It is Thanksgiving and I'm taking a break from writing this week.  But my friend sent me this wonderful essay on motherhood today and I thought, "What a gift this is for any mother."  And since, dear readers this is the week to give thanks, I'd like to exuberantly give my heartiest appreciation to you all who read and comment and support my writing.  I am so grateful for you.  Your readership, wisdom, and wonderful friendship warms my soul and helps this sticky road called "motherhood" feel a little less lonely.  So please accept the following essay as a token of my thanks to all of my Mudders.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Invisible Mother.....By Anonymous

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'
 
Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible.. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more! Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this??
 
Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around 5:30, please.'
 
Some days I'm a crystal ball; 'Where's my other sock?, Where's my phone?, What's for dinner?'
 
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history, music and literature -but now, they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going, she's going, she's gone!?
 
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England . She had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when she turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.' It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe .

I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: 'With admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: 1) No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. 2) These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. 3) They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. 4) The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw
everything.
 
A story of legend in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof, No one will ever see it And the workman replied, Because God sees.'

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does.
 
No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, no Cub Scout meeting, no last minute errand is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.
 
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
 
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for 3 hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, he'd say, 'You're gonna love it there...'
 
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible mothers.
 
Share this with all the Invisible Moms you know... I just did.

Tradition! Tradition....Tradition! (Think Fiddler on the Roof)

We stripped Ila down to just her diaper and plopped her in the middle of the dining room table.  Aidan sat at one end, his eyebrows furrowed paging through the Jack-o-lantern pattern book trying to decide on just the right one to carve into his pumpkin.  "They have some new patterns this year mom."  he said excitedly.  "But I am not sure I want to do one that is difficult.  Which one are you choosing for Ila's pumpkin?"  I answered, "Oh something easy.  We won't keep her attention long."  While Aidan and I decided on simple faces, Jeff cut off the tops and then he and Aidan began scraping and emptying the contents of the pumpkins.  They each delighted Ila by dropping the ooey gooey innards all around her on the table.  She grabbed them with her chubby hands, squeezed them through her fingers, and yes, ate quite a bit as well (much to her mother's chagrin and father's delight!)  We all giggled when Ila curiously peered into the hollowed out gourd.  And when she looked up at her father quizzically and asked, "W'sat Da Da?  W'sat?"  we all answered in unison, "That's a pumpkin Ila!"  When time came to light up the jack-o-lanterns, we took them out into the dark night and placed them on the front porch.  At the sight of their glowing faces Ila's squeal was so high pitched that we were sure we heard dogs start to howl in the next neighborhood over. We each took turns taking pictures with the finished products basking in the Jack-o-lanterns' light, smiling from ear to ear as the trials and tribulations of the week seemed to get swallowed up into the darkness beyond our front porch.

For 16 years, (Yikes! 16 years!) this Halloween tradition has been played out--albeit in many different ways--but played out none the less.  When life changed around us and within us, whether it be the boys' dad not living in our home anymore, the presence of a new man in our lives, friends coming, friends going, scary medical problems, new siblings, the tradition of jack-o-lantern carving has held constant, comforting us with its presence every week before October 31st.  And isn't that what traditions are supposed to be?  Family traditions are a reliable presence in our lives that help define who we are and what we value. Traditions are steadies in a world where "change" seems to be the only OTHER constant. 

At this time of year traditions seem especially prevalent in our household.   It starts with the jack-o-lantern but as autumn turns its face to November and then December my children, my husband and I look forward to the things that makes this season...well...predictable, comfortable, familial, and special.  Each tradition--whether large or small--is utterly essential.

Music starts my family on the right foot when it comes to the holiday season.  Christmas music--to be exact-- is a large part of our holiday traditions.  Every year on November 1st you can find me in the kitchen cooking dinner with John Denver and The Muppets blaring from my I-Home.  Their A Christmas Together album has been a tradition since I was 8 years old.  The songs define the holiday for me.  It wouldn't be Christmas without Miss Piggy warbling "Christmas is Coming," or John Denver singing "A Carol For Christmas" sweetly and serenely after reciting the poem "Alfie the Christmas Tree."   It is so popular with my sons that it is the cd that is most requested when opening presents on Christmas morn or driving in the car to shop for gifts.  A little tradition that I do for myself is to buy new Christmas music every November 1st to add to my comprehensive library.  However, when it comes right down to it, without the oldest cd's Christmas couldn't happen in my house...probably wouldn't happen in my house without the familiar melodies that remind us of all the Christmases that came before.  Music--a tradition that sings us into the new year. 


One of my favorite traditional outings this time of year HAS to be the Fisher's Thanksgiving get together.  For those of you that don't know, my husband is one of ten brothers...(yes I said TEN boys.  Shouldn't THAT Mrs. Fisher be writing a blog too???)  My sister-in-law, Sandy, is brave enough to hold Thanksgiving at her house.  She tends to be the glue that holds the entire family together.  In a way, Thanksgiving at her house is a manifest of her--welcoming and warm, full of happiness and smiles.  But that holiday gathering is also a manifest of the Fisher clan itself; always raucous, laughter shaking the rafters, conversation ringing from every corner of Sandy's elegant house.  There isn't any POSSIBLE way not to feel like you belong to something special when that family (that family????) No, MY family gathers together to celebrate another year, another child, another grateful meal.  My boys and Ila are blessed to be part of it.  Thanksgiving at the Fisher's--a tradition that provides warmth in the cold month of November. 

Family traditions can cut through strife and worry.  Last year after being diagnosed with a heart condition, I have to admit that I didn't have the energy to fulfill many of our holiday rituals.  But the way that my boys counted on and pleaded for the continuation of our holiday traditions was evidence of the fibrous strength they had woven throughout their very beings.  That was clearly evident last year when Gannan, then 13, and perhaps past the age of admitting that all things Christmas was cool, gently asked me if my heart condition would stop us from traveling to our favorite tree farm to cut our Christmas tree down.  You see, it was his turn to use the saw.  He carried that knowledge with him for a year....looking forward to his chance to be the one who caused us all to cheer and whoop a hearty "HUZZAH!" when at last the tree that was meticulously chosen landed with a thump on the soft snow.  That gentle pleading, the hopeful look in his eyes, made me realize how very vital for our family our traditions were, that those annual moments both large and small were absolutely positively fundamental and part of the definition of what family was to my sons.


It isn't difficult to establish traditions.  In fact it doesn't take much more than doing something two years in a row for your children to consider it a "must-do" every year.  What's more, I think that a year of great change is the perfect time to start a new tradition, especially one that takes family togetherness.  My boys favorite traditions were started just a few years ago when what we usually did on Christmas Eve came to an end for reasons beyond our control.  Instead of wallowing in sadness and loss, we instead brainstormed new traditions.  That was the year that we decided that the boys would be the ones to plan the menu and cook on Christmas Eve and Christmas.  Jeff and I help them by following their instructions to a tee (after all, they are in charge) and I am happy to say that our holiday meals have been scrumptious, decadent creations since we started this tradition.  Each year is a new recipe and another chance for us to bond as a family.

Just two years ago, Jeff and I thought that the years of traveling to Albany to drive through Washington Park's Holiday Lights in the Park with the boys oooing and ahhing in the back seat would soon be over.  We thought that in the near future we'd be sitting at some restaurant on Christmas while the boys went to their girlfriends' homes to celebrate with members of someone else's family.  But, miracles happen, and we have been blessed with Ila and a chance to not only extend the time spent on our old family traditions, but time to establish new ones with her and for her.  And dear readers, I would love your help in doing that!  Please share with me your holiday traditions so that they might become ones that Ila experiences someday!

Le Petit Bonheur (The Little Happiness)

"Cultivate le petit bonheur (the little happiness) until courage returns. Look forward to the beauty of the next moment, the next hour, the promise of a good meal, sleep, a book, a movie, the likelihood that tonight the stars will shine and tomorrow the sun will shine. Sink roots into the present until the strength grows to think about tomorrow.”

Ardis Whitman

These past two weeks this quote and I have been intimately connected.  Written on a piece of scrap paper it has sat on the bathroom sink and waited for me to finish my shower.  It tarried patiently on my vanity as I straightened my unruly long hair.  It has been wrinkled and smushed into my sensible teaching slacks waiting for my hand to grasp it, grip it, crinkle it in my white knuckled fist when desperate thoughts wove within my daily routine; in between my reading lessons and correcting spelling tests, when walking down a quiet hall or standing robot-like waiting for the copier to finish spitting out the day's assignments.

It's that french phrase that makes the quote stand out for me:  Le petit bonheur--small moments of happiness.  Such a simple but profound idea and one I am sure we could all lean on every once in awhile.  When the thought of tomorrow is worrisome and heavy--concentrate instead on what is good and satisfying even if it is small.  It is the precious present that will get you through until you feel strong enough to tackle the "unknown tomorrows" that we all have.      

So that's what I did this week. I marked, noticed and counted my petit bonheur, and if you'll indulge me, I'd like to share with you some of the happiest moments if not only to remind myself of the joie de vivre, but also perhaps to help someone else who may be in the "deep downs" find some light even in what seems the blackest of times.   

Ma Petit Bonheur

1.  Ila has taken to imitating a rabbit when the bunny picture shows up in her favorite book.  It is the most precious thing I have ever witnessed.  Her chubby cheeks move up and down  in tandem with her rosy pink nose and her eyes get squinty.  Le Petit Bonheur...

2.  This weekend my sixteen year old asked...I repeat....ASKED to accompany us on a shopping trip to The Christmas Tree Shop.  He sat in the backseat with Ila, sang Sesame Street Songs with her and had several easy conversations with us about school, about Christmas, about his future.  

3.  The same 16 year old told me last week that our house was "a home"...a home.  Two words never sounded so good.

4.  The crock pot...YES I said the crock pot.  DEFINITELY a petit bonheur.  Especially when my hubby uses it.  This past week I feasted on spaghetti  with homemade sauce and meatballs the size of baseballs.  I came home today to the creamiest cheesiest potato and ham soup that the world has ever eaten.  It was paired with thick slabs of farmer's wheat bread that he grilled with cheddar cheese; a perfect meal for a rainy fall night--Yes?  Le petit bonheur!

5.  Then of course there is bath time with Ila.  There are SO many petit bonheurs during this daily 15 minutes I am not sure I even know where to start.  How about that Buddha belly so full after a delicious crock pot dinner.  Before putting her into the warm bath water there's nothing like the squealing giggles she lets loose when I blow raspberries on that sweet round tummy...le petit bonheur.  Each night she does this incredibly endearing thing where she grabs her rubber ducky, points her chubby finger at me and grunts.  This is my music cue and at that moment I begin my rendition of "Rubber Ducky," my voice echoing off the white tiled wall.  She leans against the back of the tub and twirls her yellow duck interjecting her rudimentary language where she can.  But the happiest part of the bath has to be towel time.  Wrapping her in that purple heavy cotton "princess" towel with a crown for the hood, she squirms and wriggles happily in my arms.  The warmth of her body seeps through the towel right into my soul.  I put my nose on the top of her wet hair and breath in deeeeeeply.  When drying her off on the bathroom sink's counter I kiss her shoulders, her round knees, the bottoms of her tiny feet, her hands and right on up her arms to her arm pits--all with no resistance ( a rare moment!)  She anticipates this routine sitting mesmerized with each kiss and then bursts out into her heartiest belly laugh when her arms get kissed. That delightful sound floats up out of her mouth into the steamy bathroom and strokes my cheek like a soothing hand.  Best of all, she'll snuggle into the crook of my neck all the way down the hall to her room.  I almost hate to put her down on her changing table.  Bath time...le petit bonheur.

6.  Le petit bonheur, a small happiness, doesn't seem to fit this next one.  I mean my Facebook friend, Suz, must have the most giant personality that the world has ever experienced.   I am not sure if she knows of the jovialities and super smiles she spreads throughout the world of Facebook.  To those who don't know her or have never read her statuses, I call her the female Robin Williams.  This woman is freaking hilarious.  During one teary wallowing moment, I turned on my computer to read this status posted by my friend, " So I'm checking out at the grocery and the comedian/cashier dude holds up the 2 pack of dog bones and asks, "for your husband?"  I replied, "well, he gets bored when he's in the dog house...plus it gives him clean breath."Or how about this one "So. my 17 year old big dude is trying to pick a 'sexy' name for his car.  hubby has googled 'sexy names' and is reading htem off in a strange(ie. sultry) voice.  we're actually having a debate in the kitchen over this.  seriously.  ::eyeroll:: " --If you ever need a moment of laughter be sure to visit her world at suzpatrick.blogspot.com!  

And now for some truly tiny petit bonheur!

A.  Palmer's Cocoa Butter Oil massaged into my tired feet at the end of the day.
B.  A husband who knows that talk is cheap but massaging my feet is PRICELESS.
C.  A full tank of gas when I am in a hurry.
D.  A call out of the blue that showers me with understanding and advice from a best friend in Tampa.
E.  Grape infused vodka, Dole All Natural Pink Lemonade, Perrier...together....yum!
F.  Nestle's Tollhouse Ice Cream Sandwiches...nothing else to say about THAT one!
G.  The Sunday NY Times Book Review.
H.  A virtual trip to Amazon.com after reading the book review.  This week I bought --To the End of the Land by David Grossman.  Each day I look forward to a jaunt to the mailbox to pick up a prized possession--a book and devour its words.

Le petit bonheur.  Le petit bonheur.  Le petit bonheur.  Look for it.  Listen to it.  Learn from it.  Love it.  I guarantee that those small happinesses will add up to Le Grand Bonheur--a great big ginormous contentment-- that outshines those scary tomorrows and gives us palpable energy we need to take us forward. 

So Many Ways to Speak of a Broken Heart

I have avoided writing my blog this week, regretting that promise to be brutally honest.  Only having one thing that I should really discuss...having one thing on my mind, in my heart...on my heavy mind, in my broken heart.  However, coincidentally, writing it would mean opening that figurative garage door that I just happened to pen about two weeks ago.  All week I kept thinking that writing this blog would mean that I'd have to speak about things that up until now had never been spoken of except to a few very supportive, very sturdy, non-judgmental women in my life.  So it is with tentative key strokes that I write this post.  Here goes...

Gannan went to live with his dad last week.  It was his choice.  He wanted to move out, wanted to leave.  All week my thoughts have been jumbled and broken, my feelings mixed and shaken.  There are so many ways, different angles, I could talk about what happened, so many lenses to look through.  The question which is the right lens for the blog?

I could postulate on the downfalls of contentious divorces and their effect on children. In that kind of post I would beg the members of divorce to work together for the sake of their children and not use them to get back at an ex spouse. I'd need to remind them that what they say about the other parent may be believed by a child at a moment when it wasn't best for the child.  And although that may make the member feel gleeful and vindicated, where does it leave the child?  If I chose to write about Gannan's leaving in terms of divorce I would have to include a discussion about how the rules of one house cannot possibly hold water if the other house doesn't fully support them.  I would have to discuss the brain of an adolescent and how any 14 year old would OF COURSE choose to live at the house of least resistance, the house without expectations, the house where the very type of egotistical adolescent thinking is supported by a willing parent.

And yet, this post could be written in so many other ways.  I could ruminate on how the old "sticks and stones" saying is WRONG and words do cut right through you especially when said by a son or daughter. In that kind of post I would talk about how the most decisive mother can be easily turned into a vat of indecision when her choices, her words, done and said for the good of her children, make them loathe her...even for the briefest moment.  It would discuss the virtues and downfalls of having specific expectations for your children, and how inevitably who they become, what they choose, is up to them.  That kind of post would include how sad it makes a mother to watch her child struggle with wrong and right, and in the end make a choice that is detrimental to him or her.  It would end with a description of the excruciating pain a mother experiences having to stand aside and watch a child learn the hard way.

Then again, an even more difficult (and maybe more controversial) blog post would be a discussion of  the indignation moms sometimes feel.  I may carefully admit to occasionally being tired of the challenges mothers face.  I'd marvel at strong women who have equally challenging children who seem to get it right all the time.  I may ruminate on the impossibility of being "on" all the time, and the guilt mothers feel when wanting, needing a break.  I may even admit that I know some moms including me who when dealing with a sassy centric adolescent think to themselves or even say out loud (even though it isn't politically correct) "After all I have done...how dare you!"

Of course there is always the more satisfying, perhaps easier angle, speaking about the incredibly supportive women I have in my life.  In this kind of post I'd talk about how ALL mothers need a posse to surround them.  Not a "yes ma'am" posse, but a group who tells you like it is each time you come to them to sound off or for advice.  To have this kind of posse means that when you make wrong decisions, you'll know it and when your decisions are ones that they themselves would make you'll know that too.  Maybe while penning this post I'd tell you specifically about some of my posse members.  First, I'd introduce you to the J's...Jeanne and Janel.  These ladies are my sounding boards for different reasons, but both essential in my life no less.  Their no nonsense manner and logical thinking help to buffer my tendencies to react emotionally.  If I decided to stick with the specific I'd tell you about the day after Gannan left.  I'd let you in on the sheer and agonizing pain I was feeling and how one sentence from them...one specific sentence that they both uttered let me off the hook just a little, alleviated my guilt and anguish just enough to get me through the rest of the day.  I'd also tell you about Mindy who lets me be my emotional reactive self.  She probably has no idea how her kind phrase, "of course you are angry" made me feel a little less crazy--a little more sane that awful day after Gannan left.  After all, someone in the universe understood why the anger was eating me alive.   There are so many others I could tell you about but my posse wouldn't be complete without a mention of my sunshiney sister, Lanni, who mercifully but firmly works against my doomsday thoughts to remind me of the positives and the possibilities, guiding me away from the blackness into the light.


I could speak in specific terms about the ugly scene that took place here.  I could be really brave and admit to my readers how I lost my ever lovin' mind and sunk to 14 year old's fight level. If I really wanted to bare my soul, I'd get more detailed and tell you about the tug of war I had with Gannan...over a comforter...his comforter.   I would tell you about the rage that took over every fiber of me when he used words as daggers knowing exactly what to say to tear me to shreds.  I'd share the raw minutia of the car ride to his father's where he spewed on and on about how "he and his dad" felt about me.  I'd cry as I wrote about how that alliance-whether in the moment or real and true-felt like a stinging slap in my face.  But I'd also include a shaky-heart-in-my-throat discussion about the unbearable missing-him feeling I get in the quiet of the night, a feeling like a death, an empty hole in the deepest part of me.  I'd divulge that I haven't slept more than a few hours since he left, lying awake wondering if he missed us, or his beloved little sister.  If he felt any regret...any remorse, and wondering about the moment we'd be together again.

Yes, there are many ways that I could write this post.  However while contemplating which angle I would write about Gannan's leaving each way seemed to have it's own merits.  Each way seemed utterly important to my weary mind.  "Why not write about it all?"  whispered the writer in me.  And so dear readers, that is just what I did.

PSSST! Your Garage Door is Open...

From the front of my house, sitting in my driveway--say in a car--my garage looks like any other garage.  Two sets of three paneled framed squares, one row sitting on top of the other, above that, three rectangular windows, (perhaps a little dirty), paint flecked by rain, wind, weather and wear, but an ordinary garage no less. 

However if you were inside standing under the complicated mechanism that automatically pulls up and lowers the heavy door-you would notice that the inner workings are damaged.  The chain that once lined the intricate pulley system dangles dangerously.  The frame that houses the thick cables shakes and rattles, and is precariously connected to the walls and ceiling.  The plastic encased motor chokes and sputters.  Truth be told, the automatic garage system is in such disrepair that we have been unable to use it for over a year, and in the spirit of full disclosure you can't even open our garage door the old fashioned way.  It refuses to stay up on its own and will violently slam down if no one holds it.  It actually once snapped a two by four in half that my husband had used to prop it up in order to sweep out debris last spring.   Yet not a person driving by our home would know any of this unless they were allowed inside.  Even then they might not realize that the garage was broken unless they pushed the absolutely ineffective button that is supposed to raise and lower it.

Where am I going with this?  Good question.  Where AM I going with this?  This afternoon when I drove up my driveway and parked in front of the debunked garage I was feeling a little overwhelmed, a little haggard, a little on the edge, and it dawned on me that my garage was very much like me, and many other moms (and dads) that I know.  Our facade is strong.  The face we show to the public is together.  We're perhaps a little older but we dress for success, speak the language of sanity, laugh when others around us laugh, and lend a hand when needed.  We are serious about our careers, take the kids to the doctors, buy nutritious groceries, cheer at sporting events and wave hello and good bye to acquaintances.  We try our best to blend in, to keep the waters smooth, to look like--well--an ordinary garage door.  On the outside we are cool customers...on the outside.

But then there's the inside, the part of our lives that only a few are privy to.   Away from the eyes of the public we might find that our complicated mechanisms, our inner workings, are damaged.  Our chains may be dangling (some lower than others...sigh.)  Our frames may be precariously connected.  Our motors might be coughing and sputtering.  We may even have moments in which we need to be propped up by the support of our loved ones.  If that doesn't happen we could violently crash--breaking two by fours in our wake.  Gratefully, we are relieved that these malfunctions of humanity can remain hidden so that the public-at-large knows us only by what we allow them to see. 

But how would we all feel if those damaged inner workings were somehow exposed to the prying eyes of the public?  Recently our small community has had an inordinate amount of what the gossip mill would call "scandalous behavior."  Highly esteemed members making what seem to be unimaginable choices:  Doctors, teachers, architects, school board members caught cheating on spouses, esteemed families experiencing public breakdowns, high school sweethearts--couples who seemed bonded forever by the sheer strength of heart and mind--divorcing.   Although each recent tragedy is fundamentally different and unique there are two things that they all have in common.  First, as with all scandals, stories are passed from community member to community member; some true, some exaggerated, some completely fabricated but all readily believed by the listeners.  These stories fly through the air as easily as feathers in a wind storm and echo like footsteps in a narrow hallway.  Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, according to the "gossip elite" these "scandals" are scurrilous and shocking because of the very nature of WHO was involved.  For the last few weeks, many shook their heads in disbelief saying things like, "I never thought that SHE would do something like that!"  or "Can you believe that THEY are divorcing!"  or "They SEEMED like such good parents."

So these are the newest casualties of the small town gossip mill.  Their garage doors are wide open and all the world gets to look inside and tsk at the disrepair.  A people watcher at heart, it is always interesting to me how people react to such disrepute.  Some will have no sympathy, needing a ladder to climb on their horses, they will shake their heads and say, "Well all poor choices have consequences."   Some, helpers at heart, will chime in with recommendations as to how "the broken garage" could be fixed.  Some will judge that the owners of our figurative garage didn't try to repair it the first moment that they noticed something just wasn't quite right.  Some will vow never to visit the house with the faulty garage again.  After all, a broken garage can be a dangerous thing.  Some will be gleeful that the perfect looking house isn't so perfect after all...But hopefully...hopefully...a few will call or visit and say, "My garage door was once in disrepair. What do you need from me?"  Or maybe even, "My garage is fine but my dishwasher doesn't work.  How can I help you fix that garage so that then maybe you can help me repair my dishwasher?" 

When the seemingly sane and put-together do something insane and unraveled, we shouldn't be shocked.  The human being is a complicated mechanism. Lucky are those who haven't had a complete and public "mechanical breakdown" for all to witness, but I'd wager that most of us have had many-a-mechanical malfunction--behind very firmly closed garage doors.    

Words of Wisdom--Brought to You by Hindsight

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taDqKWWPDAY&feature=player_embedded

 Click on the link above to watch an amazing video about motherhood!  Grab your tissues!


1.  Meet other moms.
2.  It is okay to be scared.
3.  Millions of parents survive sleep deprivation.
4.  It's okay to want a break.
5.  You WILL make mistakes.  Forgive yourself.
6.  Real men change diapers.
7.  Take time to fall in love with your baby.
8.  Take time for yourself.
9.  Let Grandma spoil them.
10.  Imperfect is the new perfect.

These are 10 of my favorite messages from the above video link made by Nummies, a nursing bra company.  It is a touching reflection of mothers holding signs with messages that they'd tell their "pre-mom" selves if they could go back in time.  About 5 seconds into the video I found my eyes welling and then spilling over with tears.  Chin quivering, I nodded my head vigorously with every new message that appeared.  At the end of the video, I closed my eyes and naturally pictured myself as that VERY young...(too young perhaps)...24-year-old-first-time-mother.  There was part of the current me that wanted to shake her, but most of me just felt bad for her and her two sons for all that she DIDN'T know, all that she needed to learn, and the path that she'd have to take to grow up to become a mother her boys deserved.

It is hard as a mom not to think "If I knew then, what I knew now..."  and then tick off a list of things we'd have done differently if we had that impossible chance to do it all over again.  And while I was mulling over that list another thought began to creep in, staying at first on the periphery, but ultimately permeating the din shining a bright light on the "could-haves" and "should-haves."  After 16 years of raising my sons, I DID have the unique chance to kind-of-sort-of-in-a-way do it all over again...this time with Ila. It presented an interesting opportunity for me, the seasoned mom, to teach me, the new mom, some of the important things I learned along the way.  Learning from my experiences in order to improve my parenting this time around...what a concept.

Feeling excited by the prospect of being able "to go back in time," I began to rummage through the dusty, dark recollections tucked away into the far away corners in my house of memories.  I called to them to come out...and they did...gingerly.  Painful mistakes I'd made as a mom, things I neglected to do, phrases that should never have been said were typically not allowed to see the light of day in order to protect my sanity.  But now they served as research subjects.  All week I viewed and reviewed them in an arms length way with the emotional disconnect of a scientist.  What could I learn from the mistakes I made?  More so, what could I learn from the happy moments of the last 16 years of parenting?  What messages could I till from the roots of my experiences so that they could be delivered in my time machine to the awaiting "new" mother who was eager to learn.

After much cogitation I am pleased with my list of ten lessons to tell my "pre-mom" self.   Buckle your seat belts and join me on my time machine as we deliver the following messages to...um...well...me!
 
Lessons for My Pre-mom Self.

1.  Everything  always looks better in the morning.
2.  When someone offers help--take them up on it.  Learn to lean.
3.  Life is difficult.  Shielding your children from all things uncomfortable will not equip them with the coping mechanisms they will need in the future.
4.  Every mistake made is the universe's way of teaching you something.  Look for the lessons.
5.  Saying sorry is not a sign of parental weakness.
6.  Sometimes you may not know what's best.  Find an expert who does. 
7.  Be infinitely careful about who you allow to become important to your children.
8.  Sometimes the hardest, most heart-wrenching choice for you is what is best for your children.  Trust your gut.  Your hurt will pass and your child will grow.
9.  Problem solve WITH your children.  Teaching them how will ensure that they never feel trapped or limited.
10. Be the person you want your children to be...because they are ALWAYS watching. 

Now it's YOUR turn. What lessons did I miss that you'd want YOUR pre-mom (or dad) self to know?  Leave them in the comment box below!

The Miracle of Ila

She turns one on Wednesday.  A pink perfect balance of personality.  A fashionista who treasures books, music and wondrous words--just-like-her-mom.  A fierce Yankee fan who dons her pink Yankee cap when a game is on and can throw a ball like Andy Petite--enamoring her father forever.  Her smile is a beacon in the darkest room, blackest moment, bleakest hour.  She embodies my beloved father-in-law, a veritable people person at heart, by dazzling anyone with her sing-songy incessant "Hiiiiiiiiiiii."  to greet all passersby.  She is fiercely determined to get what she wants--what she needs--by any means necessary, and she is a lightening quick learner.  But our girl is so much more, and that is the dilemma.  How to capture the essence of this little miracle in a singular blog post?

I am ashamed to tell you dear readers that before our little Ila arrived I wasn't thrilled at the idea of being a mother again.  The mere thought shrouded me with gray.  As my belly expanded it seem to fill to the brim with dread and resentment.  I had been mothering for 16 years, loving the boys with all I had, but trudging through a mire of mistakes, shooting arrows blindly in the dark.  Motherhood back then seemed to be based on luck... a newbie archer of sorts hoping that some of those arrows would land at least near the target, never feeling like I ever obtained a parenting bulls eye. Yet here I was again loading the bow that I thought I'd be putting away in some dank cobwebby attic in the near future.  It seemed to me that I was moving backwards, but  desperately wanting to move forward. To grow.  To change.  To expand my potential.  To explore new worlds.  To solidify relationships and make new ones.  To travel to far away places.  Giving birth to a baby girl seemed to be the last thing that would allow me to do anything on that list.  Oh my dear readers how WRONG I was.

And perhaps that is what I want you to know most about our little Ila. She is a force, a ball of energy both subliminal and literal.   Backwards is the last direction her presence has allowed.  In fact, I can emphatically say that that 20 pound, 2 feet 3 inch girl  has used her substantial muscle to bring about colossal forward movement to a life I had decided was doomed to be stuck in a bog of repetition for at least 18 more years.
 
I wanted to grow and so the forces of nature behind Ila's arrival provided me the opportunity. Wanting--no no--needing to parent differently this time around made me realize that I'd have to mature in order to do that. So now, parenting is no longer a childish archery game.  It is an ongoing  mature conversation, a welcomed infinite learning experience.  I am the grown up and I am the guide.  Light years different than the 24 year old first time mother I was eons ago.

I wanted to change, to solidify relationships and so the forces of nature behind Ila's arrival provided me the opportunities.  Forever needing to be in control--needing to hold onto those puppet strings so the earth wouldn't fall into oblivion, Ila threw me a few uncontrollable curve balls.  It started with three months of bed rest-in the middle of a house under construction...the mess and chaos was hive inducing.  (Those of you who are closest to me...stop laughing...the mess was hive inducing even for me....which tells you how large the mess truly was...)  Then she added a heart condition leaving her mother forever exhausted, gasping for breath even after short trips to the bathroom.  But it didn't stop there.  The universe that was in charge of Ila's arrival also threw in failure-to-thrive and a choking incident just to make sure I understood that I couldn't be in charge or control of everything.  And you know what?  All of that misery, changed me for the better.  It helped me to realize that leaning on those who love you is more than okay and more than necessary.  I don't have to do it all, and I don't now.  I will be forever in debt to my sister-in-law, Sandy who lovingly soothed me as I was dealt the blow of a congestive heart failure diagnosis, who let me cry unrelenting tears when the IV was put in . I'm forever grateful to her husband, Bill, who took care of our sweet Ila while I was being admitted to the hospital, getting her to take her first full two ounces of formula, but most of all for bringing Ila and ALL her gear to the cardiac unit even though it was close to midnight because I couldn't rest without her.  I well up with such immense gratitude to my colleagues who visited and cooked and called, and especially to Nurse Janel who spent her evenings with us every night for a month teaching Jeff the ins and outs of fatherhood, cooking and cleaning and most of all comforting.  Letting go also brought me closer to those I call family.  My best friend Sherry flying up from Tampa to "get this house in gear" made me realize the infinite value of a life long friend.   My sister Lanni calling weekly, listening with FULL ear to my fears and dreams and ambitions, loving me for who I am...dirt and all... humbled a hardened me who once espoused that "I didn't need anyone.".  Then there is  Ila's middle name sake, my truly incredible Dr.Speed Dial ,whose constant presence whenever or where ever I needed her, on the couch, in the hospital, in the middle of the night, and in my heart, taught me that true love isn't conditional.  Having Ila meant having to let go and lean, to let others do the doing. What a glorious change.

What about expanding my potential?  Well Ila's arrival has offered me an opportunity for that as well.  While writing has always been a passion, my experiences as a mom of two teenage boys AND a newborn has given me fodder beyond my wildest dreams to pen....and the hopes of doing it professionally.  That led me to partake in my first writing conference in San Francisco (a faraway place).  It led me to start this very blog.  It led me to apply and get hired as a columnist for a popular family website.  Having Ila has opened all kinds of doors and windows of potential.  Without her incandescently cute and special presence in my life, I may be still standing in that bog of repetition mired in the muck of misery shooting arrows into empty air.