The Universe and this Mama Say, "Your Time is Now!"

I know this happens to all of you when you want to attempt something new. An idea creeps into your mind at the most inconvenient times, whispering into your over-thinking brain, "Hey, you know you should try it. It's meant for you. You see everyone else doing it, and you would be just as awesome at it as they are, so why don't you just freaking try it? Come on, try it. Do it!"


Of course, I'm not talking about any harmful temptations or negative peer pressure. I mean something that, ultimately, you know would fulfill you. It's something you want, yet you just don't know how to leap for it.


In the past, I have described for you my journey to starting this blog and beginning my yoga practice. These were two paths that I wanted for myself...envisioned for myself...yet I was unsure how to even begin to implement them into this really nutty life of ours. The key to turning those goals into a reality came when I vocalized them. The moment that I began to tell people that I was considering writing and trying yoga, a steady flow of encouragement bombarded me. It was invigorating. Nourishing. Supporting. Just what I needed to move forward and try.


Can I tell you a secret? I have a few new goals. I had been hiding from them for a long time, trying to keep them quiet. Hidden deep inside and away from anyone who would hold me accountable to them. If I ignored them or shushed them, they would go away. Right?


Wrong!


They wouldn't leave me alone. They refused to slink away into the night, leaving me to dream about decadent peanut butter shakes or luxurious hot stone massages. Instead, those goals have been relentless. Determined. Serious.


Then, somebody said something to bring out the brave in me.


A friend of mine communicated why she began something new in her own life. She described it as, "Everything in the universe was telling me to do it." Everywhere she turned: Television, online, friends, magazines, strangers. This new path was constantly in her face. Taunting her. Begging her to jump in and go.


As those words slipped out of her mouth, I stared at her in a trance, because her story seemed to be my story. That is exactly what happened to me with blogging and yoga. Maybe that's what is happening to me now.


With my new goals.


With my plans to become a runner....and a writer who reaches more people.


There. Those are my goals. I said them. Did you hear me?


I don't need to tell you all of the small ways in which I felt pulled to declare these goals. You only need to know that I finally was forced into making them real when an eclectic group of mamas sat together in a circle, drinking wine and sniffing essential oils. That's when I knew. Weird, huh?


Really, this post isn't for me. It's for you. For all of you who need something in the universe to tell you that it's time. I am here to tell you, it's time. Your time is now. Why are you waiting? Let me awaken that voice in your mind. You have no need to keep her quiet any longer. Wake her up and go!

Why was I so scared to do something new...again? Maybe these nasty little ego suckers, perfectionism and worry, played a role in my trepidation. Taming those beasts is something many of us struggle with, even the people who seem to be extremely confident. Fear of Failure. It's real and fierce. Let's encourage each other to stomp it into the ground.

 

 

How am I doing it? I told my runner friends, in person, that I'm going to start running. I jumped up and down with another friend who was also thinking about running. I encouraged her to declare her plans with me, because that's the first step. Seriously, that's what I did. After a PTA meeting, a few of us hopped around and chanted, "Say it out loud, say it, say it, say it!! We can do it together!" Corny? Maybe. Effective? Let's hope so!

 

As for my writing: I'm hoping that I can continue to grow my readership. I plan to work on submitting my writing more starting in September, but until then, I'll ask that if you are touched by one of my pieces, please share it with whomever you think will also enjoy it. I would like to have 1000 followers on my Facebook page by the end of this year. Bam! I'm being bold.


Let's make it happen.


If I haven't told you enough, thank you for being here with me. You have so many places to be and things to do, so when you take time to drive your eyes this way and read my words, I'm forever grateful.

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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"Mad Men" vs. "Submissive Wives"- Watching Women March Forward and Step Back

Mad Men is over.


Sigh.


Last Sunday night...Once the children were tucked into their beds, Mark sat next to me on our couch, playing his favorite game. (He has never pretended to understand my draw to Mad Men, but he at least tried to be present). The ninety minutes I spent waiting until 10 p.m. seemed stagnant. I opened a book that I just couldn't seem to find time to finish, only to set it back down on the ottoman in exasperation. Tapped my foot. Checked Facebook. Searched for something on TV that could tide me over until the finale.


While flipping through the channel guide, I noticed a show titled Submissive Wives. Instantly, my eye was drawn to that specific line on the screen. Submissive Wives. What could that possibly be? Would it entertain me enough until the very last episode of Mad Men became history? Reality television has always featured shows I watched just for the sake of sheer fascination. Sister Wives. Kate Plus 8. Dance Moms. None of the people in those shows had any semblance to our family or me, yet I couldn't seem to turn away from them.


I figured that Submissive Wives would probably be similar...a little nugget to pique my interest, tide me over, and leave me feeling thankful for my modern marriage and typical family.


I watched the first forty-five minutes of Submissive Wives with Mark by my side. He just kept saying, "Why are you watching this?" We both felt wrong to be watching it. It seemed backward and forced, but I wanted to see how it ended. What was the point of the show? Were we supposed to learn to like these families and their conscious choice to set women back a century? One of the wives declared that a wife's role is to: "help her man, serve her man, submit to her man, and sleep with her man.” (Fox News)


Feel free to shriek...or agree. (I'm a shrieker, FYI).


What I found so poignant was the fact that Submissive Wives aired twice on Sunday night, right before and right after the Mad Men Series Finale. After Mad Men ended, and I took my jaw off the ground, I flipped back to TLC to catch the first part of the show which I had missed. My feelings about the submitting wives grew more tense.


How many other people really watched both shows? Maybe none. What I did know was that Mad Men deliberately chronicled the obstacles women faced at home and in the workplace during the 1960s. Aside from the smart interior design and hypnotizing soundtrack, it was the women characters who always seemed to keep my attention. Their roles in the world, their plights, and their slow rise among the zealous Mad Men enthralled me.


Women of the 60s blazed a trail for our generation that we may not have even realized. Watching Mad Men for the past seven seasons has opened my eyes to what I had only read about in books or didn't even know was ever a problem.


-Women not being referred to by their names, but simply as Sweethearts.


-Birth control being denied to unmarried women.


-Creative, talented women being refused opportunities because of their gender.


-The rampant emotional and physical harassment women endured based on their bodies, appearance and clothing.


-A doctor's blatant disregard of a woman as his patient, providing a serious diagnosis and treatment plan directly to her husband. (That scene was troubling and hard for me to watch. Betty sat in the foreground while two men decided her fate from across the room, not even considering to hold her hand or ask her opinion about her impending death).


So many aspects of Mad Men intrigued me and kept me coming back for more. I can safely say that I loved it, will miss it, and will probably binge watch it all over again. Each person who has watched the show likely tuned in because of how and where it resonated in their own lives. All fans who flipped off the TV or logged out of Netflix came away with something different: nostalgia, regret, disbelief, pity, admiration.


For me (an ambitious young girl raised by a feminist, who eventually chose to become a-stay-at-home mother), the show developed an even deeper respect and reverence for women. Women who fought to break down sexist employers. Women who knew what they wanted and charged forward to grab it. Women who may not have even known that what they were doing was significant. Whether or not we liked what the writers chose to do with our always troubled Don, we did like what women like Joan and Peggy have done for us.


Then, I watched the so-called-stars of Submissive Wives willingly forgo everything that has been established for the sake of womankind and families, all under the guise of "preventing divorce."


-Only a man should make decisions for a family.


-A woman should dress and wear make-up specifically to please her man.


-Men need constant praise, food and affection in order to be successful fathers and husbands. It is a woman's duty to provide all of it.


Wow, those notions were so against Mark's and my nature that it was difficult to type the words. Would I have felt differently about Submissive Wives if I had seen it on any other night that wasn't associated with the conclusion of this alluring television show? Not likely, but that's because I've been surrounded by enough powerful women and strong men who have found a balance to making marriage and relationships work...together.


Thank you to the women of our past who paved the future for us and our daughters, and to the men who have walked alongside them.

Did anybody else watch Submissive Wives and/or Mad Men? Am I the only one making the connection between the two of them?
 

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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How I Cherish My Land Line Phone Time

Our land line telephone loudly rings throughout the house, to the tune of one of Mozart's famous pieces. Please don't ask me which one. A computerized voice speaks to me, acting as my secretary, telling me exactly who is calling. She lets me know if it's worth it to even look for one of the four hand sets that are spread among several rooms, hiding under couches and beds, blankets and stuffed animals.

Mark Cell.

Stacey Home.

Walgreens.

Cris Tina. (The computer lady splits this name into two separate words).

Private Caller.

Grandma Home.

Kara.

MI FOP (They sure do call us a lot).

Many times, I run around the house, hunting down one of our phones, desperate to talk with someone I haven't spoken to in days or weeks. No matter what I'm doing, I perk up my voice and consciously tune in to what I know is about to be a fulfilling conversation. Mark often questions why I don't answer phone calls from him in the same way.

Other times, I ignore the call all together. I know what Walgreens wants...to remind me that my refill is ready, and private callers obviously don't deserve any attention.

Once I hold the phone in my hand, brushed against my cheek, I tend to keep busting through my day...for a while. Toss in a load of laundry; scrub gloopy globs of watermelon toothpaste from the bathroom sink; open the blinds to let in the tiny flecks of sunlight that peek through our shaded yard; maybe make a bed or two...maybe.

Eventually, I grow tired of the multitasking. I know that running the dish water and focusing on my friend's new work story are too much for me to handle. I don't want to do both. I make a shift. I reheat my coffee for the fourth time or make myself a fresh glass of iced water.

Then, I settle into my spot.

My talking-on-the-phone-spot.

I tune out the world around me, glance out at the beauty of nature through my front window, and immerse myself into the life that is coming at me through my phone line. Listening with careful consideration to the voice on the other end, I'm happy to be engaged with someone who isn't physically here. Sitting in my spot, my phone spot, helps me to forget about the busy-ness of my mom life. My school leader life. My wife life.

While we have lived in this house for only five years, this spot has existed for many, many more. I sit in my gliding chair, where I've spent countless hours, day and night, nursing and nuzzling and nurturing our four babies.

Rocking.

 

Reading.

 

Rejoicing.

Our chair is no longer situated in a child's nursery. Gone are the pastel colors, intoxicating smell of newborn Pampers, and our light-haired golden retriever resting at my feet. Instead, the chair now serves as a regular piece of furniture in our living room, where everyone can enjoy its lasting comfort.

 

Still a favorite reading spot, we can all fall into it with a book or magazine and forget real life for a while. Mark plays guitar from the couch across the room, while I simply rock and listen to his strumming. Each child takes a turn sitting in the spot while I write at my desk. They tell me stories about their days. Although much too big to rock in my arms, they will never be too big to share in the closeness that the chair promotes.

It relaxes us. It hugs us. It holds us.

If you call me on the phone for a chat, be sure that while we talk, I treasure those moments together. If you hear me making noise at first, just know that it's because my mind races through my to-do list. Just hearing your voice will quiet down those nagging feelings. Having a few giggles, confessing that you forget to send in field trip money, too, or checking on my carefree summer status will remind me to seek out my spot.

To sink myself into our family's spot and just listen. Just share. Just be.

Do you have a special place in your home for reading or knitting or talking on the phone? Why does it mean something to you?

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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"May There Always Be Mama"

Bittersweet. The end of an era. We are gettin' old!
 

 

All words my friends and I have recently used to describe the feelings that come along with experiencing lasts.

 

The last month of elementary school.

 

The last parent helper day at preschool.

 

The last field trip with a treasured teacher.

 

Marshall and I have just returned home from the last Mother's Day Celebration I'll attend at his preschool. Our preschool. The preschool that has nurtured three of our barely potty trained toddlers into full-fledged kindergarteners. We have been driving there a few days a week for five of the six years that we've lived in this city. It has been their cozy home away from home.

 

Marshall's teacher, Mrs. R., is also Mama to four grown children and Nana to seven little ones. She reminds me of my own mom in so many ways, so when she welcomed me into the school family, I decided to cling tightly to her. I listen intently to her advice and adore her ability to laugh at her past. She's lived through so much more than I, so like I do with all mothers, I learn from her.

 

While she teaches my young son to write his letters and practice patience, she also helps guide me through my journey of motherhood. A journey she has passed through herself and one that she witnesses forty times a day. She and I often talk about our last babies. Hearing her recall the life she's led with her family helps me cherish my own moments...our "lasts" as they unfold before my eyes.  

 

The Mother's Day Celebration is an opportunity for the children to showcase their vocal skills while the mamas lovingly gaze upon their little darlings. Cute songs, sentimental songs, a story or two, naturally followed up by cookies and punch. Kleenex is passed around as tears are often shed in that moment of pride and realization that the next step is the big yellow bus and a super hero lunch box.

A couple of weeks before the Mother's Day Celebration, Marshall's teacher shared a touching story with me about the students learning a new song. Mrs. R. described the scene of the morning in this way:

Per the norm for him, Marshall didn't sing any words with the class. The music for one of the new songs is very beautiful, with a lot of flutes and instruments that make people want to sway.

The lyrics to this endearing song are:


"May there always be sunshine...May there always be blue skies...May there always be Mama...May there always be me." 

 

Marshall sat on the carpet among his classmates and listened, as his teacher helped the other children learn the new words. He began to show signs of a quivering lip and tears in his eyes. Eventually, he did open his mouth, but it was not to sing.

He simply stated, "This song makes me feel sad."


My baby boy, who has grown so much, was really listening to that music. To those lyrics. To that melody that was flowing through his body. It was affecting him in a way that many other five-year-olds have probably never experienced, making him think, "What if there wasn't always Mama?" I was so thankful that Mrs. R. was keeping an eye on my guy that morning, and that he felt safe enough to tell her what had happened in his little heart.


I already knew that he wouldn't be singing on performance day. That was a given. I never would have known what goes through his mind during those times he is surrounded by other children who bounce and sing and smile. They stomp and laugh and turn 'round and 'round, while he gazes away from them.


This year, I knew. I knew that he would be feeling the music.


What a gift...to have a teeny peek into his complex mind. Music and teachers are two of my absolute favorite things in this world. They've come together at precisely the right moment on a random spring day to make this particular "last" a little more lasting. I'm sure I'll always remember how it ended.


The Mother's Day Celebration was going well. As usual, excited kids hammed it up on the makeshift stage. With the culmination of the show approaching, Mrs. R. asked my silent performer if he'd like to sit with his mama for the final song. My long-legged, oldest boy in the room nodded and hopped right over to me. He eagerly climbed onto my lap, nuzzling into my embrace. We swayed together to that sappy song, as he quietly wept underneath my chin. Geez, that song is sad! No wonder it makes him cry.




May there always be sweet kids.


May there always be teachers like Mrs. R.


May there always be music.


May there always be double chocolate chunk cookies to pick us up when we stumble. 

My boy is so sensitive. He's quiet. Demure. Reserved. He chooses not to sing or move his hands with the motions during class performances, and we're fine with it. It's who he is. As my mom often reminds me, "Not everyone is the same." (What she probably means to say is, not everyone is a showboat like her daughter). Are you and your kids similar? Do you all love to perform or loathe it, or are you a good mix of both?

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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Leaving Surprises on the Bed-A Secret Tradition between a Mom and her Children

I fondly remember those once in a while days when I would come home from school to find a little surprise waiting for me on my bed. I always knew my mom had been out shopping with my Grandma or Aunt Pat, and she saw something that she knew I would like. It was the 80's, so they were little things, like new headbands or jelly bracelets. It could have been new socks, a book or a pack of my favorite bubble gum. It didn't matter. Whenever a small trinket or treat was waiting for me after a long day at school, I felt excitement and love from my mom.

I started this tradition with my own four kids many years ago, and now they are now 12, 11, 8, and 5. I never tell them that I've left something on their beds. That's the fun of it. I wait downstairs, as the moments tick by, until they spot the surprises.

Last summer, all four kids spent an entire week with their grandparents. I enjoyed a blissfully quiet time of recuperation. During my leisurely strolls through Target, which would usually never occur in the summer with four kids, I made sure to buy each of them a little something to have waiting on their beds when they came home…something to remind them that while they were gone, I was still thinking of them. Missing them.

One of the first things my daughter asked me when we picked them up from Grandma's was, "Did you clean my room while I was gone? I bet you cleaned my room and left a surprise on my pillow." The fact that she was anxiously hoping for that surprise made my day, knowing that, of course, I had done it. That moment was the first time I realized that she was aware of the tradition I had been doing for years, and she was looking forward to it, too.

She ran up to her room and was the first one to find her treats. She enthusiastically told her three brothers to check their beds, too. Each child thanked me and told me how much they loved their new toy and candy. It was nothing expensive or fancy. A stuffed animal key chain and Pez dispenser was plenty to thrill them.

My mom stayed home with my brothers and me for over eighteen years. I hope that I showed my appreciation for her when I was young, but I'm sure I was ungrateful plenty of times. Recently, I just told both of my parents how much I loved having surprises on my bed when I was young, and that I'm glad my kids love it, too. My dad's response?

"Hey, she never left surprises on my pillow!" 

Some things are just special between a mother and her children.

I am thankful for the incredible role model of motherhood that my mom has been to me. Naturally, she has morphed into a glorious grandmother to nine kiddos, and now I'm trying my best to be as special of a mom to my kids as she was to me. I can only wish that when my daughter has her own babies, she, too, will carry on the "surprises on the bed" tradition and reminisce about the days I did it for her brothers and her.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms! You are making memories you may not even realize, with the simple things you do every day.
    

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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Showing That Old Swing Set Some Love

The first swing set that sat in my childhood backyard was bought secondhand, from a yard sale. Someone was selling it a few blocks away, and when my parents decided to buy it for us, the previous owner, my dad, and a few other guys simply picked it up and carried it to our house. Fully assembled. No tools. No trucks. They just walked it through the neighborhood. I can still remember my giddy excitement in seeing that group of dads turn the corner toward my house, with my new swing set hiked high above their shoulders.


It was nothing like the heavy duty play sets kids have today. Nothing like the one Mark assembled in our backyard, which might need a crane when it's time to move. It was composed of plastic and metal, in shades of brown, yellow and white. That swing set had been the source of entertainment for some neighbor kids who outgrew it, and instead of going into the landfill, it was being brought back to life in our yard. For our excitement and that of all of our cousins and friends! That first swing set, a hand-me-down, provided several more years of memories for my brother and me.


Although my parents have never moved from my childhood home, our trusty yellow swing set eventually rusted and cracked. When it was time, my younger brother was given a cooler, newer set for his generation to enjoy...one that my dad bought from the store and assembled with tools.


Over the past sixteen years, my dad has become Grandpa to nine children. A few years ago, rust and cracks on the old set meant it was time, once again, to buy a new one. My husband and older brother, the dads of all of those kids, were tasked with assembling it.


The first place that our kids run to when they head out to Grandma and Grandpa's backyard is the swing set. It's a staple. A given. A monument for the fun they have there year after year. From the times when we only had a few little kids, to now when we have teenagers and preschoolers, it has served a strong purpose.


Easter eggs hide under the slide.


Moms feverishly snap photos, as all 9 kids drape over it.


Grandpa gets bonked in the head by a flying swing.


Cousins create obstacle courses...and memories.


Grandmas lovingly watch from the window, as the circle of life continues.


Swing sets may seem like such trivial pieces of play equipment. Sometimes they may even
be an eyesore. Yet, they are important. Significant. A key facet of a child's growing years.

The set that we have in our own yard features bright yellow and green plastic pieces. It's certainly not aesthetically pleasing in our tranquilly wooded backyard. We were beginning to question why our kids don't play on it as often as they once did. My friend, Becky, even suggested I tackle the feelings moms have when swing sets are shown less love, and then something crazy happened.


Our oldest son invited a friend over, another twelve-year-old-boy. After being inside for about an ninety minutes, they ventured outside to play. The Very First Stop his friend made was at our swing set. He climbed up the rock wall, which is actually shorter than he is tall, but somehow, he still found it thrilling. He slid down the slide. He crossed the monkey bars and pumped his legs on the swings, just as enthusiastically as any six-year-old I've seen.


I called Mark over to see what was happening. Together, we watched from our kitchen window, as two video-game-loving boys showed our old swing set some love. It was a handsome sight for sure!

Do you feel attached to your swing set? Will you pass yours on for another family to enjoy when it's time?

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My Parenting "Style" Doesn't Need a Name

Helicopter.


Free Range.


Attached.


Tiger.


Crunchy.


Gag!


The shift that's occurred since I became a first-time-mom in 2002, to the way parents begin today, has been dramatic. In that moment that Reese was brought forth from my body (vacuum delivery and all), I simply became a mom. I felt no pressure to declare what type of mom I was planning to be. Nobody talked about "parenting styles." Moms shared stories, sought advice and found what worked for their families. I struggled with breastfeeding and mastitis for two straight months, but I wasn't compelled to include it in my e-mail signature.

The influx of information wasn't as unrelenting as it is today. Thankfully, I came of age and found my confidence as a mom in the previous decade. Before everyone felt the need to declare a parenting style like it was a college major.


Before Facebook.


Before blogs.


Before we were informed that everything we're doing now is Wrong. Damaging. Detrimental to the success of our children, our marriages, and the future of America.


That's a whole lot of pressure on us all.


I can't begin to keep up with all of the parenting styles that exist in 2015. I googled them, just to begin this post, and dolphin parenting popped up. What? Maybe I'm too old and jaded to bother learning the new lingo.


What I do know is that if I were to poll my circle of friends about their parents, we'd find they were raised by a variety of people who have produced some pretty successful adults.


Maybe their moms acted one way, and their dads, another. Maybe they were from a divorced home. Maybe grandparents raised them. Maybe they had several siblings or zero. Maybe their mom had an organic garden and made everything from scratch. Maybe they were latch key kids and ate TV dinners. Maybe nobody spoke English at home. Maybe they were forced to practice piano for hours every night. Maybe they never left the house for anything but school. Maybe they were surrounded by books and music and the arts.


Maybe...maybe...maybe.


Maybe, if we all just start to be parents to our kids in the way that we feel they need, in the way that is comfortable for us and for them, then they'll turn out to be content and successful, too.


The trends will change. That's guaranteed. You can choose to read all about them and follow them, or you can choose to ignore them.


No parenting expert is more of an expert for your child than you are.


As for my family, we don't aim to practice any parenting styles. I'm not wired that way. What I've learned through twelve and a half years of motherhood is that every year is different...every stage of development is different...every day is different.


Each of our children yearns different types of affection and responds to varying rules.


Every house we've lived in has required that we reevaluate the way we navigate life.


Our family works with a delicate balance, and on many days, we topple. If I forced six people to follow the guidelines that come with only practicing Free Range Parenting or specifically being an Attached Parent, none of us would thrive.


Maybe declaring a parenting style works for some people. Maybe having that style sets the tone for a family in a positive way. I'm happy for those families and their success.


Meanwhile, I'll keep piecing together what works for us as we go along. Someday, when my babies are grown, someone will ask them what it was like to be raised in the age of hyper parenting rules. I hope they'll say this, "My mom just loved us, and she liked to make pancakes for dinner."

For those of you who are struggling to follow a style set forth by a parenting expert on the Internet...why not join me in the ways of our own parents? Do what works for you!

I'd love for you to find me on Facebook:
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