A Girl Could Get Used to This…

Good things happen when you read your story at the Listen to Your Mother Show.

Neighbors leave champagne on your doorstep.
Friends buy tickets and drive into the city to support you.  Loudly.  And with flowers.
Family waits in line for front row seats, forming the world’s cutest fan club.

It was an amazing night that, ironically, I can’t find the words to describe.  So instead I’ll just share what I read.  Thanks to everyone who has helped me along the way.  This one’s for you:

Mother of the Year

Not to brag, but I’ve already received multiple awards for my stellar parenting.

This is due to the fact that my friends generously bestow “mother of the year” accolades to anyone who has spectacularly crashed and burned in this race called motherhood. Consequently, there happens to be a ton of mother of the year awards flying around my group of friends.

If you’ve ever taught a small child your favorite college drinking game in order to entice him to chug Pedialyte when he was sick, welcome to our club. And if you’re the person who invented the explanation that the ice cream man plays music to announce that he’s sold out of treats for the day, you’ve earned a lifetime achievement award.

Somehow, confessing to my friends that I was forced to make PB&J on a defrosted hot dog bun because we ran out of bread that morning helps reinforce a few truths about motherhood: this gig is hard; no one can do it perfectly; and we all need to be on the same team.

I’m lucky enough to be a part of an all-­star team of women who make this role of mom so much easier and so much more fun because of their willingness to laugh at the pandemonium and then ask, “What can I do to help?”

Sometimes help comes in the form of play dates and carpools to ease the logistics of needing to be in several places at once. Other times it’s an invitation to go on a hike or grab a coffee or (let’s be honest) a glass of wine to blow off some steam and perhaps discuss the fact that earlier that day, my son had lovingly referred to me as a “beautiful old lady.”

These are the friends who can collectively -­‐-­‐ at a moment’s notice -­‐-­‐ cobble together a costume for any school event and who will make a special trip to the grocery store to buy saltines and ginger ale when I’m at home comforting a kid with the stomach flu.

I couldn’t do this job without them. But for a while, I tried.

There was a time when I thought I could handle all of it on my own. I had friends, of course, but I only allowed them to see glimpses of my life when the house was clean, the kids were behaving and I was wearing something other than yoga pants.

That meant we didn’t see each other very often because the domestic holy trinity of house, kids and mom all being presentable at the same time never happens. I had made the mistake of assuming that everyone else had their act together and expected me to do the same.

That kind of life is tidy, but it doesn’t ring true. That life is a polite courtesy laugh when what we’re really craving is a raucous belly laugh that brings tears to our eyes, smears our mascara and makes us wish we’d taken our doctor’s advice about doing those daily Kegel exercises.

For me, the real fun didn’t begin until the jokes about mother of the year started to appear. Slowly, I began to let my guard down and share my true self, parenting disasters and all.

There was freedom in admitting that, while in a fit of rage, my daughter yelled that she wished I was nice – like Caillou’s mom.

It seems counterintuitive, but through these friendships, I became both vulnerable and strong at the same time.

The best result of this honesty was the beautiful discovery that the moms who are willing to admit they need help are also the first to offer a hand to others. The women who can laugh at themselves are also the ones who give their peers the benefit of the doubt. They know the challenges we all face and trust we’re doing the best we can.

These “mothers of the year” are my closest friends. I couldn’t ask for a better village to help raise my kids.

And now that I’ve found these moms, I’m holding on tightly. I try to be a good friend, quick to put together a play date and even quicker to organize a happy hour, but I find myself more often in the position of saying thanks, I owe you one.

I know I’ll have a chance to return the favor since I’ll be friends with these women for a long time – because a bond forged while discussing the fact that when clean laundry is in short supply, bathing suit bottoms make a pretty decent substitute for underwear – is a bond that will withstand whatever life and motherhood can throw its way.

The Adventures of Roller Girl and not-Giselle

We were quite a duo as we hiked the hills behind our kids’ elementary school.  My friend, fresh from her visit to a phlebotomist, was accessorizing her running shorts with knee-high white surgical stockings.  Resembling a sexy roller girl from the 70′s, she wore her ugly socks with pride.

After a few sweaty miles, I started suffering from an itchy heat rash across my middle.  “Fuck it,” I said as I folded my shirt into a micro crop top in a desperate attempt to get some fresh air on my misbehaving skin.  I’m 100% certain that the only human on the planet who should legally be allowed to wear a micro crop top is Giselle — and I’m not convinced she’s entirely human.  I looked ridiculous, and sadly couldn’t even muster a redeeming roller girl vibe.

So there we were, Roller Girl and not-Giselle, trudging up the mountain, talking, laughing and reveling in the fact that we’ve reached the age where we truly didn’t care that we looked like we escaped from a facility harboring the criminally unfashionable.  We were women of substance.  (Yeah!)  We were fearless.  (Hell, yeah!) We were standing right in front of a huge gopher snake.  (Oh, shit!)

Admittedly, the thing looked comatose as it stretched across the trail soaking up the sun.  But it was big and it was close and, well, a snake is a snake.

Shrieking, I started doing the jumping, flailing, I-just-almost-stepped-on-a-snake dance.  Believe me when I say not even Giselle could pull off that dance while wearing a homemade crop top.  Roller Girl stopped pointing and laughing just long enough to put an arm around me and walk us waaaay around the snake before we both doubled over, roaring with laughter at the absurdity of it all: the knee socks, the crop top and the jiggly snake dance.

Once I wiped the tears from my cheeks and caught my breath, I commented that between the goofy clothing and uncontrollable laughter, we were not that much different from our daughters – and that made me so happy.

Our daughters are close friends, bonded over a shared love of tether ball, adventure novels and a complete disinterest in the drama that we know is just around the corner in the ‘tween years.  They have fun together, look out for each other and laugh hysterically – just like their moms do when they’re together.  Ages ten and forty turn out to be uncannily similar, with all four of us at the same place of carefree self-assuredness.  The daughters haven’t yet descended into the abyss of self-doubt and mean girls, while their moms have comfortably made it through to the other side.

We continued our hike, talking about our kids and how we wished we could bottle up their plucky attitude for future use.  Keep it behind glass with a “break in case of teenage angst emergency” sign plastered next to it.  But we also know that our girls must navigate the journey on their own and that the heavy lifting of adolescence builds muscle for adulthood – a form of strength training for the soul.  Truth be told, we know these girls will be just fine, eventually reaching the point where they find themselves happily hiking through life’s hills, protecting friends from snakes and confident in their roles of Roller Girl and not-Giselle.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Color

The big picture is overrated.  It is uncertain.  It can be messy.  It is rarely understood, never controlled and frequently overwhelming.  I like the little picture instead.  Focusing attention on small details adds beauty to days that could otherwise slip by unnoticed, obscured by looming shadows of the big picture.  Life’s details are here now: bright, beautiful and begging to be seen.

* Post inspired by WordPress’ weekly photo challenge. This week’s theme is color.  

Cookie Love

The first line of my daughter’s Valentine’s Day poem this year didn’t surprise me:

Love is homemade cookies

I come from a long line of cookie bakers.  My grandma is legendary for hers.  When grandkids and great-grandkids visit, she makes special cookies with miniature M&M’s that delight everyone loosely defined as a “kid,” roughly ages five to 40.  “I’m a lucky man,” my grandpa repeats throughout the day, frequently while munching on a cookie.

Growing up, I noticed that my mom also baked to share some love.  Her signature move was to surprise my dad with his favorite peanut butter cookies.  My job was to use a fork to press crisscross patterns across the dough balls before we put them in the oven.  I was happy to have a small part in making my dad smile when he walked in the door after a day at work.  Perhaps more significantly, I started to understand the power of the cookie.

I’ve been baking cookies since I could crack an egg without getting shell shrapnel everywhere – probably around the same age my daughter is now.  I dabbled in Snickerdoodles and experimented with oatmeal raisin, but returned again and again to the classic chocolate chip – always following the recipe on the back of the yellow bag.

I used that recipe to make the first batch of cookies I would give my husband.  At the time, he was just a friend I met my freshman year at college.  Cute, smart and funny, he was a sweet guy with enough of a sarcastic streak to keep things interesting.  We parted ways for spring break with a bear hug and a “see ya later.”

After relaxing at home for a few days, perhaps too sunburned to head to the beach again, I decided to make the college boy some cookies.  I suspected this was an odd thing to do for someone who was “just a friend” but I soldiered on.

I made a special trip to the Container Store to find the perfect cookie box.  (Apparently, my proclivity for turning to the Container Store when looking for life’s answers as well as storage solutions started at a young age.)  I bought a box and proceeded to attack it with puffy paint – his name, my name,  and a message instructing him to return the box to me if he ever needed refills.

Twenty years later, the boy and I are happily married and my cookie recipe no longer comes from the bag of chocolate chips.  Honed over time, it’s still pretty basic but has a few tweaks: all brown sugar to ensure crunchy edges with a soft interior; always chunks instead of chips; and only smooth-tasting semisweet chocolate because I have no patience for bittersweet in my cookies.

These are the cookies that my daughter writes about in love poems.  They’re what my dad hopes he will find whenever he peeks in the cookie jar 15 minutes after getting to my house.  And even though the recipe has changed over time, I like to think that these are the cookies that started something special with the boy from college.  He must have sensed it too, because that box with the tacky puffy paint promising a lifetime of refills sits tucked away on a shelf in his closet – just in case I ever need a reminder to make more cookies.

The Ultimate Chocolate Chip Cookie

1 cup butter,  room temperature

1 1/2 cups firmly packed brown sugar

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

12 oz (at least) coarsely chopped semi-sweet chocolate, hacked from your favorite sturdy chocolate bar.  I use Scharffen Berger’s baking bar.

 

1. Preheat oven to 350°

2. In a bowl, with an electric mixer on medium speed, beat butter and brown sugar until well blended. Beat in eggs and vanilla until smooth, scraping down sides of bowl as needed.

3. In another bowl, mix flour, baking soda, and salt. Stir into butter mixture just until incorporated. Mix in chocolate chunks.

4. Drop dough in generous 2-tablespoon portions, 2 inches apart, onto a silpat or parchment lined baking sheet.

5. Bake at 350° until cookies are lightly browned and no longer wet in the center (break one open to check, you lucky duck) precisely 10 ½ minutes in my oven, but yours might be different by a minute or so.

6. With a wide spatula, transfer cookies to racks to cool. 

 

If you like posts with stories and cookie recipes, there’s this one too…

Dear Jon

Dear Jon,

You’ve occupied not one, but two spots on my Freebie Five for a long time now.  Yes, two spots.  Almost half of my fantasy allotment goes to you because clearly, a night with you would be very different than a night with Don Draper and, well, yes.

For the record, my husband couldn’t be happier that both of you made the cut because it means that one of my prospects doesn’t even exist in real life.  Similarly, I have encouraged my husband to add “the brainy Kardashian” to his list.

But Jon, we have a problem.  This thing in the news about your, um, Hamm bone causing problems for the nice folks in charge of wardrobe for Mad Men — ew.

It’s odd to say this, but please wear underwear to work, Jon.  If you want a little fresh air on your pork ‘n beans while out for Sunday brunch, that’s your business.  At work, however, you need to keep it locked down tight.

This is important.  If you creep me out and I have to take you off my list, I will be crushed.  I’d be compelled to give Tom Brady two spots – football player and Ugg model – but we both know he only deserves one entry in The Five.  So please, Jon, wear underwear to work.  Do it for me.  Or do it for the poor guy who allegedly had to Photoshop your groin into submission for the show’s promotional posters.  But please, just do it.

Forever yours,
(provided you wear proper undergarments at work)

– the Unskilled Perfectionist

Conspiracy Theory

“Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

I had started, stopped, and restarted writing my entry for the Listen to Your Mother show a dozen times since January.  Changed the topic three times.  Battled the flu for one solid week.  Now down to the wire, it looked as if I wasn’t going to make the submission deadline.

Barricaded in my room with a laptop, I eschewed the Academy Awards and bailed on our family dinner as I wrestled with the words.  My husband knew what I was up to, but my kids were perturbed and demanding answers.  They burst through the door and onto my bed, trying to figure out what was so important that I would miss our family tradition of Sunday soup night and the Oscars – which I had once described as the Super Bowl for moms.

I explained I was writing something to submit to a show called Listen to Your Mother and if my story got selected, I would get to read it in front of an audience.  I quickly added that a lot of people write stories and there was no way I’d actually be chosen for the show, but that I really just wanted to try.

“Um, you need more self confidence, mom.”

“Yeah, you totally can do this.”

The kids told me I didn’t need to worry about anything other than writing that night.  For emphasis, my daughter quickly ran to her room and returned with a hastily scrawled “Do Not Disturb” sign to hang on my door.  They brushed their teeth without drama – no small task in our house.  And since my husband was downstairs tackling the dinner dishes, my daughter tucked her brother in for the night, complete with a bedtime story and a kiss on the forehead.  That alone, was worth the writing effort.

But the rewards continued to come, first with an invitation to audition and then with the surprising news that I’d been chosen as a cast member.  I am beyond thrilled and so excited for the opportunity.  Two months from now as I walk on stage, take a deep breath and prepare to read my story, I’ll take a quick moment to pause and silently thank my personal little universe who conspired to help make the moment happen.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Resolved

Although I don’t make resolutions in January, I do like to choose a word to guide me through the upcoming 12 months.  I’ve done this the past few years and I’m always surprised at how often my word perfectly fits with what I experience during the year.

2013 will see the launch of several projects, including a few for the house and a few for me.  I think it has the potential to be a very transformative year but also one where I’m pulled in a million directions.  So the word I choose for 2013 is: focus.

Focus on the goal and embrace the work it takes to get there.  Focus on what’s truly important and let the rest slide.  Pause, breathe, focus.

What about you?  Any words to guide you in 2013?  Share in the comments section.

* Inspired by WordPress’ Weekly Photo Challenge.  This week, we’re invited to post a photo that exemplifies our New Year’s resolution…