10 Sweetest Things, 5 1/4

My baby is 5 already. Five and a quarter in a few days. Where do the days, months, years go? I just re-read some old entries, and was struck by how much I had forgotten. Everyone says that you forget things, but I didn't really believe them.

So, for the sake of remembering, here are 10 sweetest things about right now:

1. He holds my hand as we walk to school. These days may be numbered, so I enjoy every last one.
2. He kisses me goodbye, in front of his whole class. Ditto above - days numbered.
3. He hugs me, both spontaneously, and when asked.
4. He makes up his own songs. All the time. Sometimes I question the content, like the one with the refrain about drinking alcohol, but mostly they are about God's creation (Catholic School), or whatever he is looking at (ie living room couches.)
5. He loves to read stories together. Current favorites: The Pout Pout Fish, Star Wars anything, and anything haunted.
6. He asks us to make up haunted stories, almost every day, then tells us when they get too scary.
7. He loves to help: vacuuming, feeding Nalu, emptying trash - any job he can do around the house, he does with joy.
8. He's a road warrior. We can drive 6 hours to Central New York, with nary a complaint from the backseat.
9. He's generous. He'll share his dessert, even if it's M&Ms, and he only has a few left.
10. He loves to tell jokes. He's even creating his own material. He'll be writing his own blog entries soon.

A Wish for All Young Ball Players

And in honor of my dad and the St. Bernadette's Beavers...

Originally published in The Philadelphia Inquirer on April 15, 2015

Julie Owsik Ackermanis a writing coach for college applicants

Spring means crocuses, robins, and baseball. The Phillies come back to town, and little boys and girls are fitting their hands into leather gloves, running the bases, and swinging a bat. I began playing baseball on a boys' team, at the age of 5. I hated it. I would have preferred dance class, but no one was going to tell my mom that her daughter couldn't play baseball because she was a girl, and it was probably easier to take all of her children to one place. So off to the baseball diamond I went week after week.

After that first season, my parents switched me to the girls' softball league, which I liked better. I had three brothers, and lived on a block with all boys, so having girls around, at least at the ball field, was a relief. But did I even enjoy softball? I don't know. It's hard to like anything while you're learning. In those first years I just remember being at "The Field" all the time. We practiced when it was still so cold that my hands were red and raw, and would sting when I caught a ball in my glove. Other days we baked in the sun, thirsty and unsheltered. In the early years, I tried every position, kept showing up, kept practicing, and over time, became a decent player.

Although anyone could play in the town Little League, it was a big deal to make the St. Bernadette's school team. So when I made it in seventh grade I was pleased. In eighth grade, our coach got sick, and the call went out for volunteers. My dad asked me what I thought about him coaching. He had played Division 1 baseball at St. Joe's University, coached high school sports for years, and my brothers in many things, but could he handle girls? There weren't many options, so I said we could give it a try.

At our first team practice we told my dad we didn't want to order hats.

"What?" he asked, incredulous. "This is softball."

"They'll ruin our hair," one of the Nicoles explained. This was the 1990s - big bangs were important.

What would Dad do? Get angry? Force the hats on us? He thought for a moment, then said: "OK, I guess we'll vote on it. How many people want hats?"

A few nerds raised their hands.

He laughed, and then said, "OK, looks like we won't be wearing hats this year."

It may seem a small thing, even silly, this respect of our big bangs, but it was brilliant. With that vote, he showed us - he showed me - that he respected us, that he heard us, that our opinion mattered.

So began a magical season. With Katie Weinrich pitching, me at first base, the team's solid defense, and some good hitting, the St. Bernadette's Beavers were almost unbeatable. I'd never had so much fun. Winning will do that. Winning with your dad as the coach, and your friends as your teammates, well, that's a dream season.

\

The golden season tarnished a bit when I contracted chicken pox right before the playoffs. Restricted to bed, I learned the news when my dad came home from each game with his play-by-play report. It was torture to be lying at home, missing the pinnacle of everything we had worked to accomplish, but the team kept winning and winning.

In a movielike ending, the doctor cleared me to return for the big game. We had made it all the way to the Archdiocesan Championship, playing to be the best Catholic school team in the whole Philadelphia area. I was so proud, so pleased, and so glad I could be there with my teammates. Pock-covered or not, I was ready to play my heart out.

The score was 1-0. It was the bottom of the fifth inning (we played only six). The bases were loaded with one out, and I came up to bat. Here was my chance, to knock in the winning runs for my teammates. I gripped the bat, breathed, waited for my pitch, and when it came I knew it. I swung with all my pent-up weeks of frustration, crushing that ball. CRACK! I knew my glory moment had come. Just like in the movies, I heard the screams, I felt the joy, then no! No! THUD. The ball landed. Directly in the shortstop's glove. I was out.

Everything went silent. It was supposed to be the best hit of my life. How could it end this way? I walked, trembling, back toward the bench, and when my dad put his arm around me, the tears just poured out.

He hugged me and let me cry, let me be the 13-year-old that I was. After I calmed down he said, "Jewel, that was a great hit. You did everything you could. I'm proud of you."

We lost the game.

When I recently asked my dad about the game, he said what he has always said, "If you had hit that ball two feet in the other direction, we would have won."

That was a good lesson to learn. Even when you pull yourself up from a sickbed and have a chance to be a hero, all you can do is swing the bat - you can't control where the fielder is standing.

I can't lie. The loss still hurts a little. But in losing, I won something way more valuable. I learned that day that my dad was proud of me even when I wasn't the hero, even when I lost. That is my wish for every child this baseball and softball season.

Our Heritage Connects us to Family

In lieu of writing any new material, I thought I'd share some work that's been published elsewhere over the past few months. Happy summer :)




Originally Published in The Philadelphia Inquirer March 17, 2015

By Julie Owsik Ackerman

Why do we care about St. Patrick's Day?

I'm a third-generation Irish American. My mom's grandparents immigrated from Ireland and my grandparents were born in Philadelphia. So if I'm not looking for an excuse to drink too much Guinness, why celebrate at all? Why does it even matter to me that I'm Irish?

For me, the answer is that it mattered to my grandmom, and I loved her. Dorothy Higgins Wade grew up with Irish parents, in St. Brigid's Parish, in the Irish community in East Falls. Although she moved out to the suburbs when she married, she carried a love of that community and her Irish heritage with her, passing that love down to her daughter, who passed it down to me.

In 1997, Grandmom, my parents, and I traveled to Ireland for a family reunion. More than a hundred family members gathered from the United States, Ireland, England, and Australia for the occasion. It was the first time my Irish American grandmother had ever visited the homeland, and she was thrilled. I was 21 that summer, a wee lass, and was suffering through a heartbreak in true Irish fashion - by drinking a lot, writing poetry, and crying on the shoulder of anyone who would listen.

The trip helped me in ways I couldn't have imagined. After arriving in Dublin, the first odd thing I noticed was that everyone there looked like my family. I'd never been anywhere like that before. This was comforting at a time when I was feeling so lost and rejected.

Also, the Irish really are the friendliest people you'll ever meet, a trait that Grandmom and I both shared. Over the course of the 10 days, we would leave Grandmom on a bench to rest while we explored, and every single time we would return to find her with a new friend. Every time.

It became increasingly difficult for me to be sullen and sad while surrounded by so many cheerful and friendly people.

After a day in Dublin, we made our way to Sligo for the reunion weekend, and we had a big party. One of my younger Irish cousins had just joined a boy band, which sang a few songs at the gathering. That band would turn into teen sensation Westlife a few years later.

After the party, some cousins and I went out to a club, and I met a cute Irish guy who kissed me in an alcove while rain poured outside. Walking home later, my cousin Julie and I lost our way and hitched a ride with the local police. Dancing, kissing, riding in police cars - Ireland was bringing me back to life.

After our weekend in Sligo, we went out to the family farm in County Mayo. As I stood with Grandmom in the doorway of the small home where her mother was born, my pain didn't disappear, but it shrank a bit.

I saw that, yes, my broken heart mattered, but in the scheme of a life, it wouldn't be the only thing that would matter. I couldn't articulate it yet, but I know now that a seed of hope was planted that day with Grandmom: I would love again; I would marry; I would travel one day with a beloved child and tell him about people I loved who had passed on; he would hold my hand while I cried, just as I did for Grandmom.

All of those things have come true.

So when St. Patrick's Day comes now, I don't start drinking at 9 a.m., and I don't go to parades or pull out a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses.

But I do make one of Grandmom's recipes, handwritten on index cards just for me. I do listen to some Irish music, even if it's just Blackthorn in my kitchen. I do call my mom to hear her say, "Top of the morning to you, my pretty colleen."

And I do remember how much it meant to go to Ireland, to be with my Grandmom and my family, and to see that I was a part of something bigger than myself. I was loved, maybe not by one particular man, but by Dorothy Higgins Wade and a whole clan of crazy Irish folks.

How to Survive a Shitstorm (Deep Acceptance)

My family got walloped this week. Not just with snow. Carl hurt his back Monday morning. So badly he couldn’t get up for three days straight. I had a migraine that started Sunday and lasted until Wednesday. And the three-year-old and pug can’t take care of themselves just because we’re sick and hurt. (Can we put that clause in the parenting contract somewhere?)  

Immobile trumps migraine, so I was caring for everyone with my headache. I do not recommend this. By Wednesday night, I felt beaten. Driving home from work, exhausted, head pounding, I put in a CD called The Deepest Acceptance by Jeff Foster. He reminded me that most of my suffering comes when I want things to be different from how they are. Right. It’s so simple and so true. Is the headache causing my pain, or the fact that I want the headache to go away right this instant? Is Carl being on his back causing my pain or the fact that I want him to be up and helping right this instant? Is the snow causing my pain or the fact that I want it to be spring right this instant? Usually, what is causing my suffering is the latter. Something happens, and I don’t like it, but it’s the fighting against it tooth and nail that causes the bulk of my pain.

Why is this thought helpful? Because I can’t change the fact that the headache is here. I have meds, but they don’t always work. The headaches come when they come, and go when they go. But changing the way I think about them does relieve some of the suffering.

The snow is another example. I hate winter. So when a friend texted me yesterday to ask if Daniel and I wanted to come play in the snow with her, my first (inward) response was “hell, no.” But, after being cooped up all morning with my husband on his fourth day at home immobile, I decided an outing was a good idea. We bundled up, and trudged outside. Daniel brought his shovel with him, shoveling walks as we went. I had to admit, once I stopped wishing the snow wasn’t here, that it was beautiful. My friend was thrilled to see us, which further lifted my spirits. We lied on her lawn and made snow angels. We hunted for a sled in her basement, finding an old snowboard instead. We constructed a hill on her porch steps, then watched Daniel slide down it over and over and over, saying, “I wanna go fast!” and “Can I go again?” My grumpiness and my headache slid away as Daniel slid down the hill, as we laughed and played in the crisp winter air, laughing and loving it. 

Some days pain appears, some days joy appears. Some days both. Jeff Foster says we don’t have to try accept anything, that anything that appears we have already allowed into our experience, and have therefore already accepted. I like that. I don’t have to try to accept, I’ve already accepted. Just for today, I accept that it is March 6, that my world is snow covered, that I did not get as much work done this week as I wanted, but that I took care of myself, I was a good wife, a good mom, and I had a beautiful day with my boy yesterday. Just for today, that feels like enough.

Beating the Winter Doldrums

Come and swim at the Y M C A

January was rough. My Grandmom died, I had this nasty cough/cold that wouldn't go away, and Daniel and I were having these epic battles about getting dressed every morning. And let's face it, it was January. Does anyone like January?

Teetering at the edge of depression, I finally joined the gym I'd been talking about joining for years. We have a brand new YMCA near our house and my friends who belong are borderline cult-like in their love of it. I thought it was too far from our house, but when I google mapped the Y versus the LA fitness, it was only five minutes further, and Daniel could swim there too. Sold.

Since joining, my whole winter has turned around. During our first visit, Daniel played in the Kid Zone while I danced at Zumba - instant smile!!!! and Carl worked out. Amazing. Two happy parents and a not-too-unhappy kid.

For our second visit, we had a pool night. We all brought our bathing suits, and I played with Daniel while Carl swam laps, then Carl played with Daniel while I swam laps. It felt like a Tuesday night vacation. Three happy people on a Tuesday night in February. Amazing.

I know that endorphins make a big difference, but sometimes I guess I need a break from exercise to remember just what a big difference it makes. The week before I joined the gym I was borderline depressed. After three workouts I felt like myself again.

A wise friend pointed out that it wasn't just the exercise, but the family date that put the smile on my face, and she was right. Since she said that I've been trying to do some kind of weekly family excursion once a week - whether it's splashing at the pool, or eating at Outback, something just for fun. In spring and summer, spontaneous fun abounds. In winter, it takes a bit more work. But with some focus and attention, with exercise, with watching daily comedy, I find that as friends complain about the winter doldrums, at least for today, I'm feeling pretty good.

Biggest Party Night of the Year - With Kids

Nothing can stop this family from having a good time

The night before Thanksgiving used to mean meeting friends in a swanky lounge downtown, or a local neighborhood pub, or a sweaty dance club. For a few years, when most of my friends had kids, but I didn't, I held on to this tradition, tried to rally my gang for a night out, unable to accept that things had changed. Now, three years into parenthood myself, I get it. I'm not getting a babysitter for Thanksgiving Eve. Not gonna happen. But as I contemplated the weekend arriving, I wanted to be with friends. My nights in sweaty clubs may be (mostly) on pause, but that doesn't mean I can't see friends. So I took matters into my own hands, brought the party to me.

What the biggest party night of the year looks like, with kids, is this:

Your husband for some reason decides to clean off the top of the fridge for the first time in 10 years, right before everyone arrives, leaving the whole house smelling like bleach. This makes you open the windows even though it's 25 degrees and snowing. He's still vacuuming when people are arriving, since "there will be babies crawling," and though you want to murder him, because who cares if the rug is dirty when the food isn't ready, you remember his mom telling you to never interrupt a man who is cleaning, and remind yourself that it's good to have a clean rug and a sweet husband.

Four other families with youngens come, arriving at 6 pm. You order pizza, cook up some veggies from the CSA, and French fries for the kids. The guests bring crudite with hummus, Greek salad and pumpkin pie. You feast, eating in shifts, some people standing. Parents are used to this. When Rhoda stands, you discover she was sitting on your son's stethoscope. She laughs and said she didn't even feel it. You love her for this.

Daniel, Jacob and Ruthie, ages 3, 3 and 5, eat quickly - only pizza and fries, obviously, and then go play in the living room. When Teddy, age 3 arrives, he joins them. The babies, Trixie, Tyler and Kieran, ages 7 to 12 months, join the fray. After dinner, parents sit on couches, sprawl on the floor, talk in pairs or triads. The moms sit in the dining room for a blessed fifteen minutes and talk about comedy dreams, while the dads manage the mayhem in the living room. A few times you look in the living room and shudder to see every scarf, glove and hat that you own strewn about, along with every lego, toy, musical instrument and book. Oh well, it is the biggest party night of the year.

At 8:15, Lauren starts to pack up baby Trixie, the youngest of the bunch, with the biggest eyes, and most adventurous palate (duck confit, yes please says baby Trixie.) The dads do a crazy cleanup sweep that you wouldn't believe if you hadn't witnessed it. Your living room is restored to order in five minutes. Babies are bundled into car seats, kids into winter clothes. Hugs and kisses are exchanged. Your little guy is jumping on the couch like a maniac, fueled not even by sugar, but by the sheer excitement of Thanksgiving Eve. He's shouting Happy Halloween! Happy Easter! Your husband puts him to bed as you begin cleaning up and cutting up the bread to make the stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner.

No alcohol was served, it was hardly swanky, but it was loud, and full of love, and connection. The only thing missing was dancing. Next year, I'm adding a dance party to the mix.

Elvis Has Possessed My Three Year Old

The King lives

A few months ago I asked my son what he wanted to watch on YouTube. Typical answers range from Elmo to Ingrid Michaelson (he's eclectic.) On that particular night he said, "Elvis." I assumed he has watched this with his dad, so I didn't think much of it, and gamely pulled up Elvis Aloha from Hawaii. Later when I mentioned it to Carl, he said, "Yeah, he asked me to watch Elvis the other night, and I assumed you had watched it with him before."

"You mean, this didn't come from you?"

"No."

We looked at each other, dumbfounded. Where, then, did our child get the idea to watch Elvis?

Whatever its genesis, my son loves the King. We have watched Elvis Aloha from Hawaii almost every day since then. I have shown Daniel other Elvis footage, the comeback concert in '68, when he's still svelte, dressed in black leather; the classic footage of him shaking his pelvis, causing uproar in 1956; we've even watched the tragic but beautiful Unchained Melody performance, just weeks before his death (at age 42!). But no, the boy is only interested in watching Elvis in Hawaii. Why? I can't really say.

The Hawaii concert makes me a little sad. Yes, he's still the King, but he's clearly high, and has begun his descent into his addiction. Yet he also has moments of clarity, charm, and talent to spare. He's not the man he was in the earlier performances, but vestiges of his prodigious gifts remain. Watching clips from the videos now, I'm struck by his lack of perfectionism, by the fact that he was still working, even in his addiction, until the very end, still offering his gifts to the world.

He may not have been sexy or even coherent all the time, but he was still singing. And my three year old loves it. Go figure.

Thanks. Elvis. You're still the King.

When I asked Daniel what Nalu should be for Halloween, he said, without hesitation, "A hunk of burning love."

What If He Wore Pajamas to School?

So apparently the "terrible twos" is a big fat lie and it's actually the "terrible threes." Here I was, thinking we were out of the woods, when the trouble was just beginning.

Okay, it's not all bad

Carl was away for nine days, though it's never easy, this trip coincided with the beginning of what I'll call an ornery phase. A few examples:

D: I want cereal for breakfast.
(upon seeing cereal in his bowl.)
D: I want yogurt for breakfast!!!

Me: Time for bed.
D: It's not time for bed.

Me: I like your haircut.
D: You don't like my haircut.

And then there's getting dressed. What was once a longish, fairly annoying process has become pure torture. For me. In Carl's absence, running late for work, out of patience, I slammed the bedroom door and told him that we weren't leaving his room until he was dressed. This set us up for a show down that left me completely drained, by 8:30 a.m.

Upon recounting this to a friend with adult children, she said, "What if you had just let him wear his pajamas to school?"

Her question stopped me short. I thought about it. "Everyone would have judged me," I said. "All the teachers, and other parents."

My friend paused, then said gently, "Probably not."

I exhaled loudly, realizing two things: she was right, and even if she wasn't, even if they all judged me, the awful fifteen minutes of forcing my child to get dressed was just not worth it. Let them judge.

So now, whenever I start to have a conflict with Daniel, I ask myself, "What if he doesn't: brush his teeth, put on his shoes, eat his carrots, say goodbye, etc?" And most of those battles, I let them go. Because if I'm going to survive the threes with any serenity, I'm going to have to pick my battles.

Goodbye to Age Two

A tender moment

On my son’s third birthday, I’m feeling a bit wistful. Even though I do NOT miss infancy, (I barely survived it with my sanity intact,) when I kissed my boy goodnight last night and said, this is the last time I’ll see you when you’ll be two, my heart caught in my throat.

I never know when these moments will happen. His first birthday came and went with no feelings. But when I turned his car seat from backwards to forward facing, I burst into tears, realizing, he’ll be riding forward for the rest of his life!

He threw a doozy of a tantrum on the eve of his third birthday as if to remind me just what I wouldn’t miss. But for the most part, I loved age two. I loved the sweetness of it. We’d be riding along in the car, and he’d shout from the backseat, “Mommy – school bus!” or “Bridge!” or “Digger!” So much about ordinary everyday life is so fresh and exciting for him, and he has the words to express it. I enjoy his growing independence, his ability to walk distances, put on shoes, pull up pants, climb in and out of the car. He’s not always cooperative, of course not, but he’s rather reasonable for a kid, and will often compromise, or strike some sort of deal. (Yes, toddlers should teach negotiation skills in law and business school.) Two was fun.

He's three!

One of my friends says each stage of a child’s life has gains and losses. I’m sure age three will have things I’ll like – goodbye diapers – and some things I won’t. I’ll try to keep focusing on the positive, enjoying the gifts of three and remembering that all we ever have is the present. 

As much as I may want to freeze him in time, in this sweet innocent phase, I can’t, and I don’t really want that anyway. The best I can do is to stay present as much as possible, and enjoy each moment as it unfolds, and when sadness arises, welcome that too, as part of being alive.

What did you love about age three? Any tips for the hard parts?  

My New York Times Debut

In case you missed the big news, I had my New York Times Debut on October 13 - the Sunday Times, no less.

In response to an essay called A Feminist's Daughter Finds Love in the Kitchen, I wrote a response, which they printed in the Style section. I'd love to hear your responses to the essay, a subject near to my heart - how to balance our own needs with our children's.

Thank God my mom gave me great advice, so I could submit it to The New York Times!

It's Okay to Feel Sad

Daniel's face at drop-off is sadder than this

Each morning, when I drop Daniel off at school, as I say goodbye, he clings to me. He says, “I want my mommy to stay,” makes the saddest face anyone has ever seen, and often bursts into tears. I hate this.

But with the help of some friends and some books: (thank you How to Talk so Kids Will Listen and Listen so Kids will Talk) I realized that I was making it worse by denying his feelings. By saying things like, “You love school,” or “You’re going to have fun today,” or “You’re okay,” I wasn’t permitting him to have his feelings. In point of fact, I didn’t want him to feel sad, because then I felt sad, unsure, guilty, and I hated that.

Once I realized that I’d been trying to gloss over his feelings, I began saying, “This is the hard part, saying goodbye. It’s okay to be sad.” This simple statement, said with sincerity, defuses his sadness pretty quickly. Earlier this week, he actually let go of me, and I didn’t have to peel his little fingers off my hand or leg.

A friend said to me recently that he found in parenting his children, he was really parenting himself. This started me thinking about how I don’t acknowledge my own “bad” feelings. I do have a naturally sunny temperament, but I also have a tendency to stuff or deny feelings like sadness, guilt, anger, fear. Because I don’t like feeling them, I pretend that I don’t. Each time I tell Daniel it’s okay to be sad, I’m telling myself the same thing. I need that message as much as he does, maybe more.

Besides changing my strategy at drop-off, I also try to remember that everyone’s life has good and bad, comfort and discomfort, every day. I cannot prevent Daniel from experiencing discomfort. Of course I hate the idea of him suffering, but knowing that it’s not my job to prevent it allows me to breathe.

So what can I do? I can acknowledge his feelings, listen to him without judgment. And I can give us all some extra leeway during transitions.

It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be overwhelmed. It’s okay to be guilty and unsure. The more I accept these feelings, welcome them even, explore them with curiosity, the less scary they are, the less they rule my life, the more I’m free to enjoy the good.

Rancho Relaxo No' Mo'

This is what a week on Maui will do for you.

Summer in the Ackerman household is Rancho Relaxo. Carl has about eight weeks when he’s not teaching, and though he works part of the time, he is home more than usual. Daniel stays home with Daddy while I work, we spend long weekends at the shore, we loll in Lake Ontario with the Ackermans. This summer, Carl and I spent 10 glorious days in Hawaii. In a lifetime of great summers, this was one of the best I've had.

And now it’s over.

End of summer is hard every year. We transition from Rancho Relaxo to Rancho Insane-o. Jumping back into the school year routine is a bitch slap. Carl wakes at 5:30, I follow by 6. Must get dog walked, everyone fed, dressed, with daily lunch and necessities in hand and out the door by 7:15. This requires organization during weekends and evenings – food must be bought, lunches packed, laundry done, etc. Which is all fine. I like our school year routine. In fact, by the end of summer, I crave the structure and routine of fall. I need time at home, dates with friends, quiet time to write. But these first few weeks are always an adjustment.

This year, Daniel began preschool. So into the regular transitional mix we added learning how the school works, what Daniel needs during the day, how to help him adjust to being there four full days a week, what drop-off and pickup will be like. When the first day was hard (as everyone said it would be), a torrent of second-guessing and fear overcame me: was I doing the right thing? Was I a selfish mom? Yes, we need my income, but shouldn’t our child’s well-being come first? Is there another situation that would be better, easier?

Day two was a lot better than day one. Daniel’s teacher told me how she had held him until he fell asleep at naptime, which told me everything I needed to know about how kind she was. I ran into an acquaintance who taught preschool for 25 years. She said, “Preschool teachers have a special love for the little ones who have separation trouble. He will feel that love.” I knew she was speaking the truth, and that God had sent her to tell me that. I reminded myself that I had done my due diligence. I hadn’t just willy-nilly signed Daniel up for this program. I had prayed, meditated, researched, visited, discussed. Now I had to give it a chance to work, knowing that usually it takes a week or two to adjust, and even though I’m uncomfortable now, the reward will be great if this new situation works for us.

I’ve intensified my self-care over the past two weeks: made time for a massage, rested more, attended church, fed myself well, bought a new pair of boots (one consolation of fall.)

Share your wisdom with me. What helps you (or your children) adjust to change? How do you take care of yourself when things are hard? I know that most of the country is in transition in these first weeks of September. How can we help each other survive Rancho Insane-o?

Superwoman is Fiction

Last Thursday, as I drove to the car dealership, I sang out loud, “I’m super woman,” to the tune of “I’m Every Woman.” You’d think by now I might recognize the pride before the fall, but no, I didn’t. I congratulated myself on waking up, meditating, feeding everyone, and getting out the door in time. My packed schedule continued all day, without incident until 5 PM, when Carl came in the door.

“Sorry, I just heard your message,” he said.

I noticed he did not have the rolls or horseradish sauce I’d asked him to pick up on his way home. He plopped onto the couch and said he was exhausted, had body aches, and feared he had the flu. Did I feel sympathetic? No. I felt something more like fury. I was tired too. And now what were we going to have for dinner, and how was I going to get to my writing group on time, and who was going to entertain the very energetic toddler?

I huffed and sulked, then took the dog with me to pick up the things for dinner. An hour later, as I took our sandwiches out of the oven, Carl asked if something was wrong.

“I’m irritated,” I said.

When he asked why, I sighed, then thought about it. I wanted to blame my bad mood on someone else, namely him, but really, once again, the problem lied within. I had taken on too much that day, causing me to feel completely overwhelmed at the smallest obstacle. "Why don't you sit down for a few minutes?" he suggested.

Thank God I married someone who can remind me how to stay sane. When I get stressed, everything I know about staying calm flies right out of my head. But I knew he was right. I needed a few quiet minutes to calm down.

After just a few deep breaths I realized it wouldn’t matter all that much if I was a little late for the writing group. I remembered that I could ask Carl to finish the laundry and put Daniel to bed. I remembered one of my mantras, “I have all the time I need.”

Anytime I start thinking I’m superwoman, I’m in trouble. Some days I am quite amazed at what I can accomplish. But that level of energy is unsustainable for me, unless I take time for self-care. I don’t know if superwoman needed to meditate, eat well, exercise and rest, but I do.

Cracks are how the Light Gets In

“Mi corazon está roto. Roto.” My heart is broken. Broken. These were the only words I could summon, in speaking with my host parents in Mexico, after learning that their son had died, suddenly. On December 26. Of a heart attack. At age 36.

Nine days later, I feel a bit calmer. Somehow, my mind has accepted that Roje is dead. But I also know that my heart has acquired another fissure, one that will scab over, and hurt less, but will leave a lasting scar.

I find comfort in the idea that cracks are how the light gets in. Just today, when I entered the library and heard a screaming infant, I felt compassion for her and for her mom. Before my own struggles with parenting, I probably would have thought, “God, can’t you make her shut up? This is a library. People are working.” But the difficulties of motherhood have cracked me enough to make room for compassion and empathy. Though I wouldn’t have chosen postpartum depression or a colicky infant, I can see that good did come from those struggles.

  

The idea that God can bring good out of anything is different than the idea that everything happens for a reason. I just re-read an article by Christine Marie Eberly about this distinction and found it very helpful. When someone says “Everything happens for a reason,” the implication is that God chose this suffering for us for some reason we don’t understand. That concept of God doesn’t work for me. I prefer St. Paul’s notion that God can bring good out of whatever happens to us. Anne Lamott says she pictures Jesus saying, “You’re hurting. Me too. You’re angry. Me too. You’re heartbroken. Me too.” That’s a God that I can believe in.

I hate that Rogelio died. And that’s my right. I never would have chosen this for his wife or his parents, or his small children. But there it is. We cannot control when or how our loved ones die. I don’t know how good will come of this, but I have to believe that it will.

Thank you, Roje, for your friendship, your love. Thank you for your beautiful children, your example of kindness and generosity. I am a better person because I knew you. You will always be my brother. Te extrano mucho mi hermano.

Grandparent Love

Grandmom, Daniel, Nalu, Pop-pop and Heidi

Superstorm Sandy wreaked havoc on many people’s lives. I feel very lucky that the storm passed over us, leaving our heat and electricity intact, our trees in the ground. Still, it wasn’t the best week, between the stress of the storm and being cooped up at home. By Wednesday I was thrilled to go to work, to return to normal life. But then my thirty minute commute took ninety minutes, and everywhere I went people seemed cranky, depleted, hurried. All of this was manageable. Then I came home to Unhappy Daniel.

Daniel even has a G-G-mom to love him

Although the first five months of his life were extremely challenging, since then, my child has shown a happy disposition. Unless he’s tired, hungry, or in pain he rarely cries. I love this about him. But teething + diaper rash = extreme crankiness. For example, when I would try to pick him up to change his diaper last week, he would go completely slack, then kick and scream. Once I saw his raw bottom, I understood why, but his antics didn’t make things any easier. Then he would ask for a bottle, I would get one, then he would cry, point at it, saying, “Ba-ba, ba-ba.” I’d say, “Here it is,” and try to hand it to him, but he would just keep asking for it, refuse to take it, and keep crying. I called the doctor, administered some Tylenol, and though we had a few windows of calm, my nerves were shot by Thursday night.

I worked Friday, thank God, but Saturday Daniel and I were on our own again. I arranged for a babysitter for the morning so I could write and have a little down time. That helped a lot. But still, by 4 PM, I had exhausted all my internal resources. I had to call in the big guns, the grandparents.

Things improved as soon as Grandmom and Pop-Pop showed up. Their absolute delight in Daniel lifted everybody’s mood. My whining, crying, inconsolable child morphed into a content, even pleasant soul under their loving attention. We ventured out to dinner, and through a 20 minute wait for a table, and a 90 minute meal, he was delightful, waving to the waitresses, flirting with other patrons, quietly eating. It was a quasi-miraculous change.

Man, does he love Pop-pop

With Daniel, a change of scenery generally helps, as does seeing people other than just Carl and me. But I saw on Saturday that there’s something extra special about grandparent love. Nothing I had done in the previous two days had pleased or calmed him, but their very presence did both within minutes.

Watching how he bloomed under their care reminded me of how I felt with my own Grandmom. Even as an adult, just being with her made me feel cherished, safe, calm. I remember having breakfast with her one morning when I had an important project due for law school. I was full of angst and worry, but her complete confidence in my abilities fortified me, helped me believe in myself again.

I know my parents have always loved me, but with my Grandmom, that’s all there was – no angst, no battles about discipline or anything else. Maybe that’s what makes the grandparent relationship so special. It can be pure love. It’s like a beloved friend v. a roommate. With the friend, you see what’s lovely and charming, without having to fight about the dishes in the sink. I think a grandparent’s love can be the closest thing to unconditional that many of us feel. Seeing Daniel experience this is one of the best gifts I’ve received from parenthood.

10 Sweetest Things - 15 Months

I have always enjoyed the stage of life when kids start talking. It's fascinating to me to see what's on their little minds. Now, with my own child, it feels downright miraculous to hear him say, "no," or "monkey" or "diaper" in appropriate context. He might just be a genius. Here are a few other amazing things:

1. He toddles across the room, puts his head in my lap and says, "Hi Mama."

2. He says, "Bye bye," while opening and closing his entire hand.

3. He gives kisses, in slow motion, approaching the cheek, planting his lips, then smacking them together.

4. He hurtles down slides with a look of pure joy.

5. He reads books to himself, turning the pages and cracking up.

6. After I put him down for a nap, and close the door, I'll hear him say, "Night night."

7. He refuses to say, "Hi, Grandmom," but he perfectly enunciates, "Hi, Peg."

8. He clicks his tongue in time to the turn signal.

9. When he's upset, he'll calm down if I mention one of his favorite people, like Pop-pop, or Charlotte, or Tessa.

And my very favorite thing he does right now:

10. He shouts "A-men!" whenever we sit down to eat. Last week at church, after the sermon, when all was quiet, you could hear his Amen reverberate through the crowd. Yes, he already has a sense of timing. Like I said, genius.

Give a Little Leeway

This week, when my normal impatience arose, I breathed deeply and reminded myself that most of the world is going through back to school transition, and therefore may need some extra leeway. I’m happy to report it made for a pretty peaceful week.

Change is hard for me, even good change. In June, when Carl’s school year ends, and he’s around more, I love it, but the transition is still hard. Now, after a lovely summer, Carl is back to work, Daniel is back to the babysitter, and I’m back to managing more of the household. Going into the week I worried. How would Daniel adjust, after hanging out with Daddy all summer? How would Carl adjust to work life again? What about our poor puggy, home alone so much more?

To maximize peace in our home, and within myself, I decided to try giving everyone extra leeway for the week. Rather than reprimand myself for failing to write enough, I praised myself for writing at all. Rather than battle with Daniel about his nap, I surrendered, played with him, took him to Target. Rather than chastise Carl for coming home late, I invited a friend over for a play date. In all cases, life was much more enjoyable. I even forgave the asshole who cut me off in traffic yesterday. Yes, I felt the flood of righteous anger, but I remembered leeway, and had some compassion for his hurry.

This week, with all its changes, was so peaceful that I’m wondering if leeway should be a permanent mantra. Maybe I’m always harder on people, including myself, than is necessary or helpful. Maybe I’d be happier with lower expectations and greater acceptance of shortcomings. Hm. Maybe I’ll extend it another week and see how it goes.

Where do you fall on the leeway scale? Do you give too little or too much?

10 Sweetest Things - 13 Months

Daniel's first carousel ride

The struggle and stress of motherhood is tempered by so much sweetness. These are some of my favorite things about Daniel at 13 months.

1. He took his first steps, all casual like, making me suspect he's been walking for months behind our backs.

2. Every morning, his first word when he sees me in the morning is “Nalu" (our dog's name.)

3. He says "Hi!" and "Bye bye" to everyone who passes him.

4. He makes the signs for "more" "all done" and "please."

5. He speaks with exaggerated mouth movement and enunciation. When he says "cracker" it looks like a puppet's mouth opening and closing.

6. He snaps his fingers while clicking with his tongue – as if he’s fooling anyone.

7. He reaches his arms up to signal he wants a hug. 

8. He laughs with delight as Nalu wrestles with his stuffed animals.

9. He sings "Row row row your boat."

10. He giggles and yells with equal enthusiasm. 

Daniel Has an Imperfect Mother

I’ve been cranky recently. Call it bitchy, call it a short fuse, whatever it is, Daniel has seen and felt it. It’s not about him. He’s being his lovely one-year-old self: mostly delightful, sometimes frustrating. But my moodiness felt bad enough that I took myself back to the Postpartum Stress Center today, to talk to Marcie, the counselor who helped me out of my depression six months back.

I vented it all. Everything I’ve been angry about lately, starting close to home, ending with the Catholic Church, with many things in between. After I was done, Marcie observed that I seemed “loaded for bear.” I had to agree. She added that when I don’t make time for myself, I get cranky. I nodded. She reminded me it was my responsibility to carve out alone time to write, to renew, to refresh. This rang some bells. “You ignore this at your peril,” she said.

I know everything she said to be true. We have covered this ground before. But the sneaky belief that it's selfish to need alone time had crept back in and taken over. My work for the moment is to accept the following as true: Whether I like it or not, I need alone time to be healthy. In its absence, I get grumpy, and grumpy can slide into depression. I wish I could handle everything with aplomb and grace, but I can't. Based on past experience, I show a lot more of both if I'm regularly refreshing myself with time alone to write, to dream, to play.

I’m sorry, Daniel, that you have a mom who gets depressed. I’m sorry you have a mom who needs breaks from you. I wish I could protect you from all pain, but I can't. I hope that by taking care of myself, I will set an example for you, one that will help you to care for yourself one day. You are my sunshine, my delight, the heart of my heart. I hope you always know and believe that.

Practicing Forgiveness

“Forgiveness is not forgetting, it’s letting go of the hurt.” Mary McLeod Bethune

Tuesday morning, I heard a talk about forgiveness. The speaker shared some helpful ideas, and read the above quote. I sat there thinking, “I’m really not angry with anyone right now.” Then Carl came home from Sweden.

After a whirlwind long weekend in Europe, Carl was understandably tired. We disagreed about something, he got angry, I got angrier. So much for absence making the heart grow fonder.

Luckily, I knew enough to not continue the fight that night. I even (miraculously) controlled my urge to talk shit about him with my girlfriends. Somehow, I managed to do things that helped: I focused on work, I practiced yoga, I meditated, I carved out writing time. I did talk about it, but only with two friends who think highly of Carl, not the people who would get on my self-righteous express.

After some time and space to cool down, I realized my part of the problem: while Carl had been away, I had done too much. I had gone to the shore and back, I had hosted a birthday party for myself, a Father’s Day dinner, and prepared for Daniel’s birthday party. Also I had worked, done all the usual household stuff, and cared for a baby who cut four teeth and had a horrific rash. By the time Carl returned, I was a firecracker; he just lit the fuse.

It’s annoying to realize my part of things. If I blame everything on Carl, I can just feel sorry for myself, play that comfortable victim role. But that's not really what I really want. When I see my part, I have choices about my behavior. In this case, once I realized how exhausted I was and why, I let myself off the hook a little. I vowed to refill my internal well, by resting, eating well, nurturing myself. I forgave myself for falling into my old habit of overextending, and promised to do less next time I’m on my own with Daniel for a few days.

As for my husband, he, like all of us, is entitled to have a bad day. My job is to take care of myself well enough that other people’s bad moods slide over me. This actually works. If you haven’t tried it, I can’t recommend it highly enough.