5 things I learned running my first race

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Two weeks ago, I ran my first 5K race. Before the race, I was fully prepared to write a post called "I just finished my first race, but here's why I'll never be a runner." Even though I could run 3.1 miles on the treadmill and around the track at the gym, as of race day I hadn't run three consecutive miles outside.

As a result, I was majorly panicking. The night before the race as I picked up my race packet, I said to Hubby, "I can always change my mind and do the the 5k walk instead."

"No, you won't," he insisted. "How do you even know you can't do it if you don't try? If you don't try, you're sure to fail."

That night, I made plans for my friend to pick me up, decided what I would wear, chose my old shoes over my brand-new ones, and loaded my iPod with 40 minutes of funky, happy music. I tried not to think about the crowd (crowds give me anxiety), my shins (shin splints), or the fact that on previous practice runs, I gave up when the going got hard (ie: hills).

Once at the race location the next morning, I was nervous. Surprisingly, it was nervous excitement! My friend, who was running the 10K, started ahead of me; and I was kind of glad that I had just myself to concentrate on. Even standing in the crowd with all the runners jockeying for a spot close to the front didn't bother me.

And then the gun went off. Over a bridge and around a corner. I noticed people already walking, which surprised me. Around another corner and . . . a hill. I thought surely this would be where I would give up.

On my my iPod came one of my favorite Prince songs. No, not THAT Prince, The Fresh Prince. Boom, Shake the Room. Hey, it got me up that hill. I thought about stopping a dozen times, but my legs kept going. Even as I grabbed water, I kept running. It had to be around two and a half miles that I stopped and stretched my calves, but continued on because I saw that same bridge I started on.

Crossing that finish line felt amazing. And my time shocked me: 30:53. I was clocking almost a 13 minute mile before the race.


On Sunday, my friend ran a half marathon. As I looked at her pictures and the pictures and Facebook posts of others who ran the race, I felt jealous. But not the kind of jealousy I'd previously felt when I saw runners. Before I would think, I could never do that. Now I think, maybe I can do that. 

I'm even looking forward to my next race. :)

I'm so glad my friend asked me to run it. Without her - even though it was something I've always wanted to do - I don't think I would have done it. And I definitely learned a few things along the way.

1. If you don't try, you have already failed. I spent so much time avoiding races afraid that I would fail. The failure was in not even trying in the first place. If you try something you've always wanted to try, count it a success.

2. You just have to tell yourself that you can do the hard things. When I was training, I would walk at every hill. I thought surely the hills would be my undoing. But I told myself I could do it, and I did. I've done harder things. My Hubby is right: it's all just a mind game.

3. It's okay to walk. Walking is not failing. Walking is not weakness. Everyone walks in life. Everyone has to realize what their limits are and care for themselves. You're still in the race, after all.

4. The crowd will carry you along. Truly, I didn't care that people were passing me. I was passing other people, too. The energy was keeping me going. I needed it, and my time showed it. There was another time I needed the crowd because I didn't believe in myself, and they kept me going then, too.

5. It's addictive.  I scoffed at people who told me this. I will never be a runner, I said. Once I do this I'm done with races, I told myself. Now? I'm looking for another 5K and thinking of friends I can ask to run with me. I'm even considering a 10K. (Don't talk to me yet about marathons. I still can't wrap my mind around running for 2+ hours.)

So here it is, the words I never thought I would say, the post I never thought I would write. Who knows, maybe I'll tick off some more of the goals on my bucket list - now that I know I can.

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At long last: date night!

I love theater. Plays, musicals, dance performances, orchestral music - I love it all. Hubby was very good in our dating days about taking me to lots of performances. He even took me to The Nutcracker (once we were married though he said, "Never again!").

When I dreamed of having children, of course I thought I would have girls who would eventually take their father's place and go to the ballet and musicals with me.

Well, we all know how that turned out - five boys. So now it's soccer games and basketball games and baseball and sports galore. Hubby and I have taken the boys to see plays put on by The Rose, our local children's theater, and to the symphony when they had The "Symphony Spooktakular" during Halloween. The boys said they liked those things, but I could tell by their squirmy bottoms and their glazed over eyes that they weren't totally feeling it.

When Joey was alive, he loved all of it. He enjoyed going to plays, he loved dancing, and he loved what he called "pretty music," or orchestral music. I knew he would be my go-to guy for shows and plays.

But we all know how that turned out, too. Every time the children's theater has a new show, I think about how much Joey would have loved it, and that he and I would be going on a little date together. I ask the other boys, but they don't want to go. I look longingly at the girl moms who bring their daughters to the shows, all dressed up in their best dresses. It makes me sad. I feel like it's a missed opportunity.

Before Christmas, a traveling show called "Shen Yun" was being heavily advertised on television. It is the story of 1,000 years of Chinese history told through dance and music. I thought it looked beautiful, but also something that no one would want to see with me.

Until Slim walked in the living room one day when the commercial was on. "Wow," he said, "that looks really cool." And then he walked out. Every time he saw the commercial he stopped and watched it.

Of course, I thought to myself, I could take Slim. He would love it! As a child with high-functioning autism, he gets fixated on particular topics; and for a long time his obsession was with China. His birthday was at the end of December; and I wanted to do something special with him, so I bought us tickets to the show.

It was kind of a crap shoot, honestly. What would he think? Would he open the tickets and just throw them aside unenthusiastically? Would he not want to go? (Luckily Hubby said he would go with me if Slim didn't want to.) And most importantly, would he fall asleep during the 7:30 pm school night performance?

His birthday came. When he opened the tickets, he shouted, "Wha-hooo!!" Phew, he was really excited. I still wasn't sure if it was more about doing something with just Mom and not the brothers, or the actual show itself.

The night of the show came, and I have to admit, I was both excited and dreading it. I had gone back to work teaching that day, and Lil' C had an appointment right after school so there was no time to go home and change or rest. But Slim and I went out to dinner at P.F. Changs (one of his favorite "fancy" restaurants), and headed to the show.

Slim's excitement was palpable. He was even engaging the (cute) young woman next to us in a conversation about Chinese history. Once the show started, we were both riveted. The music was beautiful, the costumes were stunning, and the artistry was amazing.

I thought Slim would be asleep on my shoulder during the second act, but quite the opposite was true: I was the one falling asleep! He was on the edge of his seat the entire time. I was worried he would talk out loudly during the performance, which he has the tendency to do especially during movies. But he didn't. He was the perfect quiet, engaged audience member.

The next night at dinner, we told the brothers and Hubby all about it. I think I detected a tinge of jealousy. I'm now being bombarded with requests to have a "date night" with everyone else.

Contrary to what I had long imagined, I don't have Joey to be my theater date. But, I'm learning that if I open my mind and try to find common interests with my other sons, I will have no shortage of lovely date nights in my future.

I hope my second chances never run out

I'm a Monday person. Everything starts over on Monday. It's a new week, a new chance to do better and be better. Why wait for the new year to make resolutions? I make them at the beginning of every week.

I'm going to exercise. 
I'm going to drink a green smoothie every day.
I'm going to be more organized. 
I'm going to be a better mom and a better wife.
I'm going to cook more meals.
I'm going to go to sleep at a decent hour.
I'm going to have a plan for writing. 

I'M BASICALLY GOING TO DO ALL THE THINGS AND ROCK THEM!

And then the week gets going and, well, "the best laid plans" and all that garbage . . .

One huge plan I had was "no yelling in the new house." That was for all of us. We'd been yelling a lot before the move.

Guess who was the first person to yell in the new house? The Mommy who brought her stress with her, that's who.

But as I unpack one box after another, I'm doing better and my stress is dissipating. I'm taking the second chance that has come to me. I believe in second chances, even though I'm a stubborn, bull-headed Taurus.

As a teacher and as a mom, I've always given kids second chances. It's inevitable that they are going to make impulsive or even uninformed decisions that lead to poor choices. They are still learning, and it's my job to teach them.

But what about myself? Shouldn't I know better? Shouldn't I know that when I stay up late with the intention of writing or searching Pinterest for new recipes that I am so tired I just end up either falling asleep on the couch or zoning out on HGTV? And then the next day I am so crabby that I snap at everyone?

Shouldn't I know by now that when I exercise I feel great and energized, and when I binge eat Oreos my digestive system is really pissed off at me the next day? Shouldn't I know that anyone can get cancer and other illnesses - especially at my age, and that sleeping well and exercising regularly and having a good diet can help prevent all that?

Shouldn't I know with more clarity than most that anything can happen at any time to anyone I love? Shouldn't I know not to take my family and friends for granted, to enjoy every moment, to hug more, yell less, be generous with the 'I love yous,' and document everything that happens for memory sake?

But yet, I don't do all those things. I know. I know it all, but that doesn't mean I do it all perfectly every time. I can't help thinking that a person's inherent worth shouldn't be based on their ability to be perfect. We are all flawed. I should give myself the same breaks that I give to my children, but hold myself to the same expectations. If I expect them to learn from their mistakes, I should expect to learn from my mistakes, too. A huge part of life is growth, constantly making small changes to be better, do better, and live better. Even if it is week to week, day to day, hour to hour, or even minute by minute.

I know life can change in an instant. But I also know that life is about second chances, and I hope mine never run out. I hope I never run out of chances to be a better person. It may be fatalistic to say that, but I'm saying it anyway.

So that's why, instead of making grand resolutions, I'm grabbing every second chance I can get at any moment I can get it.

My least favorite four-letter words

There are a lot of four letter words that make me cringe. Too many naughty ones peppered in a conversation, movie, or blog post I'm reading turns me off. I can recognize the humor in a few well-placed ones, and I did enjoy a raunchy variety show with Hubby while on a recent trip to Las Vegas (complete with lots of cosmopolitans). While I'm not a total prude when it comes to naughty words, I don't choose to use them very often myself. I feel guilty when I do.

But there are some totally harmless four-letter words that really have my panties in a bunch lately.

The first one is: MOVE.

Say that and people who have moved instantly give you the pity eyes and the sympathy sigh. (You instantly get tons of unwanted advice and unhelpful commentary on how quickly someone else's house sold, too. GAH!)

Moving tests everything you know to be true: the strength of your marriage, the creativity of your decorating style, and the solidity of your ability to multitask and organize.

I'm so tired. I'm tired of trying to pack with a toddler following me around saying, "Don't pack that away, Mommy!" I'm tired of trying to keep the messes of four young boys and their sloppy father contained because we could have a showing at a moment's notice. I'm tired of yelling at them when the stress of it all gets to me. I'm mostly tired of wasting entire days cleaning and organizing my house to perfection for a showing only to receive feedback that the potential buyers, "Liked the house and thought it showed really well, but they are not putting in an offer because of some XYZ stupid thing."

And it's Christmas time and we don't have any decorations or lights up, and that kills me.  

The next four-letter word is: LICE.

It's safe to say that one gives everyone the heebie jeebies. Even my mother, who has seen her fair share of hard times and is very logical about everything, said, "Oh my god, Kathy, I am so sorry!"

I always believed lice to be more of of girl mom problem - all that hair and that sharing of hats and bows and girly-things. Hubby and I have said that if our boys got lice, we'd take 'em in the backyard and shave 'em down.

Yeah, that doesn't work on a little three-year-old who won't let anyone touch his head.

We just happened to be at the barber when I opened the e-mail saying that lice had been found on one of Edgie's preschool classmates. I laughed - laughed! - as I read it aloud to the barber. He kept saying Edgie would go last, and I just thought it was because he howls so loudly while getting his hair cut that the barber wanted to wait until the offices across the hall cleared out for the day.

But it was because he knew my long-haired sweetie's curls would have creepy crawlers. All the way to the drugstore I kept itching my head even though Lou, the barber, said I didn't have them. But seriously, did something just bite my back?!?!

My poor little boy screamed and cried so hard while I was treating his hair that he vomited. When we were done, he looked at me with his big blue sad eyes and said, "Mommy, do I still have lice?"

I cancelled a house showing for the next day while I stripped all the sheets and quilts and washed them and vacuumed down the couch and throw pillows (even though the school nurse told me that, like any parasite, lice need a live host to survive so doing all that isn't necessary). Even though he was declared lice-free by the school nurse, I'm still cautious. Murphy's Law tells me this isn't over.

And I sit here ready to cry over it all. I'm spent - emotionally, physically, mentally. As I drove away from my lemon-scented and freshly tidied house yesterday before the showing, I prayed to Saint Joseph (the patron saint of home sales). Really, I begged him: Please let someone love our house. I know we have been yelling at each other a lot lately, and I know Joey died there; but there is so much wonderful energy there, too. I thought of the dance parties and the Easter egg coloring and Christmas cookie decorating and the pumpkin carving. I thought of the blanket forts that have been built and the stories that have been read and the new babies that have been cuddled in that house. I thought of the brotherly love and the family gatherings and all the birthday parties. I know someone will love it. And I just need to keep my eyes on our new home and all the wonderful possibilities it holds for the future.

Then I was thinking about all of the more important four and five letter words that truly deserve my disdain. Lice and moving - these will pass; but what of the issues that never seem to go away?

Guns (and the violence that people create with them)
Hate
Race
Debt
Creed
Color
Class
Death
Grief

People are really suffering over these words, these concepts that dig a hole too deep to crawl out of. The sadness and anger that these words create in people permeate our society and divide its citizens.

A few years ago, when friends would complain their woes to me, at some point they would stop short. With wide eyes they would make this disclaimer: But, it's nothing compared to what you're going through (you know, meaning the cancer). I would say to them, But you only know what YOU'RE going through, and it's hard, too. 

What I'm going through is nothing compared to what some people are suffering with right now. Yes, it's hard and it sucks, but I still need to remember that "this too shall pass." I need to remember to have empathy and understanding for other people and their problems. I need to not be so consumed with my own misery that I turn a blind eye to others.

There's no denying that certain words evoke certain emotions in us. Hopefully the one emotion that is created in us all is empathy. 

I'd Only Do It For Joey

If you've read my chapter in the best-selling anthology, I Just Want to Be Alone (I Just Want to Pee Alone) (Volume 2), you'll know that I am terrified of heights. Any thought of going high in the air - or even not so high - terrifies me.

So when a new aerial attraction opened at our city's zoo several years ago, I had absolutely no intention of riding it.

Until Joey asked me. And then how could I say no?
              
Read about it here on Mamalode. And while you're at it, read here about me foolishly putting a hot air balloon ride on my bucket list (seriously, Ms. Afraid-of-Heights, what's that about?). There are more realistic choices for me on that list.

If you feel inclined to share either post, that would garner big hugs and sloppy kisses from me. Happy reading!

Rainy Days and Mondays (Don't) Always Get Me Down

*This post was originally published on May 20, 2013.

Today is my birthday. It always rains on my birthday. Really. For as long as I can remember, it has rained on my birthday.

And this year my birthday falls on a Monday. Double whammy.

Except that I love spring rain. It's warm and it greens the grass and it makes the flowers grow. And I love a good thunderstorm! The flashes of lightning, the distant rumbles and the sudden booms that send little boys running into our big king-sized bed.

I really don't mind Mondays, either. I once said that I am a Monday person. Mondays are the perfect day to begin anew: new goals, reviving old ones, a time to start knocking items off a fresh "to-do" list.

Nope, rainy days and Mondays don't always get me down (and for the record, I love the Carpenters, too).

Except . . .that today is my birthday. My 43rd birthday.

Normally, I love my birthday. Sure, millions of other people have my same birthday, even some people I know, but it's still a special day. It's my day.

Even the year Joey was sick I enjoyed my birthday. Aside from the wonderful surprise party Hubby threw me for my 40th, there was the fact that Joey did not die on my birthday; which, as morbid as it sounds, was the only thing I wished for leading up to my birthday that year.

So there was that.

Admittedly, the three years since then have been really hard for me despite the gift of Baby E. For the first time in my life, I feel old and it pains me to say exactly how old.

This past weekend my family went out of town, and I got to see my sister. She gave me a lovely birthday card, and I said to her, "Half of my life is over."

She and her husband laughed (What else could they do? They are older than me!). "Don't look at it that way," they both responded.

It's true. I can't look at it that way. But it's hard not to. I'm tired and achy. I have a mom body. I am so not up on the latest lingo and trends. Okay, so I never have been, but that's not the point.

The point is that 43 sounds old.

But here's the thing: honestly, it's just a number. It is simply the number of years I have been alive. That's it.

Age is just a number - I've always believed that. It doesn't define a person.

What defines a person is that person's experiences and attitudes, the things that have happened to her and the things she has made happen. What defines her is the love she has given and received and the words and the actions she uses.

Sometimes I still feel like a young girl. When I am playing in the backyard pushing my boys on the swings, I feel compelled to jump on a swing to see if I can swing high enough to touch the bottom leaves of the tree.

Sometimes I feel like I am 28 again when I dress up and Hubby tells me I look hot. He reminds me that after having five children and suffering grief, I still look amazing to him. I'll take that compliment.

Sometimes I feel like my younger years were too easy on me even though I made them too hard on myself. But I wouldn't have it any other way because they have shaped who I am. They taught me who I want to be.

With each passing year, I learn more and more about myself. I learn how strong I can be. I learn about resiliency and courage. I learn to be independent, and I learn how important family is. I learn that true friends are made, not found, and I see life for the way it is, not the way I want it to be.

I realize that the unobvious beauty in life is the hardest to see, and that there was once good in every human being and can be again.

I want to remain young in thought because a young mind is what keeps a person young at heart and soul and body.

I've got a lot more living to do - over half my life!

Today is my birthday, and I'm celebrating me.

It's Monday, and it will most likely rain.

But I'm not letting that get me down.

Not today.

Lessons from My Journey to Motherhood

I've been thinking a lot this week about my journey to becoming a mother. There was a time when all I wanted was to be able to celebrate Mother's Day - as the Mother. It seemed to take forever for me to get there.

Along the way, I was just sure I was the only one having fertility issues, the only woman who'd ever lost a baby, the only woman who was sad and struggling.

As is my M.O. a lot in life, I refused to talk about it with anyone, staying silent in my misery and avoiding people - especially my friends with children - like the plague.

But what I've learned since becoming a mother, is that everyone has her own story of how she got there. Nothing about how one becomes a mother is ever completely easy. There are unplanned teen pregnancies and decisions to be made about abortion, adoption, or acceptance.

There are struggles to get and stay pregnant - surgeries and procedures and bed rest.

There are birth plans that don't go as planned, there are emergency C-sections, there are exhaustion and depression and surprises we weren't ready for.

Every woman has her story.

I'm at Her View From Home today sharing a part of mine. Please head over and join me.

 

 

Tuesday

It's Tuesday again. Tuesday is my Nemesis, my Groundhog Day.

Yes, this would be my toilet.

 

 

 

You see, my cleaning lady comes every Tuesday. Now, before you go thinking 'Kathy is too highfalutin' for me,' just know that I don't pay her very much. She's not that good. And I'm okay with that because 3.2 seconds after she walks out the door, someone spills their full glass of milk all over the kitchen floor or pees all over the bathroom wall or smudges up the glass on the front door with their fingerprints.

 

So each Tuesday, after she leaves, I inevitably have to use the toilet in the master bathroom at some point in the day. And each time I use it, I have to scoot the toilet paper keeper - thingy back up next to the toilet because she has scooted it all the way back in the corner.

 

Why is my toilet paper not on a toilet paper holder, you ask? Because the same little humans that mess up the house in 3.2 seconds managed to break it off the wall, that's why.

 

Anyway, each Tuesday, as I am sitting on the toilet and scooting the toilet paper back up next to me - again - I am thinking, 'It's Tuesday again? What did I do last week?'

 

In fact, I'm kind of feeling like my life lately has been this endless series of Tuesdays that leave me scratching my head and wondering what I am doing with my life.

 

One glance at my already full January calendar tells me what I've been spending most of my time on.

 

Everyone has their own color.

 

Sometimes I long for the early days when the boys were little, and we had nowhere to be. An outing for us was the grocery store or the library for story time. I never got bored because I always had someone to play with.

 

But my boys are growing up, and unlike the lazy days my older boys experienced, Baby E's schedule is determined by the older boys' or how many errands Mommy thinks she can run before nap time. That's just the life of a family, I guess.

 

Not that I mind (most days), but as the new year is beginning - ironically on a Tuesday - I can't help but reflect on one nagging thought: What the hell did I do last year?

 

And more importantly: What will I do this year?

 

No, this isn't going to be a New Year's Resolution post. I've done that before. And I think it's safe to tell you because we're all friends here - I didn't do any of those five things I said I was going to do, with the exception of writing more. In 2011, I posted 23 times. In 2012, I posted 116 times.

 

In April, I was asked to be part of a new website called Her View From Home, which highlights the many wonderful aspects of my home state, Nebraska. (No seriously, Nebraska rocks! It's a great place to live.) I am currently writing two family posts and one gluten-free post a month, which post on Wednesday mornings. Even if you live nowhere near Nebraska, I promise you, the site has something you will enjoy.

 

Lately, I have also been featured on other sites. Mamapedia was the first to post something of mine. I really wanted to see my own name on my daily e-mail from them. After submitting about eight times, I was ready to give up. I had a post that had gotten a good response from people, so I said 'What the hell - one more time.' And that's the one that did it. You always hear that many famous people were rejected several times before they found success. But, rejection sucks - for real. I guess my takeaway there is that the more I submit, the more likely someone will grab something they like.

 

I've had success on other sites, too, like The Huffington Post. From there, I have gained new followers for whom I'm so grateful. I may not have thousands of followers, but I know the ones who are here are here because they really want to be and want to hear what I have to say. And that's humbling, but also inspiring.

 

As far as those getting healthier and exercising goals - holy crap, you guys! This has not been a good year for that. I have neglected myself big time. That fact glared back at me a few times from pictures I saw of myself. Here I am on my 40th birthday:

Not bad, right?

Here is a professional photograph I had taken this summer that is now following me around the interwebs as my gravitar:

 

 

 

This picture is horrible! Holy moley, I look godawful! I think you can still see the old me in my smile and eyes, but the bags under my eyes and the bloated face tell onlookers what's been going on - way too much crappy food and way too little sleep. My mom keeps telling me, 'Well you are 42, you know.' Yes, thank you, Mom, I can count. I'm not denying aging, but looking the way I do in the second picture is preventable and - hopefully - fixable.

 

And there's the aging body. Yes, again, I'm in my 40's, metabolism is slowing down, blah, blah, blah. But friends, I have gained a serious amount of weight his year. Which obviously is not acceptable. I know I am probably never going to have my honeymoon, pre-baby bikini body back - like, ever - but, I did promise Hubby I would consider wearing a bikini on our tropical vacation later this year. Instead of airbrushed magazine models, I'm using me as inspiration.

 

 

I used to think I was fat. It was the thighs. I've always

had, er - ample - thighs.

 

 

 

We joined a new family-friendly gym, and I just have to go. Or do something at home most days. There's really no excuse. One of my sons is getting a little chubby, too. I feel like I've been setting a horrible example - failing as a mom. I need to do better.

 

So that's the thing. I need to do better. I know I can do better. I told someone today, I've had too many of those Why bother? moments this year. And I shouldn't have. Despite the fact that yes, I am still grieving the loss of my beautiful boy and I will be for the rest of my life, I do have the rest of my life ahead of me. And Hubby's and my sons. I want to be the best me I can be. I want to at least be trying harder.

 

We've heard all the sayings - Happy wife, happy life. - If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

 

Seriously, these are true. And the wife and mama hasn't been too happy for a while now. Really happy.

 

But you know what? I think I've finally come to a place where I know what makes me happy - what used to make me happy anyway. And all I can do is say I will try. No resolutions, no goals. Just maybe a few dreams in mind, maybe some things I want to do. I'm not going to spell them all out here. I'll keep them close to me for now, but I promise I will share if I meet with success.

 

I have spent way too much time this past year feeling sorry for myself, thinking nothing I do matters anyway. I know that is simply not true. It matters. I matter. I don't want to feel tired and hopeless. I want to feel invigorated and hopeful.

 

There are things I want to do.

 

All I can do is try.

 

It is Tuesday after all.

 

 

 

 

Do you have a New Year plan?

 



 

 





 

 



 

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas

It was Christmas Eve. The eleventh hour. And I was still scrambling to get everything done.

Presents wrapped, house cleaned, food made.

We were hosting Christmas this year for my side of the family. Hubby kept reminding me that it was just family. Just 18 people.

Who were family, by the way, so why did it matter what the house looked like? There would be enough food, and everyone would have a wonderful time, he kept assuring me.

I knew this. I knew it. But Christmas always stresses me out, almost to the point that I dread it. With the snowstorm on Thursday and the boys being off school, there were a few things I didn't get done - namely, getting Hubby's special gluten-free cookies. Which makes me feel really awful since he always makes Christmas special for me (he actually did all the shopping for the boys this year!).

And I forgot to get the ingredients to make cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning. I always make cinnamon rolls.

I'd been snapping at the boys. Making demands. Pick this up! Clean this mess! Put this away! Everyone has to help!

I was feeling horrible. Why do I get so stressed? Why do I wait until the last minute to get everything finished? What makes me forget so many of our special things?

What's wrong with me?

The boys were invited over to their cousins' house to play Christmas Eve morning. I think it was to keep all the boys occupied so my sister-in-law and I both could finish Christmas preparations. I planted myself in the basement with my wrapping supplies, and I wrapped like a mad woman.

I was listening to Pandora, and for some reason, there was a heavy volume of children's songs being played. Each time I heard their sweet little voices singing carols, my eyes welled with tears.

It made me think of Joey.

But I pressed on and kept wrapping, thinking to myself how lucky it was that I had told the boys that elves are messy creatures. And how lucky it was that my boys wouldn't care about bows or ribbons.

I was all done by 11:30 that evening, and morning came quickly, before 7:00 a.m.

6:50, actually, and it was all said and done by 7:06 a.m.

The boys tore open each present in a matter of seconds with shouts of, "COOL!" "IT'S JUST WHAT I WANTED!" quickly moving on to the next gift.

And as I sat on the couch, still in a sleepy haze contemplating coffee or tea, I realized that no one had expressed disappointment. No one had simply said, "Oh," and moved on.

In fact, I heard seven-year-old Knox exclaim, "This has been the best Christmas ever!"

We had celebrated with Hubby's side of the family on Sunday. Hubby's huge, chaotic, loud, wonderful family which is now made up of 57 people! All but eight were there.

This isn't even half of his family. There are more somewhere!!

I have always wanted to be a part of a big family. The dynamics among the cousins and in-laws are warm and sweet and sometimes simply hilarious. It's truly a gift that everyone gets along so well. And even though I sit and observe the chaos with no gift in hand (Hubby opts us out of the gift exchange, and I am no one's godmother), I never feel left out. But rather, blessed.

And then there was that moment yesterday, as I was standing in the kitchen. I was still dressed up from Christmas mass - heels and a pencil skirt and a cute peplum top. I had my apron on and Hubby was next to me chopping onions for soup. The boys were playing with their new toys in the family room and someone yelled into the kitchen, "Mom, what's 8 times 8?"

As I answered quickly and kept stirring whatever it was I was stirring, I felt a wave of gratitude and happiness wash over me.

For this.

This is what I had always wanted in my life - this "kiss-your-frog-marry-your-prince-and-live-happily-ever-after" life.

I have it. Standing all dressed up in my kitchen with an apron on making Christmas food for my family while my children play. This.

However, this life may not be perfect because we are grieving the loss of someone.

This Christmas may not be perfect because Mommy kept forgetting to move the elf and she forgot the cookies and the cinnamon rolls and wrapped the presents hastily and snapped at people.

But no one really noticed that except for me. So it didn't really matter after all.

And Slim has made sure that Joey has been with us all Christmas season. He brought Joey's beloved stuffed animal, Stripey Kitten, downstairs to "help" us decorate the tree Thanksgiving weekend. And even though I keep telling him to put her back, he keeps bringing her out every time we do something Christmassy. So I know he's thinking of Joey, too, and giving us a little reminder of his presence.

So in the end, I didn't really screw anything up too badly - not that anyone noticed anyway. My small family all said they had a lovely time celebrating at our house, and there was even food left over.

 Hmm, maybe if I'm still hungry, I can lick
some of the frosting off that adorable face.

It's clear to me as I sit and reflect on how the holiday went for us all, despite my perceived failures and foibles, it was a pretty great Christmas after all. I think it's safe to say that everyone had a simply wonderful Christmas.

I know I did.



We're More Alike Than Different

I've spent the better part of my life comparing myself to other people and coming up short every time. Someone else was always prettier than me, smarter than me, more talented, more popular, whatever.

That has not stopped now that I am an adult. She is thinner than me, a better mother than me, more successful than me.

This even extends, unfortunately, to my children. That kid is more well-adjusted than my kid, that kid is a better athlete than my kid, that kid is more normal than my kid.

Why, oh, why, have I not learned that this is a waste of my precious time and sanity?

Appearances can be so deceiving, people. We all know that. We've all fallen victim to the "highlight reel" of someone else's life via Facebook. The beautiful family pictures, vacation photos, status about someone's wonderful husband, perfect kids, or killer run (gag).

But what is really hiding there in the shadows? Is everything as it seems? Or does everyone have flaws and "issues?"

I think the answer to that is a big fat "Yeppers!"

I worry a lot about my son Slim. About him fitting in, having friends, being quirky, not being like all the other kids.

He has a lot of qualities that I had when I was growing up. I preferred to stay inside reading a book rather than playing with my siblings and the neighborhood kids. I loved television and would recite commercials and jingles. I didn't like crowds of kids all competing to talk. And I was never one of the cool kids.

I went with Slim's third grade class to the zoo this week. All 90 kids were in small groups of about five or six with one adult. I wasn't going to chaperon because I didn't have a babysitter for Lil' C and Baby E. But every day in Slim's assignment notebook was a note from him saying, "Please come to the zoo, Mom."

How could I possibly say no to that sweetness? Plus, I figured I could help keep an eye on Slim so he wouldn't wander off from the group. So, I told the teacher we would meet the class at the zoo and walk along with the group.

Over the course of the day, I noticed things that I have noticed before, but they were needed reminders for me. At times, like during lunch with 90 chaotic children, Slim was walking along the outside edge of the group, picking up all the lunch trash that was getting blown by the gusty winds. So, he was alone, but doing something good.

And even though he wasn't hanging out with a group of guys, from every group that passed by us came genuine calls of, "Hi Slim!" The kids in his group were even asking him some questions about animals because they know how much he loves and knows so much about so many of them.

And in looking around at the other children, there were some other odd little ducks as well - kids with their own sets of quirky behaviors.

And there were kids who were naughty and out of line in what they were doing. And if their moms would have been there, they would have been appalled.

My child, well, he was a perfect angel all day. It was just his kind of field trip. His kind of perfect day looking at animals on a day that the zoo was not crowded at all.

Photo by Stuart Semple featured
on veggierevolution.blogspot.com

Pretty "normal" stuff.

Yep, he's pretty much a normal eight-year-old kid. Because they all have quirks, you know.

We all have quirks, you know.

And that makes us all more alike than different.

A lot of the animals had babies with them. I am always fascinated watching the interaction of mama animals with their babies. There was a mama monkey who had two young monkeys swinging and playing near her while she watched. The smaller of the two swung over to her and started climbing on her. She pushed him away and bared her teeth at him.

What a bitch, I thought as a first reaction.

But then, this little monkey started to fall off the branch, and the mama caught him and held on to him until he was steady. And then she pulled him in to a quick little hug.

And my heart melted into a knowing smile. I saw myself in that mama. My kids bug me when they won't knock off their crazy behavior, but I adore them and would do anything to keep them safe.

I am not a monkey, nor am I skinny or perfect or any other woman but me. Just because I don't know someone well or at all, doesn't mean that I can't find a connection between us. That I can't find something that is alike about us rather than all the ways we are different, just as Slim is more like kids his age than he is different.

And at a time when everyone wants to be different and distinguish themselves from everyone else, I tend to think that it would help us all, as children and adults, to see ourselves as not so different from one another after all.



What about you? Are you more comfortable being different and unique or alike and blending in?

Let's talk about it on Facebook!

What I Learned on My Vacation

I'm back to my blog after about two weeks off. Two weeks away from social media. No blogging, no tweeting, no pinning, barely any commenting on other blogs. I needed a break. Things were getting to me. I was tired, physically and mentally.

I wrote this post, and then went on vacation to San Diego with my family. The perfect time to step away.

In my absence, I received all manner of comments ranging from empathy and understanding to speculation that I am depressed, still grieving, or really ill.

Well, it's nice to know people care.

The truth of the matter is that I am probably all of those things. I am a busy mom, trying to do too much and not taking care of myself.

The truth is that I am depressed - about Joey, about family "stuff", about myself and feeling like I'm in a sinking boat while my only oar floats away.

The truth is that I grieve for Joey every day, but so much harder some days than others.

The truth is my well-being is ill because it hasn't been attended to in a long time. My treadmill broke. I eat like crap. I'm tired, but I won't go to bed because of everything that's weighing on me.

I slept a lot on vacation. As I sat in our bungalow each night waiting for the boys to fall asleep, I'm sure Hubby was sitting outside with a glass of wine waiting for me to join him and look at the stars over the bay and listen to the water lapping against the sand.

But I was sleeping. Because I needed it.

I took two naps, too. Because I needed them.

I didn't bring my laptop, and I deleted a lot of blog posts that were e-mailed to me (I did read the ones from all my most favorite friends - AnnMarie, Steph, Meredith, Kimberly, JD, and a handful of others, but I just didn't comment). I didn't look at Twitter, and I barely checked Facebook.

And you know what?

Life went on.

Bloggers blogged, Tweeters tweeted, Pinners Pinned, Facebookers updated statuses.

And honestly, I really don't think I missed much.

What I didn't miss was having fun with my family at Legoland, watching the sheer exuberance of three little boys who ran screaming through the Mini-Land display to all of their favorite Star Wars scenes.

 



Or the fascination that all my boys - big and little - had with the fish pond at the resort.

 

 

 

Or watching all four boys have a total blast simply playing in the wet sand getting completely filthy.

 

 

 

Allowing myself to allow them to get completely filthy.

 

 

 

My mistake was thinking that things would change once I arrived back home. Thinking that I would have this magic change of heart or profound inspiration or strong motivation to eat tofu and run 6 miles every day.

 

Nope.

 

Monday morning greeted me with two appointments and no babysitter, and Monday afternoon slapped me with two activities and one little boy who didn't want to do either.

 

My treadmill was still broken, I had vacation laundry to do, I had a post to write for HVFH, and I fell back into my old pattern of staying up way too late at night and noshing on too many unhealthy foods.

 

I realized that there were things to be learned from a week away . . . and they weren't necessarily things I wanted to admit.

• No matter how much sleep I get or how many naps I take, I will always be tired.
• I like junk food; and if it's here, I will eat it.
• I am a night owl. I always have been. Old habits die hard.
• There is no laundry or toy fairy who visits your house when you are gone (oh, wait a minute . . . yes, there is. Her name is MOM!! Thanks Mom!).
• I logically cannot spend all of my time on social media. It is not my job. That's great that some people treat it like their job, but I just can't right now. And I can't let myself get upset about certain things not happening because I am not trying as hard as someone else.
• That pile of crap on my desk and all that junk in the "Lego" room is not going anywhere. I will get to it eventually.

Please tell me you have a room like this in your house, too.



I once heard that if you've crossed everything off your to-do list, that means you're dead. I think I am going to be around for a while.

 

As far as my writing goes . . .well, I'm not sure where it's going. What I do know, is that I need to take my own advice.

 

A young person whom I love very much and who has been very important to my family the past seven years, came to me for some advice. I told her one of my favorite pieces of life advice from one of my favorite people from my past.

 

My speech teacher in high school was Mary Kay Mueller. Today, she is an author, a motivational speaker, and life coach. She always had a smile on her face as she repeated to snotty, bored high school girls, "Happy people take risks."

 

Happy people take risks.

 

For 25 years I have been carrying this saying around - and telling other people this, too.

 

But not really living it.

 

You see, I'm scared of risk. With risk comes loss, and I've already lost too much. Loss hurts.

 

But without risk, you may never find happiness. No one was ever happy simply standing still. Content? Perhaps. But happy? No.

 

So yeah, I've got to take some risks. Recently, I applied for a paid blogger job and found out I was a finalist for the position. Wow, 'cause last year when I applied for this same job, I wasn't even considered.

 

I didn't end up getting the job; but I took a risk, and it made me happy.

 

So, going forward, I'm following the old school advice that Kit gave Vivian in Pretty Woman: Take care of you.

 

It seems so simple. Don't worry about anything else. If you take care of yourself, the rest will come. No comparisons, no beating myself up for something I am not. No gimmicks, no trying too hard. I am me, and I am unique. I am not anyone else and shouldn't try to be. I should just be the best me I am capable of being.

 

Without totally exhausting myself again, that is. ;)

 

 

What's the best piece of advice you've ever gotten? Did you follow it? How did it turn out?

 

 

It's Time for a Change in Direction

 

We were sitting in the pharmacy drive-thru. My head was half hanging out the window of the van, my eyes closed. I could hear the soft bing bongs and bleep bloops of the boys' video games.

 

I was tired. I felt myself drifting off, and then, "Can I help you?"

 

----------

 

Driving off with prescription in hand my fog continued. We were stopped at a red light when it dawned on me: I can't remember what clothes Joey was buried in.

 

I know they must have been green - his favorite color was green - but I can't remember exactly which ones. I know we didn't put shoes on him. The only shoes that fit his swollen feet were his tennis shoes, and I didn't think it was appropriate to bury him in tennis shoes. Besides, no one would see his feet anyway.

 

I searched my brain for the visual of Joey, but all I could remember was touching him in his coffin and feeling his cold, waxy face. I couldn't see what the shirt looked like, but I remember hearing crinkling when I touched it, like Joey had been wrapped in Press 'n Seal before he was dressed.

 

----------

 

I'm so tired I can't remember what I buried my son in.

 

I'm so tired I can't complete a task without getting distracted.

 

I'm so tired that my brain is having trouble thinking of the words my mouth wants to say.

 

I'm so tired I can't even be patient with my children.

 

I'm so tired I don't want to spend time with my husband.

 

I'm snapping and negative and yelling. And then I wonder why they talk to each other that way. I'm not too tired to realize they are learning it from me.

 

----------

 

I'm tired because my house is a mess. Papers are everywhere. Toys and clothes and junk we don't use anymore have piled up and a house that once seemed big is shrinking from too much stuff.

 

I had a baby a year ago. A year's worth of no time to organize, clean out, start fresh.

 

Now, I have made lists and planned my time and I know what I want to accomplish.

 

But it's not happening and I feel like I am chasing my tail.

 

Chasing it into the wee hours of the night.

 

Falling asleep in a chair.

 

School lunches unmade.

 

Dishes in the sink.

 

The pile of photographs from summer 2011 still sitting unlabeled on the dining room table.

 

-------------

 

I'm heavier than I have ever been in my life. There is a least fifteen pounds of extra weight around my middle that has no business being there.

 

But I'm too tired to do anything about it.

 

And my treadmill broke and my gym membership expired.

 

My husband asked me if we were still married.

 

I need a girls' night out.

 

He wants a date.

 

--------------

 

It's all swirling in my head along with the fact that I am doing nothing that I should be doing.

 

Sleeping.

 

Cardio.

 

Yoga.

 

Nourishing my body with healthy food.

 

Starting my novel.

 

Seeking out paid opportunities to write.

 

Spending time with my family before they are all grown up and gone.

 

What I am doing is getting lost. I'm getting lost along a path that I thought I knew. A path I didn't need a map for. A path that came out in a clearing.

 

But somewhere along the way I got distracted by the scenery, led off course to somewhere I thought I should be going.

 

I'm stumbling. I'm drained. I'm flailing. I'm failing.

 

I'm losing myself.

 

And now I need to find my way back.

 

 

 

 

 



Something Always Brings Me Back

I was awake at 4:00 a.m. the other morning. This is not unusual as Baby E has never been a great sleeper. I don't mind, though. I know soon enough he will wake in the night and not need me to soothe him back to sleep.

 

I know that all too soon those sweet, middle-of-the-night moments will be over, and he won't be my baby anymore. He'll be my little guy, dreaming little guy dreams that don't require Mommy's cuddles to get them started.

 

So, the other morning, when his cries woke me, I went to him right away. And we rocked and we cuddled. And we both drifted back to sleep.

 

Then, somewhere in that hazy place between wakefulness and sleep, I felt a memory of a simpler time. A time when Joey, Slim and Knox were all under three, and we had just moved back to Nebraska after being in New York for two years. A time when the double stroller was my fourth constant companion and trips to the park were a daily outing.

 

I must have smiled in my sleep remembering how we would take walks on the trail next to the park (for Mommy) as two rode in the stroller and the third would be perched on top of the cup holder (held in place by Mommy, of course).

 

You're laughing. Kathy, how was that simpler than cuddling with one little baby?

 

Because it just was. There was time for daily trips to the park. There were daily walks because everyone was portable. It was a time of Playhouse Disney and Curious George and everyone agreeing with everything Mommy suggested.

 

I don't remember it being difficult or complex at all.

 

It was before Sponge Bob and I Carly introduced sarcasm and insults. It was before homework and soccer and Cub Scouts kept us too busy to go to the park. It was before phone calls from the teacher and behavior charts and trips to the behavioral psychologist.

 

It was before cancer and medication and negativity changed us.

 

I thought about it all day, that time in our lives, and it kept me smiling.

 

And then, when I was swapping out a broken picture frame, I found this picture hidden behind a more current one:

Knox (23 months), Slim and Joey (age 3)

 

And it brought tears glistening to my eyes. It was not for Joey's presence in the picture. I actually never liked that picture of him. I remember being upset that he wouldn't put his hands down. It was mostly just seeing the three of them, in the midst of that simple time.

 

But it was Knox, too, and that cherubic face and those huge, innocent eyes. They brought me back to a time when he was happy to tag along like a puppy after his brothers. He was happy simply being "one of the triplets" (as everyone thought they were).

 

Now he's older. Complex. Negativity brewing. Nothing will ever be as simple as walks to the park and brothers playing together. There will be school struggles and girl crushes and self esteem issues and peer pressure and grown-up decisions thrust unfairly at adolescents possibly ill-equipped to handle them.

 

I've read several columns lately, new moms asking if they will survive this time with a newborn. It pains me to know what they have not yet discovered: that this is the easy part. The fatigue, the spit-up, the sore nipples, it will all wan and be a distant memory. What will remain are the cuddles, the smells, the coos, the tiny fingers wrapped around your hand, the fuzziness of baby hair, and the feel of a little head asleep on your shoulder.

 

Memories of watching Sesame Street together for the first time and being delighted when he claps in time with Elmo singing his theme song.

 

Remembering how you felt the first time you saw him dance to Thomas the Tank Engine's theme song or the first time he wrapped those tiny arms around you in a hug.

 

Remembering how you used to cuddle with him until you were both asleep pressed together in his tiny twin-sized bed, sweating from so much heat emanating from such a tiny little body.

 

Remembering how you laughed over his pride of "reading" for the first time, even though the word was totally wrong, but he was just so sure that's what it was.

 

I think that's why older parents always say to "enjoy it now because it goes by too fast." I think we always look back and remember a simpler time than the one we're in now. That's the beauty of parenting. It's the ability to have memories that sustain our todays. To know that however hard today is, there will be something about it that will make us smile someday, even if we can't quite see what it is today.

 

As I sat down to write this, I couldn't find the t.v. remote. Surely my fifth little toddler had hidden it under the couch. When I bent down to look, I found a stash of Knox's toys. After a brief initial annoyance, I smiled as I pulled one treasure after another from under the couch.

 

I remember that Joey used to do that, too. As I sifted through the pile, I smiled as I remembered the first time I pulled a stash like that from under the couch. It's always something.

 

It's always something that brings me back.

 

 

 

What are some of your favorite memories of raising your kids? Are there any you thought were hard at the time that have become fond memories?