I've Already Faked it 3 Times Today

The waiting room was full last week at the health clinic, and when I finally had my turn at the receptionist's desk, she handed me a clip board. "We need this filled out for the new year," and she pushed the paper to my hand. I stared at the sheets and had no idea what this information was that they needed, I mean, I just handed her my card. I took the forms and filled in what I could but it might as well have been a travel application to Mars. I brought the clip board back to her and laughed that same weak laugh my kids do when they are without a clue, "Oh, hahaha, pretty sure I did this right. Let me know if it's not, haha." And then I ran back to my row of chairs before someone else took my place.

I had faked it. 30 days into the new year and I have already begun to pretend I know what's going on.
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This morning at exercise class, there was an instructor subbing for our regular, Jan. I go when Jan is there because she always calls out directions and moves so I can put my brain on automatic and concentrate on keeping blood clots away. I rely on Jan telling me when to go right with my hip twist. But with Sandy, today, we were on our own. By the ten second mark of Pharrell Williams' "Happy" I knew this was a solo mission. It didn't take long for me to figure that out, the way I was face to face with the woman next to me every third beat was a clear enough clue. But I kept on faking it, arms up in imitation of others and legs out when I caught an orange running shoe fly up into my peripheral vision. I knew it while I was doing it, and I thought it through the rest of the class, I am the biggest faker on the planet, look at Sally over there - she has the decency to stop and not pretend she knows where to put her left foot when coming out of the daisy chain.

50 minutes later, I had faked it through Total Body Conditioning like the intro to ballet class I took as an elective in college thinking it'd be nothing but stretched out arms and out-toeing. [here's a good spot to insert the weak laughter from paragraph one] [here, let me: hahahahahaha]

I shook my head as I drove home, how old am I? Am I still that 5-year-old kindergartener sitting at the craft table all disoriented about how the other kids know which fingers to put through the handle of the scissors? The answer is evidently yes.

My life is fakery and how is it that other people know what to do? I came home to open my emails and the one from our soccer team was marked priority. Clicking it open it has a schedule for practices along with the words "red/blue as usual, let me know if you got this." I reply back "Got it!" with no idea what is supposed to be red/blue. The fakery here is high level alert because the team manager, the one from where these emails originate, is my husband. It's a scary thing the portals that open when we allow fakery in.

It's just a bit past noon, and I've had a good talking to with myself. I'm trying to zero in on just what faking brings me, because the very reason we choose behaviors is that they reward us in some way. Faking the happy dance and pretending I know what I need to do for soccer, what's the pay off? That's a hard one to answer.

Some fakery, however, is obvious. The third time for the big F, was about 10:30ish today, when I saw someone I know through someone they know, in other words I wouldn't recognize this person if you plucked them out of the setting that is the only place I ever see them in.

As we stood feet apart in the grocery store this morning, grabbing our bread and oranges and microwave popcorn before the predicted snowfall of 4-6 inches strangles us homebound tonight, she asked me if her snow pants were too much. I looked down at her legs, pressed my lips together at what looked like to me, plain old cotton leggings. "They look fine, fine." "Oh, good. I was worried, Andrea," she started, "I mean, yes they were originally $260 but they are Les Moise. We don't leave for Granby until March, but I just had to break them in. They're less constricting-y and not as shiny-y as Gorsuch."

I just nodded, "Yah," and had already quit caring she called me Andrea. I had just faked it for the third time.

I had no idea what Les Moise is and I have even less of an idea wherewhichwhat Granby is. I am without knowledge of the binding iridescence of Gorsuch.

The big reward in choosing to fake it this time? That's an easy one. Obviously not having to sit through any answer from her that is Les Moise-y and Granby-y.

 

And Then They Go and Grow Up On You

We know, we know - you told us.

Our kids would grow up before we knew it. But the problem is, we can't hear you. Not over the wailing, whining, up in the middle of the night screaming for us on top of days with mind-numbing fighting over sippy cups filled with the wrong colored juice.

But our kids do grow up, don't they. And all of your warnings about it won't help us ever believe you.

I'm proud to be up on Scary Mommy today with my take on the well-meaning advice, "Enjoy them while you can."

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Done Darkness: Book Launch

 

 

"A collection of stories of life beyond sadness."

 

I am pleased to announce that a piece I wrote about navigating life the week of my mother's funeral is included in the newly released anthology, Done Darkness. It's humor, because there were moments that slipped into those days surprising me with laughter. This is how we heal. But this anthology also offers beautiful prose, insightful poetry, and essays that place you right in the middle of someone's hope. 

 

Today is the book launch for Done Darkness, for those who live in southeastern Wisconsin, we hope to see you there! Our book launch is Sunday, January 31, 2016 at 1:30PM CST at ComedySportz.

 

To order a copy of Done Darkness, please click here. 

 

These stories are exceptional and will shine a light in the darkness for anyone struggling with depression, who has struggled, or knows someone searching for their light in the darkness. 

 

Done Darkness: A collection of stories, poetry, and essays about life beyond sadness is an anthology about the triumph of hope over hopelessness for those with depression or other mental illness. These narratives, from multiple award-winning authors, reflect the daily battle with various forms of depression: clinical, postpartum, and reactive, just to name a few. Real life plays out on the pages, depicting empty nests, grief, missing children, contemplating suicide, postpartum anxiety and more. Readers will connect, think, laugh, and maybe shed a sympathetic tear while gaining a better understanding of their own experiences or perhaps of a loved one.

 

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Parenting: It's So Easy

For the past 20 years, I have mothered. And for every year that passes while I guess, bluff, hope, and put my heart into this role, I wish for another year to try again and fingers crossed, get it right.

But I don't think we can ever get it right. But we can aim to.

When I was invited to talk about raising boys in today's world, and the shift (so welcome) from forcing boys to be tough, strong, never cry, and never feel hurt, I jumped at the chance.

We can change, do what we're supposed to, and accept our kids for who they are.

This morning's topic on The Morning Blend. "Raising Today's Boys."

I Never Make Decorating Mistakes

When I walked into the showroom, I knew it was a bad idea. I was alone, as alone as you can be with a 3 month old, a 5 year old, and a 7 year old. It was 11:00 a.m. and I had weeks ago run out of ways to keep my children entertained during the month of January. The Sunday paper circular advertised a huge furniture blow out from a furniture showroom that was 10 acres big and two stories high. They also featured a root beer bar and chocolate chip cookies. While the paper said Super Sale I read Field Trip, so half an hour ago I strapped the three into their safety seats and tucked my hair into a fetching cap so I would at least look like I might buy a piece of furniture. I drove my crew out of my driveway and onto the interstate that would take us to the corner of Hwy 60 and Port Road.

“This will be fun, kids! We're going to a furniture store and you know what they have there? Bunk beds you can look at and pretend bedrooms where you can get ideas for your dream rooms!”

“Can we try the beds?” Their eyes grew wide.

“Absolutely!”

“Yay! Furniture!” A chorus filled the minivan with my voice being the loudest. We were getting out! We were doing something new! We had found a way to kill time until Mark came home!

At this point, you need to be aware that my husband conducts our finances with one goal in mind: to retire with a million bucks and buy an RV. You know what that means as well as I do, there is no way I can decide to just buy furniture. I knew that today was novelty, chocolate chip cookies and root beer through paper straws. And a bit of daydreaming about bunk beds and a leather sectional never hurt nobody.

How hard can it be to not spend money?

Well, four minutes into the store visit and I was already love sick. My first furniture heartbreak and it was over not being able to think about leaving the store without what was in the first showroom. A dark, rich, reclaimed barnwood kitchen table with two black benches (how freakin' Laura Ingalls cute) alongside instead of clumsy chairs that were too hard for kids to push in. I wanted that table so much my neck was starting to itch.

I twisted my hair in anguish. This table, why can't I have this table? I don't ask for much of anything, keep my children fed, warm, and loved and I'm yours for life (hence the wedding ring) BUT this table? Is there a god I can pray to for this table?

The rest of the afternoon clipped along, my kids sat on beds, tried recliners, talked in voices 100 decibels louder than I'd usually allow about who would get the top bunk and where they'd keep their toys. We were having the best daydream of a day. We sat at the pretend '50s diner and munched on free cookies.

“Mom, this is fun!”

“I know, right? Want to come again?”

YES!,” everyone around me agrees. 

 

Monday morning, we were back. It was drizzly and grey, but inside the showroom? Glorious sunshine from heaven above as my table threw out its rays of blazing light. Once more, we stopped and my children patiently understood while I ran my fingers along six feet of sturdy, solid splendor. I chewed on my lip and swallowed hard and my eyes grew misty. Later, my son told me he heard me whispering to it.

“You guys, mom really likes this table."

"Look, mom! You can roll out paper and draw on it it's so long. It seats eight!”

“It could be a birthday party table!"

“Preaching to the choir, my children."
 

“We could have watermelon seed spitting contests it's so long!”

"Yes!”

“And then we could use it for bowling with bottles and baseballs on top because IT'S SO LONG!”

“Yes! YES!”

Before we even took our places at our new favorite cookie counter, that table had a SOLD sign on it in my heart.

“You guys," I said while finishing the cookies they left because leftovers eaten by mothers have no calories. "I want that table.”

“You should get it, mom. It would be fun.”

“I can't just buy something without seeing if your dad says yes. I wouldn't want him to buy something without seeing if I say yes.”

"Is that because he wants to keep as much money as he can?"

 

My kids were no strangers to the budget talks. We left the store once more, but not without a longing look back at our table.

“Bye bowling alley,” said my oldest.

“Bye table!” The rest of us waved. Well, the three of them waved, I cried.

Somehow I had to find a way to get this table. It would be ours for the next 100 years and the kids were still young enough for us to get use out of it for crafts, homeschooling, birthday parties, and my chicken nugget dinners.

Once home, I searched out the measuring tape. This table, this 8-seat with two fold-out leaves at the end would sit just right along the north end of the kitchen wall. I put my hands on my hips and imagined a fiesta red runner down the middle of the boards, a long-necked turquoise blue vase with a solitary daisy standing in the center, and all of us, seated around it. This kitchen could become our nest instead of a place to eat and run as it was now, because of the limited use round oak breakfast nook.

Ten years later, the showroom table sits in our kitchen. Where my youngest sits is speckled with light brushes of yellow from when he was first learning to control a paint brush. My oldest's chair, against the north wall, is gummy and tomato-tacky to the touch from his love of ketchup. The benches have been replaced with high-back chairs as the kids grew into them. This table is the heartbeat of this house, where we have celebrated birthday parties at dawn, slurped July watermelon while sitting in the breeze of open patio doors, and where we have sent one son off to college while its entire surface was edge to edge with congratulatory cards of good wishes. Our last Christmas with my mother was spent here, when she took Auggie's place at the table next to me, since she had become the one I now got up for.

I never did have to plead my case for this table to my husband. He saw the spark in my eyes when we took him along on our next “table field trip” and I told him how he would sit at the west end because he liked the sunrise and four-year-old Auggie would be next to me because I'm the one who gets up for him. The other half of the table would be piled high with paints, papers, monopoly boards, and home-made bowling games that we wouldn't have to move because this table, ahhhhh, the LENGTH of this table.

We bought the table.

“It wasn't even for you,” he later told me. “It was how you wanted it for the kids. The way you always want things through the kids' lives. You told me everything you knew would happen on that table. I looked at it, and I saw it, too.”

 

 

 

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