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.

A Daily Dose of Humor, My Cure for End of Summer Blues

Can't every day be like this?

End of summer. Not my favorite time of year. My prescription for handling this is a daily dose of humor. In addition to all the other necessary self-care: the exercise, the meditation, the sleep, the healthy eating, time by myself, time with friends, time with Carl. Yes, I need all of it, and yes, sometimes it's exhausting. But right now, I also need to laugh.

So here is a link to something that helped me look on the plus side of back to school: Baby Got Class. And if you've yet to discover The Lonely Island, Andy Sandberg's comedy group, check them out. My personal favorite of their videos is People Getting Punched Right Before Eating, but there are so many good ones. Warning - most of them are explicit - so don't watch at the office or with your kids.

Please post your favorite funny people or links here. Share the wealth.

Buying something cute for fall helps too - even if it's just one small thing. Just saying.

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?  

Giving up Rushing for Lent (Again)

Two very wise creatures

Now that Lent is almost over, I can confess that I have given up rushing (again) and that I forgot that I had done this last year. So, there is still work to be done here. Yes, when driving. My instinct when driving is to increase speed when the light turns yellow, to go at least five miles an hour above the speed limit, to never wait behind someone making a left hand turn if it can be avoided. I have experimented over the past few weeks with noticing these impulses, and sometimes doing the opposite. The interesting thing is that waiting behind that car in the left lane is not that bad. It doesn’t take me any longer to get places than it does when I rush, and when I arrive, I am much calmer. Hm.

  

Besides on the road, the time I notice the most rushing is in the morning with my son. No wonder our mornings can be so unpleasant and full of conflict when I’m always rushing us. I realized that part of the reason for this is that we have to get to school by a certain time for him to eat breakfast there. So I experimented for the past two days, and fed Daniel at home, and it changed my whole attitude about our morning. I didn’t care nearly as much about when we arrived at school. Interestingly, we actually got there in time for breakfast, but the whole morning leading up to it was so much more pleasant for both of us.

Lent is almost over, but I hope to take these lessons with me. Rushing only makes me less happy, and doesn’t get me there any faster. Maybe Mr. Rogers was right about taking our time, like he was right about so many things.

9 Ways to Like Winter More

Nalu and I huddle for warmth

Okay, it will never be my favorite time of year. I don’t love that I have to wear a knit hat and four layers of clothes, inside my house, just to stay reasonably warm. But I’m trying to look at the bright side.

Work with me, people!

1) Plan fun events. Carl and I have concert tickets for Feb. 28. My mom and I are going to see a favorite writer speak next week. I have two birthday parties coming up. In winter, I can't rely on fun just happening, I need some guarantees. Plans help.

2) Get a vacation on the calendar. Even if it's not until July, you can start dreaming about it now. My mom and I just bought plane tickets to Paris for April, and boy has that put a spring in my step.

3) Spend time outside. I know, it's freezing - literally. We still need fresh air. Bundle up and take the dog, the kid, or yourself for a walk. Even 20 minutes will help. I promise.

4) Have things that force you to leave the house at night. It gets dark so early. If I'm home, I'm likely to curl up in front of the TV, which is okay sometimes. But if I have a plan to meet a friend or hear a lecture, I may have to drag myself out of the house, but I'm always glad I did.

5) Start a book club or coffee clatch or sewing circle. I really wanted a writing group and I couldn't find one that worked for me. Desperate, I started one, inviting a few friends and acquantainces. Not only does it get me out of the house every other Thursday, I get to share the joy and struggle of writing with people who understand. Priceless.

6) Appreciate time to hibernate. Catch up on Oscar nominees, Downtown Abbey, whatever you missed while you were enjoying those long summer nights.

7) Take up a winter sport. Ice skating, skiing, snowboarding: these are things that could help me to enjoy winter. (So they say. I've yet to try this one.)

8) Take baths, sip hot tea, make soup. Strictly winter pleasures.

9) Visit museums. Winter is the perfect time to rediscover the joy of dinosaur bones or Matisse or medical oddities.

What have I missed? Seriously, I need help with this one.

Make a List, Check it Twice

A few weeks ago, I asked my co-worker Evan how much time he spent in Wegman’s when he did his food shopping. “30 minutes or so,” he said. I was spending, on average, 60 minutes each time I went there, and not coincidentally, way more money than I planned to. “It’s all about the list,” he said. I told him I usually had a list. "But do you stick to it?" he asked.

What a concept.

Although I have a list when I go to the store, my eye wanders, especially at Wegman's. Maybe I do need that hot wing cheese dip. Or that new brand of granola, or the chipotle hummus. Maybe the blue corn tortilla chips are healthier. With so many choices, my trips there became endless, overwhelming, exhausting.

The next week, I took Evan’s advice. I made a comprehensive list and went into the store, determined to only buy what was on it. It took great discipline with so many temptations: the funky car magnets I’d admired, pita chips for the aforementioned hummus, pepperoni for our pizza – but no, I stood firm, stuck to the list, and got out of there in 30 minutes, on budget. Amazing.

As I resisted each impulse to buy something not on the list I realized those urges came from a scarcity mentality – I have to buy it now, because maybe I won’t have another chance. I’m not sure what that’s about, but once I realized it was driving my buying choices, it was easier to say, no, I food shop at least once a week, if I really need eggs, I can get them. Having a list helped me feel more secure that I wouldn't have to do an extra grocery trip for a forgotten item.

The ultimate triumph of the list came the following week when I took my list, my new discipline and my toddler to Target. Somehow, I found everything that I needed and was back in the car in 30 minutes. With a toddler. This might not be walking on water, but for my world, it was miraculous. 

The list made me realize how susceptible I am to clever marketing, how distracted I am, how tempted to buy things I don't need, and have never considered until they catch my wandering eye in the store.

Could this possibly work for Christmas shopping? If you try it, let me know how it works out.

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.

Stop Apologizing

“I don’t believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. When one’s hostess starts in with self-deprecations such as ‘Oh, I don’t know how to cook…,’ or ‘Poor little me…,’ or ‘This may taste awful…,’ it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that everything is delicious and fine, whether it is or not. Besides, such admissions only draw attention to one’s shortcomings (or self-perceived shortcomings), and make the other person think, ‘Yes, you’re right, this really is an awful meal!’ Usually one’s cooking is better than one thinks it is.” Julia Child

This passage from My Life in France really stuck with me. Maybe because, like most women, I overapologize. Someone will bump into me in the street, and I automatically say, "I'm sorry." Ironically, when I’ve done something wrong, it’s hard to apologize, but when I’m falling short of the expectation to be the perfect mother, homemaker and woman, I can't keep the explanations in my mouth. “I’m so sorry the house is a mess.” “I’m so sorry dinner isn’t ready yet.” “I’m so sorry I don’t have vegan cupcakes made from raw organic ingredients for your child.”

When I read Julia's above thoughts, I realized it is annoying to have to reassure someone that they are okay, so why should I put guests in that position?

With my antenna up about this issue, I started noticing it in other people. I have shown up at a friend’s house, who said, “Oh my god, there’s cat hair everywhere, I haven’t dusted in weeks, and oh, God, that's my son’s dirty underwear in the corner.” I definitely would not have noticed any of those things had she not pointed them out. Even if I had, I certainly am not inclined to judge anyone else’s housekeeping, and if I am, isn’t that my problem?

So unusual is the unapologetic host that she makes quite an impression when she does appear. A friend reported to me how, twenty years ago, when her son hurt himself on the playground, an acquaintance invited them to her house to bandage him up. The house was disastrous—dishes piled in the sink, toys and clothes strewn everywhere, outrageously messy—and the hostess didn’t apologize or explain. According to my Grandmom, my cousin Adelaide was always happy to host a party, no matter the state of her home. “She would have dustbunnies the size of cats, and they didn’t bother her in the least.” 

Both incidents were reported with admiration, disbelief - like how could you possibly be relaxed and unbothered by other people seeing your mess? I'm working on this skill, and because I have a living tornado, in the form of a toddler, I get plenty of practice. I can straighten up the house five times a day and still have a disaster scene. Why bother?

So, fair warning, if you're coming over for dinner, you might find a messy house and a mediocre meal, but you'll also have a happier, more relaxed hostess. And aren't you coming over to spend time with me, not to judge me? Maybe I can inspire you to worry less about your dustbunnies, and then your mess could inspire someone else. Let's start a chain of unapologetic imperfection.

Taking My Time

How I feel when I'm hurrying

“What are you giving up for Lent?” was a question commonly discussed in the St. Bernadette's cafeteria. Usually I would give up chocolate or Doritos, maybe Coke. I hadn’t practiced the Lenten sacrifice in decades, but last year, my friend Claire told me she was driving in the car without any music or news for Lent. She liked the idea of a short window to try out a new behavior, like an experiment.

Claire's take made sense to me, so last year for all of Lent, I drove the speed limit. I felt much calmer in the car, less focused on other drivers’ behavior, more open to noticing hawks soaring or trees budding or clouds drifting. After Easter, I relaxed my restriction – driving 55 on the highway is excruciating – but find that most of the time, because it helps me enjoy my day, I respect driving laws.

How I feel when I'm taking my time

 This year for Lent, I’m slowing down in general. The inspiration came from a speaker who started her talk by saying, “I’m going to take my time. That was something I was never given permission to do as a child.” This idea stuck in my head. My parents are not “take their time” kind of people. If there is one more activity they can squeeze into a day, they do it. And God bless them, it seems to work fine for them. (Except for the occasional missed cruise ship.)

I also fill my days completely. Do I have five minutes before a friend arrives? I’ll put in a load of laundry and wash the dishes. Ten minutes before Daniel will likely wake? I’ll write a draft of an essay, check my email, and call the portrait studio about ordering those wallets. Yes, I’m efficient, but many days I feel harried and stressed. I hoped that by slowing my pace to a jog, I might enjoy life more.

Since Ash Wednesday, I’ve caught myself rushing many times each day: changing my son into his pjs; tugging the dog along on her leash; speed walking to the bathroom at work. My writing teacher observed that maybe if I wrote more slowly I’d be able to read my own handwriting. Wow. I’m in too much of a hurry to write legibly.

The first real test came on Tuesday, when I woke up later than planned, and had a doctor’s appointment.  But when I noticed the stress, I took a few breaths, gave myself permission to take my time, and accepted that I might be late. The frenzy might have saved me a few minutes, but it would have made all of them unpleasant. I let Daniel dawdle a bit over breakfast, drove the speed limit, and breathed through my anxiety. With very little traffic, and a prime parking spot, somehow I arrived at 9:45 on the dot, and much calmer than frantic Julie would have had.

The gift of awareness is realizing I have choices. Oh, I’m hurrying again? Okay, I don’t have to do that. So I guess, in St. Bernadette’s terms, I’m giving up rushing for Lent. I think Sr. Mary Bertha would approve.