Wishing You Perfect 7's This Mother's Day

Dear Moms,

I am blown away by the lot of you. And, full disclosure, I am also deeply jealous and intimidated by the lot of you; because when I see what you are doing, I am instantly convinced that I am wrong and you are right. For, there is no confidence or certainty in mothering or fathering. It is an endless crapshoot that often yields more snake eyes than perfect sevens; and it is your fierce perseverance to stay at the table and trust the dice that are both your children and you that sustains me in awe and propels me to place another bet. So many thanks to you all who:

• Manage to keep your house clean
• And for those who don't
• Yell too much
• Who move heaven, earth and rush hour to see a 15 second race because even though your kid won't let you cheer, they still want you there
• Make a vegetable at dinner every night
• Have no qualms about passing off french fries as a vegetable
• Successfully limit video games
• Use electronics as a babysitter because it has been that kind of a day
• Sew, buy, or recycle last year's Halloween costumes
• Bake masterpieces for the bake sale
• Buy masterpieces at the Giant for the bake sale
• Are up at 3:45am because you finally figured out how to get your child to achieve all A's, get into an Ivy League school and enjoy un-ending prosperity and happiness
• Are up at 3:45am because you are desperately figuring out how to get your kid to just do at least one of the algebra problems
• Use cloth diapers
• Breast feed 
• Use formula and Pampers
• Spend the majority of your day in the car on the way to dance class, violin lessons, fencing academies, swim practice, tutoring, and beyond
• Let your kids eat McDonalds in the car on the way to dance class, violin lessons, fencing...
• Let your kids live with you while they look for that first job
• Let your kids reimagine what lies beyond High School
• Find a financial way to make it all happen
• Pull double duty as Tooth Fairies, Easter Bunnies, Santa Clauses, Leprechauns, etc.
• Sob messily in the car, bathroom, or hastily conceived private sanctuary of your choice
• Video concerts you will never watch again
• Post perfection on Facebook
• Post flaws on Facebook
• Post pictures of Tom Hiddleston and Ryan Gosling on Facebook
• Worry too much
• Work jobs you hate so they can do what they love
• Take care of the pet they vowed to take care of
• Enforce chores
• Volunteer for anything
• Turn underwear inside out because there just was no time
• Love completely, parent imperfectly and celebrate that perfect seven when it happens

Happy Mother's day to you all. Forgive yourselves, applaud each other and let us all remind one another that we've never actually done this before. We are not supposed to be experts, just courageous, kick ass pioneers venturing into the unknown armed with a heart full of love and some unpredictable dice.

And I thought the C-Section Was Hard

61 days.

1464 hours.

87,840 minutes.

5,270,400 seconds.

Until Teenager # 1 graduates High School.

And, in true form, he continues to make it, to put it diplomatically, interesting.

To put it undiplomatically, he makes it more painful than the c-section that started all this.

But this is just another hurdle in the absurdly long track event of parenting. It all began with the seemingly impossible wait to actually get pregnant. A wait that, in fact, was only six months; but to parents who finally decided it was time, each passing month that yielded a minus on the pee-stick began the coining of what would become an ongoing fill in the blank phrase "if we could only get... "

Pregnant.

And pregnant we got. Then hideously nauseous we got. "If we could only get past the first trimester."

Then a week past due date we got; then induced, then two hours of pushing, then the aforementioned c-section we got. "If we could only get recovered from the c-section."

Then a beautiful baby we got as well as several years of what constitutes as almost normal. Until probably the second year of Pre-school when we heard the first mention of "he's very active" in a teacher conference. "If we could only get past this feeling that the use of the word active is a euphemism."

And then each year it was "If we could only get through this teacher conference."

"If we could only get through this play therapy"

"If we could only get through this school year."

"If we could only get through this trip to the grocery store."

"If we could only get through this game."

"If we could only get through this school year."

"If we could only get through this holiday dinner."

"If we could only get through exams."

"If we could only get through this school year"

"If he could only get into college."

"If he could only decide on a college."

"If he could only graduate high school."

It didn't take long to realize that this hurdle race is perversely infinite.

Hurdles have always amazed and terrified me. Not the metaphorical kind mentioned above, but actual hurdles.  The beauty of the race is absolute, the skill of the runners akin to gorgeous gazelles, and it all begins with a literal leap of faith. I can only imagine what it feels like to stare down that hurdle the first time you try to scale it, even with all the technique that has been passed on, in that moment it comes down to trust and guts.

The good thing is, my husband ran hurdles in high school so I consulted him. (He also holds the record for the worst hurdling accident in his school's history, an unexamined irony perhaps best left untouched). So, I asked him what is involved, and found it is all about technique, knowing how many steps you need to take and finding your own rhythm. The amount of steps varies from runner to runner depending on the length of their stride. So, though the technique is uniform, the execution is individual. He also informed me that the biggest obstacle is not the hurdle, but hesitation and doubt. In effect it is all about rhythm, knowing yourself, reps and commitment.

Since I am programmed to find metaphor even in a trip to the bathroom, the leap here is not obtuse. Each hurdle is preceded by steps; if you take those steps, the hurdle is scaleable. If you approach the hurdle with fear and doubt, your race will be rife with panic and dread. If you approach each hurdle with preparation, trust and a sense of adventure--well then gazelles, watch out.

And now, after 18+ years, it is time to stop saying "if we could only..." From now on, when I look down this indeterminate track, I will not see hurdles, I will see texture, surprise and possibility. When I trip, I will cry, and then laugh at myself, sip from my water bottle filled with Pinot, fortify with my trail mix made from Goldfish crackers and peanut butter Twix bars, and reset.

The Conditions of Unconditional Love

Even a dog's love has conditions. No matter how excited they are when you come home, if you leave them alone for too long they're going to poop on something you love. And so it is with all purported unconditional love; whether it be romantic, familial or friendly, everyone's undying love has some rules and regulations.

1. If you're being a dick, your access is denied.

2. Saying you're sorry is great, but it will be met with an implied and undefined penance which you are expected to decipher.

3. If I'm being a dick, assume it is justifiable.

4. Emotional rent must be paid to earn certain privileges. For example:

• If either spouse wants a night out with friends, dinner must be made and/or the dishwasher must be emptied.
• If teenager # 1 wants to use the car, politeness is required and the living room must be free of dirty socks.
• If you don't want poop in your new boots, take the dog for a walk.

5a. You must alternate holiday dinners between in-laws and gratefully accept all guilt from the one left behind.

OR

5b. You must eat two thanksgiving dinners and hungrily ask for seconds at each.

6. Attend a 2/3 majority of all your kids' games, recitals, performances and unspecified special events.

7. Pose and smile for any and all photos of major life events to give your parents something to look at when you piss them off or they find themselves missing you so soon after they expressed gratitude at your departure.

8. Gush over all new haircuts.

9. You must eventually forgive.

10. Let them help...even if it's not the way you would do it. 

11. Read minds while assuming nothing.

The fact stands that those who really love you will always love you, and they rarely poop on the things you love on purpose.  But poop they will, and so will we all. And despite our vows of unconditional love, we all have checks and balances, punishments and rewards we use to remind the ones we love with all our heart not to take that love lightly, that to hold someone's heart is a treasured responsibility. And part of that responsibility is that, occasionally, you have to pick up some poop. 

Which brings us to rule 12:

12. If you find your access denied, accept responsibility for dickishness and return with inappropriately expensive cheese, a decadent cupcake and authentic sheepishness.

Slap Me Before I Volunteer Again

I'm one of The Seven.

That sounds appealing, doesn't it? You don't even know what it is, but since there's a select number it must be special or elite or chosen. You want to be one of the seven too, don't you?

No you don't. Trust me. I desperately want out of The Seven. The Seven is not a super cool secret organization with jackets and a butlered clubhouse with a full bar and secret wall of gadgets. The Seven is the same group of fools in any organization who volunteer to organize or participate in things.

The impetus to join the seven seems pure enough, like most initial impetuses. It springs from two fonts: curiosity and empathy.

Curiosity, that ever-vigilant cat-killer, grabs hold when that charismatic authority figure lays out the plan for that cool-new-partially-conceived-project which needs a few good folks to kick in just a little bit of extra time to help it along its way. Your hand is up before you know it and suddenly you find yourself on the most dreaded ill conceived and inefficient of social constructs, the committee. Next thing you know you are in charge of bringing breakfast pastries, both glutenous and non, to 7:30 am meetings so committee members can hear themselves talk and don the cape of Devil's Advocate in order to delay any fruitful action, which would, inevitably put a halt to the self-perpetuating, self-validating meetings and rob all of the glory of the procrastinator's panic of having to do everything at the last minute.

Empathy is a most admirable troublemaker. A genuine desire to help is a beautiful thing, in moderation. It can build bridges, move mountains and turn tides. And it can, if unchecked, cause unbridled burn out and rampant bringing to the brink. Once your kind nature is revealed well-intentioned Do-gooders, like ravenous philanthropic eagles, will swoop down on you, clutch you in their talons and carry you away to their time-sucking aerie. And you will fall under their spell as they speak of your natural leadership skills and how they just need you to send a few emails, pick up a few hoagie trays, and organize the bi-monthly bake-sale complete with separate nut-free, wheat-free, dairy free and taste-free tables. Then the unthinkable happens; time passes, seniority is achieved and you have become what you have beheld as you find yourself swooping down on unsuspecting empathetic prairie dogs below.

And let's be honest, the reason behind the impetus to "help" is not without its ulterior motives. For when we volunteer there is always a selfish purpose lingering in the shadows. We want to be noticed by that boss, elevated in the eyes of those parents, stay involved so it improves our children's chances, or simply improve our odds of getting into heaven. So, we members of The Seven volunteer again and again until our addiction spirals into resentment and righteousness and we find ourselves volunteering for the corrupt pleasure of holding it over everyone else's heads. And then one day we look in the mirror only to discover we have become withered Gollums clutching to the precious ring of our perceived altruism.

And no, the answer is not to stop volunteering altogether. The world is a better place because of the collective generosity of people willing to lend a hand. I propose you simply adopt the Airline Oxygen Mask rule of thumb: put your own oxygen mask on first then assist your child. Take care of yourself first so that you are capable of caring for those around you. It is not a selfish approach, it is practical. My theory is, if you take care of yourself you might actually get to know yourself; and if you know yourself you might actually realize what you care about which will channel your volunteering. Occasionally saying "no" creates space for you to say yes and have time to make that yes count on a more comprehensive level. Allow your cupcakes to have impact

This has "physician heal thyself" written all over it by the way as I am low on this particular evolutionary scale. With a little backbone, however,  I will soon be turning in my membership card to The Seven and graduate to the Panel of Naggy Know-it-Alls. A girl's gotta dream.

The 12 Best Ways to Get People to Read Your Blog

Here it is! You're welcome! The best ways to get people to read your blog! Ready? Cause this may be your ticket to success & glory.

1. Title your Post "The 12 Best ways to get People to Read your Blog.
2. Put your Post in the form of a list, but keep it to a palatable number of options. Most people will only read up until 15, though they prefer 10 and under.
3. Put a swear word in the title. "Fuck" is your best bet, especially if you're a woman since it still seems charmingly shocking for a woman to use the word.
4. Claim to have "The Best Ways to...." something, because we all want shortcuts and guarantees.
5. Mention wine, cheese and chocolate as viable coping techniques.
6. If you're a man talk about your adorable incompetence with your children, which isn't really incompetence since it still seems charmingly shocking for a man to take care of his children.
7. Get on the Huffington Post. And if you figure out how, let me know.
8. Use a charming stick figure pictorial, because it takes less time to read, and who really has time to read. (Plus there is the potential for t-shirts)
9. Be genuinely talented and original. And if you figure out how, let me know.
10. Spend 95% of your time promoting your blog, by reading and commenting on other people's sites, posting and reposting on any and all social media, trying to get published on other sites, promoting your submissions on other people's sites, finding free and cheap ways to advertise your blog; and spend the other 5% of your time writing.
11. Be lucky.

I've never been good at the business side of being creative. I've always accredited it to the firm belief that I am lazy. And while that is still a viable contender, after many years I realize it stems more from the firm belief that I do not believe in myself. I lack the conviction of my confidence. Ironically, though I still hang on to enough confidence to continue pursuing creativity as a profession. There is a part of me that knows I am good but does not believe I am good.

I blame my family. That's convenient and also ragingly adolescent. Let me explain. I come from a large family with a huge range in ages. We rarely occupy the same space for much longer than it takes to talk about the traffic or which route we took from the airport; holidays or weddings for a couple of days at a time. Our parents, to their credit, raised us to be independent; mostly by example as they were both competent and independent to a fault. So, these intermittent gatherings never lasted long because people had to get back to their jobs and lives in San Francisco and Michigan and Chicago and Iowa and Boston and everywhere else. But whenever we parted whether in person or at the end of a phone call, we would always exchange I love you's. And we meant it. But, my theory is that it all happened so fast and so routinely that I found myself somewhere in my thirties realizing that I knew I was loved, but I never felt loved. That, of course is not their fault, so let me amend my thesis statement, I blame myself.

So, my armchair therapeutic conclusion is that if I never felt fully loved, how on earth would I believe that anything I created was fully worthy? And there lies the self-sabatoge. To feel fully loved, I would have to make myself fully vulnerable, I would have to take a closer look at all the not-so-glib and not-so-pretty nooks and crannies of me and wonder if after the fantastic voyage I would emerge and still like myself. Or, more dangerously, let other people like me and be ok with it.

 I guess it is now time to loop this back around to my professional stasis. I know I am good, or that  I can be good enough. I fear I am no more than that, and so I rely on good enough. I need to climb into my submarine and take a fantastic voyage and search all the nooks and crannies and not so pretty parts that lie in the pool of potential, and not fear what I emerge with. It might be new and undiscovered and great, or it might be that the waters did not run deep, and good is good.

After I convince myself, perhaps it will be easier for me to convince others with the conviction of the new found confidence that "warts and all" is not just a punch line, it is a gateway to rediscovering the root of why creativity is vital. It is a true examination of how we are human, how we connect and stand apart and how our warts are worthy. And now we have reached reason #12

       12. Go all in. And know that fucking chocolate, cheese and wine is the best list to get you through anything.

What If I Fucked It All Up?

It is quite possible that I have fucked it all up.

Parenting, marriage, career; there’s pretty strong odds that all I’ve touched has gone horribly awry. I know you think I’m overreacting, or this theory is a ploy to get you to continue to read because I have a poignant and resonant message as a return on your investment. 

Nope. No Ploy. Not yet. As a matter of fact, here is some data:

·       I am unhappy in my job

·       My marriage is surviving but not thriving

·       My sons are not taking Honors classes

·       One of them has smoked pot

·       We just found two ticks on my dog

·       My house is a mess

·       We are in uncomfortable debt

·       I have achieved very few of my childhood dreams

·       My second manicure that I have ever received started chipping on the second day

These facts are hard to argue with. I’m pretty sure a jury of my peers would judge me for fucking it all up and then gossip about my failures to make themselves feel better on the way to their clean cars that have no stray french fries under the mats.

It feels like an indelible-Sharpie-esque mark of conclusion from which there is no reform. And the sheer volume of my failures (the above list is but a short list summary) is as paralyzing, pervasive and persistent as poison ivy. I just keep scratching in search of immediate relief, which is quickly replaced by a deeper more complex understanding of the web of my fuck ups. So, I stop all together and wallow in an oozy puss-filled mass of resignation and pity.

I do not deserve pity or reassurance at this time. I would, however, welcome any and all disgust and disdain. Admitting I fucked it all up is not brave or edgy or revolutionary. It does, however, imply two truths.

1. Accepting failure can be a convenient cop-out

2. I think I have actual control over the universe

The indelible seeming permanence of failure and its siren song of “Just Give Up,” is such a tempting dish of denial. It is so easy to give up; to leave that job instead of doing it better, to shove the mess in the closet rather than actually sort it into those helpful “to keep” “to store” and “to give away” piles, to buy that $10 cardigan because you only have brick red and not tomato red yet. Plus, giving up implies starting over again; the opportunity to erase all that went before and start from scratch, and get it right this time.

What’s harder is collaborating with failure. To really listen to your failures and let them tell you a little something about yourself; the general gist of which is “You’re not perfect, but your life is not impossible.” And then, hopefully, you breathe and find the bravery in doing the small tasks that chip away at the bigger ones that are far too hard to swallow in one bite.

And now onto the arrogance of control. Donning the mantle of “I fucked it all up” assumes control; because if I fucked it up, well than I can obviously fix it, and if I fix it, everything will be okay and perfect and happily ever after is a lock. Right?

Nope.

The thing about “fixing it” is that every time something is fixed, it is not “like new.” (We all know that from purchasing anything on Ebay.) It is, however, more interesting and unique than when it was new. Flaws are never erased, they are incorporated. They can be apologized for or embraced. They are gifts of discovery and growth. They are the freckles, scars and stains that make a memorable story and, if we let them, reveal a deeper truth of who we are.

Failure and Flaws; words to live by, or Taylor Swift’s next hit?

It is still quite possible that I have fucked much up, and that there is more hard than easy in my horoscope. But hard is not impossible. So, I’m going to breathe, get my ass off the couch, change out of my pajamas and try something different at work, sort through at least one closet and buy that tomato red cardigan; because if I am going to fuck up, I’m at least going to wear the right shade of red.

Forgive Me Father for I Have Sinned

Forgive me father for I have sinned, I lied on the absentee hotline. My reasons were pure of heart. I wasn't trying to play hooky with my son and road trip to Vegas to give him a quirky indie-film experience that defines his life and becomes his college essay. My son was, indeed, ill; but his true malady, I feared, would not be accepted by the administration as a cause for missing school. I just did not feel I could say "my son is absent with depression."

So I said he had a sore throat.

Unfortunately depression does not come with convenient symptoms and physical evidence. An abundance of mucous, vomit or a good old rash would make legitimizing depression so much easier, not just for us parents and the absentee hotline police, but, quite possibly, for the world at large. Disgusting symptoms would also galvanize the germ-o-phobes into some kind of action to get depression more actively treated since gooey excretions suggest the threat of contagion. Sadly, no pun intended, this is not the case. Depression has invisible symptoms like exhaustion, self-loathing, loss of interest in anything; and these can often be mistaken for typical teenage behavior.

So I lied.

I do not regret keeping him home.

He rested, watched a little TV, we talked and he even did some homework. We did the same things we would have done had snot been pouring out of his nose

And my guilt actually has nothing to do with my latent catholicism. I feel guilty because I should have had the balls to say he was out due to depression. I should have taken this harmless baby step towards normalizing an illness that walks through the halls of life with its head down burdened by the weight of shame. I should have risked the mess the fallout was bound to create. The phone calls, the unexcused absence, the drop in points of all late homework, the revoking of his parking pass because his absence was unexcused. I contributed to the devaluing of my son's suffering by not standing up and confidently stating that this was the reason he was home. That is my sin.

For penance I could speak out and speak up, but therein lies another sin; a sin against my son. For this is his not mine to brandish and rage against the machine. His privacy, his daily battle, his reckoning with confusion, anger, shame and acceptance that he drew this straw. My penance is to forever remember his load and his strength; to care for him and teach him how to care for himself. To go out in my pajamas at 9:30 at night to pick up a Wendy's Baconator because that what he needs; and if there happens to be a Dunkin Donuts on the way, a coping donut for myself might be called for as well.

So, forgive me father for my sin. I will reflect and try to mend my ways. Oh, and, by the way, It's been about 33 years since my last confession.