Love Songs Redux

Saturday I had the rare opportunity to go shopping by myself. The shopping was productive and peaceful. While driving home and flipping through the satellite radio in the hubby’s car, I landed on the Love Channel. Oh cheese, I know, but there are certain songs I can’t pass by and (please don’t judge my musical taste based on this one confession) Bryan Adams’ “(Everything I Do) I Do it For You” is one of them.

That song came out in 1991. It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in high school. I was dating a senior. Oh, you can see where this is going. That song would play on the radio and I’d go all 15 year old girl soft in the gut as I wondered if he was thinking of me, too. *sigh*
Later, that senior would become the hubby.
So this song brings me back to that early, uncertain time of young love when everything is new and tummy flipping and smells good. Back before you fought over how he loaded the dishwasher or he saw you pumping or rushed you to the emergency room or watched your son get stitches on a Friday night.
Although, this past Saturday, when I heard this song, I thought of my boys. Since the birth of my two sons, love songs have taken on a different meaning. Not to say that I don’t hear the romance of a certain song and that all of them apply to a mother/son relationship, but that unconditional, I will be here for you always, undying mushy stuff? Oh yeah, that’s got my boys all over it.
The summer Peanut was born was the summer of Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars.” Of course I watched Izzie and Denny’s final moments play out to this song on “Grey’s Anatomy” and reached for the tissues. And my cousin danced with her new husband to that song at their wedding reception underneath strings of light that twinkled like fireflies in the summer night. But that summer, I would hear that song and stop to rub my swollen belly, softly singing these words to my soon-to-be:
“All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes
They’re all I can see
I don’t know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things
Will never change for us at all”
This is where you all roll your eyes and realize that High Heeled Mama is truly a sap. A big old sappy sap. Guilty as charged.
So the other day, while driving home after a much needed couple of hours distance from the four year old power struggles and Pumpkin’s demands for a level of independence beyond his 16 months, I whispered a wish for my boys:
“I would fight for you – I’d lie for you
Walk the wire for you – Ya, I’d die for you
You know it’s true
Everything I do – I do it for you.”
And before you all think that I’ve commandeered every love song for my children, take solace. The hubby and I still have “our” song. And there is nothing that can change that. And no, it’s not Bryan Adams.
But it’s just as sappy. Just like a good love song should be.

Type A to Type “Eh?”

Back when I was working, I never missed a deadline. I worked thoughtfully, efficiently and proudly. A week filled with presentations, proposal deadlines, media pitch calls, brainstorming sessions, media analysis reports, and follow-up calls inking themselves black across my desktop calendar energized me. The more I had to do, the more efficient I was. Not meeting, but exceeding expectations was a constant goal. I’d like to think I was good at it.

So, why, lately, have I been so woefully behind the proverbial eight ball? I waited too long to order the favors I wanted for my sister’s baby shower and now they are back ordered. I blanked on registering Pumpkin for the spring session of The Music Class and now we’re activity-less on Tuesday mornings. I must appear completely scatter-brained to the co-host of my sister’s shower who emails me the kind of type-A list I used to rattle off in my sleep. This space has been neglected for no really good reason I can conjure. I constantly feel like I’m playing catch-up.
Do my responsibilities not seem as important? Cleaning the bathroom certainly isn’t as time sensitive as rush-producing a news story on a new FDA approval. Or do I not feel as important? A difficult question for sure. The Mom-me most definitely feels important. I’m the one who kisses the owies better, who knows to sing Twinkle, Twinkle before nap time, who can change a 4 year old’s attitude with a well placed tickle.
But perhaps it is the household trappings of the stay-at-home-mom life where I don’t always feel important. If the bathrooms don’t get cleaned, I’m the only one who cares. If the dishes don’t get done before dinner prep starts, I’m the only one annoyed. If the laundry piles up, it’s only my problem to figure out what every one’s going to wear. If I don’t make time for my own writing or personal interests, I’m the only one affected. There are no demanding clients. There are no yearly reviews. There are no column inches in a national paper to track a success.
The stay-at-home life is often a hurry-up-and-wait kind of life. Quick, get a few chores done while the kids are distracted, check email during snack time, make a phone call during nap time. The rest of the day is following and marrying the whims of two different attitudes, desires and capabilities, which results in a lot of waiting through car playing, waiting for a particular someone to find his shoes so we can FINALLY go outside, waiting for someone to finish eating. And part of me is thrilled that I have managed to amend my Type A self into a more go with the flow mom self that allows my kids to be kids. The other part of me is screaming inside to stop getting distracted by every book in your room and find your shoe already so we can leave!
Could it be, though, that the relaxed, attention-challenged attitude of my children has finally rubbed off on me to the point where I’m failing to finish projects and easily distracted to the point of forgetting items on my to-do list?
There has to be a way to marry the deadline-centric work life I once knew with the more relaxed day-to-day operations of life at home.
Is there an app for that? I’d try to make one, but I’d surely forget to finish it.

Monkey See, Monkey Do, Monkey Go?

Today, Pumpkin woke up early from his nap. An hour early. Ugh. Rather than referee toy tug-of-war for three hours or repeatedly explain to Peanut that we can’t take out the Legos or play board games when Pumpkin’s awake and toddling around, I had a parenting stroke of genius.

Okay. More accurately, the weather was beautiful and I simply suggested we take Peanut’s big-wheel-esque trike to a nearby park. He literally jumped off the couch to find his shoes. Considering the 20 minutes it takes for us to get his shoes on for school each morning, this was quite the coup. A few snacks packed and we were off.
The park was new to us and fabulous. The trail erected as part of Atlanta’s BeltLine project was perfect for my little guy to pedal away. The path led to not just one, but two playgrounds, the perfect breaks for Peanut’s legs and to free Pumpkin from the stroller. We were having a great time just being – enjoying the dandelions, watching the creek flow under a bridge, spinning on the merry-go-round.
As I plucked Pumpkin from the bottom of his millionth slide run, I looked up to see Peanut swinging across the monkey bars.
I stood with my mouth hanging open. When did he learn to do that? I started to congratulate him for this feat of playground proficiency, but he simply shrugged and ran off to the next apparatus.
Is this how it starts? He suddenly comes home with a skill that I was completely unaware of? Yesterday, he used the word “proper” properly. Where did he learn that? Of course I expect a certain level of knowledge to be imparted at school or gleaned from friends, but the monkey bars seemed to be a wake up call at just how independent my little guy is becoming.
We raise them to be individuals. To be strong and curious and daring. So why, when Peanut actually does these things, do I feel a pang of sadness at the edge of my pride? I know, I know: ‘They spend nine months inside of you and the rest of their lives walking away.’ But I still find myself reaching for his hand so he doesn’t get too far ahead of me.
Luckily, the boys are still at ages where they not only wait for me, but look for me, reach for me, need me. So while they are busy growing up, learning new skills and sharing their uniqueness with the world, I will be busy learning how to let go.
Just like Peanut did today on those monkey bars.

Would You Rather?

During a recent all moms workout, we played a bit of “Would You Rather?” posing questions to one another to get to know each other while distracting ourselves from the lunges and bicep curls.

Listen only to Coldplay or U2?
Give up chocolate or cheese?
Abandon your flip flops or the heels?
The majority of the group immediately said they’d ditch those heels.
*GASP!*
I, of course, said I would ditch the flippies. After all, if I didn’t, I would be damaging the old blog’s reputation, right? Haha. Back to another set of squats.
But the question has been nagging at me for the last several days. The fact of the matter is that I don’t wear those heels all that often anymore. I even had to wipe a bit of dust off the pair I wore on our last date night they were so far out of rotation. I realized I don’t have a pair of current fitting jeans in a heel-appropriate length, they’re all cut for flats.
For all intents and purposes, I have given up the heels.
And that nags at me a bit.
Certainly if giving up the flip flops means giving up my day-to-day, rough and tumble playground, sock-footed baby music class, criss-cross-applesauce Hot Wheels play life with the boys, than screw it. I’ll ditch those heels in a heart beat. But I don’t think it needs to be mutually exclusive.
It’s no secret I’ve been struggling lately with how to incorporate a professional side of my life with my decision to be a stay at home mom. I haven’t found any answers yet, which is frustrating, but okay. If I’ve learned anything from this mothering gig it’s that it’s a constant balancing act with various players constantly shifting the weight around without notice: an added soccer commitment here, a possible professional project there, a new nap routine on this hand, an inflexible car pool pick up time on the other… It’s never ending and constantly morphing into a slightly different version of normal that you hardly know it’s changed until you’re well into a new routine.
I’m doing my best to keep my eyes open to the shifts, looking for the light that seeps through the cracks to see if I can capture a bit of open space for me. I feel a bit like a surfer, waiting for the right wave. You can’t force it. You know it will come. And when it does, that’s gonna be one damn fine ride.
But the surfer doesn’t sit on the beach in street clothes waiting for that wave. Nope. They zip up the wet suit, wax down the board, paddle out to the cusp and enjoy the sunshine on their shoulders as they scan the vast horizon.
So abandon my heels? Hell, no. I can slip them on any time to remind me of that little piece of me that’s scanning my horizon, waiting for the right opportunity, the perfect wave that provides a fun ride for me all the while carrying me back to my family on the beach and the sandcastles we’ll build together.
Sure, flip flops might be a little more appropriate for my analogy, but I don’t have a problem getting a little sand in my heels.

Hand-Me-Downs

Despite the fact that I have two boys and my sister is expecting a girl, I spent the afternoon packing up a fairly sizable bag of clothes to pass along.

I had no idea we had so many blue clothes for these kids! I suppose at that round headed, no hair, sleepy newborn phase, marketers feel the need to force us into putting our kids in obvious gender appropriate clothes to cue those we encounter that our child is a boy/girl. Luckily for my soon-to-be niece, we also had quite a few adorable sleepers and t-shirts that paired with the right ruffly bloomers or skirt could definitely pass for girl-wear.
What surprised me the most was the fact that I was remarkably unemotional during the sort. I anticipated a teary moment as I held up each tiny newborn sized garment, remembering Pumpkin and Peanut before him in it. Perhaps I would have an inability to part with a particular favorite sleeper. I thought for sure I would feel some sort of tug at my ovaries as I folded each soft little shirt and sock. I felt none of those things. Sure, I was amazed that my big boys ever fit inside that teeny, tiny little hospital t-shirt, but then I folded it and put it away.
I am excited about my sister and her husband’s upcoming journey into parenthood. I am eager to welcome another niece into our circle of family. I am thrilled to pass along clothes I don’t need anymore so that someone else can enjoy them.
And there it is. As much as I rationally know that we have a complete family and do not intend to have more children, I have recently been reluctant for us to make any permanent steps in that direction. The simple task of sorting clothes allowed me to face that emotional pull straight on and realize that as much as I love babies and can’t wait to cuddle another little one in that adorable giraffe pajama set, it doesn’t have to be my baby.
I will add this collection of clothes to the other items I will be passing along to my sister as she prepares for her first foray into parenthood. And thank her for allowing me the opportunity to find the emotional closure I apparently needed.
Then, I will go online and find the frilliest, pinkest, girliest outfits to spoil this new little girl with. After all, isn’t that what the aunt with two sons is supposed to do?

Your Topic Here

After my call for help for something to write about, I received a few suggestions on Facebook and in person. My cousin suggested I write something about that feeling of joy and anxiety every Red Sox fan feels each February when players start reporting for spring training. A friend said she needed advice because her 18 month old was starting to give up her afternoon nap. A few folks have asked for an update on my NaNoWriMo project.

For a few days, I’ve wondered how I wanted to tackle each idea. After all, I promised I would write about whatever you suggested. I’m not one to go back on a promise, even if these seemed like three completely unrelated topics.
Until I realized, they aren’t. They are completely related. The commonality? Hope.
Despite two recent World Series Championships, Red Sox fans hear one phrase each February when the first players start reporting for practice in Fort Myers, Florida. A phrase whispered across generations. A phrase that very nearly is cliche except for the sincerity and intensity of its utterance after years and years of near misses in October.
“This is the year.”
For me and my family of Red Sox fans, we watch the new year’s roster report, analyze personalities, consider off-season injury recovery, and declare that yes, indeed, this could be the year. With “the Curse” finally being broken, we are almost more anxious having tasted the sweetness of victory. We are excited. We are very nearly giddy. Underneath all that positive emotion, we are anxious, frightened, doubting (86 years of disappointment is hard to brush off) as this group of men we blindly follow based on the jersey they wear hold our emotional well being in their hands from April until October. And so we do the only thing we can. We hope. We hope for a fun season. We hope for victory. And above all, we hope that at least if we don’t win, neither do the Yankees. *shiver*
My friend with the nap-averse toddler, well, that’s a whole other level of hope. Peanut gave up his nap early, not 18 months early, but he probably started showing the signs that young. He’d boycott an occasional nap, but then take them back up after several days without one. Once he hit two, he’d refuse a few more, but accepted quiet time, even giving in to an occasional nap when I thought for sure there was no way that bouncing in the crib was going to stop. At two and a half, about the same time I got pregnant and my body desperately craved being vertical for at least an hour each afternoon, he was done. I still put him in his room, hoping against all hopes that maybe, just maybe, that would be the day he would quietly sit in bed reading books or by some miracle, fall asleep.
It wasn’t meant to be. I hope, for my friend, that her little one is simply in a phase and quickly remembers the joy of her nap time because I haven’t a clue what to tell her to do. Other than to keep putting that child down each afternoon and hope for the best.
Finally, my NaNoWriMo project. In all honesty, I haven’t even opened the file since November 30th. As proud as I am of accomplishing 50,860 words in 30 days, I am just as disappointed in myself for ignoring its presence the last 87. It’s a scary prospect, reading back words that I pounded out. I’m convinced it must be horrible and it seems easier to ignore it rather than confirming my worst fears.
As long as it remains unopened, I can still hope that maybe, just maybe it’s at the very least mediocre. I can hope that I have what it takes. I can hope there is a nugget of some measure of talent in its pages that will propel me on to fight to the finish and eventually see those words, my words, in print one day. On paper. In between two hard covers. On a book shelf. In a real store.
So I hope. I hope I have the courage to open that document. I hope my friend’s child takes a nap. I hope the Red Sox win it all again this year.
Because what do we have if we don’t have hope?
Well, Cheerios on the floor. I always have those.

Topicless

I’ll be honest, I’ve been wanting to post, trying to post, needing to post. The problem is my brain is a blank slate. Or, more accurately, my brain is a mess of distraction. The heart monitoring has been a distraction. The unseasonably warm weather has been a distraction. The mounting to-do list is a distraction.

So, dear readers, leave me a comment about something, anything, you’d like to read about. A parenting challenge you’ve encountered. A transition to the stay at home lifestyle issue. A question you’ve been dying to ask. Inspire me. Challenge me. Dare me. Whatever. Consider it a little blog experiment.
I promise to write about whatever you come up with, so don’t disappoint me all you lurkers! Come out from behind the shadows and give me something to write about.
Please! 🙂

Valentine’s Day: Mom Edition

The hubby and I have never been a big Valentine’s Day couple. Between Christmas and both our birthdays in late January, Valentine’s Day comes along and we’re done. There is typically a card, maybe some flowers, and that’s that. We express our love throughout the year and certainly have never needed a holiday to remind us.
But this year, I’ve been pretty excited about Valentine’s Day. For my boys.
There have been heart shaped pancakes served in bed (there is apparently nothing more fun than eating breakfast in bed to a four year old!), cards, small treats, heart shaped PB&J in the lunch box, banners in the living room and treats to come after dinner. I’m having a blast lavishing goofy love on my boys this Valentine’s Day.
Someone recently told me that no matter how close I was to the boys it wasn’t at all the same as the closeness of a mother-daughter relationship. I’d agree with that. It’s not the same at all. But that doesn’t mean it’s inferior. So far, in my young mother-son relationship with my boys, it’s full of sweetness, hugs, tickles and a connection that can’t be beat. I am the woman that my boys will compare all other women to. If that’s not pressure, I’m not sure what is.
So this morning, I had fun getting up early to treat my boys to special pancakes, enjoyed some snuggle time with my munchkins in bed and happily accepted the treats they had picked out for me.
And then, as a mother of sons, I cleaned misdirected pee off the bathroom floor.
Happy Valentine’s Day!

February is American Heart Month

The timing seems especially appropriate this year.

As I type this, I am hooked up to a 30-day heart monitor – electrodes stuck to my chest, monitor on a lanyard under my shirt, cell phone monitor in my pocket. I have to say, it’s actually pretty cool – it’s not nearly as bulky as I anticipated, it’s wireless and sends my information via Bluetooth to a cell phone that magically transmits my every heartbeat to a monitoring company that then sends reports each day to my cardiologist. Very cool.
Until I notice that I just typed the phrase “my cardiologist.” I’m 35 and have a yearly appointment with a cardiologist. I recently sat in the waiting room for my check up as the youngest person by at least 3 decades. I smiled behind my magazine as I realized this. Then I noticed the pitying glances of several octogenarians as they must have been wondering, “What is she doing here?”
What am I doing here? Honestly, it’s not a big deal. It’s just a follow-up on some symptoms I’ve had the last few weeks related to the arrhythmia episode I had right after Pumpkin was born. I trust my doctor. I believe him when he says it’s not serious. I understand that this is simply for a better understanding of what is going on inside of my body. I know I’m being responsible by monitoring this condition instead of burying my head in the sand and hoping I’m fine.
BUT.
It’s the buts that have been torturing me this week. The buts that have been creeping up on me in the dark hours. The buts that have me holding my babes a bit closer at night.
So this month, this month of heart health awareness, I feel compelled to tell you all to take care of your hearts. You only have one. Although mine has expanded a hundred fold to hold the love I feel for my kids, if it’s not working right, no amount of love will make up for a less than one hundred percent healthy mama.
And so I face the fear of the monitor, take ownership of my health care and will spend the next 30 days dutifully replacing electrode stickers and monitor batteries. Because I love my kids. Because they love me. Because it’s not cliche to say that a mother needs to care for herself first, it’s an obligation.
Get your physicals. Don’t ignore symptoms. Heart disease is the number one killer of women. Don’t be one of them.

Stars Go to the Library Just Like Us

Saturday morning found the Peanut and I trolling our local library. Our strategy at the library tends to consist of picking an aisle and randomly perusing the shelves for a book that has cool illustrations, space ships or pirates. While chasing after the Peanut as he went from the “B” to the “K” aisle, a woman and her daughter passed me. I had the quick sense of recognition and glanced back to see if it was another mother from Peanut’s school or someone from Pumpkin’s music class I should acknowledge when I realized it was Jennifer Garner.
Talk about double take.
She is apparently in town with her family filming a movie. She was looking completely laid back yet still glam in her jeans and hair pulled back. I’m not sure if anyone else recognized her. If they did, they kept their distance, too. I enjoyed my moment of spotting a star and then gathered up the Peanut and his stack of books and headed home.
Later, I had to laugh. I figured that even though movie stars are normal people and can spend their morning in the local public library entertaining their kids on a Saturday morning, they probably weren’t spending their Saturday afternoons scrubbing their floors followed by watching their husbands assembling an IKEA cabinet.
Although, the IKEA cabinet instructions did indicate that I should have been wearing heels when I helped:
Perhaps there is hope for my Saturday afternoons yet.