Yogayama

Ahhh, my last yoga class was so delicious. It was a different kind of class than I'm used to though. The teacher started off by talking about "Yamas", which are the first steps in the "eight fold path to enlightenment". I did not know anything about this. To pretend that I am "enlightened" would be silly. Instead I let Google enlighten me so I could share it with you. The one yoga yama she was talking about in class was "Ahisma", which translated, means "non-violence".

 She sat so peacefully on her mat, candles all around, and read a short passage from her book about "Ahisma". It spoke to the importance of non-violence to others, as well as to oneself - this violence could be in the form of physical, verbal or emotional. When she finished reading, she asked us to go around and comment on how we felt about it. This was the part that was new to me, the having to comment thing, and not just passively stretch, breath and ommmmm.

 It made me squirm a little a little on my mat, especially since I had spent a majority of the reading looking around at all the little stars and Buddhas hanging from the walls and ceiling, and wondering why I didn't do more of that kind of decorating in my own house. All of a sudden the pressure was on to leave behind the Liz that had just been cursing out people in traffic, and tune into my inner non-violent yogi...that was obviously unaware of this elusive path to enlightenment. What would sound mindful, peaceful and smart? Think think think.....be impressive. I only wished the senior citizen who said "I don't understand the question, I signed up for a tae kwon do class", had been sitting in front of me. It would have reminded me to chill the heck out.

Anyway, that wasn't the case, and everyone in front of me was VERY together and VERY yogi-ish, so thankfully an answer came to me. I told her I was going to stop being so violent to myself (obviously). I was going to stop beating myself up over trying to balance work, family and the house perfectly. I was done with that. No more self spanking. She applauded me, and seemed very proud of her little yogi in training- whoo. I would live to lie another day.

As I thought about it though, I really should try to put into practice what my panicking self had suggested I do. So, I've started to embrace this principle a little bit over the past couple of days. See, in the past, I've spent a LOT of energy thinking about having a linen closet where everything is stacked neatly, and color coordinated. I want all of my linen closet stuff, including band aids, toothbrushes, medications, and apparently stuffed panda bears, arranged in alphabetical order, according to likelihood of need. But this never happens, and when I'm not able to accomplish these things, I feel like a lazy person, and assume the rest of the world triumphs over me in these sort of tasks. "Ahisma" has taught me that this sort of thinking is deemed violent, and ultimately unhealthy, but I help myself to a big serving of it ALL THE TIME.

That being said, people who are able to do things like this, and maintain them amaze me. The same goes for people who have systems that actually stay in place for anything, such as a family calendar, or a system for keeping their car clean, changing bed sheets, washing the children regularly, making a meal that doesn't involve the crock pot, or keeping pairs of socks together. I need the people who work at The Container Store to come live at my house, and give me crash course in home living, or just come and crash in my home forever. I promise, it would never be boring, because whatever they did, I would immediately un-do repeatedly. Maybe on purpose, but more likely because I just can't help it. It would be perfect.

Anyway, since the Container Store isn’t coming here for a home intervention, it shall remain haphazard. Around here, by the time the laundry goes through the bazillion steps of being separated, washed, dried, folded, and sometimes put away, this is what the closet winds up looking like -

This is less of a linen closet, and more an an extension to our junk drawer. It might contain less sharp items, but the positive side is that is has more drugs. The Tums are by far the most powerful. I came close to overdosing on the berry ones during my third trimester. The top shelf holds the towels that have required a lot of jumping, slinging and tossing due to my height challenges. I have to thank the bottom shelf for my biceps, as it's required a lot of mushing and mashing to get those towels to stay in place and look just right. This kind of closet takes work, that's all I'm saying.

Another area of our house, that could be seen as problematic is our bedroom closet. I'm just gonna go ahead and show you the photo right now, and then we can break it down. If you are at all OCD - close your eyes, and let someone scroll down for you.

I guess there are a few things to note here. One, there is an Oreck vacuum cleaner parked in our closet. Two, someone, not me put labels in our closet, and three, I apparently have a high threshold for embarrassment. The Oreck has been there for a week, and I don't know why. A bee got in my bonnet to vacuum, and that was about all the energy I had. The thought of dragging it ALL the way back to the broom closet is just too much, so soon it will morph into a hat tree and we won't even see it anymore. Problem solved. The lady who lived in the house before us put labels on her husband's shelf, which have clearly inspired nothing in us. I believe the label in the picture says "Polo Hoodies", but I don't even think those are real kinds of clothes, so who knows. If I had a label maker, I would print two labels - one for the closet shelf that says "Piles", and one for Anthony's floor next to the bed that says "floordrobe". Easy peasy.

So, I guess if you were to look at these pictures, it would seem that I've embraced "Ahisma" full on. It would seem that I really don’t care at all about the state of my house. However, what you don't see is the internal dialogue that goes on when I see these closets. I totally beat myself up, and I totally want it to be different, but I just can't make it so right now.

I am going to let it go. Well, clearly I've let it go, but I'm going to let go of the fact that I've let it go, because even though I'm not that old or wise yet, I've figured out a couple of things.

I've figured out that we always think the “past“ was, or “someday” will be better than the right now. Right now, I think I want structure, order and time in my life, but when I'm standing someday in my closet, with nothing BUT time, and it's all pretty and organized, I'll be wishing for the past, for someone little to come tug on my pant leg and ask me to play. I may even wish there was a little purple shoe here and there to trip over and curse at. And when the towels are folded perfectly, I'll wish someone small would take just one and throw it right into a full bathtub, just to make me crazy. The past and the present aren't all they're cracked up to be. So, I'll stay right here, and embrace everything messy and chaotic, and try not to pinch myself too much. After all, it's pretty easy to close the closet doors on that chaos, when you can open another door, walk into the next room and see this chaos.....Namaste.

Questions of Intuition

Intuition

All I can do is act according to my deepest instinct, and be whatever I must be-crazy or ribald or sad or compassionate or loving or indifferent. That is all anybody can do.

- Katharine Butler Hathaway

I like to think that I have pretty good intuition.  That when I “sense” something is wrong, it usually is.  I had really good intuition when Cora was five days old.  She wasn’t acting right, and everyone around me thought I was being anxious, but I just had this feeling that she wasn’t herself.  I went back and forth all day wondering how much of herself she could really be at five days old.  I mean, what does “too sleepy” look like when you pretty much sleep all day anyway.  And for that matter, what’s the difference between a “watery stool” and a “French’s Mustard stool”?  They look pretty much the same to me.

After watching her like a hawk all day, I decided to put a call into the pediatrician.  Of course, it was 4 pm on a Friday, so they just told us to take her to the ER.   We figured we would go there, they would tell us we were being spazzy parents, and we would come right home in time to tuck Ella in for bed.  Turns out, everything was not okay.  She was dehydrated from having diarrhea, and they transferred her via ambulance to Scottish Rite, where they hooked her up to all kinds of IVs and monitors, and we had to stay there for three days.  Words can’t explain the trauma of watching people poke IV needs into your tiny baby’s arms, and trying to put a catheter in her, while you stand helpless, watching her turn shades of red and purple from screaming.  I’m so glad I had listened to my “mommy intuition” though, because according to the doctors, if we had waited, she could have been in critical condition within hours.   So now, whenever I get that feeling, I wonder, is it “mommy intuition” again?  And, if I ignore it, is something terrible going to happen? 

One of those moments occurred today when I texted Ms. Brenda, Cora’s daycare provider, to let her know I would be picking her up early for an appointment.  When I didn’t hear back after a few minutes, I didn’t think too much of it.  An hour later, when I was leaving my elementary school and heading to my middle school, I decided I would give a call to the house, just to make sure Ms. Brenda had received my text.  My call went to the answering machine, which has never happened.  I figured she probably had her hands full changing diapers, or getting breakfast ready for the kids.  Five LONG minutes passed,  and I decided to call Ms. Brenda’s cell phone, but there was no answer there either.  Now, some people are like me, and never answer there phone, and this is just expected. Annoying, but expected.  However, between the two kids, we have been going to Ms. Brenda for almost four years, and she ALWAYS answers every text and phone call.  So, I’m now gripping the steering wheel, clenching my jaw, and imagining that Ms. Brenda has had a stroke, or heart attack, and there are children screaming and crawling all over the place, banging each other in the head with toys, while my sweet Cora is caught in the cross fire.  Then I imagine worse, a murder – suicide, where the same is going on with the children, just more blood in the mix, and obviously more laundry for everyone.  So, I make a detour, and as I approach Ms. Brenda’s house, I start to formulate a plan for how I’m going to handle this devastating situation –

1. I will call 911 and tell them that toddlers are throwing toys and they seem VERY hungry and possibly have poopy diapers that need to be changed by medical professionals with extra oxygen and masks.  Bring lots of masks.  Consider Hazmat suits.

2. Mention to 911 that there are dead people here.

3. At some point, I will need to abandon this chaos to run out to the mailbox and find out what the address is (to the place I’ve been sending my kids for close to four years) so the dispatchers can get out there to change diapers and feed the children, and remove bodies and such.

4. After I abandon the chaos, I will have to talk myself into going back to the chaos.

5. Somehow, I will need to find out where Brenda keeps the parent contact information so I can get these kids out of here. There is NO way I can manage all these kids on my own, with the murder suicide situation going on.

I’ve gotta say, at no point did I start to wonder if my mommy intuition had gone a little awry…until I pulled into the driveway and saw two other parents’ cars parked there.  I will say for a split second, I thought “oh, maybe they were thinking what I was thinking!”…..I am now willing to call that a RTP – Ridiculous Thought Process.

As I got out of my car, my anxiety starting to ease, I saw a mom, dad, and five year old walking out of the house smiling. I took my finger off the 9 on my phone as little five year old Jacob started telling me that he had T-Ball tonight, and he was “weally scawed, because thewe wew no wights in da pawk” .  A minor emergency, but I’m sure he’ll feel like calling 911 later, so I get it.  Then his mom told me that Cora was having a really fussy morning, but that Brenda had just put her down for a nap.   “Great! so she IS ALIVE!” I wanted to say.  But instead I said “yeah, she had a rough night, probably just over tired”.  Then the mom asked what I was doing there at 9 am.  “Ohhhhh”. Could I tell her I had a minor lapse in realistic thinking ability, or had just spent 20 minutes in the midst of a RTP?  Better to maintain appearances, so I just said what I thought a good and sane mother would say - “Oh, I was just driving by (in the next town) and couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see my sweet baby.” 

In the end, rational or not, there was no way I could have gone and been productive without first ruling out a murder-suicide, heart attack, stroke, aneurysm, and narcolepsy.  I can’t say it was a completely wasted trip either.  I learned that I really should start answering my phone (I know who you are rolling your eyes, stop it!!), because if I’m ever lying on my own floor with screaming kids all around me, and not answering my phone, no-one will think much of it.  Chances are, if that is happening, I’ll just be taking a nap though, or at least pretending to.

I was also reminded today that child care providers are absolute saints.  As I imagined running into Ms. Brenda’s and taking over what was going to be a horrible situation, I saw myself as something of a super hero.  Then I remembered, “That is what she does ALL DAY, EVERY DAY”, minus any additional adult medical emergencies going on in the background, but still, you get my drift.  She’s the woman who is cradling Cora, while reading to a 9 month old, and wiping the nose of 15 month old, all while calming the nerves of a 30 year old who just happened to blow in from the rain to complain that she wasn’t answering her phone – sheesh.  We need more Ms. Brendas. 

So, I have no advice on when to listen to your intuition, and when to ignore it.  I suppose you do what you have to do to calm your nerves, and sometimes that means being a little extreme and a little irrational, but isn’t that what being a good mom looks like a lot of the time?  I think so.  Irrational is subjective anyway, I say.  But don’t listen to me, listen to your own intuition, of course.

A mom thing

A Mom Thing...

Here's an oldie but a goodie - wrote this after Ella was born - 10/08


It’s been almost a week now since my mom left to head back north after spending six weeks here in Atlanta. It has been an adjustment to say the least. I’ve gone from relying heavily on her suggestions and advice regarding how to care for Ella, to having to rely on my own instincts, and anyone who knows me knows that I tend to doubt myself. If you haven’t picked up on that, then I’ve just been good at fooling you. That is one thing I’m pretty sure I’m good at.


The day she left, we were all lying on the bed together, Ella between my mom and I. When I looked over at my mom she had tears streaming down her face, and of course my eyes subsequently welled up. We laughed, because we knew that was bound to happen. It had been an amazing six weeks together, and we knew all along saying goodbye would be difficult. I’m one of those women who is fortunate to have a great relationship with my mom. We work at it. I know a lot of women who can’t say the same, and it saddens me. Anyhow, that’s a whole different digression. In the same moment that my mom began to cry, Ella began to have her own personal meltdown. It’s unlikely that she was also feeling the imminent absence of her new grandmother, but one never knows! All the same, there we were, three generations of Kluse/Pearson women crying bitter sweet tears together. Ella may have just been hungry, but I like to think she was right with us in our flood of emotions. 


Anyhow, in that moment, my mom simply looked at me and said “thank you for Ella”. What else could she say? But in all honesty, it’s not me she needed to thank. Really, it was in God’s hands all along. Ella was always meant for this world. She’s our little messenger. After she made that statement, we said a quick goodbye, no need to prolong our own sadness, or Ella’s own distress.


When I walked into Ella’s nursery to change her I immediately felt my mother’s absence and presence simultaneously. Mom was gone, but as Ella cried, I could hear my mom right behind me saying “oh what’s all this fuss!”, and “you poor thing!”, just as she had for the past six weeks. It was my mom after all who had taught me to laugh through Ella’s tears. It is simply how babies communicate. She taught me to handle it with grace and calmness. If it weren’t for her, I surely would have had many flustered moments. I then began to change Ella, only to find that I myself began sobbing, and I just let the tears flow as they needed. I cried as I held her, and I cried as I rocked her. I cried right along with her. As I cried, I realized a thought so simple, yet so beautiful. I realized that you never stop needing your mom. I was 27 years old and needing my mom to help me become a mother, needing my mom to tell me to trust my own “mother’s intuition”, and Ella was four weeks old and needing me as her mom for survival. I thought, “Wow, she is still going to need me when she is 27 too. A child will always need their mother, the needs will simply change. I have to acknowledge that it is both a terrifying and wonderful thought. I alone am going to have to/be able to hopefully fill those needs. I will fail miserably at some, and be successful beyond what I ever thought capable with others, and that is the reality of parenting. My mom always says that she would go back and change things that she did as a parent, but I wouldn’t have her change a thing.


I suppose that the old saying is true that “A mother’s work is never done”, and I feel honored to be able to have the opportunity to take on that work. The responsibility is huge, bigger than anything I’ve ever felt, but this feels like living, this feels like what we are meant to do.

Validation

I'm tired, and migrainey, so this is thrown together - take it for what it's worth :-)

Today as I was driving home from work, I gave my mom a call.  I call my mom all the time, sometimes I think I harass my mom.  I don't ever have much to talk about, but I just like to talk to hear her voice.  Today when I called she said, "your ears must have been ringing", and I said "oh yeah, you were talking about me eh?", to which she said "yeah, I was talking to Gloria in North Western (an office).  I've been thinking about you a lot, been worried reading your facebook posts. You seem a little down", to which I responded "really? sniffle sniffle". 

Then I carried on about how things have just been a little chaotic, what with the 60 days of migraines, four months without pay, two kids, having to brush my hair AND my teeth, plus sweep and such.  It's just all so overwhelming.  She seemed to think I might have a touch of PPD.....I don't know, I think this might just be par for the cou....well, maybe not. 

Moms...they know everything.  What she didn't know was that I had just contacted my old therapist Tara on Tuesday, telling her I was suspecting the same thing.  Tara had emailed me back, telling me she was so happy I had "reached out", but I had been too embarrassed, and unsure of my suspicions to email her back.  Instead, I googled "Postpartum Depression symptoms" over and over again, and then decided that "yes" this was totally me, and then "no" this was not me.  It's kind of like addiction though.  If you are spending any amount of time wondering if you are an addict, then the answer is probably YES.  People who are not addicts never even entertain that thought.  

When I was four months pregnant with Ella, I knew something wasn't right.  I was just more emotional than the normal pregnant person.  Then again, we were also planning a wedding.  We don't do things like most other people - The whole, "work smarter, not harder" thing, yeah..it's kind of lost on us.  Anyway, I started taking medication at that point, and it made a world of difference.  With Cora, I didn't take anything, and I was so proud, miserably proud.  What a waste of energy that was.  Looking back, I should have been on something.

The weird thing about PPD is that there doesn't seem to be a clear picture of what it should look like.  When I think of depression, I imagine that commercial of the wind up tin woman, who needs someone to crank up her dial before she can function each day.  I don't feel that way at all.  In fact, my favorite part of the day is first thing in the morning.  It involves coffee, fairly pleasant kids, happy news on the radio, and usually no headache. I feel pretty darn good at work all day getting to socialize with people, talk with funny little kids, and be part of the world in general.  But what I realized, is that I can feel pretty swell, great in fact, as long as everything goes-as-planned.  The minute something gets slightly overwhelming, say the dishwasher isn't run, or laundry is left in the washer, or I forgot to get gas, and I'm five minutes behind schedule, the meltdown begins.  Or, everything is calm and peaceful, and then the baby is crying while the dog is barking at pork loin on the stove - total basket case.  See, when I type this, I can see how whacked it is, but at the time, I think, "I'm just overwhelmed, I'm a mom with two kids, this is normal".  How can it be though?  Life does not go as planned, and that has to be okay, right?.  Try as I might, I can't make myself roll with the punches though.  Instead, I feel like I just get beat up like a little wuss all day.

Up until this point I had a whole bunch of excuses to explain my behavior - First, it was that Cora had colic and reflux, and she basically cried all day, until 10 pm.  That was definitely an excuse to feel depressed. Then, I was totally sleep deprived, which tends to make people a tad bit weepy.  Next up, heading back to work and taking on the world.  While that certainly justifies a few rough days, it's been over a month now, and things are actually just worse than ever.  I used to look forward to a glass of wine each night, but now I don't even care about that.  If that's not a red flag, I don't know what is!

To be honest, I just feel embarrassed that I've been writing all these "blogs" thinking I'm okay, and I'm obviously NOT. To make matters worse, I wonder if it was blatantly obvious to you.  Truly, it shouldn't matter, but I'm human, and prideful.  At the risk of further embarrassment, I am obviously continuing to share my thoughts.  I guess they call that logorrhea.  My hope is that I can give a face to PPD, because I've been spending the past few months imagining it as someone and something other than myself, which I think a lot of women probably do.  I imagined it was someone who moped around and couldn't get out of bed, but the truth is, when you are a mom, that's not an option.  So, you get out of bed, you put on a happy face, and you cry in your alone moments. 

For me, PPD looks like keeping a clean house the best I can , but only seeing the mess.  Trying to make a nice dinner, but only seeing why it's a disaster.  Having great intentions for the day, but getting overwhelmed with everything that must get done.  Wanting to have a social life, but choosing to stay in over and over again, because it just keeps everything simpler.  Loving my babies to pieces, but being unable to shake the feeling that another mom would be better for them. Constantly wondering, "have I always been this way?"  And that right there is really the clue I guess.  Not being able to remember what normal feels like, what being "Liz" feels like. 

So, when my mom said today "you seem a little down", it meant EVERYTHING to me.  Sometimes, we just need someone to validate what we know in our hearts, so we can say it out loud. Now that I've said it out loud, and to all of you, I'm going to do what I need to do to get back to Liz.  That means being proactive and not being such a stubborn and prideful mama.  And seriously, don't be scared of me.  I'm not going to "freak out" on you.  I reserve ALL of that for Anthony.  I want you to know that when/If you see me, I am always being "me".  I am not treating you any differently, so don't feel like you have to treat me any differently just because this is out there.  Know what I mean?  Let's not be weirdos.  :-)  I think I've got enough of that covered anyway.

I hope this gives you, or maybe someone you know the freedom to know that this is real, and it's okay, and they are not alone. 
XOXO
Liz

How I met your father

I recently started watching old re runs of "How I met your mother", and since I'm currently watching ZERO television, and have no real idea of when television, or leisure activities will resume, I'm sure I'll never actaully learn how "he" met "their" mother.  Instead, I thought I would tell you all, all (22) of you, how I met my husband. 

This idea was tipped off by a text I received last night.  Anthony is currently in Washington D.C for the National School Counselors Award Ceremony - Sponsored by ASCA.  Last year, he was nominated and chosen as one of the top 10 national school counselors of the year, a HUGE honor.  He spent the year feeling pretty celebrated, and  I kind of get how Seal feels now, always having to be in the shadow of Heidi. Now you know what crap I've read this week.  That's not even true (the crap reading is totally true) but I haven't felt bad being in the spot light, in fact I relish any opportunity to brag on Anthony, because honestly, when I look at how he appears to function in the house, I am amazed that he accomplishes all of this out of the house.  Sometimes I think that if I talk about it enough, it will make more sense to me, or someone will hear what I'm saying and state, "oh honey, my husband is the SAME way, and you know what I figured out?  They save up all their energy at home, and then they bust out into the world like a Creative Super Hero, able to do anything and everything".  "Ohhhhhh", is really all I'll need to say, because that makes sense.

Anyway,  It's been a pretty big year, not to mention the Children's book that is about to go into publication check out his info http://www.anthonypearson.info/ - holla!!!  Okay - I'm done with the plugs - but here are a couple of photos of my hubby's achievements - plus the baby the boot as the best achievement to date.  If he is able to make another one of those, he has ovecome medical science, and gets an entirely different award in the form of another life to raise....Soooo, if he doesn't earn that one, it's totally okay with me.

                                                          getting his award last year :-)

He invited me to help him get his tie on straight, and then insisted upon wearing my dress socks.  You just can't change a man after all....sigh.   .

         Accomplishments #3, First copy of his new book - "Baby Bear Eats the Night, with accomplishment #4, "Baby Cora Eats his Shirt"

This year Anthony was asked to go to Washington again, because he nominated his friend Nicole from another local elementary school, and get this, she WON!!!!  Crazy right?  She is an amazing counselor, from what I gather, so I was thrilled for her, but equally scared to be at home with both kids, on work days by myself.  Thankfully, my parents said they would stay in town a few more days to help me maintain the little sanity that's hanging from a string around here.  That sanity string, is pretty much like melted marshmallow right now, so good thing they are here to lend a helping hand with the little things like grabbing a drink for he kids, or making dinner, giving them baths, putting them to bed, picking them up from school, letting mommy take a nap, going to the grocery store, mopping the floor, you know, just little odds and ends. 

So part of the message above, is that my (hot) husband, is in another city, away from kids, around lots of fun restaurants and alcohol, with another counselor, who is pretty good at her craft (obviously the best in the NATION), while I am home living in yoga pants (which are just a transition out of maternity pants if you ask me), with two boogery/poopy kids who don't desire sleep at all, no matter how much bribing I do.  In fact, just the other night, Ella was running like a mouse on a wheel around the house, as I stook in the kitchen with a chunk of cake in one hand, and a melatonin dropper in the other.  She ran past me three times before she slammed her mouse paws to a hault, and looked up at me with pure jock (joy+shock), proclaiming "huh!". Suddenly I saw myself for what I was, a sticky fingered mama, literally and figuratively, and before I could comprehend what I had become (A mom who was going to drug her child and then feed her cake), Ella grabbed the cake and continued on her wheel.  I could be worried that my husband may never come home again. 

Especially when I got this text last night:

Anthony:  a self portrait of him looking good in his tux - sorry, I don't have a fancy phone, or a fancy brain that knows how to put that picture on here.

me - AWWWWW, you are looking hawt!!!

Anthony - Girlzzzzzzz

Me - Excuse me, are you with ladiezzzz??

Anthony - I meant, you know, gurl...

Me - Freudian dude.....

Anthony - This James Bond is only 4 U!

Me - whatever

Even after reading this text, I really wasn't worried, because this is what I know and love about my husband - and I say this WITH love - honey, you got no game....which is why we met on MYSPACE. 

I had just joined, thanks to my great old friend Steve-Oh, and within a week, I got this strange message from someone named "Anthony".  He said he liked my "quotes".  Now, normally, I would write this off as creepy, but this is what I saw....

That's my guy, on the left :-)

So, I was at least somewhat wrangled in by his celebrity looks, but did he have any substance, I mean, why was he stalking girls on myspace?? I actually emailed the picture to my mom and said, wow, check out this really weird/hot guy that is sending me creepy messages, to which she responded, "yeah, that is creepy".  But what about the "hot" mom?  Wait, did I have any substance?  Maybe we are made for each other.

 So, as I stalked him, and he stalked me, we wrote letters back and forth.  Mostly they were goofy, just kind of "get to know you stuff".  As I stalked him, I realized, he worked for Cobb County Schools, as did I.  I asked my school counselor if she knew who he was, and lo and behold, he was a real person, and a decent one, from her experience. He kept asking me to do weird things, like "call him", and anyone who knows me, knows I don't like the phone, so I just didn't do that.  Finally, after a few days, he called me, we set up a date, and met for the first time. He took me out to a bar where they had free drinks.....but I still liked him after that. He was funny, and witty, and had a little something to say about everything.  He had hobbies, interests, and was curious about everything, a nerd really.  Just my type.  Plus, we're educators, so free drinks are free drinks, whatever. And, for what it's worth, he has spoiled me since..

Over time,  I figured out that he would rather meet a girl through conversing online, than screaming over drinks in a crowded bar.  Plus, he likes to talk A LOT, which just isn't practical in a bar setting, unless you are fluent in one handed sign language.  He knew that pretty girls are approached all night, and really, the nice guy always loses out unless he has a unique approach, or some kind of advantage (say, a sober opportunity).  I also learned that the new rules for how you meet a girl just made my guy a lot more uncomfortable than most other guys.  He can't even watch The Bachelor or Millionair Matchmaker with me without getting totally embarassed and having to leave the room.  Cute, right?  You would have to pay my husband money, or get him completely hammered in order for him to approach a woman in a bar, and even then, I'm not sure he would be effective, unless it was me he was approaching, because I'm just the kind of girl who is looking for a guy who doesn't have game.  In a perfect world, I think he would like to be able to sit in a coffee shop writing children's stories, and have me walk in and start writing next to him on my lap top. (That may be a tad bit egocentric, but whatever). He would say something like, "wow, you sure are clicking away over there, anything interesting?", Then we would start talking about the world, and next thing you know, we would be married.  That's my eternal optomist, my big dreamer, my Anthony :-)  So glad you stayed who you were, so we could be who we are. 

Here is where my hubby really shows his mad player skills...he is better known here as "Prince Eric", or "Handsome Prince".  A "player" at heart :-) 

Love you honey, and can't wait for you to get home - so I can go out...wink wink.

God made me a rubber band

God made me a rubber band.

I’ve been spending a lot of time among office supplies at work, and it got me to thinking about which desk item I might be.  After a lot of hemming and hawing, which I do whenever there is ANY decision to be made, I decided I am a rubber band.  Rubber bands are flexible and malleable, though I'm not sure how functional they are as an actual "office" tool.  I've seen them wrapped around file folders, and a bunch of pencils, but that's about it.  Sometimes I put one in my hair when I brush my teeth at work, which is always helpful in upping my pain threshold when it's time to remove it.  You can fling them around, and they bounce back pretty well, no worse for the wear.  Sometimes though, when you really, really stretch them, they snap, and this is where I definitely identify as one with the band (but not a groupie).  I'm not exactly the strong band in the bunch though, you know, the one where you keep stretching it and messing with it, thinking, "wow, I can't believe this little doo gad hasn't busted yet!”  No, I'm the little one that you mess with mindlessly, twiddling your thumbs around, when out of nowhere, I totally bust apart in the palm of your hand.  If you care enough about me, you have to tie a little knot in me, and I'm pretty much back together again.  I have to thank the people in my life who have hung around to lovingly put little knots in me where I busted apart unexpectedly, because now I'm so full of knots that I'm practically a new person.  I can look back at all my knots and remember that I'm loved, and I've done hard things, and I'm stronger for it.  Before I really broke and had to be put back together again, I spent a lot of time just wrapping myself up with other  really uber flexible and unstable rubber bands.  We were pretty much just clinging to each other in a big old rubber band ball without much purpose.  It sure was fun though, all that bouncing around, without responsibility, and none of us fell apart until we went off on our own and realized bouncing was near impossible when you're just a floppy little string. 

Anyway, I like my knotty self, but sometimes knots come undone, which was the case the other morning.  I had been up most of the night with one child or another, (I guess this will just be a theme for my blog for now), and my new friend Insomnia hung out with me during the "in between" time, just in case I was feeling lonely I suppose.  Which, I wasn't, but she doesn't take a hint well, and since I'm oh so flexible, I let her stay....So, in the morning, Anthony asked me how the night went, and this is what happened in the next 5minutes.

Me: "I feel horrible, and I am convinced God hates me, and wants me to be miserable, and so I don't believe there is a God any more". 
Anthony: No comment

So, I wearily pulled a sweater from the disaster that is my "sweater pile”, tugged it over my head, and slammed my "funny bone" into the door frame.  Apparently, there is a direct link between your “funny bone” and your eyes, because an uncontrollable sprinkler of tears exploded from my face and continued as I pouted all the way to the coffee pot.  This was followed by sobbing in a standing fetal position for five minutes, only to be interrupted with gulps of coffee.  Woe is me....obviously.

Anthony: No comment

Another common theme - Liz cries a lot.  It's not "I cry a lot because I'm so sad about my life".  No no no no.  I cry over whatever makes me feel, and I feel a lot.  I learned when I was 25 that I was simply born missing an extra layer of protection that other people have.  This is clearly a blessing and a curse.  It's what caused me to walk home from elementary school boo-hooing on my best friend's shoulder because Mark Richard's was picked on, and "gosh, can you imagine how sad he must feel?", and "can you imagine how hard it is for his mommy to know that he is sad at school?”  Missing that layer is what caused me to look for multiple ways to check out of life, because it is all just too much to feel most of the time.  (A whole different blog all together my friends)…  On the other end, it's what allows me to connect with people, empathize, sympathize, and find compassion.  It allows me to just “know” when something isn’t right with my family, a friend, or a student.  It’s the reason people seem comfortable coming to me for advice….okay okay, probably, definitely NOT advice, but maybe just an ear.  Getting to feel all this stuff, all the time, is also what allows me to cry like a broken faucet when I bump my elbow and I'm a tad bit sleepy...but I'm working on that.  Fortunately, being a "Highly Sensitive Person" (what the psychology people call it) also has its benefits with God, because, even after I verbally pronounced him banished from my life, I felt him again, not ten minutes later.  

I pulled myself together and walked into Cora's room to get her dressed.  Her room was like a little incubator, with the glow of night lights and ocean sounds coming from the white noise machine.  I watched her stretch and squeak, and as she opened her eyes and looked at me, she gave me the goofiest little smile.  From the room across the hall, I heard Ella's own rendition of greeting the morning.  It was a little less goofy and slightly more grumpy, but all Ella none the less.  As I stood there in the dim light, listening to my sweet girls greet the day, I couldn't help but feel God standing right behind me whispering and smiling, "there now, you are doing good mama, just look at how much I love you".  My shoulders relaxed, and my heart opened back up.  There really couldn't be a more pure reflection of God's love.  I felt a little silly, soaking in all that comfort from the guy I had JUST kicked out of my heart and home.  I guess that’s how grace works.  Note to self…

I know there are other rubber band mamas out there.  In fact, I think we are all rubber band mamas at one time or another.  There is good news, bad news, and news to remember when it comes to this particular ailment. 

The Bad News– All mamas worry about their babies, particularly through transitions, when things are hardest for them - but when we are feeling more like a rubber band, and less like the desk that holds it all together, we will not sleep, we will not eat, we WILL cry, we/I will want to drink or use food to get through it.  We will search and search for some way to make the anxiety and worry go away, we will be overbearing, and our husbands will tell us a thousand times over “everything will be fine”, and we won’t believe them.  We will, in effect, drive people crazy trying to make sure our babies don’t have to feel bad.  Through it all, we will mostly be ineffective.

The good news – (In my opinion) As a rubber band mama, you have earned credibility with your kids just by the sheer fact that you are always open and honest with your emotions.  I feel like children are amazing barometers when it comes to adult sincerity. They learn early on who they can trust and not trust. I’m not saying I walk around my house letting my emotions fly all over the place, because obviously, my children would be catching the first bus to “Anywhere but the playroom with mommy”.   I’m simply talking about one of the fundamental building blocks of relationships, which is intimacy.  Intimacy comes from being open and honest.  As a rubber band mama, I have no choice but to be transparent, and I know that this will result in my girls feeling that they can have an open and honest relationship with me.

Something to remember – It’s not about me, and it’s not about you.  Really and truly, at the end of the day, these girls were not my creation, they were God’s creation.  He chose me (yay!!!) to be their guiding light, but I am not their only light. Where I fail, I pray he will pick up and help them along.  He has a plan for me and he has a plan for them.  Sometimes, I think God is going to make me look like a big fat failure in front of my girls, just so they know that part of being a woman is falling down.  Then, God is going to pick me back up, dust off my pants while I wipe my tears away, and push me back out there so I can show my girls that part of life is getting back up again, and asking God for help.  Sometimes God is going to do something REALLY scary with my kids, and give me a whole bunch of new knots to keep me strong.  I won’t like it, but I’ll just have to keep reminding myself  that if it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t know my own resilience.  I would forget all the times God had showed up when I had kicked him out.

So, when it feels like you are stretched too thin, or when you are about to break from carrying all the emotions of your little one, remember God.  When you feel like one of your knots is going to come undone because the world is a big old disaster, and really, how many landfills can there be? And how many of these kids really call a place like that home!? Remember God.  When you haven’t slept in over 100 days, and you can’t remember how to spell words, I can tell you, it’s still possible to remember God.