Enough is Enough.

My six year-old son is obsessed with toys.  He is constantly browsing the Toys 'R Us catalog like it's the Wall Street Journal and pointing out the latest and greatest in plastic crap that Cartoon Network is pushing during commercials in between Ben 10 episodes.  It feels like the kid is constantly asking for something - even if it was just Christmas, his birthday, etc.  My big parenting line to him is that "want just creates more want".  The more you want things the longer the list of stuff you want gets and the more consumed by the want you become.  Eventually the wanting gets so big that it can never really be satisfied, the more material things we get the more we're holding our breath and waiting for the next thing that will finally feed the hungry want monster...except the monster is never full.

This is, of course, a difficult concept to explain to a 6 year old boy.  He's actually become very good about not constantly asking me for more stuff and now just goes straight to the source...his grandparents.  This post isn't about my son or his wanting however, it's really about mine.  I've noticed something about myself in my adult years - I'm becoming very aware of the passing of time and just how long it takes for my husband and I to finally get the things we want.  We're always putting the "practical" things we need like water neutralizers and well pumps before the stuff we'd really love to have...like granite counter tops in the kitchen.  The new Lexus RX330 I promised myself I would drive before the age of 30 seems maaaaany moons away from the 2003 Toyota with 147,000 miles I'm currently sporting.

I find myself reflecting on the past few years and making a mental checklist of the things we have acquired and the improvements we have made to the home.  It's amazing to think about how much we have done in such a short time, yet the list of things yet to be done is still so long.  Every room I walk into whispers the things it is missing to me.  My daughters bedroom windows that date back to 1837 whistle the cold winter air to me as I put her to sleep each night.  She drifts off to sleep thinking about My Little Pony while I lay next to her wishing we had the money to replace every window in the house.  There are stained carpets that need to be replaced, light fixtures that are fire hazards and bathrooms that are "charming" which is antique-home-code for "old and out of date".

I start crunching numbers in my mind.  I start looking online for ideas.  I start calling contractors for quotes.  I start wondering what our Christmas bonus and tax returns will look like this year.  I question if the money we put in will ever be returned to us when we eventually sell the house and then I realize that enough is ENOUGH.  When is it ever going to be enough?  How old will I be on the day I finally walk around our home and realize I have done all the things I ever wanted to do?  Something tells me the kids will be gone, the house will be quiet and boring and the new granite counter tops will bring me a very limited amount of joy and satisfaction. 

When that day comes I will likely look back on this time in our home with a different kind of want.  I'll want the kids to come home for more family dinners.  I'll want to spend more time talking to them on the phone, and I'll want to be young enough to enjoy the things together as a family that we are able to enjoy today.  So I try to quiet the wanting.  I try to remind myself that replacement windows will lead to new carpeting, which will lead to new counter tops which will lead to new tile in the mudroom, etc.  All of those things will happen and a new car will come and go and none of it will ever satisfy the wanting. 

The only thing that can satisfy the want is appreciation for what I already have.  Taking the focus off what hasn't been done or what's missing and putting the focus on what's already there is the only way to shut the want off.  I don't like resolutions, but if I had one for 2013 it would be to lock the want monster in a closet with wrist shackles and duct tape over it's mouth.  I am going to put my American-bred consumerism-worshiping ass in check this year and see how it feels to not always be waiting for the next big purchase.  When I walk into a room and hear the whispers of things it is missing I'm going to ignore it, and listen only to the voices of the people in it that aren't.

1953

I was home a few weeks back trying to juggle conference calls, stressful quarter-end related work activities, laundry, cleaning and kid drop-offs.  I made up this song in my head to a catchy little tune while I was crazily running around the house trying to be ten different people at once.  The chorus of the song went as follows: "When you come home my hair looks nice, your gin and tonic is chilling on ice.  why oh why can't it be 1953?  I'll fix your dinner then fill your glass, when I turn away you'll tap my ass.  Why oh why can't it be 1953?"

Needless to say this little ditty is about my June Cleaver/Martha Stewart fantasty of how dreamy it would be to only be responsible for one thing - my family.  Some days when the list of to-do's feels overwhelming and frankly, unfair, I long for the days when women took care of the house, their children and their husband and left the money making to men.  I think this is partly because I truly do enjoy domestic work and partly because the grass is just always greener.

This weekend, after a week-long tour of the Southwest in a mini-van with my family a-la Clark Griswald I was completely DONE with taking care of other people.  I was under-rested, under-fed, under-groomed and over-worked.  I was at a Mommy low and needed someone to take care of me for a second.  The baby started to throw a tantrum because she only wanted me to hold her and no one else.  I was trying to cook breakfast at the time and just didn't have a spare hand to give her which meant she was literally tugging at my skirt and crying.  My husband looked at me and said "why don't you just take care of the baby?" as if to say "why don't you just be the woman and take care of the offspring?" 

This little comment sent me into orbit mentally.  My response was an angry "DON'T TALK AT ME LIKE IT'S F'ING 1953!"  I angrily left the house and took the crying baby for a walk in the carriage to clear my head.  As I was strolling her to calm her down I thought about the irony of my unplanned comment.  Here I had made up an entire song (which I still think may be funny enough to put on YouTube) about wishing it were the simpler days of strict gender roles and not a couple of weeks later I am proudly flying my feminist flag and scolding my husband for treating me like anything less than his equal.

I guess the lesson here is that you can't have it both ways - and that perhaps neither way is really any easier than the other.  We can't be the bread-winners, mothers, wives, friends and housekeepers without a fair amount of stress.  I wouldn't however, trade the financial independence and the feeling of personal satisfaction I get from a job well-done at work for an apron any day of the week.  It wasn't eaiser for women trying to raise small children in 1953 - in fact in most ways, I'm sure it was harder.  Sure their only concern was taking care of their home and family, but they lacked so many of the freedoms and priviledges that modern-day working mothers have earned.  

What works is different for every family of course.  Some men stay home while their MD wives see patients all day.  Some moms I know have started consulting to give themselves more flexibility as far as their hours are concerned and some couples just match one another's 9-5 schedules like my husband and I.  What works depends on who earns a bigger salary, the age of your kids, the lifestyle you want to maintain and what kind of a person each partner is.  You have to prioritize what means most in your life and your family and take it from there, but I will say this:  aside from the fabulous fashion, costume jewelry and liberal consumption of cocktails at that time - I'm really grateful to be raising a family today and not 60 years ago.

walk slow.

I have heard the expression "burning the candle at both ends" countless times throughout the course of my life, but lately the message behind the expression is really starting to resonate with me. I seem to be literally tripping over people who are burned out, exhausted, harried and generally hanging by a very thin thread of energy. It's got me wondering if this is 1) a symptom of our over-producing society 2) our need to have more (money/status/things) or 3) the place most of my peers are at in life which typically involves a house, a job and a couple of kids.

Regardless of why it is we all seem to be so strung-out and stretched-thin the fundamental question remains: Is all of this running around actually getting us anywhere?

My new boss was rushing last summer to cut his grass on a Friday evening after working a long week before heading out to a concert with his wife that evening. He went over a hill in his back yard and the tractor landed on top of him. He was badly burned on much of his upper body and is lucky to be alive. When he came back to work with pictures of his injuries his comments were "I was moving too quickly trying to get too much done in not enough time. I need to slow down." I couldn't help but think this was the Universe sending a quiet message to me through him.

Not long after this incident my family and I went on vacation to a small lake in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. In the middle of the week my husband went mountain biking for the day with a friend so I took the kids to a local Farmer's Market. It was one of those perfect VT afternoons when the breeze smells like wildflowers and softserve ice cream and the sky is an icy blue. There were all sorts of fabulous local wares to be purchased and veggies fresh from the garden. A hippie was playing the guitar and the kids were running around eating homemade caramel popcorn. I can feel my happiness in that moment even now as I type this.

There was a man originally from Jamaica at the market selling authentic Jamaican spices and food. He made jerk seasonings and meat rubs and this wonderful jambalaya-looking stew served over rice that everyone was devouring for lunch. He was playing Reggae out of the back of his van and had the Jamaican flag flying above his food stand. Obviously I wanted to learn his story and then hang out with him all day long.

After chatting for a while I learned that he had worked as a cook on a cruise ship 30 years ago which is when he met his wife - who was from Vermont. They fell in love, got married and proceeded to raise five children in the Green Mountain State. When he spoke about his wife his eyes lit up and he got the dreamy look of a young boy in love for the first time. Talking to this Jamaican guy was magic and made me feel high (which I wasn't).

The part that I will never forget is when I said to him "Wow - your life sounds amazing. You are so happy and this place is so beautiful, living here must be as wonderful as it looks." His response was simple, he said "Yeah mon, we walk slowly here." My eyes froze on his for way too long. It took what seemed like forever for me to process the enormity of what he was saying and how much I needed this in my own life. How lucky I was to have met him and to have shared this small yet powerful exchange.

I've been trying to walk more slowly ever since. The slower we walk the more we see, the less likely we are to trip and the more memorable the journey becomes.

Hope For Us

This year Valentine's Day arrived with not one but TWO grown-up weekend obligations back to back. We had a charity fundraiser and a Valentine's Day Ball two consecutive Saturday nights. The usual routine of trying to line up child care while figuring out what in my closet is fancy enough to justify being worn to a "ball" began and we set off for our adult evenings filled with wedding food, good drink and good friends.

The fundraiser was to support friends of ours who are close with a family whose son has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (http://www.hopeforgus.org/home). This being my first charity event ever (I'm pretty sure) I had little idea what to expect. It ended up being a great night and such a fun deviation from the norm. It felt a smidge like a Republican fundraising event, which I have also never been to, but if I did, this is what I would picture it being like.

People were all dressed up milling about munching on "heavy apps" while trying to strike up interesting conversation with fellow party-goers. These types of things always remind me there are all these other worlds happening on Saturday nights while I'm at home putting a baby to bed in my Lanz of Salzburg nightgown...but I digress. Patrick and I dutifully bid on some silent auction items (two of which we won!) and chatted with the friends who had invited us. After a couple of hours Gus's mother spoke to the crowd about her family, her son and the reason they started the foundation to try to find a cure for DMD.

She spoke about overcoming her own cancer just in time to find our her healthy, happy baby boy had the most severe form of Muscular Dystrophy and would likely not walk past the age of 10 or 12. This is a mother of three children who works full-time, fought cancer and has STARTED A FOUNDATION for her sick child. As I listened to her I was not only amazed by her commitment to getting her son well, but by the matter-of-fact and often times humorous way she was able to explain the horror and heartbreak her family has endured since the diagnosis.

In my mind I kept thinking that if women like this exist in the world then there must not only be Hope for Gus, but there must also be hope for us. This mother was a reminder to me that the horrible display of human nature I had witnessed on the flight home from my business trip that week was not an indication of the direction this world is heading. There are people like this mom who get up every day and fight the big fight for their family, their children and ultimately society as a whole since we all benefit from people with this type of determination.

I left feeling completely humbled by the experience. I felt grateful to have to children who outside of a little asthma and some bad ear infections have been mostly healthy. I left feeling guilty for bitching about housework, parenting and being a full-time career woman. Mostly however, I left feeling lighter just knowing that after what I had seen that night there are people devoting their lives to making the planet a safer, healthier and better place for everyone to live - and that there is absolutely hope for her son Gus...and for the rest of Us as well.

Taking the Hit

With Christmas right around the corner I'm sure there are plenty of people out there feeling like the mental list of to-do's is a little longer than there are hours in the day to accomplish it all. I realize that this is a very busy time of year for everyone whether you are a man, a woman, a mother, a grandparent, a neighbor or a friend. We all find ourselves up to our elbows in Scotch tape and wrapping paper while we try to squeeze in some time to attend a holiday party and bake some cookies for Santa.

Yes, everyone is busy. At the risk however, of sounding like a martyr, I'm going to make the following statement: Nobody takes the hit at Christmas like the mother. Nobody.

Don't misunderstand, I love it all. I love the decorating, the cooking, the shopping, the wrapping, and generally creating something totally magical for my family to enjoy. I love going to Target for the new CD of Holiday Kids' Sing-a-longs and a bag of red and green M&M's. Hanging the tinsel on the tree with my 5-year old son is a gift in itself. Indeed, Christmas is a magical time and there is much to be thankful for.

For every action, however, there is an equal and opposite reaction and all this holiday spendor doesn't come without a price. The flip side of the festive coin is all the behind the scenes labor that goes into making this magical holiday spectacular. The Christmas cards that need to be addressed and mailed, the seemlingly neverending stream of gifts that need to be wrapped and tagged, or the six thousand bottles of wine that need to be stocked and brought to every house you stumble upon in your quest for holiday cheer.

The stockings need to be hung with care, the Santa gifts need to be wrapped in different paper so the kids don't get wise, the Elf on a Shelf needs to be strategically re-positioned every night, church needs to be attended and new holiday attire purchased for you and yours to be sure everyone is looking their Christmas best. Whew. Exhale.

No, of course no man would ever think of all these things. No man would ever concern himself with any of the inane items listed above and why? Because men aren't crazy. No self-respecting man would ever ask himself if candids would be okay for the family Christmas card this year since we didn't have a chance to schedule a professional photograph. What I'm trying to say is that we women put these things on ourselves and then we punish the people around us for the stress we've manufactured. It's a crazy, vicious cycle we create of piling more responsiblity on and then feeling sorry for ourselves because the list is too long.

My Christmas gift to myself this year is to keep my spirits high so the people around me can enjoy the season too. My gift to my family is not the decorations, or the presents or the trimmings and trappings. My gift to my husband and children this Christmas is a happy mom who will take the hit with a smile and a hug. Because that's what moms do, and besides...it's Christmas.

Choices

Like many parents, I find myself talking to my son a lot lately about "making good choices". Solid decision-making skills are an important tool in life and I do my best to help my son understand how his actions will impact more than just the one decision he thinks he's making. The "domino affect" of decisions we make still amazes me - it's wild the way one thing affects another, affects another, and so on.

This weekend I was reminded in multiple ways the way my decisions ripple throughout my life, my home and my family. I had a GNO (Girls Night Out) on Thursday night with a bunch of ladies at a local home. Good good, good times, good drink and lots of laughs were had. I got home around 11 which is approximately three hours past my bedtime these days. Friday night was the local Christmas Tree lighting in our town and there was yet another ladies' get-together afterward for some local women that I had been meaning to get to know.

I asked my husband what he thought about me being (gasp!) out two nights in a row. Because he too enjoys his "me time" and he's way cooler and more understanding than I am he told me to go, enjoy myself, and stop being so neurotic and guilty. I figured he was right, I mean what harm could possibly come from me being out two nights in a row for three hours each? I mean these are hours I would normally just be home sleeping or reading in bed anyway, so why would it matter...the kids won't even know I'm gone! So despite the gut feeling I had saying it wasn't the right path, I went and had myself another mommy-night-out.

Fast forward to Saturday morning after two nights of "partying" (which these days translates to three glasses of red wine). I was EXHAUSTED. I mean the kind of exhausted where I could barely move, think, function, etc. I was so tired from going to bed at almost midnight and then waking up at 5 with the baby that I was literally dragging. Everything was off schedule and it showed. The nice weekend groove we have that involves a big breakfast, grocery shopping, running errands and visiting friends was all thrown off.

I had to turn down an invitation to see another family we enjoy on Saturday night because I was too tired to cook a meal to serve them. I never went grocery shopping because I was too tired so we had to get crappy take-out from a local sub shop and it sucked. I was in bed at 7 o'clock on a Saturday night which left my husband (who HAD NOT been out two nights in a row) all alone to watch TV or surf instead of spending quality time together.

My decision had obvious and lasting affects that pretty much screwed up the entire weekend. Patrick was trying to be a good husband by telling me to go and enjoy myself, but I should have listened to my gut. I know myself, I know my body and I know that at 34 years old I just can't hang like I used to without paying a serious price. So it's true what we tell our kids about making good decisions. In fact, I think it's one of the most important skills we can impart - the little choices we make every day affect the larger outcome, and often times in ways we didn't see coming.

The older I get the more I realize the people I am drawn to are those whose decisions I respect most. The people who haven't taken the easy road just because they could, the people who go the extra mile not because there is anything in it for them, but because it is the right choice. Really when you stop to think about it, decisions we wish we had made differently are the foundation that regret is built on. Of course we're always going to have the "what-if's" surrounding a decision we wish turned out differently and few people look back on a lifetime of decisions with zero regrets. I guess the goal, as adults, is minimizing the risk, narrowing the consequences and hopefully loving the person we see in the bathroom mirror the next morning...the person who tried to do the right thing.

A Bag of Bricks

Last week was Thanksgiving. I was coming off of a week-long business trip and trying to mentally organize the many items I needed to check the box on before leaving for a fabulous five-day holiday with my family. I was trying to squeeze a week's worth of work into two days at the office while making sure I had my Turkey Day responsibilities all lined up as far as food and family scheduling were concerned.

In the midst of all the holiday hub-bub I somehow confused an "assignment" from my son's preschool regarding fresh fruit for the needy. There was a bag sent home from school that we were apparently supposed to put fruit in for a pre-Thanksgiving celebration the kids were going to have on Tuesday before break. The name of the local charity the donations were going to was called SHARE. My 5-year old however, told me it was for "sharing" at school and they were supposed to bring in their favorite toy or something from the house for show-and-tell. I'm sure you can see where this is going.

So my son packed up his favorite Bayblade in what was supposed to be a bag full of bananas, apples and squash for the needy. Not only that, but all the other parents were there to watch their wee-ones generously pile up their gifts while my son had to stand next to the two teachers with a plastic toy in his bag. As a parent of a preschooler, this is about as bad as it gets short of forgetting your kid at school and the teacher having to drive him home.

His teacher emailed me to gently let me know that Austin had some things he had made for me at school, but in all the confusion of the SHARE celebration she didn't pack his in his bag. After about three back-and-forth emails I finally figured out where the confusion had come from and what I had done (or not done as it were). I was absolutely HOPRRIFIED with myself. How could I have been so stupid as to think there wasn't a Thanksgiving celebration at school? Why hadn't I read the weekly newsletters more carefully? Why did I listen to a 5-year old? Why did I have a full-tme job when it feels like nobody else does? Sigh. I suck.

Just as I starting to let this "bad" thing ruin the start of what was sure to be a fabulous holiday I heard the voice of a friend saying to "put it down like a bag of bricks." I have a very love/hate relationship with this expression. I feel that sometimes it can be used to absolve ourselves of responsibility for things we maybe should give a little thought to and we maybe should feel a little sorry about. I hate to be the kind of person who doesn't care what people think, but sometimes in life, you just have to let yourself off the hook.

I spent a lot of years constantly worrying about what type of woman/mother/friend/daughter people perceived me to be. I makes me feel so good to say that those days are gone (not always, and not entirely), but pretty much gone. My life is too busy and full and hectic to punish myself over the hot meal that was never cooked, or the phone call that wasn't promptly returned, or the birthday present that was only half-wrapped and didn't have a card to go with it.

So, I told my son how sorry I was for my mistake and he seemed literally unphased. I explained what I had done, and I told him I would do my best not to let it happen again - we also had a talk about the importance of giving to those less fortunate. My husband offered to read those newsletters also from now on so hopefully between the two of us we'll catch all the details of preschool life. We'll try harder but never be perfect, and not because we don't care...because sometimes the details just slip through the cracks in your brain and you have to forgive yourself.

Sometimes we all need to just put the bag of bricks down and keep walking.