed at 7:30, with the intention of watching just one episode of mindless television or reading one chapter of the book it's been taking me months to finish before moving on to housework or other more productive ventures.I always fall asleep, only to be woken up by a phone call or text message from a normal functioning adult and have to try to pretend like I wasn't out cold at 8:30 on a Friday night.
When you burst into an enthusiastic
rendition of "Red Solo Cup" (thanks Auntie Robyn) during our once monthly trip to the fancier (aka more expensive) grocery store nearer to our house I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This is a common dilemma.
Typically, when we are in public or spending time with the people I have been complaining to... You are a vision of sweetness and light. With your gorgeous blonde curls and giant blue eyes that stare up at me behind fluttering lashes, willing me to just try and get too comfortable, to put my guard down for just one second (do you know what can happen in one second? iPads get smeared with Greek yogurt, milk is spilled all over the floor, hot pink nail polish decorates furniture, pages get ripped out of favorite books and the clean sheets of my bed become the perfect place to construct Play-Doh monsters). You make everyone laugh and run up to hug my legs just because and you make me wonder if it's not you, but me that is just a huge, inflexible ogre of a mother.
You, my dear, are sneaky like that.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for losing my patience for the umpteenth time and raising my voice even though I internally cringe every time I do so. I'm sorry for threatening you with ridiculous things like ridding the world of pink ice cream. I'm sorry that sometimes we don't read books before bed because the idea of choosing just two books that we both agree on and reading them in a way that meets your requirements is just too overwhelming. I'm sorry sometimes we eat cheerios for dinner.
The things that make this time so difficult are the same that make it so wonderful. You are learning new things by the second, pushing the boundaries of your little world to the limit and sometimes, breaking straight through them.
You're already too smart for your own good and the number of moments I find myself in a viable battle of wits with a three year old is embarrassing. Grandpa taught you about traffic signals recently and you are now my (literal) backseat driver, telling me when to slow down and when to stop and chastising me when I "cut it too close".
So let's keep on forgiving each other, ok? Choosing our battles and ignoring our messy house and bending the rules. Because if I'm not perfect, I certainly can't expect you to be.
In the moments you make me laugh until my stomach hurts, the times you do the right thing when you don't know I'm watching, the way you talk about being kind and thoughtful with a wisdom the defies your age...
I know we'll be ok.
I know you'll only be little for such a short while and before I know it I'll be looking back wistfully at these days and reveling in my slightly distorted memories of a simpler time.
And if we both make it to your 18th birthday, alive and relatively unscathed- I'm going to throwyou myself one hell of a party
Just cut me some slack. Please?
I still love you to the moon and back,
Mama
This morning, I picked you up from your crib and you instinctively wrapped your arms around my neck and squeezed, burying your head of sweaty, sleepy curls into my shoulder. The sunlight was streaming through your window and for a moment, I stood, breathing in the scent of you, feeling the weight of your body against my chest and appreciating the potential of the day.
Because not every morning starts this way. More often then not, you stir as soon as you hear me enter your room and begin to screech with a ferocity I naively assumed was reserved for moody teenagers "Mama, I'm just trying to sleep! Leave me in my bed!!!"
Listen little duck...I get it. The internal dialogue I have when my alarm goes off at 4:45 am is even less pleasant. But starting my day literally dodging your flailing limbs and trying to reason with you about why rain boats are not appropriate footwear for a 95 degree day? No fun. Did I mention I attempt to do this before I've had even a single cup of coffee?
The term "terrible twos" is a joke. I don't know if it is evolutionary inflation or what- but, only a few months in I can tell you that three is undeniably harder than two.
A few weeks ago we were out having breakfast with Mimi and Grandpa. You had taken off your shoes, covered every available surface with maple syrup and were doing everything but eating your breakfast. I looked at them and in full seriousness, trying to mask the panic in my voice, said "I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can actually be the parent of a three year old child"
They politely attempted to hide their sly, satisfied grins. They had been waiting for this moment at least since I has hit adolescence and gained an affinity for eye rolls and door slams and blatant defiance (probably earlier). This is the just desserts, karmic comeuppance that every parent holds on to, clinging to the hope that just one day, their child will understand the beautiful and almost unbearable disaster that parenthood ultimately becomes.
G, you push every last button I have. And when you find one that evokes a particularly interesting response? You push it again and again and AGAIN. Our house will not stay clean for more than 5 minutes, unless you are not home or are sleeping. Our living room looks like an entire pack of toddlers breezed through on a seek and destroy mission and our kitchen floor is covered with pebbles because it was easier to let you "plant" them so I could finish cooking dinner.
The laundry? Oh the laundry. For a tiny person, you certainly dirty a lot of clothes. I just can't keep up and on more than one occasion I find myself picking an outfit for myself up off my bedroom floor, checking to make sure it appears to be reasonably clean and wondering, only for a minute , if I had already worn in that week.
You have this look, where you throw your hands on your hips squint your eyes and say phrases so loaded with disbelief and disdain that I swear someone has hit the fast forward button on my life to the time when you will discover that you obviously know better than I do. Because this is played out in miniature, tiny human fashion, I have to turn around so you can't see me laughing, every single time- which only serves to infuriate me more.
Just today, you poked me in the stomach and asked me if there was a baby in there because it looked like there was. Last week, we had an enlightening conversation about female anatomy and you informed me that you had "small boobs" (please don't repeat this at daycare) just like me. I can forgive you these discretions because I have a distinct memory of telling my own mother that her bum resembled jello jigglers (for the record, my mother is one of the tiniest human beings I know- I can't even begin to imagine a world where any of her body parts resembled jello) Children are not kind.
By the time our nighttime routine is finished, I am tired. And I don't mean a little bit tired. I mean to the bone, don't want to move a single muscle or exercise the use of even one brain cell, exhausted. I crawl into bed at 7:30, with the intention of watching just one episode of mindless television or reading one chapter of the book it's been taking me months to finish before moving on to housework or other more productive ventures.I always fall asleep, only to be woken up by a phone call or text message from a normal functioning adult and have to try to pretend like I wasn't out cold at 8:30 on a Friday night.
When you burst into an enthusiastic
rendition of "Red Solo Cup" (thanks Auntie Robyn) during our once monthly trip to the fancier (aka more expensive) grocery store nearer to our house I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This is a common dilemma.
Typically, when we are in public or spending time with the people I have been complaining to... You are a vision of sweetness and light. With your gorgeous blonde curls and giant blue eyes that stare up at me behind fluttering lashes, willing me to just try and get too comfortable, to put my guard down for just one second (do you know what can happen in one second? iPads get smeared with Greek yogurt, milk is spilled all over the floor, hot pink nail polish decorates furniture, pages get ripped out of favorite books and the clean sheets of my bed become the perfect place to construct Play-Doh monsters). You make everyone laugh and run up to hug my legs just because and you make me wonder if it's not you, but me that is just a huge, inflexible ogre of a mother.
You, my dear, are sneaky like that.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for losing my patience for the umpteenth time and raising my voice even though I internally cringe every time I do so. I'm sorry for threatening you with ridiculous things like ridding the world of pink ice cream. I'm sorry that sometimes we don't read books before bed because the idea of choosing just two books that we both agree on and reading them in a way that meets your requirements is just too overwhelming. I'm sorry sometimes we eat cheerios for dinner.
The things that make this time so difficult are the same that make it so wonderful. You are learning new things by the second, pushing the boundaries of your little world to the limit and sometimes, breaking straight through them.
You're already too smart for your own good and the number of moments I find myself in a viable battle of wits with a three year old is embarrassing. Grandpa taught you about traffic signals recently and you are now my (literal) backseat driver, telling me when to slow down and when to stop and chastising me when I "cut it too close".
So let's keep on forgiving each other, ok? Choosing our battles and ignoring our messy house and bending the rules. Because if I'm not perfect, I certainly can't expect you to be.
In the moments you make me laugh until my stomach hurts, the times you do the right thing when you don't know I'm watching, the way you talk about being kind and thoughtful with a wisdom the defies your age...
I know we'll be ok.
I know you'll only be little for such a short while and before I know it I'll be looking back wistfully at these days and reveling in my slightly distorted memories of a simpler time.
And if we both make it to your 18th birthday, alive and relatively unscathed- I'm going to throw
Just cut me some slack. Please?
I still love you to the moon and back,
Mama
Monday, June 18, 2012
Bandaids
We have entered the bandaid phase in my house.
If you have ever parented a small child, you will know exactly what I am referring to.
Bandaids are a strict necessity for every blemish, imaginend, implied or actual. I buy boxes of character themed (that was my first mistake) bandaids more often than I buy gallons of milk.
The smug,alpha asshole parent that existed in my brain before I became an actual parent of a three year old toddler terrorist is laughing at me, because certaintly I should be able to calmly explain the difference between when bandaids are necessary and when they are not. This, however, would imply that I am able to calmly accomplish ANYTHING these days and that logic is easily applied to an illogical situation. And if a Hello Kitty bandaid ends a tantrum that's been going on for 20 minutes? Then I'll buy stock in the damn things.
Given Grace's affinity for bandaids, I have also spent a lot of time trying to figure out the best way to remove a bandaid that has been stuck somewhere for so long it looks like it might be in danger of adhering to her skin.
We've soaked it off, painstakingly using a warm washcloth and soap. We've let it run its course until it fell off on it's own, but this has led me to finding bandaids in various unpleasant and embarrassing locations in my house. And I've done just what the old adage says- distracted her with something else and ripped it off so quickly she barely even noticed it was happening.
All of these methods have led to mixed results.
I recognize I just spent far too many paragraphs blabbering about bandaids- but there is a point to be made here, I promise.
My life has been....in flux...for these last few months (which is in large part to blame for my hiatus from writing in a public forum). Along the way, I managed to let my (emotional) self get pretty beat up. I sought solace where I could and I measured my success in continuing to wake up and will my feet to move with purpose across the floorboards.
With these wounds, came bandaids. Industrial sized, super adhesive, not going to budge bandaids.
For a while, I coddled myself. The emotional equivalent to the "soak off" approach, if you will. I wrapped myself in friendship and streaming Netflix and retail therapy. When the combination of wine and self-reflection became too dizzying, I became ambivalent. I started to allow life to happen to me. As long as Grace was happy and healthy, nothing else mattered. I had lost sight of the way my own fulfillment and happiness were inexorably intertwined with hers.
And then? One day...
I ripped that sucker off. I steeled myself for it, ignored the nagging voice of uncertainty inside my head and I just ripped it off.
It's not the initial pain that got me, because what had preceded it was worse. It's the residual sting. I'm finally feeling fresh air and sunshine but along with that comes the threat of further damage, of wounds that don't heal but simply worsen.
That sting...the insistent buzz of doubt and left-over insecurities...it's annoying, and sometimes worrisome but mostly it reminds me that,even with much work left to be done and the outcome of it all still unclear...things are healing.
If I'm going to expect Grace to rip off old bandaids with minimal screeching...then I most certainly better start doing it myself. I am constantly reminded that my daughter has made me stronger where I was once weak. Whenever I find myself questioning my decisions I imagine what I would want her to do in the same situation.
This is transition, but it's not the end of the story. I know I wont continue unscathed...there will be new challenges and injuries and mistakes.
But, in my house, there are always new bandaids.
If you have ever parented a small child, you will know exactly what I am referring to.
Bandaids are a strict necessity for every blemish, imaginend, implied or actual. I buy boxes of character themed (that was my first mistake) bandaids more often than I buy gallons of milk.
The smug,
Given Grace's affinity for bandaids, I have also spent a lot of time trying to figure out the best way to remove a bandaid that has been stuck somewhere for so long it looks like it might be in danger of adhering to her skin.
We've soaked it off, painstakingly using a warm washcloth and soap. We've let it run its course until it fell off on it's own, but this has led me to finding bandaids in various unpleasant and embarrassing locations in my house. And I've done just what the old adage says- distracted her with something else and ripped it off so quickly she barely even noticed it was happening.
All of these methods have led to mixed results.
I recognize I just spent far too many paragraphs blabbering about bandaids- but there is a point to be made here, I promise.
My life has been....in flux...for these last few months (which is in large part to blame for my hiatus from writing in a public forum). Along the way, I managed to let my (emotional) self get pretty beat up. I sought solace where I could and I measured my success in continuing to wake up and will my feet to move with purpose across the floorboards.
With these wounds, came bandaids. Industrial sized, super adhesive, not going to budge bandaids.
For a while, I coddled myself. The emotional equivalent to the "soak off" approach, if you will. I wrapped myself in friendship and streaming Netflix and retail therapy. When the combination of wine and self-reflection became too dizzying, I became ambivalent. I started to allow life to happen to me. As long as Grace was happy and healthy, nothing else mattered. I had lost sight of the way my own fulfillment and happiness were inexorably intertwined with hers.
And then? One day...
I ripped that sucker off. I steeled myself for it, ignored the nagging voice of uncertainty inside my head and I just ripped it off.
It's not the initial pain that got me, because what had preceded it was worse. It's the residual sting. I'm finally feeling fresh air and sunshine but along with that comes the threat of further damage, of wounds that don't heal but simply worsen.
That sting...the insistent buzz of doubt and left-over insecurities...it's annoying, and sometimes worrisome but mostly it reminds me that,even with much work left to be done and the outcome of it all still unclear...things are healing.
If I'm going to expect Grace to rip off old bandaids with minimal screeching...then I most certainly better start doing it myself. I am constantly reminded that my daughter has made me stronger where I was once weak. Whenever I find myself questioning my decisions I imagine what I would want her to do in the same situation.
This is transition, but it's not the end of the story. I know I wont continue unscathed...there will be new challenges and injuries and mistakes.
But, in my house, there are always new bandaids.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Another year...
Two days before your third birthday, you looked up at me from whatever mess you were making (have I ever happened to mention that you possess the most beautiful blue eyes that I ever have seen?) and declared "Mama, I don't want to turn three. I want to stay your baby forever".
I had been holding it together so well. You have a habit of doing that, by the way- totally disarming me. As tears blurred the edges of my vision, I told you that as much as I wanted to freeze time, to keep you just as you are-you were already growing into a beautiful little girl and before I knew it you would be an amazing young woman.
Last year, I wrote to you telling you the story of the day you were born. Now- you can tell me all about it. You tell me that you grew in my belly when you were a tiny tiny tiny baby. You kicked and squirmed and danced while you grew. And that one day, you decided it was time to come out. So you were born, and you made Mama and Daddy so happy and you made Mimi and Grandpa cry. And then you list off the people who came to the hospital to see you and love you- and if I tell you someone that you say wasn't there (such as Dakota, the dog), you become insistent. So I let you believe what you want. And you always finish by saying "And that was the day that I became the best thing to happen to my Mama". This abridged version, told in Gracie speak, never fails to warm my heart.
We have weathered a lot together in the last few months. Lots of change, the trials of potty training, the fierceness of your desire to be independent in all things that you do, growing and bending and stretching to fit this new reality we find ourselves in, together. You have been my constant throughout all of the changes. Right by my side, reminding me to laugh at myself, abandoning whatever you're doing to run up to my side, hug my leg and tell me you love me- always at the most needed moment.
(thank you).
Gracie- you are extraordinary. Our constant mantra is this- that you are kind, beautiful, funny and smart. But the truth is- you are so much more. You are unbelievably compassionate. You have decided that when you grow up, you would like to be a nurse, just like Mimi. When I broke my foot a few weeks ago, you rubbed my knee as you told me it would be OK, because you were there with me. You are the funniest person I know, without even trying- and once you realize you are making people laugh, there is no stopping you. Your facial expressions make up for whatever words you don't quite have yet and much like your mother, all of your thoughts, pleasant or not, show up clearly on your face (sorry about that).
You have quite the fan club of young twenty-somethings, given the fact that you offer none of the usual friendship benefits such as chipping in for gas money, playing wing-woman at the bar or sharing a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese (oh wait, that one you've got under control). You have "aunts" and "uncles" that love you as if you were their own, and probably more so because you are not. You have charmed your actual family as well- with one of your cousins delivering you a bouquet of pink tulips to you on your birthday. Quite franky- you enchant just about everyone you meet, regardless of their age or possible relation to you. We FaceTime on my lunch break every Tuesday and Thursday and the therapists that I work with all rush to say hello to you, because you make everybodys day that much brighter.
You have become your own little person, making choices and preferences separate from me at an alarming rate. You love motorcycles (where I am petrified of them) and the color pink. You are constantly playing in the dirt and then, in the next breath, asking me to paint your nails. You love music, but are quick to tell me if you don't like a song of my choosing and protest loudly until I find you something more agreeable. We have dance parties in the kitchen, in the car, in the aisle of the grocery store. You sing along to the radio, with invented lyrics that rival your Mimi’s in their hilarity. You love guacamole, squash, ranch dressing and above all- pink ice cream.
If there is one thing I ask of you on the brink of your 3rd birthday, it is to fight like hell to remain true to yourself. Sooner than either of us would like, you will start to feel the pressure of squeezing yourself into spaces that don’t quite fit, becoming what other people might expect...but the person you are right now? The person you have created of your own design? That girl is awesome. And I will remind you of that, every day. You are everything I might have imagined my daughter to be- but better. Often (more often than I’d like to admit), I find my breath catching in my throat as I marvel in the fact that you actually belong to me. As the days go by, I still see so much of Daddy and I in you- but more and more, it is your own self that is shining through.
Baby girl, I would love to spend the rest of my days being the buffer between you and the real world. Protecting you from the people who will hurt you, making your choices for you and having a kiss and snuggle from me be all you need to quiet your tears. But at just barely three, you are already showing me how capable you are to stand on your own. How proud you are going to make me. I worry constantly about how the choices I make will affect you. I wonder if I am doing the right things, teaching you by example.
Everyday, your smile...your kindness...your unflappable sense of humor. They assure me that, if nothing else, even on the days when we eat cereal for dinner, dishes are piled in the sink and the living room looks like fisher price threw up all over it- we’re doing alright.
And G, do you want to know my secret?
You’ll ALWAYS be my baby.
So go ahead, keep getting older and breaking my heart.
I love you to the moon & back,
Happy Birthday...
Love always,
Mama.
Monday, January 9, 2012
One Word
I've been trying to pull together a nice,light-hearted "Year in Review" post.- I promise I'll post one, complete with sweet pictures and funny anecdotes about the last year with a girl who keeps getting funnier and sweeter with each passing day.
Might I add that it should surprise no one who knows me that these "new year" posts are arriving much closer to the middle of the month than the beginning of it. Obviously.
Naturally, there is a lot of introspection going on at this time of year. I've thought about my goals for 2012, where I see my life going in the next 365 days. It's amusing to even entertain the idea that I have much control- but if the last few years of my life have taught me anything, it's that coping skills and contingency plans are key.
I saw this on another blog (that I can't even remember now) so I can't take credit for being super creative. But I'd like to condense all my goals and "resolutions" into one word. One word to carry me through the next year, to buoy my efforts and soften my missteps.
Courage.
My word for 2012 is courage.
Courage to do what is best for me. Best for my family. Best for my daughter.
Courage to take care of myself. To say no when I need to.
Courage to become the type of woman I want my daughter to be.
Courage to speak up. Stand firm.
Courage to grow into my career,the one that still feels a little bit like dress-up or grad school. (I still have to stifle a childish grin/giggle when I introduce myself as a speech language pathologist, certain that someone is going to come around the corner and call my bluff)
Courage to make peace with my body. Because even with the progress I've made, I find myself wishing away more pounds and for smaller sizes on labels.
Courage to keep running, because it's something that I do only for myself. This year's goal? I have my sights set on completing the Seacoast Series (6 local races, 2 of them longer than 5K's) and on running the Patriots Place 10k- because finishing on the 50 yard line of Gilette Stadium? Holy awesome.
Courage to make time. To write. To read. To breathe. I don't do enough that is only for me. Courage to be selfish, if only for a little while.
Courage in the face of obstacles and stumbling blocks and flat-out falls.
Because the word of 2011? It was retreat. I don't mean that negatively. But I was in survival mode. Finishing grad school. Finding a job. Making it through. Just surviving. I found satisfaction in continuing to breathe in and out. In keeping my daughter fed and clothed, happy and healthy. I feel no shame in that.
But in 2012?
I have the courage to want more.
Might I add that it should surprise no one who knows me that these "new year" posts are arriving much closer to the middle of the month than the beginning of it. Obviously.
Naturally, there is a lot of introspection going on at this time of year. I've thought about my goals for 2012, where I see my life going in the next 365 days. It's amusing to even entertain the idea that I have much control- but if the last few years of my life have taught me anything, it's that coping skills and contingency plans are key.
I saw this on another blog (that I can't even remember now) so I can't take credit for being super creative. But I'd like to condense all my goals and "resolutions" into one word. One word to carry me through the next year, to buoy my efforts and soften my missteps.
Courage.
My word for 2012 is courage.
Courage to do what is best for me. Best for my family. Best for my daughter.
Courage to take care of myself. To say no when I need to.
Courage to become the type of woman I want my daughter to be.
Courage to speak up. Stand firm.
Courage to grow into my career,the one that still feels a little bit like dress-up or grad school. (I still have to stifle a childish grin/giggle when I introduce myself as a speech language pathologist, certain that someone is going to come around the corner and call my bluff)
Courage to make peace with my body. Because even with the progress I've made, I find myself wishing away more pounds and for smaller sizes on labels.
Courage to keep running, because it's something that I do only for myself. This year's goal? I have my sights set on completing the Seacoast Series (6 local races, 2 of them longer than 5K's) and on running the Patriots Place 10k- because finishing on the 50 yard line of Gilette Stadium? Holy awesome.
Courage to make time. To write. To read. To breathe. I don't do enough that is only for me. Courage to be selfish, if only for a little while.
Courage in the face of obstacles and stumbling blocks and flat-out falls.
Because the word of 2011? It was retreat. I don't mean that negatively. But I was in survival mode. Finishing grad school. Finding a job. Making it through. Just surviving. I found satisfaction in continuing to breathe in and out. In keeping my daughter fed and clothed, happy and healthy. I feel no shame in that.
But in 2012?
I have the courage to want more.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Confessions of an (emotional) hoarder...
I just made a big, stressful, totally inconvenient, turn your life upside down move from a two bedroom in-law style apartment to a 3 bedroom house.
I don't enjoy change. In the last 3 months- there has been a whole lot of it in my life.
This move was very bittersweet. I found myself wandering around our old apartment, tripping over memories at every turn. This was where my daughter was brought home from the hospital. Where I paced the floor, obviously in labor but stubbornly refusing to call the doctor. This is the kitchen where, hands trembling, I found out I got into graduate school. The same kitchen that I stumbled into, delirious and giddy following post-graduation celebrations. That place saw more laughter, arguments, tears and pure joy than its square footage should have possibly been able to hold.
It was during this move that I discovered I am, in fact, a hoarder.
Not of the dead cat carcass variety. Thank goodness, because I don't need A&E knocking on my door.
But I hold onto material things as a way of keeping a grasp on the past and ensuring my foothold in the future. Each item I packed or threw away told a story for me and the process was painstaking. Each outfit of Grace's that I had stashed in our storage closet? I remember her wearing them and for a moment it was if I had my tiny baby back again. Those stayed. 7 old pacifiers- I only kept her favorite one. Birthday cards from 3 years ago? It was time to let go of those. But the high school year book that absolutely walloped me with the words scrawled on the page and the pictures and the people who have disappeared out of my life or have stood solidly by my side.. That's sitting in the top drawer of my nightstand.
You wouldn't believe it by looking in my new basement- but I threw away or donated
a lot of things. It was utlimately, a free-ing sort of process. I felt lighter, somehow, with each piece of mismatched Tupperware that I tossed in the trash.
Recognizing this pattern with the material things in my life led me to wonder...how many other "things" am I holding onto unnecessarily?
Turns out- it's a whole lot. This time of year naturally lends itself to retrospection. There are things that have happened in the past year that I am not particulalrly proud of. There are lots of things, however, that I believe I mananged to get right. And each time I found myself in tears over a photograph or angry or uncomfortable or anxious when remembering the history of something seemingly unassuminging and benign, I began to understand how little I am able to let go of.
Right now? My tupperware cabinet is perfectly organized. Each piece has a matching lid and are stacked with like containers. When I open the door I am no longer dodging an onslaught of tumbling, disorganized mess. I know it won't look like this every day, maybe not even every week...but I'm working on it. I'm working on giving each thing in my life its appropriate place to belong. And knowing how to throw it away when it grows too big or too old or doesn't quite fit anymore.
It's a process. Onesmall teeny tiny step at a time. If I manage to avoid a collection of flattened cat carcasses in the process? Then I think I'm doing just fine.
I don't enjoy change. In the last 3 months- there has been a whole lot of it in my life.
This move was very bittersweet. I found myself wandering around our old apartment, tripping over memories at every turn. This was where my daughter was brought home from the hospital. Where I paced the floor, obviously in labor but stubbornly refusing to call the doctor. This is the kitchen where, hands trembling, I found out I got into graduate school. The same kitchen that I stumbled into, delirious and giddy following post-graduation celebrations. That place saw more laughter, arguments, tears and pure joy than its square footage should have possibly been able to hold.
It was during this move that I discovered I am, in fact, a hoarder.
Not of the dead cat carcass variety. Thank goodness, because I don't need A&E knocking on my door.
But I hold onto material things as a way of keeping a grasp on the past and ensuring my foothold in the future. Each item I packed or threw away told a story for me and the process was painstaking. Each outfit of Grace's that I had stashed in our storage closet? I remember her wearing them and for a moment it was if I had my tiny baby back again. Those stayed. 7 old pacifiers- I only kept her favorite one. Birthday cards from 3 years ago? It was time to let go of those. But the high school year book that absolutely walloped me with the words scrawled on the page and the pictures and the people who have disappeared out of my life or have stood solidly by my side.. That's sitting in the top drawer of my nightstand.
You wouldn't believe it by looking in my new basement- but I threw away or donated
a lot of things. It was utlimately, a free-ing sort of process. I felt lighter, somehow, with each piece of mismatched Tupperware that I tossed in the trash.
Recognizing this pattern with the material things in my life led me to wonder...how many other "things" am I holding onto unnecessarily?
Turns out- it's a whole lot. This time of year naturally lends itself to retrospection. There are things that have happened in the past year that I am not particulalrly proud of. There are lots of things, however, that I believe I mananged to get right. And each time I found myself in tears over a photograph or angry or uncomfortable or anxious when remembering the history of something seemingly unassuminging and benign, I began to understand how little I am able to let go of.
Right now? My tupperware cabinet is perfectly organized. Each piece has a matching lid and are stacked with like containers. When I open the door I am no longer dodging an onslaught of tumbling, disorganized mess. I know it won't look like this every day, maybe not even every week...but I'm working on it. I'm working on giving each thing in my life its appropriate place to belong. And knowing how to throw it away when it grows too big or too old or doesn't quite fit anymore.
It's a process. One
Friday, December 9, 2011
"Problems"
I try not to irrationally, emotionally vomit too much on this blog. I try and keep off my soap box and stick to bragging about how awesome my kid is ( which is not totally obnoxious or anything) and try to make people smile.
Butsometimes I just can't seem to keep my big mouth shut.
Earlier this week, I stopped at a gas station on my way to work to buy a can of soup for lunch. (procrastinating food shopping seemed like such an excellent idea on Sunday afternoon...Monday morning? Not so much) While making the difficult early morning choice between Tomato and Hearty Vegetable, I overheard the cashier asking a gentleman if he would like to donate a dollar to support cystic fibrosis research. His reply? "Jesus! I wish you people would stop asking. I don't donate any money to this bullshit because none of my kids have any problems."
Listen. I know this time of year is one of penny pinching and paycheck stretching.
I also happen to possess the fatal flaw of always giving people the benefit of the doubt (which tends to leave me extremely disappointed roughly 75% of the time) so my initial thought/hope was that this guy simply didn't have an extra dollar to spare and that his oh so tasteful response was simply his masculine bravado speaking. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I am also a giant sucker. Nine times out of ten, you ask me to donate a dollar
to a cause I'm even remotely familiar with? I'm going to do it. Tagging little league sports player are THE worst. I get this insane guilt if I don't give them a dollar when I go in the store
as well as when I exit it. Like maybe they won't remember the dollar I just donated but they will remember me as the grouchy lady who didn't give them a measly buck.
But honestly? Your kids don't have any problems? Even MORE reason to donate to causes for
families who are less fortunate than you. Pay it forward, keep you karmic balance in the positive, all that jazz.
And a little sensitivity wouldn't be out of place, even for a big macho man like yourself.
That cashier who politely asked you to consider a donation? Maybe she lost a sibling to CF. And guess what? MY kid DOES have a "problem". She's perfectly healthy now, but the future of
her health is reliant upon the generosity of other people, donating money towards research for better treatment and hopefully, a cure for the backwards gene that she had no control over inheriting. And I happen to personally know an absolutely amazing family whose life is
affected by CF every single day. And instead of lying down in the face of this ominous diagnosis, they started fighting. And their incredible little boy is surrounded by positivity and love and they have single handedly raised an unbelievable amount of money for CF research.
So if you don't have the cash? Politely decline. You never know who is listening. When you find yourself face to face with seemingly unsurmountable odds, as we all do at some (or many)
points in our lives- it's those random, subtle acts of kindness and generosity of spirits,that mean the most.
Trust me, I know.
When I got up to the counter to pay for my tomato soup, I quietly offered to donate $2.
One for my karma and one for his.
But
Earlier this week, I stopped at a gas station on my way to work to buy a can of soup for lunch. (procrastinating food shopping seemed like such an excellent idea on Sunday afternoon...Monday morning? Not so much) While making the difficult early morning choice between Tomato and Hearty Vegetable, I overheard the cashier asking a gentleman if he would like to donate a dollar to support cystic fibrosis research. His reply? "Jesus! I wish you people would stop asking. I don't donate any money to this bullshit because none of my kids have any problems."
Listen. I know this time of year is one of penny pinching and paycheck stretching.
I also happen to possess the fatal flaw of always giving people the benefit of the doubt (which tends to leave me extremely disappointed roughly 75% of the time) so my initial thought/hope was that this guy simply didn't have an extra dollar to spare and that his oh so tasteful response was simply his masculine bravado speaking. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I am also a giant sucker. Nine times out of ten, you ask me to donate a dollar
to a cause I'm even remotely familiar with? I'm going to do it. Tagging little league sports player are THE worst. I get this insane guilt if I don't give them a dollar when I go in the store
as well as when I exit it. Like maybe they won't remember the dollar I just donated but they will remember me as the grouchy lady who didn't give them a measly buck.
But honestly? Your kids don't have any problems? Even MORE reason to donate to causes for
families who are less fortunate than you. Pay it forward, keep you karmic balance in the positive, all that jazz.
And a little sensitivity wouldn't be out of place, even for a big macho man like yourself.
That cashier who politely asked you to consider a donation? Maybe she lost a sibling to CF. And guess what? MY kid DOES have a "problem". She's perfectly healthy now, but the future of
her health is reliant upon the generosity of other people, donating money towards research for better treatment and hopefully, a cure for the backwards gene that she had no control over inheriting. And I happen to personally know an absolutely amazing family whose life is
affected by CF every single day. And instead of lying down in the face of this ominous diagnosis, they started fighting. And their incredible little boy is surrounded by positivity and love and they have single handedly raised an unbelievable amount of money for CF research.
So if you don't have the cash? Politely decline. You never know who is listening. When you find yourself face to face with seemingly unsurmountable odds, as we all do at some (or many)
points in our lives- it's those random, subtle acts of kindness and generosity of spirits,that mean the most.
Trust me, I know.
When I got up to the counter to pay for my tomato soup, I quietly offered to donate $2.
One for my karma and one for his.
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