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.

We 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.

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.

You 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.

Then 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

Growing up my mom had one pretty big rule: If you use the word “bored” you will be scrubbing toilets.

That pretty much cured me of using the “B” word and subsequently made me dread ever having to be the one to clean toilets.

My life is pretty much filled with toilet cleaning now.

Not really.

But I do find myself acting the brat and complaining about how bored my life is quite often.

I am not walking around like a spoiled teenager hanging my head and proclaiming in a whine, “I’am booooorrrred.”

But it has been something I talk to myself a lot about. It is one of the reasons I eat too much, drink too much coffee and sink into depression.

I AM bored. (Sorry mom. I will be over to scrub your toilets later.)

Dishes, laundry, cooking, driving, driving, driving…

Bored. Bored. Bored.

But recently there has been a lot of pain and turmoil in the lives around me. It has caused me to look inside and examine a lot about myself. Even more than that…it has given me a new perspective.

Boring is not a bad thing.

It’s more like I am CONTENT.

Not happy. Not blissful. But CONTENT.

Last summer I gave up routine and boredom and it did not serve me well. Not at all. I spent the summer in a state of uneasiness and selfishness. It was certainly not my finest hour.

What I need is the very thing I was fighting against, routine.

Since having children, I have learned how much they need routine. They thrive on knowing what is to come. They also need time to do “nothing.” They like being bored. A lot of creativity comes out of doing nothing.

When I worked as a preschool teacher, routine was often the only thing that saved us. Just keep moving forward and they will eventually join you.

I am great at routine for my children. Bedtimes are a breeze at our house because we have stuck to the same routine for so long it’s like second nature to all of us.

Where I am NOT consistent is my own time. After I drop off the kids I often feel lost and unclear. That freedom I have whined about for years is actually a bit unsettling for me. I need structure.

I also need to relax and stop being so hard on myself.

Not sure how to do any of that.

Next year my kids will both be gone all day. There is a part of me that screams “Freedom!” at that thought. Another part is scared out of her wits.

I want to take that year to write and work on myself, but I need to have a plan. A consistent routine that becomes second nature in no time. I’ll get there.

Part of my journey involves finding joy and gratitude in the daily routine. Not fighting it and always wishing I was somewhere else.

I am making some progress.

Since the first of the year, I have been taking daily pictures as part of Project 365. Basically, I have committed to taking a picture of something that makes me happy or grateful for the entire year.

Its been 43 days and I have noticed a big shift. I have found that mindfully looking for something to be grateful for each day makes me aware of so many amazing things in my life. It frames the way I look at my day.

I have gotten into the habit of reviewing my pictures every night before bed. Although so much is going on, this little act grounds me and makes me feel peaceful.

Content.

My “boring” life is actually filled with so, so much.

I am putting the focus where it needs to be and banishing “bored” from my vocabulary again.

Too bad I still have to clean toilets.

As we walked to the car both kids were singing and skipping with huge smiles.

“Mom,” my daughter says climbing into her booster seat. “I think that is the best movie ever.”

“Really?” I ask.

“I agree,” my boy says as he climbs in next to her.

“Really?” I ask again.

“I think it had a great message,” my daughter says while buckling up. “About opening your heart and letting people in.”

“Yeah,” her brother says. “You know…some people are kind of frozen.”

“Yeah,” his sister adds getting excited. “It was like frozen in both ways.”

We talked all the way home about the film. About the silly snowman, the great music, how beautiful the snow looked, the amazing ice castle and even more about the message.

This is the first time my kids, ages 6 and 9, have analyzed a film at great length. We talked about the important role music plays in a film, the characters motivations both good and bad, how fear can cause someone to shut others out, the bond between siblings and the notion of “true love.”

Thank you Disney.

If you haven’t taken your kids to see Disney’s new film “Frozen,” you should. I don’t say this lightly. I am VERY protective about what my kids watch and in general find “Princess” movies to be a bit offensive and possibly damaging to girls. But Disney got this one right in so many ways.

We have now seen the film twice (three times for my daughter) and purchased the soundtrack. This is something I simply never do.

It is that good.

The story is about two sisters, Anna and Elsa. The eldest, Elsa, is born with the ability to magically create snow and ice, but she can’t control it and almost kills her little sister. Her father tells her to “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know.”

Fear runs her life and she hides away from the world. When she comes of age she must face everyone at her coronation as queen. Things get out of control and she accidentally shows her powers. Fear and shame cause her to run away into the mountains.

As she runs away, she sings the song “Let it Go,” which recently received an Oscar nomination for Best Original Song.

Let it go, let it go.
And I’ll rise like the break of dawn.
Let it go, let it go
That perfect girl is gone
Here I stand, in the light of day.
Let the storm rage on!
The cold never bothered me anyway.

I have never heard of Idina Menzel before, but her voice is so strong and powerful that I’m not ashamed to admit, I sobbed like a baby listening to the CD alone in my car.

So much of the imagery and messages from this film hit home for me in ways that are a bit uncomfortable. I know many people who put up closed doors and can’t imagine letting others see them for who they are. There is so much fear in being vulnerable. There is also so much freedom to be gained…and so much love.

I know that I am gushing about a kid’s movie, but I can’t seem to help myself. I am swept up in the Disney magic of this film more than I have ever before.

We can’t get enough.

“I could totally see this on Broadway.”

“Yes! The trolls need another song for sure. That would be awesome!”

“I think they could make a whole movie just about the trolls.”

“What if they made that ice palace at Disneyland?”

“Awwwwsome!”

“It could snow in the castle and they could have Olaf there?”

“Yes! That would be so cool!”

So it goes. We are in deep here folks.

Part of me, the skeptical “hippy” side, is all analytical and keeps screaming that Disney has brainwashed me and that I’m being sucked into their marketing machine.

Oh, shut it. I just like it OK. Geez.

If you need me, I’ll be in my car singing along with the “love expert” trolls and smiling.

Everyone’s a bit of a fixer upper
That’s what it’s all about
Father! Sister! Brother!
We all need each other
To raise us up and round us out!

I was about 17 and had only had my driver’s license for a few weeks. It was dinnertime, but it must have been winter because it was dark outside. The road was poorly lit and twisty. I was driving the speed limit and singing along to the radio. I remember being excited to see my friends and happy that I now had the freedom to drive myself somewhere.

All of a sudden a blur went across the road. I tried to stop, but there was not time. I hit whatever it was. I came to an immediate stop. My heart was beating so fast in my chest and I immediately started shaking all over. I remember just sitting there. Helpless. What am I supposed to do?

I got out and walked behind my car. I saw it about 20 feet away and didn’t want to believe it. Even in the dark I could tell it was a cat. The tears flowed as I got closer and I silently prayed he was all right. He was not.

I sat next to its little tabby colored body and sobbed. I had never felt so unsure of what to do. I kept picturing a little girl standing at her doorway calling her kitty to come eat. She would go to bed that night wondering, “Where did that silly cat get off to?”

I imagined her walking to school the next day and finding her cat’s body on the side of the road.

“What kind of monster would kill my cat?” she would cry. “Why would they leave her out here? What is wrong with that person?”

But I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there and sobbed. Should I knock on people’s doors? Should I bury it?

In the end, I left the cat there. I wish I had left a note, but I didn’t. I was scared, sad and felt overwhelmed with what had happened.

That feeling is one that I have come to know all too well.

I have friends and family that have been dealing with some heavy stuff – loss of close family members, house flooded with sewage, cancer everywhere, surgery, comas, divorce, mental illness and sick children. I am surrounded with this and I feel the exact same way I did that night at 17.

Helpless.

Frozen.

I talk to myself a lot about what I could do.

I could just show up with coffee…but what if they don’t want company?

I could send a card…but what would I say?

I could offer to help…but what do I really have to offer?

Despite my self-doubt and fear, I do a lot of those things. Sometimes I do all of them. Sometimes I freeze and do nothing. Whatever the case, I never feel like it is enough.

What I really want to do is take away people’s pain. I want everyone to be happy. You know, sunshine and rainbows and kittens frolicking in a meadow of flowers.

However, pain is a part of life that just isn’t going away. How we react to and deal with pain says a lot about us.

This week I was forced to face some truth that I am not very proud of.

That helpless feeling provokes such strong urges in me to DO SOMETHING. And sometimes that “something” is pretty deplorable.

I judge.

Then I do something even worse.

I talk.

I find myself talking about the situation, often going in circles, with friends and family. It’s like if I keep talking maybe I could somehow break the code and solve their problems.

This is something I don’t want to do anymore.

In the past, if someone had confronted me and asked me about things I’d said, judgments I’d made, I might have ran away. Not literally, but I would distance myself from them. I’d feel shame and move on.

Not anymore.

This week I had to own up for something I said. I didn’t run away. I didn’t lie. I told the truth. I faced my words and judgments. I owned it.

It’s a baby step, I know, but it’s movement forward.

That family member forgave me and I am humbled more than I can express by that.

But I have a long ways to go.

Just this week at karate, I saw a dad with three young children. I have seen this dad many times before and I always leave being irritated and judging the crap out of him. He sits on his phone and yells, very loudly, at his children to just “sit there and be quiet.” I try to read my book, but inside I am lecturing him.

“Really? You expect your LITTLE kids at 5 and 3 years of age to just sit there and be quiet? You, a grown man, are not doing that. You are playing a game on your phone and voicing your annoyance at your children for all to hear. It is inappropriate for you to expect that of those kids you jerk. How about I yell at you to ‘be quiet’ and ‘sit still’ for an hour and see how happy you are? Shut up and bring something for them to do next time.”

I try to stop myself, but I just can’t. I don’t know this man or his situation. I could make all kinds of assumptions about him, and I do, but really I have no clue.

Someone posted this on Facebook this week:

I love this. I have done way too much assuming, judging, hurting and speaking.

A family member said something very poignant to me this week. Often we get judged on ONE moment of our life. One time when things are at their worst and we might be at our absolute lowest. It is unfair to judge. We are so much more than just the one moment and one choice we are in.

I am 36 years old and I have lived so many moments. I would not want anyone picking just one to judge my entire life upon, good or bad.

I don’t know how to stop judging, but I can be responsible for what I say. I need to learn to stop talking about people’s problems and making my sweeping judgments.

That includes judgments on myself.

I might still feel helpless and frozen at times. But that is OK.

So I take another humbling step forward.

He sat with his back against the rocky wall. His glasses were off and cast to the side and I could really see how puffy and swollen his eyes were. With no tissues around, I offered my scarf for his runny nose.

“Mommy,” he said as his eyes filled with tears. “I want to go home.”

His legs were pulled up and he took a small sip from the brown mug that someone had given us. I could see the embarrassment, fear and pain in his face.

I wanted to erase it all. I wanted to sweep him up in my arms and cradle him like a baby. I wanted to say that he could just go home and forget all about coming back tonight.

But I didn’t do any of that.

Wiping his eyes I kissed his not-so-little nose and gave him a hug. Then I sat next to him and just breathed. Through sniffles I could hear his breath calm and feel him relax next to me.

“I want to go see my friends,” he said after a few minutes. “I think they are worried about me.”

“Good idea,” I said.

He stood up, brushed off his pants and started the walk to class.

Parents. Teachers. Students. All wanted to talk to him. All wanted to relive the moment. All needed reassurance.

“I am OK,” he kept repeating with a smile on his face.

Once we made it to his classroom, all his friends greeted him with hugs and smiles. He made jokes. He smiled. He reassured everyone around him.

After changing out of his costume, I thought it best we go home and rest. We got sister out of class and headed home.

On the drive he told her the story of how he was onstage in front of the school when everything went purple and sparkly.

“Then it was like my eyes were closed, but they were open,” he explained. “I continued to say my lines. ‘Scamper, scatter’ and then thump. I fell back like a bowling pin.”

She laughed. He laughed.

Once home he stripped down to his underwear, grabbed his panda and sat in the big, comfy chair in the living room. He pulled his favorite blanket tightly around him like a cocoon.

“Can we watch Bill Cosby do that Noah joke?” he asked.

Sure. Since being cast as Noah in his class play he was in love with anything Noah’s Ark themed. I scrunched in next to him with the laptop and we listened.

Noah!
Who is that?
It’s the Lord, Noah.
Right! Where are ya? What you want? I’ve been good.
I want you to build an Ark.
Right! What’s an Ark?

We giggled together and I could feel him relax. The big performance was that night and I was honestly petrified for him.

It was decided that he passed out because he locked his knees, but I was worried it was nerves. I tried to push all my stuff aside and just be with him.

He was clearly sick now. His nose was running constantly and he felt a bit feverish. The afternoon ticked by. We ate some lunch, read a book and colored.

“What if it happens again?” he asked with anxiety and fear on his face. “Stupid legs.”

“You will be fine,” I said. “You have worked so hard. It won’t happen again.”

He got out a stick he had found at the river and practiced walking around like an old man with his knees bent.

I could see the battle raging inside his head. He wanted to call it quits. Give up. Let fear win. But at the same time he was excited and really wanted to do it.

“Can we watch the cowardly lion give his speech?” he asked. “You know, about courage?”

What makes the elephant charge his tusk, in the misty mist or the dusky dusk?
What makes the muskrat guard his musk?
Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder?
Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder?
Courage!

Daddy walked in and he told him the story of the afternoon. We ate a quick meal and headed back to school. His anxiety reached its peak about a block from school.

“I think I am sick,” he said between sniffles. He sounded so small and scared.

“Yep”

“But the show must go on, right?”

“Right.”

When we arrived, his friends were excited to see him.

“You OK?” I whispered.

“Yep,” he said. “I can do this.”

I walked to the theater and sat with my family. I couldn’t talk to anyone. My hands were shaking.

When the show began I thought I might throw-up. Please, please let him be OK.

And he was.

Despite the fever. Despite the runny nose. Despite the fear of passing out again. Despite the embarrassment of the day.

He did it.

And he was amazing.

Afterward we went out for ice cream.

“I’m sorry it’s over,” he said with a big smile. “Wish I could do it again.”

My heart soared.

He conquered his fear. He pushed through embarrassment and sickness. He proved to himself that he could do brave things.

I could not be more proud.

“Goodnight you moonlight ladies. Rockabye sweet baby James.”

Her sweet singing fills the room of kindergarteners as they rest around the big, red rug after playtime. She rubs lavender lotion on the feet of one of the helpers. I sit a few children over with my sweet daughters foot in my hand gently rubbing her ankle and inhaling the sweet fragrance. The teachers exchange a look across the circle and I know it must be almost time.

She stops singing and looks around at the children.

“Any minute now,” she says in a calm voice. “We will hear the call and it will be time.”

All the kids know what is coming. They have been preparing and are ready to spring into action.

“Lockdown.” “Lockdown.” “Lockdown.” Lockdown.”

The calm voice of Amy the secretary spills from the intercom box and fills the room.

The kids crawl over to the wall under the windows. Some hide under a little table. It happens quickly and in silence.

My daughter moves into a fetal position next to me with her head on my lap. Her little friend, just barely 5, grabs my arm tightly and curls into a tiny ball next to me. She really is so small I think. Without conscious thought, my arms reach out and pull them both tightly to me. Protectively.

One teacher locks both doors and then joins us along the wall. We sit in complete silence.

I knew this was coming too, but something happens that I did not expect.

My heart races and the reality of what this is hits me.

Hard.

Tears threaten to fall and I make myself calm down.

The kids smile at each other. It is a mix of the silent game and hide-and-seek.

A few minutes pass and we hear the front door rattle. Everyone stays still and silent.

A few more minutes pass and we hear the back door rattle. Everyone stays still and silent.

Another few minutes pass and we hear scratching at the window. Everyone stays still and silent.

Throughout the whole time I smile at the kids reassuringly, just as the teachers do. My hands stroke the girls clutched at my sides. I focus on calming my breath. Although they think it’s just a game, I know the reality and it makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.

“All clear.” “All clear.” “All clear.” “All clear.”

The kids smile and are visibly proud that nobody found us. We won the game.

“You can either be a vegetable cutter, rice cake maker or go play” the teacher says and we move forward.

As I make rice cakes with a few children, I realize just how attached I am to these little ones. These are not just the kids my daughter plays with at school. These are the precious, innocent, beautiful centers of their parents’ lives. In that instant I know that I would do anything to protect them. All of them.

I look over at the wonderful women who I trust my daughter with every day and I am hit with such a rush of love and gratitude. I know, without a shred of doubt, these beautiful teachers would do anything to protect my daughter. They, like all teachers, would give their life for these kids.

It is a sad reality that these drills are part of the world we live in. I will never understand how someone could feel so alone, desperate and be that deranged as to shoot kids? But it happens.

Fire drills. Earthquake drills. Lockdowns. “Duck and Cover” drills of decades past. All of these aim at one thing: making us feel like we are doing something.

But, really, we have no control.

No matter how hard we try, horrible things happen every day to nice people who plan ahead and do everything right.

It is not fair and I hate it.

All life is so fragile, yet we spend all our time moving through tasks and stressing about things that are so insignificant.

Of course we do. It’s impossible not to without becoming desperate and deranged ourselves.

So we have to surrender to something outside ourselves.

We have to cling to things like love, hope and prayer.

We have to.

I dump the hot rice into the bowl. My helpers add butter, flour and cheese and take turns mixing up the gooey goodness. We roll out the balls and add them to the pan. Then we eat the sticky pieces off our fingers and giggle.

We move forward.