Food for Thought Before Telling Everyone What a GD Great Year 2015 Was

It's Annual Christmas Letter time. I don't, but I know some who do call it, The Annual Lying Letterm and the biggest favorite, The Annual Brag Rag.

People love to write these. We don't get many, I think that's because we're old and all of our friends are as tired as we are, but when people are starting life out new and excited and all the exciting things that are happening, their enthusiasm spills over.

That's Ok. Just, well, think about how it might sound to someone who maybe isn't having such a great time right now. That's all I say about the braggity brag.

However, on the subject of the annual holiday letter. I will confess, I can't get enough of them. I am in love with reading them. It's as good as someone giving me access to all the medicine cabinets in their house. WHAT'S IN THERE.

Like a train wreck, I can't help but look.

Let's begin with assuming that everyone's got a good heart. I know I know, but let's just assume. No one is purposefully boastful, right? I can say this because my husband has had two minor procedures this year, and with each one, as they wheeled him back to me in recovery, I could hear him coming, "our kids, oh you should know this about our kids, they sing they dance they've been to the moon and heading for Mars next year."

He doesn't to make anyone feel like they're the most underachieving family on the planet, he's a good man. But the pride Spilleth.Out. So, let's start this holiday discussion letter (wait-you didn't know you signed up for this? yup you did)

You want us, the ones on the holiday letter receiving end, to know you wish us well and are thinking of us this holiday season. If we start there, the rest will be a walk in the park. Let's begin, with Step One of:

How To Send Holiday Letters Out That Won't Make People Follow Up With a Request To Be Removed From Your Mailing List:

1.) Ask yourself, who are you writing this letter for? Answer yourself honestly. If it's for you, start a diary instead.

2.) Do not write longer than one page. One page. End of it.

3.) No $8.00 words, no matter how recently you learned egregious. 

4.) If you're rolling in dough, you're making money hand over fist, just bought your third house, awesome. BUT plain old happy news, like a new baby, new job, your first home, a first lost tooth on your kindergartner, your teen making the football team, your first writing gig; that's the good stuff we'd love to share your happiness over. But if you've had a bang up year and your home has increased in value over $100,000 again! Some things are best kept for your own private champagne toasts.

5.) It's easier for some of us to share happiness than others. For me, happiness and good things often feel foreign and like I stepped into that weird scene like Gwyneth in Sliding Doors: Ooops! Wrong life! So, your effusiveness (that's only a 4 dollar word, not 8...) may sit with me as bragging. Bragging. Not catching up, but bragging. Bragging.

6.) This suggestion is serious: be sensitive to your audience. Really. If you know of someone who has been trying to find work for most of the year, please don't send out a letter telling them how many times you've been promoted in your own job, or how may headhunters are after your awesomeness. Not nice. Same for a couple struggling with infertility; don't type up sentence after sentence on how everyone in your family is a fertile myrtle and gets pregnant just from the wink of an eye... Must be the water! LOL! This will only be LOL to you.

7.) We know you want to make it fun, but Changing fonts and Shifting color changes leaves me feeling like I've got an undiagnosed brain tumor. And then I'll be too worried about getting an appointment with the neurologist before the New Year because of our medical deductible to pay any attention about your trip to Graceland.

8.) Self deprecation is a great tool. Somehow, I'll listen about little third grade Tommy's history making ACT scores if you tell me how both you and your spouse swear he's not from your litter and was dropped off by aliens.

9.) Count your adjectives:  if you've used wonderful or great more than three times in one paragraph, maybe it's time to feed us some real news.

10.) You can't disguise bragging.

 I promise you that if you follow these suggestions, your Holiday Letter won't be turned into Party Confetti.

Stick to these points, and no one will guess that you're telling us just what a GD good year you had. Even if you sign it, Here's to 2016! Though we can't imagine a better year than 2015 was!

Happy Holidays! (did I tell you my husband surprised me with a new seat cushion for my work chair? HE DID #bestmanintheworld)

 

* * *

Life is Rewarding, but Challenging

I plan on sticking around for the long run. What that means, is that to be here, as long as I can be -- bar an unfortunate early demise -- I need to make changes.

I like my life. Through the unlikable moments bordering on feeling unsurvivable, still, at this moment, things feel good.

If we want to enjoy life as long as we can, there are some things that have to happen, without question. Non negotiables that are required on a daily basis to have the odds be ever in our favor.

The biggest things of the largest crucial impact over time, are basic (basic does not mean easy, look it up):

Eat right. Sometimes (okay a lot for me) that means saying no to Twinkies, or whatever your Twinkies is. Put the Twinkie down and say yes to nuts, fish, raw vegetables, raw fruit, whole grains, and wonderful water. Keep good stuff in the house as in good for you, and leave the Fig Newtons on the shelf at the store. Not easy, that's why I said "challenge."

Move every day. Without question, you need to exercise, or walk, or play catch outside. Get up and off the buttchair. Everyday, rain or snow or too hot or too foggy or too lazy, you move your body and don't go to bed until you do it for 30 minutes at least once that day. Don't be lazy.

Sleep. Skipping sleep to find more time in the day seems like an easy answer. I know it does, but it's not. Time management in your day, with strict limits on how many minutes you spend where, is the only way to find time. Time Management is another way of saying Discipline. Sleep no less than six to eight hours a night. Go to bed.

Company. Oh, watch who you are with. If you can help it. Keep your group filled with encouragers and light bringers. There will be times when those you know need you, and maybe will be not their usual selves -- if you keep yourself strong, you can be there for them, and lift them back up to being where they want to be. But the ones who bring you down with negative comments or wear you out by always finding the worst in situations... reflect on their place in your life, because it can be mentally unhealthy to talk to some people. You may not have to unfriend them, but you could get busy doing other things that keep you fulfilled. This is hard.

Be a good guardian of your mind. This takes work. There is a lot out there that you really don't need to know about. The one in charge of what you see is you. Be aware but watch your sources and your doses. We need to know about our world, without a doubt, but we don't need to know about every single sick act out there. Take care of your soul -- watch what you read, what you listen to, what your ears and eyes fall on. Do not fall for the clickbait.

Find something that takes you into the zenzone. Faith, prayer, meditation, focus, writing, running, playing with your kids, music, community theatre, drawing, baking, singing. That thing that makes time stand still is that thing that recharges you. Find it and disappear into it. It can be what I do. Don't get out of your bed in the morning until you spend two minutes listening to your breath, and feeling who you are. This is an important one.

You can pull everything together by saying, Pay attention to your life. This takes work, and the challenge is to care about the situations we create for ourselves, with our eyes as wide open as we can. The reality is that we are a sum of our daily activities. There are rewards to the challenge of saying yes to the right things.

I want all the time I can get, because old people tell the best stories.

Should add ten years... 

 * * *

10 Minutes on 10 Years: BlogHer14 's 10x10 Project

As part of BlogHer's 10th Anniversary celebration, 13 bloggers were invited to present their perspective on what the last ten years of blogging have been, as well as what they think the next 10 years in blogging will bring. This celebration will honor a group of bloggers who represent so many of our community members, our goals, and our successes. I was incredibly honored to be considered as a BlogHer 10x10 presenter. The following is the text of my presentation. I am forever indebted to my readers, my blogging community, and to BlogHer for this opportunity. I take no part of this journey, especially the amazing people I've met through blogging, for granted.

_______________________________

 

It is an honor to be here as part of BlogHer's 10x10 initiative with the extraordinary bloggers celebrating BlogHer's 10th anniversary. Thank you.

When I was in the first grade, while my sister was at school, I took one of her English books and wrote my name under "author" in black crayon. So the cover of the book read Tales From Shakespeare by Alexandra. I had no idea who Shakespeare was -- all I knew is that I wanted to be the one who told the stories that went with the pictures inside the pages of this book.

 

I have always wished to be a storyteller.

 

One morning in January 2010, my life was about to change. I started a blog, Good Day Regular People. I began typing my first post but right before I hit publish, my palms grew sweaty. Would there be flashing lights, would sirens blare: Imposter Alert! You're not a writer! I pushed publish anyway, and surprise! No computer explosion. Instead, just my first post. I have been blogging and in love with it for close to five years now.

I'd rather not tell you everything but the buzz word these days is “authentic.” So, I am “authentically” sharing here about my blog's first header, or “the top part” as I called it, it was a stock photo of a carp. For carpe diem. Let me just sum everything up this way: ANYONE can start a blog.

That first year of blogging I was like a wobbly legged toddler. Some days I pulled myself along with the help of others, other days it was a lone stagger to independence. Struggling to figure out how to link to other sites, brought to tears because I couldn't get an image to center. And the worst, heart failure after receiving an email about a photo that I used from google images because someone told me that a photo without a watermark meant it was free. It doesn't. A bill for $800 clarified that.

My blog archives house the infamous Week #3 on my blog, where within the span of seven days, I published a nut-free recipe, a self appointed book review, a not so wordless Wednesday, a sonnet, and a post by my then seven year old son. I gave myself Sunday off. I was in a love affair with the publish button. My dashboard had 36 posts lined up and ready to go. Thank God I had the sanity left to know that posting every two hours would have turned me into an blogging urban legend.

But there was something else I learned that first year. The more time you spend with something, the more familiar it becomes and I was learning my way around the dashboard. In my second year, I had a style that was emerging. And as much as looking back on old posts makes me cringe, it also shows me how much I've learned.

I started blogging to tell my stories. What I never expected, was the community of support and encouragement. I have met the best people on the planet. I love these people and if I talk about them anymore, I'll cry.

One day, a reader left a comment on one of my posts, “You should submit this to BlogHer.” I thought, First, How nice are you?? Second, I'm not a writer. And third, I don't know how to submit anything online. But I had to try. Without knowing what uploading a post was, I did it. This was a huge lesson: Don't let lack of technical knowledge hold you back from opportunity - you can learn how to do anything in the world with google. Besides, an afternoon spent in HTML hell just leaves you stronger.

A week later, I received an email from Rita Arens, BlogHer's deputy editor, she said, “We'd like to syndicate your post.” NEVER in a million years, did I think this would happen. I knew Rita from following her on her blog, Surrender, Dorothy. She's a talented, gifted writer. And no push over. On my blog, I didn't even know how to hyperlink yet, but I had done something of my own, and it felt good.

Syndication on BlogHer was the first time that I had been published and the first time someone paid me for my words. It was also the first time that I started to think of myself as a writer. When BlogHer's check came in the mail with their logo up on the left I took it to the bank. Like drove it in my car like a passenger. Again, claiming authenticity, I'll share that I had no choice but to let the teller know that this was a payment for my writing. Because I wrote. Because I was a writer. Who wrote things. And got paid.

On BlogHer's About Page, you'll see this, “... to facilitate and curate a community that empowers our members and creates value for all.” That part “ ...to empower our members. “ BlogHer had just done that for me and I could feel it in my bones. Being syndicated had blown the doors wide open to my life by showing me my value.

BlogHer gave me courage, and I began to write for the purpose of submitting. I sent in my syndicated essay for consideration in a women's anthology, The HerStories Project. This is something far beyond anything I had ever had the confidence to do before BlogHer. My essay was accepted for the anthology and I was now a published author.

In 2011, there was an email in my inbox from BlogHer congratulating me for being chosen to read as a Voice of The Year. I was to present in front of the world's largest social media conference for women. Could I do this? Could I really do this? I opened that email at 7 a.m and I had to spend the rest of the morning at the book fair acting normal when my brain was screaming holy cow I'M BLOGHER VOTY COMMUNITY KEYNOTE! I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time: PRIDE.

San Diego 2011 was my first BlogHer conference. When I arrived my heart was pounding like a rabbit's. I entered the conference hotel lobby and was knocked back by what I saw: so many bloggers! You hear about the numbers that attend BlogHer, but it's not until your first conference that the count becomes real. I froze in the midst of it all. That pesky voice from 2010 came back, Imposter Alert! You don't belong here! I wanted to run for the door and catch the cab back to the airport but when I turned toward the lobby exit, I saw Polly Pagenhart of LesbianDad.

It may have been the early evening sun setting behind her, but I swear there was a halo of light around her head. I recognized Polly, and she recognized me and in a Mother Theresa act of kindness, she stood in front of me and just opened her arms, grinning. Yes, I ran to her. And BlogHer has been like that for me since. Welcoming, enveloping, supportive.

Up until 2011, I had been telling people that all of this good stuff with BlogHer was luck. But that's a disservice to BlogHer. BlogHer is a network of women who offer their knowledge, experience and support. I couldn't keep saying coincidence. It was time to change how I thought about myself.

In 2012, inspired by BlogHer, I took a huge leap. I proposed a panel for BlogHer. It was accepted. In 2013, I got even braver, and co-hosted a BlogHer Room of Your Own. I now had the experience of speaking in front of people several times, so I reached for another mountain. I auditioned to read in a show sponsored by BlogHer called Listen To Your Mother. I made the cast.

Fueled by the experience of working and presenting with BlogHer and Listen To Your Mother, I pushed my limits once more. My passion has always been storytelling and I have long been a fan of TheMoth, the New York-based non-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling. I pitched a story to them and two months later, I heard back. They wanted to talk. It's been two years now that I've toured with them as a mainstage storyteller.

 

I've always felt out of my place in my life, but when I'm on stage, telling a story it feels more like home than anywhere else. Feeling confident from storytelling on stage, I took a deep breath and reached for the stars: I applied to bring Listen To Your Mother to my city. I heard the voice of 2010 again Imposter! but at the same time... I had been taking leaps of faith since I began blogging. And I have been surprising myself since. I was doing things I had never done before. I began reading my essays on our local public radio station. All of this, is something I never would have seen for myself before BlogHer.

I'm NOT going to say I was lucky because that would exclude all of you from the process, and it would negate my part in promoting my work.

But I know that I am here because of support.

I am here because of possibility.

I am here because of opportunity.

I am every blogger who has dreamed bigger things for themselves.

I am what can happen when you plug into the powerful resource that BlogHer is.

Four years ago, I taught myself how to blog because I didn't want to sit and wait for something to happen. Since then, I have entered arenas unfamiliar and daunting, with all of the uncomfortable feelings of doubt that come with growth. I submit my work regularly now, and experience rejection, along with accomplishment. When someone replies to my writing with, “No thank you,” I write them something else. And while I was the one who first put my work where it could be seen, it was through community and support that I now have the life of storytelling that I dreamed of that afternoon forty years ago when I tried to be Shakespeare.

Before BlogHer, I had never been published, nor auditioned, nor presented on stage. BlogHer gave me the opportunity for all of those things. I am doing more than I ever thought I could, and the hugeness of that is bigger than how hard anything is to learn.

BlogHer has been the force behind me. And not just me, but everyone here today. This amazing group of women provide me with opportunity and experience, they've given me community, and resources. I owe them for introducing me, to me. The more I write, the more I get to know myself.

Today, BlogHer asks, What will the next ten years of blogging bring? That answer depends on what we say yes to.

Submit your writing for Voices of the Year, send your posts for BlogHer syndication, propose your ideas for BlogHer panels and a Room of Your Own. Reach out and connect -- you have an incredible opportunity while you're here at this conference. And if you don't find what you're looking for, create it.

Continue to work and to get your work in front of people.

The 10x10 presenters are here today because they are extraordinary people with extraordinary stories.

I'm not extraordinary as much as I am someone who represents the possibilities in all of us to do things we've never done. I rode the wave of confidence that BlogHer instilled in me, their acknowledgment and recognition of my work translated into powerful belief in my ability.

Ten years ago, Elisa, Lisa, and Jory, set into motion a world of community and opportunity for women in social media. They have encouraged and supported me and thousands of others, and because of that, lives have changed.

BlogHer, you taught me that just because I haven't done something before doesn't mean I can't learn how to do it now. As a little girl who wished with all her heart to one day be someone who told stories, my life is like a dream. To not only have that, but to also stand before you today, and tell of the journey leaves me overcome, and grateful. I am living my passion.

THANK YOU, BlogHer, for a decade of empowerment, opportunity, deep friendships, and your support. 

You made me believe in myself, and you helped me find my people.  

 

I am indebted, and I wish you a very Happy 10^th Anniversary.

 

* * *

How To Take a Good Picture

I used to think that you needed to take a photography class at your local community college before you could learn to take a good picture. Skills? For what? Things have pretty much whittled down to nothing more than selfies anyway. A photo of you, a decent one, is all you really need to know how to do.

 

Tired of pictures showing me with three chins and a forehead looking like it was lined with ten earthworms, I googled a youtube tutorial. After just 58 seconds of How To Take That Selfie I was ready to hit the ground running.

What I learned was pretty basic, and yet, it had escaped me. I feel confident enough to say that I can now take pictures of my family and my face without filling up my iPad with 1,349 photos -- which is how it's been going.

All you really need to do is to capture who you are. PERSONALITY. Personality is what blinds the camera. When you're no longer young, the camera doesn't let you forget that. So, be you with a capital Y and tell a story with your face. That's the key to watching your photogenicity... ty... ty go straight through the roof.

I know, I know, you've been told by photography sites that you need to get Up Close! But, not in a selfie case. Distance is your friend. And more than ten feet away, is your lover. Well, really, you can do it two ways, now that I remember. Get SOOPER close, where just like an 1/8 inch patch of your face shows, or get far far away, like across the street and a block away. That works great, too.

And finally, go against all photo sites, yet again. No need to “hold it, hold it, steady now...” You want a shaky cam because a shaky cam is a blurred image. And a blurred image works like that $80 dollar bottle of lotion for your face that promises ten years off in 79.4 days. You can call them “caught in the action” shots, a beautiful hurried moment in your busy busy important life. I know them as Thermalift in camera form.

Having doubts about my advice? It's tried and true, see for yourself. I post selfies on FB all day long:

 

 

Sorry, I've got no advice about any messes in the background. Except clean it up. Or keep it real. Either way.

 

* * *

 

10 Breathtaking Moments in My Life

Throughout this post, I will be as accurate as I can about the people involved, the description of the event, and the words that were spoken. I'm posting these here not because I like to brag but because when I remember these humbling moments I am in awe with the beauty that has been in my life. I  knew I needed to record something as ethereal as this, because I was afraid that I would forget their fleeting perfection... and that would feel like losing my diamond ring.  

Life can sometimes knock the wind out of you but it can just the same, bring you back.

--One night when Alec was about three or four, just as his lashes were fluttering with near sleep, he grabbed my hand and said, "Mommy, take my hand, I want you to come to my dreams with me."

--After college, one of my first jobs was at a weight loss clinic. A woman came in, struggling with her slow progress and in tears. I knelt in front of her and told her what counted was being aware and looking at how much she had not given into rather than how much weight she had lost -- that was what was important. She looked up at me startled and said, "I wish I could ask for you every time..."

--I was a waitress and short order cook at a burger/beer place while in college. On certain weekends, a young dad would come in with his two little girls and one little boy. I never knew their names and they never knew mine. They would sit quietly and always order the same thing off the menu: hot dogs with no bun, and a side of sliced potatoes. One day, the quiet little boy spoke to me through a mouth spilling with food, "This is the only place we tell our dad we'll go when he has us because you're here. You make good hot dogs, ma'am."

--During my senior year in college, I was having a hard time in a statistics class. I met with a tutor weekly and I checked in with my professor almost every other day. I spent hours every night just to keep up. At the end of the school year, I barely squeaked out with a B- after 10,000 hours of work. As I left the class for the last time, the professor said to me, "If I could give A's for most effort, it would be to you."

--Last summer, I had gone for a walk with my middle boy, who is a pensive young man who weighs his words. We were walking for an hour when I asked him if he wanted to go back home now. He answered no, that he wanted to just keep talking.

--When I was single, I lived in a modest apartment complex that also was home to a few elderly tenants. There was an older man in the apartments and I would see him take an early morning walk at the same time that I would leave for work. He would see me in my cranberry colored Toyota and wave, I would wave back. For the years that I lived there, I would find a basket of candy for every holiday on my car. I never knew who the baskets were from. One morning I came out of my building to see the old man who walked waiting for me by my car. He told me that he was moving and that the baskets had been from him. "I just want to say good bye to you," he said, and then he began to cry and touched my cheek before he walked away.

--One night I had been crying over what I saw as me not being the kind of mother that one of my children needed me to be. My sister was visiting and heard me say that my boy would fare better with a different type of mother. In a firm voice she said to me, "There is NO one better for him than you. You are exactly what he needs from a mother." She said it with such conviction that I stopped mid-sob and to this day, I believe her.

--Every day, my youngest child tells me I have to exercise 30 minutes, never start smoking and to not text while I drive because, "I need you to be here with me for more things."

--I had just finished reading a story to my middle child that I had written about my grandmother. When I was through, I looked up at him to see what he thought. He said nothing but his eyes were wide and shiny with tears.

--When my mother passed away, I was the one who took care of her papers and putting her writing and notes in order and sending them on to my brothers and sisters. I was flipping through her notebooks when I was stopped by the sight of my name in the pages. In an entry written in Spanish from 30 years ago, she had written, "... you are stubborn like your father and will not listen to anyone. You remain cold and I promise to do the same. But I went to see you today and when I looked into your eyes, those dark eyes of yours that are so beautiful and endless... and it was the same as with your father, I forgive you everything."

Breathe your days in deep, there are so many moments that give us oxygen.

xo

* * *

Milwaukee's Back!

The Listen To Your Mother Show, a nationally acclaimed live reading series in celebration of Mother's Day founded by Ann Imig of annsrants, has just released its list of cities hosting LTYM shows in 2014.


There are 32 shows participating this year and I am honored to announce that Jennifer Gaskell and I are once again proudly bringing LTYM to Milwaukee!

For full show travel schedule and to see if there is an LTYM show near you, click here.

Watch this site for details and follow Listen To Your Mother on Facebook and twitter for other announcements. To whet your appetite for what 2014 will bring you, watch last year's shows on LTYM's youtube channel. 

You all know, these shows are amazing. If you have a chance to see one, don't miss it. You'll be talking about it until you see the show again the next year.

Promise.

The mission of each LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER production is to take the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates mothering through giving voice to motherhood–in all of its complexity, diversity, and humor.
LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER aims to support motherhood creatively through artistic expression, and also financially–through contributions to non-profit organizations supporting families in need.

  LTYM Milwaukee's own Rebecca Christman reading in LTYM 2013 (we are so FREAKIN' proud)

Mayhem in Six Minutes, or Before You Pick Up That Glow Stick

We were driving home from my youngest's soccer game on Sunday, when NPR's This American Life had us all shushing each other to catch the story that Ira Glass introduced with, "... when things go wrong. Really wrong. When you leave the normal realm of human error, fumble, mishap, and mistake and enter the territory of really huge breakdowns. Fiascos. Things go so awry that normal social order collapses. This week's show is a philosophical inquiry in the nature of fiascos —  when something simple and small turns horribly large."

Hooked, line and sinker, into the stories, we didn't go straight home but instead drove around so that we could hear the things we knew we would relate to so well. The fiasco, when in the snap of a finger, things go out of control and all moments become ones of no sense.

Halfway through the 60-minute show, I turned the radio volume down and shaking my head, I asked, "Do you all remember our fiasco??"

Today's theme: Fiasco.

It had been a quiet evening home, not a sound in the house, I was on the computer and my oldest, Alec, was on the sofa reading. The youngest, Auggie, was upstairs with the middle boy, Xavier; I assumed playing video games.

In the middle of this peace, I hear a shriek, then guttural cries, then screaming of OH MY GOD! Tripping over my chair, visual images flashed before my eyes of broken glass, even though I didn't hear anything shatter. Glass glass glass is all I can imagine -- one of my boys falling through the glass shower door. What else could it be? My oldest was pushing me out of the way to get ahead of me, shouting as he hurled over the steps, "We had a paramedic come in once last year in junior year! I know what to do!" Meant to make me feel better, I'm sure. But the scene we had here was our legs moving as slow as molasses while we heard two boys primally shrieking in the bathroom that had lots of glass shower doors all the way around. And the back of the second floor never seemed so far away.

With both of us pushing the bathroom door open so hard it hit the shower door, my oldest and I see the littlest on the floor, curled up while crying out insanely, covering both his eyes like he's just gotten his hands on a 1959 Home Science Kit where things had gone horribly wrong with sodium sulfate. The middle boy is shouting and hopping like the floor is on fire, his wild eyes tell me he's detaching from reality. I'm shouting above the din, "What the hell happened! Someone tell me what the hell happened!" But no one can answer... it's all, madness.

Fits the criteria for fiasco so far.

Answering my question would have helped so much at this time, but there is only wailing and spasms and more rolling on the floor. My mind is racing as I check the horrible possibilities. Did he drink mouthwash? Did he think it would be fun to spritz my Guess perfume into his  mouth? Did my middle boy lose his temper and hurt the little one? Did they hurt each other. But there are no answers, just sounds like an injured coyote.

I grab the middlest and through gritted teeth command TELL ME WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED! He answers me with I don't knows I don't knows. I keep shaking his shoulders, he keeps giving me more I don't knows.

It's clear now, Fiasco, and we are in the thick of it.

The oldest boy's voice suddenly grows 50 octaves deeper and pierces the wails, TELL MOM YOU GUYS! and adds the first ever heard to my ears from him, swear words. He's been spending some time with the masters, that much is clear. But despite the swears, no one snaps into shape. There's just more out of body cries, screams. The level of pandemonium and freakedoutness cannot be imagined. There are bodies tripping over each other and legs sticking up in the air and so much yelling. I am starting to see dark spots before my eyes like you see right before you pass out from hyperventilating. Oh my God. FIASCO.

The only action I can think to take is threat level orange (no sense, I know) "If you don't tell me what happened I'll call 911!"

Even louder screaming erupts, but I need clarification, damnit. I demand from middlest, "Did you hit him? And why are you screaming? Did you both touch electricity with wet hands?" (don't ask, I didn't know what my brain was sending out of my mouth at this time.)

Finally, littlest screeches between slobbery gasps, "I crack-opened a glow stick! And now I'm blind! I'm blind with pain and squishing my eyes so tight from THE PAIN!"

The room starts to spin, "YOU'RE BLIND?? You mean you really can't see?? OH MY GOD!!"

I turn to middlest, "Why are you screaming? Are you blind, too? Did you both get juice on you? How many are hurt? Where did the rest of the juice go??" because the first rule of a Fiasco situation is that all victims are accounted for.

He answers, "I'm screaming because there's microscopic GLASS crystals in there and he's blind! That's how they work, right? The crystals are glass and they glow and OH MY GOD it EXPLODED in his eyes!"

What? Glass? What? Did they say glass? SHIT. I knew it, Glass, I saw it in my visions! Then, more frightening shrieks from littlest, "Is it going to seep behind my eyes -- the glass liquid juice -- will the glass cut my brain?? Noooooooooooooo!"

Full on and out of control twilight zone fiasco. Screaming, fear of blindness, claims of impending death due to pain F.I.A.S.C.O. Along with hints of glass shards. GLASS.

Reality of what's happening starts to unfold in my mind, I need to get busy. I push youngest into the shower over everyone's body parts and I corral him under the water, shouting "Keep your eyes wide open and stare into that shower head and rinse it all out. RINSE ALL THE GLOW STUFF OUT! Just like in Clockwork Orange!"

"Like what, mom?"

"Never mind. Shit. Alec, you stay with him, Xavier, you tell me what happened! Auggie, stay in that shower!"

Xavier stammers out, "We were in here where it's dark so we could see the glow necklace and h-h-h-h-he snapped it like you're supposed to to activate it but it opened and..."

"And the glop shot straight to my EYES!" I hear littlest from inside the decontamination unit. "Like it was AIMING for my eyes -- AIMING! *gurglegurgle* and I didn't even have my hands near my face to shield my eyes and the juice shot straight to my EYES! Am I going to be blind? I don't want to be blind! I don't want to be blind, mama!,'' his little boy water filled cries echo in the stall and break my heart.

I fly down the stairs and start banging at the computer. I don't know what to google first.

• "Death by glow juice."
• "Blindness by glow juice."
• "Is glow juice dangerous."
• "What to do with glow juice explosion."

I frantically settle on the ugliest: "Will my baby be blind."

My fingers are tripping over each other on the keyboard. Yahoo! has an entire page of "Help! Glow Juice in eyes!" As I start skimming through the entries, I slowly start breathing again. They all gloriously say the same thing: "Hurts like a mofo, stings, but no death." "Happened to me at a Rave. No blindness, dood." "You'll be all right. Just sucks, especially if you're high."

I head back upstairs with the good news, still wobbly legged, but able to breathe, finally. "He's okay!," I manage to eke out. "You're okay, honey!"

Only then do I begin to hear my oldest son's voice booming above the pounding of the shower water, "MOM! I said, STOP. GOOGLING. I know so many kids that have gotten glow juice in their eyes at parties and dances. It's safe. He won't be blind. MOM!"

"What? Why didn't you tell me?" I'm in the bathroom now and begin yelling again.

"Secrets. And anyway I was shouting but you wouldn't listen! I said OMG STOP GOOGLING MOM. I told you I know someone, kids at dances. Even hand sanitizer in their eyes. He'll be okay."

"Hand sanitizer?"

"Yeah, just throwing that out there."

Fiasco confirmed.

Letting out a relieved sigh, I turn to the middlest, who was screaming louder than the littlest during the peak of the mayhem. "What were you so crazy about?"

He gasps a deep breath as if he's just broken through the surface of the Pacific Ocean, "Auggie was cracking a glow stick to get it to work and I was sitting by him and then he started screaming so I looked and he was covering his eyes and there was glow juice all over the floor and he was crumpled on the floor covering his eyes and then I started screaming too because it's Made in China and he was covering his eyes and who knows if glow juice is like those dog tag necklaces you never let us wear because they're Made in China and have lead in them and I thought he had sizzled out his eyes 'cause he was covering them and obviously in my panic, not realizing no one, not even China, would put things on the market that cause blindness as a child's toy. But you said, Mom, you said cheap products from party store catalogs like those petrolatum filled orbs, though they are cool and a fun time, are dangerous and carcinogenic. So, yeah, I started screaming and running around and I was worried Auggie's eyes were in dangerrrrrrrrr."

Oh, yes, Fiasco. With a capital effin' F.

From start to finish, the Glow Stick Fiasco probably only took six minutes, but enough time for lessons to be learned. Open the glow stick behind one's back from now on. My son has become the finger wagging community educator on Glow Stick Cracking. Yes, my fourth grade friends, this could happen to you.

Surviving a fiasco: unified by the sense of relief, that though things got crazy, we're all thankfully okay. A true fiasco, where all social structure and reason for resultant actions breaks down and the moments within, make no sense. Running around like chickens with our heads cut off, or at least our retinas day-glowed.

Ira? Pick up the phone, I've got a good one for you.

* * *

Forget a Clean House and Home-Cooked Meals, This is the Mama I Want To Be

Found this on the internet, it's short and sweet, and made me smile with a little bit of watery eyes. Because this is what a really cool mom is... and I don't want to forget it. *loooove :51

Better Than Tony Robbins

**thank you to my children, who always come home saying, "Mom! I found something you'll like!" xo

When you get down, and need help getting back up. When the usual sources of inspiration, motivation just can't pep you up this time.

When you wish for victory! Triumph!

Give this a listen, two minutes later, and you're shouting out your front door I CAN DO THIS!
This makes me cry happy tears today.
Today... today we draw the line!
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Don't Want To Disappoint the Hispanic Seekers

With thanks to Jenni Chiu, for the inspiration.

-----------------
At the end of the day, my kids and I like to see what google searches bring people over to this blog. The searches are always a surprise and we try to figure out what post brings "Fat bottomed mom" and "Hoarder's house" seekers to the yard.

This week, I've had a couple of "What do Spanish people look like?"" and "Are Latinas too short for ponchos?"

I don't want anyone disappointed by what they find when they land here on this blog, so the call to help these people seeking answers to their searing questions that are important enough for them to turn to google at 1 a.m. is loud and clear.

I will help you.

You want to know what Spanish people look like?

Easy.

They look like this:



Blonde and blue-eyed, like my son.

or like this:

  Dark haired and green-eyed, like my other son.

 Sometimes, Spanish people look like this:

Dark haired, brown-eyed, olive skinned.

You can also find Spanish people with tan colored skin, and hazel eyes.

 Like this son.

If you want to know what Spanish people look like, sometimes they're beautifully copper, like my cherished nephew, Tomas.

This is what we look like in a group.

 
So, dear "What do Spanish people look like," I sincerely hope your search here has helped you to see that Spanish people can be light, dark, in between, straight haired, curly haired, blue eyed, brown eyed.

My apologies, also, for this long winded post, when I really could have just quenched your google thirst for information regarding Spanish people with one sentence, "The women are the most beautiful in the world and the men are like Greek gods."

Now, as for "Are Latina women too short to wear ponchos?," this is a serious matter. Please google search "Are short white women too short to wear ponchos?," this should lead you to "Carnivorous Blanket: how to avoid."

Happy searching!

* * *

Care.com is a great site, featuring resources for health care, parenting tips, and more. Check out their fun feature today, where I and eight other bloggers, let you in on the Halloween costumes we survived as children.

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Like Seeing Green for the First Time

The last week before my mother died, she acted so differently.

I was taking her for rides daily. With the windows down and the wind blowing in, from her passenger seat she'd stare at the sky and ask, "Have you ever seen such a blue sky? So pure and clear." When we drove past the many farmers' fields in my small town, she'd tell me to look, "See that green? The grass is a green like I've never seen." One day when the temperatures were in the 90's, I started to roll the car window up so I could put the air conditioning on for her, she asked me to leave the windows down, because "The air is so fresh like water on my face."

One of her favorite things to do had become for me to take her on a rustic road where wild lilies grew. She'd ask me to pull over and pick "just one" and she'd hold it, staring at its center, saying over and over in Spanish, "What a beautiful flower. Have you ever seen such  glory?"

With my children at the lake, she'd marvel at the clouds and loved sitting and staring at shapes. Excited, she'd point and call to my son, Xavier, "That one looks like a little rabbit!" She had stopped talking in English to the children about two weeks before then, and it was all Spanish now. When I spoke to her, I'd catch her staring at my face like she had never seen me before, the way she would look at the paintings at the art museum where she would take us when we were little. My heart fell when it occurred to me that possibly, she was beginning to not recognize us anymore, but her answers back to my questions were quick, witty, and right on track, and she knew it was me she was talking to. 

The day before she passed away, I remember being surprised to the point of laughing out loud, when I told her one of our shared, secret pleasures: gossip on a thorn in my side woman. My mother had been semi-conscious for several days, and I leaned in, telling her the latest antics on this less than kind person, when in the quiet of the room where you heard nothing but the small fan whirring, cooling her face, she burst out with a "Ha!" At that moment, I had never felt more grateful, more honored, more proud, to have the gift of humor. 

She laughed, like laughter had become her oxygen. Our youngest, Auggie, would dance for her, wiggling with his butt facing her, and shouting "Activities!" and she'd almost choke from the sputtering joy. It became so important for her to hold my hand while I drove. Equally important, she had to touch my children's faces every day that she saw them.

She acted like she's never acted before, serene, tranquil. She took notice of everything, it was as if her prayer that day had been, Be aware. Be Aware.

One day while driving, as she said so softly to herself in Spanish, "The green of that grass... look how green, like emeralds," I remember my stomach clenching, as I realized it. I looked at her while she stared out of her window, and I remember thinking, in disbelief at how soon it was going to be, she knows she's going to die. Because she hung on to everything as if she knew she'd never see it again. But it wasn't desperation, it was wonder. I opened my mouth to ask her, but I was too scared.

It's so sad, with all I've had to do, I haven't had time to reflect on the days before her death.

I kept a notebook of this time with her because I knew I had to -- the air felt lit, magical, and no doubt I was in the thick of something rare. One morning, with eyes closed, she pointed to something behind her. At 4 a.m., the day before she passed away, she reached for my face while I was reading to her, and though her eyes were closed, her hand found my chin, and she held it, making a croaking sound. I will never not remember it.

She tried without success to open her mouth and say something to my children the day they came to say good-bye; as weak as she was, she willed herself to put her shaking hands together in prayer and made a whimpering sound. I saw the corners of her mouth turn down, in sadness, and it broke me. She didn't want to leave them. I keep saying over and over, She doesn't want to leave them.

When my mother and I were alone during those last days, I lay next to her and stroked her hand, telling her, "Mama, the books the nurses gave me here say you can hear me. I'm so sorry for your life. I'm sorry for the childhood you had. I'm sorry your husband killed himself and you were left alone in a new country, with six children, one of them just born. I'm so sorry you came to the United States where your life has always been too hard for you. I'm so sorry, mama. I love you, and thank you for taking care of us, for being so good to my children, for saving me from post partum depression. You had newborn Alec crying in your arms, and me crying on your shoulder. You came to see me every day when I didn't know how I was going to make it through the next hour with that first baby. Remember? You saved me, mama, from the most terrifying time in my life. You saved me. Thank you, mama."

And when I finished, there was silence, except for her dry tears being the only sound.

 

Her last days were complex, and simple, and astounding.

The end of the indestructible woman that my mother was.

When we called her church of over forty years and told them of her death, you could hear their reaction from across the room, "Leonor? Oh, no!"

I wanted to say, "I KNOW. None of us can believe it."

Who can believe it.

I still don't. It's the abruptness of death, no matter how slow it is in coming, that leaves me bewildered. Even as I sit, sorting through the packed boxes of her things as evidence around me that she is gone, I shake my head hoping something falls into place, that allows the permanency of this condition, to sink in.

* * *

Suggested Visualizations for Those Averse to Exercise

photo credit: alternatePhotography via photopin cc

There are some things you'll never hear me say when it's time to do what I've put off doing until I can't put it off anymore (besides dishes, laundry, beds, cleaning, emails, cooking...) 

When I wait up until almost midnight, and the day is almost gone and I keep hoping I'll just do it already and then comes the hour in which it can no longer remain not done.

The minutes go by and I sigh and reach for the running shoes and change into the non binding clothes, that wouldn't be so binding if I would just do it.

It's time to exercise.

I don't like to exercise. My children take sympathy and lend me their playlists, they keep me company, walk with me, tell me jokes while I'm on the dreadmill, face their dogs downward alongside me, but I don't like it. It's not fun, I have no energy, it takes up a HUGE chunk of time -- something I'm already way too short of.


But, but but but, if I don't do it, I don't like the way my thighs start to sound like butter being whipped in a bowl, I don't like how I can feel my stomach jiggle when I drive over potholes, I don't like how I can see my batwings in the periphery when I wave good-bye to my children when they leave in the morning.

There's also that small thing about staying alive to see my grandchildren.

And so, armed (ha!) with all these reasons, I drag my floppiness off the couch and go exercise.

It's not easy to motivate me and one tactic that has always worked as a fire under my butt, ever since I was a little girl, is fear. Scare tactics. Frighten me out of my skull, that's my love language.

I'm sharing with those of you today, anyone out there like me, who would rather scrape paint off the outside of a house while on a 9-foot ladder under a 95 degree noon day sun with only warm berry-flavored Gatorade to sip, my list of Powerful Imitation Tony Robbins-Like Fear Factor Visualizations to get that adipose on the active track.

This is what I think of when I don't want to just do it! **Print it out, put it up, carry it with you, commit it to memory:

• 1.  I imagine what my body looks like if I were to see myself bare naked, running, in slow motion. Right? This'll have you moving in no time.

• 2.  See yourself naked again, but this time standing on your head. Boom. You've just upped the dreadmill to 4mph.

• 3.  Imagine what innocent bystanders would be subjected to if a sudden gust of summer wind blew your sweet new flirty skirt up while at the Friday morning farmer's market. You love people too much for this to assault their eyes, don't you? Now adding a 1.5 incline to dreadmill.

• 4.  I don't want to see me miss a summer day not at the pool with my kids. It doesn't take much, and I don't ask for much. Just a few more planks in the morning, alternate sides, three minutes each. That's all we need.

• 5.  See myself being okay wearing the tank tops of summer. I'm not seeing an image here with arms that look like rubber bands, just a little hoisting of the lunch lady flaps, and I'm good.

• 6.  I want to keep seeing myself clutching my chest in front of my kids because I'm around to hear the sweet things they say to me, not because I need the new defibrillators our auxiliary fire department just purchased.

• 7.  While I'm on my fifty minute of exercise with ten more to go, I see my heart beating and growing strong and suddenly, I know just what The Grinch felt when his heart grew three sizes that day.

• 8.  I see my legs getting strong enough to still outlast my husband and the kids on our bike rides and this one is super important to me because I never want them to have to stop mid-trail and turn around and to shout "ya comin', mom?"

• 9.  I like to see the BIG FIVE benefits of exercise flash before my eyes, lined up in bold black old-school capital letters. Look them up on google... they're tremendous.

• 10. You won't look them up, will you. That's why I did it for you:

     1.) The force of blood pumping through your arteries and veins cleans out and dislodges fat. Picture it.
     2.) Heart pumping makes your heart, which is a muscle, get good and strong. See it flexing.
     3.) Exercise creates endorphins! Feel good hormones! Better than getting your Prozac doubled.
     4.) Physical activity uses up stress hormones, like cortisol and adrenaline, and now they have      somewhere to go instead of running around your body shouting "where do we go? where do we go?" Believe me, you feel them when they're trapped inside.
     5.)  Burning an extra 100 calories a day loses 10 pounds of weight a year. Burning 200 calories a day is 20 pounds a year! 300 calories a day is 30 pounds a year! I like to play this game and go through the possibilities in my head up to 10,000 calories a day.

One visualization I battled over sharing or not and finally decided what the heck, we're all family here.

Me in last year's swim suit -- if they made the skirt any longer on that thing it'd be a berka.
   

 * * 

Digital Trails: Results of My Cyber Surveillance

If you're on the internet, surf the web, send texts, update your Facebook page, use email, call on your cell phone, use a credit or debit card, watch TV, download movies, order through Netflix or pick something off Hulu, there exists the very real chance of cyber surveillance.

You don't even have to be somebody.

I listened to a program on NPR this morning on what type of information is gathered from our online interactions, and do you know what this data on us is called? Collected intelligence.

And though I know this is serious business, and we are right to demand details and origin of requests for anything on us that is done without our knowledge or consent, I have to feel sorry for anyone official who is assigned to monitor my digital discards.

Collected intelligence?

If you say so.

More like oh my gosh if I have to survey this woman one more minute I am going to stick my head in a blender. Someone, please, send help to this poor woman now. Also probably likelier I should apologize to them than them to me for, you know, the undisclosed spying.

I imagine their Captain's log on me would go like this:

-6:45 AM Subject calls school, inquiring as to whether or not this is last week of school for children, or if next week is. School promises to send school calendar to her again, via email.

-7:30AM Logs on to computer, attempt made for four minutes to clean out email, opts to log into twitter instead.

-7:45 AM - 8:55 AM  *ALERT! ALERT!* Continuously bounces back from twitter to Facebook, as if she is looking for important communication. UPDATE: False alarm. Merely checking and hoping for retweets and likes.

-9:05 AM Child's school calls. Child has forgotten lunch at home, please bring. She will bring right over.

-9:20 AM Logs off computer.

-9:29 AM Logs back on computer

-10:03AM Target calls. Wondering where client is since store opened three minutes ago and she's not at door. Bags of sliced apples on sale, two for a dollar.

-10:33 AM McDonald's emails. Did she receive BOGO McCafe coupon in mail? They missed her this morning.

-10:45 AM Returns books to library. Tape receipt of overdue fines shows would have been cheaper to purchase DVDs.

-11:55 AM Child's school calls. Where is lunch? Subject promises and swears she'll bring lunch to school in two minutes.

-11:57 AM About to leave house to bring requested lunch, but runs back in to Google "Are round toed shoes still in style?" before she walks into child's school.

-12:01 PM Uses drive-thru at McDonald's for Happy Meal. Subject asks to speak to manager when drive thru clerk won't allow NonFat Iced Mocha as substitute drink with Happy Meal.

-12:03 PM Pays for $2.99 Happy Meal with debit card. Order total comes to $11.31 as subject decides she needs two NonFat Iced Mochas.

-12:12 PM Delivers lunch to school. Parks in Bus Zone Only lane. Throws bag of McDonald's to child. Child has eight minutes left to eat.

-12:25 PM Subject drops off four bags of clothing to Goodwill, completes receipt for said donation online, as husband has requested for tax keeping purposes. Decides to just have a look-see inside, returns to car with more bags of clothes than what she removed from home.

-12:59 PM Subject returns home and google searches for Dunkin' Donuts rant she saw referenced on twitter. Disgusted enough to watch it twice. Decides depressing nature of Dunkin' Donuts link is reason enough to search for "funny kitten videos."

-1:46 PM Decides to forego dishes in sink and do yoga instead. Googles RodneyYee Beach Yoga youtube. Gets distracted by 'Ron Yee Illicit Affair' headline. 30 minutes pass as well as allotted time for yoga. Only enough time for quick microwave cheese bread before school pick up.

-2:20 PM Remembers how children arrive home hungry from school. Opens refrigerator, sees three slices of deli turkey. Runs to store, buys rotisserie chicken for dinner. Feels hungry therefore determines children also feel hungry. Runs back and gets two more deli chickens. Pays with credit card. Earns a penny off a gallon of gas up to fifteen gallons due to spending history on deli chicken. 

-2:30 PM Realizes husband has to be two places at same time and makes several frantic call and hang ups to husband's cell phone. Uses up what is left of air time, unable to leave message telling him only way to pick up son # 2 from swim and son #3 from soccer is to break the law. *ALERT! ALERT!Subject arranging illegal activity! UPDATE: Cancel alert, she just wants him to drive really fast.

-2:55 PM Texts teen son to apologize for being ten minutes late to pick up. Can he start walking home and she'll meet him half way? Subject sees son walking home and decides to creeper stalk from behind while texting him "This is Freddy Krueger."

-3:20 PM Teen son eventually picked up. Subject drops teen son off at gym. Goes in and pays monthly dues that are two months late. Realizes she is trying to pay with library card. Runs out to car for credit card. Pays with debit card instead. Gets home and realizes she paid with debit card. Calls gym back and asks for balance transfer to credit card not debit card. She is told change must be made in person. Rushes back to gym, stopping to drop youngest son at soccer on way to dropping middle son at swim on way to pick up oldest son from gym on way to pay gym fees with credit card. Chicken for dinner from this afternoon's stop at grocery store is botulising in trunk.

-3:39 PM Does google search "Chicken. Death. Children. How long."

*NOTE TO INFORMATION RECORDER: Suggest we terminate surveillance at this point. Data gathering resulting in unusual amount of recording material, labor, and time required for documentation. Subject's activities of no sound interest to anyone and appear to be without importance to any organization.

"...internet companies such as google, facebook, and yahoo are taking what they learn from search requests, such as Like buttons and using it to analyze a browser's preferences, tailoring ads and suggestions to their interests. Web surfing, tracking devices on mobile phones, companies defend this data mining as a consumer benefit." ~ Edmonton Journal

* * * 

What The Heck I'm Just Going To Post My Haiku

Telling you about
the peace of five seven five
found in lines of three
 
I have grown and blossomed into my true self since beginning blogging.

I no longer hide who I am in hopes of not offending, being rejected, judged.

Ack, who knows, maybe it's not blogging to thank, but age.

Whatever the route that's led me to myself, I'm here to tell you that I like haiku.

And my kids love haiku because as soon as they could clap out syllables and count to seven, I taught them the fun of laying them out in lines of three. We wait our turn in check out lines or in dentist's waiting rooms, and we haiku our time away.

Haiku 101: so you get what floats my boat: 5-7-5 syllable count on three separate lines.

Like this:

So you want to know
The secret to finding sleep
Go to bed when tired

I fully realize no one may be reading this post at all, and you know what? Writing haiku is so much fun that's okay!

There will come the time
When my house will be so clean
I'll take the kids, thanks

Have I whet your appetite?

Knocking at the door
Me in pj's and slippers
Can you please leave now?

I've been thinking in haiku (shuttup, it can be a language) ever since my third grade teacher, Mrs. Sproul, mapped some examples out on the green blackboard for our class. Smitten, entranced, I couldn't wait to run home and pull my notebook out from under my bed and do some more.

I tried to teach it to my Spanish grandmother and it went over like a lead balloon. Yeah. She'll take the Romeo and Julietness of Pablo Neruda any day.

"Loving is so short, but the forgetting is so long."

She's right, if it's the physical ache that words can bring you seek, then maybe, no, haiku won't cut it.

I like my thoughts like me: simple and easily amused. Pain free. Like haiku.

Thank you so much for reading here today. Stay tuned for more adventures in growth and maturation when next week Ima tell you about my unabashed love for bluegrass music.

So, go on, dig out the Pure Prairie League cassettes and meet me back here.

xo

If you dig haiku like I do, two must follows on FB and twitter are @suburbanhaiku and @haikuvents.

* * *

How Our Society Raises Young Boys

I've been told that I take things beyond where they need to go.

Getting up from a comfortable position on the sofa -- and living in Wisconsin, that means removing a warm quilt off my lap -- I will walk across a room and without saying a word, pick up the remote to change the channel if a commercial comes on that demeans women.

We won't watch it.

When the few magazines that we subscribe to come to the house, my three boys know I get them first, to check the pages for inappropriate portrayals of women. Sometimes only half the magazine is left when I'm through.

We won't read it.

If lyrics come on the radio while we're driving, screaming about what a woman is for and what to do to her, I'll push the button down on the radio to turn it off like I'm sending it through the dashboard.

We won't listen to it.

My children don't roll their eyes when I do this, because they're used to it. I've been doing it since they can remember, and telling them why. It is my way of showing them what we accept, and what we don't accept, when it comes to respect for women. I read, they read, we all hear things on the radio and we see the same thing on the internet. "This is society and its portrayal of women. This is our culture. This is how it is." The headlines report atrocities like Steubenville as if we're not even to examine this epidemic of toxic attitudes.

I can't control society, the images of violence against women, women being shown as a lesser worth, but I can make a visual statement of what I think about the things I see. I am the first woman my children have ever known. They look to me for what is right and what is wrong, and what I accept. I have always believed that children will watch what we do more than listen to what we say. So I'll keep doing what I'm doing, because it's my job.

Can I manage everything about my three boys, especially as two of them will be leaving our home for college, both within two years? I know I can't. But I am determined to continue with my one- household revolution.

Because there must be a revolution.

A revolution of what our culture accepts in what is right and wrong in the treatment of women. Our house is the first society my children see, and here at home, they will see respect for women and taking responsibility through action for what we allow to enter into our world. I'll keep taking things beyond where they need to go, as people tell me I do, because one day when my children are without me, the memories of my physical actions will ping at their conscience like a snapping rubber band. They'll see me, walking across the living room in search of that remote, tearing the pages out of the magazines, turning off the radio. Taking that stand against females not only in words but in deeds, when women are put in positions that objectify them, and I'll tell them why I do what I do. Because this is not acceptable.

My children may read, hear, and see, "This is how women are portrayed in our culture. Accept it, you can't change it," but in my small big louder than words way and in front of three boys who will one day be men, they will see, that no, we don't have to accept it -- not in this house we don't.

* * *

Mama's Comfort Camp

My friend Yael Saar is a mama on a mission to remove guilt and shame from parenting in order to make room for joy and love. With this in mind, she created Mama's Comfort Camp, and this month, she is celebrating the one year anniversary of this baby -- and I don't think she's been prouder of any other thing in her life.

She is the Founder and Keeper of the Mama’s Comfort Camp, a Facebook community that functions as a safe haven and refueling station for hundreds of moms from around the world. This community is free and open to moms of kids of any age, and we share our laughter, tears, and triumphs, all the while normalizing our motherhood struggles and bridging the gap between expectations and reality in a uniquely judgment-free environment.

Follow Mama's Comfort Camp on Facebook, where you'll find a community of acceptance, talk without judgment, and an openness to communication that may be just what you're looking for. Yael is an example of how the internet saves our lives.

I'm proud to be one of the Campers there today, and I would love for you to join us. 

Explain Daylight Saving Time, Mr. Franklin

Mr. Franklin, you've done some crazy stuff, like those "fresh air baths" you insisted were so good for you when all you wanted to do really was stand in front of your front window naked.

And we all know about tying keys to kite strings and trying to catch electricity and who chases lightning in the hopes of getting struck??

But March 10, what you started with the setting of our clocks one hour FORWARD? You just couldn't get your naked self to the window fast enough so now, at 2 a.m., you've got us paying the price. That's just ... wrong. Selfish. We love our sleep. And on a weekend night especially. But now it's Saturday night and I'm so tired it's going to feel more like being unconscious than falling asleep, but first I have to knowingly set my clock ahead for something you've anointed as Daylight Saving Time? I'm supposed to have sweet dreams knowing I'm getting robbed?

As you get older, sleep doesn't just feel more like a cryogenic chamber. It becomes the time when free radicals within my system are being tamed;  I can feel my body restoring and repairing and replenishing. Sleep becomes my Oil of Olay.

And Benjamin has taken from me what I need more of, nature's Juvaderm. Time spent suspended in no activity is what I need to produce collagen -- the dermal filler and structural protein that plumps and smooths my creases and cracks. This is a serious matter. Beautiful, deep, restorative sleep -- and I'll be getting one less hour of it now.

For more salt in the wounds, I just found out tonight that a state can CHOOSE to participate or not in DST. Whaaaat? Yes, Arizona and Hawaii have just said no thanks. I feel like the day I found out I could have said no to the medical residents at our teaching hospital in that matter of an extra cervical check  (read able to check "saw ripe cervix of woman about to give birth" off their list of Things To Do To Graduate) when I was ready to deliver my babies.

I had no idea I could just say no.

We can say no to a lot of things, I keep finding out.

Why don't we say no? We have electricity now, we don't have to worry about a shortage on candle wax, Mr. Franklin -- and people don't quit plowing the fields because it's gotten dark out. Dark sky? Flip the switch on your John Deere tractor and keep on working. 

I'm with Arizona, no more messing with nature. Time is made the way it's made and our bodies have adjusted to it. All these tricks to fool ourselves and find extra light in our day, it doesn't change the amount of hours we have: 24.

I'm going to say no. On the outside, I'll go along with the rest of you because I have to, but the inside me is  saying no to Daylight Saving Time.

So many headaches come from it. Especially the biggest one, even bigger than losing an hour of age defying beauty sleep -- and it's this, a sound like fingernails on a chalk board: hearing Daylight SavingS Time. Said with an s after saving. Listening to that -- instead of Daylight Saving no S Time, over a hundred times today, is going to be hard to take.

Especially on one less hour of sleep the night before.

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Almost Two Years Ago

Listen To Your Mother Show, Madison Wisc.

Almost to the day, in 2011, I drove an hour and a half to Madison, Wisconsin, to do something I have never done before in my life.

Inside a yellow folder in the passenger seat next to me were two white sheets of paper that would change life as I knew it. They were filled with the words I had carried inside of me for over forty years. The pages were so alive I felt like seat belting them in.

I was on my way to audition for a live reading presentation called Listen To Your Mother. I had heard they were looking for readers, to tell true stories from their lives. I had never read before an audience, and even higher at stake was that I had never told my story publicly. But I was ready to live wide open and free the gates to whatever came my way -- or left -- by telling the world who I was.

For too many years, my family, not meaning any malice, had imposed an unspoken rule of things not to be talked about. The weight of keeping a defining point in my life closed and locked had started to feel heavier each year.

I saw a boat heading my way now, and everyone on it waving me aboard, telling me "You have a story to tell, share it with us."

Almost two years ago today, I was chosen for the cast of the 2011 Listen To Your Mother Show, and I am now doing things in my life I have never done before.

Being heard, having someone listen to you and bear witness to your existence is an experience too powerful to try and put into words here. But I can tell you this, it changed me. I remember thinking at the time of my audition, whether I'm chosen or not, this is win-win for me, because someone listened to my story.

It's two years later now, and my world has gone from auditioner with LTYM to producer of LTYM. I am in the fortunate role of being able to offer just this opportunity of being heard, to others. Jennifer Gaskell and I are the co-producers for Listen To Your Mother Show/Milwaukee, and today is our first day of auditions. We will hear over forty people who have decided to share their lives on stage, and yes, we are honored. Yes, we can't wait to give your life a microphone while you share your tale as a small part in making the world smaller by bringing us together with your words.

Ordinary people with extraordinary tales.

Jenn and I feel so very honored.

Thank you, Listen To Your Mother, and Ann Imig, creator and founder, for trusting us with your show. Thank you, Deb Rox, for your brains and consulting/advising powers. THANK YOU to BlogHer, for their third year of supporting LTYM as our National Media Sponsor. Read how they paved LTYM's way here.

The not so quiet revolution of people sharing their lives across 24 stages this May is changing the world -- the way it changed mine.

*For information on Listen To Your Mother shows, tickets, and 24 locations nationwide, please visit their national website. To catch the spirit of a LTYM show, there are over 200 videos of readers up on the LTYM youtube channel for you to see. To see my piece from 2011, please click here.

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The Importance of a Personal Support System

My 10-year-old son bounds out of the van as I drop him off at school. I see another little guy, back pack knocking against his body, as he spies my boy and runs to catch up to him. Their faces burst into smiles when they meet up; sincere grins that show trust and acceptance in and of each other. Secure, liking both what they see in front of them as well as what is reflected back: pure joy in knowing each other.

It's no small thing to feel accepted, valued, in another's eyes.

If we're fortunate, we have people in our lives that help us remember who we are and that we are not alone in our days here: friends, partners, co-workers, exercise buddies, book clubbers. I wrote a post earlier this month with some suggestions on where to begin looking for companions along this road of life.

There are books written, an especially helpful one by Renee Trudeau, on the value and therapeutic benefits of having people who understand us in our lives. What Trudeau calls a personal support system. Support, because they hold us up, like strong beams against a howling wind. Having friends is natural and effortless when we are young, but for me, it takes much work in this later part of my life.

What is it about relationships at this phase of our life? Busy? Yes. Excuses? They don't feel like excuses. We have important, pressing, urgent, time sensitive responsibilities to others now. There are mouths to feed and little people to keep warm and dry.

Much too quickly, we find ourselves only doing, and not maintaining.

It's not easy, and it takes effort and planning, sometimes just acting on the impulse to reach out -- to make time for friends and personal contacts -- but it's worth every bit of work. Life is better with someone there to give a pat on the back or send a kind word. Knowing there are minds and hearts out there, caring about you, sending you love. The personal support system that friendships create is something that reminds us that we have a place to turn to.

Friendships can be re-ignited, or an initial spark can be lit, in one of many ways.

Here is what I have found to be successful in maintaining, building, and connecting with people I really, really like, and need:

Reconnect
A quick voice mail to say you miss someone, a short email saying you’d like to catch up, or a simple hand written note inviting them for coffee. It is an action set into motion that will start the wheels spinning in the right direction.

Slow Down
One of the challenges of a busy life is to carve out time to reach out. Finding time. Making the time, even if you never have it. We need to tend to our relationships with others to keep this friendship alive and healthy. Making staying in touch a scheduled priority; as in, every Wednesday morning, scheduling a walk with a friend, then sticking to it. Make the time, rather than waiting for the time to appear.

A Quick Conversation Still Works
With the internet, emailing, voice mail, twitter, Facebook, there really is no reason we cannot have a quick two minute check in, to ask how they are, retell a funny story, update someone on our life, wish them a good day. It can be done. And we can do it on our own timetable. It's communication that keeps a friendship alive.

Keep It Simple
If we wait for the right time, the right words, the right event, we can end up waiting for a time that never comes. We need to grab, snatch, make, the few minutes it takes to feel connected. It can be so simple and doesn't need to be a half hour phone call -- five minutes will do -- a quick gesture or words saying, “Hello, I miss you, and I’m so glad you are in my life.” This is how you let someone know they are important to you.

Small accommodations with a huge pay off. These daily, mini gestures on my part have made an amazing difference to me and to my presence in my friends' lives.

It’s the power of a deliberate effort that brings its reward. And the reward of feeling connected and bonded just from a few minutes of my time on a daily basis far outweighs the few minutes I am able to give here and there. We're social creatures, craving that presence of another.

Just one soft touch down in someone's life can keep that person in your life.

My son sees his friends every day. They are vested in each other through laughter and shared lunch times. No wonder their smiles light up as big as the sun when they see each other again the next day. Smiles as telling as mine when I see my friends; the ones I sit down for at 11 p.m. at night to send them an email -- the people I'm so much happier with, than without.

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