by

Sometimes you really do have to clean the bathroom

“I had some trouble with the bathroom,” my daughter’s friend tells me.

“OK,” I answer in a whisper from my place on the couch.

She stomps upstairs and I hear the girls playing again. They are not having a fabulous time and I feel guilty and angry. This was not the plan.

I watch the clock. My fever is gone, but the headache is so bad that I can barely lift my head without feeling sick.

I close my eyes and I hear a knock at the door. The play date is over and her dad is here. I make small talk as sweat pours off me.

“You need help with anything?” the father asks.

I assure him that I am fine as feelings of nausea sweep over me and I clutch the side of the couch to avoid falling.

“Call me if you need anything,” he says.

The second the door closes I collapse on the couch.

I hate feeling weak.

My mind yells at me that I’m worthless and pathetic.

Get up.

Push through it.

Knock it off.

My daughter brings me an ice pack for my head and I try really hard not to cry.

A few hours later my husband arrives. I’ve made it.

“What’s the deal with the bathroom,” he says.

“What?” I answer.

“It’s completely flooded,” he says.

Oh. That’s what she was telling me. I don’t get up. He brings me some medicine and forces me to drink some water. An hour later he and my daughter leave to go get food.

The medicine has made the headache a bit more manageable, so I will myself to look at the bathroom.

It’s gross.

Super gross.

That’s when some switch clicks and I go into full cleaning mode.

I go upstairs and grab towels to soak up the water. Then I go into the garage to get the mop and bucket and I wash the floor, the toilet and the hall. I’m dizzy and sweating, but I push past it.

My husband comes home just as I’m finishing up.

“I was going to do that later,” he says.

I don’t believe him.

It’s my responsibility and I push myself harder. I clean the guinea pig cages, because they are disgusting and they need it. I see tons more that needs to be done, but my body has had it.

I go to bed and collapse feeling satisfied that I did something.

See. I’m not worthless.

***

This is not an isolated episode in my life.

Whenever I feel the absolute worse, I feel compelled to push myself as hard as I can.

Some might call it being a martyr.

“Look at how hard I can work even when I’m sick.”

Maybe it is that.

It feels very primal to me.

“Please don’t give up on me, I can still be useful.”

For years I have seen this trait in myself as self-destructive and negative. I saw it as a result of not feeling cared for and loved by others. Not being able to ask for or receive help.

It’s probably all of that.

But I’m starting to see there is something else there too.

Something good.

There is a drive in me to do hard things. To push myself even when I don’t want to do something. To prove that I can do things even when it seems impossible.

It’s strength.

I am strong.

Being sick is just when it’s most noticeable, but I am strong all the time.

When I am at my lowest, I still push past those feelings of defeat and get up. Every day I fight my insecurities and move forward.

Even as I write that I think about how hard other people have it and I’m nervous to even call myself strong. I feel that if I say that, it will illuminate my flaws for all to see.

Others have struggles so much more than me. I know those fighting cancer, depression, bi-polar, divorce and daily physical pain so intense that they have to live on drugs.

Yet I call myself strong.

But I have to stop doing that. It’s not a competition of pain or struggle. It’s OK to think I’m strong and to be proud of the steps I’m taking.

Proud of how far I’ve come.

I’ve started tracking my food again and caring about what I put in my body.

I’ve started running again and signed up to run in a relay in December. I’ll run 6 miles.

I’ve made adventurous summer plans that push me to be active and around people.

All this terrifies me.

But I’m going to do it anyway. I’m going to demand more from myself and I’m going to start seeing myself as the person I am.

I. Am. Strong.

by

Something is happening here

All the windows were rolled down and the sunroof open. My hair whipped about my face and I was smiling.

Really smiling.

The kids and I had a fantastic morning highlighted by a delicious breakfast, lots of book talk and my daughter squeezing “I Love You” into my hand in the secret way my grandma taught me when I was her age.

As I sang and danced alone on the drive back home, I could sense something different about me. Something is happening.

My fears about my depression deepening again seem to be subsiding and I’m feeling hopeful.

Summer is coming.

I painted a picture of the sun and decided to turn it into a Summer Countdown.

Each ray of sun gets us closer to the freedom of lazy mornings, swimming with friends and staying up late.

Each ray of sun stands for another day that I’m working on myself and learning how to undo years of twisted and negative thinking.

Each ray of sun is a possibility and a chance to make things better.

Summer is coming and I’m no longer afraid.

I’m excited.

Bring it on!

14148903946_eb8f24e28f_z

by

A messy little memory

Sometimes we just had to leave the house.

So we would walk.

I would put the little one, then about 10-months-old, in the carrier to save my arms.

I can remember the weight of her, the layer of sweat that would form between our bodies, and the way she would reach her chubby hands out and point at things.

She was so darn cute when she was strapped to me. Twenty-four access to milk and mommy’s face to touch were all she ever wanted.

We would follow my 3-year-old boy as he wandered the neighborhood in search of new sticks and rocks to add to his ever-increasing collection.

This day was particularly beautiful out. Spring was showing all over the neighborhood with bright purple flowers climbing a fence, ladybugs swarming the base of the neighbors Oak Tree and sunflowers reaching about knee level.

My boy skipped ahead and started playing a game involving counting, quick sprints and startling fast stops. I kept my distance so I didn’t run into him.

Then he fell.

Hard.

I caught up to him and tried to calm his screams.

That boy could yell so loudly for such a small thing.

I could see both his knees were bleeding and one of his hands.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

We are three LARGE blocks from the house.

“Can you walk?”

“Noooooooooooo!”

OK. Think.

“You have to stop screaming, you might make people think you’re really hurt.”

“Noooooooooooo!”

OK. Seriously…THINK!

I took the baby out of the carrier and sat her in the neighbor’s yard.

I grabbed him up, told him it would be OK, swung him and the carrier around to my back and adjusted the straps until he was securely tied to me.

He stopped screaming.

Yes.

He buried his face into my now sweaty hair and I’m pretty sure blew his nose.

Repeatedly.

No biggie.

I wasn’t really going for that “model mom” look anyway.

Then I realize I still have to carry chubby girl home.

In a maneuver, that thankfully nobody witnessed, I widened my legs and SLOWLY inched myself forward to grab the baby. I had to be careful not to topple over and kill her.

Seriously.

It was hard!

That’s when I noticed she has crawled next to the flower patch and apparently feasted on mud. She opened her mouth to smile at me and I could see nothing but dirty drool. She also managed to have it smeared into her hair and on most of her clothing.

She looked very pleased.

I do manage to get her in my arms and I start walking.

I’m sure you can picture it.

Here I am walking down the street in my suburban Rocklin neighborhood. You know…perfect lawns and nice SUV’s all around.

Yep.

It doesn’t escape my attention that I look like a lunatic.

I get it.

I am carrying a very HEAVY three-year-old on my back that is bleeding, softly crying and repeating in a very loud voice, “can you walk any faster?”

I am also carrying a 10-month-old that looks like I found her in a ditch somewhere drooling dirt onto my shirt and occasionally shoving her muddy hands into my face providing me with a nice little paint job.

I get it.

The several elderly neighbors out “weeding” their already perfect lawns had no idea what to make of me. They stared and shook their heads in judgment.

An impossibly fit mother jogged past with her twin babies happily, and very CLEANLY, eating snacks in their $10,000 custom-stroller that just happened to match her outfit. She sneered at me.

I laughed and continued to lug my darling offspring all the way home silently saying to myself, “judge all you want, cause I’m a badass.”

Yep.

I. Am. Awesome.

The moments when things get ridiculous and I do things outrageous for my children are some of my favorites. It’s those dirty, crazy and insane moments that make everything else worth it for me.

I’m a messy mom who sometimes does things over-the-top for my kids.

I can’t do it any other way.

Happy Mother’s Day!

lola

coop

Here they are all little and cute and stuff. I miss those days.

by

Fish Tank and the Fear

The first thing I noticed was this very tiny little crab inside his shell. He was moving slowly across the bottom. I could not see very much of him, just a feeler here or there.

I tracked his movement and tried to focus on matching my breath to the rhythm of the water.

“Sheila.”

The only other woman in the room left and I was alone.

My breath quickened and I stood up. My legs and arms were restless and I felt ready to bolt. Walking all around the tank I took in the variety of life contained within the glass walls.

I tracked three blue fish with yellow tails as they chased each other the distance of the tank.

A tiny clownfish skidded out from behind a rock and then disappeared into a green sea anemone.

Two red critters with a handful of long white feelers and two beady black eyes scrambled up and down the rocks. They stayed in constant motion and appeared to be eating the algae.

spikeThen I see him, a big ball of sharp spikes. Very slowly he moves out from behind a rock. He is huge compared to the other life in the tank. His spikes look hard and sharp. Nothing is messing with this guy.

I peer in closer and I’m taken aback by his one orange eye right in the middle of all the spikes. This bulging eye is surrounded by microscopic hairs with a bluish tint. As I watch, he slowly blinks.

“Bridgette.”

My turn.

“Its been a really long time since we’ve seen you.”

“I know. Four years.”

“Well, we are glad your here.”

I sit down in the chair and grip both armrests. As I’m lowered back and I open my mouth for the x-rays, I try not to think all the horrible thoughts that have been swirling in my mind.

This is going to be painful.

I’m sure I have thousands of dollars of work that needs to be done.

We can’t afford this.

What if they have to pull all my teeth out?

They are going to see how badly I have neglected myself.

Embarrassment and fear threaten to overtake me and I try to remember to breathe.

“Are you okay?”

I nod and try to stop shaking.

After the x-rays she starts cleaning my teeth.

My mouth fills with the taste of blood.

The taste of neglect.

The taste of fear.

My mind keeps returning to the Spike Ball in the tank. Is that even an eye? Are his spikes for protection or purely camouflage? Does he have a consciousness?

Scrape. Rinse. Suction. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

At some point it is over and the dentist comes in. I close my eyes as he looks in my mouth and then at my x-rays.

“You OK?”

I nod.

“I know it’s bad,” I say.

I start to say more.

Maybe I should tell him about my depression and the days that I just couldn’t do anything. Should I make excuses about being busy…or being a mother…or…

He chuckles and stands up.

“We are done here. You have no cavities. Your gums are inflamed from lack of flossing, but that’s easily fixed. Floss and they will heal. See you in 6 months.”

He smiles, pats my arm and walks out.

All that fear that I’ve carried.

Four fucking years of it.

Gone.

I’m stuck feeling lucky and unworthy of such good news.

How many hours have I spent in self-loathing and disgust about my mouth?

My body?

My everything.

I know I’m not alone in this crazy, fear-induced way of thinking. This twisted ability to take the worst case scenario and let it keep me from getting the information I need.

I can’t exercise because I’m too fat and out of shape.

I don’t want to see the doctor about that pain, because what if it’s cancer.

I’m not going to see a therapist because what if they want to medicate me.

I’m not going to finish writing my book because nobody will want to read it.

My spikes of fear grow and flourish as I feed them misinformation and lies. They grow and cover me in a grotesque shield that doesn’t protect or hide me, it just traps me.

I make a cleaning appointment for November and silently promise myself to keep it.

Walking out I stop by the tank to check out my spiky friend. I find him near a current of water. He winks his eye at me very slowly. I see that his spikes are moving gently in the water. Maybe they aren’t as hard as I thought.

“See you later friend.”

by

The soup needs to be cooked

Earlier this week I made some chicken broth with the intention of making soup.

This is something I do weekly. Coming back from two vacations, it seemed extra important to jump back into routine and do something normal.

It has been seven days now and still the broth sits.

Seems that normal was not to be this week.

***

It wasn’t until after a few hours that I started to lose hope and a little bit of my sanity. It was around this time that I decided to write a song that included an awesome drum solo (by which I mean me hitting the steering wheel with two pens I found under the seat).

The cars scream past and nobody sees you
Their music is loud and they cannot hear you
The screams in your head do nothing to calm you
The danger you feel is real only to you
You are all alone
You are all alone
Nobody sees you, sees you
Nobody cares
You are all alone
You are all alone
Nobody is going to save you, save you
Nobody cares

You might say that I lost some perspective.

No. This was not a zombie apocalypse, my friends.

Not even close.

My car broke down.

Everything started blinking, all power shut-off and I just barely made it to the side of the road.

At first I was all business. I called my husband.

“Call the tow truck,” he said.

OK. So I called the towing number on my insurance card.

“Stay with your vehicle and someone will be there shortly,” the woman said.

Then my cell phone screen went black and it refused to turn back on.

It was as dead as my car.

No biggie. Help is on the way. I will just get a loaner car and be at school in time to pick up the kids.

I rummage the car looking for something to read.

I find nothing.

Two geese fly by honking loudly.

A drug deal takes place.

Maybe nobody is coming? What if they are trying to call me? How long should I wait?

Several lizards sunning themselves next to my car are startled when I stage an impromptu rock concert.

Another drug deal takes place.

Hope lost, I climb into the back of the car and cry like a 5-year-old. Who am I kidding? It was way more like that end-of-the-world cry that darling 2-year-olds make.

A homeless man opens the car door and asks if I need help.

I start considering walking for it, but the woman said to stay with my car. What if they come the second I start walking?

I count 30 trucks carrying dead trees before that makes me sad and I stop.

Finally a CHP officer drives by and I flag him down.

It was noon.

I’d been sitting in my car for almost 4 hours.

He calls me a new tow truck and tells me it will be $210.

“Sorry,” he says. “You can’t stay on the road.”

He lets me call my husband and I find out he is on route to pick up our boy. Apparently he got something in his eye while gardening and they had been trying to call me all morning to pick him up.

“Pick up the girl too,” I say.

The CHP officer leaves and I fear that the new tow truck will never show either.

Luckily, this one comes in 15 minutes. $210 is a strong motivator.

Family reunites at the car dealership.

The day ends with double karate lessons, a fixed car and a massive bill.

***

It was to be a perfect day. The sun was warm, there was a light breeze and I felt optimistic and happy.

May Day Festival.

I had a new white dress that my mom bought me. The children looked angelic in their white clothes. We cut clippings from our yard and made beautiful crowns to wear.

My phone is still broke, so I took the big camera to document the day.

I took tons of pictures of this most photogenic of days – the colorful ribbons, the blur of dancers, sibling hugs, grandma and the kids with big smiles, our annual sitting in the May Queen’s chair photo and a darling shot of my son with his beautiful teacher.

The pictures were gorgeous.

I could not wait to download them and see them in all their splendid detail.

These are pictures that will be used for our annual calendar and the kids’ birthday books. These are always some of my favorite pictures of the year.

But something happened.

I messed up the download.

The program crashed.

All the pictures are gone.

Forever.

I tried to brush it off.

They are just pictures.

It’s not the end of the world.

Then I collapsed on the bed and sobbed. The kind of cry that leaves your pillow wet, your eyes red and puffy and snot smeared across your face.

I was mad, angry and regretful.

It brought up all the disappointment I feel about everything in my life right now: my home, my parenting, my writing and my weight.

***

This week it hit me that summer is almost here. Only a month left.

That terrifies me.

I love the freedom, flexibility and opportunity that summer offers. Swimming, play dates, camping, late dinners with friends, cherries, sleeping in, cuddles, movies, peaches and day trips.

There is so much to look forward to.

Yet, last summer that freedom provided me too much time to get lost in the chaos of my thoughts.

I don’t want that again.

I’m also very sad that I’m not better. I thought I’d enter this summer healthy, both in mind and body. Not heavier and with less ability to cope with daily stress.

I’m scared of the madness of my depression swallowing me again.

***

The chicken broth is still in that bowl in the fridge.

The family is waiting for me to stop letting little things like a broke car, changed plans or deleted photos end in my inability to move forward.

Tonight I will boil the broth on the stove and fill the pot with squash, onion, sweet potato, carrots, celery and quinoa.

I will let that task anchor me and bring me back from this sense of oblivion and “nothing matters.”

Soup does matter.

My family matters.

Health matters.

Time to stop thinking so much and just move forward.

Some days suck. That will always be true.

But the soup needs to get cooked.

by

Warm waves, surprise thoughts and Cuban coffee

beach

Trudging across the sand alone, a strong breeze hit my face and my sunglasses pressed hard against my nose. The only other person on the beach was a worker setting out beach chairs for the day.

“A storm is coming in,” he says to me. “Probably will have to just drag these all back in a few hours.”

Setting my bag down on the shore, I took off my sundress and ran like a child into the waves. I let the water hit my face hard and push me over. Snapping on my goggles and fighting the current, I swam out until my feet barely touched the sandy bottom. Then I waited for a wave to crest, dived under and flipped around to watch the water crash above me. Surrounded by bubbles, I surfaced when I was out of breath.

When my body got tired I went limp and let the waves push me to shore. I lay gasping for breath on the hot sand. I stood and barely dragged myself to my bag. Eyes closed against the sun, I stretched out and let the warmth blanket me and the calming sounds of the waves lull me to sleep.

“That is a stupid thing to do.”

A strong male voice that was surprising close hit me like a jolt. Startled and disoriented I felt the heat of my body and the scratchy sand under my face.

“I don’t care if it’s stupid, just do it.”

A female voice, high and filled with annoyance, answered even closer and I felt around for my sunglasses.

Drool was along the side of my face and my entire body was sticky with sweat and sand. Rolling on my side I saw them. A couple, maybe in their 50s, tan and in matching swimsuits was standing a few feet from me.

“Just hold the damn coconut and let me get the picture,” the woman said pushing the round, brown fruit into his hands.

Could it be they don’t see me? I thought.

“Want me to get a picture of you both?” I said. My voice sounded so raspy and odd that I wasn’t even sure I said it.

“That would be perfect!” the woman said in a very different voice. Her hair was flowing around her face and I noticed she wore a lot of makeup for a beach day.

I dragged my body up and could feel how exhausted I was. Several late nights, travel, wine and vacation had set on me like a drug. My body was more relaxed then I could remember it ever being before.

This couple snapped into picture mode before I was even up. There they stood in a pose that I imagined came from years of comfort and familiarity. His hand around her waist, she holding the coconut like a sweet newborn baby and both with matching smiles that accentuated the laugh lines around their eyes and mouths.

“Thanks,” he said and offered to take my picture holding the coconut.

Shaking my head, I gathered my things as they started to banter about placement of towels and what they would eat for lunch.

The walk back was hard. I could feel the extra weight on my body like I was carrying one my children piggyback style across the hot sand. I silently chided myself for how bad I have mistreated and neglected my body.

When I arrived back at the resort I found a bathroom. I looked in the mirror and laughed. A long, crazy almost hysterical laugh.

Here I am, I thought.

Sand was stuck on me from a combination of salt water, sweat and drool. It was all over the left side of my face, my neck, arm and leg. A crusted layer of sand accentuated the laugh lines around my eyes and mouth. My skin was slightly red and shiny. My hair was a tangled impossible mess.

Here I am, I thought again.

Everything I have done in my life has resulted in the person I was seeing in the mirror.

Laughing at myself some more, I made a half-hearted attempt to clean up and then headed out.

I had no idea what I wanted to do.

Wandering around the gorgeous resort, I found myself sidling up to the Tiki bar that had just opened for the day.

Signs all over proclaimed things like “If You’re Drinking To Forget, Please Pay in Advance” and “Dear Lord…Let this Be a Flip Flop Day.” The bartender was about my age. Her name was Michelle. She recommended the Key Lime Colada.

An older couple from Phoenix shared the bar with me and we talked for over an hour about life, marriage, kids, travel and retirement. I kept drinking until my lovely friend came to retrieve me.

This was four days into my trip. Days that had been unlike anything I had imagined they would be. My friends embraced me with more love than I can explain and I felt full in a way I didn’t know I needed to be.

Amazing conversations driving in the car at 1 a.m. Cuban coffee. Some of the most delicious food I have ever eaten. Creativity. Cuban coffee. Unbelievable sunsets. Spirituality. Did I mention Cuban coffee?

I felt nourished in every way possible. My soul had been feasting and was just so full.

Sitting at that bar a realization flooded my body and I felt a surge of something new.

I did not miss my kids.

For some reason I had imagined I would spend the entire trip pinning away for them like missing limbs that had been cut from my body. Somehow I had told myself that a “good mother” could not possibly enjoy vacation without her children. That my very essence would be crushed and I would weep at the sound of their voice on the phone and be worried anxiously the entire time.

None of that happened.

I did not miss my kids.

I knew they were fine and I allowed myself to be fully present in the experiences that were planned for me. Soaking in it and revealing in this feeling of freedom and comfort, I let it wash over me.

A phrase kept surfacing in my mind.

I feel so adult.

It’s a ridiculous thought for someone who will be 40 in a few short years, yet it was there. It kept coming back and I realized what it was. I do everything with my kids. I have become so into their world that I forget sometimes that I do have choices and life OUTSIDE them.

It’s not that I don’t do anything adult. However, most of my “adult” things involve eating sweets and watching movies my kids are not allowed to. It’s almost like I’m a teenager and I “sneak” these little things as a way of rebelling against my parents.

I am an adult.

I am in charge of my life.

***

On the long plane ride home I sat in the middle seat. The man on my left was flying into S.F. for a job opportunity. He was young, maybe late 20s, he was full of optimism and hope for his future. The woman to my right was in her 50s and was visiting her only child away at college. She was so excited to see her and you could see the pride and love she had for her daughter radiating off her.

When we landed we all said our customary good-byes and headed our three separate routes.

As I walked off the plane I was filled with excitement to see my children. My heart started to pound and I could not wait to see them.

My daughter ran and leaped into my arms and peppered my face with kisses. My boy said “hey” and I got a glimpse at the teenager he will be soon. I gathered them both into my arms and kissed them.

I love my children more than anything in the world.

But I did not miss them.

And that’s OK.

me

by

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.

by

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.

by

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.

by

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.