Jumping Back Into Life

It has been so long since I’ve felt like myself, let alone had the urge to write.  Like a button without a switch, it shut off and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where it had gone. But today, I literally jumped back into myself. 

Before I get to that, let me back up.

To say I’ve been busy is an understatement. I mean we have three kids, and we just moved to a new city, so the google mapping alone has pushed my brain and writing quota over the top.

The kids are having a tough time adjusting.  Nothing out of the ordinary for kids who were uprooted and trying to grow accustomed to a new school, a new home, and no friends to call on next door.  I have no worries that they will find where they fit and excel.  Both of the older kids already have a few friends at school, and with sports and activities they are constantly making new friends.  But, in all the time I spent helping them get settled, staying positive when they were crying, and organizing the new house, I had kinda forgotten that there was a person that hadn’t had any energy spent on them.  In a shocking turn of events, it was me, mom and wife.  I realized I was running below empty.  On fumes, unhappy, accidentally teary, fumes.

Part of it was that I spent the majority of my day inside my house with a three-year-old with a propensity to watch bizarre toy videos on YouTube (especially in Cantonese for whatever reason) and no real desire to sit and talk about world events, politics, or the fact that I finally found hummus that I like.  Which, was pretty monumental for someone who has developed the level of hatred for the chick pea that I do. 

I haven’t written in so long I was starting to despise the look of my laptop on my new desk in the bonus room.  It overlooks the pond we live at, it is always plugged in, and it is the perfect situation for me to sit down and get to business. I have a manuscript with edits done by an award winning writer, that I haven’t touched. 

Isn’t that crazy?!? I mean I’m currently a stay at home mom with aspirations to be a full time writer and there, sitting two feet away was a very real document I could work on and enhance and instead I hit ‘continue watching’ on Netflix.  Over, and over again.

Not to say I spend my days watching TV.  Oh my god I wish I could.  Mostly I am in a minivan driving my three nuggets all over.  I spent the last six weeks, since we moved, driving the kids to camps, clinics, parks, vacations, and whenever I pulled back into town, I never really felt like I was headed home.  Under all of the weight of trying to get everyone else to settle in and embrace our new city, I had far from done the same. 

This isn’t my first rodeo, this certainly wasn’t the first time I’ve moved, and not even the first time I have moved with kids, so I couldn’t put my finger on where the lag of acclimatizing to my new home was.  And then it hit me like the waft of super strong cologne on the boys in middle school. 

This was the first move that had me coming to a new city in exactly the same time I was coming to a new part of my life. The part where there are no babies to be had, there are no mat leaves after working at a job I only sort of cared about, there was no more automatic out and time back at home with a newborn.  This was real life.  And pretty soon, like within two years, I was supposed to get a REAL job in my real life that I actually cared about. 

And oh my god I feel totally unqualified to do anything.  I mean I caught myself watching the girls at Starbucks making my coffee in between refilling coffee jars and I thought.. wow.  I don’t even think I would know how to do that.

What happens to a mom, and a wife who has moved around all of her post university life whilst pushing out babies, when there is no more pushing out babies to be had? How do I come to terms with a future where I could actually find work somewhere fulfilling?  And… would I? Is there something out there for me? I mean my most recent job was as an Executive Assistant where I basically tended to all administration needs (sometimes super crazy) of a director and board and helped write grants.  My job was essentially being a mom on steroids.  Most days I felt like I took care of everything and helped with homework. 

My kids do not want me back out of the house.  They asked as we were unpacking the new house if I would be getting a job.  When I said ‘eventually’ they wanted to know if I could do it from home.  And only when they weren’t here.  I mean I don’t wanna toot my own horn but apparently I’m doing something right if they want more of me. (Just kidding they like the snacks and food I make when they get home from school.)

My husband doesn’t necessarily want me out of the house either. He works a crazy schedule, and he likes to hang out with me away from the kids.  (We would actually gladly run away together sans kiddos but biology and attachment would have us come home.)  And honestly, in a lot of ways either do I.  I love to cook and bake and have freedom to grocery shop at 10 in the morning.  I also enjoy partaking in a siesta every now and then, so that works too.

But what does a woman with a degree and an active brain who loves to learn and read and create do?  Seriously? This isn’t rhetorical.  I have no idea.  Notta one.  (Please.. if you suggest some home based pyramid scheme I’ll scream.  I will.  Also please take me off your lists.  And don’t’ try to sneak me over for a girl’s wine night and when I walk in there be a presenter and a display of whatever it is you’re selling.  I mean I’ll buy some crap but I’ll be mad at you…. Just FYI.)

So here I am.  At the precipice of my life.  MINE.  Where being a good broodmare and baby whisperer are behind me?  Where I can have some moments of clarity (still very little fucking sleep) and can go on to conquer more than just two seasons of Gilmore Girls in a week (I did that.  My husband figures I have to watch at least 3 episodes a day in order to meet my goal of re-watching all seven seasons so I’m refreshed when new episodes come back on Netflix.  He does not support this addiction, he’s just very logical and sensible and would like me to get that outta the way before he gets home.)

In celebration of my new found ‘non-baby-making-or-baby-raising’ life, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in a really long god damn time.  I got my two oldest out of the door, I dropped my little one at preschool, and I drove to the pool and jumped in.

OK it wasn’t that easy.  First I got a pass, and at 8:40 am in the morning, makeup-less, and unaware I was having my photo taken, I was given a card with a terrifying photo of me on it, and wandered into a change room.  (Where I avoided the hall of lockers with the older ladies and their freedom of nakedness. and giant bush)  I found a locker which I only used WITHOUT a lock because this wasn’t something I was prepared to pay for, grabbed my towel (turned out it was my daughter’s.  I was at 32 year old using a little girl’s princess towel) and sauntered out to the pool deck.

And what did my eye behold but SIX beautifully chlorinated lanes of water without a single person in them!?!  I jumped in (which, in retrospect was a little much since there was about five ladders I could have gracefully entered upon), looked at the clock to see the time, and off I went. 

As the laps went by it felt like time melted off. 

I was on the boat headed out on the water in Maui at 5am, ready to do my first open water dive (which also happened to be my first dive ever.  Let me tell you, be a strong swimmer to do an open dive as your first with the waves crashing over your head, and some chubby Hawaiian pushing your head under water and forcing you to start your decent. 95% of all scuba accidents happen at the surface.  And, as statistics would say, and as my soul would agree, he ended up being a lifesaver since I don’t think I would have ever swam with giant green sea turtles next to me, listening to the song of the humpback whale under the water without that beautiful Hawaiian cherub).

As I went underwater and made my turn, commending myself that I still ‘got it’ (which is exactly the opposite of the way I feel when going for a jog.  Jogging, for me, in unnatural.  Me in the water.. natural), I became that girl working so hard on her synchronized swimming routine to qualify for summer games (which I did).  Of course in a small town it was newsworthy, and so my photo showed up in the newspaper in a swimming cap, wearing a nose clip.  Not my finest hour of being famous but I took it nonetheless.

Every different stroke I started brought up memories I had forgotten. Some I hadn’t.  Like being a little girl at swimming lessons in the outdoor pool where I grew up.  Where I was the only little kid to jump off the high diving board resulting in one of the WORST wedgies I can ever remember. Ever.

Finally, as I was feeling my body get tired, I couldn’t help but be transferred back to swimming lap after lap at my grandparent’s pool, with my Gramps sitting in an Adirondack chair next to the pool encouraging me and telling me I was a beautiful swimmer, pushing me to go faster, hold my breath longer as I flew through the pool.

As I cooled down I just was.  I was that person who was in the water doing something I enjoyed for no other reason than the sound when you go under the water.  The complete lack of sound except your own heartbeat and your own breath.  I wasn’t a mom of three, a wife, I wasn’t anyone’s anything.

I was Brittany and it was freeing. 

Let’s be honest it was also freeing because I don’t know AYONE in this city yet.  No worries of being goggled up, speedo swimsuit squishing your boobs (proper lane swimmers wear proper swimwear ya’ll) when I see basically all the women I know taking their toddlers swimming with makeup and a cute suit on.

No, today it didn’t matter that my hair was knotted at the back of my head and I had red eyeballs because I forgot goggles.  Today I gave zero shits.  Ok I gave like, three.  Which is lower than the standard 10,000 shits I give about every single moment of my life.

I finally jumped back in.  Figuratively and literally. 

Perhaps next week I will write an entry called “how I gracefully got back into my professional life” but knowing my general attitude and disposition I don’t believe it will be so.

I’m a jumper-splasher-totally-submerge-myself kinda person.  And dammit, today I don’t think I’d have it any other way.

We should all take cues from 3 year olds.  Maybe then it wouldn't take so long to feel like ourselves.  ;)

I Won't Raise My Daughter To Be Nice

Nice.  A pejorative term to me. Something that is supposed to convey a value of merit.

But think about it.  When we picture ‘nice’ we think of a passive woman.  Almost always.  I mean come on, think of how we use ‘nice’.

‘Be Nice’… “Oh, well at least she’s nice”… “Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice”.. “If you have to say anything.. just be nice about”

We have been told since we were pretty little darlings dressed up and taken out that above all, we must be nice.  The epidemic of nice is terrifying, especially for someone raising a girl.  Nice is how girls stop raising their hands in school, nice is how girls end up giving up what they've worked for, and nice is how girls stay quiet about molestation, abuse, and rape.

And I have a problem with that, and I will not raise my daughter to be ‘nice’.

I will raise her to be kind, smart, opinionated, mannerly, fearless, fiery, artistic, strong, sassy, empathetic, capable, sympathetic and caring. But not nice.

I am raising her to take what she wants.  To go passionately forward to whatever lights her soul up and gives her pride.  I am raising her to voice an opinion, as ugly or unpopular as it may be, to take the lumps that come with having a voice that isn’t afraid to debate, argue, to be WRONG.

I am raising her to expect everyone to listen to her.  To raise her hand first in class.  To never, ever pretend not to be as clever, artistic, and beautiful as she is.  To be first in line, challenge adults and her peers when she doesn’t feel like things are fair. 

Her dad is raising her to expect to be valued, and respected.  Not to ask, not to hope, but to expect and DEMAND to be treated as the extraordinarily capable human that she is.  To work on cars, to shoot a gun, to get dirty, to challenge herself by how much she can carry, how far she can climb, how fast she can run. 

We are raising her to be free to make mistakes, be too much.  To be too opinionated, too outspoken.  To learn humility by way of ‘foot-in-mouth’ and grand failures.

We are raising her to have to learn to be LESS fierce and LESS intimidating when the situation calls for a softer, more gentle approach.  We are teaching her to feel her emotions, but to not let them cloud her better judgment.

We are raising her to be witty, clever, unafraid to tell a group of adults a funny joke, a story, to let herself shine in the center of attention and to want to feel that MORE. That wanting to be heard and seen is normal, natural and encouraged.

We are raising her to never question WHY she couldn’t do something, but rather how. 

No, we are not raising our daughter to be ‘nice’. 

We’re just raising our daughter like how everyone else raises boys.

 

The Scientific Examination of What Makes a Relationship Work ....

.. by a girl with a history degree.

I write a lot about relationships, specifically mine (write what you know, right??,).  And I’m drawn, after years of being in a relationship, getting older and seeing some become stronger and some fall apart, to figure out why sometime it works and sometimes it doesn’t.

Because it all starts the same, right?

Attraction. Chemistry.  Butterflies. 

Then maybe it fizzles, or it grows to include attachment and meaningful love.  We have babies together, we make lives together.  We know where your back is always sore, that you can never remember the phone number for your brother, or that there isn’t a saying or punchline that you won’t mess up.

And there’s the same arguments held over and over again.  There’s the points of contention that never seem to be dulled. There’s the same buttons that hurt when pushed.

Within this delicate balance, this dance of life, some seem to get stuck and forget how to dance.  Maybe they just stop wanting to dance all together.  But some, some miraculously, dance on until the music fades to dusk.

But… why?

So often we hear “outgrown” or “it’s been over for a long time” when people decide to end things.  And the researcher in me, the person fascinated with truth, is always dying to delve in and ask uncomfortable questions. 

So it's with my best friends, curled up with a glass of wine, that I gain real insight into men and women, marriages, partnerships, things that work and don’t work.  I have the best girls in the world.  We are open and honest.. REALLY honest about the mistakes, the highlights, and the times we thought living in a commune might be ideal (ok that was my idea).

We talk a lot about give and take.  What works? How can you learn to be the right partner for your partner as life inevitably takes over and you grow and change as an individual.  It’s folly to think otherwise, and marriage and friendships are doomed if you think the other half of you will never change.  

But, on the contrary, who you were when you met, the essence of you are, never changes. To quote F. Scott Fitzgerald,

 “I don't ask you to love me always like this but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside of me there will always be the person I am tonight.” 

We talk and talk and rehash who we are, what we have done that works and what we have done that doesn’t, and it still seems like no one, even those married for a hundred years, can figure out what the key to it all is.  Mostly, as I can determine, because every person is so different, and every situation so varied that there is no one way to describe ‘how to make it work’.  Don’t believe Dr. Phil or the Self-Help section.

Naturally I turn the microscope on myself.

True self-reflection to me is a gift that I get given once every three months.. that’s a rough average.  It happens when I’m reading something, or listening to a song, and something resonates so deeply that I have a brief moment when I can skip and see my life, not just from the outside, but in a more mechanical, non-biased way.  I think scienticians (that’s an inside joke.. if you’re nerdy you’ll get it) call it existentialism.

I mean why have we made it so far?

I am an out there kind of person.. I am free with my opinions (don't you all know this..) enthusiasm, and affection.  I love hard and gregariously.  I think the best of all people, and that intentions are always well-meaning.  However, I am closely guarded about how I feel.  Small difference in nuance, huge difference in meaning.

I am married to someone who is the complete opposite.  He is quiet and reserved and definite.  He sees what people’s intentions are way before I want to believe it.  He is sure about people, situations and what he feels about life.

People are genuinely surprised when they meet one of us, and get to know us before meeting the other one.  It seems INSANE that two people so genuinely unalike in personality have been together for so long.

As I do, I listen to music, and I read. 

This article popped up on my feed and I chuckled and gave it a whirl.  Thinking this author meant to talk about free-love and hippies (and hopefully communes!!!).  But upon reading it, I saw something else entirely.  I saw how the author articulated, more eloquently than I, how so far in our lives my husband has managed to put up with my butterfly ways.  How he can sit back and let me make new best friends wherever I go, talk to everyone and anyone about whatever is on my mind, how he puts up with living and loving a person who is constantly at battle with who she is, what she wants out of life, and who she wants to be when she grows up.

In the article, “How To Love A Wild Woman”, he writes:

 “Do not be jealous of her smile, her laugh, her body or her love. Smile at the pleasure she brings to others and do not resent it and wish it all for you. She has chosen you.

Let her fly and do not stunt her desires because you are scared of losing her to them. Support her dreams; entwine yourself in them if she wants you there. But let her go too. Give her freedom and choice because in following her heart she is most happy.”

Sometimes following my heart means eating a poutine in bed.  Or watching a sad movie and weeping and snotting on him.  Often times it’s wandering around parties and gatherings and asking perfect strangers inappropriate questions about their lives.  And making best friends.  He has heard me declare “YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND” to someone I have just met at least once a week since we have been together.

And through all of this, all the people and all the besties I have acquired (I actually have a small handful of my real bestfriends.. please don’t be disappointed, Mr. Doctor who once gave me Dilaudid at the hospital.  I still think fondly of those drugged out days), he remains the one constant in my life.

So imagine my delight, and the tears, and the loud singing and enthusiastic arm gestures, when I was pondering this very thought and “Sweetest Devotion” by Adele came on.  

“I'll forever be whatever

 You want me to be

 I'd go under and all over

 For your clarity

 When you wonder

 If I'm gonna lose my way home just remember

 That come whatever I'll be yours all along.

I’m headed straight for you

You will be eternally

The one I belong to.”

I know.. I AM THE CHEESIEST person ever.  But it’s so true.  And for us, for two people who are so different in their daily interactions, it seems to be what works for us.  I need to be challenged, respected, and encouraged to chase the WILD ambitions, and dreams that I think will help me become the person I want to be. It is not easy to love a person who is forever at odds with themselves and the world around them.  But I will always, always look to him as home.

And oddly enough, despite all the differences, all he really needs is to be challenged, respected, and encouraged to chase the REAL ambitions and dreams that will make HIM the person he wants to be.  It is not easy to love a person whose job and reality means I will stand by his side as we pack up the house and our belongings and say good-bye…. again. But he will always, always look to me as home.

So the answer to the why?? I still don’t know… for other people.

I know the why for us, for now.  Why we are happy and why it works. 

I’ve realized that the other girls I debrief with, who seem to have the similar happy days to non-happy days ratio as us, well they also have a foggy grasp on what the ‘why’ is for them.

I guess the point I’m driving at is that maybe, just maybe it’s the constant state of wondering, working, and challenging the redundant norms of your relationship, that seems to be universal in all good relationships. But not just the boring, but imperative mechanics of striving to be better, but also the cheesy parts too. 

How even when his socks are all over the damn house, and the kids are driving you NUTS, he’s the same guy that set your heart on fire the first time he kissed you. 

I asked him to take a selfie with me for Valentine's Day.  This is what I got.

Writing is Hard. And Stuff.

I’ve hardly written in almost a year. 

Sure. The odd blog post here and there, but on the whole, I’ve been a writing deadbeat.

It’s so hard with kids and a job (and I only work three days a week!! And I can work from home!!) to find time to sit in front of my laptop and string sentences worth any merit together.

Even my trusty stack of books, always at least three on the go at one time, have been neglected.  I think there was even some dust on one.  (Preteen Brittany is mortified at 32 year old Brittany.)

And lately, I find myself waking up in the middle of the night panicking.  In between the “SHIT the tooth fairy needs to come!!” and “did I put a diaper on Grady before bed?” I remember that I have an almost finished manuscript, a mentor, and enough positive feedback from an agency to surge ahead with making writing more than a hobby.  But for whatever reason, I can’t seem to mount that insurmountable hurdle which is time, and energy.

I fight between giving myself the permission to step back for right now, and knowing that like any muscle, writing requires daily work and dedication to grow. And no one is going to call me up and ask to publish an unfinished, unpolished, piece of work.

My life is hectic at best.  I know we hear this all the time. 

“Moms are so busy, WE GET IT!!”, *eyeroll*  you must be yelling at the screen. 

Physically I am running to and from hockey, football, school, cheerleading, riding lessons, appointments and work so much that I may start giving “Blue Dodge Caravan” as my permanent address.

But the part a lot of moms don’t, or maybe can’t, verbalize is that it's more than just activities that drain you.  It’s all the cerebral energy given to disciplining, teaching, organizing, (I am literal organized chaos at all times.  Supermom does not live here) that has me scrolling through Pinterest or Facebook at the end of the night, looking at other people’s inspiration.

Being a parent drains you of energy that isn’t necessary.  And, with anything that permeates that other part of your brain, the artistic quadrant (half?? Listen I took arts not science), it’s inspiration and the right headspace to really create anything out of that I’m struggling with.  Writer’s block sounds better than “mainlining Pretty Little Liars on Netflix” but regardless I’m having a HELL of a time finding the focus, ambition and mostly inspiration to write.

I take time for myself, no doubt, I am a woman of the 21^st century.  I ride horses, escape to horse shows across the US, and have girl’s nights.  But while nurturing the part of me that demands time spent away from responsibilities and potty-training,  that other side of my brain (again.. not sure how many sides there is), is acutely aware that somewhere at home the cursor is blinking on a big ‘ol empty page.

But today as I was doing my daily ritual of quote-reading and using up all my free articles on Elephant Journal, inspiration finally hit me like a thunderbolt and an idea I had swirling in my brain for years suddenly had a construct. 

A story, half created, which had sat dormant in my spinning brain finally ‘big-banged’ together and before I knew what I was doing, I was at my laptop madly typing.

Then tonight, a second sort of divine intervention took place (I hear Mars is in Venus or something.. maybe that’s it?) my husband and I miraculously had twenty minutes where we found ourselves alone and actually talking.  Like not “hey what are you working tomorrow? Where is hockey? Is the dog still in the backyard?” but TALKING, which if you are the parent in a busy household, you get.

By the way isn’t it scary when you can’t remember the last time that happened? Maybe it’s the beauty of being in a stable, content relationship... because while he’s the first call I make happy, mad or freaking out, it’s the nuances of daily life that can sometimes escape dinner conversations.  The type you are too busy or lazy to text, and that are long lost or irrelevant a day later.

So I was literally shaking with anticipation to his response when I started laying it all out.  And while it’s always hard to verbalize these sort of creative, and therefore deeply personal ideas, the security of it being his face I was scanning as I was neurotically telling, reminded me of this quote: 

Dina Craik wrote, “Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.”

And finally tonight, instead of a diatribe on what’s so wrong with people who don’t like pickles, I was able to get out something I didn’t even realize had been taking up so much room in that ‘brain piece’ (I give up knowing the parts of the brain.  I’m aware a quick google search could solve it.).

I finally knew everything about the story I was dying to write. 

I regaled the tale.. rough and breathless as I typed and talked to him.  New ideas coming as fast as I could talk.. which, if you know me, is pretty damn fast.

As I talked, typed and nearly hyperventilated, he took it all in. (Once he closed his eyes and I smacked him and said “OMG DO NOT FALL ASLEEP”.  He swore his eyes were just itchy… right)

He thought about it, and I, my biggest critic was waiting for him to say “but this is TOTALLY different than what you’ve been working on” or “ that is going to take a lot of time and research”.  But he didn’t.

He half smiled, told me not to get freaked out by all the work ahead of me, and to just start writing. That’s it

Then he made at least three inappropriate comments, I smacked him again, and as magically as our solitude came, the beasts were circling the door again.  Ben wanted to know if he could watch another youtube video, Grady had stolen all the pink playdoh and mixed it with green, causing hysterical crying from Annabelle.

My life. 

Sometimes doing anything but surviving these days seems overwhelming.  All-encompassing, all-consuming, and perhaps the actual living metaphor of burning the candle at both ends.

But when inspiration strikes, and when your brain is hardwired to vehemently reject the mundane, to choose the path less travelled (see what I did there Frost fans) I guess it’s what I’ll do.

In the meantime, any freelance editors out there looking for work? I pay in many emojis, witty remarks and plenty of sarcasm.

Writing and getting my husband in a selfie... both very difficult.  But,I will not quit.



Celebrating the Last

There’s piles of essays about becoming a mom for the first time.  I mean.. entire books.  Websites.  Blogs.  Entire universes where you can search and read about what it’s like to become  a mom. 

I’m here to talk about celebrating milestones when you know it’s your curtain call.  When you know that it’s the last first birthday.  The last first steps.  The last first words and the last time you take the crib down.

Tomorrow is my baby’s third birthday.  And, as the baby of three, I feel each and every milestone of his marked with a subconscious sign that says “remember this”.

With your first you don’t really know.  Everything is new; you’re waiting for the next milestone eagerly, waiting for firsts you know are around the corner. 

By the second, well.  You’re already a mom.  You know to sit back and to enjoy these moments, but for me, the crazy contingent of moms who are wanting to expand past two, I had the little secret that this wouldn’t be the last time.  There’d be another monster to join my brood and I’d have this chance again.

When my third baby was born I knew he was the baby. 

The last. 

The completion to the algebra equation that becomes ‘when am I done?’. 

And with each milestone achieved I sobbed.  Real, ugly tears, occasionally on the floor of my kitchen with a bewildered husband wondering what the hell got into me.  I mean..  to him every new achievement unlocked meant one more step closer to getting a full night’s rest. (Because he gets up more than I do with our baby… you get smarter with every baby.  It’s true.)

I’ve never been one to ‘get it over with’. 

My kids are all spaced three years apart so I could relish in the time spent one on one.  Little chubby feet and dimpled hands are my happy place.  A baby or toddler on my hip, running around makes me crazy but whole.   The same way I need a few days away is the same way I crave their little warm bodies curled into me, asleep and not at all concerned with the sleep I’m not getting because they needed to be between daddy and mommy. 

All five of us snuggled in bed is a sort of heaven I didn’t know existed.  And to be honest, still don’t. 

Since all five of us in bed means one is gonna end up crying or flying off at high speeds due to an impromptu wrestling match. 

So I made the cupcakes for his birthday today.  I texted friends to come over tomorrow night for a gathering fit for the third child- his buds, presents only from family, and a smattering of MY friends who will know why my eyes get misty.

It’s not because he’s so smart and I’m wildly proud- so so proud to be his mommy- it’s because it’s another milestone met with bittersweet tears as my babies grow up and leave their mom wondering where the hell all the time has gone. 

And then the ironic laughter that follows because all we want.. us crazy moms, aunts, grandmas- is to have these monsters grow and learn and develop into the type of humans that the world needs.

But tonight, tonight I will allow myself to feel the tears roll down my cheeks as I think about the days gone by as I long for the nights where that newborn couldn’t sleep. 

Where the only solace on a fall night was to hold his little body- all seven pounds- against my neck and fall asleep wondering who he’d become.

Happy third birthday baby Grady.  You are all I hoped you could be, with a pinch of wild that makes me terrified, but excited, to see what you will do. You are charismatic and hilarious with a soul that is so reminiscent of another guy I used to love, sometimes it stops me in my tracks. Larger than life, a constant source of hilarity for others (not always for your parents you little shit), and our baby no matter how big and strong you will become. 

Shit.  You better be big and strong.  You already trash talk better than most adults.

<3 o:p="">

 

I hope this does not turn out to be an ironic photo.

If a picture is worth a thousand words than I don't need to explain to you how well this sums up all three.

The Smile

Anyone who reads my blog knows I love music.. country to be specific.

My 9 year old often tells me “Mom.  Every song is your favorite” as I proclaim “THIS IS MY FAVORITE SONG” and crank the volume driving around in my bright blue minivan packed full of kids.

I even lament to my husband often.  “Why don’t YOU ever write songs about me!??!?” And, in his calm way, as steady and logical as I am neurotic and emotional, he simply says, “Because Brittany, I don’t write songs”. Which is fair.  I guess.

A few days ago, I downloaded the new Johnny Reid single, ‘Picture of You’ and instantly fell in love.  I added it to my playlist which, much to everyone’s dismay, I listened to whenever I drove them around.  Which by the way.. is always.  (Whatever… if I’m gonna be the official taxi driver to hockey, football, riding lessons, so on and so on I get to pick the music).  They would request some songs, ignore most, and occasionally there were a few Ben would slink down in his chair and try to hide from passers by as I cranked, and opened the windows to rock out to.  Come on.  Tupac in the summer is perfection.

But, I had never really figured out if the kids were LISTENING to the music or it was just a melody as they pondered greater things,.. like Clash of Clans, Minecraft or whether I was the most embarrassing mom in the whole wide world car-dancing to Spice Girls, or excitedly lip-syncing Beyonce to a MORTIFIED 9 year old in the front seat.

So it was a little surprising when we were driving and the new song came on and my son said, “Mom.  This song.  It kinda reminds me of you and Daddy.  But like, before you were married, did you ever have a crush on anyone other than him?”

I smiled and told him that I had.  But when I saw him I thought he was the cutest boy I had ever seen.

Like all kids, ours love to hear the stories about how we met, what we thought about each other and who liked who more.  It’s always a competition in this house after all. 

But as he gets older he seems to need more details, which after 17 years, are getting a little foggy.  This time he needed to know EXACTLY the interaction when we first saw each other.

 “Like, did he just walk up to you? How did you talk to him?”

I thought for a second and noticed he was trying to smother a smile, he was playing it cool but he needed some answers. Real concrete answers.  Like how did these two uncool weirdos meet each other and decide to have kids and live together.  I mean, currently he's not sure he wanted to ever get married and live with anyone other than his little brother.  Maybe.  If his house was big enough.

I told him I remembered the exact moment I saw him for the first time.  He was standing with a group of friends in the hallway at school.  He was laughing at something and I remembered thinking that he had the most perfect smile I had ever seen.  Like in the cheesiest of cheesy movies, time slowed down (and I probably tripped), and forever in my mind, when I think about the beginning of us, that’s the picture.

Now time for a fun fact: I can’t remember what I wore today.  I have no recollection of seeing someone for the first time and remembering it like this.  It’s weird and cheesy. I embrace that fact.  But, that image is locked down so hard in my mind that I will likely wander the halls of my (expensive and luxurious) nursing home someday looking for the boy with the beautiful smile.  Then I'll find him, think I hit the jackpot, and our kids will get a call about their elderly parents being inappropriate.. again.

My son bit a smiled back and pushed on.

“SO… did he just walk up to you or what?”.

I explained how he had come to the football game and was watching me cheerlead and I almost couldn’t remember the words because I was so nervous, and then afterwards we met up with friends and I decided he was perfect.  Mostly because he played hockey, had a car and was hot.  Ben squealed at the ‘hot’ part and giggled while he looked out the window.

But, the summer sun betrayed his secret and in the reflection I could see the smile he had worked so hard to keep to himself.  And in that smile I saw one that looked so familiar it caught me by surprise. 

I could hardly stop the mist from filling up my eyes as the song came on in the background and Ben, satisfied with the answers to questions, smiling like his dad, nonchalantly started singing along ,

“Time goes by so fast,

when it’s gone it don’t come back.

If I could leave this world with just one memory,

it would be a picture of you looking back at me”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

 

 

What I know at 32

Not much. 

In fact, the older I get the less I know which I think may actually be a step forward towards enlightenment.  But probably not. 

Regardless, since today marks the anniversary of my birth, I thought I’d share a few morsels of wisdom/truth that I have accumulated thus far. 

**Doesn’t include previous lives.  Because I can’t remember ANY of that shit no matter how many times I’ve tried.

• "I, myself, am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions” -Augusten Burroughs

This quote not only serves as a window into how I see myself, but upon greater reflection it is also an accurate summation of all my favorite people.  I throw ‘best friend’ around like it’s my job.  I will tell a particularly great server they are my best friend mere moments after meeting them, I will refer to at least 3 dozen people as my ‘besties’. I subscribe to the Mindy Kaling school of thought that ‘bestfriend’ isn’t a person but rather a tier. 

But the ones that have squirreled their way into my heart of hearts, the ones I confide in and laugh with, and ugly cry on- snot and all.  Well, this is them. My band of misfits and weirdos makes my heart soar and my face hurt from laughing.  And they are always right there to pick my sorry, defeated ass up when I need them.  Which is often. 

• Being in love is less flowers, Lionel Richie love songs, and grand displays of affection and more the boring stuff. 

Like knowing exactly the spot that is ALWAYS itchy on my back that I can’t reach, and getting it the first time.  Or reminding me that no matter how good my book is, I’ll barf if I try reading while in a car.  Settling my nerves when I think some catastrophic cataclysmic ending is headed my way because two weird things have happened to me and so the third death-inducing thing is around the corner.  Being woken up at 4am with the greatest thought I have ever had and not getting angry or hating me for it, but simply telling me “I love you.  But shut up and go to sleep” in the nicest way possible.

Being in love is knowing all the bizarre ins and outs of who someone is and loving them through it.  I’d say for it but honestly I think he’s growing tired of the chewing neurosis.  But come one.. chewing is THE WORST.

• Being a parent is bull shit.  NO one tells you that.  Kids are terrorists.  Parents of other kids can be even worse than terrorists.. which is.. I don’t know, gluten or something.

I love them.  I really, really do. They make me pictures and tell me how snuggling with me is the best because I feel like a pillow, and my toddler is currently only referring to me as “Brittany” and I can’t get him to stop yelling “You STUPID” at random people.  But I do really, really love them. 

But I have also never thought about leaving my husband and I have thought almost weekly about leaving my children.

Parenting is hard and it’s bullshit and we should be allowed to speak more candidly about it.  Because the way I see life, a giant, splendid pendulum, means that the more I speak and laugh about the bad times, the more I feel and relish the good times.  The more I am open and honest with my friends about thinking about selling my eldest on kijiji, the more I can return  home to them and find the humour and the sanity to keep running this marathon for one more day. 

They are the most perfect of humans with their own little flaws, and the immense gratitude I feel to get to be their mom is almost overwhelming as I watch them begin to blossom into distinct, independent, smart, and obviously ridiculously good looking, little humans.  And it’s this dichotomy I live with daily.  The amazement and wonder of how I got to be so lucky to have such great kids, and then having to reprimand a nearly potty-trained toddler because he has found great elation in peeing on his sister in the bathtub.

• Beyoncé and Britney Spears are only one year older than me. 

• I can’t decide about #blessed.  Like on one hand it’s great to feel such gratitude for like, Pumpkin Spice Latte season, but maybe a little much and we’re losing site of the significance of blessings and blessed.

• If someone makes you laugh keep them in your life forever.  The ones who make you laugh and make your day a little more sunshiney are the keepers.  There’s enough negative, energy-sucking people in this world.  Keep the good ones and be the good ones. 

• Animals are the single greatest mental health therapy around. Every day should be spent giving some love to an animal.
•  “Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that's a real treat.” Joanne Woodward

More than half of my 32 years has been spent with the same guy.  I get so many comments and questions about how at 15 and 17, two teenagers met and managed to navigate their way through three kids and 9 years of marriage- mostly but not always happily since I’m in the business of being honest.  But, honestly I have no idea what has made us work so far other than that we genuinely enjoy each other’s company.  I mean reading Twilight (shut up.. I was super pregnant and I needed a diversion) I saw how Jacob imprinted on Edward and Bella’s kid and wondered is something like that happened to us.  Like it was fated or something cosmic like that.  Or maybe we just have worked really hard to have a friendship and partnership or maybe we are just really lucky.  I don’t know.

But in the absence of any good advice I can, and now that I have referenced Stephanie Myer on my blog (cringe) this quote from Joanne Woodward (was married for years and years to the sexy Paul Newman) is kind of the best and only advice, really. 

Honestly last night we got laughing about something and I had to stand up repeatedly because the wheezing and snorting was trying to kill me.  I was crying and he was laughing harder at me and my noises and I nearly passed out.  If that’s what she means then yes.  Do that. Especially if he thinks those snorts and wheezes and weird cry face are loveable too.   

• New Kids on The Block are better dancers than Backstreet Boys.  It pains me to admit it, but the truth needs to be told.

   

  
  

   

  
  

  

  Where I do my pondering. In the sun

  
  

Nine Years Ago

I was 21, ready to take on the whole world, just finishing up my degree when I realized my life was going to change.. drastically.

You see, I had plans to visit Italy, and to finally take a moment to enjoy all the hard work , and the education I had absorbed (well.. mostly), since being in school from 5 to 21 years old.  I was on the precipice of the life I had dreamed about sitting in Art History, History, English and Religious Studies lectures.  I was going to see all the places I had studied, to color in the lines of the images and the places that had been sketched by inspired professors and idealist textbooks.  

I would visit the tombs of the scholars whose words I had memorized, I would see the birthplace of the Renaissance with my own eyes, the architecture, the art, and the inspiration.  I would see religion played out in the Vatican, I would relax in the south of France with red wine and the knowledge that my whole educational life had been directing me to this moment.

The last thing I was worried about was what in the world I would do with an arts degree. I mean,  I had my LSAT study books, my Masters application in the works, and a sincere desire to further direct my life once I got back to reality. 

This was my break from the life I knew was mandatory.  I was raised to believe that this education was the minimum educational requirement.  Sure, maybe my parents wouldn’t have picked the arts for their baby, but it never was lost on me that neither of my parents had the opportunity to go to University.  To this day one of their proudest accomplishments is having three University graduates as children.  Only second to the fact that we are all pretty decent human beings.  And we own our own houses.  That’s cool for them too I would assume.  Probably grandkids too. 

So 21, ready to rock the world, with my knowledge and my relief that I had a reprieve from midterms, finals, and the pressure that comes from a ‘reading’ week spent in the bar instead of the library.

In the meantime, my boyfriend had already convocated with a Kinesiology degree, and was off at RCMP Depot pursuing his future career. He assured me he could have plenty of vacation days to accommodate the travel bug that had taken over me.

Coming into the home stretch of school, I felt more self-assure and more ready for the life I had planned.  After all,  I had spent the summer before that last semester working moderately hard, laying around my friend’s pool, and sneaking visits with my boyfriend and his troop whenever we could. 

It was a benign Wednesday, and the sage advice from a supervisor that led me to the pregnancy isle in the drugstore.  It was her listening to me complain about how I was feeling, and off-handily remarking maybe I was pregnant that led to my shaking hands buying the test, and those same hands that shook as they drove all the way back to my apartment too.

It was not scary, I don’t remember any scary waiting part, I took it and instantly the result was obvious. 

The next thing I remember were tears. 

I cried, I cried and sobbed and hiccupped until my roommate came out of her room to see what was going on. 

I showed her the test and fell into a pile of dirty laundry on my bed, as I sobbed and instantaneously grieved the life I thought I was about to live. 

That immediately, from the first blue line to the second, I knew my life was going to be different.

Another girlfriend, a restaurant and two Dairy Queen blizzards later I had started to come to terms with my situation.  I hadn’t even told my boyfriend yet.  It was a few stolen hours of not dealing with anyone other than my own feelings, and a sugar rush.

Now, I want to stop and acknowledge that I know that some people dream about being pregnant and want to have babies so badly and can’t.

I sympathize with them, I think it’s impossible not to.

But I’m telling you there is another side of the coin, the one people sometimes like to judge.  You know, the “how did could you let that happen unless you wanted it to” type people.

But, just stay with me for a moment.

I want you to know it is terrifying to sit in that moment alone, and wonder if there will be any one to stand by you. 

Letting your boyfriend know, your parents too, his parents, and our families know there is a truth which I have decided will be born into fruition.  Because for all the people around, it is me that has the finale, absolute decision on whether or not it is.  And, rightfully so.

A 21 year old girl with an arts degree, one hand me down computer, one dingy double mattress and a TV to her name.  A girl who had dreamed of one day having a family but no concept of how she was going to do so right now, at this moment of her life.  And the unshakeable worry that acceptance and understanding might not come generously.  I was terrified and vulnerable, and so unsure of what my future would look like.

So yes, I was devastated.  And I own that feeling and I will never, ever feel sorry for it.

But as strong people do in difficult situations, I stood up, and was lucky enough to have a hand to hold as we told the world.. eventually.  I mean we waited well past the 12 weeks, not generally reserved for married, ‘supposed-to’ couples.

It went over like when you serve fish at a big family dinner. 

Some people, people you had no idea, they freaking LOVED it.  There were the ones you knew loved it, because they had told you so before. 

The ones you were pretty sure were faking it because they loved you and didn’t want to hurt your feelings. 

And, well, the ones that didn’t.. maybe they just  couldn’t, like it, because they were not prepared to try fish for a few years.

But, it was a freight train on a one-way track and before long.. he was born.  And oh... he was beautiful.  Truly.  Beautiful.

Nine years ago today I became a mom.

And while we have long since settled into our roles of mom and dad, family of three, then four, then five, along the way I’ve thought of that girl who leaned against her apartment wall as she sobbed and thought her life was over.  The girl who grew up and took a different path than she thought was hers to take.

And that in becoming a mom, much younger than my friends, the first of our siblings to enter parenthood, that maybe I gained all the experiences I longed for, just not in the way I saw it back then.

I travelled every nook and cranny on each and every one of my babies.  I saw religion in a much different way than before, felt it in the purest sense, in the most divine form when I held my babies for the first time.  When they looked to the sky and asked about God and our lost loved ones, and how a flower knows to bloom.  Most importantly I had a confessor, a professor, an everything, guide me through life and love and all the stops in between.

And that well-travelled soul, that prophet in our lives.....  Well, he turned 9 today.  He's not my son.  No, that seems too strange for what he's done.  He's an equal.  Maybe our sun.  Maybe his own sun.  But a wise teacher in a small child's body.

Because through him, I have enjoyed a glass of wine as the sun set on my children playing with their cousins, or our parents, as they laughed and we witnessed the beauty on the faces of our parents as they experienced they joy through a grandchild’s eyes. 

He accelerated my life and made it come faster, and in a different way than I thought.

So, today I’m celebrating becoming a mom of three exceptional kids (yes.. I know, this is not unbiased) and especially, most especially my oldest. 

The little old soul who took this girl and turned her into a mom, even if she wasn’t expecting it.

Not without tears and breakdowns and enough insecurity to drown a continent. 

Still. 

Am I OK at this whole Mom thing .  Do I laugh at his antics too much?  Do I ask too much?  Am I enough to look up to?  Also who am I really? Wait… that can’t be part of being a parent.  Shit.  I suck.  Am I a good parent?

But then I have a little (big) boy who has grown into an amazing student, a gifted athlete, the keeper of the rules, intense as they come, passionate and driven.  He can be a jerk too.  Let’s be honest.  But as the sum of his parts he is set to be an incredible human being.

So tonight, tonight I toast the other women who sort of tripped into this whole ‘mom’ thing.  Who didn’t know that’s what they wanted, or what would color in the lines of a picture they never knew they had.

To the moms who still have dreams and places to travel, without their kids.  Who love their children fiercely and assuredly enough to admit that the sum of their parts isn’t entirely weighted in them, and that the very notion of this actually releases their children from conforming to their ideals instead of reaching their own potential.

I love being a mom.  It’s not the entirety of who I am but it takes up a whole lot of it. 

Tonight, tonight I pour a glass of wine, toast my husband and celebrate the anniversary of having shared nine years together as parents.

Holy shit.  Nine mother f&&&ing years.  And he’s great.  Our kid.  Same with the other two.  NO time to stop and get complacent but let’s keep this momentum going.

So one day we can relax in the Tuscan sun.  And I can rustily recall the lessons on Italian history.  And we can stumble into the south of France.

And I can realize that maybe it’s not the destination, but the journey that will teach me the real lessons.