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Summer’s coming

I discovered a love of camping last year. This isn’t something I did growing up, but I wanted to give it to my children.

There is something magical about building a little homestead away from home. Finding the right spot to put the tent. Smoothing out the tarp, unrolling and positioning the tent and driving in the stakes. Listening to the kids run wild and find treasures. Making our little beds all cozy and warm. Gathering wood.

We hike, swim, eat and play. There are chores, but they seem so less mundane in this other world. Watching my boy start the fire. Smelling the sweet smoke and feeling it sting my eyes, as it seems to follow me wherever I sit. Marshmallow goo stuck on both of their faces they run around screaming until the woods embrace them and they find their calm again.

The boy whittles wood. The girl makes fairy houses and crowns.

We are alive. Connected.

Cuddling together in the tent the giggles start. They reposition themselves over and over and we laugh until our sides hurt. Then I read our special goodnight book, “Step Into the Night” by Joanne Ryder. We listen for the sounds outside the tent. Crickets. Water. People talking. Laughter. Campfires. Life.

I’ve never “really camped,” I’ve been told. Never having backpacked into the middle of nowhere. Never having felt the isolation and wonder of being alone in the woods. Someday. Maybe.

We always camp with and near another people. We can usually see our car. It’s not perfect.

Dad stays home. He hates camping and no amount of being sad and longing will change that. So we go without him. It makes me heartbroken that he will miss out on this time with our kids. It often brings me to tears, but it’s not changing. So, I except what is and we go without.

I get VERY grouchy during the packing. Preparing the meals, gathering all the clothes, camping gear and packing the car. It turns me into a crazy person running around yelling at the kids that WE WILL NOT GO IF YOU DON’T HELP. I stress about all the details and feel like canceling about 1,200 times during this part.

Once the car is packed and we get in, I can breathe. Calmness washes over me. We take our “on the road again” picture. We are a team. We talk, laugh and sing. Looking forward. Moving forward.

As I start planning our summer camping trips I can’t help but be excited. Leaving the daily school commute behind. Saying goodbye to just seeing my kids before and after school. No more rushing to karate class and yelling at them to get up in the morning.

I will yell. Get stressed out. Cry that they are driving me crazy. But I would not change our summers together for anything. They are not perfect, but they are ours. Only 61 days until school is out. I can’t wait.

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Questions

OK universe. I get it. You can stop yelling at me. Message received.

This week it seems wherever I turn I keep receiving cosmic messages. Maybe I’m just opening up so wide that things are getting in. Maybe I’m just full of myself and it’s all coincidence. Whatever.

I wanted to write about something else today, but I can’t. I tried. I wrote several drafts about other things, but this has been screaming at me. It kept me tossing and turning all night. So, with only a few hours sleep, I’m being forced to type this.

Last night I saw a musical unlike any I’ve seen before. Everyone should see it. LIKE NOW. I want to buy tickets for my kids, my friends, strangers on the street. Everyone.IMAG1193

“Billy Elliot” is more than just about a boy that wants to dance. It’s more than stellar dancing, amazing lighting and sets. Oh, it’s so much more.

There is a grandmother. She is suffering from dementia. Billy asks her about granddad. “Do you remember him?” She does. And the song she sings had me doing that laughing/crying thing. Here’s the part that killed me:

What is the use of dreaming now?
I had my chance, well anyhow,
If I’d only known then what I know now
I’d’ve given them all the finger

And gone dancing, and not give a shit
and spin around and reel and love each bit
And I’d dance alone and enjoy it
And I’d be me for an entire life.
Instead of somebody’s wife
and I never would be sober.

Heavy. Driving home at midnight from downtown it hit me that I’m almost 40. Am I having a mid-life crisis already? What the hell?? I started asking myself, what would you do if you had no constraints? If nothing could stop you? If you were free?

Too much right. Let’s shelve those for a minute and talk about Billy. In one scene he is auditioning for a dancing school. He is asked how he feels when he dances. Here’s just a bit:

It’s a bit like being angry,
it’s a bit like being scared
Confused and all mixed up and mad as hell
It’s like when you’ve been crying
And you’re empty and you’re full
I don’t know what it is, it’s hard to tell
It’s like that there’s a music playing in your ear
But the music is impossible, impossible to hear
But then I feel it move me
Like a burning deep inside
Something bursting me wide open impossible to hide
And suddenly I’m flying, flying like a bird
Like electricity, electricity
Sparks inside of me
And I’m free I’m free

Crazy, right? And then I asked myself, what makes me feel like that? What could bring me to such passion and heights of joy? Is there such feelings in the real world, or does is only exist in musical land?

The answers aren’t here yet. They are coming. But it’s the questions that are screaming at me. It’s these questions that keep coming and probably will. They are leading me somewhere, but that place is unclear. But I have to ask them. It’s time to focus on them. It’s time to start living for myself and not just others. It’s time to find passion and feel it and be free.

Shit.

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Whispers

I ran inside to get a drink of water. My friends mom was chatting with her neighbor at the kitchen table. They didn’t see me as I entered the house.

“Who is the homely girl over,” she says.

“That’s my daughter’s friend,” she answers. “She’s sweet, but, yeah…”

What? I was the only one visiting. My heart starting beating fast. They are talking about me. Is it that noticeable? My mother told me I was beautiful. She lied. Here is the truth. Here it is. I knew it. 8 years old and as homely as they come.

Yep. That was the start. Before that I really thought/knew I was beautiful. I could do anything. I was gonna take over the world!

Of course, it wasn’t the last time. That’s just one of the words that form the brigade of self-hate that I’ve secretly battled for years. The rest are equally strong:

Mousey.

Plain.

Fat.

Naïve.

I hate these words. Hate them so much, yet hide behind them. They are what keeps me from doing things that are scary. They whisper at me when I look in the mirror. They yell at me when I think of doing something brave.

Despite their power, other words have crept in.

Kind.

Loving.

Beautiful.

They have been whispering at me for awhile. They often sound like my mother. I see her eyes. The pain that the other words inflict on her. She has tried so hard to protect me from those HATEFUL words. As I dream of protecting and sheltering my daughter. She would gladly KILL those words for me, as I would for my girl. But, only I can kill them. Only I can fully replace them.

And it’s happening. Those other words are losing power. They are whispering so quietly that I can barely hear them.

So when this beautiful picture of me arrived by the very talented Lisa Smiley, I opened it and closed my eyes. I counted to ten. Then I looked.

I tried to look as my mother sees me (the daughter she loves more than life itself). As my children see me (their everything). As my husband sees me (his one and only love). As my friends see me (someone they love and trust). I can finally see it. It’s been there all along. Time I start believing.

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I almost didn’t post this blog. But then I read a much more elegant and complete explanation of how I feel.

This has been a heavy week for me. I didn’t know that being part of Listen To Your Mother would provoke all this growth. Geesh.

Thanks for reading and going on this journey with me. And thanks for the love. I promise to write about rainbows, fairies or my beautiful children again soon!

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Good enough

It wasn’t as I rehearsed it in my head. 555957_10200772687340371_1502702807_n

Well, the first part was. Nerves. I changed my clothes ten times. Still unsure as I dropped the kids off at my moms. Maybe I should have worn the blue skirt. Checking my makeup. Not sure if it looks OK. Knowing a camera will be pointed at me. People will look at me. People will hear me. Nowhere to hide.

As I drove up I sat in my car for about 10 minutes. I shouldn’t have had coffee. The jitters were huge. The whatifs were in the car with me. I forced the door open and started to walk toward the building. I saw a familiar face. A smile. OK. I’m here.

We headed across the street for the photo shoot. Still unsure. These women all so beautiful. Feelings like I don’t belong. I’m a fraud. I should run for it. They will find me out. I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough. I’m. Not. Good. Enough.

Then it’s time to face the camera. Sit here. Beautiful, she says. Turn your head this way. Broken doll arms. Push out your neck like a turtle. Stand like this. Arms here. Beautiful, she says again. And then it’s over.

I walk into the building. I see my name card. I’m by a window. These women are amazing. That much is clear in about 10 seconds. They are so alive and present and they suck me in. I’m with them. I’m one of them.

Then the stories begin. Each one is like a little gift that slowly unwraps for us all. I’m moved beyond words. Transported. Changed.

When I read mine, I’m so nervous that I barely look up. Uncertain. Naked. Blessed.

The stories continue. They feed my soul and drain it at the same time.

The day ends. We eat pizza. Laugh. Talk. Share.

I don’t want to hide anymore. Take me in. Love me. I’m open. I am good enough. That’s right. I. Am. Good. Enough.

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Poke ‘mom’

“It’s time mom.”

“You said after sister went to bed.”

“The table is clear.”

“I made you a glass of ice water.”

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So, it begins.

First I take the pink ribbon off my deck and shuffle. He gets his deck out of his special velvet black bag. We both lay down our six prize cards, draw seven for our hand and the battle begins.

He can’t sit still. His legs jerk around as he constantly shifts positions. He has a smile all over his face and the excitement is contagious. Oh, no. He has Mewtwo. Bye-bye my little Pokemon. But wait. It’s not over yet. I can evolve Tepig. I might have a chance.

And so it goes.

When he got his first pack of cards, I secretly threw them away. That was when he was 5. I saw these cards as something commercial, being marketed to my boy. They were promoting violence and fighting and I would have none of that. My sweet boy is not interested in that stuff.

Well, he is 8 1/2 now. I finally decided to sit down and see what this thing was all about. OK. Some of them are cute. Some look like turtles (which I love). You have to do math (big plus). Nobody actually dies (another plus). It’s really like any other card game, but with cute made-up creatures with names like “Bellossom” (flower-like), “Piplup (penguin-like)” “Eevee” (dog-like) and “Bidoof” (beaver-like).

The part I dislike is that it’s designed to keep you buying cards. In order to get a “really good deck,” you have to keep buying packs and packs of cards. Commercialism at it’s best. But here is why I’m not only allowing this, but contributing to it (he got 1 pack for Valentine’s Day and 2 for Easter).

1) It’s fun. Really. Even grandma has her own deck now.

2) We don’t do video games and very little TV/movies (more on that another time).

3) It’s a good lesson in collecting things responsibly.

4) He got up and got dressed AND made me breakfast this morning so we could play a game before school.

So, we will continue our nightly, and sometimes early morning, Pokemon games. I will treasure these moments when mom is still “cool” and he can share something he loves with me.

I will continue to encourage him to give cards he isn’t using to friends that have none (which he is doing already). I will keep the dialogue open about how anything can be an obsession and how everything should be in moderation. And I will keep trying to beat him and that darn Mewtwo!

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My dear Pippi

Sometimes she makes me speechless. Those bright blue eyes of hers. That beautiful red hair. Those enchanting freckles. Really. She is ridiculously cute.

Today, like many days lately, she is Pippi. I must call her so. She is dressed in what she considers her “Pippi” outfit: white long-sleeve shirt, jean overalls dress with silver buckles, leggings with multi-colored stars, one black sock (her father’s with the heel about halfway up her leg), one pink/brown striped sock (mine) and her shiny black shoes. Hair in tight braids. Yep. Pippi.

“Did you know that is South Africa cats are called ‘Caddys’ and they climb trees with their sharp claws and pee at the top and it lands on people as they walk down the street?” No.

“Did you know that in parts of Spain you have to eat jellybeans and if you don’t they throw you in jail and they force you to eat only jellybeans.” Nope.

“Did you know that in the Bahamas they have animals that look like flamingos, but have heads that look like a moose and the antlers are heart-shaped and they prance around?” I did not.

She says these things with a sparkle in her eyes that can only be described of as joy. Each declaration is followed by a smile that lights her entire face up and a little smirk. She loves being Pippi. And I love it too.

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Taking the plunge

Once upon a time there was a mother who wanted to do something other than dishes and laundry. Oh how she longed for adventure. She would sometimes throw a hot pink sock in with the whites… but she needed more.

This mother loved her sweet children to the point of obsession. She made sure they were bathed at least once a week. She made homemade bread, tucked them in at night and told them how beautiful they were. She drove miles and miles every day so the prince and princess would be taught by the finest teachers in the land. But she still craved something.

Then one day she was told about something called “blogs.” Such a strange word, she thought, as she neatly folded her husbands underwear and tucked it into his drawer.

The next morning she started reading these “blogs” and was amazed. These women were just like her! They also toiled in the daily grind of motherhood, wifehood, sisterhood. They too craved something more. Could this be her something?

And so, she took the plunge. 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.