What We Share

September 14th, 2014


I went to a Garth Brooks concert last night, and during his second encore, he pointed out a sign that someone was holding in one of the front rows.  The sign said that the woman had been to all ten of his Chicago concerts.  He asked her what she wanted to hear, and she said, “The Red Strokes.”

I was pretty excited about this because although I love most of his music, I am particularly fond of the lesser known songs – probably because they haven’t been played on the radio seventy million times.  But as excited as I was, this woman was beside herself.  Her face was plastered on the jumbotron through most of the song as tears streamed down her face.

It was an awesome moment.  I love seeing people so caught up in a moment that it takes their breath away.  ”The Red Strokes” is a song about passion and love and the feeling that all of that is about to burst out of your chest.

As I watched this, and I thought about the song and the thousands upon thousands of people who have lined up for weeks to see his eleven shows, I started to think about what it is that draws us together in such a way.  Why were so very many people willing to pay their money and park half a world away to hike all the way to the arena past their (or at least my!) bedtime to watch a middle aged man sing songs?

And I realized that it is because the myth is wrong.

The myth is the part of ourselves that tells us that we are different.  It’s looking at people who speak differently than us and us assuming they are different.  It’s the part of us that sees people dressed differently who worship differently and assumes that their experience of humanity feels different.  It’s the newscasters and the photographs and the sensationalism that pits us versus them into an ever widening vortex of hate and misunderstanding and judgment and closed minds.

The myth is the part of ourselves that sees bombs dropping and thinks that it must not hurt them as much.  It’s the part of ourselves that sees poverty and injustice in our cities and turns the other way thinking that they are different enough from us that we don’t have to worry our hearts about it.  It’s the part of us that can close our eyes because we feel safe and thus we assume that the world is as it should be.

But then you see someone lost in the sentiment of a song and you realize that we are all the same in our humanity.  The hand that penned the lyrics and the ears that created the melodies and the musicians who bring it to life and the woman who is moved to tears by it were all brought together in that moment because they shared something much deeper than their external situation.

We believe that we are all separate and that our bodies keep our souls inside, locked away from the outside world.  We feel alone, yearning for a communion we don’t believe we can achieve.

But then we do achieve it.  In brief moments of transcedent grace, we realize that we aren’t alone.  Our pain is his pain, and our joy is her joy, and different though we may all be, we are united by a humanity that is stronger than all that separates us.

If only we could all reside permanently in that moment, our world might become a kinder place.

But we don’t live there; the best we can do is experience glimpses of it.  Until one day, on the other side of the moon, we find ourselves home in the final communion we were created for.


Fear and Prayer

September 11th, 2014

So I have an anxiety disorder, and with that comes a lot of fear and also a lot of overblown anxiety.  A lot of what I obsess about wouldn’t even be a thought in another person’s mind.  If they did think of it, it would probably flit away with a million of the other thoughts they had in that day.  But my mind is a bit more sticky.  Those things don’t just flit away… at least not without a lot of work on my part.

In general, the things I worry about are unlikely to come to fruition.  Sometimes it is virtually impossible that they would come to be, other times they are merely highly unlikely.  But sometimes, every now and then, a real worry will pop into my head.  Something that could possibly happen.  Something that isn’t a concoction of misfiring neurons deep inside my skull.  Some fear will occur to me that is within the realm of possibility.

And that’s where I find myself today.

Ordinarily on the anniversary of September 11th, I find myself sorrowful, sometimes almost consumed with memories of that day and grief for all of those who lost all of their everything.  But this year is a bit different.  This year I feel fear.  It probably stems from all of the atrocities that have been all over the news over the past couple of months.  Some of us just shouldn’t pay so much attention to the news, I guess.

But for the past week or two, I have found myself getting anxious whenever I thought about today.  I would think of all of those who mean so very much to me.  I imagine their suffering at the hands of evil.  I think of my potential losses, and the grief I would feel.  And most of all, as a mother, I imagine the losses my children could endure.  And that, to me, feels unbearable.

And when I find myself imagining such sufferings, and I feel my hands start to shake and my heart start to pound, I don’t know quite what to do.  Those things are possible.  It doesn’t help to dwell on them, but still, they can’t be dismissed as frivolous or impossible.

And then I was listening to Relevant Radio this morning which is a Catholic talk radio station.  I only caught about five minutes of it, but there was a priest on there who was talking about prayer and how it lifts us out of our Earthly perspectives, and it directs our gaze up and unites our minds with God’s.

And from that perspective, things look a bit different.  The future isn’t seen as tomorrow, it is seen as eternity.  Death isn’t seen as an end but rather a transition.  Suffering isn’t seen as tragedy but rather as something that can lead us to a place much greater.  And we have an access to that perspective through prayer.

To be honest, perspectives like that don’t come easy to me.  For me, it’s more like I find a moment of peace and then instantly something will snatch me right back to my fears.  Fears aren’t an easy prison to break from.  But it’s possible, and it is doable, and it’s in the moments when I can do it that I find the most peace.

I used to always think religion was about Mass and doctrines and not eating meat on Fridays during Lent.  Now I’m finding that those things do have a place, some of them an indispensible place, but I think that it’s also about so much more.  It’s about constantly striving for that unity with God.  It’s about trying to live in prayer.  And it’s about failing time and time again, and standing up time and time again in the hopes that one day we will be united forever.

That perspective isn’t easy for me today.  I find my mind being drawn to evil dressed in black hoods and burning buildings and blood and weeping, but I find that in order or my spirit to survive, that mindset must prevail.  Living in fear does nothing but make us fearful, and that makes us impotent.  And we can’t afford to be spiritual or emotional impotent.  We have one life and we must live it with as much compassion and passion as we can find.  We must savor it and be grateful for it and understand just what a blessing it is.

So I guess I’ll just keep praying for help and guidance and for the hope that someday that mindset will be my home.

The Many Faces of Silence

September 2nd, 2014

Up until I was about thirty years old, I was absolutely terrified of silence.  Silence was where anxiety lived.  And because of that, I avoided it at all costs.  I never wanted to be alone.  If I found myself alone, I would manically try to find someone to fill the void, and when I couldn’t, I would turn the television on loudly, shut all the blinds, and lie on the couch in absolute stillness, trying not to make any waves or think any thoughts.

Silence was when the beasts would come out.  Anything could cause an overwhelming gush of anxiety that once activated could take weeks, months, or even years to overcome.  (Truth be told, I still haven’t overcome them all.)  For years I wouldn’t go to bed until I was so dizzy from fatigue that I had to hold on to the bed to keep from falling because if there’s one thing that’s silent, it’s sleep.

It was a crazy life because, as I’m sure you can imagine, no one can always be around people.  Silence must come.  Thoughts are a necessity of life.  I was trapped.

But this story, at least for now, has a happy ending.  Now I can be in silence.  I now know how to handle some of those anxious thoughts that come to me.  I know that hiding isn’t the answer, and that we must face the silence or else it will overcome our lives.

And ironically enough, now I have no silence.  My silence breakers come in the form of three little girls.  I’m sure there has to have been a sixty second break in their chatter at some point over the last few years.  I just can’t seem to remember when it occurred.

Now the noise is deafening.  And sometimes I feel lost in it.  Sometimes the noise mixes with all of the chaos that I feel circling around me, and I get dizzy trying to make my way through it.  Sometimes when that happens, TJ is home, and sometimes he takes the kids out on an errand or two.  He did that yesterday.

Yesterday afternoon, he decided to take the kids to a park and to get ice cream.  I was exhausted, so I opted to stay home, and I sat on the couch knitting the entire two hours.  And the silence was golden.  Yesterday, silence was peace and deep breaths and space to move around in my life and become me for a couple of hours.

Sometimes silence is very, very good.

And then there’s the silence of now.  It’s not even silent – Mickey Mouse Clubhouse is playing on television, and Mae is right by my side sipping her milk rather loudly.  No, the silent of today isn’t auditory.  It’s more of a space left empty.  A hole.

When I dropped Magoo off at preschool for the first time and left, I remember barely being able to get out of the parking lot.  It was so hard leaving when a part of me was still there.  Now, I’m used to that feeling.  I’m used to pulling out of that parking lot with one less chamber of my heart than when I pulled in.  But what I wasn’t prepared for was the silence

As those of you who know her know, Goosie can fill up almost any room.  She’s the giant person in the miniature body.  And she surely fills up our home.  And now that she’s gone, everything is just so… still.  And calm.  And quiet.

And I start to wonder if once you become a mom, silence is ever the same again.  If silence ever signals anything more than a lack of what used to be here.  Sometimes that hole is okay — like yesterday when I was relaxing.  And sometimes it’s painful and terrifying — like today.  But regardless of the response, it’s always a hole.

I don’t know the answer to that, and I presume I won’t for many years.  But I do know that my favorite part of the holes my kids leave when they are at school is the joy I feel as they fill back up.  Then as I look around my disaster zone of a home, and I hear the whining and crying and screaming and laughing and joyous raucous, I smile, as I pull my hair out, because chaotic as they might be, there’s no place I would rather have my kids than right in my arms.

Breathe Mama

August 28th, 2014

So I went to the doctor today.  I had to take two of the girls who have been feeling under the weather, and I decided to make an appointment for myself because I have been feeling like crap lately.

So there we were, all four of us crowded into the exam room with toys scattered all over the floor because it doesn’t take long for toys to be scattered by kids, even by sick kids.  The kids were sitting on the table with the little people and cars, and I was laying back on a chair, absolutely unable to move.

It was a stark contrast.  They were all dressed up in cute little outfits and school uniforms.  Their hair was in pig tails.  They were well rested and vibrant and bright eyed even through illness.  And I never would have it any other way.  They are my children, my responsibility, and they get the best of what I have to offer.  I brought them into this world, and it’s my job to help them find their way in it.

But then if you look over at me, my hair is all disheveled.  It has needed to be colored and cut for about two months now.  In contrast to their cute little outfits, I’m in cut off sweat pants and a shirt that has sick toddler snot all over it.  My skin is dry because of the medication I take to help me calm down and fall asleep at night.  My nails haven’t been done in years.  And my eyes aren’t shining.  I can’t quite tell for sure because I didn’t have a  mirror, but I believe they had to have been the eyes of a crazy woman.  Shallow.  Exhausted.  A little manic.  And probably a little bit lonely.

So anyway, we saw the doctor and she did some blood work.  She is a very kind lady probably about my age.  She came back in and looked into my eyes, and without an ounce of shame or condemnation, she asked me how I could possibly be functioning.  She said I had to have been feeling horrible.  She asked me how I have been doing it.  And I told her that I don’t know, that I’m always exhausted and nauseous, so how I was I to know any different.  And then of course, the tears started stinging my eyes, so I looked away, but not before she saw.

I got all the kids packed back into the car, and we headed out to finish our errands.  But this time I felt a little different.  I felt a mix between shame and pride.

I felt shame because I knew I wasn’t balancing things well.  Actually, I knew I wasn’t balancing things at all.  I had given up on balance.  I aimed for it during the first years of motherhood, but eventually the kids pile on and the responsibilities pile on, and before you know it, the balance is so off that it has broken the scale. You look in the mirror, and you don’t recognize yourself because it has been so long since you have treated yourself like a human being that you have started to fade into the woodwork of the home.  The robot that keeps it all running.

But then I also strangely enough felt pride.  I guess I felt this because I bought into the stereotype of the all giving mother.  The one who always puts her needs last and always puts her kids’ needs first.  I never felt like I lived up to that stereotype, but now I was starting to see that I was, in fact, living it out.  To the point of lunacy.

I’m not so sure I should have felt pride in that though.  Sure I was selfless in giving to my kids, but in doing so, was I denying them the opportunity to see their mom as a woman, as a person?  As their most prominent role model, wasn’t I failing to show them that balance is, indeed, necessary?

And so now tonight, as I sit here and as I ponder it all, I realize that a change does need to be made.  I can’t always slide into the background.  Maybe Mommy has a right to brush her hair too.  Maybe Mommy has a right to do what she wants to do occasionally.  And maybe Mommy needs to stop just being Mommy and start being Mandy again as well –  you know, the woman who smiled a lot and who liked to give of her time helping people and who read books without pictures.

I don’t know how to do this.  I do not have the foggiest notion of how to find the real person hidden deep within me.  For years, the only place I have really allowed myself to exist and express myself is here on this blog.

But I can’t keep making excuses.  I can’t keep putting it off until a better time.  I need to find a way to exist as a person again.  Because I never want to be so emotionally and physically and spiritually run down again that I can’t even tell when there is a problem.

So to all those mamas out there — go and find some time for yourself.  Find some time when you aren’t working with your kids or playing with your kids or even thinking about or worrying about your kids.  Find a few moments a day to just be you – the you who has a first name besides Mommy.

And please, if you find any ways to make this work, pass them along to me because just because I can recognize a problem doesn’t mean I have the slightest notion of how to fix it.

To Goosie on Preschool

August 28th, 2014


Today was your first day of preschool.  We dropped Magoo off at school, ran home for about an hour, and then got loaded into the car, me carrying your sister, you carrying a backpack that was three sizes too big for you.

You talked the entire way to school.  You had so many questions.  Why were you going into Magoo’s school?  Why won’t you see her?  Is your teacher a leprechaun?  (Yes, at church last weekend, I misspoke and led you to believe that your teacher would fit into the palm of your hand.)

We got there a few minutes early, and when I finally told you it was time to get out of the car, you started screaming for joy.  You patiently let me take your picture in front of the school sign, and then we went in.

I opened the door to the school office and as I was trying to maneuver the stroller through the too small door frame, you pushed past me, threw your hands in the air, and screamed to anyone within ear shot “I’m ready for preschool!”

And for the first time since this whole preschool talk has come up, I got teary eyed.  To be honest after three years of spending every single day with you, I think that moment right there was my favorite.  It was your Mary Tyler Moore moment, throwing your hat in the air, announcing to the world that finally and absolutely, you were ready to take it on.

I don’t really like the idea of three year old preschool that much.  I want to keep my babies home as long as is good for them, and I would have been more than happy to have you stay completely all mine for another year.  But that would have been for me.  Not for you.

We dropped your sister off at her first day of preschool two years ago this week.  From that moment, you wanted to go in. You were just barely one year old, and almost every day, you would try to get in line with all of the big kids to go in.  You would try to trick me and run around me and hide behind other kids.  You would try to talk to them and get them to let you in their line.  You would do anything in your power to get in that building.  Sometimes you made it, dodging under the legs of the teacher, and I would have to go chase you down the hallway of the school.

And then last year when Magoo started kindergarten, it got even harder for you.  Firmly etched in my brain are the first few moments of Magoo’s school last year.  She was lined up with her friends for class, all of them with their uniforms and their back packs.  The principal was leading them all in prayer.  And there were you — front and center, right in the middle of all of the big kids with your back pack on (that you insisted on wearing,) your hands folded in prayer, totally oblivious to the fact that all of the other kids were about two heads taller than you.

And that’s when your count down began.  For the last year, you have asked me when you can start school.  Today was your day.

When Magoo started school, I was petrified.  I actually wrote a post entitled, Petrified of Preschool.  But you are a bit luckier, Goosie.  I’ve done this once before.  I’ve sent one of my daughters out into that big world.  So for you, all of that baggage is tampered down a bit, and I can sit back a little and watch you shine.

Because if anyone in the world was ready for preschool, my dear, it is you.  You don’t have an ounce of shyness.  You don’t have an ounce of reserve.  You are like a horse at the starting gates, just ready to go out and take the world by storm.

I watched you today.  I watched you playing with the magnets and painting, and I felt so unbelievably proud.  ”This is my girl,” I thought.  This is my little force of nature who wants nothing more than to be and experience and live and flourish and impact.  This is my little treasure.  My little piece of spunk personified.

We have spent very close to every moment of the last three years together, you and I.  Through tears and laughter, you have learned to talk and to play and to share (kinda) and to pray.  You are still little.  You still have a world to learn.  But we have fastened on your training wheels and we are ready to share a little bit of you with the world.

That’s the strange part of being a mama, perhaps.  We are so proud.  So proud sometimes it hurts, in fact.  We want to shout out to the world — look at her!  Look at my little girl!  Look how smart and spunky and talented and kind and compassionate and beautiful she is.  We know she will make the world brighter for every soul she touches.  We know just how much of a gift she is, and we know she is our greatest gift to offer the world.

And yet… we don’t want to give you away.  We know you can only grow into who you are supposed to be by going out into that big world, but we also just want to grab you and cuddle on the couch and keep you in our arms forever.  It’s selfish, of course, but please allow your mama that little place in my heart.

I’m not scared of preschool for you.  But I am scared of letting you go.  Of watching you run out into the world.  Praying that you will always come back.

As you were standing in front of the school sign, and I was taking your picture, and I was feeling all of the emotions that a mama feels at moments like that, I realized that it was just one is a string of many.  One day, ten years from now, I’ll be taking that picture for the last time as you get ready to move into the world of high school.  And then one day I will turn around and walk out of your dorm room and you won’t be coming with me.  And one day I will watch your daddy walk you down the aisle into the arms of another.

And boy, that’s all so exciting.  And so sad.  And so promising.  And so terrifying.  And so very, very real.

Yes, as you move out into this world, you will be moving further away from me.  But I implore you, don’t let that hinder you.  Don’t stay still because you don’t want to leave me.  Don’t ever be too filled with guilt to run out into that world and take a hold of it and carve out your very own piece of it for yourself.

You have so many gifts and you are such a tremendous gift to so many.  Live it, baby girl.  Share it.  Be all the greatness that you were meant to be.  And trust me, you were meant for greatness.

Just remember to sometimes turn back and wave high to your mama.  Give me a hug and a kiss.  And remember that before there was all of the excitement of this big world, there was you and me and your daddy in a darkened hospital room early one day in May.

We loved you first.  And we always love you big.  And we will always be the arms you can come running back into.

Notes From the Field

August 25th, 2014


“Will you read me this book, Mama?”  

“Sure.  Just give me a few minutes.”

“Nooooooooooooo!  I don’t want you to read me the book.”

Book is now thrown across the floor and toddler is lying on the floor in tears.


“Mommy, can we play outside later?”

“We’ll see.  It’s gonna be a scorcher today, folks.”

“Nooooooooooo!  I don’t want to be a folks.”


“Apple.  Apple.  Apple.  Apple.”

I hand her the banana that she is pointing at.

There is great delight.  I have a smiling, happy baby.

Banana is thrown to the dog.  Dog eats said banana. Queue uncontrollable tears.


Sound familiar?  I’m assuming it does if your house is one that has been invaded by little people with personalities much larger than their bodies.

They are a blessing beyond reason.  The way the little one runs to me screaming “Dada Dada!” as I run down the stairs even though she absolutely knows the difference between Dada and Mama.

The way the middle one will run from across the room and leap into my arms with absolute abandon, knowing full well that I will catch her every single time.

The way the biggest one will crawl into bed with us in the middle of a night if she has a nightmare because she knows she will be safe between the two people she loves the most.

Yes, they are a blessing.

But some days they are also absolutely, totally, and completely exhausting.

And so I sit here today.  Nauseous.  With a headache.  A wee bit dizzy from being up most of the night.

And I ask you Lord to please, just give me a little patience.

A little patience to see the creation behind the mess.

To see the passion behind the anger.

To see the hurt behind the screams.

And to feel the love beneath the frustration.

Because there have been tears and screaming for two hours straight, and if I don’t get some kind of Divine intervention, I’m gonna lose my shit one of these moments.

Let’s Make a Difference

August 21st, 2014


I once knew a man.  I will call him Alex.  He lived about 15-20 minutes away from where I do now, but it’s in the direction I detour around if I have my children in the car with me.  Instead of tree lined streets and quality schools, his neighborhood was riddled with gangs and shootings and hunger and homelessness.

Alex was a kind man.  A very, very kind man.  And he was smart.  He had to have been.  He managed to make his way in the world with a reading level lower than that of my six year old.

I met Alex when I was a literacy volunteer through a local ProLiteracy chapter.  I had never really volunteered before.  Of course I had done the service excursions that were presented to me in high school and in college, but really volunteering, going out and seeking a way I could make a difference, was something I had never ventured into.  And it had really started weighing on me.

I was a college English teacher at the time, and so it made sense that any volunteering I would do would be somewhere in the realm of education.  At the time I was teaching underprepared college students, and as I worked with them over the years, I had learned just how much of our situation in life relies on the manner in which we are able to communicate.

I would walk into a classroom, and I would see my students.  I would hear them discuss difficulties they were having, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if they walked into a room or wrote a letter of complaint to get their issues taken care of that they would be glossed right over.  Their dialects weren’t those prized in our society.  Their writing didn’t bespeak high levels of education or influence.  And as such, the amount of influence they had was very little.

It’s a sad fact of our society that those who have the most comfortable situations are those who are perceived to have the most power.  While we convey power in many ways, the way we speak, write, and nonverbally communicate is one of the most obvious.

I worked with these students every day for years.  Each semester would bring in a new batch of students with the same situations and the same difficulties.  During those years of my life, that is where my heart resided.

And so when it came time to volunteer, I decided I wanted to take it one step further.  These kids could read.  They could write.  They just didn’t do either with high levels of proficiency.  But what about those who couldn’t even do that?  What about those who couldn’t write a simple letter or fill out an application or read through a document?  Those were the people I wanted to help.

And that led me to Alex.

He was a minority, and he had come from the South.  He had a tough situation growing up, and it left him with very little formal education.  This was through no fault of his own.  In fact, he had such a low level of education because at a young age he had decided to devote his time and his life to taking care of those who needed it.

And now he was in his sixties, and he finally decided that it was time to take care of himself.

We worked together weekly, and he devoted himself to learning.  But learning to read when you are 65 is much different than learning to read when you are 6.  The brain just doesn’t acquire language in the same way.  Each word was a struggle.  And when he was finally able read a sentence of four or five words, he would beam at me with pride.  He had absolutely no idea what he was reading, but he was so proud to be able to do it nonetheless.  (This is when I learned that decoding and comprehension are very, very different things.)

We worked for awhile and then unfortunately he got very ill, and our relationship changed.  Instead of working with him on reading, I was working with him on understanding his chemo protocols.  I would go with him on doctor’s appointments because the doctors did not believe he was able to comprehend the decisions that were being placed before him.  I visited him at the hospital the day after he had is colectomy.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after the surgery that we stopped meeting regularly.  The treatments were making him too sick and too tired and he had to be really careful about going out in public with his compromised immune system.

I tried multiple times over the years to get into contact with him, but I haven’t had any luck.  In my mind, he had given it his best shot, and he probably felt it was best to focus on other areas of his life.  I constantly pray that he remembers those successes and that they allow him to have some confidence in his ability.  Constantly I would remind him that education was different than intelligence.  Just because he didn’t have the former didn’t mean he didn’t have the latter.

I share this story with you because I am working with Grammarly to help spread awareness about the importance of literacy in both individual lives and in society as a whole.

For Alex, literacy was a dream that he had held since childhood.  To him, being able to read was a sign of success and intelligence and promise.  In our culture, literacy is the doorway through which we must enter in order to fully benefit from the rights and privileges afforded to us as American citizens.

And yet we know that not all people have equal access to the development of literacy.  Some children come from word rich environments.  They are read to from the moment they are conceived and they go to good schools with ample resources.  They then go home to parents who will encourage them and prompt them and believe in them.

And then there are children who go into kindergarten classrooms having never owned a book or possibly even held one.  The scant books they have in their classrooms are older than their teachers.  And their teachers are deeply passionate, but there is only so much they can do to overcome the hurdles presented to them — the violent neighborhoods, the culture of apathy, and possibly the illiterate parents.

These children are born into the same country, oftentimes the same city, and yet their lives will be so different.  If disadvantaged children fail to gain adequate levels of literacy, it will define their lives.

According to Grammarly,

  • “Low literacy affects more people that you think. About 22 percent of American adults have minimal literacy skills, which prevents them from effectively communicating. (National Center for Educational Statistics)
  • Low literacy is correlated with chronic unemployment. 50 percent of the chronically unemployed are not functionally literate, which prevents them from maintaining jobs. (Ohio Literary Resource Center)
  • Low literacy is correlated with imprisonment. 65 percent of prison inmates (or one million Americans) have low literacy. (Literacy Partners)
  • Low literacy is correlated with poverty.  43 percent of Americans with low literacy are impoverished, lacking basic reading and writing skills to help them overcome their situations. (Literacy Partners)
  • Low literacy affects the American economy. Experts estimate that low literacy costs the American economy $225 billion a year in lost productivity. Improved workplace literacy can increase employees’ efficiency, effectiveness, and productivity on the job. (Reach Higher, America)”

I read the newspaper, and I watch the news, and I look out my window, and so often things can seem so dismal.  There is war and violence and poverty and crime, and there is very little, if nothing, I can do about most of it.  But with literacy, there is something we can do.

There are many organizations out there that are looking for both volunteers and financial contributions.  Some of them like ProLiteracy work with adults and families and others like Reading is Fundamental and Reach Out and Read work on getting books and literacy information into the hands of the most vulnerable of children and their caretakers. 

Not all children have access to high quality education or libraries.  Not all children have books.  And not all children have access to adults who can or will or even know why they should read to them.  And more often than not, these children will grow up to be the adults who need our help gaining those skills so that they can live the privileges that so many of us take for granted.

I know you are all busy, but if you have some time, take a look at some of these organizations and see if there is a way that you can help them.  We invest so much in our own children.  Hopefully every now and then we can help invest in the children that most of the world has forgotten.

Disclaimer: All opinions and ideas are entirely my own.  In compensation for writing this post, Grammarly will donate money in my name to ProLiteracy.  That’s pretty awesome of them, if you ask me.  If you haven’t already, go check out the Grammarly Facebook page — it’s the perfect page for grammar nerds like yours truly.

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Good Grief

August 18th, 2014


The lights were very dim.  It was almost 3:00 in the morning, and the bright overhead lights were (thankfully) broken, so all we were left with was a small, portable lamp.  You could see shadows dancing across the walls.  It was warm in there, but I was shaking to my core, part because of the cold I felt and part out of fear.  They told me to push.  I did.  And out she came.  All 19.5 inches of her.  They held her up.  Then they put her on my chest. I started consoling her tears, so they whisked her away to the warmer saying that she needed to cry to clear her lungs.

I knew at that moment my world had changed.  What I didn’t know was that out of all of the moments that I will ever live, that one along with my first moment with my younger girls, would be the ones I would replay most frequently.

I didn’t realize that this moment when my world became suddenly larger would confuse me.  I didn’t realize that it would be the day I would gauge all others from.  As in, “how could she be walking?  That late May day seems like just yesterday.”  Or “how could she be starting first grade?  It was just moments ago that they gave her to me, her cheeks so soft that I could barely feel them?”

And yet, that is the day that changed it all.  The day that propelled me into motherhood and sent me on this journey that is more big and more real and more heartbreaking than I ever could have imagined.

They tell you that you need to grieve.  They say that there are many situations in life where grief is appropriate and that we must give ourselves space to feel it.  And honestly, I find that motherhood gives me more options for grief than any other role I have taken on.

And it’s a bittersweet grief.  It’s not the all-encompassing grief of the end of a relationship.  Instead, it’s a grieving of each step taken, never to be taken again.  Of each new leg of the journey that has passed us by.  Of each new place it has taken us and then let us off.

And it’s a grieving of ourselves as mothers too.  For each new step they take, our role changes ever so slightly.  Their needs are different, their desires are different, and so our lives are different.

And so that’s why I have felt this pain in my chest over the last few days.  First grade is hard.  It’s the first time in six years, she won’t be eating lunch with me every day.  I’m losing my nap time buddy.  For the first time ever, she will be spending more waking time away from me than with me during the week.

But it’s also a happy time.  It’s a time of new discoveries and new paths and new adventures.  Because just as each door closed changes motherhood so slightly, so does each door being opened.

And I can’t really make sense of that.  I can’t wrap my little head around all of these very big emotions that these girls bring me.  And tonight I don’t have to.  It has been a long (albeit great) day, and I am just going to wrap myself up in a blanket and watch mindless television while I let my heart and my brain take a little breather.

Because on Wednesday she starts first grade.  And not too long after that, Goose starts preschool.  And there are a million tears to be shed and a million ways they will make me proud to be their mama.  But tonight, the wounds are raw.  And I won’t fight them.  I will just let them be.

They are just a few more in the long line of a mama’s battle wounds.

Stuck in a Rut

August 17th, 2014

I liked college for many reasons, really.  But one thing that I really liked about it was that you got to live with a bunch of other females of the same age and situation.  I went to a Catholic college, so the dorms were co-ed, but the floors were not.  So for each of my first two years, I lived with hundreds of other women.

One of the nice things about this is that we got to see how other people lived.  We learned how much other people study and how they organize their stuff and how they spend their days.  There was diversity and variety, and in that, there was a lot to learn.  And there was a lot to validate our choices.

Have you ever heard of that show Sister Wives?  It’s a reality show about a polygamist family.  There are four wives, one husband, and whole bunch of kids.  I try not to watch the show because a) it’s not very interesting, and b) polygamy isn’t really my cup of tea.  I actually find the whole show a bit depressing because every character on the show seems to have been run through some kind of numbing machine, and I find that demoralizing.

BUT, one thing that I can’t help but consider as I occasionally watch the show is that it would be nice to see how other women do it.  I think it would be nice to live in that close of a community with other people.  It would be nice to really see how other people do it.  To understand their inner workings.  To pit my standards against theirs and see how it all adds up.

Because there are two things I really struggle with even in the best of times, and those are inertia and standards.  Arguably two very unrelated things.

On the one hand, I have absolutely no idea what kind of standards I should have for myself.  How clean is clean enough?  Where does it become an obsession?  Where does it become a lapse or a failure?  How structured should our time be?  When do I know if I’m giving enough of myself, or too little, or too much?

And perhaps because of all of that uncertainty, I find myself seriously lacking inertia.

I’ve mentioned over the last month that I’ve been working on acceptance.  On learning to accept when I feel sad or overwhelmed or angry or frustrated.  I’m trying to learn to sit with it and learn from it rather than manically trying to punch it into the ground.  And with this inertia, it’s one area I really struggle with.

After all, the inertia obviously comes as a symptom of the anxiety and the depression.  Day after day after day, I beat myself up for the depression and the effects it has on my life.  Here, I think, is a chance to just accept it.  Accept that for now I have no motivation.

But then on the other hand, there’s the really valid argument that inertia leads to inertia, and if I could just find it within myself to do something I very well may notice that the inertia starts to drift away.  But so far, that’s not a battle I’ve been winning as of late.

And so here I sit.  Writing it out.  Considering whether or not I should actually hit the “publish” button.  After all, this isn’t really the type of depression post people usually make.  It’s not often, you read the nitty-gritty of the day to day battle with dysthymic feelings.

We people like to think that we control our behavior.  That if we know that doing the dishes will make us feel better that we will go and do the dishes.  It’s logical.  It makes sense.  But sometimes, the signals get broken and things aren’t quite that simple.  Sometimes we act in ways that are counterproductive.  And perhaps that’s what we all have in common, mood disordered or not.

Sometimes our greatest enemies aren’t out there in the world.  Sometimes they are inside.  And perhaps sometimes that’s why they are so hard to defeat.

And sometimes it would be nice to be able to see the inner workings of other people’s homes.  I don’t have a job.  I don’t have that outward validation.  I can’t see how other people spend their days.

And I know the standards I create need to be my own.  But sometimes just a little glimpse would be nice.  You know?

Weird Mom

August 14th, 2014


About six years ago, probably almost to the day, I was having the hardest time getting Magoo to nap.  I wasn’t okay with letting her cry, but I couldn’t think of anything else that would work.  I spent years (okay it was probably only days, but it felt like years) rocking her all day, just to lay her down and have her wake up.  TJ would come home from work, and I would sometimes be shaking after spending the entire day trying to get one decent nap.  At one point, I was so frustrated that I came down the stairs and threw the monitor half way across the room.  (I made sure it landed on the couch because those things are expensive.)  I was so frustrated.

And then one day she napped.  And we never looked back.  She has been a champion sleeper ever since.

She starts first grade next week, and we have been practicing not napping now all summer.  Some days she would nap, and others she wouldn’t.

We were talking over lunch today, and she said, “Too bad I still have to nap when I get home from school during the school year.”  And then I told her that no, she didn’t need to nap because school gets out much too late.  She cheered even though I know about halfway through next week, she’ll be in tears because of exhaustion.

And then it hit me.  This was the closing of a circle.  What started in her nursery in our old house all those summers ago is coming to a close next week.  A part of our experience together has come to a close.

And then I almost cried.  Because I’m a weird mommy.  Because that one little milestone just reminded me of all of the other little milestones.  And it reminded me that starting next week, I will be losing a little more of her.  She won’t be here for lunch every day.  For the first time, she will be spending more awake hours somewhere else than she will at home.

And I’m reminded that mothering can sometimes be so sad.  We spend the first weeks of their lives getting used to having someone be so thoroughly dependent upon us, and then we spend the next twenty years mourning each step they take away from us.

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