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And then I lost my mind…

Walking to my car I was so engrossed with my phone that I didn’t even realize I had arrived until I bumped into it. I unlocked the door and continued my texting conversation without missing a beat.

That’s when I saw a shadow.

It was just a moment of darkness and then the light returned.

Immediately I locked the doors and started my car. I set down my phone and returned to reality.

I was in a parking garage.

Downtown.

Alone.

Late.

As I drove down the ramp toward the exit, a tiny little whisper entered my mind.

“What if that shadow was someone in the parking garage about to rob me?”

Good thing I locked the doors.

I’m safe.

Inserting the parking ticket into the machine, I exit the garage and wind my way through downtown to the freeway.

Time to get my dance on.

“If you feel like happiness is the truth…”

Not this song AGAIN! I snap off the radio in frustration and enter the freeway.

Some quiet is a good idea.

“What if that shadow was someone in my car?”

Wait…WHAT? Stop it.

“What if they are waiting until we get far away from the city to stick a knife to my throat?”

NO! Stop it.

“What if I never see my children again?”

AHHH!!!! Stop it!!!

The thoughts start spiraling down into a deep, dark place filled with regret, fear and panic.

Sneaking looks into my rearview mirror becomes too scary and I almost pull over on the freeway and run away from my car.

Stories I’ve heard of women being raped and left mutilated on the side of the road start playing in my head. Every image of abuse and death that I’ve tried to suppress start playing like some absurd, grotesque slide show of my impending demise.

“How could you be so stupid to not check the car?”

There it is.

The reason it all started.

I didn’t check the car. I paid no attention to my surroundings.

STUPID PHONE.

I almost roll down the window to chuck it, but realize it might save me if I am indeed sharing the car with a murderer hiding in the third row. He could easily be under that giant karate duffel bag back there.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

I look back and it seems the duffel bag has been moved from where I remember seeing it last.

Panic time.

I turn the music on and off for several minutes trying to decide which is worse, hearing my attacker or being surprised when he jumps up to kill me.

Every passing car I search their faces to see if they are signaling me that they see someone in the back.

I swear I can feel pressure in my back, like someone leaning on my seat.

Now I’m crying.

My poor kids…would they know how much I loved them? Would they remember all the little things I did for them? Would they forever be haunted by the memory of me leaving them to see a play?

How could I be so selfish to go see a play without my family?

What is wrong with me?

The freeway exit is ahead and I’m now convinced this is the moment my attacker is waiting to pounce. He has enjoyed watching me panic. I can almost hear his breath.

I exit and stop at a red light.

Should I run? I could just leave the car right here and run for it. The gas station is right there…

STOP THIS.

I turn on the interior lights and look around the car.

I’m alone.

The duffel bag is against the back door and nobody is behind it.

Light turns green and I drive the rest of the way home in a daze.

***
In just two days I am flying on an airplane without my family.

I am headed to Florida to stay with a very dear friend and her beautiful family. It is an early birthday present from her and I’m so grateful.

Yet…

The fears that spiral in my mind have gone into hyper drive. Untruths are being yelled in a voice so loud that it’s hard to hear anything else. I’ve been tempted to cancel…to crumble and fall into a heap so I can feel safe.

Yet…

I am going. When I am quiet I can picture the beach. I can see their happy faces and almost feel their hugs. The break from my life that I so desperately crave is just within my reach.

Yet…

Fear feels like such a part of my skin that I can’t seem to shake it.

It is following me as I count down the days and is clouding everything I do this week. I’m not going to share all the horrible, ugly things that keep surfacing.

Trust me. It’s stupidly dreadful.

Yet…

I am going.

Yesterday my sister heard my panic and did something amazing. As an early birthday present, she took me shopping and bought me a heap of adorable clothes that fit. I’m more grateful to her than I can even express. Feeling better about how I look is helping me to shake some of the fear loose.

My kids are going to be fine. Daddy and grandma have fun things planned. They will be loved up and safe. This is their chance to miss me and I them.

Fear and guilt are my two favorite punishments that I live in daily.

They are making me so tired.

My body and mind are craving this trip.

Sun.

Sand.

Friends.

Change.

Rest.

I am going.

See you soon.

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Candle in my oatmeal and other such things

Stumbling from my bedroom in a half-asleep daze I made my morning rounds.

“Good morning,” I say to my daughter. Her room, which was clean when she went to bed last night, is covered in doll clothes. One doll is dressed fancy and sipping tea, while another has pajamas on and is propped up receiving medicine.

“Good morning,” she responds without looking up. “Eva’s sick. I’m doing all I can for her.”

“OK. Headed into the shower,” I mumble back.

“Good morning,” I say to my son. All I can see of him is the back of his head peeking up slightly under the covers. He is on his tummy reading. I see him raise his finger up in the air for me to wait, a gesture I recognize well.

“Just needed to finish that paragraph,” he says a moment later without looking up at all.

“Just saying good morning,” I say. “Headed to the shower.”

“Good morning,” he says and promptly begins reading again.

As I stood in the shower, I started belting out the Talking Heads song, “Once in a Lifetime.”

“Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing underground”

Some days I honestly have no idea how I got where I am. I can retrace the steps and go over the facts, but the reality of my life is strange to me.

* I have been married for almost 15 years and our dating anniversary of 20 years is this summer.

* My children are not babies.

* Depression has been my cloak and shield and I’m having trouble letting it go.

* My parents are getting older.

* I still feel like a teenager who doesn’t understand the world and how I fit in it.

* Today marks the one year anniversary of my blog.

All of these truths have different feelings attached that are mixed-up and hard to separate or express thoroughly.

I was challenged this week to come up with a 30 item Bucket list. Should be an easy thing to do, but I found it painful and nearly impossible. Why?

I have stopped dreaming.

It is scary to admit that I want things because then I have to work hard to make them happen.

I might even fail.

Just re-read my very first blog entry and here is how it ended:

“She put it out there. Would people read? Would they care? Would they even notice?
It involved a bravery that she didn’t know if she had. She took a deep breath and just went for it.”

I remember being so scared to write anything. Worried people would find me self-centered, stupid or just boring. As scary as it was, I have been grateful daily that I did it.

My blog is still so tiny compared with the size of others. A baby really. But it’s my baby. I birthed it and I’ve been feeding it and nurturing it for an entire year. Amazing things have happened because of it.

* I have had an outlet for working out some major issues that otherwise might have stayed dormant and hidden.

* People have reached out to me and shared their truths. I’ve inspired a few people to start following their dreams, which I find unbelievably amazing.

* I was published on Mamalode and might even get a little check from that.

* I’ve been featured on Cap City Moms and I’m looking forward to helping that website continue to grow and be a positive place for woman to tell their stories. Plus, I’m crazy for the founder of the website. Seriously, Jill is all kinds of awesome.

* Just got an e-mail inviting me to write for a non-profit organization that promotes empowering women to follow their dreams.

So, things are happening and I’m excited/terrified/nervous/thrilled/proud and many other things. I’m a mixed up jumble of nerves and it’s not a bad place to be.

Nothing good happens from staying stuck.

So, I’m saying Happy BlogBirthDay to myself in a matter that seems fitting.

oatmeal

Now, it’s about to get real sappy (come on…it’s my BlogBirthDay, so I get to do what I want!)

For everyone that has read Bridgette Tales, even once, thank you a million times over.

You have no idea how much it means to me when you read, comment or share my blog. It is confirmation that I am doing something worthwhile and that people are touched, entertained, inspired or moved in some way. It has helped me in ways I can’t even begin to express.

Sending you all love from my heart to yours.

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Not today, please not today

There are mornings that we just barely make it out the door.

Generally it starts with me hitting snooze a couple of times too many or checking e-mail and losing track of time as I click from one thing to another. It might be because someone refuses to stop reading or playing. Maybe, as we are walking out the door, a missing stuffed animal suddenly needs to be found or the world might come to a screeching halt.

Whatever the case, sometimes our mornings suck.

You know. Yelling. Missing socks. Shoving food at the kids and hoping that I have time to make coffee. General suckiness.

Today was not one of those days.

I had this day planned out in my head and it was going to be something different.

Something wonderful.

First, I was headed to Friday gathering at the kids’ school. This is one of my favorite things and I rarely get to go. Classes take turns performing songs and poetry. This is followed by acknowledgements from the students that are generally along the lines of “I’d like to thank my brother for playing with me” or “I’d like to thank my teacher for her patience.” Cuteness. The entire thing ends with everyone singing the school song. It’s sweet and always brings a tear to my eye.

Good stuff.

Happy stuff.

Then I was going to watch one of the classes put on a play. I was told it involved the Gold Rush and someone got to use a gun. Awesome.

Then, the BIG deal, I was going to the movies.

All by myself.

On a school day.

Did I mention it was by myself?

This might seem like a super-lame thing to be jazzed about, but I don’t care. I was excited. Almost night-before-Christmas excited.

I cooked a killer breakfast for the kids including a full tea service. Went through my morning with grace, patience and love. Extra hugs and kisses. No yelling or dragging myself through the rut. Nope.

Today was different.

I took extra time to consider presentation and content today as I packed their lunches, even including little love notes from me.

I was rocking motherhood.

We got in the car and all was well.

Until…the moaning started.

“What’s up?” I ask my boy.

“My head hurts bad,” he says.

This continues for the next 20 minutes of our drive. The moaning increases and my loving patience erodes. Quickly.

I pass back some mint breath spray.

“Give that a spritz,” I say. “You will feel all better.”

I knew it was lie, but come on. Not today.

Please. Please. Please.

Then I hear a scream followed by horrific sobs.

“What now?” I say. All thoughts of love and peace shattered.

“I squirted it in my eyes,” my girl screams through her sobs. “Both of them.”

This is when I may have lost it. I cannot be held responsible for what I said in the next few minutes. It was not a fine moment for sure.

The boy’s moans are now wails and we pull over because he might throw-up. He does not and I make the decision to take sister to school and take him home.

Her tears wash the pain away and she is fine by the time we arrive. I walk her in and then spend the next 20 minutes waiting outside the bathroom for my boy. He comes out looking pale.

Luckily I think to get a bag from the teachers, because he doesn’t make it home. We drive the rest of the way with the windows down and me trying hard not to yell obscenities.

In moments like this I feel like a little kid. I want to throw myself on the ground and scream, “it’s not fair!”

But, of course, I don’t.

We get home and I pull off his clothes, wash his face and tuck him into bed.

He looks so small when he is sick. I see how fragile and dependent he is on me.

I take him in: that messy mop of brown hair wet and sticking up where I washed his face; his eyes so small and squinty without those big glasses on; the way he cradles his panda and nuzzles into his dirty, soft fur.

“Momma,” he says so quietly. “I love you.”

“Love you too munchkin,” I say. “Rest up. You will feel better soon.”

He makes that sweet sound he always makes when he is sick and smiles up at me.

I want to say that his smile made me feel happy and I let all my disappointment fade away.

That would be a lie.

I really wanted this afternoon.

Needed it, really.

Motherhood ruins all my plans.

The same lesson keeps slamming into my face and hitting me hard. I dust myself off and walk around feeling the bruises for a day or so. Then I start feeling better and all memories of the incident quickly fade. Bruise? What are you talking about?

I lose myself in plans and expectations again. I dream big and draw-up elaborate days for myself. I build things up to be something they could never be. Then, like an amnesia patient, I am surprised and shocked when things go wrong. That familiar beating comes and I am left feeling deflated and confused.

Again and again this happens.

I want to break this terrible cycle, yet I spent an hour this morning planning my spring break vacation. Rehearsing how I want things to go. Preparing myself for perceived challenges and building up the excitement.

I tell myself that I want adventure and surprise, but my history suggests otherwise.

Every decision is analyzed to ridiculous degree. Vacations are planned and elaborately choreographed in my head over and over. This results in either extreme disappointment or a sense of deja vu.

This brings me back to a place I am quite comfortable in now: I have no idea what to do.

Surrender. Let go. Be in the moment.

These are concepts I want to embrace, but I have no tools for doing it. The reality is that I want to control my situation so I can be prepared to handle things. Otherwise, I fear something terrible will happen.

It is scary.

Motherhood is not controllable. It is unpredictable and often messy. It requires us to release comfort and surrender to that feeling of “I have no freaking idea what to do right now.”

Yep.

You would think after almost 10 years of being a mom that I would handle this feeling better.

Nope.

Still struggling.

I just checked on my boy and he is playing under the blankets with his stuffed dinosaur that he rescued from another time. He is feeling better and I’m trying not to be pissed about it.

Today is what it is.

I’m happy that I am his safe place. His feel better. His momma.

I just wish I could break this cycle of expectation and disappointment. Choreograph a graceful exit from this stupid loop and be someone who can just be.

But that’s the point, right? I can’t plan my way out of this. So what can I do?

I can recognize that I am feeling anger and resentment.

Check.

I can recognize that when they are sick I feel somewhat panicky inside and think dreadful things that fill me with an abundance of anxiety and worry.

Check.

I can move past those feelings and just do my mothering thing.

Check.

Snuggles and warm blankets. Cool rags and back rubs. Reading books and fluffing pillows.

Motherhood really does ruin all my plans.

It’s supposed to.

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Top 10 reasons I hate Costco OR sometimes people suck

Like millions of moms everywhere, I am primarily responsible for grocery shopping for my family. Should be no big deal.

Yet it often causes me extreme stress. But then again, just about anything can cause me to spiral into singing sad Johnny Cash songs alone in my car.

But still. Shopping sucks.

While I am aware of how incredibly lucky we are to live in a country where food is plentiful and relatively inexpensive, unfortunately, I also know our food supply is poisoned. At times I find it overwhelming to feed my family good food at a price I can afford.

This brings me to Costco.

For years my hippy-side kept me from being a member. Cheap food is killing our country, extreme waste and other generalized “Fight the Man” feelings swirled around and would prevent me from doing it.

However, I am on a budget and the prices do make a difference. I only go once a month and try really, really hard to stick to my list. I’ve thought about making blinders, but then everyone would be staring at the blinders and the last thing I want is a bunch of people staring at me.

So after procrastinating a bunch, I finally feel guilty enough about having spent the money to join that I make myself go.

Here are my top 10 reasons that Costco sucks the good from my soul. (That might be overstating things a bit. Just a bit.)

1) PARKING

You would think with 10,000 parking spaces that it would be easy to find an empty one. Nope. I have to join the throng of sad people driving in circles, hovering and waiting for someone to come out to their car. Of course, once said person arrives at their car, I have to wait for them to unload a giant pallet of food into their tiny Mini Cooper. That does provide a laugh or two, but then they always decide that maybe they should take a break now and chat on their cell phone for five minutes before backing out. Do you not see my blinker? I am not circling again. Someone will take this spot. All the cars behind me can honk. I am not moving. This spot is mine.

2) ENORMOUS STUPID CART

I know that someone designed these freak carts and thought they were being so clever: We should totally make the cart big enough to fit a shit load of stuff and two kids. Maybe this cart designer won an award and is so proud of their design. “Best Cart in the World for Making Kids Fight” it should read. Ugh. One kid sits in the cart and one walks. Period. That is the way it is done people. Allowing them both to sit next to each other is mean to parents everywhere. Now they are both eye level with you so you can see them poke each other and cry right in your face. Thanks designer. You rock.

3) SHOWING MY CARD

You wait in line to go into the store. That’s right. You wait for the privilege of walking though the door. There is a person, a smug-looking person generally, who waves people in and clicks some magical clicker. Is there a limit to the amount of people they let in, or are they just curious how many idiots will all cram in at once? Not sure. But this is what gets me mad. I will watch. Look. Smug-person is not even looking at anyone’s card. I don’t need to dig mine out. I’ll just walk on by. “Excuse me. Can I see your card?” No you may not! I am trying to sneak in. You caught me. Call the Costco police please.

4) SAMPLES AND THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE THEM

If you have never been to Costco, let me tell you about samples. You may not know that they give out free food on toothpicks all over the store. It’s like a free lunch or some crap like that. I could care less about the samples and would HAPPILY, JOYFULLY, GLEEFULLY pass by them singing, “I don’t want your stupid sample.” But I can’t. My kids will cry and yell, “mom, free jellybeans!!!” I know…so I have to queue up with everyone else. Often they are “cooking” the sample and we have to wait. Wait!!! The line gets long and people get aggressive and mean. Oh, and they are on to you sending your kids alone to get samples while you shop. Tried that. Turns out moms have to be with them. So stupid.

5) NOT FINDING THOSE APPLE CHIPS AGAIN

Without blinders, I have to show incredible will power. I could spend so much if I bought all the stuff that I think looks interesting. I find myself saying, “that juicer looks awfully nice,” “that is an incredible price on 100 gallons of wine,” “books!” and “I really have been thinking about getting some blueberry bushes.” So when I find something that I really like, I expect it to be there again. There are these organic cinnamon apple chip things with a bear on the bag. I swear they hid them. Every time they are located somewhere else. Every. Single. Time. Sometimes I give up the hunt and mumble sadly to myself. Other times I actually ask, as if someone would know what I’m talking about. Stop moving my chips!

6) PEOPLE WHO STAND STILL

I don’t get it. They just stand there. Maybe their cart is stuck in gum. Maybe they have short-circuited and just shut down. Maybe they are self-centered jerks who don’t care they are blocking everyone behind them. Whatever the case, I hate them. Then there is the lady who pushes past you belting, “excuse me.” Really? Cause I am choosing to stand behind this moron all day. I didn’t want to go forward either. By all means, rude lady, push past me.

7) SO MUCH WASTE

My hippy-side goes a little haywire and sometimes freaks when I see people’s carts. I try to tell myself they are shopping for an entire camp or compound somewhere and that is why they have 20 chickens and 5 enormous jars of pickles. But some part of me cries a little at the thought of how much of the food bought at Costco ends up in the trash. I have visions of starving people and I start to get mad and sick to my stomach. Time to shove some free jellybeans in my mouth and move on.

8) THE LINE THAT HAS NO END

My cart is full and I’m ready to fork over my money. Sounds like a simple matter, really. Not at Costco. No. The lines are so long that you just join one and actually have no idea which one you are in. It’s a fun game. Wonder what register I will end up at? Sure hope that lady with three carts is not in my line. Oh, joy, she is. Now she needs them to go grab something she could not find. Of course she does.

9) PEOPLE WHO ASK QUESTIONS

The moment of payment has almost arrived. Next in line! I organize all my groceries with barcode showing, so they can just scan and I can go. I have my card ready. My kids have abandoned the cart now and are running circles around me. We play games like “why do you think that man is yelling?” and, “who do you think that kid belongs to?” When the lady in front of me, the one with only 5 items that I was just chatting to about the weather, decides to ask about the American Express credit card offer. And she has a lot of questions. Apparently she has been thinking of them the entire time in line and she does not want to go wait at customer service for the answers. She needs them now. Don’t worry lady. I’ll wait.

10) ANOTHER FREAKING LINE, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

You would think that would be the end, right? Victory! The stuff is paid for and we are happily munching apple chips and high-fiving. But then we have to wait in line. Again. For real. I am not making this up. You have to wait for someone to look at your receipt and make a judgey face. “Looks like you love vegetables” he says to me. I glare back. He draws two smiley faces on the receipt for my kids. One has a bow. I want to rip it up and scream at him. But I smile and make my way to the car.

Once the groceries are loaded up, the kids buckled in and the cart returned…I sit and space out for a few minutes.

Oh, I am aware of the car with the blinker. I see you and I know you want my spot.

I don’t care anymore.

I need a minute.

by

More than just a little story

I felt her hand on my chest. Her fingers found the soft spot she has always loved. The spot she has been caressing since her baby hands could reach it. She once told me she loves it because it’s squishy, warm and love. I love it as much as she does.

I caress her head and she cuddles in closer to me.

“Tell me about when I was born,” she coos. I have told her this story hundreds of times, but it never gets old for her. Or me. We love this story. The story of how she came into the world and I caught her myself. How I loved her little face the second I saw it. The big tub, her brother leaning over, grandma’s tears, how little she was, her ballet feet.

It’s our story.

She knows it so well that it is almost like a memory to her now.

That’s the power of storytelling.

Memory has always fascinated me. Some things I can recall crystal clear, yet others are slippery and elusive. It’s often in the telling and retelling that a story takes it’s permanent place in my memory bank. How close it is to the actual truth, I am uncertain.

I have so many stories I tell my children about themselves. Each one is selected purposefully. Stories that show how much they are loved, how strong they are and how they have overcome obstacles.

The story of how my son got stitches at age two is a favorite one. He was running to help a friend that had fallen. He hit his face on a park bench. All our friends rallied around us. Both kids love the part about how the nurse wrapped him up like a burrito and he asked for sour cream and avocado. Even in pain he made everyone laugh. I remember that he stared right into my eyes as they stitched him up. He didn’t move an inch. He was brave and in good spirits through the entire thing.

Every time they ask for a story about them, I am happy to tell it.

These are the stories they will remember and tell their children someday.

These stories are the foundation of how they think about themselves and how they fit into the world.

They are so much more than just stories.

I was reminded of this in a painful way this week.

I have a childhood friend that I love. Adore, really. Our history is long and we have lots of stories. Silly ones like swimming in the gutters and ruining our swimsuits. Sad ones like when she moved to England and I thought my heart would never recover from the break. Happy ones like when we used to squirt hoses across the street at each other.

For some reason, she keeps sharing a particular story that really doesn’t capture the “us” I remember. In this story, I am a bratty kid with a very bad attitude. Apparently, when I was about my boy’s age, I wrote her a letter in which I tell her that her mother is a bitch. Her mom kept this letter and they have brought it up several times now. They think it is funny. Maybe it is. But it doesn’t feel funny to me.

It actually hurts.

Deeply.

I didn’t say anything about it for awhile, because it is their story. But every time it is told, it makes my heart sink. It is embarrassing and I don’t remember writing it or feeling that emotion. I must have been really angry, upset or confused. It must have been hard for me to write such an emotionally charged word.

Memories are funny like that.

They remember me as this kid that wrote that letter. They also remember me as being mean and making fun of her for not being smart and knowing math.

I have no memory of either of those truths. I know those things happened…I just don’t remember it. Not even a tiny bit.

My image of myself at that age is a positive one. I loved school and was very good at it. The teachers loved me and I made friends easy. I have such vivid memories of being joyful, playing in the yard and riding bikes.

Maybe that is because those are the stories my mom told me about myself.

Maybe we just choose to remember the good about ourselves; because that is the truth we want to remember.

I have no idea.

What I do know is that storytelling is powerful stuff.

As a parent I need to keep that in mind. Always.

My son loves to hear and tell stories about the massive fits he used to throw. I would sit in his room with my back against the door while he raged and raged. He remembers feeling out of control. Kicking. Hitting. Sometimes even trying to bite me.

He is embarrassed now thinking about it, but I remind him that he was little and was having strong emotions he didn’t know how to express. I tell him that I loved him even in those moments, especially in those moments. That’s what parental love is.

These stories I tell and retell are helping my kids to write their own life story. It is shaping who they are and will become.

It’s an awesome responsibility and one that I don’t take lightly.

It is an honor.

by

Brushing doll hair, bubbling brooks and getting unstuck

I lost myself today in doll play for almost an hour.

My daughter and I brushed hair and dressed her dolls for various events. Kit and Eva were headed horseback riding, so they needed jeans and ponytails. Obviously. Peppa wanted to work on her Easter look. We decided on a pink jumpsuit with a light blue sweater.

I brushed Rebecca’s sweet red hair into a little puff on the top of her head, just like I used to when she was my doll. I touched her soft skin and smiled at those big, blue eyes. It’s strange how much my sweet girl looks like her.

Nathaniel needed a diaper change. As I took off the diaper cover, the very one that I put on my daughter a few hours after her birth, I saw the perfect stitches my mom had made. I remember crying when his leg fell off, but moms know how to fix things like that.

The smell and feeling of childhood filled me.

Warmth. Safety. Love.

I got lost in play.

It was like someone returned my favorite blanket after years of looking for it. It was still warm and smelled of my babies and happiness.

I wrapped myself in it and tried to remember how it used to feel.

When my children were very little I played all the time. Hours would be spent as pirates, having parades, caring for a room full of dolls or having elaborate parties with all sorts of stuffed critters.

Somehow I lost the energy to do any of that.

I still craft with my kids often, build Lego creations and play the occasional board game.

But that lose-yourself-in-their-world kind of play seems to have slipped away from me.

I don’t even know when it started, but it has escalated to this conversation yesterday.

Son: “Can you take us to the park?”

Daughter: “You can read your book, we won’t bother you or anything.”

Me: “OK. But I really want to read.”

Son: “We will leave you alone.”

That conversation hurt.

This is not the mom I used to be or the one I want to be.

I am stuck.

creekWe did go to the park. I read my book for about an hour. They climbed, ran and explored. Eventually they found a little fairy village down by the creek and persuaded me to move myself to look.

“Isn’t it just beautiful,” my son said. “You can read and listen to the water rushing.”

It was.

I stopped reading and watched them floating leaves down the creek and making houses for gnomes and fairies. The creek bubbled and flowed by.

I wanted to join them, but I just watched.

I was envious of how happy and carefree they were.

I want to be there again.

But I am stuck. Rooted in this place that I don’t want to be.

Last week, after writing my blog, people surrounded me with love and offers of support. It was so much and filled me with hope.

“Thanks for calling me,” I told one friend.

“Thanks for picking up,” she said.

“I almost didn’t,” I said.

“I know,” she responded.

People get this. I am not alone.

Yet…

I hate it. I don’t like feeling this way. I want to be able to shake myself out of this funk and just be happy. Be filled with joy and playfulness. Reverse time and return to my former self.

But the reality is that I AM stuck and I need some reinforcements. Stat.

I booked and WENT to a counseling appointment. It was one of the hardest things I’ve done in a long time. It felt almost like defeat.

Admitting I’m depressed was hard.

Doing something about it is proving to be even harder.

Part of me has been holding onto the depression and not wanting to let it go. I am getting comfortable in this stuck feeling. It’s easy to hunker down in it, hide and excuse myself from going after the things I want or doing the things I should.

But if you squint really hard you can see that I am moving forward. I’m wiggling out of this pit and I see lots of people standing above reaching to help and cheering me on.

I see you and I’m trying.

 

 

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I am OK and stuff like that

treeYesterday I sat in my car for 30 minutes and stared out the window.

I had stuff to do, but really not much time. So instead of being productive, taking a walk, making phone calls, running errands…I just froze. I literally watched some birds in a tree fighting for branch positions.

People keep asking me if I’m OK. They say it with a little head tilt sometimes, and I know it’s out of concern.

I don’t really know how to answer.

“I am doing better,” I say. “Things are good.”

And that is true.

Every morning I get up, do laundry and cook breakfast. I pack lunches and get my kids off to school.

I have set a budget, cut out Starbucks again (a major feat for me) and have focused on really listening to my children when they talk to me.

My house is clean, mostly, and I have started crocheting again.

All good things.

But there are lots of unhealthy choices I am making. I have lists of things to do and really no desire to actually do them.

What I do, instead, is just pour myself into being a great homemaker and mom. I do everything I can to make their lives easier and keep them happy.

The entire time I am doing things, however, this very ugly voice likes to whisper truths to me.

“You are so lazy and fat. Why can’t you take a walk every day? You have time. You are just lazy.”

“You know people who work 3 jobs AND do all the things you do. Maybe you are too stupid to do anything else.”

“Do you realize how freaking lucky you are? You are privileged and you sit around and whine about your life. You are a spoiled brat who doesn’t deserve friends.”

“Don’t meet with people. If you talk to them, they will find out how boring and ignorant you are. You’re a fraud and it is just a matter of time before you are found out.”

“Your kids are going to turn out to be entitled assholes if you keep making their lives so ‘easy.’ You need to stop it. You are not helping.”

These things do not motivate me to do better.

Nope.

But the loop plays anyway and I just freeze and watch birds out my car window like a moron.

Yep.

The other fun thing I have been doing is allowing myself to be drawn into other people’s chaos and disorder. I get wrapped up in it and spend more hours than I care to admit thinking about them and wishing for them to be happy.

I can’t do it anymore. I have said this before, but now I have to make it stick.

I have to.

This is not healthy for me and I don’t end up helping them anyway.

The craziest part, is that I have really amazing people in my life that always take a backseat to the drama. I never have time for them because I wrap myself up in all this other stuff.

I think I’m starting to understand.

It’s ugly people.

You might want to look away.

First, I am drawn to the chaos because I NEED to feel special. I want people to rely on me and trust me. I’ll be the one person you can turn to. I’ll be there when everyone else turns away from you.

Notice how it’s all about ME in this situation? It is not about them at all. I need to “save them” so I can feel better.

I can feel superior even.

Ugh. That realization hurts.

Bad.

Secondly, I am scared. Fearful that I am so damaged that I am not worthy of true friendship.

So. Not. Cool.

I don’t think I am a terrible person. In fact, I like me. I try to find the good in everyone and I REALLY do want to help others.

Trouble is, I don’t know how to do that and I am really bad about boundaries and saying no.

Really bad.

As a result of all this, I have pulled back in the last few years from everyone that I was close to. I have shrunk down inside this depression and kept others at bay. I make excuses and hide behind my kids.

But I am trying.

Really. I am.

My kids had a break from school and I invited over someone I admire and who inspires me. I was nervous. She had never seen my house or met my kids. She is a loving, caring, kind and amazing person. She is the kind of woman I want to be and who I should be around.

The fears were gone the second she came through the door. We had such a lovely, comfortable tea party.

It was so nice.

Last week I invited myself and my kids to another woman’s house that I adore and who I see as an incredible role model. I was very nervous, again. But I fought past those fears and did it anyway. I am so glad I did. I ended up being able to help her re-home her dog to some friends whose dog had died.

None of that would have happened if I had stayed tucked inside and safe.

But I have so much work to do still.

I was supposed to attend an Oscars party. I was excited and looking forward to it all week. I love the Oscars and have never watched them at a party before.

As the days got closer, I started wrapping myself up in self-doubt. I worked myself up into a frenzy of nerves.

“I don’t know what to wear. I have no idea what appetizer to bring. What if I say something stupid? What if…?”

Some friends stopped by a few hours before the party, and I used that as an excuse to just not go. No time to get stuff together, I have to cancel.

My husband knew I really wanted to go and tried to convince me. But I froze. He watched the Oscars with me, but I kicked myself all night. I should have showed up in my sweatpants with some bananas and just not stressed about it. Ugh.

This is stuff you are supposed to have learned in your teens or early 20s…yet here I am.

I see people try with me. They invite me places, they offer to help me and they are kind beyond anything I am worthy of…and I often blow them off.

I don’t mean to.

It just happens.

When I think about myself in the past, I don’t see myself as this introverted person who fears everything. But as I get older, that is exactly who I am becoming. All social occasions now are hard for me to face. I am so scared of what will happen that I’d rather have regret then face my fear.

It’s ridiculous nonsense. All of it.

To all my friends that keep trying with me, please don’t give up. I love you. I do. You have no idea how much. Your phone calls, hugs, texts, FB messages, even (since I’m being stupidly honest) your FB “likes” of my pictures, all help.

I don’t know what happened that made me become this fearful and stuck. Not sure it was a “thing.” It just is.

Yesterday, my daughter and I were waiting for her brother to get out of school. I didn’t want to walk on the campus and talk to people. I was just not feeling like I could do that. I wanted to sit in the car and space out. She was not having that.

She convinced me to take a walk with her. It was a short walk. We walked about five minutes to a spot where we could glimpse the river. She found her favorite hill. She kept going to the top and running down full speed.

“Come on mom,” she said. “It’s so fun! You might crash into a tree, but it’s soooooo fun!”

I climbed to the top of this tiny hill. I saw all the ways this could end bad for me. I could trip in the mud. I could sprain my ankle. I could fall on my butt.

I took a deep breath and ran down as fast as I could.

It was worth it.

hill

by

Sometimes a ride in the car turns into this

When we pulled off the freeway I saw him. He was dressed in a long, brown jacket that reached to his ankles. His grey hair and beard were wet with rain. His sign read, “Hungry. Anything helps. God bless.”

I never carry cash, but sometimes I have extra food. I had nothing. We locked eyes for a moment and I smiled at him. He returned the smile and then his eyes drifted to the backseat.

His look changed to something I couldn’t quite read.

He seemed to shrink and he took a step back.

The light turned green.

He didn’t make eye contact again and I drove off.

For the next few minutes I was lost in thought about this man. Imagined stories swirled around my head and I tried hard not to cry. Thoughts of a family lost fought with images of addiction and mental illness. A human cast aside, either by free will or by circumstance, is something that makes me profoundly sad.

“I bet he knows a lot more than us,” my son says from the back of the car.

“What?” I ask a little startled.

“Did you see that guy with the long jacket?” he asks.

“I did,” his sister says. “Did you see him mom? He was looking at us?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I think he is a wise man,” my boy continues. “He probably sees so much being on the side of the road. We are in our car or house, while he is out in the world seeing stuff.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I think I know what I want to be when I grow up,” he says.

Please don’t say homeless man, I silently pray.

“I want to sew myself a tunic and then travel all over the world,” he says. “I will find someone to train me in sword fighting. I will help people.”

“Like a knight?” his sister asks.

“Yes, but in real life,” he says. “I don’t know how I will do it, but someone needs to.”

I could have given him a lecture about how ridiculous that plan is. A modern day knight that roams the world fighting bad guys with a sword. It’s absurd.

But I didn’t.

I just let the words hang in the air. I let him imagine himself a force for good in the world.

The rest of the drive was filled with ideas on how that might work. He came up with problems that he might encounter and how he might get around them.

“It won’t be easy,” he said finally. “But nothing is. You have to work hard if you want something.”

Those words made my mommy heart swell with pride.

Those are MY words repeated back, but in a way that makes me think he might be getting it.

Being a parent is complex and I am often overwhelmed and lost.  When I have to tell my kids to turn off their bedroom light or flush the toilet for the 1 billionth time, I think I might lose it. But that stuff doesn’t really matter.

What matters are conversations in the car, wanting to defend people and seeing the good in a homeless man out the window.

That’s the stuff that matters.

And my boy gets it.

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To our dear Elaine on her 16th birthday

It is funny how memories work. We only met you a mere seven years ago, yet it seems like you have always been a part of our lives.

elaine2You were sitting in your front yard as we walked by. Cooper was so little and he stopped about every foot or so to examine something. He had just picked a dandelion out of your yard. I remember smiling at you and you smiling back. Your face lit up.

The next thing I knew you were walking with us and talking. Soo much talking! You had a lot to say…yet I don’t remember any of it. I just remember this bubbly little girl with long hair, long legs and long arms. My boy was enamored with you and so was I.

It wasn’t long before you became a part of our daily life. Cooper could not wait until you came knocking on our door. He would run as fast as his little legs would take him. You always had a hug for him and a smile. He lived for those smiles.

I remember when you would come during Coops nap and we would play board games. I kept thinking how I hope my children grow up to be half as pleasant and happy as this little girl. You always brought light and love with you.

You don’t know this, but being a stay-at-home mom can really be hard. With only little ones all day, it can get pretty lonely. I think I looked forward to your visits as much as Cooper. I loved watching you sing silly songs, play instruments, dance, make up plays, puppet shows, parades and just run around the house together. So much joyfulness.

elaine3Then came Lola. She was this chubby little baby that stole my heart. You adored her from the second you met her. But you did more than that. Having two kids proved very hard for me. I can remember so many times when I just thought I could not make it through another day, and your little knock came at the door. I would take a deep breath and smile. You would bring your playfulness through the door and change everything for us.

The years have passed and many things have happened. I have watched you grow and face hardships no child should have to face. I know things have been hard and impossible at times, yet you always manage to come through it with a sense of grace and love. It has been incredible to watch.

Today you turn 16 and my heart is breaking a little. You are no longer that tiny little thing that runs around with silks tied around your waist and funny hats on your head. Although we are separated by 2,764 miles (yep, I looked that up), you continue to be a part of our lives.

Whenever we take a road trip, someone will say, “I wish Elaine was here.”

Whenever the puppets come out, someone will say, “Do the Elmo Bad Guy thing like Elaine.”

Whenever we eat a banana, someone will say, “Panini, banana” and crack up.

Whenever silliness happens around here, someone will eventually belt out “Puppy Pie” at the top of their lungs…always ending in that signature laugh of yours.

You are with us every day my dear and always will be.

It is an honor to be able to watch you grow up, even from afar. You continue to amaze me with your faith, love and strength. The world is a better place because you are in it.

I am excited for your future and know that you will do something incredible with your life. We will be here, always, cheering you on.

So Happy Birthday beautiful. Shine bright and never forget who you are.

Love from your summer family,

Bridgette, Coops and Lola

elainenow

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Never gonna give up the fight

“Can you believe how ugly she is?”

“What is she thinking by wearing her hair like that? Gross.”

“I know. Did you see her shoes? Seriously. How horrible! With toes like that she should cover them up. Ugh.”

So it goes.

For over an hour.

I usually move when these two mothers sit next to me, but today the karate studio was full. I could have gone to my car, but my daughter likes to be able to see me.

I tried hard to read my book or focus on watching the class, but they are literally inches away from me and they are loud. They flip the pages of a fashion magazine and make fun of every person they see. They gossip and laugh it up.

I seriously forget sometimes that people are like this.

When our daughters come out of karate together the moms continue as my girl puts her shoes on. I try to talk over their voices so she won’t notice them, but it’s impossible.

“Can you believe the gall of that woman to wear eyeliner like that? Who does she think she is!” one wails so loudly my daughter can’t help but look at the picture. I look too.

For a second I think, “She’s right. That looks ridiculous.”

Then I snap back to reality and swoop my girl out of there.

At the car my daughter says, “Why were those moms saying that stuff?”

Using a Waldorf teaching method I say back, “I wonder about that too.”

She doesn’t say anything else.

When I get home it’s dinnertime, teeth-brushing, reading and cuddles. I lose myself in the routine, but in the back of my mind a question keeps repeating itself.

I was feeling anger and disgust at those mothers. My sitting there and judging in anger these women…is that equal to them sitting there judging the models and celebrities in the magazine?

Once the kids are asleep, I put that question to my husband.

He said these women are obviously jealous and that by breaking down and scrutinizing the tiny flaws they find, it makes them feel better about themselves.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I was getting angry at these women and making all kinds of internal judgments about how mean and catty they are. Aren’t I just as bad?”

He didn’t really answer that.

I don’t know either.

These women, like many, were making fun of celebrities. It seems to be a favorite pastime of them, and I am sure they are not alone.

I was very angry with them.

But maybe that is misplaced.

They are trying to find comfort in breaking down these images that society says are “perfect.” Maybe I should be angry with that.

I am.

There is a million ways in which women, and our girls, are targeted and told we are not good enough. Maybe these moms are using this as a way of coping. This is the way they fight back. They poke fun at the very things that they are supposed to covet.

Maybe…

But they are also teaching their daughters that a woman’s body is something to scrutinize and poke fun at. That clothes, shoes, makeup, jewelry…all of that has some connection to how a person should be judged.

Ugh. I hate all that.

I want my daughter to grow up feeling confident. She should not NEED to put others down to feel good about herself. Her worth should be so grounded that nothing can shake it.

I have no idea how to do that.

I try.

I purposely don’t put myself down in front of her. I commend her for actions and try not to say she is “so beautiful” all the time. I never call her princess and try to read her stories about strong women. We talk about virtues and what makes someone a good friend.

I don’t know if it’s enough.

As she gets older I know that it will be harder and harder. I cannot wrap her up and protect her. She will hate her body at some point and that makes me angry and sad.

But I will fight.

I will continue to talk to her and, even more importantly, listen. I will praise her strength and confidence and continue to teach her how to be kind to those around her.

I will fight this battle forever because she is worth it.

And if I’m ever stuck next to those moms in karate again, I’ll just go sit in my car.