People vs. Things

A Milly for the new millennium.

One afternoon a few weeks ago, I spotted my five-year-old walking around the house with a pair of scissors in her hand.  If you live with small people, you will understand the fear this cast into my heart.  I asked her what she was up to and she mumbled something that sounded plausible and harmless.  I eyed her suspiciously, directing her to return the scissors to their home, pronto.

Cut to half an hour later.  I'm in her bedroom and spy, with my little eye, strands of brown yarn toppling out of the small garbage bin in the corner.  I make a move to investigate, the knowledge of what I'm seeing starting to sink in.  I've realized why that yarn looks so familiar, and begin to hunt around for its original owner.  I find her hidden under a pile of her stuffed friends.

My daughter had taken the liberty of giving one of her sister's dolls a hair cut.  Not just any doll, though.  The doll that had been mine as a child.  My beloved Milly.  One of the only souvenirs of my childhood.

I sat there in shock, a host of emotions coursing through me.  I felt tears well up.  I felt anger rise.  And then, I realized that this was a moment designed for me to practice what I preach.

I am not a fan of stuff.  Clutter makes me anxious and I don't really do well with receiving gifts, truth be told (there are lots of reasons for this, but I won't delve into my personal psychology today).  Lately, I've been on a mission to let go of things and live a simpler life focused on the people I love and our experiences together.  I am very inspired by the movement toward minimalism, and in the last few years I have donated and sold countless things, trading the physical and mental space they require for more serenity.  Along the way, I've been trying to espouse these values to my daughters.  We are by no means toy-less around here, but we talk a lot about how quality is better than quantity, how experiences and relationships are more important than things, and how, while it's lovely to have things we enjoy, at the end of the day, happiness isn't store-bought.

This lesson gets a thorough re-telling any time something breaks around here.  When a toy breaks, I express my sympathy for the disappointment my girls feel, but I emphasize that that is what toys do, they break, that things are things and what is most important is that we have not broken.  I think I even said something once about how when a balloon pops, it is fulfilling its destiny (note to self: children's book idea). 

That was all well and good.  Until it was my thing that broke.

So there I sat, with a shorn and forlorn Milly in my lap, and it was then I realized that the sadness my daughters feel when a toy breaks is not for the loss of the thing at all: what they are really mourning is the loss of the experience.  They were having so much fun, and now that fun is over, and even if the toy is still functional, they are grieving the loss of the experience 'just that way', with everything in place as it was when the fun began.  Change is hard.  Whoa Nelly, do I know about that.  For my part, I think the loss of Milly's hair, the loss of her being just the way she has been for 30+ years, called up the hurt I feel about the loss of my childhood, touched a place of long-dormant pain about the loss of the experience of being with my family at that time, during the happier times anyway.

I called my daughter to me.  She knew that the jig was up.  With a calm that I rather impressed myself with, I explained to her that what she had done was wrong, that Milly meant a lot to her sister and me, and that it hurt our feelings that she cut Milly's hair without permission.  While a thing is just a thing, it is still wrong and disrespectful to cause harm to someone else's property, and I wanted to be sure that she understood that and apologized.  I suspected that her curiosity about what it would be like to cut a doll's hair had gotten the better of her, which she confirmed, and so we discussed how she could explore that in appropriate ways.  And then apologies were uttered and we hugged it out, and moved on with our day. 

What I didn't admit to my daughter is that mixed up with the sadness and anger that bubbled up in me was a feeling of awe: Milly actually kind of rocks a mohawk.  Okay, I'll say it, she looks amazing.  I wish I could pull off that look.

I suppose change can be good.

Next Steps

Finding a few moments of beauty and joy in a parking lot, waiting for a mechanic to repair my car and hand me a hefty bill. Which says it all, really.

As many of you know, I left my job four months ago in order to recharge, spend more time with my daughters, and figure out a new way forward.  The decision was not an easy or hasty one - it took me a good year to get my ducks in a row and get up the gumption to take the leap - but it was absolutely the right one.  The past three years have been the most challenging of my life, and I knew that if I didn't stop and prioritize my health, my family and myself, there would be dire consequences for all three.

When I left my job, my thinking was this: I'd take two months (May and June), while my kids were still in school, to rest and think and have some time to myself, and then spend the following two months (July and August) enjoying quality time with my girls.  And then...well, I wasn't sure what would come next.

Those four months played out more or less as planned.  While the spring was not as productive as I had initially imagined it would be, at least in terms of coming to any grand epiphanies about my life and putting new plans into action, it served as a much-needed restart.  Around that time, I was speaking to one of my best friends about my frustration that I was not further along in figuring out my life.  She responded by reminding me that a machine, when it is restarted, needs some time to fully shut down before it can start back up again, and she urged me to be patient with myself.  I decided, then, to ignore the grand to-do list I had written and just let go.  I wrote without quota.  I read voraciously.  I worked out and nourished my body.  I haunted coffee shops and caught up with friends.  I relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in years.

By the time the kids were out of school, I was ready to be there for them in a way I hadn't been able to be for a long time.  While not every moment was picture perfect by any stretch, my time with my kids this summer was as wonderful as I had hoped it would be.  We went to the beach and explored the city, made living room nests and watched movies, took countless trips to the library and belted out Taylor Swift tunes on car rides, slurped slushies and sidewalk-chalked the driveway.  But most importantly, I held them in my arms and kissed their freckles, eavesdropped on their early morning sister conversations before they climbed into my bed with their poking elbows and soft cheeks and giggles and complaints, listened for "just a few more minutes" and smoothed the curls out of their sleepy eyes as they shared with me their amazing 5-year-old and 7-year-old thoughts and dreams.  For the first time in a long time, I felt I had a few more minutes to give, although I was really the one who received.

The one big adventure my daughters asked for this summer (aside from taking the city bus, which was also a hit) was to go to Canada's Wonderland.  And so, on one of the hottest days of the summer and a Sunday no less, we ventured there.  And had The Best Day.  It was only later that I realized that I hadn't even flinched at the idea of taking the girls there all by myself and dealing with the crowds and the heat and the line-ups and tired little legs, a situation which, in the past, would have been far too daunting for me to even contemplate.  It hadn't occurred to me not to do it and it hadn't occurred to me to be nervous that I couldn't handle it.  I was relaxed and expected to have fun, and so we did.  This realization highlighted for me what this time has given me: it has allowed me the chance to restore my faith in myself and my ability to not only handle any challenge that comes at me but to create a happy life and joyful moments despite those challenges, whether they be the oppressive heat or obnoxious crowds or negativity or what others think or heartbreaks or disappointments.  It has allowed me to move a few steps closer to becoming the parent, and the person, I want to be.

But now, it is September, and the kids are back at school.  So now what?  A part of me has been dreading September and the questions that were waiting for me here, the main one being how I can support my family and build the life I want through a career that allows me to use my talents and do something of value.  I've spent the last few months and several sleepless nights wrestling with these questions, trying ideas on for size, researching options and hitting roadblocks, tuning into my intuition and turning away from anything my gut tells me is the wrong path for me.  I still wish to pursue a writing career; in addition to my writing here, I have finished the first draft of my children's book and it will (WILL!) be sent out to publishers by the end of this month.  And then, I'll be starting on the next, and my writing will continue to be a priority.  I have big plans for this website, and several book ideas queued up anxiously awaiting my attention.  But, as much as I would love to ignore this fact and live my creative life, there are bills to pay.  Publication is, in large part, out of my control and frankly, no one ever went into writing for the money.  Luckily, I have more to give than words alone and I'm making some progress toward fine-tuning my understanding of what those skills and talents are and figuring out a (compensated) place to put them to use.

To that end, this fall will be about testing my hypotheses and beginning to put toes in the water to give some ideas a trial run, amongst other relevant metaphors.  In addition to continuing with my writing and keeping my kids and my health front and center, I will be taking a few courses to further my education and I'm pursuing some volunteer opportunities that will help me to reconnect with my community and gain some experience in fields that I think would allow me to do important work I care about.  I'm also working with an employment counsellor and applying to positions that I think might be a good fit, both for what I'm looking for and what I can offer.  And I'm staying patient, and continuing to have faith in myself.  I have the luxury of having more time to sort things out, but I'm not taking that luxury for granted and I'm aware of the possibility that my best-laid plans may not work out as hoped.  I'm okay with that.  I think that optimism and realism can live hand in hand.

So we'll see.  That's my answer right now to all inquiries about what I'm going to do now.  We'll see.  I'm as curious as anyone.  I have these next steps in place but I have no idea where the staircase leads.  Do any of us?  What I do know is that I couldn't have done all of this and made it this far without the tremendous love and friendship around me, and I want to take this moment to thank you for continuing to read my words here and for offering me your own words of support and advice. 

I don't know what the future holds.  I don't know what I'll be doing and what my life will be like another four months from now.  But I'm more excited about that than scared because I know I can make molehills out of any mountains I may come across on my path, and I know these steps are just a small part of the journey.

You Can

You can make a funny face lunch. Or you can hot dog it for the third time that week. You get what you get and you don't get upset.

Parenting is hard work.  This isn't news, really, and I'm not about to say that nobody ever told me that it would be this hard.  Sure they did.  People say it all the time and I'm just adding my voice to the choir.  What I don't think is said enough is that we are, for the most part, doing a damn good job.  This is true no matter what kind of parent you are but I want to say this in particular to the single parents like me who, I know from experience, take self-criticism to a whole new level.

All parents doubt their ability to parent, worry that they have screwed their kids up by making the slightest "wrong" move, and can point to a dozen small but potentially scarring mistakes on any given day.  For many single parents, these doubts are underscored and amplified by the perception of one major fundamental failure: your failure to give your children an intact family, a happy childhood in one home.  There are all sorts of truths that can be applied to soothe and counterbalance this feeling, the primary one being that the kids are better off this way.  But no matter how true that is, no matter how much evidence you can compile to prove it, that one big thing that you were not capable of doing casts a large shadow over even the most amazing of triumphs.

I try to cast the light on what I'm capable of, to notice those triumphs and give myself credit for the things that I get right.  To get out from under that shadow. But it's hard. It's so much easier for us all to see our mistakes, real or perceived.  For that reason, I think it's important that we pay attention to and acknowledge our successes, no matter how small. 

In case you need the reminder, here are just a few examples of what you are capable of.  Although these are directed to single parents in particular, many of these apply across the board, and we all could do with applauding our victories and going a little easier on ourselves.

High fives for all the many things you can do:

• You can clean vomit off the carpet with one hand while rubbing your child's back with the other.
  

• You can calm down the kid who is convinced she sees tiny ghosts in her room, settle her back to sleep, then return to your own bed, alone.
  

• You can shovel the entire driveway while comforting the child who is crying because the snow is cold.
  

• You can broker a peace agreement between pint-size dictators while showering.
  

• You can find the bear at 2 a.m. and fix the covers at 3 a.m. and deal with the jammies that "feel weird" at 4 a.m.
  

• You can take your kids to a busy amusement park on one of the hottest days of the summer, by yourself, and not lose them or your sanity.
  

• You can read a bedtime story with silly voices and aching bones.
  

• You can put your daughter's hair in pigtails while you pee.
  

• You can give your kids a fun Christmas even if there's not much under the tree.
  

• You can weather the heartbreak of your child screaming that she doesn't want to live with you anymore.
  

• You can work all day, get dinner on the table, and help your kids with their homework before tucking them into bed and doing your own homework.
  

• You can dance your kids around the kitchen to make them laugh when all your legs really want to do is run away.

You know what else you can do?

• You can drink wine for dinner.
  

• You can serve pie for breakfast.
  

• You can eat the secret chocolate bar that you didn't tell your kids about, while watching Netflix in your bed.
  

• You can date. You can have sex. You can do those two things exclusively of each other, if you'd like.
  

• You can buy something for yourself.

• You can insist that it is bedtime in Ponyland because if you have to play My Little Pony one more minute you are going to lose your freaking mind.
  

• You can hide the Playdoh. You can just hide it and pretend you have no idea where it is simply because you don't want to deal with cleaning it up or even explaining about how you don't want to clean it up.
  

• You can LOSE YOUR SHIT. You can yell once in awhile and say the wrong thing and you can apologize.

• You can cry. A lot. You can cry in front of your kids. You can let them comfort you.
  

• You can forgive yourself.
  

• You can ask for help.
  

• You can show your kids what it is to be strong. You can show your kids what it is to be vulnerable. You can show them how to rise up and own their mistakes and their victories and their lives.

And another thing?  You can make your own list of your triumphs and update it regularly, even slap it up on the finger-printed fridge that you can totally just not clean any time soon.  You can toot your own horn and feel proud of yourself.  You can redefine "intact" and "family" and what it means to have a happy childhood.

You can do so much more than you think you can do and you can also do so much less than you think you have to, and everything will be okay.  You can count on it. 

Jump for Joy: Literally. Into Puddles.

Go ahead and jump.

On the way home from the park one afternoon a few weeks ago, it started to rain.  The girls and I picked up the pace, dodging raindrops as we giggled our way home.  Approaching the house, I turned back intent on urging those little legs to move quickly and get inside before we got too wet, inconvenient repercussions foremost in mind.  But I stopped short before I said a word:  There, in their sweet faces, turned to the heavens, I saw the pure joy I'm always banging on about.  They were fully in the moment, alive, drinking in every sensation, open wide to the experience in every way.  They were having the time of their lives.

"Can we stay out just one more minute?" they implored, likely doubtful that their too-often by-the-book mama would sanction such an activity.   

I took a breath, letting go of thoughts of carpet-drenching footsteps and muddy laundry.  There was no lightning.  It was bath night anyways.   

"Yes.  Yes, you can."

I stood in the doorway and watched every stitch of their summer dresses soaking through, every inch of their arms and legs and cheeks basking in the glory of the summer rain, squeals of delight bursting from their gorgeous souls.

After a few minutes, breathless and glowing, they came inside, shedding their clothing at the front door mat and, at their mother's suggestion, flinging it full force down the basement stairs (extra points if they hit the bottom with a satisfying, soggy smack), before jumping into the bubbliest of baths.

Since that time we have twice now ventured out post-rain (having missed the rain itself) in search of the biggest mud puddles we could find to jump into with wild abandon, laundry be damned.  I've seen tentative hops and "Really?  We can do this?" glances quickly escalate to full-on running leaps designed to displace the most water and mud possible (extra points for splashing mom).  I've heard the most beautiful, joyful laughter.  And I've heard myself, the one who only a few weeks ago would have admonished "Get out of the puddles!  Watch your dress!", shout "Come on!  You can get muddier than that!" 

And last night, I jumped in too.  (They know what it's about, those kids.  So much fun!)

Life is short, and these moments are what life is all about.  It's not about the laundry.  It's about all the mess and joy and fun that creates the laundry.  And if you're lucky, you'll have piles of it to do. (Once you peel it, sopping, off the basement floor.  And scrub the mud off the ceiling.  And teach them better aim.)

Jump for Joy is a new series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life. 

Jump for Joy: Morning Dance Party

Twirly skirts for bonus points.

When I was a stay-at-home mama, my eldest and I began a tradition we call "morning dance party", which is precisely what it says on the box:  we take a few minutes out of an often hectic morning to pump up the jam and kick up our heels.  We sometimes take turns teaching each other dance moves, and inevitably we end up holding hands and twirling in a circle until mama is nauseous and announces it's time to freestyle. 

In recent years, with an early start to my work day, our dance parties were relegated to the weekend, but now that I'm home (hurrah!), we're back up and moving!  My girls have to be out the door for school at 8:30 am, and I'm making it my goal to have us all set for 8:00 am, when possible, so we have plenty of time to jump, jive, and generally have an awesome time together before we head off to our busy days (sorry, downstairs neighbours, but we're having too much fun).

If you have a few minutes, or can make a few minutes, I highly recommend that you turn up the beat and dance yourself into an amazing morning.  It's a great way to start the day in a positive way, get active, and introduce the small people to the music of your youth.  Might I suggest some Motown Philly? 

And listen, this is not just a family thing.  On your own?  Dance like nobody's watching, because they aren't.  (P.S. Morning Dance Party's equally vivacious cousin is Saturday Night Try On All Your Fancy Clothes And Dance Around Your Bedroom Party).

Jump for Joy is a new series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life. 

The Loss or the Lesson

On my way home from work today, I stopped at Portsmouth Olympic Harbour.  It was a beautiful day and I had my camera with me, intent on getting a photo to accompany the post I planned to write tonight.  I walked along the sun-soaked pier, snapping photos aimlessly with no clear subject in mind, marveling at the sparkling lake that had been ice up until much too recently for my liking.  The spring was a long time coming this year, and I think many of us around these parts are greeting it with arms flung wide with adoration and enthusiasm, although not without a gentle, exasperated "Where have you been?!!!" reproach.  But you can't stay mad too long, not on a day like this.

I had stopped on the pier to admire the view, thinking for about the millionth time that I live in a tremendously beautiful city, when suddenly there seemed to appear out of nowhere a flock of birds flying in my direction, about to be perfectly positioned for a gorgeous shot as they emerged as if from the sun.  I quickly tilted my camera in their direction and pressed the shutter button, and then again and again, feverishly and futilely, as it turns out.  My camera wouldn't take the shot.  And then they were gone. 

I watched them fly off and laughed, because I immediately got the message.  My camera was set on automatic and couldn't focus.  Which exactly describes the last few years of my life.

The location of my photo shoot was deliberately chosen, although I couldn't have predicted my experience with the un-photographable flock and the moment's echo of another visit.  It's been a long few years since this other morning at the harbour when, as it happens, I managed to get a very similar shot to the one I attempted today.  It's been a long few years of trying to keep it together and figure out a new life, putting one foot in front of the other to move forward.  And, doing so, I've come a long way.  But I've also been dancing on the edge of burning out, and feeling an acute lack of focus and self-connection as I've been going through the motions, living my life on automatic.  Not unhappy, not all the time, but not truly living.

Over the last year, I've noticed a growing gut feeling that it is time to stop, a feeling that whispered quietly at first but recently it has been singing in every cell in my body, which sounds dramatic (even for me) but I have been slowly filled up by this feeling and now feel truly saturated in the knowledge that I need to flip the switch from automatic to manual and take control of my life.  I need to shake things up a bit.  I need to live.

Five weeks ago, I gave notice at my job.  Tomorrow is my last day.  I don't have another job to go to.  I was saying to a friend the other day that I haven't quite perfected my sound bite, the abstract of my decision, to offer when responding to the natural question, "What will you be doing?"  Thankfully, I came to the most beautiful and freeing realization very quickly that I don't have to fully explain this to anyone, but I have found that in my attempts to do so, I have come to a clearer understanding of it for myself.  So here's the best I've come to, for what it's worth:  I'm taking some time off to take care of three priorities: my health, my daughters, and my dreams.

I have a body that is strong and able and capable of most anything.  That might not always be the case.  My rheumatologist reminds me on a regular basis that my rheumatoid arthritis, which, to date, has been fairly manageable, could get bad at the turn of a dime.  I read a statistic once that said that 50% of those diagnosed with RA are unable to work ten years post-diagnosis.  I was diagnosed nine years ago.  Of course, there's every chance I'm in the lucky 50%, but I can't sit in front of a computer with my able body, doing a job I don't love, any longer.  There's a chance I'm going to have plenty of time to sit around all day soon enough.

I have two incredible daughters who have been through a hell of a lot in the last few years and have come through so remarkably, but even still there's a palpable, mutual longing between us for more time together, for a deeper reconnection.  This is a critical time in their lives, and I can afford to invest in more time for the three of us to be together.  I may not always be able to pick them up from school every day, I may not always be able to afford to have the whole summer with them, but I can do it now.  So I'm going to.

I have been told by others all my life that I should be a writer and, most importantly, I have agreed with the assessment.  I have a lifetime's worth of notebooks and Word files and backs-of-envelopes full of half-finished writing and ideas that, if they haven't yet in my nearly 37 years here, are never going to see the light of day unless I throw myself at them and shake off the dust.  I'm a few sentences away from completing a children's book.  I have been a few sentences away for nearly two years.  Attempting to summon creativity at 10:00 at night after a full day at work and putting two kids to bed and trying to keep my house (and myself) from collapsing into shambles...well, that's working about as well as you might expect.  I can't fit these dreams into the margins of my life.  I have to take a run at them full-throttle. (And yes, sit my able body in front of a computer from time to time to do so, but it's a different kind of sitting.  An energized sitting with intent.)

All signs have been pointing in this direction and, other than some initial nausea when I first spoke the words "I am leaving", all I've felt in these last few weeks is joy and relief.  I don't know what will happen, but I have set myself no metrics for success.  If I need to head back to a desk job six months from now, so be it.  But right now, each one of those singing cells knows this is the right decision, and each one of those cells was in the moment on that pier, with the birds flying out of shot, feeling nothing but amusement and gratitude.

Had I missed a shot like that a few years back, I would have been upset.  I would have lost sight of the beauty around me, wrapped up in my disappointment.  I would have only seen the loss, just as, on that July morning at the harbour a few years ago, I only saw the loss of the life I once knew.  But today I saw the lesson.  That's really what it seems to be about.  Choosing whether you're going to see the loss or the lesson.

So there you go.  There's the best shot I got today, above.  If we're looking for relevance to subject matter, let's say it represents my new, clear direction toward the light.  Or I suppose you could say it's the path to a drop-off into an abyss, if you want to be all Negative Nelly about it.  This is either going to be one of the best decisions of my life or one of the worst.  I expect it will be the former but I'm prepared for the latter (I've been to hell and back a few times now so I know the route).  Frankly though, I'm just ready to find out. 

There was much more I planned to say about my new-life launch - about the array of interesting reactions experienced when you tell people you're opting out of the working world for awhile, for example - but those words can wait for another day (I'm about to have a lot of time on my hands, after all).  My life didn't go to plan either, and I'd say both post and life have ended up better because of it.