Thursday, October 25, 2018

Beast Brain


I was texting with my BFF and she sent me a link about Monkey Brain.   Ironically a monk was explaining how to tame monkey brain. Which is basically just a million thoughts running through your head. So many thoughts that you can't complete one because you are already thinking of the next. Monkey brain is very similar to the conversations I have with my mom.  She will be talking about an obituary and somehow seamlessly transition to a discussion about sweet potato fries.

The Monkey brain texting thread arose from an email, text and a conversation where three people gave me extraordinary compliments.   They went out of their way, to tell me something that I did right. Or something that I said that made them feel loved, or even someone saying I was incredible.  
And I didn't believe any of them.  I do believe my mind races itself into knots,  but not with a cute little monkey.  Mine is a doubt beast and a really scary creature.  She doesn't scurry about, she stops and slams and makes herself known.

This beast is pretty intelligent too.  She took each of the compliments and created a pretty convincing case as to why they were false.   One: I did something right at work.  The beast's response is that it was just a fluke and I happened to do the right thing at the right time and somebody just happened to notice. Two: I made a friend feel special and loved.  Well, I was just being nice.  If they feel that way, maybe they are just having a bad day and my niceties came at a perfect moment.  And three,  I'm incredible. The beast reminded me that person may just be saying that because they don't see the real me, only what I write so they feel like they know me, but they really don't... Oh, and the other day someone called me beautiful, and the beast immediately thought they needed to get their eyes checked.

When Don and I were first married we had his parents visit our new grown-up house and I made strawberry shortcake.  Or I made what I thought was strawberry shortcake.   I was so proud of it, but they all giggled because it wasn't what they had thought was the right way to make strawberry shortcake.  Don said something like, his mom could teach me the right way to make it. The beast whispered in my ear that, I will never cook or bake like his mom. If I suck at strawberry fricking shortcake I could assume I suck at pretty much everything else, so what is the point of even trying.  I may also mention that this was about twenty years ago and I have never forgotten it.  And even more, I believed it as if it were carved in stone somewhere on a testament slab or something. That I,  Noelle cannot and will never be, able to cook or bake anything edible.  Anything that his parents may have said about how our house was decorated, or how happy they were to have me as a daughter-in-law was completely disregarded and not believed because the doubt beast is just so loud.

I wrote a great article that was shared more than anything I had ever written.  People loved it, I got emails from all over the world thanking me,  even today, I still get messages about it. Letters explaining how this article changed their life. In one case a woman told me it saved hers.  Which is amazing and I do believe it, however, that same article was posted on a well-known site and as I was riding this wave of self-achievement, a tiny little comment caught my eye.  It said " Good article, but she is a terrible writer."   This person must have been talking to my beast because they knew exactly what to say to drop a pin into my bubble and burst it into pieces. Now whenever I think about it this article, that is all I see.

So today, for whatever reason it occurred to me, that I have to tame this annoying beast. Because she is not only hurting me but now the people who love me.  And I may not protect myself, but if anyone threatens my family, well, game on.    When I compliment a loved one, I mean it. When they do same thing, I brush it off.

How I tame this beast of doubt seems impossible.   I have tried and tried over the course of my entire life. So I decided to try a new tactic.  What if I follow this beast. Follow it and find out where her home is. Find out where she nestles and originates her hunger to make me feel bad.  It might be a scary place.  I might discover something that makes me feel uncomfortable. But the truth is, I'm tired.  I'm tired of trying to tame this constant chatter of doubt.  It is not welcome anymore.
I want a truce, and I want to try and work things out.

I had my first opportunity when I was sitting in a meeting and I tried to say something and was talked over.  The beast whispered in my ear, "stop trying, you don't have anything interested to say."  But I do. So a little while later I tried again.  Granted, I had to raise my hand and practically wave it around, but I said what I needed to and by God, they heard me. I followed the beast's thought. You don't have anything interesting to say.  Ouch. I wouldn't say that to anyone that I love.  But I do recall a time that I felt that way and it was way back in elementary school. Not those words exactly, but a teacher told me I was wrong when I tried to explain why I wanted to have a polar bear as a pet.   The class laughed.  My seven-year-old heart broke.  (btw, my parent's got me a subscription to a world wildlife foundation magazine after that.) Which is rock start parenting in my opinion.
But even so, decades later that teacher is dead, but her words are very much alive in my head.
This doubt beast is persistent, but not unbeatable. It will be a work in process. I plan on writing out these doubts and find out where they originated because once I do, I can acknowledge them, face them and let them go.

I remember my mom saying "You are what you eat." and laughing that she was a Twinkie.   But I think the same thing could is true that  "You are what you think."   Be mindful of what you think about yourself, be kind.

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

A Love Letter to Yourself


A few weeks ago, I found myself in an apple orchard with a good friend and a new friend who happens to be an amazing photographer, who loves taking pictures of women.  She had two dresses I was wearing the white one and my friend chose the blue one.  Both dresses were the embodiment of femininity.   Not because it was tight, in fact, it was the opposite. It was long and flowing and had a deep V in the center.  The material was thin enough to let sunlight through but not sheer enough to show everything.
In other words, this was not a situation I find myself in often.
This tapped into my secret fantasy to live on an orchard in an undiscovered town in California and have chickens and the boys would only eat the food we grew and raise them all free-range style.  The boys... and the food.  I wouldn't wear makeup and walk around barefoot all day, read books, listen to music, paint, drink wine for lunch and wear long flowy dresses. 
My reality is quite different. This orchard was in Goshen, Indiana which is about 45 minutes away and the only reason I go to Goshen is to visit my grandparent's grave site.   Ironically, this orchard was a stone throw away from that.
The dress required some strategic undergarments because of its material. In my California fantasy, I'm not taping things to my nipples to cover them up, because, in California, nobody cares, but we were taking photos after all and thought it would be a good idea.
As I was walking through the orchard, picking apples, I felt a deep and unequivocal connection to my roots.  Whether it was because I was in nature or because I was near my grandparents, or just because I slowed down. Whatever the reason, I felt at peace.   And that is what comes through in these pictures.

I shared with my friend that I had done this and she asked me why.  She couldn't imagine getting photos taken of herself for the sole purpose to get pictures of herself.  

First, I told her about a photo I have of my mom.  It was taken when she was a new mother and it is by far, the most beautiful photo I have ever seen. And not just of my mom, but of anyone.  My heart actually throbs when I see this picture of a woman who was doing exactly what she wanted to do.  I treasure that photo.
Next, I told her that she is worth getting her picture taken.  So many women don't feel that way. Or they worry what other people will think, or that people will say they are vain, or even worse, that people won't like what they see.  There is nothing vain in celebrating yourself. 
When I was walking through the orchard I felt radiant.  Not because of my makeup or hair or dress, (which were all fantastic and not done by me) but because I was doing something for myself, and I was with girlfriends who were positive, fun and supportive.

 I'm not going to apologize for that.

When she sent me the photos, my first reaction was to find my flaws.  I was worried other people that would see them too.  I worried that if my sons saw the pictures they would be embarrassed.
That is when I had to make a hard stop and ask what in the hell my problem was.  This is who I am.  I am a woman who for the most part, is comfortable in my body.   There is beauty in that.    Think about the time when you felt the most beautiful.  For me, it was immediately after I gave birth to my first son.  In the photo, I'm laughing through tears and sweat, my hair is a mess and all over the place. I'm 40 lbs heavier and I'm natural, primal and gorgeous.   Of course, I can't recreate that every day. But if you feel most beautiful in sweats and a t-shirt, then you celebrate that.  If you feel most beautiful with amazing makeup and your hair done up, then celebrate that.

Because when you feel beautiful, you are beautiful. 

When you do things for someone else, (like when I cut my hair really short because my boyfriend liked it that way) then you are looking good for someone, but not feeling good. The point is not to chase beauty but be an example of it.  From the inside out.

In college, I learned that when you attach your worth to what other people say about you, then you are giving your power away.  So it only feels natural and good to write a love letter to yourself, or just do something that makes you feel really good. Maybe that is food, maybe that is a hike, maybe it is sex, maybe it is sleep. maybe its spending time with friends. Maybe it is all of those things combined.   Whatever that is for you, just do it. 

In my case, it was doing this. These photos embodied so much of what makes me feel beautiful, and  I don't think hiding my true self from my boys will make them better men, in fact, I think it would only perpetuate a stereotype of what a woman should or shouldn't be.   At the end of the day, I'm the only one who can give the boys an example of a happy mother who is squeezing the most out of life or at least tries too, on most days.

I won't display the photos above the mantle.  I'll keep them with the rest of our family's pictures. This entire day was more about celebrating myself and the pictures are just a result of that. Someday I hope my sons will stumble upon them and see me for more than just their mom. But as a woman who loved life even when things weren't easy.   A woman who could be a mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend,  but also own her sensuality,  have a desire to learn more, to excel in whatever she takes an interest in and to take care of the ones she loves, including herself.

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Believe It Or Not, Kids Are Listening.


Last weekend we went to a barn party.  Well, it was actually a hog roast, but we called it a barn party because the boys are particularly empathetic to animals. And in this case, they knew the hog and his name.
It was a laid-back family kind of party where you bring a blanket, and take walks around the farm.  We feel very comfortable there and the boys run around and play with their friends while we talk to ours.  It reminds me of summer parties from my childhood.  Returning to my parents just before it was time to leave, sweaty and tired and tan after playing capture the flag in a Midwestern neighborhood.
There was a band and Don asked me to dance.  While we danced Jack and Oscar joined us and we formed our own little mosh pit.  When the song was over, following what he had witnessed his daddy do, Oscar asked me to dance.   I put my flip flops back on and heading back to the driveway which was serving as our dance floor.  He twirled me around until I got dizzy. We held hands and did a ring around-the-rosey type dance we made up until the band stopped for the night.
We were sweaty and tired and tan when we returned to our blanket.
On the ride home Don texted me the picture he had taken while Oscar and I were dancing.  One of those pictures that someday, when I'm old I'll look at it and won't be able to recall a time when Oscar was shorter than me.  It was a perfect moment frozen in time. I shared it on social media.  I showed Oscar and he said it was a cool picture. All was well in the world.
My cyber friends saw the beauty in the picture too and a lot of people liked it. The following day I viewed the photo again.  The barn party weekend euphoria had ended and it was Sunday night.   As I looked at the photo I said to Don "This is a horrible picture, I look 6 months pregnant, I should delete it."  Don didn't respond because after 18 years he doesn't entertain negative comments I say about my body.  But a low little voice from behind the couch did. 
Not only did Oscar hear me say it was a horrible picture, but also that I looked pregnant and that I wanted to delete it.  He asked me why looking pregnant was a bad thing and why I lied about liking the picture yesterday.  In his 8-year-old mind, he thought I wanted to delete dancing with him from my memory.

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.

Being the only woman in my house, I try so hard, maybe extra hard, to show the boys that I love who I am. I want them to see me taking care of myself, so I can take care of them. I want them to see me sweaty with no makeup on when I come home from the gym.  I want them to see me put on lipstick and heels before I go to work.  Or wear a dress to go out to a concert.

When Jack commented that all I ate was salad, I tried eating a bigger variety so that they wouldn't assume that all women just eat salads.
In public, I make a point to comment on how beautiful pregnant women are.  Yet... here I was, saying the opposite.   I mean, in his mind, if pregnant women are beautiful, why would I be complaining about it if I felt I looked pregnant in a photo? 
Obviously,  as a mother of four large babies despite my best efforts, there are times and angles that my mid-section is not flattering.   How shallow of me to focus on the one thing in the photo that didn't matter. The one thing that nobody else was thinking.    The one thing that I shouldn't even care about.

He sat on the couch and I told him he was right.  That I do love that photo and I loved dancing with him even more.  That I was wrong to say mean things about anyone, especially myself.  After all, my body is amazing and it was able to nurture and carry his brothers and him.

But let me be completely honest.  I don't tell my body that on a regular basis.  In fact, if my body was my friend, it would have unfriended me long ago.  I continually look in the mirror and see things I don't like. In the process, I completely overlook the things I should.  Some of them stem from things that have happened to me when I was a teen.  Other things are my opinion based on the unrealistic expectations I alone have decided as to what beauty looks like.

I keep those all in my head, until I don't, and one of my sons hears me putting down his mommy.

Kids are always watching and listening. Even when you think they aren't.    When they are engrossed in their Nintendo DS or phones or watching YouTube. They listen. I know this because I can speak the words "dinner is ready" and they come running, even when moments earlier I screamed at the top of my lungs asking whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher and nobody responded.  They hear you moan in the mirror.  They see you stuff your body into garments to make you appear that you take up less space in the world. They notice when you look yourself straight in the eye and frown.  

I don't have daughters. But I have an important task, in raising sons.  I need to let the boys know, that women are beautiful because of who they are, what they are capable of doing as human beings and not what they look like.  And if they don't like something, they change it. But there is no room for judgment. Especially in oneself.  The people whom I love know that I love them hard.  And, that should include myself too. All of me.

What Oscar saw in that picture is everything I aspire to be.  He sees the beauty in the first woman who has ever loved him and will never stop.  And he sees his mommy. Who he asked to dance and she said yes and if he asks again, as long as I am able,  I always will.  That is true beauty and has absolutely nothing to do with the size of my waist.

Friday, August 31, 2018

Finding Soul-itude


I don't spend a lot of time alone.   Even times that I should be alone, like in the bathroom, I don't have much solitude because just on the other side of our old wooden door is either our dog or a son having a barely audible one sided conversation with me about Minecraft.
I recall a time when I felt alone a lot.  I was living in one of the largest cities in the country, and I had never felt more lonely.  I had plenty of friends.  But as I drove home from my acting class in Hollywood to my apartment in West Los Angeles, I remember having an overwhelming sense of isolation. Despite having plenty of connections, I didn't feel like I was actually connecting with anyone.

Now 18 years later my only solitude is found between dropping the boys off at various social and extracurricular events and usually, it is brief.    My minivan is my sanctuary.  It's climate controlled, kind of echo-y has the best music and it is the place that I can let everything out. For as many times the odometer has clicked a new number,  I have prayed, worried, sang, laughed or pulled over to cry.  I have had deep hands free phone conversations while in the Target parking lot which probably made me look crazy.  I have taken cat naps.  I have asked questions and expected to hear the answers.   When you're busy, you have to find meditation wherever you can get it.
Last week I was on the cusp of what felt like a big decision in my life.   I had finished a particularly challenging workout.  The sun hadn't quite come up yet, and I found myself pulled over next to the river. I opened the sunroof, turned off the engine.  It is not a secret that I'm a very artistic person.  I have come to realize I see things through a more colorful lens than your average person.   With that in mind, I will continue.
I looked over at the hospital.  I was born there.  My siblings were born there.   All four of my sons took their first breaths there. Even the two souls that never did, were born there.  Every single school day, my dad and I would drive past on the way to school.  Every day my mom and I would drive past on the way home.    I can almost feel every joy, pain, anxiety, happiness that I have felt throughout my life when I look at that building.  I still pass the hospital every single day, and it still catches my attention.  It's like passing an old friend, one who doesn't say much but observes everything.  knows a lot more about you than you think they do. 
As I sat there contemplating a change in my life, I turned to the hospital, almost expecting an answer.   Sometimes I think listening is the most powerful tool I have. Even when the answer doesn't come in words.

When I was my loneliness, it was because  I was trying to conform to someone that I wasn't.  I was on a mission to hide who I was, trying to please someone else, to be liked by people who weren't my friends.  In the process of trying to go from a size 4 to a 2 to a 0.  I wasn't just physically shrinking, my true self-was disappearing too.  I couldn't even be alone because if I sat really still, I had to listen to the voice that knew my authenticity had been seriously compromised. I'm not one to shy away from an argument, even with myself. 
The truth came to me in a really dark moment.  I had been out with friends for about an hour when I was drugged.  Thankfully they recognized this and got me to safety. To be out with friends one moment and 12 hours later wake up and not have any recollection of how I had gotten there was incredibly scary. I was home, in my little apartment bathtub, which is confusing as it is, but at least I was home.  (In hindsight, I wish they would have left a note) but I at least they got me there.

After I stopped being sick and was laying in my own bed, in my own pajamas, I took an inventory of every inch of my body asking myself how I had gotten there. Both literally and figuratively.  And while taking inventory, I had to make sure my soul was intact.  And at that moment, it wasn't. Not at all.  I listened hard that morning.  And even took a break from L.A. for a few days to find me again.  

Sometimes you need to be in solitude to allow your soul to give you the answer it has been trying to give you this entire time.  I'm not saying being drugged by a stranger is ever a good thing, but in this case, it was a dangerous wake-up call.  That I needed to stop searching for answers from others and search inside myself.

A few weeks later I met Don.  A few years later we returned to my hometown to raise a family.  And live a stone throw away from my old hospital.

And now, I find my sanctuary, sitting in a van down by the river.

I got my answer that day.  But only after I truly stopped. Stopped my body, and my racing mind. Stopped scrolling and lifted my focus away from my phone, away from the worry of what other people were thinking.  And I took a sharp turn inward. How amazing to give yourself the gift of solitude in a  crazy busy world.  A splendid moment of isolation in more restorative than any conversation could be.  And when you quiet the noise you can finally find your voice. 

Monday, August 20, 2018

Ripped


My dad would take me to school every morning on his way to the office, and as soon as he was out of eyesight I would roll.  I mean roll and roll and roll the top of the skirt until it was about mid-thigh.
The dress code for skirt length at my Catholic high school was fingertip length. My skirt wasn't that long to begin with.

Unfortunately, I had to walk by the office for my second class, and just when I thought I was in the free zone I would hear Mrs Hatfield call out " Miss Gunn, please come back here."   She would ask me to put my arms down to inspect the length of my skirt.  Before I would do this, I would shrug my shoulders up to my ears in an effort to fool her.  I tried to explain I was genetically predisposed to extremely long arms, and even longer fingers and this rule wasn't fair.   I received a warning, but as the years went on, I would be forced to wear the school "pants" which were hideous corduroy bell bottoms. I wore them so many times that when I graduated, Mrs Hatfield told me I could keep them as a commencement gift.
My husband went to an all-boys military boarding school, so I can't imagine he was a fashion rebel unless you count letting his shoes lose their shine.

I share this because right now I have a teen that is the same age.  Fifteen years ago I remember his birth. Specifically, I remember asking (pleading) for an epidural.   Which makes me think epidurals are wasted on the birth, they should be offered for the teen years. It would make it a lot less painful for me.  I'm kidding, sort of.  It is not physically painful. More emotionally.  A friend of mine told me that he doesn't give a flying f*ck what his son wears to school.  But the thing is. I do.  I give a lot of flying f*cks about it.

If you are my friend, you know this because I have talked about to anyone who will listen.   Since my friends are all busy now, I have to write about it, and since you are reading this,  you are going to have to be subject to it too.

My son has recently taken an interest in his personal style.  Up until this point, I have had the privilege to dictate what my boys wear.   I enjoy this.  Every morning, I would lay their clothes out.  I would describe my boy style as East coast casual with a hint of West Coast edge.  Or professorial kid-chic.  The truth is, the boys didn't care what they wore as long is it was easy to put on and wasn't uncomfortable.   I was also hoping to influence their little boy minds so that when they were adults, they would know that plaid doesn't look right with stripes. 

So now I have a boy, who wears ripped jeans and jean jackets.  He looks like Zach Morris if Zach Morris would have been mugged on the way home from the Max.  Or as a friend pointed out, he looks like Donny Wahlberg from NKOTB circa 1989.   Another friend of mine was much more flattering. She just came back from an Italian vacation and said that he looks very European.

Being a control freak, it takes all I have not to take these ripped jeans and send them to the European boys.  

I thought long and hard and probably too long about this.  Why does it bother me so much?  Why do I have a guttural reaction whenever I see his knees through his pants?  I don't have the same reaction when he wears shorts.  
After discussing it over drinks, with yet another friend, I had an A-ha moment.  

 I'm using my children as mini representatives of me.

I'm worried that anyone who sees one of them walking around with ripped clothes is going to have some opinion about me, and my lack of parenting.  That ripped jeans are the universal sign of neglect.  That ripped jeans are a red flag of my ability to control our family's image.   That ripped jeans scream horrific fashion sense and I cannot deal with it.

The truth is, this isn't just about clothing. I think parents do this all the time.  For example, you might be hesitant to tell a fellow parent that your child is not interested in going to college, but a trade school. Because that ultimately says your child won't have a collegiate degree.  "Then why did you spend all that money on tutors, and SAT classes and after-school activities?",  they may ask.  What will they end up doing with their lives? They may wonder.   And then the questions will be pointed at you.  Why didn't you force them to apply to college? It turns into a parental issue and has nothing to do with what is right for the child.

My friend pointed out that my son is an amazing young man.  He has empathy for animals and little kids (other than his brothers, that is an entirely different blog post).  He is creative and thoughtful and very funny.  He loves spending time with his grandparents on Sunday afternoons. He has more friends than I can count.  He sends me texts telling me to have a good day at work. 

No amount of ripped faded jeans are going to change that.

The reason I wore short skirts in high school wasn't that I was trying to be provocative.  It was because it was the style.   It was also because I played soccer and my mom had told me that I had beautiful legs.   Can you imagine if she would have told me the opposite?  That I had ugly legs? A parents reaction to their child's attempt to express themselves could leave a lasting impression, do I want it to be a positive or negative one?

I have decided to let these ripped jeans go. If this style makes him feel good about himself, then who am I to tear him down (pun intended.)   I have spent the better half of his life preparing him to be strong and have his own opinions, I guess I just thought that his opinions would be more in line with mine.  Parenting mistake #501.

I'm not going to love him any less if his opinions just happen to be different than mine. 

Thursday, March 15, 2018

I was the Pariah Girl


When I was in grade school my dad would drop me off early because it was on the way to his office.  Back then, you could just wander around the school until everyone got there.  I was in second grade and I walked down the long hallway to my classroom.  My best friend, Kristen arrived on Bus #3.  This day I decided to write her a note with a sticker I had gotten at the mall the day before and put it in her desk.  
When she arrived I couldn't wait for her to see it.  It was one of those oily stickers that you pressed on and it made all sorts of swirly shapes.    When she opened it, she folded it in half and stuck it back in her desk.
For sure I thought by snack time she would crack a smile or at least acknowledge the note.    When I returned from grabbing my milk she approached me and gave me the note back, but written in bubbly print it said: "You are not my friend and nobody likes you."
Up until this point, I had only had the wind knocked out of me while playing a sport, her words punched me just as hard. I looked around the hallway and she had returned to the group of girls in my class. They stood there giggling and whispering while I made my way to the girl's bathroom with floor to ceiling yellow tile and sobbed.
Of course, this is through the lens of my 8-year-old self.  Maybe the girls in the group were already laughing. Or maybe they didn't know about the note.  But the rest of the day, not a single girl talked to me.  It was a game they were playing that week.   At recess, I played four square with the boys.  I ate lunch alone,  (this was before buddy benches).   Luckily for me, I was a bit of a tomboy.  Many times I was the only girl invited to boys birthday parties.  I was so thankful for my knowledge of Garbage Pail Kids and Mighty Muscle Men that week.  What I didn't know was that this was a game the girls in the class had decided to play. To call out one girl and treat her like a pariah.  I don't know how I was chosen to be first, but thankfully I was the last. This game only lasted a week before everyone became uninterested.
Obviously, this had a significant impact on me.  I had trust issues with girlfriends after that. I spent most of my childhood being friends with boys in my class. Peter H., Noah G., Clint O. and Adam K., to name a few. They were fun, they played sports and they didn't play hurtful "games" like the girls did.
  
Eventually, I found a new girl that came to the school in 3rd grade.  As much as I loved playing football with the boys, I missed nail polish and dolls. I knew this was my opportunity to befriend someone who didn't know anyone.  It worked.   We became fast best friends.  And when you find that, you don't let it go.  Even 32 years later, we are still best friends and she was my maid of honor.
But the majority of my good friends, even today, are male.  This doesn't sit well with some women.  I get that, but they don't know my story.
I understand that even today, that some women groups still choose a pariah to collectively distrust or hate.   But if you have been the pariah, you don't participate.
I'm not perfect.  Initially, in high school, I fell into that trap.  I was popular  and with that I gained some sort of false power that made me believe that I could be mean without repercussions.  It would make me feel good at first.  But I began losing girlfriends. Then, on cue, another new girl came in.  She was beautiful, and she didn't know a single soul at this small Catholic school.  We had met at a party in 7th grade and she remembered that I was nice to her.  She gave the office my name and shadowed me all day.  When I got married 7 years later, she was a bridesmaid. 
Over time I allowed myself to trust women until eventually, I had enough for an entire bridal party!

But I carried the pain from 2nd grade around in my back pocket. It's amazing that a simple act of cruelty, even if it feels harmless can have a lasting impact.  In college, my roommate and I got into a fight and she screamed: "You are so closed off, you don't let anyone in!"   I was a theater major for God's sake, I was letting people in all the time! Or maybe I  let them see a scripted version of myself.  A predictable story. A protagonist, an ingenue, and best of all, a curtain at the end for keeping my distance.
She made me realize that I had been protecting myself and in the process, I was missing out on a lot of amazing friendships.
After I got married I decided to aggressively and proactively pursue female friendships.  Surprisingly, it wasn't that hard.  You find something you like and do it.  Eventually, you find other people who also like those things. And BOOM, you have a friend.  Then when you have kids, that makes it even easier.   Also, work-friends are a no-brainer.
I joined two book clubs. I joined mom groups, I joined CrossFit, and spinning or yoga, I took an art class, even a dog walking group.  And along the way, I was creating a little army of women who were there for each other. 
Equally, as a simple act of meanness can impact someone,  a simple act of kindness or inclusion can have an even bigger impact on someone, especially a woman.
I spend a lot of time at war with myself and I'm assuming that other women do the same.  The worn out recording of the same old crap. I'm not (blank) enough.  People think I'm (blank).   We have no business tearing other women down because chances are, she already does that to herself enough and is much better at doing it then you could ever be.

A year or so ago I found out that a woman had said some really awful things about me.  She doesn't even know me, but still thought she would go out of her way to say mean things.  Of course, her hurtful words made their way back to me. 
The funny thing is, is that when you surround yourself with army of strong women who you actively build up, they are going to go to battle to protect you.   Her effort to gain friends by being cruel resulted in having the opposite effect.

Even so, it still hurt, and it is really hard for me to forgive that person. It's like standing the hallway at snack time all over again.

I saw her recently, sitting alone in a bar that I was having a drink with one of my guy friends. I went on a 10-minute tirade about why I hated her, I also decided to call out all of her flaws.  He just looked at me in shock, he had never seen that side of me and told me it was ugly.  At that moment I was not choosing an action that was in my best interest. Or hers.  I was hurt and I was venomously expressing hatred that would carry me to a dark mean place, which made me just as bad as she was.  I figured this out the hard way after I yelled at my friend for pointing this out.  (That is another perk of guy friends, they have no problem calling you out.)

So the next week or so I went out of my way to make up for this discretion.  I friended women on Facebook who had bad ass profiles that exuded happiness and confidence.  They friended me back instantly, and I sent them messages, even though I didn't know them, explaining why I wanted to be their friend. Not just in cyberspace, but it real life.

I also started liking selfies of women friends on Instagram.  Taking a selfie takes courage. Unless they are seriously narcissistic, it's not a braggadocios act. Maybe their skin or hair or make up looks really amazing that day. Maybe their relationship with a significant other is just going super well and they want to document it.  Maybe the opposite is true, who the hell knows, but what I do know, is I am going to LIKE it. Because it takes courage to put yourself out there.  Every single time a woman  supports another woman we win.

This isn't a competition. It is a collaboration.

So what the girls in 2nd grade didn't realize is that they were teaching me a very important lesson.  That kindness trumps cruelty in every. single. situation. 

For that one day, I'm so grateful.  I was the lucky one chosen to be the Pariah.

Thursday, February 1, 2018

Unlocking a teenager


Last night there were about 6 things that needed to be done.  About 4 of them HAD to be done,  like making dinner and opening a bottle of wine. But of those 4 items, I only managed to get one done and I'm sure you can figure out which one that was.  I needed to finish yet another paper for grad school and should have been researching data analysis.  But instead, I found myself on my bedroom floor surrounded by a dozen old journals. 

Just by looking at the worn covers I can tell you exactly where I was in my life.  The yellow one with pink and green flowers with the word "Help" on the side?  That was the beginning of high school.

I flipped through the worn pages that if I run my fingers over the print it almost feel like the words are engraved.  I can tell how I was feeling by how deep the impression of the words.  I flipped through until I found 1992.  I was 14.
It was my adult self's desperate attempt to figure out what it feels like to be 14 again.  

Memories have a way of filtering out things. For some people, they filter out the positive. For others, they filter out the negative.  If you asked me now,  I would say I liked being 14, I had fun. I had a lot of friends and was well liked, I was a great athlete, a cute girl and a decent student. 

My 14-year-old self would vehemently disagree. According to her, she loved people that didn't love her back, her friends betrayed her,  boys made fun of her. She let her team down in a playoff game, her body was fat and her face was hideous,  and she was the dumbest person in her class.

I was given my first journal when I was 8 and since then, when I needed to sort through my feelings, I turned to writing.  The entire rainbow of feelings, high and low and everything in between. That is one thing that has withstood the test of time. And right now, I need to figure some things out.

Like a library, I can go back to a very specific stage and read my very own description of exactly what it felt like.

I pulled the journals out from their hiding place in the name of research. I was trying to figure out a combination to unlock my one of my sons. 

When he is hurting, as his Mom, I feel like I need to do whatever it is to help him.  Every child is different and he internalizes.


The combination that would work as a toddler,
Pick him up.
Tell him I love him.
Make him laugh.

When he was a little boy,  I would
Give him a hug.
Tell him I love him.
Make him an ice cream sundae.

When he was a preteen, I would
Go for a walk.
Tell him I love him.
Give him his space.

Now as a teen.....
Tell him I love him.
Text him I love him.
Text him a funny dog video

But last night my combination failed. Nothing I said or did worked.
I desperately wanted to unlock him, because if I understood what was bothering him, I could surely fix it.  Don spoke to him and said, I should give him his space.

I didn't.

I tried every combination I knew. 

Something you should know about me is that I don't like people to feel sad.  Especially the people I love.  When I see someone broken in pieces, I want to put them back together. 

So, I didn't listen to Don. I went up to his room and I tried to pick the lock, and truthfully, I only made it worse. And my son continued to turn inwards. Every attempt I made another lock was added to keep me out.  When I looked at him I saw the Pont des Arts in Paris. Lock upon lock upon lock.  The wall was getting thicker the more I tried.

But a mom stops at nothing.

That is how I ended up on the floor of my bedroom reading my journals. searching for a code that I could offer it to my son.

Before I went to bed I went up to his room and saw the door was shut.  I stood there and said "Goodnight" but got no response.  I considered sleeping outside his door just in case he needed me but even I know that is a little crazy. 

As I walked away I forgot to do the one combination that I always attempt. Through the door, I said "I love you" ..... I waited a few seconds in hopes to hear it back but didn't.

I sent him another text with those same words, he didn't respond.

Those locks in Paris were called Love Locks.  In 2015 the wall was removed and 45 TONS of padlocks were removed and there was a public outcry.  All those locks represented people who loved each other.  45 TONS of unbreakable Love.

Maybe I need to think of his locks differently. They aren't keeping me out, but keeping things in.  And he will unlock them when he is ready.

And no matter what, I am going to continue to tell my boys that I love them, I'll never stop. Even if they don't want to hear it or read it.  What I know for sure is that they NEED it.

And that is all I can do.

My hope is, that when any of them are in a dark place that my voice will reach the places that my hands can't and serve as a light to guide them back to a familiar safe place, which will always be unlocked for them.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

An Open Letter to The Person Who Critiqued My Son's Performance in A Christmas Show


I was having a pretty decent morning. Yesterday, our neighborhood had a freak power outage at 7:30 a.m. right after I had dried half of my hair.   Luckily for me, the wet side was on my left and I was able to roll my window down and let the brisk 41-degree air dry the other side as I rushed to get my boys to school on time So compared to yesterday, it was smooth sailing.

Until a few friends of mine told me not to read the local newspaper.  To be honest, I didn't need coaxing with that.  I don't usually read it anyway, but now I was curious.  As you know, there was a review in the paper of the show two of my sons, my husband, and numerous (new) friends are in.  It is a timely production of A Christmas Story. An adaptation of the movie and my son plays Ralphie. 

I felt that little tingle.  The tingle I can only imagine Bruce Banner feels right before he turns into the Hulk. Except, I'm something far more dangerous than a giant green meathead, I'm a Mama bear.   I tried to suppress this feeling before I made it to my office and searched the Internet.  

You see, Jack has wanted to be on stage since he was 2.  Any opportunity he has had to perform he has jumped at the chance.  Both my husband and I spent a good amount of time on stage.   We didn't let him audition until he was 8.  Jack's older brothers were in plays, but we wanted him to be ready for the massive time commitment any production takes.   He auditioned for a few shows and while his brother got lead roles, he got the chorus and ensemble, if he got a part at all. 

When auditions for A Christmas Story came around, he wanted to audition, but talked himself down saying he would probably be cut.  We encouraged him to try. When he got the news that he had not only gotten a part but the lead, his world blew up.  

That was in October.  We are now in December.   What I don't think you could have even possibly considered was that, a commitment to five- six nights a week for 2-4 hours is tough for anyone. It's not just the actors commitment, it is a family commitment.   We ate dinner at 5:15 every night so we could still see each other and make it to rehearsal on time.    I'm currently in the trenches of my master degree, while working full-time and raising four young boys, but you see, all that doesn't matter when you finally see the spark in your child's eyes when they finally find something they love doing and believe for the first time, that they are good at. Running lines day and night, became our life.

A little history about me,  I have a theater degree, hence me returning to get my masters at the age of 40.  I was in my junior year of college auditioning for parts across Los Angeles, I got some bit parts here and there.  Then I got a big break, an audition with an agent that I believed could change my life.  And he did, but not in the way I had hoped.  He told me that I was a great actress, that he wanted to represent me, but that wasn't good enough. I needed to change my appearance and test my morals if I really wanted him to be my agent.  The really sad thing is, is that I believed him.   I was just 21 and I thought he knew what he was talking about.  And just like that, I believed something someone else said to me, and I gave up my dream. 

So today, when I sat down at my computer and saw that you critiqued my 10-year-old son's acting I couldn't help but feel a bit defensive.   I'm not a theater mom. I'm just a regular mom, who just read someone publicly criticize her son.  In a community theater production. At Christmas.   Can you imagine if every kid that did any kid-like things was judged?  Jack loved playing basketball but he was terrible, thankfully someone like you wasn't there to point out all his flaws there too. He gave it up on his own accord. 

The thing is, my son is a kid, playing the part of a kid.  And the criticism was that he wasn't engaged when other characters were speaking.  Holy cow, talk about method acting, I think this is a brilliant interpretation of how every kid across the world interacts with their parents on a daily basis! He deserves a Tony Award.

I apologize if this is starting to sound a bit too Mama bear, theater mom crazy, but I'm writing it for every parent who has sat crouched in a cold dark backstage room telling kids to be quiet or listening for cues . Or pricked their finger sewing on a feather that has fallen off a costume. Theater is so much bigger than just the acting.

This little town of mine, and the kids in it, need this community theater now more than ever.  Why? Because acting is more than just pleasing the audience. It's allowing our kids to learn to express themselves in creative ways. It's showing them alternative ways to deal with complex emotions. Being a kid today in this violent world is not easy, but what is easy, is being a kid, playing a kid in an imaginary world and loving every single second of it.

The last thing I would want is for someone to read a bad review of a community theater production, and then decide not to attend. Because without an audience, those kids are just rehearsing, and they do a LOT of that already.  Plus,  those ticket prices, although they may seem high, are what keep these little theaters going, and these kids dreaming and learning how to navigate in this unpredictable society.

So thank you for saying my husband was the "highlight of the entire production", that was sweet, but I kindly disagree, I think every single person on that  stage was equally as bright.  And thanks for saying Jack did a fine job reciting all of his lines (167 of them in all, he counted). But, he isn't going to see your review.  We have taught him that people will forget what you say to them, but they will never forget how you make them feel. 

After his opening night, the same show you saw, as I tucked him in way, way, way past his bedtime,  he said the best part of the entire night, was hearing people laugh and seeing people in the audience smiling.  You should know, you were there.

Really, that is what theater is all about. It is making people feel.  And with every kid who can stand on a stage and that is willing to do that for me, is a star in my book. 
All I ask is that next time, you feel like tearing something down consider the community that took the time to build it up. 

I encourage every single person in our city of South Bend, Indiana and a 25-mile radius to go and see the remaining 15 shows if they get a chance.  And if you aren't local, go and see your community's Christmas Show.  I can promise, you will smile, at least twice, and I don't know about you, but lately, our world has been filled with a lot of frowns.   

Thank you,
Noelle Gunn Elliott

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Losening the Reins

I have never broken in a horse.  I should say that up front.  Although recently I told a friend that breaking in a horse would be easier than raising a teen.  She didn't question my comparison, at least not out loud.  The last couple weeks have been challenging.  Since last month, I have two teen boys in the house.   I don't want to freak anyone who is currently raising toddlers out, but I have lost more sleep and felt more guilty about my parenting than I ever did when they were young.

And guilt was my middle name.

My teens are 13 and 14. This is just the pony stage of teen life and if I can't even handle a pony how in the world am I going to handle a full-size horse.  Again, I have no experience with horses, the last time I rode one was in Sonoma on our honeymoon (16 years ago). The thing about horses is that you they are beautiful, but at the same time, they can scare the shit out of you.  For example, you can be going along riding a horse on a trail, and then all of the sudden something freaks them out, they start galloping and you think you are going to die.  And you say "Whoa", but they don't listen, and just before you think you are going to get bucked off, they start walking again like nothing ever happened. That is why I feel like raising two teen boys is like breaking in a horse who doesn't like having someone on their back telling them what to do. And for the simple fact that horses eat a ton....
What I do know from brief horse encounters, and the obscene number of Lifetime movies I have watched where the movie takes place on a ranch is that horses respond better when you loosely hold their reins.  When you guide them gently, but let them follow the path without forcing them to go where you want them to, they will do it.

I have learned that teen boys are kind of like that too.  In every instance that we have ended up in a conflict, it has been because of someone's ( okay, mostly my) expectations have not been met.   My preconceived ideas about how a conversation or a situation is going to go, and when those expectations are not met, all hell breaks loose.  This happened recently with a movie night I had planned.  All I wanted to do was put on my comfy pajamas, make some popcorn and snuggle with my husband and the 4 humans we created surrounding us.  I announced my intentions numerous times and put it on our kitchen chalkboard that the movie would begin at 7.

We were all ready, and my oldest was missing.  He had decided to go to a volleyball game instead. He texted me and called, but I had put my phone away so I could be fully present.  When I did read the text and see he called 9 times. I was mad.  How dare my high schooler want to spend a Friday night with his friends?   If I'm honest, it hurt my feelings.  And I know how pathetic that sounds.  When he got home he couldn't understand what the big deal was, and truthfully, I couldn't articulate it either.

It isn't a secret that I'm a bit of control freak.  I like order, organization, and predictability.  The three things that teens are not notorious for.  At least not mine. So I continue to try and shove them in this perfect square I have created with four equal and straight lines.  And when one of them decides to veer off, I pull in the reins. Making it even worse.

It's a hard realization when you suddenly have kids who are the size of adults in your house.   I look up to their eyes and I still see the little boys holding a sippy cup, and a blanket.  And that is the problem.  I'm trying to keep them in this box that they no longer fit in.    They are growing, so I might as well too.

I decided it was time that I loosened my reins.  I'm not hovering. I'm trusting. I'm keeping them safe, giving them guidance but letting them find their way, (within reason).  This is tremendously hard for me, and could possibly blow up in my face. You see, for the past decade, I have been doing my absolute hardest to teach them right from wrong.  I have made them apologize when they have done something inconsiderate,  write thank you notes when they need to show gratitude, and put their dirty dishes in the sink.  In addition to being the single female in their house and trying to make them see me in a way that they will see all other women for the rest of their lives.  The last one, being the most important to me.  I want more than anything for them to respect everyone, but especially women. I want them to be the men I needed at a party in college, or at my first job, or second, or third job.
And my fear is that if I step aside, they may get off this path, so  I have painstakingly tried to put them on.

My answer came in the form of this text.


It's not groundbreaking, but I texted him at what I thought was his lunch time.  Just letting him know I was thinking about him.  But then, he returned and asked me how my day was.

Reins loosened. A 14-year-old boy asking his mom how her day was going.  It may not seem like a lot, but to me, it was validation that not only does he care about others, he takes the time to ask.

I may not know anything about riding horses or getting them to stay on the path, but the little that I do know has helped guide me in the right direction in raising gentlemen.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

The Perfect Mess



I was running behind schedule this morning.  I did my usual workout at 5 and was back home by 6:15. But somehow between 6:15 and 7 a.m. I had the nerve to sit down and have my breakfast, rather than taking bites of it as I scrambled past the kitchen island.  Oscar saw me and was so confused by this that he asked me if it was Saturday.  "No, it's Wednesday" I explained and I have lost all motivation to move.
I managed to make my way into the shower and I just stood there in a strange time warp actually enjoying the hot water run down my back. I even decided to wash my hair today.  Seriously, who in the hell did I think I was, a lady of leisure?  Just as I was about to apply conditioner, Oscar burst into the bathroom and asked if he could have my thumb.  He needed it to unlock my phone.  I stuck my thumb out of the shower and he dried it off and pushed the phone against it.

"Why?" I asked.  He said he had made the perfect mess and wanted to take a picture of it.  I tried not to freak out, and my shower euphoria came to an abrupt end.

I'm not a messy person, on the outside.  But on the inside, dear Lord help me. Let me share a little insight.  A couple of weeks ago my foundation was compromised. What I mean is, on the outside, my structure looked normal, but on the inside, I was crumbling.  Anxiety was eroding any solid beams that were keeping me standing.

For me, anxiety is like a closet that you stuff everything into before you have company come over. Remember, I don't like a mess.  If someone is sad, I want to cheer them up, if someone is mourning, I want to shower them with love, if someone is angry, I'll take the hit.  If someone is lost, I want to help them find their way, (totally metaphorically, I have a horrific sense of direction).   I want to take those painful things away from others and lock them away.  At least for a little while, because for me, there is such beauty in a clean space, it's when I can finally breathe.


Then, one day something happened that forced the door to the closet to open and everything spilled out.   I panicked as I tried to stuff it all back in, but I couldn't as much as I tried.  Things spilled out in plain sight. Every anxiety I had hidden away, all my insecurities about every aspect of my life, my marriage, my friendships, my work, my school. Everything.  I had been here before and I knew I needed help, so I called a therapist.


I have had one fantastic therapist in my life,  and I became friends with him, so now he isn't my therapist, and that is really cool, but also sad because every other therapist I have had is, well, nuts.

So I went to a new therapist and sat with him for two hours, TWO hours answering his question as to why I feel overwhelmed with anxiety.  He told me he has never met a woman with more on her plate, and I agreed with him.  And then he told me he knew why I was having such anxiety. I was so thrilled to finally have someone offer a solution.  He told me it was Satan.

(See above comment about my luck with therapists.)

I had allowed Satan into my life and he was causing the anxiety.  Yep.

Our session ended abruptly after that. How ridiculous right? Satan?  But then, I started thinking about it. Maybe he was right? Maybe I had... I mean I was pretty crazy at one point in my life, maybe he saw a vulnerable window open and crawled on in?  Oh my God maybe I AM possessed?

I pulled over and messaged my pastor. Actually, my former pastor, but he is still on my crisis contact list.  Surely he would know.   He responded almost instantly and apologized for the therapist who offered such a suggestion and said that indeed, he did not believe Satan was the cause of my anxiety.

I texted/called 4 of my closest friends and asked them if they thought I had been acting weird(er) and if it was possible that Satan had entered my body.  They all responded and said no.  I didn't text my mom because she would have had an exorcism arranged by the time I got off work.

When I did get home, I poured a glass of wine (i.e. if blessed, the blood of Christ) and called my brother.  I told him what the therapist had told me.  He had a good point.  He explained that if the worst thing that Satan is capable of doing is causing a busy mom who (has four growing boys, a full-time job, a part-time job, a theatrical show, is going to grad school, who helps take care of her parents, and her husband) to have anxiety, then I must be one strong mo-fo.  OR, the guy was full of shit.

I can always count on him to make me see things clearly.

When I think of evil, I think of death, destruction, manipulation, politics, but anxiety isn't at the top of the list, or even on the bottom.

 I discovered a few things. In addition to finding a new therapist, I realized that most of my anxiety is caused by trying to conceal things that make us perfect.  What Oscar saw in his "perfect mess" was that it was the shape of a flower.

What causes me anxiety is all the things that are messy. I worry I'm f'ing up my boy's lives. I worry that Don thinks I'm not doing a good job as a wife or mother. I worry that I'm not smart. I worry that I'm not doing enough for others, on certain days I worry if I'm chubby/ugly.. ( I know it sounds petty, but these things are a concern.) My biggest and most frequent worry is that I just can't do it all.

But as my brother pointed out, I kind of am.

On a difficult day, I need to focus on the times when I saw this. Like, when Fin was at a rehearsal for his play and was the happiest I had ever seen him. When I broke the garage door (again) and Don didn't blame me, just fixed it.  When I got an A on a paper that I did at the very last minute because I was too busy helping Parker with his homework. When a co-worker tells me I look nice when I didn't even shower that day.

If I look closely enough, I too can see that true perfection is messy, ugly, hard and brutal and most importantly real. And most significant is the people who love me for it. Did I mention that not one single person I asked about  my Satan-induced-anxiety hesitated to help me? Or to talk me through it? Not one of them told me I was to blame.

Compassion for others (and in oneself) is being able to see the flower in the mess.  

Thursday, September 14, 2017

The Scarlet letter F

I have not tried to hide the fact that I was a bit of a troublemaker as a kid.  Well, I have hidden it from my own kids, but not everyone else.   I like to act shocked when they get caught doing something they shouldn't be doing.

In fourth grade, I tried to use my sister's bug collection and pass it off as my own. She and my dad spent weeks making a wooden case with a plexiglass window.  Inside were all the insects she had collected day and night all summer. All of them intact with a long needle right through the middle.  Each was labeled with labels she lined up in the type writer to get just perfect.

We went to a small private school, but nonetheless, I thought I could pass it off as my own. I may mention that she is nine-years older than me, and the insects looked a little... crusty.  Despite my sisters research on what looked to be expert insect taxidermy, my teacher could clearly see that these insects had been dead for almost a decade.  They had legs falling off, some even had cobwebs.  But, on the day it was due, I marched it in and presented it to my teacher.

This box was not light. It was cumbersome so my Dad had to help me carry it in. He didn't say a word.  I sat it on the table next to all the other bug collections and although I felt a tinge of guilt, I was happy I spent my summer swimming and not killing bugs.  At the end of the day, the teacher gave me a note and a grade.  The note said I needed to take it home, and that I got an F,  and that my parents had to sign it.   This time I had to carry the stupid bug collection out to my Mom's car by myself. She didn't say a word.

They knew very well what I was doing and neither one of them stopped me.  They let me get caught, and they let me carry the guilt and consequences (literally). The teacher didn't give me a chance to make it up either.  I had to carry that F as a scarlet letter for the rest of trimester and work my butt off to get a C. Which I did.

My parents didn't seem to think my actions were a reflection on them, but more on me.

I realize now that my parents were bad asses.  At the time I blamed them for all of my problems, like most kids, but I'm glad they let me walk out of the house and into a trap that I had set for myself and that they were going to let me get caught in.

Did I try and cheat again? Yes.  A few years later,  I waiting until the last minute to do a leaf collection. Rather than collecting leaves all Fall, I waiting until they were dead and covered in snow the night before it was due.  I attempted to color, and cut the leaves into various leaf shapes, then laminate and label them.  Although an Oak leaf may not look like a Maple leaf, with a little help from some craft scissors it can.  It is no surprise, I got caught... again. And once again wore the F of shame.

I would like to say that was the last time, but it wasn't.  In high school, I missed a history quiz so I was taking it in the library and I used my text book to find all the answers.  But as I was turning it in to Mr. Rethlake, I burst into tears and told him what I had done.   Once again, I got an F, but rather than making me tell my parents, he made me read him the chapters  that I should have read, out loud, and then asked me the same questions that were on the quiz until I got them right. Because of this, I was late to soccer practice. Because I was late to soccer practice.  I  had to tell my coach, why I was late , he made me run laps around the field for an hour and a half.

In unrelated news, that day my boyfriend broke up with me. #worstdayever

It was around that time I decided that it wasn't worth it.  I was destined to get caught, and not only that, I wasn't going to get off easy.

As much as I don't want my boys to experience pain or humiliation, a little discomfort goes a long way.   Of course, they are perfect in every way, yet they have each done some seriously stupid things,  and I have let them.  As long as it wasn't going to result in physical trauma, I stepped aside.

What I didn't realize is that it is not easy to do that for parents. Not at all.  It hurts ten times worse.   I find myself wanting to correct their wrongs, but if I constantly do that,  how will they learn what is the rights are?

Recently one of the boys plagiarized a book report.  I was a little suspicious because all summer I had not seen him open the book once.  But, I'm not a helicopter mom so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  On the day he presented his report to the class he was feeling sick to his stomach.  By the time he did, he was in full on guilt mode.  He admitted it to his teachers.  He didn't eat his lunch, he barely touched his dinner and afterward, he called Don into the bedroom.

On the bed, he had every item of value to him. His laptop, his iPod, his gaming system.  He (in dramatic fashion) said he needed to confess something. But, before he did, he was grounding himself from screens.  Don watched as he dry heaved confessing something he thought we didn't know. He made it right. It's like we are raising self-cleaning ovens!   They are regulating themselves.

By the time he told me, I too (in dramatic fashion) acting shocked and dismayed.  I'm not at the level of badassery as my parents were to let him know I knew. I'll get there, I'm sure.

Being a kid is hard sometimes,  but if I make it easy for him how will he ever be able to cope with the fact that being an adult is even harder?

As an adult, I can't blame my mistakes on not knowing better.  Chances are I do, but still make the dumb choices. Or the easy choice.  Like saying yes to that third glass of wine or saying yes, I want to watch the next episode of Orange is the New Black even though I have to wake up in 5 hours. I digress.

When you know better, you do better....most of the time. 



Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Shutting up and letting go

Right now the stars have aligned and I have a boy in different, yet equally crucial emotional growth stages.  At times I feel that each of them have a fish hook to a chamber of my heart and each is pulling the attached string in different directions.  I realize that it is a natural progression in the relationship between a parent and child, but having all boys, and trying to raise gentleman in today's world is challenging, to say the least.   Although my heart is pulling in different directions, sometimes I have to lean into the one who needs me most.
My oldest son is starting high school this month.  He has grown at least 3 inches this summer and yesterday for a snack he ate an entire rotisserie chicken. I asked him how football practice went and I got a one-word answer.   He went to camp last week, and when I asked him what his favorite part was he said "talking to people". The boy who doesn't say three words to me before noon, best part of a camp was talking to people?  What about talking to the person who spent 26 hours birthing him?
I'm trying so hard to not mess this transition to high school up.   It scares me more than him. At least I think it does. I don't want to be the mom that keeps asking annoying questions, but there is so much I want to know!  Last night, after he had his second dinner, he sat down next to me on the couch and told me about a troubled girl he met at camp.  I wanted so badly to offer advice, to give him a glass of milk and turn on Higglytown heroes and snuggle. But for the sake of preserving any mom credit I had, I did what is hardest for me to do... I said nothing.  I literally bit my tongue, and a crazy thing happened.  He talked more... and more... and even sat with me for an entire 20 minutes.  I didn't offer any advice or tell him a relatable story about my life. I was as quiet as a ninja.
His teen life is so different from mine. I made the mistake of calling some of his friends "just virtual friends" and he was hurt by that. Why? Because he may not see those friends, but he talks to them, plays games with them, and communicates daily with them.  He is living in an age where everything is at his fingertips, and he has to make the decision to click or not.  Girls sharing fleeting bikini shots while wearing over contoured makeup to perfect their already flawless faces.  Because somehow she believes that is what he wants, my 14-year-old son. My boy who is growing up in a country that the president tweets vengeful things about people on social media, something I have told my son never to do.
So who am I, to tell my son how to be a teen in a world that I have a hard time adulting in?  
I'm in the process of learning a lot about boys and men.   The majority of my life has been spent with boys.  My closest and first example is my brother and my dad.  My first best friend was a boy named Adam.  I have had a boyfriend pretty much consecutively since I was 15.   Some of my best friends today are men, including my husband.  And with this history of men, I like to think I have learned a few things.
Men have the same wants, needs, desires as women do, but they are hesitant to share them.  Hesitant, because they want so badly to be seen as strong, yet fear that vulnerability will make them appear weak.  Some of the most successful men I know have moments of the most insecurity.  And sometimes they need someone to re-secure them.
The men in my life are not intimidated by strong women. In fact, almost all my best guy friends are married to strong women. This includes my dad, brother and husband. And is something I want my boys to witness.
They need physical connection. Around the age of twelve my boys suddenly become an island.  I have noticed that they become awkward and don't know what to do with their freakishly growing bodies.   I no longer get the big hug when I drop them off at school. But I do get the back of his head leaned in just close enough for me to air kiss it.
It may not be a mother's touch a teen boy wants, but have you ever seen a bunch of teen boys in a group? If they aren't wrestling, they are high-fiving or jabbing each other's ribs.  What I see is that men and boys still want the connection of touch,  even if it appears barbaric at times, and breaks furniture.

In contrast, my youngest son has spent almost the entire summer touching me.  At the pool he has to lay his freezing wet body on top of mine to get warm when the lifeguard blows the whistle.  This could be partially in part to the fact that earlier in the summer we lost him at an aquarium for 45 min. (Huge parental low). When we finally did locate him, we hugged in the middle of the penguin exhibit, and both cried.
Did I mention how we lost him?  I was trying to post a perfect picture on Instagram.  I was looking down.  I wasn't paying attention to what was actually happening and more interested in documenting a moment with friends on social media.  I lost my son in the process.  How many other moments have Iost trying to freeze a moment that had already passed?
I remember an old woman in a grocery store telling me to never have too many kids that you don't have a hand to hold them. Between my husband and me,  we have enough hands. What this woman failed to mention is that they as they grow they need you to know when to let it go.
I want my sons to be great athletes, globally conscious citizens and stellar students.  But nobody but them can make that happen.  I have to know when to be quiet and step aside. 

But you better believe I will still be in arms reach if he needs to grab my hand.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Mamalogues Recap


It has been a week since the Mamalogues, and I have had some time to reflect on what an amazing night it was.  But it might not be for the reasons you expect.

A little ritual I do before every show is that I visit the space and say a prayer for each of the women who will be reading.  I also say a prayer for the audience to be open to receive what they have to say.  If anything, this helps calm my nerves and sets a good tone for the rest of the night.  I do this for most performing arts events. (My full time job is managing and publicizing music events). But, similarly when my dad has an art show or my brother has a concert, I will set the same intention.  Art is subjective, I realize this, and not everyone will like it.... that is the hard part, especially for a people pleaser. I just really really want people to enjoy it!

What people may not know is that when the idea of a staged show first came to my mind, I wasn't feeling very creative at all. In fact, I was in a really dark place.  I was at my rock bottom of postpartum depression and anxiety, and I received an invitation to meet some friends for dinner.  That was the last thing I wanted to do. I hated what my second pregnancy had done to my body. I didn't feel like I could be a fun person to be around. I just wanted to sit in the shower and let the water drown the negative voices in my head. But, somehow I ended up at dinner with about eight women, all of which had recently had babies.  We shared stories without judgement, and for a brief moment, I forgot about how sad I was. I returned home uplifted.  The collective energy of women is intoxicating and powerful.  We get together to celebrate happy times, but why is that when things get rough, we retreat to ourselves? That is when we need each other most. That is when the idea of the Mamalogues, a time where we could share stories openly, crossed my mind.

I was a tomboy growing up, and have always had more guy friends than girlfriends. I like to play sports and have played soccer the majority of my life.  Most of the time I spent with girls, it was on the soccer field.   I loved them like sisters.  (Still do.) There was no competition.  We all had a common goal, which was to do the best we could to win the game.  I never wished that our goalie Sarah would miss a shot, I wanted her to succeed. I never compared myself to Katie, the best defender (who I played soccer with for a decade) because we each had a different skill, that was equally important.  Yet, after college, I didn't have a team of my own anymore.  I found myself comparing myself to others, especially women.  The voice in my head would tell me they were prettier, thinner, smarter, more successful than me.   This is what happens when you are alone. You start to believe all those things.  The truth is, just because someone may have an amazing body, doesn't mean I don't. Because they have a great job, doesn't mean they didn't put in the damn hard work to get it.   Thier success isn't my failure.

We desperately need to celebrate our successes and support each other in our weaknesses.
When women are working together, we are a force to be reckoned with.  For me, it is a waste of time knocking other women down because of my own insecurities. A better use of my time is to inspire women.  To encourage them to take up more space and not less.   And I wanted to give them a platform to showcase who they are.

If you were there last Thursday, you witnessed just that.  In the five years that we have been doing this, I have never felt more support from the audience, and not just women,  men too, all ages. In an age of technology dominated our existence, it was refreshing to see everyone engaged.   What it comes down to, is we are all on the same team.

A man in his 60's stopped me  after the show and told me how much he enjoyed it.  He said, he expected it to be women complaining about men. ( For the record, complaining is boring, so we would never do that.) But what he found was that he went on a roller coaster of emotions, and he was so moved by the openness of everyone who shared her story.  Who would have thought that just the act of sharing a story and and exposing a bit of vulnerability could  be an act of bravery?

I did. That's who.

Kate told me that a woman stopped her as she was picking up her son from camp and shared that she could totally identify with Kate's piece about Sam.  That is the point of this whole show! Bringing people together and starting a dialogue about stuff, sometimes hard stuff, sometimes funny stuff, but all of that stuff matters.

Today I took three little girls to camp and I listened closely as they discussed their favorite part of the Wonder Woman movie.  I loved hearing them say that the fight scene was tied with Wonder Woman's ability to speak every language as their favorite part.  One girl said, "there is nothing she can't do."

Exactly.

It is a lesson for all of us.  But Wonder Woman could never have defeated anyone by herself. She needed the support of her friends and family. If she would have wasted time wondering if she was good enough, strong enough or whatever enough, to do it, she would have never tried.... and never saved the world.

We are certainly not saving the world with the Mamalogues, but we are saving ourselves. And maybe saving someone else when they need it most. And making great friends along the way.

It was just a crazy little idea I had, but because I took the small but scary step to act on it, I found my team again.  A team that is rooting for each other.

I'm beyond grateful for Kate for being awesome and being a rock when my insecurities start crashing over her and everyone in my path like waves of a tsunami.

And of course, thank you and Congrats to the 2017 team, Becky S., Natasha, Alison, Katherine, Amiee, Jenny, Amy, Jennifer, Maria, Becky C.  Jill, Sandy, Mandy, Tiphini, Kelli and Cherish.  You gals rocked.

And lastly, thank you to the audience who were just as part of the show as everyone else.

The next Mamalogues will take place in the summer of 2018.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Zero Fox Given

This past week we had a lot of exciting things happen.  To name a couple, my oldest son graduated from 8th grade.  Next, the pool opened, and it was also the first time I had worn a bathing suit since turning 40. Sure,  the first one is a milestone.  But I have to feel like the second one is too, except nobody throws you a party.

Here is the deal,  no matter how much you workout, it is still a little weird stepping out into public exposing yourself legally.  Especially in a climate that certain areas of your body don't see the light of day except two months out of the year.

Don and I had planned on going on a trip to Antigua, but his mom got sick, and he was needed there.  I had purchased two very little bikinis for the trip that are totally acceptable in a place like Antigua, and a place where you don't know anybody. But now I have these unworn bikinis that I'm thinking about wearing to our country club, where I know everybody and my son's teenage friends will be joining us.

When I turned 40 my singular goal was to live as authentically and true to myself as possible.  Basically, to give 0 fucks. But I guess I hadn't thought about this part of my authenticity. And if I'm going, to be honest, I give a lot of fucks. Or as I say in front of the boys, as not to cuss "Zero Fox".  I can't help it. I care so much about everything and everyone.  Including my son's feeling about me wearing a skimpy bikini in front of his friends.  Teen boys are awkward anyway, then you add a teen boy with a mom who is practically naked standing in front of them, all the fucks I'm not supposed to give are out on the table for everyone to see.

But I really like this bikini. It has pineapples on it.  When I purchased it, I pictured myself on a white sand beach lounging in the sun, and the only question I had to answer was " What kind of drink would you like?"  Now, I will be sitting on white cement, and the only question I will be hearing is " Will you fix my goggles?" and " Watch this!" (Over and over and over and over).

So, if only once, I decided to wear my bikini and try giving zero Fox as to what anyone thought, including my sons.   I went to my room and I put it on.  Why can't swimsuits fit like underwear?  They never do.  I walked over to the mirror and didn't open my eyes.
I could hear the gang of boys starting to get impatiant behind the door. Including Don.  They had put their suits on in  4 seconds and couldn't understand why it was taking me so long. But I was having an internal debate that was going on longer than I had anticipated.

I opened my eyes. I saw a 40-year-old woman in a pineapple bikini.  I started to tell myself that it was appropriate because Sponge Bob lives in a pineapple and I looked just like him right now.  Spongy torso and stretch marks and  "STOP" I told myself.

I could hear the people (who gave me the stretch marks that I  loath), chanting my name outside the door.  " Let's go!"

I was holding up my family for a fun day because of all the foxes I was giving.  Screw it, I thought. Here we go.

We arrived at the pool and I took off my cover-up and revealed my beach...I mean, pool body.  I stood half naked in public, and
nobody cared. Not a single person even looked in my direction.
Don was already asleep in his chair, and the boys were jumping off the diving board.

The boys didn't even notice as they came up to me and asked me if they could order shakes. To them, I'm just mom.  When Don finally woke up, he said, " Is that suit new?"  "Yes." I said.  He then takes out his phone to take a picture of me.  And not at the good angle. The angle that is from below and too close and why the hell does he think this is a good time to take a picture of me?!

And then something hit me.  A woman who I just met, who I admire and who will be performing in the next Mamalogues told a story about just taking the picture.  To get over your hang ups, and just allow a normal, everyday picture to be taken.  A picture that is real and authentic (damn it, that's my 40 year old goal) and that when the boys see it some day, it will be exactly like they remember.

I have a photo of my mom like that.  I love it; she is in a bikini laying out in the sun and I'm wearing one too right next to her. She looks like she is giving zero fox and damn it, here I am in the exact same situation and I'm freaking out about sponge bob and stretch marks.  Did I ever look at my mom and think....eew? No. I just remember her spending time with me hanging out in the sun. (In the glorious 1980's on a silver tanning blanket without sunscreen I might add.)

I want to be that woman.   So, I agreed, he could take the picture as long as he didn't post it on any social media platform.  He did, just like my Dad had done, he took the picture of my mom and me.

The day ended and not a single one of my boys said anything about my bikini.  I even got a little sun and had fun.

When I looked at the picture Don had taken, I saw what he saw. Not a self-conscious Mommy.   It was Oscar proudly standing behind me with his goggles on, a shake in one hand and the other on my shoulder.  Not giving a thought in the world other than summer and ice cream.

And with that.  I began my quest for a summer with zero foxes.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

What Strong Women Do




Every so often I fall apart. I would say it happens at least once every few months.

I had this favorite pair of high heels.  They were perfectly broken in.  They carried me across campus for the past five years at least 1000 times.   A few years ago the heel became detached from the sole.  Just a little bit, and I ignored it and kept stomping across campus.

You see, these shoes were perfect, my pants were the perfect length for them. When I wore skirts, they were high enough to make me feel professional but not too high to look like a street walker.  Well, they were kind of on the border of the two, and I was okay with that.

I had the soles of these heels repaired twice.  But the heel was wobbly. It threw my off balance several times, but I kept going. One of my colleagues helped me duct tape it once. Don applied super glue at least three times.

But last week as it was starting to rain, the heel came completely off.  I didn't have an umbrella, and I stood in front of a group of college guys and had an adult breakdown.   I took them both off and threw them in the trash and proceeded to walk in my stocking feet in the cold rain to my car.

My husband was out of town, and I was single parenting for the week.  I had several work projects I had been working on, but unable to complete because I had to leave work early to pick the boys up from school. I had a paper due in grad school. My oldest son, Parker had a major conference for school that he was stressing about.  I got an email from Fin's violin teacher informing me that that he keeps forgetting his violin. My son Jack had made it his mission to be mean to his younger brother, which caused said younger brother to cling to me like he hadn't since he was two.  Top that off with morning workouts that made me say things like "my body is showing it's age." and stop for air.  Also, I found out someone was trying to steal the name Mamalogues, which I had trademarked and know for a fact they didn't have a trademark.  And that was just in one day.  And then my fricking heel came off my favorite shoe.

When I got home I checked my email and had one from my professor.  I received an A, but then she wrote, "I think you would benefit from a writing tutor for APA formating"  WTH? That is like telling my brother, who is a professional opera singer that he needs opera lessons.  I understand what she was saying, but it was too late.

Cue: Falling apart.

I decided to screw dinner.  I told the boys to eat whatever they wanted.  I had to say it twice because they didn't believe me.

I then proceeded to sit on the couch with a glass of wine, holding back tears as I texted my friends. My tribe of women who I know I can trust. Who I admire.  It was dinner, after all, and after I rapid fired a dozen texts my phone was silent.   I could hear the microwave beeping, the blender buzzing as the boys made a cornucopia buffet of everything they weren't supposed to make for dinner.  Smoothies, nachos, pickles.  I saw them peek in to see if I really meant it when I said they could eat whatever, and I did. Hell, I was having Pinot Noir,  with a side of nothing. I wasn't one to talk.

The boys have seen me cry before, but you see, Don's mom (and Dad) were really ill and that is why he was in Florida.  I felt like my problems were self-induced and insignificant. I didn't want to worry the boys more than they already were. So I tried to maintain a somewhat normal composure as I stared at the wall doubting all my life decisions while drinking my dinner.

What felt like hours, but was actually just minutes was when my phone started going off.  All the friends I had texted were texting me back. My phone has a light that flashes when I get a text, and it made my family room look like a disco.  One text after another. Telling me to shut up, that I'm fully capable. That they love me. That I'm stronger than I think.  That I'm not a dumbass.

It was then that I started crying.

Damn, I have amazing, strong and wonderful friends.  We don't see each other often because the truth is, we all have careers and mortgages, and we have to take care of kids and husbands, and maybe just life  They were busy, making dinner, or sitting at practice, running their own company or grading exams. But when a friend sent out a message, they stopped what they were doing, and they were all there, at least in texting form and that is what I needed.

What strong women do, is they don't avoid the pain of a friend, they rush to it.  They swoop in and take care of business.  The business of of repairing a wobbly soul.  I'm not throwing this one out.

By this time, the boys had taken the free-for-all dinner to mean they could eat on the couch.  I didn't care. They were also watching Teen Titans. A show I happen to like.  Fin (the one who keeps forgetting his violin at home) made half of his nachos the way I like it, just in case I wanted some.  And I did.

We all fall apart for whatever reason, but surrounding yourself with people that won't rush in to pick you up, but give you encouraging words that let you know, that YOU are fully capable of picking your own damn self up. Even if it is shoe-less and in the rain, they know you will find a way, because deep down they know you have got it in you and you can.  And when you do, you will be even stronger.

They knew I wasn't going to give up. I wasn't going to call in sick, or quit my job, or school or go AWOL and leave the kids alone. 

They have no doubt in me, because they have been there too.  They know, that on the other side of this,  I will be fine. The painful and crucial times like this are when true personal strength and growth happens.