tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10544407556579563272024-03-18T23:29:39.276-04:00Stories About My Underpantsand other sordid tales.Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.comBlogger553125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-46865735198940597442019-01-03T11:24:00.001-05:002019-01-03T11:24:13.105-05:00The Next Chapter<br />
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My dear readers,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you, from the
bottom of my heart, for being such loyal readers over these last six years. I’ve
had so much fun on this blogging journey and you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> reason that I love it so much! Your feedback, comments, questions,
and openness in sharing back with me has made it a true pleasure. </div>
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AND, you’re
the reason that I’ve decided to start a new writing chapter. I've recently launched
<a href="http://www.uncuratedmama.com/" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: underline;" target="_blank">The Uncurated Mama</a> and I hope that you’ll follow me over there and continue to share
and ask questions and comment and just be the incredible, loyal readers that you
are! <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m excited for this next chapter and thank you for helping
me to get here. <o:p></o:p></div>
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xoxo<o:p></o:p></div>
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Becky <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXzf_WXHqro73PQjyrjng40I4d2octyC9Zi8NffATUSBWvfz495HYLScCgFXS_gMg1l9YD3p29WuUlPxN2EqL1OUGS13EdanidSwd3LQSZS8tR7A6eSTXRdnQsoOXeUQvyadjxT3nPe7w/s1600/image.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXzf_WXHqro73PQjyrjng40I4d2octyC9Zi8NffATUSBWvfz495HYLScCgFXS_gMg1l9YD3p29WuUlPxN2EqL1OUGS13EdanidSwd3LQSZS8tR7A6eSTXRdnQsoOXeUQvyadjxT3nPe7w/s320/image.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-79164741617915186652018-12-06T11:20:00.003-05:002018-12-06T11:32:58.580-05:00Love in the Time of Toddlers<br />
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CB walks through the door while I’m negotiating with our crying
3.5 year-old while my nearly 2 year-old clings to my arm and begs for me to
pick her “Uppy! Uppy!” He swoops in, picks up the 2 year-old while I sit down
to talk to the 3.5 year-old about feelings, words, and how to put your feelings
into words while using short sentences that I’ve been told help a child of her
age better cope. Meanwhile, I’m unable to properly put into words my own
feelings about the moment. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think </i>these
are the combined feelings of being overwhelmed, frustrated, and loving towards
these little humans we’re trying to raise not to be serial killers or basic
a-holes? And so we forge ahead through the whirlwind that is dinner, which has
recently been filled with tears all of a sudden? Toddlers are a blessing. We
experience the growing stubbornness of these little humans trying to plant
their flags in the ground of this family and push the very boundaries we’ve laid
out for them. At this very moment in time, the boundaries being that they must sit in their
seats and eat food with utensils until dinner is over. Because we’re monsters,
obviously.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After those blurry 15 minutes, CB takes them upstairs to
brush their teeth and take a bath, one of the most joyous points of our
collective day as they giggle and splash and the tears over not wanting
macaroni and cheese for dinner – their preferred and favorite meal until…now? –
have disappeared from their cheeks and their memories. I try to quickly get
over the fact that I made them this microwave-friendly meal instead of
something more elaborate that they also wouldn’t eat, and just quietly sit at
the table, put my head down, and close my eyes. I just sit there and breathe.
Feeling mainly exhausted and pretty frustrated. Did I do that right? Should I
have given in? Did I give in too much? I just sit there for about a minute,
alone. One glorious minute. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHmaDnCRFp5j96dgXEqoFc2n4NeKZmtBlheUtfeJ9f_wpo8HPw9UCvGQo3Kcstv9u9RNaL2Qnr8-Smv8kALoICblfSuGYn7VkRbUCEwPSfy_X3qTYAC1eBOAmggORPpQFGFxjKtOYSyMC/s1600/IMG_7824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHmaDnCRFp5j96dgXEqoFc2n4NeKZmtBlheUtfeJ9f_wpo8HPw9UCvGQo3Kcstv9u9RNaL2Qnr8-Smv8kALoICblfSuGYn7VkRbUCEwPSfy_X3qTYAC1eBOAmggORPpQFGFxjKtOYSyMC/s200/IMG_7824.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Also, the number of pictures<br />on my phone that look like this<br />are embarassingly endless. So,<br />it's 50/50 whether I'm in possession<br />of my phone at any given time anyway.</b></td></tr>
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This is the most alone time I typically get all day,
including when I pee, and I feel both grateful for the re-boot and guilty that
I’m taking it. CB hasn’t gotten his alone time yet and the dishes are just sitting
there, dirty and waiting to be cleaned off and put away so I can sweep up the
scattered corn on the ground from the tiny hands that are still figuring out
utensils and the limits of their parents’ patience. But I just need <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a minute.</i> My phone buzzes on the counter
and I ignore it. I’m sure it’s a work email or friend or family member saying
hi, asking how things are going, or telling me about their day. But I can’t. I
can’t be a frazzled mom, wife, friend/sister/daughter, and employee, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>so I’ll check the phone later. Or I won’t,
because I’ll forget that it buzzed and fall asleep before checking it. I’ll
deal with that tomorrow. Besides, didn’t I make a pact with myself recently
that I wouldn’t be so attached to my phone so I could focus more on the
present? And so I’m focusing on my head being on the table and what it feels
like just not to move for a second.</div>
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Meanwhile, I forgot to say hi to CB. I didn’t give him a hug
hello, we didn’t high five, we definitely didn’t get close enough in proximity
to each other to give a quick kiss. I’m not even sure we’ve looked at each other’s faces
yet tonight? But I’m pretty sure he still has a beard and probably best that he
doesn’t get too close to see the dried piece of processed powdered cheese that
landed on my face earlier. It’s a look, and one he’s seen hundreds of times
before, because I’m a catch. He’s been home 30 minutes and he’s been swooping
in to pick up one toddler while I microwave dinner with the other, passing each
other and asking various favors as the swirling, somewhat organized chaos of
dinner and bath time happens each night. And if I’m being really honest, we
probably won’t even look at or talk directly to each other, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about</i> each other or our days, for
another hour until the last toddler head hits the pillow for the night. Sometimes
we try, but it typically ends with one or both of us saying “I can’t hear you.
What?” until we just mental high-five in agreement that this shit is bananas
and we’ll talk later. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Is that bad? I mean, sometimes we hug hello. Sometimes we
kiss hello! But I’d be lying if I said it happened every night….<o:p></o:p></div>
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And this, my friends, is what I call Love in the Time of
Toddlers. Sort of like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love in the Time
of Cholera</i>, but with less disease that could kill us. I think. And it’s not
something I foresee changing anytime soon, which I’m embracing because,
contrary to popular belief, I typically live in reality. I embrace the fact
that we both work full time jobs and have two kids under the age of 4. I
embrace the fact that I’ve been traveling a ton for work, we’ve moved to a
house in the midst of it, and this is an exceptionally crazy time in our lives.
And I even embrace the fact that CB and I talk regularly about how we’re totally
down for some alone time together, pre-kid’s style (remember that?), while also
acknowledging that it’s quite possible that one or both of us will fall asleep
and so what’s important is that we acknowledge that we’re still thinking about
it. We’ve decided.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, also, sidebar: YOU GUYS. I’ve recently realized, because
I witnessed it with my own eyes and then took a friend survey of the people
nearby, that some women actually wear matching, cute, even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sexy</i> PJ’s to bed on the regular? WHAT? I thought we had a deal,
female species, that we wanted to be comfy and that we all had to live within
these parameters so that we (I) wouldn’t look bad when CB finds out that it’s
not every woman as you’ve been telling him for 7 years! And that maybe wearing
his over-sized Georgia sweatshirt and whatever sweatpants are the cleanest isn’t
what he was hoping for when he longingly looked into my eyes and proposed all
those years ago? No, let’s get real, it totally was because that’s what I wore
then, too. My marketing was honest and transparent, yo, so his willingness to settle
for less is on him. Though, to be fair, I wasn’t consistently covered in
powdered cheese or someone else’s sneeze-residue. But he probably could’ve seen
that coming if he’d really tried. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And so, Love in the Time of Toddlers is this. It’s all of
this and the this I can’t describe. I love it, in all honesty, and wouldn’t
change a day of it. Oh! Except that day I got thrown up on within the same 24
hours that I picked up poop off the floor and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">none</i> of those bodily excrements were mine, unfortunately (fortunately?
The line is so blurry now it’s unreal.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are
you with me? Are you horrified? Should I close down this blog shop asap because
I need to focus on how off-the-hinges my life is getting and nobody has had the
courage to tell me until now? I need to know, people! Share your stories with
me, we’re in this together…(unlike the sweatpants pact you totally broke). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-77100114989780846602018-09-06T14:09:00.003-04:002018-09-06T14:17:23.392-04:00Not the Worst Mom in the World<br />
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Last night at the dinner table I had the following conversation
with my three year old: <o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: “Do you have the best mom ever?”<br />
Her, staring at me blankly.<br />
Me: “That’s a stretch, good point. The world’s okay-est mom?”<br />
Her, thinking.<br />
Me: “Not the worst mom ever?”<br />
Her: “Yes! Not the worst!”</blockquote>
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Which, if I’m being honest, probably sums it up pretty well!
Let’s get real – our kids go to daycare sometimes without us having run a comb
through their hair and they may have eaten Marshmallow Matey’s for breakfast
depending on how frazzled we are on any given day. Not to mention the fact that
I’ve yet to make it on a field trip and I’d be lying if I said that both of
them don’t think that using the microwave is “cooking.” Sure, they “help” with
baking and cooking sometimes (of the real variety), but let’s get real – they see
me hitting the microwave buttons as much as they see me turning on the burners.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve said the phrase “because I said so” in the last week
instead of taking the time to explain whatever it was that I was doing and why
I was asking. I’ve completely missed likely weeks’ worth of clues that one or
both of my daughters have out-grown various items of clothing until I finally
realize that my three year old probably shouldn’t have 18 month pants in her
drawer and my 18 month old needs 2T pants, like, yesterday. Also, she’s 20 months
old, but I had to read this twice before I realized that I'd gotten her age wrong. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I leave for work trips and miss bedtimes and wake-up times
and snuggles and meals. I lie and say that the park is closed sometimes if it’s
too hot or we’ve already been to the park twice today and I don’t want to go
again. Both kids have thrown up – more than once – in the middle of the night
in their beds and then they’ve just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gone
back to sleep</i>, leaving us to be the parents whose kids assume they should
just sleep in dried throw-up than bother calling out to see if we’ll come into
the room (answer: almost always no, we will not. Because we’re monsters.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I sometimes feel resentful towards my friends who work from
home or are stay-at-home moms and get an internal comparison hangover at the
many blogs and articles that talk about full-time working parent struggles
while simultaneously making it sound like they’ve totally got it figured out. I
get offended when someone assumes that I either hate my job or my kids, because
there’s no way I could love both perfectly and do them both so imperfectly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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My kids eat processed food. They go to bed before any of
their peers. They have bumps and bruises and scars, they have Crazy Forest Baby Hair (copyright pending on that description) at any given moment. Half the time
they’re both naked, running around and yelling “bootie!” while I frantically
try to get underpants or diapers on them and the other half of the time I’m
searching through a pile of laundry looking for clean underwear for myself before one of
them can run into the room and point and say “bootie!” back at me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not the worst mom in the world. On my best days, I’m
doing pretty well – meaning, our kids are loved, safe, and fed. Even if it’s
mac n cheese with that toxic, everyone-has-sent-me-that-Facebook-article-twice-now-no-need-to-send-it-again-thanks,
cheese. On my worst days, I sometimes lock myself in the bathroom and cry at
how overwhelmed I feel. Which I did two days ago, to be exact. And then a few
hours later I was at work and a near-stranger, fellow full-time working mom said
to me “Isn’t it hard? Do you ever feel like it’s just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> hard?” And I swear to god I almost kissed her right on the
mouth. Which is when I had the realization that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>, right there, is exactly just what we need. To just look at
each other sometimes and be like “this is hard, right?” and for the other
person to be like “oh my god, totally.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwNo23mie3Pmlb7pvN_OmrhwWaEY3VYPRdgHasDd6s2dI0CSl8efb1mbQTyAsnzauj4-SEIKplpRiXaKqY53G9HNi-HR6alFvNEGoog4_9WIqRLt4qL5ide3kAJG5U8nZ0wLhAdhIdXgw/s1600/IMG_6265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwNo23mie3Pmlb7pvN_OmrhwWaEY3VYPRdgHasDd6s2dI0CSl8efb1mbQTyAsnzauj4-SEIKplpRiXaKqY53G9HNi-HR6alFvNEGoog4_9WIqRLt4qL5ide3kAJG5U8nZ0wLhAdhIdXgw/s200/IMG_6265.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Conscientious objector</b><br />
<b>to parenting. </b></td></tr>
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Because it’s hard and it’s scary and it’s exhilarating and totally
and completely rewarding and none of us has much of a clue about what we’re
doing and whether half of it is the right thing or not (right…?) Which I think
is part of the reason we’re all trying so hard on social media to show our
homemade, spiralized zucchini pasta that we made with our kids after doing arts
and crafts for an hour pictures instead of the ones that happen more often. Like
when your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">20 month old</i> (nailed it)
decides to silently protest your 7<sup>th</sup> request to get the hell into
the car and just takes two knees and breathes it out until she has gathered her
thoughts enough to take your shit again.</div>
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Please post more of those. Because that’s, like, half of my
iPhone photos, you guys. And it’ll help with the bathroom-crying, I think, if
we just get a little more real with each other. Or at least it’ll help us <i>during</i> the bathroom-crying to know that we’re
not the only ones. And that’s a start, no?</div>
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<br />Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-936436446076527552018-08-16T08:24:00.000-04:002018-08-16T08:24:01.695-04:00Repost: When CB Met Becky: The Anniversary Edition<div class="MsoNormal">
A repost from last year. Enjoy!<br />
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The other day I was talking to some co-workers about a time, years ago, when CB and I were just friends and one of them said “I just love the love story of the two of you.” And I laughed, because hearing your relationship described as a love story sounds odd unless you’re, like, a Disney character. Or Harry and Sally. But this week marks our three year wedding anniversary, and as I look back over these last three years, I can’t help but see the eight that came before it, bringing us to this place in time, looking at our two daughters giggling in hysterics on our bed over nothing in particular except how fun it is to be little.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And what I see over these last eleven years is a man I met at the tender age of 28, who shook my hand and welcomed me to the very first day of work at my new job. We sat next to each other and shared a cubicle wall, and what CB didn’t realize was that the simple act of being nearby meant that I’d talk to him about everything, endlessly, for the next several years (or the rest of his life…). He didn’t have to do too much responding, just the occasional nod/interjection to let me know that he was still awake/sitting there. And that suited us both just fine, as it turned out. But over the course of the first year of working together, I chipped away at his determination to keep his personal life and professional life separate and private. He shared with me, once, that he didn’t like making a big deal out of his birthday, and certainly not at work. And so of course I figured out when his birthday was and made sure to put balloons on his chair, complete with a card and a cupcake so that he felt celebrated and important. It was clear to me early on that he didn’t really know what was good for him and just needed his world expanded a bit – in the form of balloons and sugar, mostly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then, about a year and a half into working together, a relationship I’d been in for years ended painfully. I wasn’t keen to talk about it much, which made CB the perfect person to tell. So on a Monday morning in September, I walked over to his desk and whispered – a first for our relationship – and filled him in that it was over. As I started to walk away, he stood up and said: “C’mon, let’s go to that milkshake place I told you about. I know you can drink a milkshake at 9am, that’s right up your alley.” And so we went. And it never came up again, unless I wanted it to. He never asked me for any of the sordid details – the only person in my life able to make that claim - though over the years I provided them here and there. Which was one of the first signs to me that this guy was different. And trustworthy. And seriously knew how to make me feel better in times of need!<o:p></o:p></div>
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So it should go without saying that we were soon more than just co-workers and running buddies, we were friends. He mistakenly introduced me to a large portion of his family/friend circle on his 30<sup>th</sup> birthday at happy hour one night, and as he says, “that was the beginning of the end.” While everyone else assumed we were into each other, we were very clear that we were not. However, true to form, they ignored us both and insisted we should just give up the charade and fall in love already. Which we promptly did about five years later, thankyouverymuch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And when we did, there was no turning back. This thing that wasn’t a thing, then became a thing, now sees us as parents to a 2-year-old and a 7-month-old. It’s seen us spend the last three years excitedly awaiting our first daughter. And getting hit with the shock of new parenthood and total exhaustion. Figuring out how to fight and forgive, and learning that one of us needs to be well-slept at all times for the two of us to balance life without a knife-fight. It has seen us excitedly awaiting our second daughter, while figuring out how on earth we’re going to have two babies with two different sets of needs. It’s seen us having zero idea what two kids under two was going to feel like, but mainly just relishing in the fact that all four of us get out the door each day with our clothes right-side out most of the time.<br />
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It’s seen us poorly navigating the Hong Kong airport, giving life to the now commonly-used phrase “We would for sure be the first couple kicked off of the <i>Amazing Race.</i>” It’s seen us forgetting to say hi to each other and then remembering how important that is each day. It’s seen us sleeping on the floor of the living room together as each of our girls enjoyed their own room during sleep-training. It’s seen us doing the Parent Zombie Shuffle through our mornings, packing diaper bags and refilling diaper bins and cleaning up literal spilled milk and sticky, syrup-y tables. It’s seen us laughing through almost every experience we’ve had, and crying when it was needed. It’s seen for-real fear in our eyes during pregnancy and childbirth, and for-real relief at their end. It’s seen us collapsing onto the couch at 7:30 each night after we’ve put both kids to bed, the house quiet, and our will to cook anything other than a salad at an all-time low. It sees us talking about an episode of “El Chapo” that one of us couldn’t get through because it’s an hour of reading television and that <i>totally defeats the purpose, </i>you guys. But since it’s such a good show, I depend on CB to stay up until 8:30pm and read it all so he can fill me in on what happened after El Chapo crossed over the border to El Salvador because it was just about to get crazy! It sees us realizing that I’m “The Throw Up Parent” because the other parent in the equation starts to dramatically gag and potentially vomit when he sees, hears, or smells it. It sees us still laughing at his cheesy puns and my ridiculous sports observations and knowing each other’s “look” for everything from “I know, right? This person is ridiculous,” to “I know, right? I can tell you definitely want to scratch my head while we watch ‘Flipping Out’ right now, so let’s do this!”</div>
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And it sees us having no idea what we were in for when we said our vows and laughing that we ever thought we had a clue. Because while sleeping on the floor of your living room and cleaning up vomit does not make for great wedding vows, as it turns out, it does make for a pretty great life. And our vows still hold true…except for the one where he promised never to leave his dishes next to or in the sink when the dishwasher was empty. But overall, they’re still going strong!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Happy Anniversary Week, CB...it’s totally a thing! <o:p></o:p></div>
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Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-43778789198714634762018-08-02T14:58:00.001-04:002018-08-02T15:07:50.432-04:00When Lice Strikes<br />
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You never want to get a call from your child’s daycare. It’s
never, like, just to chat because they’ve missed hearing about all of your quirky
little life mishaps and they needed a break in their day. No, no, it’s because
your kid is sick, or injured, or crying uncontrollably and this has never
happened before and so, can we have someone walk her home, please? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of these calls have happened multiple times
to me over the course of three years with two babies in daycare. It’s
inevitable and the reason why I have PTSD-type panic-sweats when my phone rings
during the day. However, I’ll take those ANY day over this call. The call you
never want to get. The call that literally makes you itchy. The call that
reduces you to having conversations with your husband about how you will always
be the puke and poop parent and wear that badge loud and proud, but he has to
be this parent. He just has to, there’s no choice, you’ve already decided. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It's The Lice Call. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I got the call that they’d found “evidence of lice” in
the tangled web of curls that belongs to our three year old, I instantly felt
itchy. I think I also said “Ew” more than once to the director of the daycare,
which I’m sure she found really reassuring. Then, of course, I immediately
called my husband and was like “I’m leaving work to go get the kids but also
you have to leave work to go get the kids because I’ve decided you’re the lice
parent by virtue of the fact that I’m feeling light-headed even thinking about
picking live bugs or clear eggs out of my first-born’s hair and now I have to go
die.” Since he knows who he married, he was like “Roger that” and picked the kids
up while I spent 20 minutes in a Walgreens on the phone with my sister as she
talked through the process and I propped myself up against the wall while
searching for a lice comb and bleach for everything. <o:p></o:p></div>
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However, my sister - while being comforting and
informative, also <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clearly</i> got a sick
joy out of my pain - because she used the phrase “Super Lice” more than once in a 20 minute
phone call. Cuz big sisters are the worst. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This text exchange also happened with her: <o:p></o:p></div>
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The good news is that it only took four treatments of Vaseline
and Saran Wrap, one call to a pediatrician, one over-the-counter Lice remedy,
two lice combs, and a $350 visit to a special kid’s salon that specializes in guaranteeing
Lice-Be-Gone (that’s not what they called it, but it’s what they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should’ve</i> called it). Plus, my and CB’s sanity,
any sense of dignity I had left, and a lot of bleach-based laundry detergent
and she was totally rid of it 24 hours later! See? Easy Peezy. We are NAILING
this parenting thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thank God our little one didn’t get it and that our oldest
is a true champion and was like “I’m still kinda itchy, do we need to wrap my
head again?” and we were like “Yep” and she just sat and watched “Trolls” while
we valiantly picked those little f**kers out of her head. And I’ve gotta say,
parenting is nothing if not an evolutionary process because, while I started
out our journey as the squeamish, unhelpful parent during The Day the Lice
Struck, CB expressed both his amazement and disgust at how quickly I went from
not being able to talk about it to sitting over my daughter while she
diligently sat still and I dug into those tangled curls with the fierceness of
a mama chimp. At one point, CB described witnessing me dip the lice comb into vinegar
water (thanks, Google and my sister) in between bouts of going through every
section of her hair and saw some vinegar water and Vaseline flick onto my face
as I quickly brushed it away and dug back in to kill those GD lice mf’ers
(those last few words may have been my editorializing.) I’m guessing it was a
moment in his life where he really took stock of the mistakes he’s made in his
past and felt like this pretty much made sense as a punishment and so, ok. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Sidebar: we need to have a vow renewal ceremony, Real Housewives
style, because I need to include the phrase “I vow to try really hard not to tell
you to chew quieter any time you chew anything from now on because I now know what
true love is after you looked for lice on my Vaseline head and still kissed me without
irony.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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However, because life is cruel and hilarious, The Great Lice
Killing also occurred within the same day as getting our offer accepted on a
house we fell in love with and figured we’d never get. Which led to this
picture: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE59NSY6Q_X9tpHGADWDXCmxBADhc2LCHGryNZh8EvGOKShyF_E6i8mK0orbZ4EraD6okYdkhMdEPt7VAsfh0hU0lggmC_9oIL-9m9p6Pcgu7cvhYKjnhgtgOLaCtja4FzYxQ1GBFgmiD1/s1600/IMG_5857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE59NSY6Q_X9tpHGADWDXCmxBADhc2LCHGryNZh8EvGOKShyF_E6i8mK0orbZ4EraD6okYdkhMdEPt7VAsfh0hU0lggmC_9oIL-9m9p6Pcgu7cvhYKjnhgtgOLaCtja4FzYxQ1GBFgmiD1/s320/IMG_5857.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>I may actually print this pic with the star<br />emoji instead of CB's actual face because<br />it makes me laugh even more. </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></b>Obviously this will be prominently hung on the wall of our
new home because <i>of course</i> our first-time
homebuying experience should also include a picture of champagne and a shower
cap to suffocate any potential lice you might have on your head (thankfully, I
was clean.)</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s what I call balance, you guys.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-60291351026158606142018-07-31T09:55:00.000-04:002018-07-31T11:24:39.615-04:00Marshmallow Mateys and Shower Caps - I'm Back! <br />
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It’s been a while since I’ve committed to sitting down and
writing for all of you lovely readers who still, inexplicably, check the blog
and like the Facebook page and do all of the things that committed, lovely
readers do for someone who doesn’t deserve your devotion, yet deeply
appreciates it. Let’s dive right in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I think about writing, oftentimes I think about what I think
you guys want to read. And lately that’s been causing a lot of writer’s block,
because I didn’t start this blog as a wife or a mom, and you guys didn’t start
visiting the page because I was either of those things. But over the last five
years, I’ve become both and I’ve worried that I’d turn into one of the millions
of mommy bloggers out there and that I wouldn’t have anything original to say.
But each and every time I think of writing, it’s writing about what’s going on
now. And what’s going on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now </i>is that
I’m a full-time working mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend who feels exhilarated,
exhausted, anxious, and centered all within the same day, sometimes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes I feel like a fraud; sometimes I feel completely
genuine. Sometimes I feel fat and tired and old and irrelevant; sometimes I
feel fit and alive and youthful and plugged-in. And so, I’ve decided, I’ll just
keep writing. Because those things aren’t exclusive to moms…or parents…or women,
even. At least I don’t think they are? And so, I’ll keep writing how I’ve
always written. I’ll tell you guys the truth, I’ll hopefully make you laugh a
bit, and maybe some of what I write will connect with you on some level, even
if it’s just a feeling of being grateful that you’re not me, wearing a shower
cap to suffocate lice on my head <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eCijPRobwmvFMmdEaYK9YIZ5MO-6Btd0_vyQ11IVtA6MPX5LdA40u4R6d7DImQeuNBoAjZ7l78eKwJmBZ6UwncRNVutboz1qumCZOBgulYJSeftsesMO_afFQpSCDlWxUfXKCKvh0lBs/s1600/IMG_5849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1059" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eCijPRobwmvFMmdEaYK9YIZ5MO-6Btd0_vyQ11IVtA6MPX5LdA40u4R6d7DImQeuNBoAjZ7l78eKwJmBZ6UwncRNVutboz1qumCZOBgulYJSeftsesMO_afFQpSCDlWxUfXKCKvh0lBs/s200/IMG_5849.jpg" width="165" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What? Stay tuned, people! I may have <br />
added a few little people to my life, <br />
but I’m still me!</td></tr>
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I may lose some of you, I may gain others. But as I’m
working through those things about myself that I’d like to change and improve
upon in order to better myself and be a better example for my daughters, I feel
a shift underfoot and want to write about it. Then I immediately get a pimple
on my face from the anxiety I feel about making any sort of change. I’m multi-faceted
in my neuroses.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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But honestly, the people I feel the most connected to are
not the people who seem to have it all together – they’re the people who
somehow keep going while having no clue what “together” even looks like
sometimes. Or the people who are honest about the fact that they will sometimes
sit in silence in their apartment for ten minutes in between getting home from
work and picking their kids up at daycare because it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quiet</i> and also because I can pee without an audience. Or the people
who look into their shopping cart at the grocery store and feel instant guilt
because they’re not giving their kids enough healthy food options. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYtKFDt7o4o3FHYoI2XcRsFEmEOgfCRJDuPYNKYh3Y70dAGI63gRBtVp_3Gw8Zz3pBiPL8BD_2HsA27wWM99ZdaHxnQe6oKRj1KAONJwp8iAibzITDhrZq04ZIbPCQAN06Nkxa9GEq_i8/s1600/marshmallow+mateys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYtKFDt7o4o3FHYoI2XcRsFEmEOgfCRJDuPYNKYh3Y70dAGI63gRBtVp_3Gw8Zz3pBiPL8BD_2HsA27wWM99ZdaHxnQe6oKRj1KAONJwp8iAibzITDhrZq04ZIbPCQAN06Nkxa9GEq_i8/s200/marshmallow+mateys.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Spoiler alert: SHE COULD<br />TOTALLY TELL EVEN <br />THOUGH I PUT THE GENERIC <br />IN THE LUCKY<br />CHARMS BAG LIKE A PRO. <br />That little leprachaun took one bite and was <br />like "no thank you." <br />But she got points for manners. </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Or because I don’t have
more organic food in the cart, or more variant meal plans for our dinners each
day. I bought Marshmallow Matey’s the other day, for God’s sake <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– the generic version of Lucky Charms –
because sometimes my oldest likes the “special treat” of a sugary cereal and I
just don’t see the problem with that, but also, we’re on a budget and processed
marshmallows are processed marshmallows and I’m saving $2. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then I instantly feel guilty because I’m pretty sure I’m
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">supposed </i>to feel a lot worse about
that choice than I do, and what does that say about my parenting? <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then I feel instant frustration that I’m working a full
time job and grocery shopping and planning all of the meals and thinking
through how much protein or how many vegetables are being offered on a daily
basis. Like, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at least </i>twice a week one
or both of our kids will eat little more than a bowl of corn or a glass of milk
for dinner. Because months ago I decided not to be a short-order cook who was
making two to three separate meals for “family dinner.” And so you eat what’s
on the table. Or you don’t! It’s your choice! Look, choices! (I learned about
this method from various other mom blogs who swear that it works; what I’d like
to know, however, is whether they lay awake at night after their daughter eats
a “meal” consisting of four spoon-fulls of rice and apple sauce, wondering whether
they’re doing long-term damage to her in some way, shape, or form for not just
making whatever it is that she wants at that particular moment in time. And
also, you have a super picky eater toddler that you can totally identify with
because you used to <i>be</i> said picky eater toddler, you sometimes feel badly
because you know she’s being legit. And sometimes you want to just walk into
the other room and f that noise because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dude,
it’s rice, it’s not gonna’ kill you and seasoning on your chicken isn’t dirt
from the ground, ohmygod. ...</i>Is what I wonder about when those bloggers go
off-line.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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And why doesn’t this bother CB? Why isn’t he stressing out
about it? And if he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> stressing out
about it, why isn’t he saying it? Why can he snore <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so loudly</i> at night, sleeping soundly, while I’m waking up, jolted
out of bed because I forgot to fill out the permission slip for my three year
old’s upcoming field trip and I’m already feeling guilty that I can’t take the
day off to go with her and her classmates to the zoo because it’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one day</i> this month that I’m leading a team
meeting of 12 people and I can’t be like “Hey, I have to go to the zoo with
three year old’s, can someone else do this meeting, please?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Or maybe I could? Dammit, I don’t have work-life balance!
Or maybe I do? Am I doing feminism right? Aw, shit. Now I have to worry about
that. Man, I thought I had that one figured out! But I’m too afraid to take
a zoo day because I save those “I have to _______” moments for when lice strikes
(more on that later). Or when coxsakie strikes. Or when daycare is closed for
Professional Days and I have the more flexible schedule so I stay home with the
kids. I save my “I need to leave the office” for those days. And I have a super
flexible job! (sidebar: please don’t write to me and say that I shouldn’t
complain - which that was a thinly veiled attempt at above, I think - because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know</i> that most people don’t have it
this easy. Most people don’t have the hands-on partner, the flexible,
good-paying job with benefits, and extended family help to get through the
week. I know. I know! Trust me, I feel guilty about that, too. My guilt knows
no bounds! Are you new here? Oh, if you’re new here – hi! Welcome! I’m a joy!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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But then someone will say something about how I’ll never get
this time back, and don’t I want to experience the zoo through her eyes? Well….I
mean, last time CB and I took the kids to the zoo, we ended up with one of them
pants-less and shoe-less, sticking a dirty pacifier from the ground back into
her mouth, and the other one peeing in the bushes because we couldn’t find a
bathroom nearby. So, actually, I’m good, come to think of it. I have a meeting.
Quit judging me!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Though, if I’m being honest, when I’m in the trenches day to
day, the judgiest person on the block is me. I’m constantly comparing my
decisions with what I perceive are the decisions of others; I’m constantly comparing
my parenting to those whom I admire as parents. I’m constantly judging what I
perceive as other parents doing things I wish I could do, never think I would
do, or have tried and learned a “better” version of and want to tell them to “do
better.” You know, because obviously I’m killing it day-to-day (see EVERYTHING
ABOVE to the contrary.) I have a comparison hangover that won’t quit and a
running, judge-y voice in my head that gets louder as I get more sleepy, pushed
further to my limits, or haven’t had enough coffee yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I guess what I’m saying is that I hope some of this might
connect with you and I can then sleep soundly in the notion that I’m not alone
in this. Right?...right? (insert: judging myself now for this post….dammit!) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And hi, again! It’s good to be back. Happy Tuesday! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-4782072006658770182018-01-09T10:48:00.004-05:002018-01-09T10:48:52.520-05:00This is 40: Part II<div class="MsoNormal">
For those who haven’t read, This is 40: Part I, check it out <b><u><a href="https://storiesaboutmyunderpants.blogspot.com/2017/08/this-is-40.html" target="_blank">here</a></u></b>. Wait, wow. I started this back in August? Time flies when you put stuff off....<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>***</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve spent a large portion of my adult life making mistakes,
learning from them, and feeling superior to my former self for being such a
dummy when I was younger. Then I make all new mistakes and I’m like “Future
Becky is really going to judge you harshly,” to which I remind myself that one
of the things I’m working on is to be a little kinder to myself. To which I’m
then like “oh c’mon, snowflake, a little self-criticism never hurt anyone,” to
which I’m like “Jeez, you may never learn this one fully, Beck.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that leads me to the “What are you still learning” part
of this series. And it’s probably the hardest one, if I’m being honest. Because
most of these fall under the category of being a better version of myself (I’m
a special snowflake), which means that I’m basically admitting that I’m not
slaying it currently, and the ways in which I’m not slaying it currently are
sort of basic, in a way. For example, this is an abridged version of the
running list in my head at all times: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being more patient.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caring less.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caring more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to truly relax.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Traveling light.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to load the dishwasher and actually get the stuff clean.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Letting it the f go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Knowing when to hold onto it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Accepting that I’m not always right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Accepting that I’m not always wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally buying underpants that fit me right, ohmygod.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to judge less.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to worry less.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reading the directions to the very end. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me elaborate a bit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Patience</b>. This is
a biggie. Like, maybe the biggest, if you ask CB. Because it’s not one of my
many virtues – never has been. When I was a kid, one of the <i>constants</i> on my report card was “SLOW
DOWN. Doesn’t read directions carefully.” Or something to that effect (I was
too impatient to read the whole comment). Also, there was a lot of
“shhhhhhhhhh” and “socializes excessively in class” comments that I take as
clues to how slow everyone else was in getting through their assignments and
how much faster it goes when you don’t read the directions so you can talk to
your friends. I was basically a kid genius. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But even though I’m <i>slightly</i>
better at reading the directions these days, I really try to flex my patience
muscle when parenting and wife’ing. Especially when I’m doing them both at the
same time. Like, I’m continually asking my toddler to be patient, but if you’re
not ready to go with your shoes on, keys in-hand, and wallet in your pocket
after I’ve said “we’re leaving in two minutes” and I’ve dressed the kids,
packed the diaper bag, remembered the sunscreen, brought extra plastic bags for
the portable potty, made the plans, and shut off all of the lights….I’ll
visually cut you if you’re not ready, CB. And I don’t really hide it? Which is
the key to a happy marriage, I’ve learned. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, patience. That’s one of the things I’m constantly trying
to practice <s>and master</s> (let’s just stick with practicing it right now
before we get too lofty with our goals. If I can make it a week without getting
impatient, we’ll move ahead to phase II of mastering. So, you know, never.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Caring less while
caring more</b>. This is a tricky one. Because it requires me to be aware of my
feelings, why I’m feeling them, and that requires, I don’t know, <i>work</i>. Which I’m not opposed to, but I’m
shocked at how often I find myself catching up to how I’m feeling <i>days</i> after I’ve been feeling that way.
Sometimes weeks. So maybe I should’ve added “being in touch with your emotions”
to my list, though CB would probably say that I’m <i>too</i> in touch with them since he called me a “professional crier” a
few weeks ago and I took it as a compliment. But don’t worry, crying is like
laughing to me, it just bursts from me and I get the feelings out and then I’m
totally fine afterwards. Like an insane person.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway. So I care a <i>lot</i>
about what people think about me. I care what people I know and love think, and
I care what the barista at Starbucks thinks – not totally equally? But if CB
told me he loved me and I was great that day, but then I overheard the barista
telling the other barista that I add too much half and half into my coffee in a
judge-y way, I’d ONLY think about that for the rest of the day. And probably
never go back to that Starbucks! Additionally, I care what people reading this
blog might think about the fact that I sometimes go to Starbucks and what a
waste of money that is. And then I think about how I shouldn’t care about what
strangers think about my choices. Which is why I forget my keys at least once
every 5 months because my brain is <i>cluttered</i>.
And boy, being a mom has totally helped with me not caring what people think!
(said nobody ever.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The point is, I care a lot about what people think about me,
and sometimes that’s good, sometimes that’s terrible. So what I’ve been working
on over the last few years is caring <i>less</i>
about what <i>some</i> people think about me
and <i>more</i> about the people I care
about. Like, instead of spending energy worrying that a stranger doesn’t like
me, I should spend more time checking in with friends and family to see how
they’re doing. Help them out, send a card “just because,” let them know I’m
thinking about them. This is my goal – do that <i>more</i>, care about the barista at Starbucks and his opinion <i>less. </i>#lifegoals<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, I legitimately do not have the emotional
or mental bandwidth to give a shit about a lot of stuff that, ten years ago,
would’ve consumed me. Which I love about being 40. I mean, I’ve been doing it
for 1.5 months already and basically I’m like “All fixed!” Except for the stuff
above. And the other stuff I forgot to mention because I’m not a completest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Loading a dishwasher.</b>
This is less something I <i>can’t</i> do,
and something I sort of don’t care if I get right, but should care more about
because….I think it annoys CB? But also, maybe this could easily have gone on
the forthcoming “stuff I’ll just never care about” list. Like recycling. Which
I KNOW I should really, really, really care about, and <i>do</i> in theory, but not as much in practice since I will basically
just put stuff to be recycled in our recycling closet in our apartment and then
make CB sort and actually recycle it….which is better than I used to be, and so
I’ve taken it off the list because I’m all about progress over perfection when
it suits me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the dishwasher-loading thing seems like sort of a waste
of my energy, while making sure the bed is made properly with the pillow
zippers facing down seems like a <i>totally</i>
valid use of my time. Which is why I find myself muttering frustrations at CB
when it’s not done that way because, God, doesn’t he understand yet that I know
what I’m doing because I’m always right? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dammit. This is gonna be a hard list to <s>master </s>practice.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Tuesday! <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-82731365152190909102017-10-16T14:54:00.001-04:002017-10-16T14:58:47.703-04:00Me Too.<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>*<b>I usually don’t get “political” on here because, well,
that’s no fun! But I’m making this one exception. Our regularly scheduled
program will be back in the next post!</b>*</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That time about a month ago when I got asked by a client if
I let my husband dominate at home. And then nearly everyone I re-told that
story to asked “Well, how old is that guy?” in order to assure me that if he’d
been younger, he wouldn’t have said that out loud because he’d know better. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or the time a different client started making vibrator jokes
while I was talking with him at a professional conference about a potential project
together. Of course, I had it coming since my phone vibrated while we were
speaking and so, of course, the next logical discussion from one
professional to another is to start talking about vibrators. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or the time I got propositioned by an executive <i>several</i> levels above me at my previous
job in front of a number of other employees at a holiday party. He wanted to
know where I lived and what train we could take back to my apartment. He was
married with children and this was the first and only conversation I ever had
with him…until the next morning when I had the uncomfortable experience of
being in the company elevator alone with him when he bluntly told me that last
night was “no big deal, right?” And he should know, since he had been party to a
worst-kept-secret affair with one of his employees the previous year that was
eventually ended and saw the female employee in the equation moved out of his
department and into another one so as not to “make waves.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The “me too” phenomenon is going rampant on Facebook right
now, but let’s get real, it’ll end in a few days and nothing will have changed.
Why? Because, um…..did you read those stories? I’m one person. Those are three
of, like, literally dozens, if not more. And I’m one of the “lucky” ones! I’ve never
been groped or assaulted, I’ve never lost a job or had my reputation questioned
because of any of it. I’ve felt embarrassed, I’ve felt mild anger, I’ve felt…confused.
But that’s it. AND THAT’S A GOOD OUTCOME, you guys. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s what’s going on here. My stories about vibrators and
domination and being propositioned by someone who could end my career ARE THE GOOD
STORIES. And this is here in the United States, a country that is heads and
shoulders above hundreds in our strive for equality <i>and</i> in actual equality. And for that, I am grateful. But again –
that’s what’s going on here. I’m grateful that I’m not in a country that doesn’t
allow me to <i>drive</i>. I’m grateful that I’m
not in a country where I’m forced into marriage during puberty. I’m grateful that
I’m not in a country that doesn’t allow me to walk outside without a male
chaperon. I’m grateful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have not one man in my life who I think has ever or would
ever do anything remotely similar to those stories above, let alone assault a
woman. I do not think that men are evil or bad or just will never learn. I’m
surrounded by some of the <i>best</i>
examples of true men that any person could hope for, both in my personal and
professional life, and my daughters are being raised by the kindest, most
respectful man I’ve ever met.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, men – CB included - have no idea what a
day in the life of a “privileged” woman is like. Re-read my little anecdotes again.
Those are NON-stories. They didn’t even register beyond discomfort or embarrassment
or just shrugging it off as some old guy who doesn’t know better, some young
guy who’s gross, or some powerful guy who does this all the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Me too” won’t change anything until <i>we</i> change. I never once said anything to any of those men, or the
others who have said gross and inappropriate things to me over the years for a
multitude of reasons. But mainly? I didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t
want to offend <i>them</i>, God forbid, and I certainly didn't want to be seen as
difficult.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can you imagine? Now <i>that</i>
would be awful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKt242WVFhBUFL7cTKT4aiS077SJdMxdJJ-nOcpnx9o3TLuc8ZKCd_z9XR4GSvIZ8BCbyVRuOzbC1dFCq4wPdsTfgNKhgPW7nmGL4vo166oo1YmhtRcn64_iWt6P_4bcD99hpHgQEmWzp6/s1600/Twitter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="651" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKt242WVFhBUFL7cTKT4aiS077SJdMxdJJ-nOcpnx9o3TLuc8ZKCd_z9XR4GSvIZ8BCbyVRuOzbC1dFCq4wPdsTfgNKhgPW7nmGL4vo166oo1YmhtRcn64_iWt6P_4bcD99hpHgQEmWzp6/s320/Twitter.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-72209219285216189442017-10-10T12:13:00.001-04:002017-10-10T12:19:19.278-04:00From One Mom to Another: Please Stop.<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I got asked by a stranger in my work elevator if I “regret”
that I have to come to work every day and leave my kids “alone.” So I laughed
and said “well, they’re not alone, they’re with their friends and caretakers at
daycare.” And she bristled. Like, I physically saw her recoil. “Daycare is <i>no</i> substitute for their mother!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thankfully for her, the elevator got to my floor before I
could slap her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is on the heels of an off-hand comment in the gym
locker room last week by a new-ish mom (she had her first daughter just before
I had my second) who proudly told me that she resigned from her job a few weeks
ago after realizing that she “just couldn’t do that to my baby girl.” When I legitimately
was curious what she meant and said as much, she replied “let her be raised by
someone who’s not me.” She then went on to tell me how much kids benefit from
having their mom at home while I tried to blow dry my dry hair so I didn’t have
to listen to her rationale for why she’s better than me. To be fair, she didn’t
<i>say</i> she was better than me, she just
implied it in the following ways: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’ve never wondered what kind of long-term impact this is
going to have on your kids?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Doesn’t it break your heart to leave them every day?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Her well-being is more important than any corporate ladder…for
me. But everyone’s different.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And to help round out your total vision of my last few weeks
(or two years) the following things have also been said to me about my
parenting: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How do you juggle it all? It seems like your career is
thriving, so….do you get enough time with your kids?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m so impressed that you can leave your kids every day. I
could never do that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you missed important milestones yet? That’ll be so
hard.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And ladies? Every single remark was made by a woman: mom-on-mom
crime! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sidebar: I asked my husband this morning if he’d ever gotten
asked if he’s considered quitting his job because of the kids or regrets
leaving them every day. He said no. He has people sympathize that leaving them
every morning is hard, but that’s as far as it goes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this is what I have to say: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop it. Stop with the Mommy Wars. Stop with the comparing
your life to others to make you feel superior or ease whatever guilt you might
be feeling. I get it. It’s hard. It’s hard to be a stay-at-home mom, it’s hard
to be a full-time-working mom, it’s hard to be a fricken MOM. It’s hard. But I
really don’t want to have a rap sheet for assault because my mom-guilt would increase
exponentially if I have to explain it to my kids while trying to teach them
that hitting is wrong. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, yes, I’m pretty sure I missed the first time my
oldest learned to crawl and, hell, probably when she took her first steps. Don’t
get me wrong, the nice ladies at daycare were gentle enough with my ego to <i>not</i> tell me that they witnessed these
things first, but I’m not new here, it probably happened. And that’s ok. Because
they’re used to second-best, after all: I didn’t breastfeed them (“I feel so
sorry for you that you don’t get to feel that bond…”), fed them formula (“I
mean, I’m sure it’ll be fine, though obviously breast milk is best…”), didn’t
make my own baby food (“…I just didn’t want them consuming all of those
preservatives…”), and I let them eat macaroni and cheese (with preservatives!)
and watch cartoons (“…I’d just rather they get outside or read a book. We got
rid of cable altogether.”)</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So please, just stop. Stop it. Stop with the mom-on-mom
crime of one-upping and condescending and thinly masked attempts at shaming.
Please stop. Put down your weapons, raise that white flag, and just say what we
all want to say: “Goddamn I’m so tired. Am I doing it right? Will my kids be
ok? It’s hard, isn’t it?” And the non-hugger in me will lay down my shield,
drop my giant mom-purse, and full-on hug you. Because goddamn I’m tired. It’s
hard, isn’t it? <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-18863040029816332682017-09-25T11:46:00.001-04:002017-09-25T14:18:40.272-04:00In Which I Pretend to Be Human<div class="MsoNormal">
So something you should know about me is that I’m not a
hugger. I mean, outside of my children - who I smother with hugs and kisses
until they literally push me away or yell “mommy, no smooches! ” - I will not
come near you. You’re welcome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this is simply because I don’t like being touched,
specifically hugged, by strangers, acquaintances, or people I’m really close
to. I find it sometimes forced, often unnecessary, and ALWAYS purely
uncomfortable for me and, by extension, the person who thought this gesture of
good will or intimacy or whatever would be well-received. Because, while the
other person is focusing (I guess?) on the bond between us, or how they’re
helping by pressing their body up against mine for 5-10 seconds, I’m wondering
how much longer this will last and whether I’ve done a good enough job conveying that this is really meaningful to me, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s my poor husband. Among our friends and
family he’s known as a no-joke great hugger. Like, people seek him out in times
of need because he gives these tremendous, genuine hugs that just make
everything better. Unless you’re me and you stand there as he hugs you, feeling
loved but also kind of wondering how long hugs typically last? Because you’re
good with it ending now but also don’t want to be rude. And you love him! And
he’s so tall and smells so good and sometimes you can genuinely just sort of
collapse into his arms and it is the greatest. But mainly I’m just counting
down from 10. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, this weekend a song came on the radio that reminded me
of earlier in the week when I was with a co-worker. This same song came on
while we were talking and she started crying which, thankfully, isn’t normal.
So I was like “are you ok?” and she said yes, but that the song reminded her of
her deceased mom. So, you know, <i>not</i> ok.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I stood there for a few seconds as she cried and
realized that I was probably supposed to do or say something? Because
typically when people emotion at me, I freeze. I’m a pretty empathetic and
compassionate person, don’t get me wrong, but it takes me a second to process
what’s happening. Weren’t we just talking about work? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So then we had this exchange: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: “Are you a hugger?”<br />
Her, looking at me while crying: “What?”<br />
Me: “Are you a hugger? Do you want me to hug you?”<br />
Her, nodding yes.<br />
Me, awkwardly hugging her, counting down from 10, and then
continuing with the conversation as her deceased mother’s music played in the
background.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t awkward at all! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so then I conveyed that story to CB and he started
laughing and said “you’re like an automaton.
‘Are you a hugger?’ Nobody asks that! They just hug!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: “But what if she’s like me?”<br />
CB: “The odds are very slim. Most people are normal and like
to know that you care that they’re crying and so you hug them.”<br />
Me: “I thought I was being courteous by gauging her feelings
on the situation first. But you’re saying that she may have thought that was
weird?”<br />
CB: “Everybody thinks that’s weird.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My </i>argument was
ill-received by him, but totally logical, you guys. Maybe I was lucky enough to
meet another me who doesn’t like being hugged and, when crying, does <i>not</i> feel comforted by your touch! But I
was wrong, apparently. And so I acted totally appropriately! Just as a good
human robot would.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Monday!<o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-79009929121597165992017-09-14T09:53:00.002-04:002017-09-14T15:34:49.281-04:00Parenting Help Needed (and send wine)<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Blog alert</b>: this post
will make apparent some of my largest parenting weaknesses. I’m aware of these
weaknesses, low on sleep and high on emotions, so be kind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About two weeks ago, CB and I decided that our lives were
too stable and pleasant and so we decided to potty train our 2 year old. For
the non-parents among us, let me break it down for you: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You try to convince a person who still looks at the color
red and calls it yellow and has peed and pooped into a diaper since minute 2 of
her life that now it’s going to be really fun to hold it and pee and poop somewhere
else! Why is this fun? I don’t really know the answer, my dear, so instead I’ll
buy you a small, plastic toilet with eyes on it, some Peppa Pig underpants, and
remind you over and over that this is what “big kids” do. Oh! And we won’t be
leaving the house for, like, a week because pooping on the floor of CVS is
frowned upon and cabin fever is fun! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s potty training in a nutshell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, it actually was OK. As OK as that situation can be
given the fact that we also have another human being in the house who still,
apparently, needs our attention. And the fact that we stocked up on a lot of
paper towels and wine. (that’s my tip for all potty training parents: Bounty
and Pinot.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sneaky little devil part that not ONE SINGLE PARENT told
us about was the after-math of sleep. Now, to be fair, maybe we’re (a) awful
parents and this is all our fault, (b) our kid is just super awful and this is
all her fault, or (c) every parent blocked this part out of their brains
because it was too traumatizing/they didn’t want to admit they didn’t have it
all together at all times when they had two kids at or under two, full time
jobs, were potty training, and then the toddler decided that sleeping was for
punks. (for reference, it's not b). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because that’s what happened. As of Monday, our sweet,
energetic, <i>great</i> sleeper of a toddler
gave a big middle finger to bedtime. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Night one</b>: Normal
bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door. She lets out a cry –
very unlike her – and you go in, soothe her, remind her to be quiet because her
8 month old sister is sleeping in <i>her</i>
crib, 4 feet away, and you leave and close the door. She cries one more time,
same drill as above, and she’s down for the night by 7:30. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Night two</b>: Normal
bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door. She lets out a cry –
very unlike her – and you go in, soothe her, remind her to be quiet because her
8 month old sister is sleeping in <i>her</i>
crib, you leave and close the door. She cries one more time, same thing. You
have a three and a half minute conversation with your spouse about how odd this
behavior is, she cries out again, this time in a shrill, pterodactyl-type way.
You run in, REMIND HER MORE FIRMLY THAT HER SISTER IS SLEEPING, close the door.
Screams. Now her sister is up too and you’re over this shit. You and your
husband grab her from the crib, take her in another dark room, and use your
best YOUR PARENTS ARE PISSED voices while explaining to her that this is not
ok. This goes on for about two minutes (which is an eternity in toddler time),
you give her a little cup of milk, read her one more story, and she’s down for
the night. You high five with your husband that you definitely got through to her this time and peacefully watch
the final episode of <i>Narcos</i> at
7:50pm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Night three: </b>Normal
bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door. She lets out a cry –
more and more like her – and you go in, soothe her, remind her to be quiet
because her 8 month old sister is sleeping in <i>her</i> crib, 4 feet away, you leave and close the door. She cries one
more time, same thing. You have a three and a half minute conversation with
your spouse about how odd this behavior is, she cries out again, pterodactyl in
the house, you run in, REMIND HER MORE FIRMLY THAT HER SISTER IS SLEEPING,
close the door. Screams. Her sister is awake and screaming now, too. You want
to take your own life but, instead, you and your husband grab her from the crib,
take her in another dark room, and use your best YOUR PARENTS ARE PISSED voices
while explaining to her that this is not ok. She then tells you she has to
poop, you and your husband jump like the jokers you are, grab the potty with
eyes, she pees into it, and you tell her what a great job she did by letting
out half an ounce of urine at 7:45pm. She’s very proud, knows that she’s won
and dominates the earth, and goes to sleep happily. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Night four (last
night): </b>Normal bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door.
She lets out a cry – completely like her at this point – and you go in, soothe
her, remind her to be quiet because her 8 month old sister is sleeping in <i>her</i> crib, 4 feet away, and you leave and
close the door. She cries one more time, same thing. You have a thirty second
conversation with your spouse about how this behavior has GOT TO STOP as she
cries out again, this time, completely throwing caution to the wind. You swing
the door open, REMIND HER MORE FIRMLY THAT HER SISTER IS SLEEPING, though now
you realize that’s not true, grab her from the crib, take her in that same dark
room, and use your very ineffectual YOUR PARENTS ARE PISSED voices while
explaining to her that this is not ok, though, who cares at this point? Clearly
nobody in this room.She then tells you she has to poop, you and your husband
jump like the jokers you are, grab the potty with eyes, she pees into it, you
tell her what a great job she did, she’s very proud, knows that she’s won and
dominates the earth, and tricks you into thinking she’ll go to sleep. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You eat a Ceasar salad in the dark for the next seven
minutes while she scream-cries and your husband goes in and loses his mind in a
whisper until she seemingly, miraculously understands logic, and he comes out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s quiet, but you know better. You both start
whisper-talking like the captives you’ve become and start to Google “toddler
sleep regression” as she lets out a scream that can only mean that someone has climbed
up to the 10<sup>th</sup> floor window, gotten into her room, and decided to
take your curly haired toddler and stab her with needles all over her body. You
go in this time while your husband eats his salad standing up in a dark kitchen
and she monkey climbs up your body while hyperventilating and you realize that
you’ve lost. She’s won. You’re a failure. She’s the queen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, you flash to this conversation you had with her not 12
hours earlier: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me, folding laundry quietly in the living room.<br />
Her: “No, I don’t want it.”<br />
Me: “Um…don’t want what?”<br />
Her: “No mommy.”<br />
Me: “Ok.”<br />
Her: “I don’t WANT pancakes.”<br />
Me: “Ok, nobody was even talking about pancakes. You don’t
have to eat pancakes.”<br />
Her, jumping up and down: “I want pancakes! Mommy I wanna
make pancakes!”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which should’ve been your first indication that maybe the
logic and reason route wouldn’t work. THINK, Becky, THINK. What has worked in
the past? Consistency. What does she respond to? Structure and consistency.
What does every toddler thrive on? Pushing boundaries and seeing how far you’ll
bend to their will. What are you doing wrong in this scenario? Everything. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so obviously the only logical solution is that you take
her into your room, rip back the covers, and get into bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom brain: “It’s 8:15, it’s an hour past her bedtime and you
guys aren’t fixing this tonight. She needs to sleep.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad brain: “Um, wtf are you doing? No, she’s going back to
her bed.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spoiler alert: OF COURSE he was right, I know. Please don’t
tell me, I need no extra advice on this. I know he was right and I was wrong
and my mom guilt and exhaustion got the better of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, like magic, he talked to her for a few minutes, worked
his goddamned voodoo magic, and she went to bed. Until 4am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is why you’re now on your third cup of coffee before
10am and blogging to strangers asking for help. While Google has told me that toddler
sleep regression during potty training is completely normal, I’m looking for
tips. What’s worked for you? Do we essentially just sleep train her like she’s
6 months old again? We plan on moving her sister out of their room and into our
room until we can get this taken care of. Because the last thing we need is <i>two</i> little ones who hate us and the world
because they had a super disruptive sleep. Also, the lovely ladies at daycare do not need this shit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, go! Advice! And remember – be kind. (and feel free to forward, re-post, whatever. I'm clearly not above graveling at this point...)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks, blog world! <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-69161628246339010732017-09-11T08:35:00.001-04:002017-09-11T08:43:40.083-04:00A Remembrance and Repost<b>Reposted from September 11, 2012: </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">In light of the fact that today is the anniversary of 9/11, this blog post will be slightly different than the norm. We’ll get right back to the randomness and (hopefully) laughs later in the week, but each year at this time I take a moment to step back, remember, and reflect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Many of you know that I moved out to New York back when I was 23 years old and fresh off of the farms of Michigan State University (literally and figuratively). One of my best friends and I ventured out on our own for the very first time in our lives, leaving all of our friends and family and comforts behind, driving the U-Haul some 700 miles with our goldfish tucked safely in his bowl in the front seat. It was the end of August 2001 and we could not have been more excited or nervous for what life had in store for us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">We didn’t have too much: no phone, no cable, and a one bedroom apartment so narrow you couldn’t pull out the sleeper couch without moving the tv into the kitchen. We. Had. Arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">So on the morning of September 11<sup>th</sup>, I was just excited to be in the shadows of the city. I was excited to be going into my second week of work, walking what was quickly becoming my “usual route” to the PATH train, thinking about how I couldn’t believe I was really here. But as I got closer and closer to the train station, something felt different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Garbled announcements were blaring over the loud speakers and people looked quite literally dazed and confused as they filed onto an already over-crowded train and into an air conditioned car, out of the muggy September heat. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Some guy on the train kept talking about how one of the towers of the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane, maybe flown by terrorists. It was about 9am and we really couldn’t be bothered with "the crazy guy on the train," so everyone kind of shuffled away from him, rolled their eyes, and held their papers a little higher to avoid eye contact. I obviously wanted to be just like the other New Yorkers, so I turned away from him and tried to settle the unease that was growing in my stomach.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And then I stepped onto 6<sup>th</sup></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">avenue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">That view I’d so quickly grown to love was covered in black smoke. There weren’t any cars in the streets, there were sirens in the distance, and there was an eerie calm of a seemingly abandoned city. I continued to walk, faster now, as I made my way south down the avenue, staring up at the blackness that took over the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I will never forget the next moments of that day: the vision of the South Tower falling, the sound of my mom’s voice when we finally got through to each other, the feeling of complete and utter hopelessness as we were told we couldn’t get off of the island, and the absolute surrender to whatever was to come next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">But that's not all that stays with me now when I look down at the newly rising tower on the south tip of Manhattan. That’s not what stays with me when someone starts talking about that day or reminisces about their own personal 9/11 experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">What stays with me is this: on that day, in that moment, for a fleeting time in our history, this city was united and people came together. It’s actually something I’ve tried really hard to hold onto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">When I first got to this city, it was shiny and new and filled with possibilities. It was also grungy and cold and filled with strangers. It was the place I’d dreamed about and nothing like I’d thought it would be. It was the city I figured I’d play in for a few years and then leave to get on with my "real" life. But it’s the city that ended up cradling me during the craziest and most exciting decade of my life so far.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I’m not interested in debating the politics of what led to or came after that day. I’m not interested in the conspiracy theories and the what if’s that will forever surround that moment and this country. What I’m interested in is holding onto that feeling of being united and remembering that it’s possible. Not in some Pollyanna, “let’s just hold hands and sing Kumbaya” kind of way, either. But in the practical “I’ve seen this happen, I know it’s possible," kind of way. And I consider myself one of the lucky ones, because lots of people can go through their entire lives wondering if it’s possible or not. And now I don’t have to wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">People can be incredibly kind and generous and people can be horribly malicious and cruel. And on that day, in those moments, I witnessed both in their purest forms. I saw it in the crumbling towers and felt it as I was guided through the city by a man covered in ash and rubble from the North Tower from which he ran.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">So today, just like every year on this day, I choose to look at the skyline I’ve grown to call home and remember the darkness</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">and</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">the light. To know that it’s possible, to take a breath and relax as tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk in awe of the city I sometimes take for granted, and to remember those who don’t have the luxury of being here today to know what’s possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">None of us will ever forget, I don’t even think we could if we tried. But what I hope we can also remember is that it’s possible to come together, it’s possible to be just a little bit kinder, just a little bit more patient, just a little bit…more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">It’s possible. Please don’t forget. </span></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-59554194103949049202017-08-22T10:56:00.003-04:002017-08-22T14:36:17.384-04:00This is 40: Part I<div class="MsoNormal">
My 40<sup>th</sup> birthday is approaching at a rapid rate,
and while I’m pretty excited for what the next decade has in store, I’ve also
been taking stock. Like, hey Beck, are you better off now than you were 10
years ago and what have you learned? What are you still learning? What are you
sort of thinking about learning but don’t want to devote your time to yet? What
do you not care to ever learn? And believe it or not, these are helpful
categories by which to live your life. I mean, don’t start categorizing your
life this way if you’re nailing it. You do you. But for me, I work well with
lists. And repetition. And at least <i>thinking</i>
about self-improvement, which is step one. Oh, and spoiler alert: I’m terrible
at taking my own really helpful advice, like, 75-80% of the time. So do with
that what you will. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Basically, if I look back over the last ten, five, or two
years of my life and I’m more or less making the same mistakes without any
tangible improvements anywhere, um, wtf. What’s the point? I’m not saying
change your personality every few years – that would make you a psychopath or a
politician. Neither are things you should life-goal. But if everyone else is
always the problem or you’re 15 pounds heavier than you’d like and it’s been a
decade? Either change it or embrace it, but for the love of God, please stop
talking about it. Which is what I tell myself <i>every single day</i>. And then I eat cake to silence that know-it-all
voice inside of me and she is happy and full and lulls off into a deep, dark
sleep. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sorry, I’m back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, since I’m trying to get and keep my compass
straight, one of the ways in which I’m choosing to do this is by sharing, which
holds me accountable and gives you something to read and judge and feel
superior to! But since you’ve all volunteered to be here, you guys are the best
captive audience. You chose this! You signed up for this! (hears Road Runner
sound as readers run far, far away from the blog as they yell “just tell me
about your underpants! You’re not Oprah!”) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, that was nice while it lasted. Hi mom and dad! Thanks
for continuing to read. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So today I’m looking back at question one: are you better
off now than you were 10 years ago and what have you learned? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, let’s assess: Ten years ago I was picking up the
pieces of a seriously failed relationship with a seriously wrong guy who I was
seriously in love with for reasons I struggle to remember now, which is good
and bad. I was pretty sure I’d never have kids and wasn’t really keen on the
idea overall – why on earth would I want to commit my life to diaper duty and
raising little humans when I was living paycheck-to-paycheck in a rundown one
bedroom apartment in New Jersey with my cat? To be fair, I’m pretty sure the
little humans didn’t want me as their mom then, anyway, as “hot mess” does not
a good mom make. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the end of that relationship was a turning point for me.
One that would either define me or not: it was my choice. It was messy and
humiliating and raw and haunting. And, if I’m being honest, it took me longer
than I’d like to admit to really, truly get past it. But holy crap, even <i>I </i>got tired of hearing myself be sad
after a while, though my friends and family were too kind to say that first. And
I decided that I needed to do something tangible, I needed to set a goal and
stick with it, and I needed it to work. God, did I need it to work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, during this time, I was in the first year of a
job that I desperately wanted as my career, yet struggled to find my footing with
for a while before getting it right. However, the silver lining is that this
job was filled with really incredible people who have stayed friends long after
leaving those four walls. Not the least of whom was CB. And since I had a lot
more free time on my hands all of a sudden and a lot of demons to chase me all
over Hudson County, I decided to take up running with him and some others who
took to the Hoboken sidewalks each day at noon to run and talk and get some
fresh air (I made up the “and talk” part because CB did not enjoy the “and talk”
part most days. He’d prefer I’d “and not talk,” but he had the added luxury of
being way faster than me, so he would literally just run away.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Zrebn6GEHy41qSVePOBasfVMkvjpeEffHinwxp8qYhqKs9PCRdnc7zuM3HNjQdPBtRfVuq47WlBu7yPK80Le5OEo10z0Ylbi3YtJLBO4xbKxRQZUgO4ckbMfyHDvnrbhr_CpgzjbsNiu/s1600/1929801_13015922450_6519_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="309" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Zrebn6GEHy41qSVePOBasfVMkvjpeEffHinwxp8qYhqKs9PCRdnc7zuM3HNjQdPBtRfVuq47WlBu7yPK80Le5OEo10z0Ylbi3YtJLBO4xbKxRQZUgO4ckbMfyHDvnrbhr_CpgzjbsNiu/s320/1929801_13015922450_6519_n.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sadly, one of the best post-running pictures of me.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Um, and when I say that I “took up running,” I mean that the
first few months I ran it was hard to tell because I looked more like a sweaty,
doughy, pale girl who was speed-walking wrong. Thankfully, my coworkers were
too nice and encouraging to admit that I really should just stop and go have a
doughnut. Instead, we struck up conversations and friendships and, before I
knew it, I was running! I mean, I was still sweaty and doughy and pale, but I
wasn’t speed-walking wrong anymore! And I was starting to feel better. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, there were still days there where I’d run so fast and
hard and alone, even while surrounded by friends, because life isn’t a movie
and emotions aren’t black and white. But the alone days receded into the
background over time and a handful of friends and coworkers signed up for
10ks, half marathons, and full marathons almost solely because, I think, they
felt bad for me. And my “leadership skills” (which my daughter’s cartoon has
taught me is a nicer word than “bossy”) were persuasive as hell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I knew it, I’d finished my first marathon. And it was
just shy of two years after what I thought was the end of life as I knew it.
And, in all honesty, it was. THANK GOODNESS. And like that, my story was
changing. Goal set; goal reached. Hmmmm……</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What did I learn? I learned that heartbreak is real and you
can’t fake your way through it. I learned that friendship is real, and you need
to lean when you need to lean. I learned that my family is strong, supportive,
and fiercely protective and they listened to me cry and make mixed tapes
through my feelings for a way long time. I learned the bumper-sticker truism
that you can’t control what happens to you, but you sure as hell can control
how you respond to it. I learned that some people lie. I learned to believe people
when they show you who they, good and bad. I learned that crying isn’t the worst thing and
laughter doesn’t go away. I learned that the depths of some people and their willingness to help will humble you, and you won't know how to ever say thank you, and they're fine with that. I learned that everything is temporary. I learned
that cats are great company. I learned that hard work does pay off. I learned how to live alone. I learned how to be
scared and do it anyway. I learned that there’s always a next chapter. I
learned to find my voice and how bad it feels when you don’t use it. I learned
how to run! And I learned when to stay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you know what else I learned? That I’m terrible at
dating. Like, <i>really</i> bad. Like, when
friends are feeling down they ask me to re-tell stories they’ve heard 50 times
about various dates I’ve been on over the last 10 years. Like, <i>there’s a reason I stayed home with my cat
and watched all five seasons of Gilmore Girls on Friday nights, </i>you guys.
Like, I’m epically bad at it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh! Which taught me the very important lesson that I still
exercise routinely: PLEASE look at who you’re texting before you hit send.
Please. I’m begging you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s a story for next time…..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Tuesday! <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-67670961019987854072017-08-14T11:03:00.002-04:002017-08-14T12:09:33.493-04:00When CB Met Becky: The Anniversary Edition<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I was talking to some co-workers about a time,
years ago, when CB and I were just friends and one of them said “I just love
the love story of the two of you.” And I laughed, because hearing your
relationship described as a love story sounds odd unless you’re, like, a Disney
character. Or Harry and Sally. But this week marks our three year wedding
anniversary, and as I look back over these last three years, I can’t help but
see the eight that came before it, bringing us to this place in time, looking
at our two daughters giggling in hysterics on our bed over nothing in
particular except how fun it is to be little. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what I see over these last eleven years is a man I met
at the tender age of 28, who shook my hand and welcomed me to the very first
day of work at my new job. We sat next to each other and shared a cubicle wall,
and what CB didn’t realize was that the simple act of being nearby meant that I’d
talk to him about everything, endlessly, for the next several years (or the
rest of his life…). He didn’t have to do too much responding,
just the occasional nod/interjection to let me know that he was still
awake/sitting there. And that suited us both just fine, as it turned out. But
over the course of the first year of working together, I chipped away at his
determination to keep his personal life and professional life separate and
private. He shared with me, once, that he didn’t like making a big deal out of
his birthday, and certainly not at work. And so of course I figured out when
his birthday was and made sure to put balloons on his chair, complete with a
card and a cupcake so that he felt celebrated and important. It was clear to me
early on that he didn’t really know what was good for him and just needed his
world expanded a bit – in the form of balloons and sugar, mostly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, about a year and a half into working together, a
relationship I’d been in for years ended painfully. I wasn’t keen to talk about
it much, which made CB the perfect person to tell. So on a Monday morning in
September, I walked over to his desk and whispered – a first for our relationship
– and filled him in that it was over. As I started to walk away, he stood up and
said: “C’mon, let’s go to that milkshake place I told you about. I know you can
drink a milkshake at 9am, that’s right up your alley.” And so we went. And it
never came up again, unless I wanted it to. He never asked me for any of the
sordid details – the only person in my life able to make that claim - though over the years I provided them here and
there. Which was one of the first signs to me that this guy was different. And
trustworthy. And seriously knew how to make me feel better in times of need! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it should go without saying that we were soon more than
just co-workers and running buddies, we were friends. He mistakenly introduced
me to a large portion of his family/friend circle on his 30<sup>th</sup>
birthday at happy hour one night, and as he says, “that was the beginning of
the end.” While everyone else assumed we were into each other, we were very
clear that we were not. However, true to form, they ignored us both and
insisted we should just give up the charade and fall in love already. Which we
promptly did about five years later, thankyouverymuch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when we did, there was no turning back. This thing that
wasn’t a thing, then became a thing, now sees us as parents to a 2-year-old and
a 7-month-old. It’s seen us spend the last three years excitedly awaiting our
first daughter. And getting hit with the shock of new parenthood and total
exhaustion. Figuring out how to fight and forgive, and learning that one of us
needs to be well-slept at all times for the two of us to balance life without a
knife-fight. It has seen us excitedly awaiting our second daughter, while
figuring out how on earth we’re going to have two babies with two different
sets of needs. It’s seen us having zero idea what two kids under two was going
to feel like, but mainly just relishing in the fact that all four of us get out
the door each day with our clothes right-side out most of the time.<br />
<br />
It’s seen
us poorly navigating the Hong Kong airport, giving life to the now commonly-used phrase
“We would for sure be the first couple kicked off of the <i>Amazing Race.</i>” It’s seen us forgetting to say hi to each other and then
remembering how important that is each day. It’s seen us sleeping on the floor
of the living room together as each of our girls enjoyed their own room during
sleep-training. It’s seen us doing the
Parent Zombie Shuffle through our mornings, packing diaper bags and refilling
diaper bins and cleaning up literal spilled milk and sticky, syrup-y tables. It’s
seen us laughing through almost every experience we’ve had, and crying when it
was needed. It’s seen for-real fear in our eyes during pregnancy and
childbirth, and for-real relief at their end. It’s seen us
collapsing onto the couch at 7:30 each night after we’ve put both kids to bed,
the house quiet, and our will to cook anything other than a salad at an
all-time low. It sees us talking about an episode of “El Chapo” that one of us
couldn’t get through because it’s an hour of reading television and that <i>totally defeats the purpose, </i>you guys.
But since it’s such a good show, I depend on CB to stay up until 8:30pm and
read it all so he can fill me in on what happened after El Chapo crossed over
the border to El Salvador because it was just about to get crazy! It sees us
realizing that I’m “The Throw Up Parent” because the other parent in the equation
starts to dramatically gag and potentially vomit when he sees, hears, or smells
it. It sees us still laughing at his cheesy puns and my ridiculous sports
observations and knowing each other’s “look” for everything from “I know,
right? This person is ridiculous,” to “I know, right? I can tell you definitely
want to scratch my head while we watch ‘Flipping Out’ right now, so let’s do
this!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it sees us having no idea what we were in for when we said
our vows and laughing that we ever thought we had a clue. Because while
sleeping on the floor of your living room and cleaning up vomit does not make
for great wedding vows, as it turns out, it does make for a pretty great life. And our
vows still hold true…except for the one where he promised never to leave his
dishes next to or in the sink when the dishwasher was empty. But overall, they’re
still going strong! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Anniversary Week, CB...it’s totally a thing! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-75522092099137578102017-08-07T09:03:00.003-04:002017-08-07T09:06:02.797-04:00Things I Shouldn't Have to Say Out Loud <div class="MsoNormal">
Things that I’ve done in the last month: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Asked what year it was as I was filling out a check. TO BE
FAIR, I wrote “2017,” so I’m still with the times. But as I wrote it I was like
“it definitely isn’t 2017. Crap, is it 2016 or 2018? Oh no, I don’t know what
year it is and I’ve either gained or lost time!” So then I double-checked real
quick with CB and he was like “how about you get some sleep and I’ll finish
doing whatever it is that you’re doing.” </li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Poured my coffee into a baby bottle. Which is sort of genius
because, convenience. We have more bottles than we do regular cups, I’m pretty
sure. But also, I then almost fed it to our baby, which hasn’t been discussed
explicitly on BabyCenter or anything, but I’m guessing it’s frowned upon since
she just started being able to gum her applesauce. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Had an entire conversation about me wetting the bed, even
though I didn’t wet the bed, but my husband figured it could be a possibility
and so we had the conversation much later than we should’ve. Like, CB thought
maybe I’d wet the bed, made the bed <i>anyway</i>,
and so when I pulled the covers back to go to bed later that night there was
still a big wet spot. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: “Ugh, I totally forgot that I spilled Fiona’s bottle
here this morning and now it’s still wet!”<br />
CB: “Oooh, is that what that was?”<br />
Me: “Wait, you made the bed <i>knowing</i> that it was wet?”<br />
CB: “Yeah, I thought it would dry. And I didn’t know what it
was.”<br />
Me: “What did you think, that I wet the bed or something?”<br />
CB: “I mean, I wasn’t sure….”<br />
Me, laughing: “We have so many problems! First, you thought
it was entirely possible that I wet the bed. Which I <i>should</i> be offended by, but, fair enough point. But <i>second</i>, the fact that you thought that
maybe this was pee and then just <i>made the
bed anyway</i> disturbs me.”<br />
CB, laughing: “I thought it would dry!”<br />
Me: “I never want to sleep in pee-dried sheets!”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then we started laughing too hard to talk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, you know, if you haven’t done any of these things in the
last month…you’re winning. Happy Monday! <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-89139556898312739292017-08-03T14:05:00.002-04:002017-08-03T14:16:16.111-04:00I'm Slowly Dying/Losing My Senses<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I got copied on an email from a co-worker who
was emailing our building admin to tell her that there was a “very strong smell
of gas.” Apparently, everyone around me was getting the “very strong smell of
gas” as well. And this turned out to be for good reason, as the building admin
replied that they were using some sort of torch and laying tar on the roof and
so that’s why everyone was smelling it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I emailed a co-worker/friend and said “bad sign that I
didn’t notice?” and he wrote back “a bit.” But then I couldn’t tell if he was
kidding because, no joke, I didn’t smell a thing. So I was like “no,
seriously….are you still smelling it? Like, it’s currently happening as we type
this?” And he confirmed that he was not joking, it currently smelled, and wtf
is wrong with me? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which then led to a rabbit-hole Google search that lasted
nearly 30 minutes to figure out what I was dying from, other than gas-related
brain death. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we laugh, but this is concerning. Not because I’m dying
of something and my lack of smell is the first sign. I mean, that might be it,
but that doesn’t concern me. What <i>does</i>
concern me is that I can literally be oblivious to the “strong smell of gas”
that all other human beings around me are experiencing, yet I literally have to
leave my desk with someone is eating loudly in my vicinity. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other things I haven’t noticed in real life:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A giant crane that was outside of my work building for two
years, that I walked underneath every single day, and didn’t notice until a
co-worker casually mentioned it and I said the words “what crane?” and meant
them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A giant driving range along the side of a road I would run
by on a weekly basis without noticing it until CB casually mentioned it one day
and I said the words “what driving range?” and meant them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A sliding glass door that my face met at full speed when I
was in high school, so violently that my friends then put a giant, taped X on
the glass so I wouldn’t do it again. Because that was a <i>likely</i> outcome. And I was not drinking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A regular bedroom door that my face met at full speed when I
was at a New Year’s Eve party a few years ago . Thankfully, only one very nice
friend witnessed it as I tried to casually walk away as if it hadn’t happened.
I was drinking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, if someone is eating a banana nearby, or using the
wrong version of “there/their/they’re” in an email, or clicking their pen
during a meeting, IT’S ALL I CAN HEAR/SEE. Which says something about me, though
it’s unclear what that something is. Mainly, it tells me that my children
should depend on their father for the big picture stuff but come to me if they
want to know the best way to multi-task what you’re doing while counting the
amount of times someone slurps their soup during lunch. Which is a skill, if
you’re me, because otherwise you’d be unemployable because all you can do is
focus on the fact that they’re the worst. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Thursday! <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-46078163201893126542017-07-26T14:23:00.002-04:002017-07-26T21:24:21.431-04:00Stop Talking. <div class="MsoNormal">
So yesterday afternoon a memo circulated around my office stating that, due to necessary replacement of a water main, our office wouldn’t have running water during working hours. And then there was a list of nearby places who would have running water that offered to let us pee at their building for the day instead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which basically
should’ve led to me emailing my boss to tell him that I would not be at work on
Wednesday. Or, more precisely, I’d be in NYC and about a block away from work,
but in the nearby bathroom most of the day because I pee every hour since
hydration is important and maybe my kidneys are malfunctioning due to
over-watering? Either way, don’t expect productivity out of me today, career,
because I’ll be busy remembering the three-digit passcode associated with the
down-the-street bathroom on the 9<sup>th</sup> floor that inexplicably is passcode
protected from all of none of the people who work on that floor (it’s an empty
floor). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I didn’t send
such an email because I’d like to keep an air of professionalism, so instead, I
put all of that embarrass yourself energy into panic-talking to the security
guard at the front desk of the bathroom-rental building I have visited four
times already today. And we all know I do this, the panic-talking thing, but
why do I always feel the need to double-down and make it worse? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: “Hi, I’m just
here from the building down the street and we were told we could use a bathroom
on the 9<sup>th</sup> floor.”<br />
Security guard: “Uh
huh.”<br />
Me: “Oh, ok, so it’s
ok for me to go up? I don’t need to sign anything?”<br />
SG: “No ma’am.”<br />
Me, giggling for
some reason?: “Oh ok, I guess that makes sense that I don’t have to sign in
every time I want to pee.”<br />
SG: staring at me.<br />
Me: “Ok, so any
elevator is fine?”<br />
SG: “Yep.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me, pushing button
and waiting. And sweating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: “God, wouldn’t
it be awful if I had IBS or something? Those poor people. I’d probably just not
come to work.”<br />
SG, cracking a
smile: “That’d be bad.”<br />
Me: “Right? I should
be grateful I guess….That I’m not one of those people….Or that I don’t have a
stomach bug--”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ding!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me, thankfully
getting on the elevator, doors closing: “Thanks!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I went back
three more times. And each time she would see me, she’d put her head down and
pretend to be doing something else. As you do when you’ve really enjoyed your
interaction with someone who can’t stop talking about potentially sh*tting
their pants. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, if you’re
peeing at your own leisure without inputting a passcode every time, consider
today a success, people! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikm_ttiUskvzp5vzaqrasY7okmJuR-LmE76HI41ae3cjENe0pr6Gzcr88njrj42TzKz0HlGTcd51i1AzexQ5GaobRO7VdLbLDCKMZVOGUR39b_0Wf7MKbY0YfPC-8X0NFUN_vw28G9CoW_/s1600/IMG_0141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikm_ttiUskvzp5vzaqrasY7okmJuR-LmE76HI41ae3cjENe0pr6Gzcr88njrj42TzKz0HlGTcd51i1AzexQ5GaobRO7VdLbLDCKMZVOGUR39b_0Wf7MKbY0YfPC-8X0NFUN_vw28G9CoW_/s320/IMG_0141.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>My home away from work. </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Wednesday! <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-33432133822060792582017-07-19T15:31:00.001-04:002017-07-19T15:31:20.632-04:00In Which I'm the Opposite of Zen<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ve been on this, apparently, never-ending journey of
trying to be a little bit better each day. Or at least each week. For sure each
month. Or, like, every quarter <i>definitely</i>.
And part of this journey is to not let the little things bother me so much
since they’re unimportant nuisances that only get me aggravated and have no
real place or meaning in the world. EXCEPT THEY’RE IMPORTANT and nobody seems
to care. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what <i>are</i> these
little things? Below is a very abridged list because this blog could go on for
eternity. To be clear, though, this is not a passive-aggressive list aimed at CB,
though he should definitely pay attention to a few just for his own
self-improvement purposes. In general, however, this is aimed at society. And,
I mean, if you’re being honest, maybe this is less about me having to change my
<i>reaction</i> to these atrocities and more
a public service to humanity to get it together already. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s proceed: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Not clearing your
time on the microwave. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People, this should be considered a hate crime. And for some
reason, when it’s an uneven number left on the screen, I mentally melt even
more. I know this is an unhealthy obsession, but living with a man who <i>never clears the time</i> is like living an
awake nightmare. And then coming to work and walking among others who <i>never clear the time</i> is almost more than
I can take.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycHxLPWRo04xyjYWZ__zixGkpmOU944TqvrevM2KSFxa54m47CjbaIiuTXVMBRXH_858FFuY_eL3yL0fFC9Pz11eT4-vp3p_0Q8ksb6TEPQKwYHaFiI-5EAiXwhUG6_tRoKrjZ5fbh79Z/s1600/microwave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjycHxLPWRo04xyjYWZ__zixGkpmOU944TqvrevM2KSFxa54m47CjbaIiuTXVMBRXH_858FFuY_eL3yL0fFC9Pz11eT4-vp3p_0Q8ksb6TEPQKwYHaFiI-5EAiXwhUG6_tRoKrjZ5fbh79Z/s1600/microwave.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Not pulling the
shower curtain closed. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Less egregious than the microwave time, for sure, but still
pretty offensive to my senses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Leaving cabinets open</b>.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve been over this before and I do believe it may have
been in my wedding vows because I’m the ultimate catch and CB is so lucky. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Chewing.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I can hear you chewing, I’m unable to focus on anything
else. And the saliva chew sound is the ultimate worst. I used to actually have
to get up from the table in high school when my dad would eat a banana. My ears
were going to explode and my anger would rage like a hot volcano just beneath
the surface. Since that’s a normal response to someone eating a banana at
breakfast. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>This sign.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This sign is a few blocks from my house. This is a <i>professionally made sign. </i>Who didn’t notice this? WHO DIDN’T NOTICE
THIS? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOjfTXeipSBBiBMwmGnIpe7uZkAO4v_UplvVirvFRITIbS2vb4vy8lqrDN7JQrGi3oqEJMIGsveEdUIshikWW_m3S-yiTO2qEmZN0IyYZluLooFUaWN0Q8lNlqIW2drc7weEMDp8dCaJ3/s1600/Berverges.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="460" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOjfTXeipSBBiBMwmGnIpe7uZkAO4v_UplvVirvFRITIbS2vb4vy8lqrDN7JQrGi3oqEJMIGsveEdUIshikWW_m3S-yiTO2qEmZN0IyYZluLooFUaWN0Q8lNlqIW2drc7weEMDp8dCaJ3/s320/Berverges.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Wearing furry slipper
shoes outside.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, so it’s possible we’re getting out of “pet peeve”
territory and more into just annoying trends. But please tell me you’ve noticed
and fought hard against this trend? For some reason this summer I’ve noticed an
inordinate amount of women wearing what look to be flip flops with fur on them.
Like fuzzy slippers that housewives in the 1950s wore, except now they’re
outside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_YoyFNlLK5Y1IHVwos8SdHSG02otAPHSWOxNngiTvBifRLdiBgdODr-TZT_bk_JhOCPRLIqFnHmTi-ytLLz5MbXJVp96ialQEq3oLgOu-SpZ_BWbutjcbQ_xvhoALhEnUO6w2DnQHdVG/s1600/furry+shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_YoyFNlLK5Y1IHVwos8SdHSG02otAPHSWOxNngiTvBifRLdiBgdODr-TZT_bk_JhOCPRLIqFnHmTi-ytLLz5MbXJVp96ialQEq3oLgOu-SpZ_BWbutjcbQ_xvhoALhEnUO6w2DnQHdVG/s320/furry+shoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I realize it’s risky to come back to blogging out of
the blue with a pet peeve rant, but I feel this is why you come here. Straight
talk from an insane person. <i>Please</i> tell me I’m
not alone here. And what have I left out? (insert a long list from CB here who
has to hear this living list on a weekly basis….)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Wednesday! <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-41361086034068283582017-04-24T15:38:00.000-04:002017-04-24T15:49:37.487-04:00Don't Be That Guy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As a mom, I spend a lot of time thinking about our kids, who
they may become, what I hope for them, etc. And since CB and I have lofty aspirations for the girls, our overall hope is that they aren’t giant a-holes. I mean, the
toddler age does resemble some a-hole adults who I've encountered, but it’s more akin to my
drunk friends and me in college. Like the other day, my toddler started crying
– with full, thick tears – because I wouldn’t let her repeatedly bang her head
up against the wall and told her to be kind to her body. And earlier that day,
she threw herself down onto the ground and started tantrum-crying for CB
because he helped her out of her car seat and was holding her book bag. We’re
such monsters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So as I walk through life and observe those around me, I
realize that I’m focused much less on, say, what career path they choose to
take and much more on them never becoming the people I'm about to describe below.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Dear Girls,<br />
<br />
Please don't be:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The “that’s not my
job” guy.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This person can either <i>actually</i>
say those words or simply imply them by their actions. Either way, I loathe him.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Example: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was at Starbucks the other day and they’d run out of half
and half. Since I like my coffee to resemble nothing really all that close to
coffee, I searched until I saw someone in a Starbucks uniform who wasn’t
insanely busy. And actually, I sort of nailed it since this kid was slowly
walking out of the back room without any sense of purpose. Perfect! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: “Excuse me, would you be able to refill the
half-and-half? It seems to be all gone.”<br />
Him, half-looking at me: “Uhhh….” And then he trailed off.<br />
Me, standing there looking around, worried that I’d somehow
asked a customer this question by accident. But no! The uniform!: “Oh I’m
sorry, are you on break?”<br />
Him, still half-looking at me: “No……”<br />
Me, starting to get nervous out of being confused:
“Oh….ok……so would you be able to bring out more half and half?”<br />
Him, walking towards the counter, away from me: “Could you
ask someone else? I have to do something.” </blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then he walked over to the counter. Where he got a
plastic cup of ice. And then walked into the back again without looking at me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t be that guy, is my point. And while this is an egregious
example of someone literally giving zero f’s, there are way more subtle
examples everywhere. So, just don’t be this guy in spirit or in practice, ok?
Because, as my children, then I’ll be a failure as your mom and I’ve reserved
being a mom failure for those times (called current life) where I give you mac
n’ cheese three times in one week and that’s only because I ran out of frozen
chicken nuggets. Also, don’t bother emailing me about these choices, mom-shamers,
because I’m onto you and I, too, give zero f’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The person who sends these
emails to my Spam folder. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ny_0Jkg6ARhAgwonWa1e3x7cpcUv1i3FTa0Natr9EVNDWMTsCfoQ7Z5SBHS0CWtBZmWdW4_Tv-J0em9Scu5_8VFkmAwuGak5_QNwJXFq1BcQe18ShjpOqwRcarPkmqbm04qiQzT2Ohjx/s1600/Capture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ny_0Jkg6ARhAgwonWa1e3x7cpcUv1i3FTa0Natr9EVNDWMTsCfoQ7Z5SBHS0CWtBZmWdW4_Tv-J0em9Scu5_8VFkmAwuGak5_QNwJXFq1BcQe18ShjpOqwRcarPkmqbm04qiQzT2Ohjx/s640/Capture.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
Have higher aspirations, kids.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The person who takes
up the entire damn sidewalk. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know exactly who you are. You are the person or persons
who either (a) walk(s) your dog on an insanely long leash that stretches across
the entire NYC sidewalk. Hey, guess what? Other people live in NYC and also use
this sidewalk occasionally. I’d like to not have to jump-rope your dog’s leash
so that I can get to the subway. And the fact that this seems to annoy <i>you</i> that I’m doing this, makes me want
to just scratch at you until you understand how sharing space works. Or (b) walk(s)
with your group of friends and there are four or five of you and you somehow
think that I should just scooch on over to the street to walk around you guys. Firstly,
I can see that you have friends. Rubbing it in my face that you have friends
who can walk in a straight line doesn’t make me feel less than. It makes me
want to also scratch at you. But secondly, who taught you rules of the road? Because
that’s the person I need not to be for my own children, so that people don’t
scratch at them publicly or shoulder-check them on purpose out of
sidewalk-rage. Not saying I've ever done that, but....I can imagine it happening, is what I'm trying to say.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b>The person who gets
onto a packed train with their backpack on</b>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kjUciJN3qlMaVqIiyQ-yu8bnVOkRjSpoZhYgfaFrigiLV6D_fp4FK3N-vzFdr0Q0Ua42COIO27B74xxdgk4EGTaz5F_S8bJXBFGM3B9H3lQAdLIL_5g1EIjyPD2CgBBKYHSw0lbT-Fjt/s1600/backpack+subway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2kjUciJN3qlMaVqIiyQ-yu8bnVOkRjSpoZhYgfaFrigiLV6D_fp4FK3N-vzFdr0Q0Ua42COIO27B74xxdgk4EGTaz5F_S8bJXBFGM3B9H3lQAdLIL_5g1EIjyPD2CgBBKYHSw0lbT-Fjt/s320/backpack+subway.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, so I realize that I might look a little unstable with
this one, since I actually pulled out my phone and took a picture on the
crowded train of the guy shoved against me with his damn backpack on. Those are
my angry sunglasses in the photo as well. I was too embarrassed to actually
just “click” right in his face, so I did it all stealth-like from underneath.
But you get the point. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’re the worst, this guy, and everyone is thinking it.
I can’t believe you didn’t hear me hate-thinking about your choices during this
entire 7 minute trip. I’m a loud thinker! And I also tried doing the shame-look
at you a few times, too, but you either didn’t care, couldn’t see my eyes
through my sunglasses, or thought I was trying to pick you up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So don’t be this guy, again, is my point. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The person who needs a safe space from ideas that are different. </b>Please don't be that person. Learn to live in the discomfort that is differing viewpoints. Viewpoints that make your blood boil and stand against the very things that you are? Figure out how to counter those viewpoints logically, rationally, and go ahead and throw some passion in there. Rise above. But please don't tell me you need a safe space. You know who needed a safe space? Malala Yousafzai. You know who doesn't get a safe space? Me, when someone gets on the train with their backpack, no matter how badly I want one.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do realize that some of these seem city-specific, and that some make me sound crazy - that's not news. But
again, my dear daughters, it’s not just the practice, it’s the spirit behind the intent. Which is
what I will explain to you once you're old enough to understand. At the
moment, I find myself breathing in and out slowly and with purpose when you ask me for milk and then I say “Ok, let’s go get your milk” and then you start crying hysterically because I left the room to get you milk. So we’re a few stages
away from the “don’t be that guy” conversation, I do realize this. But it's coming. And now we're all prepared.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
Love, Mom</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-19423371886756023922017-04-17T15:50:00.002-04:002017-04-17T16:03:10.187-04:00For Anna<div class="MsoNormal">
The 1980s were filled with lots of pretty terrible ideas: big
hair, ‘New Coke,’ and shoulder pads come to mind. But one 80s-specific trend
that was, in theory, a <i>terrible</i> idea
turned into one of the best little things to ever happen to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back around 1984 or 1985, my elementary school hosted a
balloon launch. But not just any old balloon launch where a bunch of little
kids stand around in a field and watch balloons fly up into the air, never to
be seen again. Nooooooo no no no. Remember: this was the 1980s. This balloon
launch was special. Because at the end of each balloon was the FULL name and COMPLETE
home address of each and every little tiny person who attended my school. And since I was one of the said little tiny
people at that time, I dutifully filled out my little 5x9 index card and
launched it into the air for strangers to find so that they could write back to
me and teach me about being pen pals! Or, you know, come and murder my family
and me in cold blood. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgzJFCzmHwVdh8aFnvoY786zCARxfoAhO03XoMOR2dodINHOwpqiH6SGZWx8yh8JMQZKrF1D5loE7JYtz096EjtvBGBFsNLqwsYEn-LDcZlNTZNRI7MNPJNfq7fzjnkdz8lNuz-9GIwke/s1600/photo+3+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgzJFCzmHwVdh8aFnvoY786zCARxfoAhO03XoMOR2dodINHOwpqiH6SGZWx8yh8JMQZKrF1D5loE7JYtz096EjtvBGBFsNLqwsYEn-LDcZlNTZNRI7MNPJNfq7fzjnkdz8lNuz-9GIwke/s200/photo+3+%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dear Stranger, Feel free to come kill<br />me at any time...here's my address! </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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Luckily for the 1980s, kids were busy being warned about the
dangers of people luring them into their windowless vans with puppies and Halloween
candy with razor blades in them to worry about a silly old pen-pal endeavor.
So, you know, launching balloons into the air with all of our detailed contact
information attached was perfectly fine! What could go wrong? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, for me, nothing. Because while friends and even my own
sister had some luck with random strangers finding their weird, lonely balloons
and writing them back once or twice, I had the great fortune of my weird,
lonely balloon wandering from a park in Michigan into a field in Meadville, PA for Mr. Fox and his dog
to find. And his wife, Anna, wrote me back. And she continued writing me back
for the next 32 years.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mrs. Fox was never Anna to me, she was always Mrs. Fox
since I was raised during a time when respecting your elders was a thing and
I was 8 years old. And even on her return address label she wasn’t Anna. She
was always Mrs. Dan Fox. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She had beautiful, old-school penmanship. The kind of penmanship
where you could tell there was <i>time spent
practicing.</i> Unlike my penmanship, which looks a little like a cross between
a ransom note and someone writing their name with their non-dominant hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She would write on flowery stationary – both sides – and ask
all sorts of questions about school and my friends and my hobbies. She’d
remember <i>every single birthday</i>. She’d
remember <i>every single holiday</i>. At
Christmas, she’d always send an ornament and a gift. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I moved from Dearborn to Farmington, her letters
followed. When I moved from elementary to middle school, her letters followed.
When I moved from high school and then college – her letters followed. And all
the while, we never met. I think we exchanged phone numbers once – there may
have even been one phone call back in the day. But otherwise, it was a
relationship built upon words. A relationship built upon the randomness of the
wind and the lost art of letter-writing. And I cherished it for three decades.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I moved to New York City, Mrs. Fox’s letters followed.
And, to be clear, they were always from “Dan and Anna Mary.” But I’m pretty
sure, similar to how CB’s names are on the Christmas cards we send out each
year, Mr. Fox had little involvement with the actual mailing and writing. But
he, too, was a huge part of my life in stories. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I learned of their nieces and nephews, their travels, their
church activities. I wondered – more than once, but never to them – how two
people who were so clearly made-to-be-grandparents never had children of their
own, while quietly being grateful that they’d adopted me as their honorary
granddaughter. I’d sometimes let six months go by between letters, always apologizing
and sometimes rushing through a brief update of my oh-so-important life and,
without fail, about 3-6 weeks later, I’d get another flowery letter in the
mail. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In 2009, the flowery letter I got also had a newspaper
clipping attached, and it was news that Mr. Fox had passed away at the age of
91. And some questions were answered that day, via his obituary. Mainly the ones
too delicate to ever ask about. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Nonetheless, while the handwriting got a little less legible
over the years, the stories never got shorter and the questions never waned. As
she aged, she seemed to cherish the photos I’d send her of various life events
or random fun things I thought she might enjoy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Which is why I was a little concerned when, last spring, I
didn’t receive a response back after I wrote her with news of my second
pregnancy. She’d been so excited to see the pictures of my littlest – and now
oldest – daughter growing up so fast in her first year, so I figured it was
likely just the result of older age, some health issues over the years, and less energy. So I wrote again over the summer,
right around RJC’s first birthday, complete with pictures and updates. No word.
Then Halloween came and went without a card – which had never happened in all
of the years we’d been corresponding. And then my fall update went unanswered. Then my birthday passed. And
then I started Googling. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I knew she’d had a stroke within the last few years – she’d
written of it often and apologized for her handwriting, to which I would laugh
and tell her I was just happy she was still writing letters! And each time I’d type
her name into the search field, I’d hold my breath and wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A few months later. Search field. Hold breath. Nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then today: search field. Hold breath. BING. There it
was. The very first result. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mrs. Dan Fox; Mrs. Fox; Anna was gone. Passed away at her
home, no further information given about the cause, though I have a few
guesses. All of them peaceful, since that’s how life should work. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thank you for showing me love all of these years. Thank you
for being my third grandmother. Thank you for caring. Thank you for
writing. Thank you for following me through the first half of my life. Thank
you for finding my balloon that day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You will be missed. Your ornaments will hang on my tree and your flowery stationary will
stay safely tucked inside my keepsake box next to the bed so that I can share
your stories with my kids and remind them that strangers can become family, and
family isn’t always made up of the people with whom you share your DNA. Hell,
in my case, you never even get to meet some of them. But that has little import,
as it turns out, in the end. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rest in Peace, dear friend. <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-42941504688857804942017-03-01T13:43:00.002-05:002017-09-19T11:22:31.407-04:00A Kind of Love Letter <div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Full disclosure: I wanted to have this written and ready for Valentine's Day. And then I blinked and it was March and I was like, crap. But then I realized that I could be nice to CB on days that weren't mandated by Hallmark and so...here we are. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">When I was younger, I thought I knew what love was. Real, true, it'll get you through anything kind of love. And the reason I knew this is because I had a very specific list of what that love needed to look and act like in order to win my heart. It wasn't scientifically proven or anything, but I was pretty sure I'd nailed it. The list included: </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Tall</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Dark hair</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Funny</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Smart</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Lived close enough to me so I didn't have to exert too much effort</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">About my age</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Ambitious</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Curious</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Smelled good</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Could support himself</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">...and the deep, thoughtful list goes on and on. Looking back on it, I didn't have extraordinarily high expectations. I also didn't have any idea what love actually looked like. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">And then I met a tall guy with dark hair who was funny and smart and lived close to me and was about my age and was ambitious and curious and smelled good and could support himself. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">So I married him.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Luckily for me, he also had characteristics that actually mattered. And over the last two and a half years, we've gotten married and had two kids. So we're nothing if not efficient (efficiency! Also on the list.) Anyway, having our first daughter felt like a bit of an up-hill battle, at least for me physically. I've written here before about the health issues I faced and the after-math of postpartum stuff that I dealt with, and so I won't delve back into that. But my second pregnancy was much smoother. The only real issue is that my pants got tighter, faster, and I was chasing around a toddler this time. Other than that? Smooth sailing. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Until, of course, it wasn't. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">The morning my second daughter was born, we took the typical hospital family photo - me in bed, looking stunning and well-rested, holding our little girl, CB next to me looking equally well-rested, clean-shaven, and handsome as ever. And when most people look at that photo they probably see the obvious - two happy parents and one confused little newborn. But when I look at that picture, I see something else. Actually, it's what's not in that picture that stands out to me the most. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">What's not in that picture is the 24 hours leading up to it when I was so violently ill that CB would be awoken from a dead sleep on a narrow hospital couch and run to my side with a bucket while holding my hair back so I could dry-heave from the magnesium coursing through my system. I mean, don't get me wrong, we were grateful for the drug that kept my body sedated enough not to seizure or stroke, but there are only so many times you can hurl in front of your husband before you start to worry that the bloom might be off of the rose....</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">What's not in that picture is CB standing by my bedside while I lay there so uncomfortable and feverish and IN LABOR that the only thing that brought me comfort was him gently scratching my head and running cool washcloths over my face. Also what's not in that picture was how terrible my hair looked because he scratched my head so many times that it looked like bird's had nested on my skull and were violently looking for food to no avail. And he didn't tell me because "you had enough going on, I didn't want you worrying about your hair." </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Um, the man knows nothing about me. Have we met? You must ALWAYS tell me when my hair doesn't look good, because it's always on the verge of breaking out of my control and it's my number one fear in life to look exactly how I looked for, apparently, three whole days. God. That should've been on my list. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Anyway. What's not in that picture is the husband and father caught between not wanting to leave my side and needing to go be with his littlest daughter in the NICU so she could be held and kissed and loved. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">And what's not in that picture are the countless sleepless nights, endless poopy diapers, blissfully happy cuddles, tear-inducing laughter, and outright delirium that accompany most new parents. The picture doesn't show the five years that led to this life we love. Or the people and places who paved the way for us to get there. It doesn't show the compromise, arguments, shared values, stolen moments, and everyday routine that goes into making a marriage work. And mostly, what's not in the picture, is just how bad my hair looked.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">And for that, I'm eternally grateful. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">And so this is the part where I'd wish CB a Happy Valentine's Day and call it a win. But now that idea is shot and so, I'll simply throw him a high five and say what I always say: "Nailed it." </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Happy Wednesday, everyone! </span></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-13318731482148728612017-02-22T11:21:00.001-05:002017-02-22T11:25:21.300-05:00Conversations from CohabitationThe other night, while watching a documentary, I turned it off 30 minutes in and started hysterically crying. Which led to this conversation:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: "I don't understand how you're not crying right now."<br />
CB: "If I'm crying, something is seriously wrong."<br />
Me: "I don't understand. I cry on a weekly basis."<br />
CB: "Yes, I'm aware."</blockquote>
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: "Like, not even just sadness, happiness, too."<br />
CB: "I know. You almost cried the other day when Rauri did something cute. You've told me that you have a weekly "good cry" in the shower. This isn't normal."<br />
Me: "It's my normal."<br />
CB: "Which isn't normal."</blockquote>
<br />
Silence.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
Me: "I feel like, if I'm between, say, a 1-4 or a 6-10, I'm crying. I basically have to be right in the middle, emotionally, or I'm just crying. I can't be too happy or too sad. I mean, my boss has seen me cry on multiple occasions over both."<br />
CB: "If I ever cried in front of my boss, I'd quit my job in that moment."<br />
Me: "Which would definitely make me cry."<br />
CB: "Also, just so you know, if you ever catch me "having a good cry," that's when it's time to commit me."<br />
Me: "Good to know."<br />
CB: "The sad part is that I won't know when to commit you."<br />
Me: "Probably when I stop crying."<br />
CB: "Noted."</blockquote>
<br />
***<br />
<br />
That same night, after leaving the TV on in the other room, yet turning off the documentary, CB and I had the crying conversation in the bedroom while Fiona was fast asleep in the living room. After about 45 minutes of talking, there was an eerie red glare coming from that room.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Me: "Is that the tv that's red? Why all of a sudden is the tv red?"<br />
CB: "I think the Netflix screen went into sleep mode and it's a picture of something red."</blockquote>
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
CB: "Or the baby is on fire. One or the other."<br />
Me, laughing: "Well now I have to go double-check that she's not on fire! I mean, I'm 99% sure she's not, but I'd feel terrible if I didn't check."<br />
CB: "Who says we're not good parents?"<br />
Me: "Most likely our kids, when they can speak."</blockquote>
<br />
For the record, she was not on fire. So we're amazing parents.<br />
<br />
Happy Wednesday!<br />
<br />
<br />Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-21554071066376436852017-02-06T10:24:00.004-05:002017-02-06T12:07:25.760-05:00Throwing back and coming back!I'm making it a point to start writing again, you guys. Let's see how it goes....but the start of it is by re-posting this post from 2015 when I had my first daughter. It's still accurate with number two, though I think I'll be adding to this in the next few weeks......though I'm happy to report that shower AND leave the house all the time! Which doesn't sound like a normal accomplishment for an adult, but all the anxiety I experienced and isolation I created has luckily not become a reality this time around. Hooray! So a note to all of you new moms out there going through it - it gets better and doesn't always happen again if you decide to do it again! Bonus.<br />
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Enjoy! Thanks for sticking with this blog and checking in periodically to remind me you're out there and somehow want to keep reading!</div>
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<b><i>Disclaimer</i></b><i>: apologies in advance for those of you who really are hoping this doesn’t turn into an annoying/boring mom-blog. For the next few posts, it might. Because I’ve turned into an annoying/boring mom. I hope to resume my natural position of annoying/boring regular person who happens to have given birth, but that may not happen ‘til September. Oh also, I say “butt” and “vagina” a lot. So you’ve been warned (CB).<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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So I’ve been out of blogging commission these last several weeks because a human – complete with shoulders and fingers and a whole big head of hair – decided to come out of my vagina and then demand that I feed and bathe and dress her while never once saying thank you or please or even offering to pick up the tab once as a gesture of good faith. And I’ve decided to go along with this one-sided deal because sometimes she smiles at me as if she recognizes that I’m the same person who had that cozy, handy uterus she grew to know and love for all of those months. And her smiles are super –cute, you guys. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Also, because her dad and I drank too much wine some time back in October and basically created her life, so I’d feel kind of guilty leaving her with a note on the front step of one of our neighbors being like “she’s cute but also can blow gas like nobody’s business. You’re welcome and thank you.” And because our neighbors would probably recognize her as that kid belonging to the sleepy couple that used to shower a few months ago and then bring her back. And I’m uncomfortable with confrontation, so we’ll go ahead and just keep feeding and bathing her so that it doesn’t get awkward. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Plus, since motherhood has made me a ball of anxiety that doesn’t want to let my daughter out of my sight, it’d probably make that whole “abandoning your newborn” thing a little more challenging. But mainly because our neighbors would totally bring her back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Which brings me to the purpose of this post: a person grew inside of and then exited from my body and now I can’t sleep/don’t sleep/shower/go hang at the bar because LOVE. And hormones? And instincts. And a lack of prescription Xanax. Which people <i>sort of</i> prepared me for? But not really. Plus I wasn’t listening because it wasn’t happening yet and I’m kind of a control-freak who figured I’d totally ace this mom thing while also being able to shave my legs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have not, if you’re wondering, aced either of those things.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, in order to continue the trend of giving completely helpful advice to people who won’t listen until after they’ve already experienced something they could’ve avoided had they listened, jeez, I’m going to go ahead and list off some of the things I wish I’d known prior to having my daughter (who I love and adore and am staring at out of the corner of my eye as I type this because, hello, were you listening? I have anxiety issues that are irrational. And because I had a dream about her falling out of her boppy last night and now I basically can’t deal.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>You will catch poop in your hand</b>. This is less something I wish I’d known and more something I just sort of wish I’d known wouldn’t actually be that big of a deal. I mean, I’d rather not hold another person’s poop in my hands, as a general rule. But if it has to be anyone’s, may as well be my daughter’s poop, is my thinking? Basically because I know she can’t help it and would totally rather take care of this whole thing herself, if she’s being honest. But since she’s just now starting to realize that her hands and feet are attached to her body, and still accidentally hits herself in the face at least three times a day, I’ll do the poop-catching until she’s at least a few more months old. Which I believe is what good parenting is all about.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>You will love/hate your spouse. </b>Not sure if this is universal, but for the sake of my marriage, I’ll assume yes? Because there are several moments where you will have simultaneous feelings of complete love and absolute hate for your partner. Which sounds harsh, especially when talking about the person you have chosen to spend the rest of your life with and is the father to your child. But, um, it’s true. (oh hi, CB! You can skip this part, it’s not about you at all so go ahead and just re-read the earlier paragraph on catching poop. I love you. Bye.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like, the other day I looked at CB holding our daughter just after feeding her and thought how fortunate she and I were to have him. They were so adorable, he was so helpful, and I had 15 minutes to just sit there and not be a baby-manager.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then the very next moment he complained about how tired he was (after his 8 consecutive hours of sleep) and if I hadn’t been so ACTUALLY tired from my 1.5 hours of consecutive sleep the prior three nights, I would’ve hit him. And it would’ve hurt for sure, because that was some visceral rage right there.<o:p></o:p><br />
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But then he cleaned her poop-up-the-front diaper and gave her a bath and I loved him wholeheartedly again. Until he left all of the dirty bottles on the counter before heading out to his job where he gets to hang with other adults for eight hours and I cursed his name under my breath so that our daughter wouldn’t worry about being the product of a broken home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh also, he’ll love/hate you right back. So it’s a reciprocal thing which makes it totally fine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Man, I should really be a life coach.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Procreate with someone you like. Not just someone you love. </b>Because love won’t save you at 4am during gas and screams (the baby’s, not yours – though it’s not out of the question). Like will.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like will get you to see past the fact that neither of you have showered, thought about, talked about, or even hung out around the idea of personal hygiene/grooming for a few days and it’ll move you right into acceptance that this is temporary and one or both of you (hopefully) will attempt to woo the other in the not-too-distant future. And like will also help you remember that you felt hot-body feelings for this person at one point (which is how you got yourselves into this <s>mess</s> blessing in the first place) and that they’ll eventually come back to resembling the person you married once you’ve used deodorant again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>You will show literally anyone your vagina.</b> I mean, not, like, when you get home and your in-laws come over for dinner. But while you’re in the hospital, prior to giving birth, I assure you that you will get to the point where someone will enter the room and you’ll be like “Do you need to see my vagina? Ok. Here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Which is totally weird, I know, but I spent the first three-to-four hours of my 26-hour labor experience trying to be coy. Like, someone would come in to check my cervix and I’d have my knees together, all lady-like, trying to be dainty. And then the nurse would explain that that’s not a helpful position to be in for cervix-checking and you’ll make your husband turn around because the cervix isn’t one of your sexier parts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cut to: three hours later when you just stop pulling the sheet back up over you b/c that’s a lot of work and leaning/bending is hard and why fight it? Here’s my vagina. I’m so sorry, housekeeping-lady-who-just-wanted-to-empty-the-garbage – I have no dignity left.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And most importantly…..<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>You poop babies. WHAT? Yeah.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Why hasn’t anyone ever, in the history of writing about birth, EVER mentioned that when you’re fully dilating and approaching the time at which you’ll finally get to push out a person, all of your normal contractions stop and it suddenly feels like your baby is about to come out of your butt?<o:p></o:p></div>
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MY GOD, you guys.</div>
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To be fair, a friend of mine <i>did</i> mention the pooping babies thing to me about a week or two before I gave birth, but I forgot about it because it sounded gross and ridiculous and it wasn’t happening yet (see above rationale for this). But then it WAS happening and so I turned to CB and was like “Ok, so I know we’ve gone ‘round the bend in the over-share department these last 24 hours, but since you’re the only person in the room, I need to tell you this: I’m pretty sure our baby is going to come out of my butt, and unless I missed something in health class, I think that’s the wrong place?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then he went to McDonald’s to get some dinner and bleach his eardrums.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I texted my friend Beth (the person who’d actually told me this prior to labor):<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: So is this normal or weird that it feels like the baby is about to come out of my butt?<br />
Beth: Uh, we talked about this. Normal. Call your nurse. You’re about to have the baby!<br />
Me: Really? That’s kind of embarrassing. Plus, I think she’s on her dinner break, I don’t want to bother her.<br />
Beth: You’re having a baby. Call your nurse. Seriously. I can’t believe you’re even texting me right now.</blockquote>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then 35 minutes later my daughter was born. Out of the normal part. Not my butt. (I think).<o:p></o:p></div>
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So ok, this wasn’t a <i>comprehensive </i>list of things to know, but it’s a list unlike what I’ve seen on all of my mommy blogs. I mean, no offense, but telling me to bring my favorite music with me into the delivery room and having a birthing plan was unhelpful, ALL PREGNANCY BLOGS. Because I assure you that my birth plan would’ve included a lot less butt-pushing and a ton more Beyonce music had this at all been within my control.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Which it’s not. Because it’s about babies. And the only thing you really need to know about having babies is that the control goes out the window once you’re catching poop and showing the security guard your vagina.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And it’s the best thing I’ve ever done with my life, hands-down. And probably the smelliest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Glad to be (kind of) back! Thanks for your patience, blog-readers!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-6826795033800625842016-10-06T09:19:00.003-04:002016-10-06T15:41:35.393-04:00Love is About SacrificeThis morning, I got this text from CB:<br />
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Now let me first point out that I know some people would consider this a form of child abuse to my second, growing daughter in utero. But SHE KEEPS ASKING FOR IT. And I eat bananas and apples and vegetables in between to make myself feel better for when I fail the glucose test next week. I mean, I had to finally buy the cereal so that, when it's ALL SHE WANTS randomly one morning or night, I have it, I satisfy that craving and move on.<br />
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However, it's important to note that SOME of the people I live with have insisted that the ShopRite brand cranberry and orange juice I've been buying for HIM just "doesn't taste as good as the name brand stuff." And then got my parents on board with how cheap I am that I can't splurge the extra $1.50 per week (each, mind you) so that he can enjoy his morning juice like the prince that he is.<br />
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So his youngest and I are currently eating Scrunchy Marshmallow Dreams. Because love is sacrifice.<br />
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***<br />
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This week has been trying. It was Tuesday and it literally felt like the week should be over with already, let's just start again. BUT one of the things that's been getting me through is this song. Between this and "I Just Wanna Dance With Somebody," I start bopping my head - just like my daughter, we can't help ourselves - and I take a deep breath and feel a little relaxed for just a few minutes.<br />
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So if you're having one of those weeks too - or if you just want to start bopping along despite yourself - enjoy.<br />
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<br />Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1054440755657956327.post-47669136295900470812016-09-26T12:06:00.000-04:002016-09-26T13:43:26.117-04:00The Illusion of Balance (as taught to me by llamas)<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, while riding the kids train at the zoo with my
daughter, I had an epiphany: there is no such thing as balance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This may seem strange, and maybe you guys already knew this
and nobody let me in on it? But for years and years I’ve been striving for
balance. Notably, balance between my personal and professional lives or, as is
now commonly referred to in our society, work-life balance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But as I pointed at horses and sheep and llamas from the
train with her, I realized that there’s no such thing. When I’m balanced with
my daughter, it’s because I’m not doing something at work. Or with my friends. Or
emailing/texting/calling basically anyone. Or watching <i>Narcos</i> on Netflix. Or cleaning out the closet I’ve needed to clean
out for a month. When I’m balanced at work and really in my stride, I’m not
with my daughter. Or my husband. Or my friends. Or watching <i>Narcos </i>on Netflix. I’m not reading the
books that are piling up on my Kindle and I’m not visiting my parents, sister,
niece, or friends who live far away. When I hop on a plane and visit <i>them</i>, I’m not usually with my daughter
or CB, or at work. Or watching Netflix. And dammit, that closet is still a
mess! <o:p></o:p></div>
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I really don’t have balance in my life much at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And that was the most FREEING concept to wrap my head
around, you guys. I don’t have balance! Hooray! Finally! Now I can stop
striving for it and just <i>relax</i>. Ok,
well, I can’t really relax because I’m not great at truly relaxing, if you must
know, though you probably do, because you’re not new here. It stresses me out
to actually relax. I’m definitely forgetting something and JESUS, I really need
to get to that closet sometime soon. But I can at least stop striving to have
this elusive “balance” I hear so much about. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like, I had to travel to California for work last week and
decided to make a 50-hour trip into a 36-hour one in the Golden State so that I
could get home and go to the zoo with my daughter, team up with CB so he wasn’t
chasing a 15 month old around for the entire weekend on his own, and wake up at
5:30am to start my Sunday with these two crazy nuts. It was <i>supposed</i> to be a trip that for sure
allowed for some downtime in between two and a half days of meetings, room service,
and laying horizontally in a king sized bed all my own until well beyond
5:30am. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But before my balance epiphany at the zoo, I had a little
chat with myself a few weeks ago about priorities and figuring out what’s
possible and what’s important to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What is <i>possible</i> is
moving some meetings around so that I could have a pretty jam-packed Friday and
Saturday and get to the airport in time to be home before midnight in New York
on Saturday. What’s <i>important</i> to me is
seeing the look on CB’s face when I came through the door close to midnight
when he thought I was coming home 15 hours later. What is <i>possible</i> is making those 36 hours count and not dwelling on how I’m
flying cross-country twice in two days. What’s <i>important</i> is hearing my daughter yell “mama!” when she saw me in
the dark at the crack of dawn the next day and started yelling and rolling
around on the bed (sidebar: that’s how she expresses joy. There’s usually a lot
of random yelling and LOTS of rolling her body around, so don’t be alarmed.)
What’s <i>possible</i> is taking care of my
second, albeit more chill, daughter in utero even though I’m trying to make
this all work out. What’s <i>important</i>
to me is that I succeeded in doing so – and even gave her a few fruits and
veggies while I was at it! <o:p></o:p></div>
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What <i>wasn’t</i>
possible was seeing anyone I love who lives in California while I was there for
a day and a half. What <i>wasn’t</i>
possible was meeting that one author who wanted to – and only could – meet on
Monday, who I actually felt guilty telling “no” to and then ended up chatting
with at the meeting anyway because we ran into each other. What <i>wasn’t</i> possible was reading any book on
my Kindle because I was no joke TIRED. And what <i>wasn’t</i> possible was getting a seat on the plane next to anyone but
the man who smelled like wet raccoon and literally took my plane snack from the
flight attendant and <i>didn’t pass it down
to me</i>. He just ate both instead. All
of those things <i>weren’t</i> possible, but
that was OK because, as the llamas taught me, there’s no such thing as having
it all, there’s no such thing as balance. But there is such a thing as being
present in the moment and really thinking about what you need, want, and what’s
possible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And what I <i>really</i>
wanted this weekend was to have some great meetings and then watch my daughter
absorb her first trip to the zoo, enjoy some delicious chocolate ice cream, and read her a book on the couch while she snuggled into me before bed. And I wanted to collapse into bed and laugh with my husband about our crazy lives. And then I <i>really</i> wanted to watch some <i>Narcos. </i>All of which I did. And so….maybe
my life is pretty balanced after all?</div>
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DAMMIT! The closet. Ok, no, it’s not. I was right the first
time. <o:p></o:p></div>
Beckyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05299540194000326688noreply@blogger.com1