The Ups and Downs of Motherhood: The HIghs And Lows of My Listen To Your Mother Audition

A soaring bird who suddenly breaks a wing. A sports car with its brake line cut.  An Olympian in first place until taking a spill 100 feet before the finish line. These kinds of highs and lows are like the ones felt by mamas all over the world every day, every hour, every minute.

Sometimes I think the Universe, even with his wisdom, has an infinite sense of humor--especially when it comes to mothers.

It's almost as if he or she wants to remind us that suffering or at least a bit of misery is part of our job description. These reminders (at least in my life) come usually right after a moment of pure adrenaline high--a jiffy pop bag of hot popcorny goodness at its epitome of height just before someone sticks a fork in the tin foil top.

Take today for instance, after a February vacation where I pretty much had to stay in because of a sick child with a sinus infection, coupled with about 6 months of an iffy car, I had looked forward to taking off in my new car for a weekend away in NYC where I would audition for the prestigious Listen To Your Mother show and have a little fun with most of my family who planned on accompanying me.

The weekend began on a high.  We enjoyed an afternoon at the Children's Museum. The weather was idyllic and we strolled the streets basking in the springlike temperatures. Later that evening we all had dinner together and I fell asleep that night thanking the universe for the cheery moments of that day and for the chance to audition for the NYC franchise of LTYM.

The next day, my 20 year old grabbed my credit card and sauntered off by himself down the stairs to take the subway to NYU all by himself to see a close friend.  I was a bit wistful remembering all the times I had taken both boys to NYC and had a death grip on both of their hands for fear of losing them.  Yet there he was...going off on his own...doing his own thing--just as I was.  Thinking of how far we’d come as a mama and son increased that feeling of joy and I practically skipped to the building where I’d read a story that I’d written hoping to be part of the NYC cast of LTYM.  

The auditions there were held in a daunting building for this small town gal, that housed performance spaces galore. Stepping out of the elevator I had to spin around a dancer warming up, circle a group of thespians practicing lines and scoot around a bunch of executive types discussing the progress of a particular production. Being in and among these artists made my blood course and surge a bit faster. My heart raced from the energy they emanated and from the anxiety that washed over me when I reached the room in which MY auditions would be held.

When it was my turn, I tried to amp up the joie de vivre that I was feeling and so I "small-towned" the panel of serious author/ directors that sat behind a formal table by approaching them and shaking all their hands. They seemed a tad surprised at my forwardness and so, I immediately mentally chastised myself and trudged through the awkwardness of the moment, but nothing was going to ruin my almost manic mood.  .

I began to read--my little story--made up of truths and wounds and emotions that are not usually exposed by mamas. And that's when it happened; an audible sob from one of the judges and another. Soon all four author/directors were crying, wiping their eyes with tissues, which in turn made me cry. Even though some of my tears came from the subject of my story, many came from the incredible realization that these directors and producers were crying over my story. MINE.  Crying over words that I put on paper.

As I finished, the weight of what I had done, what I accomplished in that moment came crashing down on me. My words, my carefully crafted words written and rewritten over and over moved four strangers to tears. My words reached out across a cold and empty performance space and connected me with a previously unknown group of humans making it so we were all one and in this motherhood thing together.  I did that. My writing did that, and I was sure in that moment that there was no better feeling than the satisfaction that the craft you love can really have an effect on someone else.   

Walking down 8th Ave. towards the Disney Store where I was to meet my hubby and daughter, I practically sauntered down the sidewalk.  Heck, I walked like the models on the catwalk advertised on the big screens in Times Square. Sashay. Sashay. Hip! Turn! Sashay sashay sashay! My confidence and giddiness was at 100% and I didn’t care who knew it.  I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.  I was flying.  Just flying.  

Yup...flying high…However, apparently the Universe thought that maybe I had had about enough of all this feel good stuff.  After all, a mother can’t forget that her FIRST place is well...mothering.  And so to rectify this...to perhaps put balance in my life, he or she decided to have my four year old daughter throw up...strapped in a car seat...while sitting in a traffic jam...for an hour and a half…on the George Washington Bridge...in my brand new car...all over her car seat...and my hands...and new dress I was wearing.  

Of course, it wasn’t the mucusy kind...oh no...it had to be the kind of puke that had curdled milk in it...and burgers and fries...and some half digested mac and cheese for good measure.  So in addition to the mess we had the smell...the horrible throw-uppy smell..while trapped in a car...not moving on the George Washington Bridge.

So I did what any mom would do at the moment.  Scream, “Oh great now I am going to get sick!”  (All right, I realized my mistake right away...and turned my attention to the throwing up daughter.) Then I proceeded to take her out of her car seat, (OK...don’t judge all you Safety Sarahs and Stevens out there.  What was I to do?? Have her continue to sit in her own vomit??) strip her down naked and scrub her body with as many baby wipes as I could find.  I used my pashmina (my favorite pashmina) as a makeshift toga dress for her royal naked highness, and sat her down next to me while I feebly tried to wipe up the bodily fluids that made my brand new auto upholstery look like a crime scene.  

So now?  Now I am home.  I have disinfected anything within the confines of the car, including myself, and EXCLUDING the car seat that sits on the front porch.  (That’s the hubby’s job. Wink Wink.)  

And Universe, if you’re listening...there is absolutely no happiness here. No high flying manic attitude.  Nope.  I am covered with pukey misery.   

What?  Nooooooo, I am NOT sashaying down the hall to my bedroom!  Not at all.  

POST SCRIPT--A few days later there was more sashaying and dancing and screaming and jumping up and down like a teenager at a concert because I had made the cast of NYC's Listen To Your Mother! I had made it!  

So dear Universe, bring it on...whatever you throw at me, I've got that moment and the others that will soon come during rehearsals and the show itself. I've got them, and they can't be erased. Like Wonder Woman's magical bullet-deflecting bracelets, The Listen To Your Mother Show has given me more weapons of happiness to wield against your evil pranks!  

If you'd like to see me or any of the other FABULOUS women (and man) check out the info below! I'd love to have your support!  

Fast Friends | Mamalode

The Olympics are coming.  Do you think any of the athletes could do THIS?  Fast Friends | Mamalode

Christmas Magic

I bug people.  That may not be news to many, but in this case I am specifically talking about my enthusiasm for this time of year. So perhaps I should say “I bah humbug people!” Ba dum CHINNNNG!!!

Ehem…

Some roll their eyes when my Christmas music blasts beginning November 1st.  Some can’t stand my incessant pinning (ok AND sharing) of holiday decorating ideas I find on Pinterest.  Of course, then there are all-those-pictures in my ‘Holiday 2013’ album on Facebook full of garland making-Christmas tree getting-and Ila in all of her yuletide fineness.  And, although it is a fairly new tradition, we can’t forget, Dancer, our Elf on the Shelf.  I will admit that I go to great lengths to make her show up in the most creative ways. (Even decapitating a new Elf when the dog ate our old Elf...but that is an altogether DIFFERENT story!)  I love daydreaming about all the silly situations that she could get herself into, and all the ways I could pull off  poses that could portray those situations well.

  

I have been doing quite a bit of reading around the web on the Elf on the Shelf product and I have to say that the hostility some feel towards it quite emphatic.  In fact, I would say that I haven’t come across one article or blog post that had ANY wishy washy feelings about the product at all.  It seems that one either loves or hates it.

I am on the love side, and here’s why:  An Elf on the Shelf, to a child, is magic.  Ila’s reaction to her is just as enchanting.  She bounds out of bed every morning in December and tiptoeing like Elmer Fudd ‘huntin wabbits’ she slinks through the house on the look out for that crazy Elf.  When she finds it there is usually a squeal full of happiness and wonder that stays in my ears for the entire day.  Her face, her twirls, her jumps of joy when she finds Dancer climbing the Christmas tree, swinging from a swing on the dining room chandelier, fishing in the sink, taking a bubble bath of marshmallows... her reactions--well--they are pure, unjaded magic.  Magic: just like music that’s played for only 56 days.  Magic: just like wandering through a Christmas tree farm looking for the pine that will belong to you and your family.  There’s magic in gussying up an otherwise bland and disorganized house for a mere month, or dressing up in a mouse costume and stepping out onto a stage for the first time.   It’s all magic.  To a child, for my daughter, (heck even for my 20 year old), Christmas is a time for simple and pure magic.

  

Magic is a mission of mine—not a stressful, chaotic, woe-is-me mission—but a mission that I happily set out to complete beginning each and every November because who doesn’t need a little enchantment now and then to remind us that life is so much more than routines?  Christmas, for me, has always been a way to wake up all the senses that have perhaps grown dull and dim over a long year; music to awaken the ears, sumptuous foods to awaken the tongue, balsam, cinnamon, chocolate and peppermint to awaken the nose, candlelight, strings of lights, trees inside the house, red, white, and green paper garland, angels and a little miniature village to awaken the eyes.  At Christmas time I am alive and perhaps just a bit more cognizant of each and every miracle whether big or small that graces my family each day.

However, the allurement of the holidays isn’t just for me.  Most of all, I look forward to the wholesome happiness that it brings my children, and it isn’t about gifts.  That isn’t that kind of magic that I am talking about.  I learned far too late that having 1000 gifts under the tree is an entitlement that I DON’T want Christmas to be about.  I know now that most of the magic of Christmas is in the anticipation, in the things we do to get ready for that big day; the whimsical traditions established for my family that they have come to rely upon, that I have come to rely upon as moments for us to be together, to experience the rarity of slowing down and simply enjoying one another.  

Just this past weekend, my son and his girlfriend, Ila and her dad, and I all crammed into our small kitchen/dining room combo and baked our tushies off!  (And then put them back on as we ate what we baked.)   We do this every year and to tell you the truth, I have come to look forward to THIS day more than any other day connected to the holidays.  There aren’t any gifts to open, but there’s music, laughter, messes...glorious messes...and most of all there is a sense of family that doesn’t seem to replicate itself throughout the year.   Not that we aren’t together during the year...but there is something well...MAGICAL about gathering around a table together to create goodies that will passed out as gifts and become an integral part of the days to come; Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Years Eve and Day.  

However, what we are really creating..what we really do on those baking days is make magical memories that will withstand the coming years and what they may bring.  No matter what we may face in the future, we have that Christmas magic from days gone by to remember when we need a reminder of family, and that we are not alone and we have the knowledge that no matter what happens we will always have future magical marvelous moments that will be forever present at Christmas time.

Here's to you Mudders. May you have a Merry Merry Magical Christmas!!  

Divided-Denial

He breathes in. I breathe out. I breathe in--the antiseptic air burns my nose and makes my mind fuzzy. He breathes out--the hicuppy sobs make him choke and sputter. For a while, this was the only audible sound; breath entering and leaving our lungs. His—shallow and fast paced. The breath of panic. The breath of fear. Perhaps the breath of one who is experiencing withdrawal.  Mine—deep and slow. The breath of seriousness. The breath of resignation. The breath of a mother trying to stay steady. 

I should be speaking. I should be soothing. But where were the words of comfort? I shut my eyes pretending that my son and I were sitting together on a beach, side by side. I tried to smell the suntan lotion, to hear his staccato laugh as he surfed insurmountable waves, but it was no use. We were not on a beach and we were not alone. 

The ever present guard that sat at a small desk in the doorway to my son’s “room” tried to remain inconspicuous, but curiosity often got the best of him and every once in a while he’d glance our way. I imagined he was wondering how this handsome charismatic 17-year-old ended up in the mental health unit of our small town hospital. I wish I could say that I was wondering the same. I winced at the perfidious thought and mentally pushed it aside. 

Out of guilt and hope, I reached for my child’s hand. When it was accepted, I laced my fingers through his long and spindly ones. We both squeezed at the same time. 

“I don’t belong here,” he managed to squeak out. “You know I don’t belong here right? I am not crazy.” 

Read the rest at mamalode.com/story/detail/divided-denial

Leaving My Son--For a Moment...Loving Him Forever.

It has been quiet at Muddled Mother.  While I still have been penning my column over at Hilltownfamilies.org--essays, stories, quips and anecdotes HERE have been scarce.  There have been many reasons for my silence; first, one of my children was suffering and putting it all down on paper, the things that he was going through, would somehow make it a reality.  Not wanting to out one of my children and his problems was another reason.  Sometimes it was merely that writing about it would mean that I'd have to think about it more than I already had--and honestly, I didn't have the strength to put my fingers on the keys.  However, the biggest reason would probably have been my state of mind; mentally as the problems began piling up, I began to break down.  It is hard to explain what happened to me, it was as if every cell, fiber, bone, muscle, layer of skin had been saturated with a lethal combination of fear, rage, incredulousness, bewilderment, shame, embarrassment, guilt, and the deepest sadness that I have ever experienced (and that is pretty deep, says the clinically depressed woman).  These feelings inundated me day in and day out without a break.  There were constant emails, constant phone calls, constant meetings, constant in-your-face-you-suck-mom moments.   There were incessant abusive texts, there was the sadness of a little girl who missed her brother.  The whispering and tsk tsking was enough to make me sit in an arm chair at night willing my mind to allow me to fling myself through the plate glass window of the sliding door, imagining that THAT pain would perhaps lessen the mental anguish that peppered me by day, by hour, by minute, by second.

The worse the situation became the more unstable I became.  Every time my phone rang, or the PA in my classroom went off, or my email jingled, I reacted the way one would react at the realization that a car was going to hit him or her and there was nothing that he or she could do about it.  I shook, I gasped for air, I wailed, I sweat, my ears rang, my heart rate went up, my hands wrung over and over until I had rubbed raw the knuckle bones on my pointer fingers, my skin felt as if thousands of needles were piercing its surface.  In a nutshell, I began to have full on panic attacks whenever the subject of my lost son came up.

Although the nightmare isn't over, back in early June (without going into to too much detail) a sort of resolution, at least one that I hoped would keep him safe and provide him help, came to fruition.  My son is extremely angry with me, but I am a parentless daughter and so no matter how much wrath he threw my way my main goal throughout this tumultuous year, was to stay in my son's life by sending "rah rah" texts daily as well as the reminders of my love for him. Many times, it seems like 12,000, he'd tell me to leave him be.   I usually ignored the angry texts telling myself that they came from an altered mind and that "a good mother" would never stop...would never let go.  Family means no one gets left behind. I wouldn't do to him what had happened to me.  A "good mother" wouldn't.

However on the 12,001st request to leave him the "expletive" alone...I took him up on it.  I gave myself permission.  I let go.  It was the scariest decision I have ever made.  In fact the night I made it, I dreamed I was at an amusement park with my children and they all got on one of those giant slingshot thingies.  As the ride operator ratcheted them back farther and farther, I pulled at his waist, clawed at his back and kept screaming that I hadn't gotten on the ride and that no one--NO ONE--had belted them in, and sure enough as the slingshot let go...one son, THE son, flew into the milky way.  His body spun and spun and spun, cartwheeling maniacally and I was sure that he was lost forever.  I woke up in one of those full on panic attacks as if the dream really happened...and in a way, I guess it had.

"A good mother" would never stop, never give up, never let go.  "A good mother."  It was the reel in my head all year; every time I hit a bureaucratic brick wall or came up against the ignorance of my ex, or was verbally accosted by a son whom I loved with all I have.  "A good mother doesn't stop."  So I exhausted every avenue, tried every suggestion, talked to every friend that had a law degree, discussed and implemented plans with Doctor Speed Dial, called the adults involved in his situation daily to get updates, to GIVE updates, to plead, to beg, to borrow, I visited my local assemblyman to try and change the laws that kept me from helping my son (more on that in future columns) and wrote letters to everyone, anyone that I could think of who may have some kind of leverage to do whatever it took to get him the help he needed.

So, when that day came, the day I decided to let go, I was able to do it, not WHOLEheartedly, but at least with part of my heart.  On the day I let go, I could look myself in the mirror, really stare myself down and know, that I did everything that I possibly could have done, gave every part of me that I had, turned over every stone, I did what a "good mother" would do.  And it didn't work...not right away anyway, but maybe someday.  I was also sure that, unlike me and those that let me go, my son knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, somewhere in the recesses of his very deep and vast mind, that he will have my love forever.  That my arms, my heart and soul are open to hold him whenever, where ever, however.

I choose now to take care of myself so that I can be fully present for the rest of my family.  And so, while I use this summer to heal my exhausted adrenal gland, my weary mind and my wounded soul, I hope beyond all measure that my son, my dear, dear, funny, charming, smart son is using the summer the very same way.  

Disney Princesses--Distressed Daft Damsels.

Upon finding out that the child I was carrying was a girl (maybe even eons before) I vowed the vow of a mother’s will that my daughter would not under any circumstances be one of those—ugh—princess girls.  Princesses, at least the ones that I grew up with, were weak and daft, consumed with their looks and gowns and unable to solve life’s problems without the help of that ever handsome, ever tall, ever strong, ever wise prince or knight in shining armor.  Blech.  Double blech.  It certainly didn’t help that I read voraciously over and over ‘those’ types of books my entire childhood and I BELIEVED and tried desperately to live out the scandalous lie that there would always be a man to scoop you up and set you right.

Being forty and pregnant, Hindsight was already working (although I hadn’t realized it yet.)  I had somewhat cynically learned that there were in fact no knights, no princes and even the more unsettling lesson that those of the opposite gender could actually be the ones who put the princesses in peril. 

Click the link below to read the rest!  
 http://hilltownfamilies.wordpress.com/2013/07/16/hindsight-parenting-anything-can-be-a-princess-thing/

Do As I DO!! How to Be an Example So That Your Child Can Handle a Bully.

For the last two years I have been working on a book, Hindsight In-Sight, that chronicles the mishaps, mistakes and just plain ol’ stupidity that occurred parenting two boys as a young twenty and thirty something single parent who was simultaneously fighting off a dragon of an ex and a set of grandparents determined to show me the error of my ways.  The book, as many do, has gone through a myriad of changes and rewrites thanks to writing coach, Brooke Warner, and her stupendous and enlightening suggestions and gentle nudging.  However, the essence of it remains the same since the day that the idea was born; the book was and is a testament to the old adage, “Do as I SAY and not as I DID.”

This past weekend, while working on a specific chapter about bullying, my mind began to formulate a list of suggestions not only for me to follow to keep Ila out of that kind of situation, but to help other parents equip their own children.  While writing, an unusual feeling of shame began to envelope me and at first I couldn’t figure it out.  I thought perhaps it was the shame that came with the ineptitude with which I handled Son1’s bully experience.  But I was pretty sure I had worked those feeling all out of me with the initial writing of the chapter the year before (thanks to a superb cheerleader that kept reminding me to ‘Do the hard Work!’)  Then I thought that perhaps the shame came from the fact that Son2 has his own issues. Not with bullies but with BEING the bully.  However once again, I dismissed that as being the origin of the shame knowing full well that THAT particular problem had been covered thoroughly in intense therapy sessions with Dr. Speed Dial.  Nope…the shame, growing with every word added to the suggestion list, was coming from somewhere else.  And so as I often do with emotions I can’t identify, I stopped what I was doing, sat still and quiet and posed the question to myself.  (I know.  I know…I just lost a WHOLE bunch of readers who clicked off the site shaking their heads about new age mumbo jumbo.)  But—this technique works for me, and usually it is the voice of Hindsight that speaks to me.  It was no different in this case.  Hindsight had the answer. It started as a whisper…a reminder of the book’s idea that one should do as I say and not as I did.  Then came the idea that as parents we strive to do the opposite of that saying; in other words, we try to make sure our actions are in line with the way we would like our children to act.  And then, from this idea came the reason for the shame. 

When it came to bullying, I was NOT setting a good example for my children.  One of the things that I had learned (really that Son1 had learned the hard way) was that the saying, “you get more flies with honey” did NOT work with those who had a mean streak or needed to feel a sense of power.  I had always taught both boys that if someone was mean to them that they continue to smile and be pleasant because A. one should never give some maniacal meanie the satisfaction of knowing they were getting to you and B. that perhaps if you kept being nice they’d see the light.  They’d feel bad for the abuse thwarted upon you and stop out of the goodness of their hearts, or at the very least let you know what it was that they didn’t like about you. But like Son1 learned so many years back, that just DOESN’T work. 

And yet, and yet...even though Hindsight had taught me that lesson so many years before, I had been playing out the “flies and honey” scenario for months with some bullies of my own.  I had not been living, acting, doing what it was that I was writing about, what I wanted Ila to know and what so many other parents needed to teach their own children. 

Bullying unfortunately is pervasive in our society and doesn’t stop when one happens to turn 18 years old.  HECK it doesn’t seem to stop when one turns thirty or forty or even fifty, and I was experiencing it all; the talking behind my back, exclusionary tactics, villainizing my actions or lack of action to justify their behavior, mean and harsh words said to others about me, the Eddie Haskell smiles while I was in the vicinity but eye rolls and snickers when they thought I wasn’t around.  How did I handle it?  Shamefully, the same way I told the boys to so long ago—just keep smiling…just keep smiling.  How has THAT been working?  Well, just about as well as it had worked for Son1 so long ago.  Instead of feeling bad for continually kicking a girl who kept getting up with her hands and arms wide open…the despotic behavior continued because, like Son1, I was an easy target and one can’t ever count on all humans having good hearts.  It is easy to get caught up in the “Let’s all gang up on…” mentality.  I have regretfully done it myself to colleagues and acquaintances. 

However, I realized that if I was going to talk the talk, I had to walk the walk.  In order to be a different parent, it couldn’t just be in theory.  It has to be an actuality.  When I picture the adults I want my children to be it means that I HAVE to be that adult.  Right now.  Even if I wasn’t the day before, the minute before, the second before.  When it comes to the subject of bullying, I want my children to end up being adults that refuse to join in a mob mentality against one or two outcasts.  And so…I have to be the adult that refuses to join in the browbeating of others.  And at the same time, if I expect that my children will have enough pride to set clear boundaries against those who choose to malign them, then I must do the same.

So instead of formulating the list, I am going to be its guinea pig and DO the list.  I will not allow anyone to hurt me mentally (or physically, although that isn’t taking place).  If they do, I will not be an easy target and pretend that it didn't take place.  I will stand up and call the bullies out.  I will no longer walk away from whispers that carry my name—I will demand that anything said about me will be said to me.  I will not be vilified so that someone’s conscience will be clear only to be left in the dark about the so called complaints that one may have about me.  I will instead stand firm and demand that I be treated respectfully or be left alone. As an adult, I do understand the nuances of standing up for oneself.  It doesn't mean that I have to hate those who love to hate me.  It doesn't mean that I am not able to work or be around those who are constantly sizing me up for the next dis. It doesn't mean that I have to be as unpleasant as they are.   No.   What it means is that I will make it very clear to those around me on what kind of behavior I will accept and what I will not accept when it comes to my dignity and self-worth.  This, of course, is exactly what I'd want for my own daughter.

There is a story that Oprah tells of Maya Angelou in which during a dinner party at Maya’s house, someone in a very large crowd tells a malevolent joke that impugned a specific group of people.  The story goes that in the middle of the party and from across the room, Maya doles out what Oprah calls a “skinning” not allowing anyone around her to demean any person or group.  After the skinning she promptly tells the guest to leave.  After telling the story, Oprah asks Maya where that kind of bravery comes from.  Maya’s answer was simple.  She said, “You start out small.”  So Mudders, while it may take us many many years  to become brave enough to stand up to bullies in that way, we must strive to act, think and speak in a way that warns a bully that we are strong and will stand up for what’s right.  After all, we can do no less than what we would expect each one of our children to do.