Essays

 

I think this is the most important article I’ve shared yet. 

Imagine if you only labeled who you saw each day using the most basic labeling system you had available to you. Suppose you could only label by race, what would your average day be like as you ran errands and passed people on the street,  “black”, “white”, etc. Imagine if you could only label people by what you saw immediately on the surface, you would miss out on the important and meaningful nuances of that unique individual. Now imagine that your mind is labeling your life experiences and relationships just as shallowly all the time without you even knowing it.  The impact on your perception of reality would be enormous working with over simplified labeling.

Labels are used to simplify and expedite a sorting process. We label things on our shelves and on our devices to quickly find items that have value to us and just as quickly dismiss the things that don’t.  Labels also play a very big role in how we sort our memories.  Often we label events or people very generically for simplicity’s sake, for example we have “good memories” and “bad memories” and in those categories we have lots of different subcategories that often go unsorted.  But recently I had a chance to explore my own personal labeling process and how it was affecting my perception of the world. What I learned has changed me at my core. And so I’ll share it with you now in hopes you might see some similarities and want to explore your use of labels further and understand how to the make necessary changes to fully experience joy, live present-mindedly and move through traumas.

The first example I will use is the label “sister”.  Many people have siblings and this might seem like a really innocuous term to use as a label. In my mind I see the term sister and I think of my two sisters, one older and one younger than me. The issue for me is that my older sister is alive and my younger sister is dead. This is an obvious difference and one that significantly impacts how I interact with each of them.  I have had a strained and at times estranged relationship with my older sister for the past 19 years since my younger sister died.  We are fundamentally different but that alone should not be a reason to have such limited engagement with a sibling, especially when you have only one remaining alive with you.  My relationship with my deceased sister is still one that I hold close to me. I notice her in different ways throughout my days and in the personalities of my children. I talk to her out loud in my car or in the shower and I think of her at night before I go to sleep.  When the concept of labels was brought to me and I chose to dissect the label “sister” I saw right away the issue: the one blanket label “sister” my mind used was not flexible or broad enough to address the very different relationships I needed to have with my living and dead sister.  Once I became aware of this shortcoming it was as easy as flicking a switch in my brain. New labels were added – “living sister” and “dead sister” were now in the mix.  I no longer subconsciously treated my living sister the way I treated my dead sister. I could more comfortably reach out to her, share and engage with her here and now among the living without feeling like I was somehow slighting my deceased sister.  This may sound strange to you, but that’s okay. This was my personal label in my mind, my “mind bucket” I like to call it.

Once I began to think of my mind in this way I knew immediately that I had oversimplified my “mind buckets” to handle trauma and losses that I did not want to face.  By avoiding adjectives and employing vague umbrella categories I could avoid my sister’s death all together but I was also missing out on the joyful experience that a living sister can bring. By lumping together good and bad experiences in one bucket they acted as counterbalances to one another and the result was a self-made numbness that prevented me from having to deal with my reality.  So I began to think, “What other events or experiences might I have held under a broad or vague label in an effort to spare me the pain of an adjective?” The answer came quickly to me: Date.   Newly divorced in the last few years dating was something I enjoyed and the bucket “date” held quite a few memories for me.  Yes we’ve all had good dates and bad dates but overlooking that subtle distinction doesn’t necessarily cause a denial of joy.  My “date bucket” was harboring an experience that was so painfully mislabeled the realization of it shook me deeply.

My first date with my current boyfriend of the past 18 months or so was really unexpected. I met him for a work meeting and we ended up talking for 8 hours.  I remember telling my friend it was “the best accidental date” I’d ever had.  A few weeks later he asked me out on a real date. That official first date was just plain sweet. He had made reservations at two very nice restaurants in a town I had never even heard of and when we arrived in the area for the evening I got to choose from the menus of each establishment and decide which reservation to keep. I ended up choosing a French restaurant and I ordered the skate wing on a whim and it was really very good. On the way home we got in a small car accident on the highway and ended up sitting in a commuter parking lot talking and making out a bit while we waited for the State Police to arrive. It was a perfect, unpredictable night. And it belonged in my date bucket as one of the best dates ever.

But in that bucket was another date. A second date from 2014.  I often referred to this as “the worst date ever”.  I had met a man on an online dating site and after a few messages agreed to meet him out during the day for a few drinks. We had a nice time, turns out a bartender friend of mine knew the guy so I let my guard down a bit more. I remember I was wearing a little black sundress. When he had to leave to go to work I walked him to his car and we kissed goodbye. Nothing major. A small hug and an “I’ll call you later” was exchanged.

We texted a bit and I think even a few phone calls over the next week or so when he asked me on a second date, this time out for dinner.  I would meet him at his house before we went.  So, I drove to his house and let myself in the side door as instructed. He was just getting dressed so he came out with wet hair from the shower and jeans and t-shirt but no socks or shoes. I was wearing a one-piece shorts romper that went straight across my shoulders with my favorite summer wedges. I remember thinking I looked cute, casual, not trying too hard, I could go to any type of restaurant in this – good choice, yay me.   Anyway he made himself a drink and offered me one and I said no and got a glass of water and we sat in the living room and he began to talk to me. (I’ll leave out much of the conversation because to include it would identify him). He knew I had been to a firing range and asked me if I wanted to see his guns. I said no, he said yes, I said no, he laughed and got up, filled his drink and popped a prescription bottle. I ask what it is and he told me Ambien because he can’t relax ever.

I begin to eye my exits: behind him front door with deadbolt and chain/slide lock thing, too much of a risk to walk past him and get all of that open quickly.  Behind me around the half wall is the backdoor I came in through and it’s still open.  My purse is also on the kitchen table. So I stand up and say we need to get going to dinner, I’ll drive and as I walk towards the doorway to the kitchen he gets up in front of me and blocks the way to the open kitchen door. “Funny”, I say, “Now let’s go”.  “First let me show my guns,” he says and is walking up against me now leading me down the hall to his bedroom.  I am calm on the surface but inside I am in full blown survival mode. I am noticing every detail. I keenly aware of where he is placing his body – always between me and an exit. I walk with him. He shows me so many guns, rifles and handguns in the closet, nightstand and under the bed. Then he points a shotgun at me and asks me if I am scared. I say no. He tells me, “You said you liked guns, right?” and I say yes but not pointed at me and we stand there staring at each other. He is still holding is drink. It seemed like forever.  “If he’s going to kill me,” I think, “it’s gonna have to be now – loud and messy and no getting away with it.”  I think of my kids.  Then he laughs and puts the gun down on his bed. He walks out of the room in front of me and picks up the handgun from his dresser and begins to walk down the hall, “let me show the basement” he says. “Nope” I reply. “I’m a Realtor, I’ve seen hundreds of basements I don’t need to see yours.” “Come on” he says “you’ll really like it I promise” “Not gonna happen” I say and begin to walk past him when he grabs me and pushes me against a small section of the kitchen wall right before the cabinets begin. He has his left arm across my neck, gun in his hand and he holds me there.  “So you’re not gonna see the basement?” “No.” My heart is pounding and I am like ice and yet I feel like I have trained my whole life for this moment. Just breathe and be calm. I see the door over his shoulder open just 20 feet away. I am acutely aware that whatever happens to me next will depend on how well I can keep him calm.  He puts his drink on the counter and with his right hand he pulls down the top of my outfit (remember it was strapless) I am not wearing a bra and he begins to suck on my breast. I am perfectly still, silent, staring at the door. With his right hand he tugs at the crotch of my shorts and he steps back and looks at me at says, “What the hell is this? What are you thinking wearing this? Where’s the little black dress from last time?” and with that his mouth is back on my breast, he moves my underwear to the side and slips his fingers inside me. He holds his arm firmly across my neck. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” I say to myself. Mixed images of my kids’ faces burst in my mind and with that I see my own funeral, I see my rape, I see my fears alive in my mind. “Bring it back,” I think to myself and concentrate on the door frame.  I must stay present.  He adjusts the arm on my neck and eventually he is gets comfortable with the gun pressed the long way on my face and the full weight of his body is on me. “You like it? Is this how you like it?” he mumbles with my breast in his mouth.  I am quiet, I am acutely aware of the location of the gun to my head. I stare at the backdoor. I shift to the left a little and say, “This will be better if we both have a drink” and he stops and looks at me. Fingers still inside me. It’s a stare down. I smile. I do not blink. He removes himself from my body and steps back. I grab the glass next to me and walk two steps towards the sink. He looks for a second down the bedroom hallway and in an instant I run out, grabbing my purse off the kitchen table and I run to the car. I lock myself in and text my friend Mark, I am shaking, I am crying. He writes back – “You’re ok now – go!! Go!! Now!!” and I drive off. I sit outside my apartment on the curb and I cry. I shake. I text some friends. They want me to call the police. But I am a single mother and this guy doesn’t know where I live or my last name and I’d like to keep it that way. I walk to the bar and tell the bartender I was just held at gunpoint and I get a Titos and cranberry and lean against the wall of the bar under the awning and drink it with two hands shaking.

I go home. I cry in my bed. I fall asleep with a wet face. I am painfully aware of how alone I am in the world. I put myself in a situation that I felt disappointed my daughters.  In the morning I receive a text that says “you’re no fun. Lose my number”. I never respond. I wash my outfit and it sits in my closet for weeks. Do I throw it away? It mocks me. Every time I see it I can feel his hand tug at my crotch and  here him say, “what’s this?” I am full of regret.  I am embarrassed.  I decide it was not my outfit’s fault and so I wear it again. It feels oddly heavy now. It has lost its joyful summer vibe.  It takes me weeks to shake the feeling of nausea and the shame. My friend asks me, “what were you thinking going to his house?” and for a long time this is all I can think of it. My mind translates it into “well what did you expect, idiot.”

And so this memory, this “bad date” lived in the same “mind bucket” as my beautiful, wonderful first date with my current boyfriend. And the two experiences, because they were labeled the same, were forced to coexist together. Whenever someone would ask me how me and my boyfriend met and I would tell this cute story, all the while this “bad date” played in detail in the back of my mind. Two parallel and distinct tracks playing at once. A cacophony of sorts that I could never escape.  I thought about how this bad date worked to undermine and steal the joy of a great first date that was the beginning of happy and healthy relationship.  I knew I had to face the label and make the change.  I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.  A new bucket was made: sexual assault. It’s a bucket that makes me tremble with sadness and foolishness and fear and stupidity and anger and good fortune all at once. And it’s a bucket that I’ve had to painfully accept holds more than one instance. But by properly labeling this event, bravely albeit painfully, I can give proper honor and joy to all the good men and good dates I have been on, and I can see my world more clearly.

Do you think you need to make some more buckets to honor your experiences? What adjectives are you avoiding? Let me know if this article helped you see your life more clearly. I hope it did.

 

Note: I never did press charges. I know that by not I am leaving other women at risk. I am aware I will be judged harshly by some for this decision because I’ve heard it before. This is something I have turned over and over in my mind for years since it happened. Where does civic responsibility and the right to privacy, healing, etc come in to play? I don’t know. I just know at the time and in the months afterward I lived in a very heightened sense of fear and paranoia with a legitimate fear for the safety of my children. I have never seen this man again, and I would like to keep it that way.

 

 

As young as 4 years old I would be introduced to men often, usually along with my sisters, (one older and one younger) while we were at my father’s restaurant. These men (delivery guys, customers, bankers, etc) would smile and then say my younger sister was “cute” and my older sister was “smart”. And then, regardless of whether I stood quietly or spoke up I would hear the same thing: “that one is going to be trouble. You’re going to have to beat the boys off with a stick”. They would say it with a smile and wink.

I got attention from men. It began young. I was thin, dark skinned, big brown eyes, long eyelashes, deep brown hair, a smart mouth, a quick mind. I enjoyed crafting arguments, talking to adults, talking to strangers, practicing outwitting people, mastering the double entendre at a young age. Growing up in a restaurant I considered the employees, most of whom were transient adults, my friends.  I knew about things kids probably shouldn’t: I knew the manager knocked up the waitress; I knew the waiter didn’t have allergies but a nasty cocaine habit; I knew the dishwasher wasn’t tired but he was drunk; and I knew that some men made me feel safe and some made me uncomfortable.

In the past few weeks the term ‘rape culture’ was introduced to me. It has had me thinking back to my early childhood and how being labeled “trouble” has impacted me. I never understood why they said it to me and I never connected it to rape culture, until now. I now am on a mission to make sure no one ever calls my girls “trouble”.

When a man tells a girl (or a woman for that matter) that she’s trouble it’s not a compliment. It’s not the same as telling her she’s beautiful or valuable or intelligent or even desirable. What he is really saying by telling her she is trouble is that others won’t be able to control themselves around her. That her very presence brings out the worst in others. And for me, being called trouble at a young age taught me that the behavior of men towards me was my fault – because after all, I am trouble.

When I found my voice and complained about men whose hands would linger too long on my back, or sit too close to me in a booth blocking me in so I couldn’t get out or think it was funny to lock me in a walk-in box with them, I was told to just ignore them.  I learned not to bring it up anymore. I learned to deal. I learned it was my fault, because I was trouble.  Being called trouble by grown men effectively silenced me. It made everything that ever happened to me my fault. It allowed others to treat me in a way that I can only explain as disposable or less than. I was a temptation and that was my fault. The way I was handled, abused, or spoken to would always be something that I was at fault for.

Because I was trouble I never told anyone ever that in the 8^th grade as my parents sat on the back deck barbecuing with friends I was inside watching a movie with our guests’ teenage son who thought it was funny to pull his bathing suit down and rub his penis on my face while I was pinned to the couch.

And because I was trouble I never said a word when, as a freshman in high school while I walked back from the office and the halls were empty, I was grabbed by an upperclassman who pushed me face first against a locker and rubbed his hand against my crotch telling me he liked my jeans. I told no one. That was in 1991. I still think about it. I can still feel the cold metal against my face, I can still feel his hand on my wrist holding me against the wall and his other hand with fingers together rubbing back and forth against my clit through my jeans. It was 25 years ago and my heart is in my throat writing this and my hands are cold and I am still mad and embarrassed and feeling like I am choking on a scream.  He let me go, laughing while I walked back to class straightening my shirt.

But I was trouble. I was told I would have to beat off the boys. This was my lot in life. Who was I to complain? I should be lucky I got so much “attention” my girlfriends would say when guys catcalled me.  Until now I honestly thought this is just what it’s like to be attractive. The price I would pay for a pretty face.  Somehow I should be flattered.

Because I was trouble no one took me seriously when later in high school my guy friends left me alone in the woods with an older neighbor who pushed me down in the dirt, his drunk hands on my thighs trying to kiss me and I found myself running full sprint through woods to find my way back to my friend’s house. I told them – “that asshole was gonna rape me” and they laughed. But I meant it. Later that same night the neighbor told me I should “lighten up”.

And, now in my late 30s.  I had just begun seeing my current boyfriend. One night we went out where we met a group of strangers who warned us about a drunk man at the bar.   Later that same man walked up to me and drunkenly said, “Hello.”  I held my drink up higher to put more space in between us and before I could say anything he put his arm around me, his hand on my right ass check, his fingers in between the crack of my ass and pulled me into him. I was wearing a dress. His fingers were thick, hard and fat. I yelled and with my drink in my hand tried to push him off of me. Instantly my boyfriend pulled the man off of me and pushed him shouting. I stepped far away and pulled my underwear out of my ass and grabbed a napkin to dry the spilled drink off of my arm.

We left. Walking for a few steps before my boyfriend broke the silence. “No one will ever treat you like that again. Ever. Never.” And he held my hand. We talked while we walked. I believe I said “It’s okay” more than a few times. “It’s just the way it is,” I would say to him.  But you know what? It is not okay – it has never been okay. And I have never asked for this. And I have so many stories. Worse stories. Scary stories.  Stories that the only thing good about them is that I am alive to tell them.

I am going to be 39 this year. I know now what those men meant back in 1985 when they first called me trouble. When a young girl is beautiful, fiercely independent, funny, smart, mischievous, creative, and quick witted and a man calls her trouble what he’s really saying is she won’t be easy to control. She has a spirit that will need to be broken. She is a threat to him. And so he calls her trouble, to devalue, to shame and to blame her for the atrocious behavior she will experience at the hands of men who see it as their job to make her subservient, to put her in her place.

I know now I am not trouble. I never was. Now I know my value. The only people who see me as trouble are the ones that fear my potential and want to hold me back.

When I see my daughters being tenacious, beautiful, smart, relentless, and full of fire, I will not call them Trouble. Instead I will call them Promise, Change, Hope. I will call them Leaders. I will call them the Future because that is what they really are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I asked for you.

 

In silent wishes on the flickering flames of my birthday candles

I asked for you.

In my first waking thoughts before I left the warmth of my bed

I asked for you.

Alone, listening to waves break in the darkness with my fingers sifting cold sand; anxious, uncertain and in need

I asked for you.

 

In the middle of the night wanting so badly to feel your warmth and hear your breathing, a lullaby etched in my soul, written  by God and the angels,

I asked for you.

I asked for you and all that you are.

Your energy, your insight, your undeniable beauty, your indecision, your stubbornness, your raw vulnerability, your wild side, your curiosity, your laugh, your smell, your crooked teeth, your insecurities, your loyalty.

I didn’t know it,  but each time I whispered my wish to the universe for my life to have meaning I was asking for you and all you’ll ever be.

 

I have asked for you.

You are perfect.

A piece of you in me and me in you.

Inseparable always.

I asked for you.

In you I will find all I will ever need.

 

 

 

Written with the loves of my life in mind: my daughters, my sister Amy, my sweet boyfriend, and everyone else I have unknowingly asked the universe for.  Thank you for coming to me. You are perfect.

 

Copyright 2016

 

I never expected the two of them to exist on my face in the same decade, let alone to occupy the same space at the same time. Right there on my forehead; an anachronism of sorts.

But here we were, the 3 of us, me, my wrinkle and my zit, peacefully coexisting.  I leaned over the bathroom sink to get close to the mirror. Was this going to be my new normal? I was dumbfounded.  “How in the hell?” I said to my face.

At that moment, staring in the mirror contemplating my options for dealing with this zit I realized that nothing quite explains what it’s like to be this age better than a zit on a wrinkle.

It was perfect actually.

At 38 ½ I am in the midst of an epic change. A vibrant, powerful, unscripted metamorphosis punctuated with periods of much needed hibernation because quite frankly vibrant, powerful, unscripted metamorphosis at this age makes me sleepy.

I am enjoying my midlife awakening the body, mind and soul all evolve rapidly with permanence and without seeking permission. This is my definition. Once it happens THERE IS NO GOING BACK.

My body hasn’t changed this much since I was 13. This time there is no special class, girls in one room, boys in the other. No awkward animation showing us what physical changes we can expect in the next 10 years. No school nurse to tell us the wonderful joy of using “lube” during sex and handing out little samples (by the way trust me on this one…buy the lube. You can thank me later) or explain that our cycles are going start to go haywire and which apps are best to track them when they decide to be 24 days one month and 36 days the next or that night sweats are no joke – drenching perspiration during sleep that wakes you up not because you’re hot but because you’re actually freezing cold and soaking wet in your own bed.  Or that when you sneeze, cough, laugh you might actually pee a little like in the commercial, or you might pee a lot, like a 3 year old who can’t make the potty in time.

At 38 ½ years old I feel like I have one foot in the generation ahead of me and one in the generation behind me. It’s a conflict of youthful curiosity and hopefulness and mature acceptance of responsibility. I see myself in my 10 year old daughter who is for the first time experiencing her own body, mind and soul awakening.  We bond over the odd things our body decides to do. We question the status quo. We push back on rules. We crave the safety of a familiar hug. We are both in a type of puberty, the beginning of a new phase of life. We are in the middle. We both miss the way things used to be, when we didn’t know how good we had it. But the same time there is a palpable excitement while we both learn more about ourselves.  So much is unexpected. So much is positive.

But at this moment barefoot in my bathroom with a roll of toilet paper on the counter next to me and an empty brown tube on the holder for the thousandth time I refrain from yelling and instead turn my attention to the conundrum on my face. I am captivated by the zit on my wrinkle. Unexpected, yes. Positive, not so much.

Wrinkles. I have a few deep long ones on my forehead, which is worse in my opinion than having many because I can easily obsess over them, count them, intimately know their depth, clandestinely Google home remedies for getting rid of them while my kids sleep. Someday, I suppose, my wrinkles will be so numerous I won’t be able to be count them.  I imagine the distraction they cause me today will be long gone by then. They will simply just be a part of me. Mine. Created by thousands of sunny afternoons, some regrettable sunburns, too many times I’ve cried at the loss of a loved one, all the funny faces I’ve made just so I can hear my kids giggle, the nights in college and then again after my divorce when I drank too much too often and forgot how important it was to drink water. My wrinkles — some will be hard earned.

And then there’s the zit. After my second daughter was born in my mid-30s breaking out here or there became the new normal. But today’s pimple, planted right there on my wrinkle has affected me, offended me. I feel it’s taunting me. I stare at it. Run my forefinger over it. It brings me back to when I was 13, tight jeans, plaid flannel shirt and a my forehead covered in a constant collection of tiny hive-like bumps well hidden under hair sprayed bangs. It’s a sign of youth I decide boldly. This zit is here to remind me that I will remain forever young. I am certain of it. (Forget about that I haven’t washed my face before going to bed forever.) It’s my youthful soul.  Of this one thing I am sure.

But on a wrinkle, a zit.  I never imagined this.  It’s the physical manifestation of mid-life. Right there on my face.

This isn’t the only thing changing about my skin though at this age. Lately my body is enjoying making little red spots. I remember watching my mom change her clothes when I was little and asking her about her red spots. “It’s because I am getting old,” she would say. But that can’t be. I am not getting old. I am only 38 ½, right?

My teeth are shifting. At least I think they are.  I Googled “teeth shifting middle age” and I got 286,000 results. So it’s a definite thing. I had braces from 5^th grade through 8^th grade. There is no way I am getting braces again, but what does the future hold for my smile? Will my grandchildren see the same smile my kids see today?

And now back to the reflection in the mirror, this sight of a zit on my wrinkle has nearly moved me to tears. Time is passing. I am approaching the middle, rounding the turn, getting ready to enter “the red zone” as my father would say (he’s 65 and has been in the “red zone” since about 49), the second half.  I can feel time is starting to move faster. I make a conscious effort to slow it down, to enjoy my 3 daughters, to make the most of my divorce and the many unwritten chapters that remain in my life. I am old enough finally to know what I don’t want; I don’t quite know exactly what I do want, but I know if I figure it out soon there is still plenty of time to achieve it. But what will I look like by then?

A while back I went to get my eyebrows and mustache waxed. It was my go-to place. The woman who worked there was quiet and kind. She would smile and nod when I entered the salon and then motion for me to go to the back room. There I’d climb up on the table and close my eyes and relax as she quietly applied hot wax and ripped the hair out of my face. When she was done she would tap my shoulder and say, “$12”.  I’d pay and leave. That was it. For years. As a mom of 3 girls those few minutes of not having to talk or answer a question were like gold. But on this particular day while I lay there on the table, feeling her touch my face and anticipating the warmth of the hot wax she broke the silence with 2 words I’ll never forget: “Chin too?”

“WHAT THE FUCK LADY?!” my mind yelled.  “We had a deal. You were never going to speak to me. I would enjoy the 6 minutes of relaxation while you removed my Italian heritage from my face. I pay you and leave. Why have you broken our tacit agreement?” The silence was deafening. I wondered, “Was this a classic upsell? How much does, “Chin too?” cost anyway? Was there some new employee contest where they get points for waxing more body parts? How many points was chin waxing worth in this soul-crushing game?”  I managed to move my mouth and eek out the words, “No thank you”. She responded with a suck of her teeth and sigh.  She proceeded to rip the hair off my face. I paid $12 and left. In less than 10 minutes I was home standing in front of the bathroom mirror studying one small, blonde hair that was more on my jaw than on my chin. And I plucked it with tweezers. For free. In the privacy of my own home where my imagination could run wild about the future of my hairy face.

At 38 ½ the hair on my legs is more sparse and grows much more slowly than before and that is AWESOME.  However I now have big-toe hair.  This is a thing no one ever told me to expect. Ever. This is a shaveable event. In the shower I shave my underarms, I shave Topanga (my pet name for lady parts, you know, big lips lots of hair…) I shave my legs and now I shave the big toe on each foot.  If the lady at the salon ever offers to wax my toes she’ll have a deal. (By the way, if you have nipples and are around my age, well, there is a situation that occurs there too. Just look at the paragraph that sentence is included in and you’ll know what’s up.)

And just when I felt like I was ok with the visible conflict between my last youthful hurrah and the beginning of a new unique beauty, distinctly marked with the lines of my face that will tell the story of me before I even open my mouth, my 4 year old daughter comes in the bathroom.

I move away from the mirror, put the toilet lid down and sit. She climbs on my lap. “What are you doing?” she asks me.  “Nothing,” I lie. “Oh,” she uses both her hands and squeezes at my face and stares at my forehead. “Here it comes,” I think to myself, the honesty of a 4 year old is brutal. She is going to ask me about the zit on my wrinkle. I brace myself for it.

“What is that on your face?” she asks.

“What?” I say.

“That,” pointing at my forehead, “the white and the black”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I’ve just spent the past 10 minutes staring at my face – what the hell is this kid talking about?

“Your eyebrows, they are white and black. Go look. They are two different colors. You have white hair in your eyebrows that weren’t there other day. You look like an old man.”

And just like that I am informed rather unceremoniously that my eyebrows are going white. The zit on my wrinkle which has fascinated me has gone unnoticed by my daughter. But the two new white hairs in my left eyebrow mesmerize her. She pets my eyebrows with her chubby little forefinger. She tries to pull the white hair out.

I’m in the throes of a change in womanhood that few ever talk about. It kind of sucks. My mind is young, much of my body thankfully is strong and fit and feeling good. But it’s happening. There is no stopping time.  I will choose to spend as much time as I can with my daughters on my lap, letting them each examine my face, so that hopefully 38 ½ years from now they can tell my grandkids how beautiful grandma was when she young and realize that they too are young and beautiful as they evolve into their own unique and new mid-life beauty.

All because of a zit on my wrinkle.

 

 

— written by Julie Avellino. Selfie-portrait by Julie Avellino, no zit or wrinkle in this pic, sorry!

 

 

The last time you were beautiful wasn’t when ‘he’ took the time to tell you.

The last time you were beautiful was this morning when you ran to the bus stop with fuzzy socks and fuzzy teeth and old college sweatshirt and pajama pants to catch your 12 year old son before he got on the bus so he wouldn’t forget his instrument.

The last time you were beautiful was today, when you lay on your living room floor still in pajamas at 11:45, surrounded by piles of unfolded laundry, and two cold cups of coffee (one from last night and one from this morning) and played with your baby, only allowing yourself to be distracted by the half-drunk bottle you noticed tucked way under the couch.

The last time you were beautiful was today when you drove your baby to daycare for the first time and then cried in the car for 45 minutes before leaving for work.

The last time you were beautiful was this afternoon when you went to your playgroup and showed the kids just how high you could go on a swing and caught lady bugs and shared snacks.

The last time you were beautiful was this afternoon when you met your deadline, closed your deal, finished your lesson plans, worked your last shift and earned your paycheck for the day.

The last time you were beautiful was this evening as you cheered on your daughter’s team, still in work clothes, exhausted and wondering about dinner.

The last time you were beautiful was during supper time when you cleverly combined 3 kinds of leftovers into a meal everyone would actually eat.

The last time you were beautiful was tonight when you sat at the edge of the bathtub and one-by-one trimmed dirty little finger nails while answering questions about frogs and monsters and making up songs to pass the time.

The last time you were beautiful you were giving out medicine and hugs and stories before bedtime.

The last time you were beautiful it was well after bedtime when you were reminded of a project due tomorrow and had to search the house for glue and oak tag.

The last time you were beautiful you were scraping plates under the yellow glow of the light over the sink in a dark kitchen while little ones slept down the hall.

The last time you were beautiful you fell asleep with the tv on and a sick baby sleeping on your chest.

The last time you were beautiful your bra and panties didn’t match.

The last time you were beautiful your hair wasn’t done.

The last time you were beautiful your legs needed to be shaved.

The last time you were beautiful you were just being you.

The last time you were beautiful was just a moment ago, and you didn’t even know it.

–Julie Avellino

 

 

 

To all the good mom’s out there who got nothing on Mother’s Day, what the fuck?!

How did this happen? I’m so sorry that you got treated that way.  How did you, a beautiful, giving, vibrant, funny, intelligent, hands-on, patient, supportive, woman get overlooked by your kids and family?

You are so much better than that. You deserved more. You are a good mom. You shouldn’t have had to beg for thanks and appreciation. You shouldn’t have had to remind anyone it was Mother’s Day around 11:30 am. You shouldn’t have had to wait all day wondering if maybe after dinner or before they go to bed the kids will give you a card, or a hug, or a fist bump, or a high-five, or a dead flower from the yard or even a mumbled “Happy Mother’s Day”.

How could the spouses of these good mothers’ choose to opt out of Mother’s Day and teach your kids that it’s okay to neglect the woman who gave her youth, her hips, her breasts, to the creation and caring for a child that most likely will not even carry her name — how dare they?

We talk so much about what mother’s ‘are’ but what we fail to mention is that mothers are people who have chosen to never truly be first again. We are the people who eat last, shower last, sleep last and get up first, go without first, and put everyone else before us.

One day a year we expect our children to say “Thank you” and show appreciation.  (It should be every day.)  Never, should our children be given the chance to wield power over us by withholding their appreciation or making us ask to be acknowledged. And never should a father teach a child that it is acceptable to neglect and disrespect their mom by choosing not to honor her on Mother’s Day.

Next year this needs to change.  I want all the mom’s out there who got overlooked on Mother’s Day to promise me this: Promise that every day between today and next Mother’s Day you will remind yourself of your purpose and beauty, recall all the gifts you had before you were a mom, and know that they are still all there; and then some. You are a mother now. More than a woman you embody beauty and strength. You sustain life. You are a maker of memories and magic. You are the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. You cook, you clean, you work, you rock, you study, you cuddle, you play, you wash, you fold, you sweep, you encourage, you bake, you volunteer, you save, you wait to do your roots, you pick up, you drop off, you remind, you pack, you heal, you guide, you advocate. You do it all.  You are wiser now than you ever could’ve imagined.  And for that, next year on Mother’s Day May 14th 2017 you deserve to be recognized. Even if I have to send you a card myself, I will.  Just send me your address. Because moms need to stick together #nomomleftbehind

Today I vacuumed.

It’s getting close to Mother’s Day. This year my middle daughter’s 7^th birthday is also on Mother’s Day. As a mother of young kids I’ve learned to love the handmade gifts and the crafty ways they show me they appreciate my special brand of momming.

My first divorced Mother’s Day was a disaster. My kids were dropped off to me (although it wasn’t my day) so that I could “celebrate with them.” I had an awful cold, cramps and low grade fever. My ex-husband unceremoniously delivered them to me. He didn’t say one word to me. I couldn’t believe he didn’t even acknowledge me with so much as a flippant “Happy Mother’s Day.” We have 3 kids together. But I had no time to really dwell on that because what hurt more was the kids had nothing for me. No construction paper flowers, no half-wilted dandelions, no pasta necklaces. Nothing.

They informed me immediately upon arrival they were hungry and hadn’t eaten and that they wanted to celebrate with a “fancy Mother’s Day lunch”. My nose ran clear and hot onto my flushed face. My period was heavy and uncomfortable. I had wanted to stay home but they were relentless and so I reluctantly walked the few minutes downtown to take them to lunch. One that I could not afford. They argued during the entire meal. I wanted to nap, I wanted to do laundry, I wanted to do anything else on that Mother’s Day than be partner-less with my whiny, complaining, expensive, bickering kids. I sat on the stone wall near the little waterfall by my apartment during our walk home and I cried quietly while my kids walked ahead of me arguing and I thought, “This sucks. This whole thing, this whole life I’ve made. It just sucks.” That Mother’s Day was the worst; I felt sick and depressed and I needed mothering myself, but instead I was alone and I had to mother. It was one of the few days I really felt like I didn’t have it in me. I counted the minutes until they were picked up.

The second Mother’s Day was way better. I know this because I barely remembered it and had to really think before I could write this. So it must have been pretty good. I bought myself a great necklace from The Dollar Store as a special treat and I no longer cared who did or didn’t wish me a Happy Mother’s Day. I had just started dating someone a month earlier and I was able to sneak away for a walk and glass of wine with him in the afternoon because my sister had graciously offered to take my kids for part of the day. (After all the best Mother’s Day gift for many moms is alone time. Plus, my sister brought them back with Mother’s Day cards and gifts that were adorable.) Anyway there I was on this sunny day, with this man I was just getting to know, and he greets me with “Happy Mother’s Day!” and surprises me with a gift: a sterling silver star fish necklace and the message under the starfish read Unwritten because “my story was far from over,” he said.

Turns out I did care who wished me a Happy Mother’s Day because that moment overwhelmed me so much I seriously considered dumping him right there. To be valued as a woman and a mother, to be desired and seen as still having potential. It was the exact opposite of doubt and hopelessness I felt the year before. It was so unfamiliar.

This year I am still in that relationship, and I find myself wanting for a Mother’s Day nothing more than a clean home. My apartment has become a dumping ground for my girls. The pace of life is too much for me to keep up with. My little one at 4 years old is a special kind of mischief maker, a true vandal.  The group of us are just out growing the space and the calls to please clean up, put dishes away, put clothes in the hamper, scrape a plate all fall on deaf ears. It’s exhausting. Today all I wanted to do was gift myself the ability to vacuum. To vacuum large sections of carpet without hearing tiny Lego pieces suck into the canister, to not have to vacuum around shoes and backpacks and socks and underwear on the living room floor. So I asked my girls to please pick up. And they did a little here and there, a few books back on the shelf, some shoes put away. No more underwear in the living room. And when their dad came to pick them up and the cacophony of 3 little girls that had overwhelmed my ability to think clearly most of the day was gone I broke the deafening silence with the roar of my vacuum.

I vacuumed my less than perfect home. In the living room I vacuumed around one knee-high sock; a remote control that floats around and yet seems to control nothing I own; a book; a foam block; and a stack of completed first grade homework that has been on my living room floor for the better part of a month untouched but declared by my middle daughter as “too important to ever throw out.”

I vacuumed the tired, previously-white carpet under the dining room table and I sucked up pasta so old and hard and dry that it clanged as it went into the canister; the corner of a peanut butter sandwich from this afternoon; a piece of green apple from breakfast; crumbs of a chocolate protein bar; scraps of paper. I stopped for a minute and grabbed scissors and got on my knees so I could cut hard, sharp, crusty nubs of dried Elmer’s glue out of the tips of the carpet and then I sucked those up too. I vacuumed pink and blue sequins; and part of what looked like a crumbled and dehyrated super ball. In went the tiny Legos; a pink hair elastic; a yellow pencil-top eraser; a petrified blueberry, one piece of popcorn; feathers from my throw pillows; a beheaded owl sticker; and a round Band-Aid.

I vacuumed with a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. I actually love a clean house so all this mess has been killing me but then I paused and thought to myself, “I am sucking up their childhood.”

The last time I vacuumed Cheerios off my floor was 2013 and my littlest was only 1 year old. I won’t ever vacuum Cheerios up off my floor again.  And if this were 2010 I’d have had to pick all the gravel stones up first because my oldest was convinced every small grey piece of rock she could find was treasure and I’d find them on the floor, under the couch and in all her pockets. And if it were 2007, or 2011, or 2014, I’d be yelling because I’d be finding long, thick pieces of hair as I vacuumed since each of my girls went through the “I’ll cut my hair and hide it from mom” phase around 2.5 years old. And then I realized not only am vacuuming up their childhood, but I am sucking up the phases of my motherhood.

The speed of life comes quick and the struggle to keep my kids cleanish and fed and to explain why mommy can swear and they can’t is a daily one. And all the while we move so fast we don’t realize that we are in what is no doubt the hardest ‘hood there is: Parenthood. A phase full of such intense, quick growth and inner conflict and self-doubt that even the simplest thing like enjoying the day you are celebrated for being in the ‘hood comes with questions, reflection and concern.   A ‘hood that offers such a tremendous mind-fuck to the participant that even vacuuming becomes more meaningful. But that’s the beauty of it I guess.

We as parents worry more, think more, plan more, stress more but we also get to, if we can slow down just a bit, cherish more, giggle more, reflect more, and learn more. So today I vacuumed. And that was enough for me.

 

 

My entire life if I had to think of examples of happy endings  my mind would conjur moments from countless movies just before the credits rolled. They are the last brief scene where everything is just right and nothing new is introduced to the audience. We are left feeling hopeful, fulfilled, smitten, and at peace with the story and then it ends.  In the last few years since my divorce I have found myself wondering, “where is my happy ending?”  a self-limiting thought that only brought up feelings of jealousy, self-doubt, and a general feeling of not being deserving.

And then one day a concept popped into my head after percolating in my subconscious and mixing with all the conversations, media influence, reading and journaling in the past months, an insight was born. And I chose to shift my mindset. To admit to myself that I had been going about this all wrong. To apologize to myself for the distraction of seeking out an ending to my story;  for this mistaken and exhausting quest for the elusive happy ending. And then I chose to change.

You see for decades in movies and fairy tales the phrase ‘The End’ comes across the screen in ornate font and lingers there, impressing upon on us the completion of the story. But we are being mislead. Because preceding that powerful visual, there is often a golden nugget of wisdom spoken to us that we must choose to hear, “they lived happily ever after.” This is what we should be embracing. Our ever after. A seemingly infinite experience with no set rules or boundaries that often comes into existence after a major turmoil. What defines the ever after to me? Not a prince or a Disney castle, but instead it is the character’s ability to be his or her authentic self and to accept the gift of unconditional love.

I have chosen to stop stressing over my “end” and instead float joyfully-warm and safe here in my limitless ever after. The one I created. The one I deserve.  The ever after that reflects the uncovering of my self.  The first time I have experienced unconditional love. My ever after is here now and will continue for as long as I let it. It is my creation of beautiful children, a loving and supportive man, a flexible, creative, career, lifelong friends, travel and continuous learning.

We are taught that the end is a goal, a point for us to strive to. But in reality the only thing we don’t have to apply any effort to at all in life is our inevitable end. For me striving for a happy ending was like trying to find inspiration in a spark, brilliant and brief, blink and you’ll miss it.  But living in my ever after is like getting to enjoy a warm breeze, soft sand and brilliant sunset that never quite dips below the horizon.

One of my favorite movie lines is from the film, ‘The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel’, when the young and flailing hotel manager tells his aged guests, “Everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright, it’s not the end.” As we move through life so many times things are not alright but rarely does that ever equate to our end. If we change our mindset and believe we create our experiences in life, then even when things are not alright, we have the power and opportunity to change them, and incorporate them into our ever after.

And so for me, I have shifted my mindset, reduced my anxiety, hushed the panic that creeps into the mind of the single mom and I no longer ask, “where is my happy ending?” but instead I think with a sense of calmness, “what can I create in this, my happily ever after that will open more doors, lead to more adventure, produce more giggles for my girls?”  The ever after is ever changing, spontaneous and full of energy. It is realized when you achieve authenticity in your life, invite only people who will love you unconditionally to accompany you each day and then choose to be vulnerable and honest so that those who love you can fully support you and of all your dreams.