#Womensday

You may not know it but today is International Women's Day.  What's that, you ask?  According to it's website it is is a global day celebrating the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future.  If you ask me, this shouldn't just be one day...a celebration of women's achievements... even if it's getting out of bed in the morning and managing to change from one's flannel night gown to sweats, it should be everyday.  I mean let's admit it, women...we do it ALL.  We work.  We cook.  We do laundry and fold and iron.  We vacuum.  We sing lullabies.  We stop our children from having meltdowns over the new Common Core math.  We try and exercise regularly.  We grocery shop and make sure holidays are sparkly and special. We band aid boo boos, teach life lessons and tuck our little ones into bed like experts.   This isn't something that just one woman does.  It is what we ALL do.

And yet...women...not all women...but LOTS of women just can't seem celebrate the successes of others.  It may be just me, (I doubt it) but I could go to bed each night and list at least 10 examples of asshatery (my new favorite word.  Thanks Andrea Lynn and Karen Lynch) foisted on one woman or another by singular or group of other women. They whisper about choices of clothing.  They are sure that one is out to get the other.  They are jealous of the competence of one and angry with the incompetence of another. They gossip about one mother who talks about her child too much and then can't stand it when they think that another mother talks about herself excessively.  

 Why?  Why do females feel a compelling need to fight and be nasty to their female counterparts?  Why?  We should be lauding each other, propping each other up.  We should be a non judgmental ear when it's needed and a wealth of wisdom when advice is requested.  After all, we all know what it's like to be...well...us.  Who better to understand what we go through than another woman?

The idea of loving ALL women is a tough one, merely for the reasons that I laid out above.  But I think that Glennon Melton author of Carry On Warrior says it best when she said,

" Life is too short and too freaking long to spend it with folks who make you feel bad. Sometimes the only way to love folks is from a distance. STILL LOVE THEM- SURE! From far,far away. Love them from a proverbial sunflower field where you are dancing- safe and free."

So, awhile ago I decided to dance in the sunflower field loving all (some from MILES away) but keeping some close by, because really, no matter what, we need each other ladies.  We don't need ALL ladies.  Nope.  But there are certain women who fulfill certain roles that are absolutely necessary for my life..  In fact, I would say that every woman needs to be sure that she has each type of women listed below.  Otherwise, it is my belief, that it would be impossible to continue the rigors of a life as a female.

The Teacher-This woman is typically older than you.  She accepts you for who you are and is willing to pass on the wisdom that she has gained over her long life.  She knows you well, probably better than anyone else in the world.  She is patient with your evolution and is your number one go-to when you need help solving a problem.  For some women, this Teacher is their mother.  But for others who aren't as lucky to have a mom around or one that is wise and accepting, this woman could be a mother-in-law, a mentor or just someone who sees enough value in you to take on this role.  The teacher is essential in our growth as women.  Without them, we'd stay stagnant.  Without them, women may just continue with the mentality of a teenager.  (Shudder!)

The Peer--This woman is someone who works along side of you or has the same career as you.  It is this woman with which we complain about the doldrums and ridiculousness of our job.  The Peer is someone who thinks like you when it comes to the philosophy you have about your field and will readily help you solve or collaborate on a problem or new project.  Most importantly, The Peer will not for one second feel slighted or threatened if you happen to know something that he or she may not know.  The Peer, a good one anyways, knows that all people have strengths and weaknesses and sees intelligence as an asset not a liability.

The Safe Softy--This is a woman or women who are nurturing and loving and sweet and understanding.  They are the ones who we go to when we are broken or devastated.  They are the ones we can sob in front of and know that all they want is to comfort you.  There is no judgment, there is no malice, there is no feeling of shame.  This past week, I had a broken moment and I luckily walked into a room where there were two Safe Softies.  They swooped in, cooed and coddled.  They shushed and held my hand.  They even cried with me.  And although broken, although devastated, there was the warmth that the shelter of these women provided.  This category of women is truly a gift.  If you have a couple of these, feel very very fortunate, and don't forget to thank them as fiercely as you can for their selflessness.  Being vulnerable is risky business.  How wonderful is it if you are blessed with women who welcome that vulnerability? 


The Unconditionals--Moving?  These ladies will be there to help you pack and heft the boxes.  Broke your leg?  Here they come to clean your house.  Need a sitter for a night out?  They will be there for as long as you need them.  Want to learn to scrapbook?  These women will take a class with you or teach you if they happen to know how.  The Unconditionals are those women that we can rely upon for all the little things that we may need to keep our lives running smoothly.  Typically, they aren't even our closest friends, they just know that responding when needed feels wonderful and will always be reciprocated by the receiver. 

And finally...

The Go-To's--Ah yes, The Go-to's.  These are our besties, our female soul mates.  We read the same books, we think the same way, we are happy to learn from them and they are happy to learn from us.  We can disagree and it will be just fine.  Just fine indeed, because our Go-To's know that disagreements don't diminish who you are to them and for them.  Your Go-To's know about your saddest days, your biggest mistakes, your greatest fears, but they also know about your greatest successes, your most outrageous dreams, and what makes you happiest.  They never waiver through the good and bad and listen intently to both.  They cheer us on, kick us in the ass, tell us our outfits are horrible and pick us up when we can't pick ourselves up.  Most importantly, The Go-To's are truly happy when something makes us happy and are truly sad when something isn't going our way.  There are never too many trials or too many tribulations.  When we are with our Go-To's we are most ourselves and never ever feel judged or worry what they are thinking.  Go-to's can live close by or be your constant texting companion.  They are your simpatico in every way, and our lives would be forever changed if we lost them. 


If you are a woman that is lucky enough to have a women in your life that fit these categories, congratulations. However, it is so important to emphasize that even if you just have one or two women in your life, if they fulfill most of the roles above, you are just as fortunate.  I spent my life thinking that I had to please everyone...especially all women.  But I don't.  Neither do you.  Where ever you go, you'll meet women that are vacuous and narrow-minded, judgmental and angry.  We don't have to hate them, but like Glennon Melton says, we can love them from far far away and dance with the women we're close to in that proverbial sun flower field.   

    

A Mother Can Hope

My Dear Child,

When you were born, I hoped for you to be healthy.  I hoped you had 10 fingers and 10 toes.  I hoped you weren’t colicky and that someday you and your siblings would be the best of friends.  

When you went off to daycare, I hoped that the caretaker would love you as much as I loved you.  I hoped that you’d make your first friends.  I hoped that you’d learn that even though I left you for a moment, I’d always return.  

When you were in Little League, I hoped that you’d learn the art of fair play, of gracious losing, and graceful winning.  I hoped that that metal bat would “clang” with the force of your swinging arms and hit it over the fence never to be seen again.  I hoped that you’d have self-confidence even though you may have thrown 5 or 6 or 17 balls in a row as pitcher and that you’d be humble if you threw as many strikes.  

In school, I hoped for you to have kind and understanding teachers who learned about who you were and what you needed to feel safe.  I hoped that reading, writing and arithmetic would come easily and that even if they didn’t, I hoped beyond all hope that you’d understand that that didn’t in any way mean that you weren’t smart, capable and wise.  I hoped that you’d realize that fun was necessary but that someday it wouldn’t be the only thing that would get you to where you wanted to be.  I hoped, when you were in school, that you’d dream of your future and be inspired to chase it because you deserved a good and wonderful life.  

Today...my hopes are less specific but seemingly more urgent.

Now...well now...I hope that you will be good to yourself.  Not in the way that satisfies your wants and your physical needs, but in a way that says you care deeply for yourself.  I hope that someday, you will see all my meddling, pleading, letter writing, rah-rah texts and refusal to expect anything less than the best for you as love...pure...deep...unconditional love.  I hope that you take the chances that are given to you.  I hope you see them as the gifts they are and revel in the fact that everyday is a new chance to get it right.

Most of all, I hope you remember.  I hope you remember the cuddles, and the hugs, and the kisses.  I hope you remember the sick days and the kindnesses you received.  I hope you remember the trips and traditions and trials that made us a family.  I hope you remember that in your life, you’ve always had someone who wouldn’t waiver when it came to right and wrong no matter what the consequences may have been because you deserved a parent that set boundaries and tolerated nothing less than the world at large would tolerate from you or anyone else.  I hope you know how sorry I am for the mistakes I have made while parenting you.  

Finally, I hope...oh my dear sweet child...I hope that you know in every essence and fiber of you that no matter how you feel about me, no matter where you are, or what you do...no matter...I will never--ever--stop loving you deeply, thoroughly and completely.

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.