The Sisterhood of Motherhood

My daughter screams upstairs. I'm making her put on pants...AGAIN. It may be 50 degrees outside but sister does not want pants and she is going to let everyone in a 3 block radius know. I'm downstairs with the nice child, my 20 month-old, who hasn't learned yet how to throw a really good tantrum. I treasure these last meltdown-free months.

This is not a going "my kids are so awful but they're really actually wonderful and I need to treasure every moment" post. It's just not. There are plenty of amazing posts out there but I just didn't feel like writing one today.

This is a post to remind you (to remind ME) that we are not alone in this. That, when your child is screaming, melting down, throwing stuff and overall just being an unrecognizable maniac, you are not alone.


I see you struggle with what to do next. Do you pick the fight? Do you give in? Do you walk away and give space or do you accompany the maniac in the tantrum? I SEE YOU.

I hear you use your most patient tone. I hear you lose it and yell. I hear you bargain, plead and cajole. I hear you whisper words of love and encouragement. I HEAR YOU.

I feel your heart break for your child's pain. Whether it's about something significant (but I really WANTED to see that friend) or something ridiculous (I said I wanted the BLUE underwear!), I feel your frustration and your sadness as you watch your child unravel. I FEEL YOU.

The truth is, we've all been there. Maybe some of our kids are more laid back than others (if this is you, can your kid talk to my kid, please?) but we've all been in the thick of it. We know the moment will pass but that does not take away from the suckiness (yes, I'm really that eloquent today) of it.

Know you are not alone. This motherhood we live in? Yeah, it's a sisterhood. That means that, at any point in time, if we are honest and forthright, we can share and receive affirmation from fellow mothers around us. The mud you might be in now and the mud you may be in later is familiar mud to the Sisterhood. We've been there, we KNOW how sticky it can get.

So reach out. Be honest. If you're in a good space, CELEBRATE IT! If you're struggling, LET THE SISTERHOOD KNOW.

We moms need to stick together. Our job is critical and our cargo is precious.

In the meantime, there is wine. There are bubble baths. There is laughter (these kids are FUNNY so do yourself a favor and laugh at them...and with them, I guess that's nicer, right?).

And there is the Sisterhood.

You Can't Turn Off The Motherhood

It's a beautiful day in New England and I am outside with my two daughters. Harper, my youngest, splashes in our kiddie pool. She hates the feel of grass on her feet and refuses to take off her shoes so, there she is, stomping her feet and splashing away with her shoes on. Her sister, Charlotte, the complete opposite, hasn't touched a shoe in days. "I want to wear BARE FEET, mama."

Charlotte, after a brief foray into our 1980s kiddie pool, goes inside to change her clothes. Again. She's worn 3 swimsuits, 2 shirts, 1 dress and at least 3 tutus today. Changing is her favorite pastime and, since her sister is outside in the pool and I can't leave her, I'm in no position to put up a fight.

So I hang with the wee one outside while her sister proceeds with her day-long fashion show.

Sister comes out in wool black-and-white polka dot tights and a navy striped long-sleeve shirt. It's 85 degrees.

Jesus, take the wheel.

After an anything-but rational conversation with this threenager, she acquiesces and returns inside for something more appropriate. She comes out in a bathing suit (perfect) with a snack cup filled to the brim of bunny cookies. Which she got from the cupboard after moving the stool, opening a brand new package and pouring its contents into her favorite purple snack cup. I don't even want to know what the kitchen looks like.

Serenity now.

My daughters are hilarious. And crazy. And busy. And fun. And hard and challenging and (what's a nice word for pains in the asses?) spirited. I wouldn't trade them in, I really wouldn't. I am freaking obsessed with them.

But sometimes, I wish I could take a break. A REAL break. Not a "wander around Target while they're with the sitter" break.

Mother's Day was wonderful this year. There were flowers, a new necklace, a coffee date with a friend and, most of all, there was my wonderful family. But I had a moment in the middle of the night (my youngest cried and I had to run down and help her find her pacifier) where I realized there really are no days off in this whole "being a mother" thing.

That's not to say there aren't kid-free vacations in my future (Barcelona, I'm looking at you!) or lazy Sundays when are kids more independent and sleep past 7am.

What I mean is that, there is no off switch. There is no "time out." You can't turn off The Motherhood. 

The Motherhood isn't a job. The Motherhood is a state of being. No, a WAY of being. To turn it off would be a departure from myself. From who I have become and from who my children have made me. The Motherhood is my most significant lens through which I see this world. It's permanent, there's no going back. 

There is no off switch because I will never stop caring that Harper needs help finding her paci at 2am. Or that Charlotte tries to con me into letting her eat bunny cookies for dinner. There is no off switch for the love. There is no turning off The Motherhood. 

I find myself in the throes of The Motherhood when I read the news or when I see other children. From my neighbor's precocious toddler with ice cream all over her face to the image of the Syrian mother carrying her baby in a donated Ergo carrier, my heart cannot stop being a mother. I see these faces and these children and my heart opens up to them, even though they are not mine. 

Because, you can't turn off The Motherhood.   

And it's HARD. I sometimes wish I could care less because it would require less of me. I wouldn't be haunted by stories of hungry babies or abused children. I wouldn't so wholeheartedly believe that there is no such thing as other people's children. It would be so much easier that way. 

Ah, but The Motherhood. It won't let me care less. It won't turn off. It won't go away. 

And you know what? Thank God. Because I don't want to miss any of this. The fashion shows, the middle-of-the-night stirrings, the ice cream faces and even the pain in the world. Because to turn away from some of it is to turn away from it all.

***If you are looking for a way to care for children, consider The Compassion Collective, a new initiative that uses no donation money for overhead, aids Syrian refugees and homeless youth in our country. Started by Cheryl Strayed, Glennon Melton, Rob Bell, Brene Brown and Elizabeth Gilbert, it's the organization I'm choosing to give to in this crazy time. 

It's All True

How can so many things be true at the same time? My brain is having a hard time coping with all of the information it's been receiving. Let me give you a few examples:

My daughter is finally potty-trained (praise be, Hallelujah!).

Beyonce walked the red carpet at the Met Gala... alone.

My 16-month-old's favorite word is "cheese" and she says it every time she sees a phone because she assumes it will be used to take a picture of her.

Donald Trump is the presumptive nominee of the Republican party. 

It's time to plant my early crops in my vegetable garden even though warm weather may never actually arrive.

Jojo Gaines is officially the coolest woman alive. 

Mother's Day is this weekend and OMG I love my mom and need to send her something.

We don't hear even a quarter of what is actually going on in this world on the news.

Just finished a presentation to a group of Beachbody coaches about expanding their reach.

Princess Kate was on the cover of British Vogue and HOW DO I GET A COPY?

My husband is residing our house beginning this summer and the scaffolding he ordered just arrived.

I just heard a piece on NPR about two Syrian families living in refugee camps in Macedonia with their children and I just cannot imagine.

I think Charlotte may be getting ready to give up her afternoon nap. She is over 3, after all.

One of the children from the NPR story sits on her father's lap while he strokes her hair. She just vomited from food poisoning - a soup kitchen's egg sandwich.

Harper is just like her older sister- loves her warm milk after her nap. My sweet 16-month-old sitting with her big sister on the couch makes my heart swell.

One of the father's at the camp in Macedonia traveled with the rest of his family from Syria. The father and their 6-month-old daughter were separated from the rest of the family while being loaded onto boats. Rather than being breastfed, she drinks milk out of a bottle on his lap as he wonders how they will reunite with her mother. 

How can all of these thoughts coexist? How can all these realities coexist? How on earth can there be so much abundance and so much lack? How can there be so much beauty and so much need? So much silliness and so much gravity? 

I have no answers, I offer no wisdom. I'm just here witnessing to the fact that this world of ours is a paradox and we dwell in it. That when we open ourselves up to the extremities, we open ourselves up to the truth. It's all true. All of it.

We exist in paradox. We care about silly little things and huge, world-changing things. We get stuck in the weeds of every day life but also see the landscape of our time. And you know what? It's all true. It's all real. 

And if that makes you feel crazy sometimes, you're not alone. 

Big Mama little person

Never before have I experienced my own worth more than when I become a mother. From day one of pregnancy, my body created this tiny human being that now walks outside of my body. If I didn't exist, she wouldn't either. My existence was also integral to her little life for her first few months. Because I decided to breastfeed (but, let's be honest, even if I hadn't), I kept my little one alive. Her very breath depended on my reassuring presence. I was straight up VIP.

Photo credit: Mallory Parkington Photography

After giving birth to my first daughter, I was out and about on my own (at Target, obviously) and I had a morbid thought: Well, officially nothing can happen to me now because I am just too important. Some of this was the hormones talking (never before had they been so. very. opinionated.) but some of it was my new reality. I had graduated from just being loved (which is an amazing privilege given to me by my parents, my husband and my friends) to being absolutely and utterly needed.
Oh my word, it was overwhelming. I was needed. Really needed. I was the one who knew what to do when she cried, how to get her to sleep and when to feed her. As much as my husband was so wonderful during those early days and weeks, it still felt like a one-woman-show much of the time.
Talk about feeling so valuable, so necessary! I was bigger than big. My purpose was abundantly clear and my feeling of self-worth skyrocketed. I was MOM. I transitioned from being a woman, a wife, a friend (and whatever else) to this superhuman, life-giving, diaper-changing sleepless NINJA. Those early weeks and months when you don't know which way is up? Yes, I was seriously, a freaking ninja.
Yet something else was happening to me at the same time. As I was becoming this larger-than-life mother, my sense of my own unique personhood shrank. Things I did before I was a mom fell to the wayside. Some of this was necessary. You can't teach a yoga class with a 3-day-old baby, for example. I wasn't going to pop on over to my blog in the middle of breastfeeding my newborn to hammer out an entry. I couldn't "be there" for my friends like I had been before (few will go to the lady with a brand new baby for emotional support).
All of this shrinkage (gosh, such a weird word to use but I'm committing) was 100% normal and healthy for a short time period. The newborn haze is exactly when this NEEDS to happen because a) you need to figure out what the @#*% you're doing and b) you need to take a respite from who you were before to figure our who you're going to be.
Once the dust settles and the world makes a little more sense again (and this may take anywhere from 3 weeks to 18 years...), the two parts of you can coexist once again. Or at least start to.
Your needs as a person will begin to be met again. Hell, you'll even be able to recognize what those needs actually ARE again.
In addition to your needs, your wants and desires will be once again recognizable. Thank goodness! Not that catering to the wants and desires of tiny humans isn't amazing and life-giving but they are not the only wants and desires that are important. There is a season where you come secondary to the wee one(s) you create but that season is NOT all the time, in my humble opinion.
Once you step out of the haze that IS that season of life (and a truly blessed season, indeed), it is time to work on joining your identities. Rather than leading a dual life (woman by day, ninja mom by night), I believe that we don't need alter egos. That all that we are can coexist. Actually, I believe that if you go after what you want, have your own needs and even desires met, then you'll be an even better mom than ever.
But this takes time, I think. The season of tiny babies -- of being "in the weeds" with the wee ones -- is an intense one. Incredible? Yes. Intense? You betcha.
I don't know exactly when I came out of that season but, when I did, it felt like I was breathing new air. I was so "in" my early motherhood that I lost my tight grip on my personhood. Myself as a mother eclipsed myself as a person rather than just having the two merge.
I think this is normal and even, perhaps, what is "supposed to happen". We have to become larger-than-life mothers in the early stages of the game and, because it is such an immense privilege to take on that role, other things have to take a backseat (like washing my hair, for example).
But we also have to learn how to meld that amazing new identity we have as mothers with the rest of ourselves, or else we risk losing those parts. Parts of us that our children would be privileged to know! The parts of us our friends know, our spouses know and even our employers. The parts of ourselves we may be missing immensely, even though we might not realize it in the newborn haze.
I am beyond grateful to be a mother. It is a gift and a truly the most meaningful role I might play here on this earth. It's certainly the role that has brought me the most joy and I'm excited for all joy it will continue to bring me.

5 Ways Parenting is Like Being a Teenage Girl

Being a teenage girl was SO fun, right? As if.

While I was lucky enough to escape the teenage years relatively unscathed (belly-button piercing scar excepted), I still thank the Good Lord that I am not thirteen. Or sixteen. Or nineteen. Nope, I am 29 and will forever stay here. No matter how hard Cher sings, you can't turn back time, people. Be realistic (this does not apply to me). 

In addition to being a teenager (let's be clear, this was only like, 10 years ago for me), I was both a camp counselor and a high school teacher for years. I actually ADORE teenagers. They are amazing. Really, I have nothing but love for them.

But, they are intense. Like, really intense. You know what I am saying?

I thought that, being the 20-something gal I am, that I had escaped the tumultuous time of my teens. Then I had children. While my girls are far from being actual teenagers, I am reliving my teenage days IN ALL THEIR GLORY. Let me count the ways... 

The drama. You thought middle school was dramatic? Goths and cheerleaders have nothing on my daughters. If there was a crying Olympics, my children would medal. EVERY. TIME. Seriously, villages in Africa could exist off their tears. Not only would my daughters medal due to the volume of liquid produced, but the lightning speed at which it is produced! Oh, you didn't want that kind of cheese? PUDDLES.

Someone is always telling you what to do. You may have forgotten but, being a teenager is hard. Your voice is seldom heard. Any control you have is pure illusion. Sound familiar? It's kind of like life with my two lady monsters.
     Mama, do not go upstairs.
     Mama, this milk is cold. I want it hot.
     No potty breaks today, mama. (Ok, I am making this one up but you feel me, right?)
     Put Harper in the pink dress, mama. I want us to match.
      

via GIPHY   

The Ups and Downs. When I was a teenage girl, I could have the best moment of my life AND the worst moment of my life in the span of half an hour. This is SO my world now. One minute, Charlotte is reading to Harper and the world stands still and I think, "I am the luckiest lady in the whole wide world." And the next minute, I am in a total "Jesus, Take the Wheel" moment as Charlotte catapults her sister off the coach and the puddles ensue. Perhaps it has something to do with how BIG my heart is for these kids. I feel ALL THE FEELS as if I was going through adolescence again because never before have I been so exposed, so raw. The entirety of my heart is walking on four unstable legs right out in front of me. It's enough to make anyone feel bipolar.

The moodiness. While I put out a ton of moodiness during my teenage years, I also had to deal with a lot from my sister and friends. Here I am again! I am 1000% biased but my daughters are super cute and sweet. AND THEN THEY ARE NOT. 
       Mama, where is my tutu?
       Which tutu, Charlotte?
       The one like cousin Caroline.
       Hmmm let me see, this one? (holding up incorrect tutu).
       No. my. Red. TUTU!  


via GIPHY

The butterflies. Oh the butterflies. I would get crushes on EVERYONE. All. The. Time. From my very first boyfriend Clint (I lived in Texas, people) to the boy who asked me to roller skate with him (I still hold a small candle for you, Adam), butterflies were a way of living. Just one look at that special someone's face and I was done. Well, being a parent is like that, too. Amidst the chaos, all I need to do is take one look at my daughters and the butterflies are back. It's really incredible. I love what Dax Shepard said in an interview about his new daughter, Lincoln, "When I look at her, it’s like when I was in 7th grade and fell in love for the first time, where it’s debilitating. That’s available 24/7 if I want, which is amazing.” I mean, RIGHT?!?!

There is so much to wade through as a teen and as a parent. From angst to acne (oh, the ACNE!), these two phases in life run the bases. Yet, I find myself reflecting on my teenage years with more fondness now that I've put them in perspective. How brave I was to navigate all of that! I'm not sure I could do it again.

But, here I am. In the throes of more tears than I've ever seen, more drama than I've ever made and, most of all, more butterflies than my heart can handle. Would. Not. Change. It. 

The Mom Lie

Photo by Mallory Parkington Photography

I've seen it play out countless times on my favorite makeover shows:
Zoom in on the sloppily dressed woman who, after years of mothering and nurturing, has completely forgotten how to run a brush through her hair. 
OK so maybe I'm being a teensy bit dramatic (as I am known to be) but haven't we seen this? There's something about becoming a mother that turns a lot of women into a the first 15 minutes of What Not To Wear. Or, at the very least, keeps us from feeling like the women we did before having children.
While I don't believe our worth should be measured by what we look like or whether or not we keep up with the latest trends, let me suggest that this tendency for mothers to fall into the pre-makeover category is indicative of a greater problem: The Mom Lie.
The Mom Lie goes like this: once you have kids, you must come last. All. The. Time. Especially regarding your body.
But here's the thing: our bodies created these tiny little humans. And after our bodies actually formed them into the perfect little mess makers that they are, they exited our bodies in a way that was both beautiful and damaging. You know what I am talking about. And then, even after we formed them and birthed them, we kept (keep!) them alive with the fiber of our very being. From breastmilk to middle-of-the-night bottle feedings to acting like a short-order cook in the kitchens, our bodies literally serve and nourish our beautiful little creations. And don't even get me started on those mothers whose bodies waited and waited in utter agony for that call from the adoption agency. And when that call came, those bodies did a most amazing thing: in an extraordinary act of fusion, they made theirs what was once not, in the fiercest, loveliest way possible.
Let me put it another way: our mothering bodies are effing amazing and beautiful. Just as they are.
But once these small little bundles enter our worlds, it's as if we completely forget the miraculous work of our flesh. Its beauty too. We pledge some unsaid vow to deny ourselves and our bodies any real self-care. We strap on the guise of martyrdom because we feel it is what mothers do. We forego the right to make ourselves a priority because it feels unnatural now. We have so much love for our babes that we think any tangible showing of love to ourselves would be selfish. That it would slight them.
And then the years pass.
  And then it's been a year since I've had a haircut.
    Ages since I sat down for a meal that wasn't leftover pb & j crust.
     I realize I only wear real clothes when I have to and rarely when I want to.
The funniest thing about it all (not funny "haha" but funny "punch me in the face") is that I thought I was taking care of myself. My attempts at self-care were so disordered, though. A glass (or two) of wine when I was stressed (I need this). A candy bar on-the-go (I deserve this). Lack of exercise (I need rest). Binge-watching my fave shows at any free moment (this is totally going to recharge me).
Granted, those things are often amazing and necessary but let's not let them masquerade as self-care. For one, if they turn into habits, they can lead you to a pretty gnarly pre-makeover situation. And I don't care one bit if you are a size 2 or 24, if you don't feel good or feel like yourself, that is a problem that needs a solution.
This whole "deny thyself" aspect of motherhood isn't something we've inflicted on ourselves without help. From lack of decent paid maternity leave to the absence of healthy conversation surrounding PPD, our mothering bodies are being asked (expected?) to roll over and make way for some greater good.
Herein lies the problem. How are we supposed to keep these tiny humans alive on a daily basis, do our jobs and be at least an average friend/partner/employee without a little energy spent on ourselves? We have to make ourselves a priority.
Making ourselves a priority is like swimming upstream. We have to ask for it, demand it and fight for it. It's really hard. And don't even get me started on the guilt that comes with it.
But let me let you in on a little secret (that you probably know already but just humor me and pretend I am BLOWING YOUR MIND):

A few months ago, I started taking better care of myself (you can read more about that here if you like). It was an adjustment for the whole family. More time, more energy and even a little more money was being spent on this mama. But, I have to say, I am happier now. The benefits outweighed the costs. My efforts to take care of myself have had a tangibly positive effect on the people around me. My kids benefit from having a more patient mother. My husband benefits from having a wife who isn't at the end of her rope. My employer benefits from the extra time I spend creating rather than being tapped.
I heard this amazing quote the other day. You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work of progress simultaneously.
How freeing. I am amazing just as I am but I am also allowed to be someone who needs care (who deserves care).
Want to be a better mom? Take care of yourself. Want to be a better employee? Take care of yourself. Want to be a better partner? You guessed it. Take care of yourself.
If we operate from a place of deficit then we are unable to be the generous, kind, hard-working people that we are. If we fill our cups? Well, there's no stopping us.




    

Why Doesn't the World Stop When We Lose Someone We Love?

It's a Saturday morning and it's quiet in my house. My husband has taken our 3 year-old to swim lessons and my 1 year-old is pretending to nap upstairs. Snow is falling outside and there is something particularly quiet about snow falling. Like it knows it's so beautiful that it wants to sneak up on you so that when you look outside, you are wonderstruck.
Life appears to be normal. But the thing is, it's not. Earlier this week, my beautiful cousin took her own life. After struggling with addiction and more, she made a choice that has left us all in pieces. We break for her that we could not have done more. We break for her parents who are dealing with the unfathomable: the loss of a child. We break for her brothers and sister, her friends and for all those grappling with the same kind of pain she must have felt.
What strikes me this Saturday morning is that the world is continuing on. That even though this horrific thing has happened - this abrupt ending - it's business as usual for Mother Nature and all her friends. Why doesn't the world stop when we lose someone we love? Our lived experience in times like these is that everything halts: the dirty dishes remain in the sink, the work gets put on hold, the trips cut short. But that's just one tiny little corner of one tiny little block of this very big world. The truth is, everything continues on. And it feels cruel.
Jonathan Larson, in his musical Rent, writes about this in the song, "Without You":

Without you

The ground thaws

The rain falls

The grass grows

Without you

The seeds root

The flowers bloom

The children play

The stars gleam

The poets dream

The eagles fly

Without you

The earth turns

The sun burns

But I die without you

When something as horrible as this happens, it feels like the world should stop. Because a beautiful soul was lost and a family wounded beyond repair. Why doesn't the world around us recognize this? Why doesn't it feel the loss as its own and, at the very least, pause in acknowledgement.

Upstairs, my daughter is beginning to wake (did she even sleep?). She lets me know this by jumping in her crib and squealing for joy. She'll need to be changed and fed. And soon, my toddler will return home from swim with lots of stories to tell. And so I will change and feed, greet and listen. Because the world keeps going on without you. And I'm so sorry and so sad it's going on without you, Marigene. It was better with you in it. We love you and we miss you. And we wish there was something we could have done to have kept you here with us. 

The snow continues to fall and the roads are getting messy. The plows will come soon and my husband will need to shovel the driveway. I'll be inside, hoping and praying that returning to the goings on of this world will eventually heal us. I'm certain some answers lie in my daughters, whose goings ons are the work of my day. For that I am grateful.

An Open Heart

I went to the dentist today to get a filling (which, by the way, is the WORST). My dentist lets us listen to music to drown out the drilling and also wear sunglasses so the exam light doesn't blind us. She's quite thoughtful, really. I put on a playlist I had made for a yoga intensive and on that playlist was "Fight Song" by Rachel Platten. It's a powerful song she wrote about taking back her life and getting back to who she is, amidst a lot of hardship. So, I'm sitting in the dentist chair, mouth pried open with some kind of torture device, getting my teeth drilled by an actual torture device, completely numb and drooling, trying not to audibly sob while I think about my powerful friend who absolutely embodies this song right now. Thank goodness for the sunglasses. I mean, what is WRONG with me? Who gets choked up in the dentist's chair?

A good friend recently gave me a children's Christmas book by Nancy Tillman. We have a number of her books but not The Spirit of Christmas so I was thrilled to receive it. But let me tell you about Nancy Tillman: lady makes me UGLY CRY. Like, openly weep. Oh, that's so sweet, you say. Yeah, not when it freaks out your children who haven't quite figured out what a sentimental sap you are and instead are wondering Did you get an owie, Mama?

From Tillman's My Love Will Find You

I was not always this way!

While my talent for choking up is genetic, I wasn't always so susceptible (a.k.a. I didn't always need sunglasses in the dentist's chair). I don't particularly enjoy wearing my heart on my sleeve but two things have happened to me in my life that have ripped my heart wide and opened the floodgates: I had my heart broken and then I had children.

Having someone you love hurt you is devastating. Whether they break-up with you, leave you or pass away, it is debilitating. The heart, while a muscle, breaks like a bone. It can shatter into a million pieces. To say this hurts is an understatement. But out of this shattered matter fuses a heart stronger than the one before.

The second thing, having children, made my heart burst. The levies that surrounded my heart gave way. There was not a powerful enough border to contain what transpired (and transpires) in my heart due to these little monsters running around my house. The love was (and is) overwhelming. Yet just like my heartbreak from years prior left me disassembled, so this bursting left me in pieces. Pieces that were glued together in a makeshift way, as if the cause of the burst (my children) were doing the repair themselves.



One could argue that a reassembled heart is weaker and more vulnerable to re-breaking. I suppose that's true. At least, it's true if we accept society's definition of strength as having a hard, unbreakable shell. I'm thinking I reject that definition and I'll tell you why.

A heart with cracks can let more OUT, too. A heart that knows it's been broken and survived has the ability to be braver because it knows where it's been. It has been to the depths and lived to tell the tale. All the seams present from the repairs are not scars but rather passageways through which love can pass.

I think of a piece of ceramic pottery that has been repeatedly repaired and forged back together after years of wear and tear. Against the odds, it maintains its structure but it also leaks. This is my heart. It is a leaky, glued together albeit strong, piece of pottery. It allows light and love in more easily than it used to, and releases them with more generosity.

It is precisely in the leaking (in the gaps) that my strength lies.

Five years ago, my dad had a quintuple bypass. The day he had surgery, I was far away in San Francisco where I lived at the time. Picturing him lying on an operating table with his chest open - his heart open - scared me tremendously. My sentimental, generous, hard-working, loving and amazing father was in the most vulnerable position ever: lying on a table with his heart completely open. I was so worried that he would never be the same.

A lot of things have changed since my dad had surgery. For one, he now has six grandchildren for whom his love flows out of his leaky heart like a river. Thankfully he is in good health now and ready and willing to audibly sob at any feel-good movie or children's book (he can't get through a Tillman, either). His heart has been reassembled stronger than ever, thanks to its scars and cracks. I'd argue that his heart and capacity to love is stronger now than it has ever been. He knows where he's been and what he's survived and rather than being unwilling to re-open that scarred heart of his, his commitment to love through the cracks is unyielding.

Guilt Can Suck It

As someone who grew up Catholic, I have an intimate relationship with guilt. Catholic guilt is no joke. Right before my First Communion, I was sent to the principal's office for doing cartwheels in the classroom. As a card-carrying goody two-shoes, this was a serious transgression. I sat down with the priest who would be celebrating my First Communion and told him all about it. Even though he said God forgave me (and may have let out a chuckle), I still felt TERRIBLE. I was disappointed in my pint-size self and it was hard to move on.

Now that I am a mom, Catholic guilt seems like the minor leagues. No, seriously. I could do cartwheels all over this effing town and not feel one ounce of guilt compared to the guilt I feel when I forget to read to my children one day. Or look at my phone too much. Or not rush to get them the second they wake up from a nap. Or don't do things like this or this. Or the wind is blowing too hard and my toddler just cannot handle it (she can be KIND OF a delicate flower).

This is REALLY how I should feel! Except sometimes I forget to shower. 

While Catholic guilt is no joke, Mom guilt is not effing around. Mom guilt gets home and is like, "Catholic guilt, why can't you pick up the phone and call me once in a while?" Yeah, she's kind of a bitch.

I have been realizing so many things about guilt lately, most importantly that it SUCKS. No, it literally sucks. As in, it sucks the life out of us. The wind out of our sails, the air out of our tires and any other air-depleting analogy that works here. Guilt is the WORST.

I'll tell you why:

• it renders us immobile.
• it makes us feel horrible and ineffective.
• it's unhelpful to everyone. 

Guilt stops us from achieving our goals, becoming who we want to be and changing what needs to be changed in and around ourselves. Rather than reacting to a situation with "how can I do better?", we react with "I am the worst." How can that possibly lead down a good road?

I'm trying to choose another path and I would be remiss if I didn't mention the immortal words of Taylor Swift, "Shake it Off." Lady makes a good point.

On a personal note, I have been on this journey to reclaim my body since having two kids. I've lost a bunch of weight and feel like a million bucks. You can read about the program here if you want but, my point is, I have setbacks. Yesterday, for example, I ate like 4 (ok, 7) chocolate covered peppermint Joe Joe's from Trader Joe's. Serving size is 1 (ONE?) so I was apparently eating as proxy for my entire block. While I could berate myself for my lack of willpower, self-control and general strength in the face of only-available-for-a-limited-time chocolate amazingness, I'm choosing to move forward. To PROCEED. I got up this morning, did my workout, had my smoothie and moved on. There was work to be done, children to love and choices to make.

There is so much to feel guilty about. SO MUCH. We often fall short of the person we want to be, the person we are meant to be. We often fail to love our friends, ignore our neighbors in need and welcome the stranger. I know I do. It's so easy to sit in the miry pit of guilt.

But what's exactly in that miry pit? A bunch of "I shoulds". I should work out. I should eat healthier food. I should spend more quality time with my kids. I should go to church. I should volunteer. I should stop being an asshole.

Just do yourself a favor and stop should-ing all over yourself and get to work instead.

I am desperately trying to make a habit of moving forward rather than staying still or staying stuck). So I'm getting up, shaking it off, making my plan and moving on.

And if I rock a cartwheel while I'm at it, so be it. I can still do a damn good one.

Starting Small

It's my favorite time of year- Christmastime!

My heart teeters between being so remarkably light and so extremely heavy during this time. For one, I have all I ever need or want. Health, a warm home and an amazing family. And lots of chocolate. Seriously, there is so much chocolate around here I'm in heaven.

#pantsoptional

One moment of giddiness came when my oldest, Charlotte (2 years 9 months) moved a chair to the front of our Christmas tree. She climbed on it and started rearranging ornaments saying, "Mama, I'm just fixing stuff." This is so amazing because what she doesn't know is that, long before she was born, I would rearrange the tree so that ornaments were placed in their most optimal locations. It's genetic- my mom does it, too. My husband really loves this about me. #sike

But my heart also aches and has moments of complete despair. From refugees carrying their babies across borders to the immediate needs of my community, life just isn't the way it ought to be for so many. And that's putting it lightly. Our world appears to be falling apart at the seams. Is this how every generation feels at one point or another or are things really this bad?

I'm left with this sense of being stuck. What do I do? How do I proceed from these moments? Where do I even begin to express the gratitude I feel and also the despair? I'm dying for action but I just can't even move sometimes.

But then I think about my daughter moving a chair to the tree. She's too small to get to the ornaments she really wants. She climbs her sweet little body up the chair, stands on her tippy toes and fixes stuff. It's nothing big, sometimes just a candy cane she hasn't yet examined or a star she wants to twirl around. It's important work to her. Toddler work.

She moves the chair, she climbs and she does her task.

In these moments that I have, both of delight and despair, I must choose to act. Following Charlotte's example of starting small (for she is small), I have to proceed.

So here's a little of what I'm doing - won't you join me?

Mine is from Pottery Barn

• Advent Calendar: I received this amazing calendar from my sister-in-law last year. It has pockets and in them, I've placed notes with tasks for the day. They range from making garland to visiting our elderly neighbors to taking a winter walk. I want to be intentional this season about how I'm spending time with my beloveds in addition to teaching my littles how to be generous out of the abundance we have.

• Carry the Future: Hopefully, you've heard of this organization doing wonderful and practical work for Syrian refugees in Europe, specifically Greece. Started by a Californian mother, this organization outfits Syrian parents with baby carriers to keep their wee ones close. In addition to this practical and thoughtful endeavor, they've also expanded in providing relief packs to refugees. 

• Building a Habit of Kindness: The theme of "building new habits" has dug in and stayed in my heart these last few months. We can build ALL SORTS of habits. We can stop biting our nails, floss (for once!), work out more, eat better. Why can't we build a habit of kindness? Start small. Maybe a kind word to a friend (why don't we tell our friends how much we root for them?). Or a meal for a family in chaos. It doesn't cost us much to be kind and the more we are kind, the more it becomes WHO WE ARE. Think of the Grinch: grow your heart three sizes. That grumpy little sucker carved the roast beast at the end, people. 

I hope and pray you have a wonderful Christmas season! May we greet each day and each person with open hearts. May we operate out of abundance rather than scarcity. May we be so brave as to open our hearts to those around us so that we might bear some of their pain and joy.

Best Places for a Meltdown

I am a huge people watcher. Sometimes I stare so much that my husband has to snap in front of my face and remind me that staring is rude, Allison. I get this trait from my mom, Claudymom, who is even worse about it than I am. She's going to grow up to be one of those old people that just spaces out and stares at you. I love those kind of old people.

My most favorite thing to watch EVER is kids having meltdowns. I was a nanny when I was in grad school and have tons of experience caring for kids. I love kids-- they are the funniest people I know and, when they meltdown or throw a tantrum, I want to be there.

This sounds sort of ridiculous, I know, but it's almost better than Bravo TV. When a kid throws back her head in pure despair, collapses to the ground and commences with an Oscar-worthy performance of emotion, there is nothing better. I love the commitment, the sheer devotion to their strong (soon to be forgotten) feelings. Their single-mindedness. I envy it! I wish I could have a public meltdown sometimes.

The icing on the cake for me is where the meltdown happens. I have picked my two absolute favorite  places for a meltdown and they're taken from my own experience as a nanny and avid people watcher.

The Grocery Store. This is obvious. I am convinced the candy section of the checkout aisle was created solely for the meltdown. Why else would supermarkets everywhere put candy where they know kids will see it just as they are about to finish running errands with their parents which, let's face it, no kids like to do. When I see a kid's unbridled passion for the forbidden fruit (aka a Twix bar), I am living vicariously through him. I totally want the Twix bar I just don't have the balls to show my true feelings. I feel like throwing my head back, screaming at my hips and thighs, WHY WHY? Why can't I have a Twix bar?!

The Beach. This one is by far my favorite. First of all, the trip to the beach is classic in that the parent might as well being taking their kid to Everest, leading the way as a sherpa. You have your sand toys, your towels, your sunscreen, your cooler, not to mention the sherpa's personal items. You lug all this to the beach, slather obscene amounts of sunscreen on your child while they proceed to get sand in every crevice possible. Later in the day, when it's time to leave, begins the meltdown. Amazingness. There is nothing better than a sunscreen-slathered, sandblasted child screaming that they don't want to leave the beach. One of my most memorable moments from being a nanny is a fateful trip to the beach that ended with two adorable girls screaming as they followed me, their sherpa, to the car after a day at the beach. I loved it. Good for them for rejecting our leaving time. It's not fair that we had to leave and good for them for speaking up. Just don't tell their mother I said so.

Really, the point is that a good meltdown can happen anywhere. In San Francisco, we live on a very steep hill (of course- it's San Francisco) and I saw a 4 year-old just the other day stop halfway down the hill and pronounce: I'm not going ANY further. This hill is TOO steep! She proceeded to sit down right then and there, in the middle of the sidewalk and was true to her word. It was amazing. I tried to fist pump the dad for having such a hilarious daughter but he was a little awkward about it. He might have been more of a "high fiver" or a "thumbs upper."  I just appreciate this stuff. Kids are hilarious. They're stubborn. They're filled with fire. We could learn a lot from them.

Parents, you are my heroes.