No regrets...

A couple of evenings ago I got my hair cut. (Yes, all of them.) I used to dread going to the salon; I felt so vulnerable looking like a drowned rat in the middle of a public place. I would get nervous before an appointment and be told that I was silly to be so self-conscious. These days I don't mind it so much. I still feel overexposed in that chair but it's over fast enough. Plus it's one place I can go without having to take a sippy cup in my bag.

While I was there, I read a magazine with an article written by a woman who had suffered a near-death experience caused by a brain aneurysm. She shared her incredible story, which I'm sure was a cathartic and therapeutic thing to do, and wanted the reader to come away feeling that life is too short to do...whatever it is we do that's not the epitome of living. But she also mentioned that she had a special helmet designed by her close friend Tory Burch and that she was able to recuperate at her home in Guana Beach in the British Virgin Islands. And did I mention that her aneurysm occurred at a red carpet event? I don't mean to sound mocking; what she went through is horrific and I am glad she is alive and well. I honestly liked her by the end of the article. But if she wasn't living before this trauma, what does that say for the rest of us?

We've all read and heard stories of people who, after coming close to leaving this Earth, came to the realization that they wasted their lives on trivial matters. They become fully committed to cherishing every moment in a big way, lavishing their loved ones with attention and doing all the things they swore they would do at least once in their lives...skydiving, getting that degree, seeing the Eiffel Tower. And we come away from their stories motivated to do the same, saying "life is too short". After a few days, we are back to fretting over that coffee stain on the couch and yelling at our husbands to just for once close the damn cabinet door. And our short lives go on as 'trivial' as they were.

Please, no more pressure to live. I am living. I am loving, laughing, yelling, fighting, struggling, learning, growing. I am paying my bills, I am reading my books, I am teaching my daughter, I am arguing and making up with my husband, I am visiting family, I am hanging out with friends. I say "I love you" to someone every day, but I also say "I'm sorry" too often. I don't want to be told that this isn't enough, that I must do more to justify my short time here, that I will only end up regretting time wasted. I may not see the Northern Lights before I go, I may never speak French, I will not bungee jump. Life is indeed too short, no matter how long it is. There will always be time ill-spent and guilt to follow. But if I wasted a few minutes being self-conscious in the salon chair, I wasted those few minutes being true to myself. Life is never too short for that.

Classy reunions...

Like the rest of the world, I am on Facebook. (Or is it "have a Facebook", as the kids at work say?) I was resistant to join, but join I did over a year ago. I have to say, it's been mostly a fun ride connecting with people I never thought I'd hear from again. Some have surprised me with the paths their lives have taken, some surprise me because I accurately predicted where they would be, and some just surprise me when they send me a 'friend request' or accept one of mine. It feels good to be remembered, and to know that we started a conversation years ago that they find worth continuing.

There are times when I just want to log off for good. It's hard for a cynical person such as myself to handle all those life-is-good postings. As my husband so eloquently put it, I need to "work on being happy for other people". He's right about that. There are times when my first reaction to someone's warm and fuzzy status update is 'oh, just shut up already'. But those times are getting few and far between, and I'm shedding that protective cynical shell. I truly am happy to see so many of us out there getting to places we want to be. I'm not naive; I realize that people sugarcoat and embellish, put up facades of peace, love, and happiness for an image they hope will make everyone the teensiest bit jealous. But I have hope that if they are little white lies, they will serve as self-fulfilling prophecies, and folks will start to actually exist as they do in their virtual lives.

I have connected with old friends from high school, which, for someone who doesn't attend class reunions, is an unexpected treat. Those friends helped shape who I am today, and I am grateful. I am a nostalgic girl; I will zoom back to that eighties decade at the drop of a Hall and Oates song, and stay there over-romanticizing until someone pulls me back to real time. But I have no real desire to go back there, or be that girl again. I did not always enjoy those 'best years of my life', as we were told they were, and don't need a do-over. For every happy flashback, there are two miserable ones right behind it. But I understand that a lot of us on the social network would take those days back in a heartbeat. While I'm glad they have more good memories than bad, I'm sad for those that cling to who they were then, as if that's the peak in their life's arc. I'm not trying to get any moments back. I don't want these renewed friendships to be exactly as they were when we were six or sixteen, or to take me somewhere other than here. We've been apart for big gaps of time, and we have all endured a lot of growing pains in those years of separation. I won't pretend to still know exactly who these people are, even though they are so familiar. I am so fortunate that those that were close to the 'me' then want to be close to the 'me' now. They are still my cheerleaders, still supportive and encouraging. Most importantly, they haven't called attention to what's different about me. They've let me be who I've grown to be...and I do hope they will call me out if I ever try to spike my hair again.

Lost and found...

People will always be willing to tell you how difficult it is to be a parent. I've been at it for just a little over two years now and, as hard as it can be, it's easier than I'd been led to believe. Sure, there were the long brand-new-baby months and now the 'terrible twos', not to mention the coming-faster-than-I-care-to-think teenage years, but if I just keep in mind that these stages are temporary until the next one comes along, I get through. So far, it's just been a combination of patience, repetition, and faith in my ability to turn this kid into a decent adult. I'm handling it as best I can.

What they should say is how hard it is to be a person while you're a parent. This I am not handling as well as I would like. That ability to still cultivate the same interests I had before my daughter's arrival eludes me. The time I can spend on these now frivolous things has dwindled to maybe a few minutes in the evening before I surrender to fatigue and turn out the lights. The fifty-pages-a-day of a book I'm reading has been reduced to five and the dvr is overloaded with shows that may never be watched. Movies, magazines, and, most tragically, music have all been tossed in the someday pile. I have become that cliche, that once-cool girl who is slowly blending into the mom crowd, with matching stains on their cardigans because they didn't take the time to look in the mirror before leaving the house.

 But the real struggle in this identity crisis is my timing. Did I wait too long to have a child? I have finally joined the revered 'mommy club', only to find the members of my club are strangers, women I don't know and find hard to relate to. They are not yet my friends and may never be. They are...younger. While I had all of those years on my own and independent, friends took the motherhood path. Now their little ones are not so little, and they are getting back in the swing of things. While I put as much energy into maintaining those relationships as I can and being the best friend I can be, I'm not sure it's enough. There's this sense of being lost, of being left behind. It's a kind of being on my own I hadn't anticipated.

At the end of the day, despite all my whining, I have no regrets about the order I chose to do things. My daughter is my world, my universe. I know that when she is older and the heavy-duty parenting is more or less done, she will fly and I will experience yet another kind of being on my own. And I know I will get myself back somehow, with time to devote to old and new interests as well as old and new friends. I will tell people parenting is a piece of cake, that the sacrifices are temporary. My cardigans will be stain-free.

It was a dark and snowy night...

Once again, I am going to go to bed with an impending winter storm threatening my good night's sleep. (As if my toddler doesn't play a big enough role in that already.) Call it life in the Northeast; I call it a long, tedious winter. You see, I am terrified of driving in snow or ice. At least once a week, from January to whenever, I have to listen to the forecasters tell me that when I wake up in the morning, there will be snow and I will be driving to work in less than favorable conditions. This does not make me happy.

Predictions of snow didn't always fill me with a sense of dread. Back in the day, a snowstorm meant heading to my grandparents' house and sledding on the golf course down the road. It meant the smell of wet, woolly clothes drying on a radiator after a long, fun day tumbling down snowy hills. It meant stocking up on magazines and hot cocoa and watching bad daytime television. And it meant slow down and relax. Now it just means get out there and risk your life to get to a job that is never worth it. I can't express to you just how envious I am of those who still get to have snow days in their adulthood, who can stay home and enjoy the gift of bonus time with their kids, or just spend the day however they wish.

There are many, many times during these long winters that I seriously contemplate life in another climate. How I could adjust to decorating a palm tree for Christmas, build sand castles instead of snowmen. But I know that my life is here, especially now that I have my little girl. I want her to have memories carved out by seasons as I do, and to judge the passing of time by the changes outside. Most importantly, our support system is here, our family and friends who make the snow and ice melt a little with laughs and love. So here I'll stay. Just forgive me if I'm a little tired from lack of sleep.

When life gives you lemons...

I stayed in an upbeat mood all day today, despite the unpredictable nature of my two-year-old and having a list of chores to do. I have my sister-in-law to thank; she thoughtfully gave me some lemon-scented hand cream for Christmas and I tried it out this morning. It's hard to be grumpy when the scent of lemon meringue is drifting around you with every move.

Love's Baby Soft, coconut, fresh coffee, Dr. Pepper lip gloss, and ooooh- a ripe, juicy peach...yikes. Best scents ever. Who doesn't have some memory attached to a certain smell? The smell of fresh cantalope will always instantly remind me of my Gran'pa making breakfast. Eucalyptus brings me back to summers in the 80s, visiting my dad and stepmother in Richmond, Virginia. Mangoes and sunblock take me right across the ocean to Hawaii. Nina Ricci perfume and lipstick? My mom.

All winter most of us stomp around all cranky and we blame the lack of sunlight. We're cooped up in our spaces, layered up in heavy clothes and blankets, breathing in each other's hot air. Yuck. No wonder we're so gloomy! Maybe we could just use some good old-fashioned aromatherapy.

I'm going to do my part to lighten the mood a little the rest of this winter. I'll be using that lemon hand cream every day. And if that doesn't work, I just might keep my daughter's little scented Strawberry Shortcake doll in my pocket as back-up.

An early Mother's Day...

Every woman has uttered the following words at least once in their lives: please don't let me turn into my mother. There comes a time in a woman's life when she hears herself saying something that sounds as if her mother took over her own voice. She will gasp, cover her mouth with her hand, and wonder if the dreaded time has come. Then she'll probably make a very conscious effort to spend the next few days fighting the inevitable, purposely doing the opposite of whatever she thinks her mother would do.

My mother is very funny. She has a sense of humor that can bring on some heavy eye-rolling, but she can spring a witty comment on you at any given time. She is smart but doesn't show off. She is a creature of habit and knows what she likes. She is cautious and will almost always say no before she will say yes. She is a worrier and lovingly cares too much about things she can't control. She will speak up when she thinks something isn't right, but she is not confrontational. Above all, she is brave.

My mother took on the unenviable task of raising me and my brother mostly on her own when we were very young. (I say 'mostly' only to not give the impression that my father abandoned us completely. He did not.) Now, looking back as an adult, I realize she was raising herself right along with us. At one point I remember my mother trying to go back to school while she worked full-time. I was proud of her then, and still reference that time whenever I think of her strength. In the end the workload proved to be too challenging, but I would hope that she doesn't look back and see failure. I only see courage. I am not as kind to my mother as I should be, given all that she has done to get both of us to where we are.

Now a mom myself, I have already heard myself say things my mother has often said to me. I hear my mother in my laugh. I look at my hands and see my mother's fingers. I am constantly being told, by women my mother's age who I've never seen before, that I simply must be Jill's daughter because I look exactly like her. I have come to appreciate the similarities in our strengths and weaknesses, and although I may joke about the horror of becoming my mother, I am quietly embracing it. There are some relatives and long-time family friends who cannot help but call me by my mother's name. I rarely correct them.

Assuming you're interested...

Years ago I read the book The Four Agreements. The book itself was too...um, how do I say new age-y?...for my taste but two of the four 'agreements' stuck in my head. (The other two were lost; I had to look them up to refresh my memory. That's how much I liked the book.) One was something along the lines of 'don't take things personally'. I never realized how often I was guilty of this until I read the words. I take everything personally. If someone passes me while driving, it's personal. If someone doesn't answer a text fast enough, it's personal. If it so much as rains on my day off-oh, it is personal.

The other one was 'don't make assumptions'. Yep, guilty. If I am passed while driving, I make the assumption the other driver thinks he or she is better than me. If I don't get that text response right away, I will assume someone is upset with me. And if that rain comes on my day off, I assume I will never see the sun again. And don't try to tell me different.

Since reading these words of wisdom, if you choose to believe that's what they are, I have made a solid effort to heed their advice. It has saved me a lot of grief to step back and count to three (or ten, given the situation) and remember them. But today only half of my brain was on the right track while the other half was derailing. I was on the wrong end of what I assumed was the silent treatment. I knew that this person's unusual quiet meant he was unhappy, and I was sure it was personal. I stressed much of the afternoon away, knowing I was guilty of nothing but yet thinking that somehow I was a factor in his misery. I assumed that, from this day on, I would be hated and treated unfairly. After fretting over the situation for a few hours, the silence was over. And of course had absolutely nothing to do with me.

I agree to not put myself through this again. I agree to make only one assumption: to not assume blame for anyone's misery or suffering. If I unwittingly cause you to be unhappy, you must speak up. I will assume responsibility and we will move along, together or apart. And if I have no doubt I caused some turmoil, no need to say it. I will apologize profusely and buy you presents.

In sickness and in health...

My little one is sick. I spent the day just sitting with her, trying to get her to understand the concept of "plenty of liquids and rest", which was a hopeless task. It's strange to try to teach someone the act of blowing one's nose, and to have to try to convince anyone that if they would just eat that piece of toast they would feel better.

I am not a good nurse. I have never had patience for sickness, or anything to do with the human body. I don't think much about food until I'm hungry, don't exercise beyond my daily running around, and even hate to have to stop what I'm doing to pee. (If I can't say it here, where else can I say it? This is about sharing, is it not?) When a friend or relative is feeling under the weather, I share some sympathy and that's about it. I just don't have that part of the brain that says maybe that person could use some soup, or a new magazine to read while stuck in bed, or a fresh box of tissues. I don't say this with pride; I wish I could do or say the right thing to be comforting. But it's hard to teach an old dog good bedside manners.

When the patient is my daughter, it's a different story. I feel heartbroken watching her try to breathe through her little nose and I wince every time she coughs. I run to the store and get her anything I can think of to make her better and wring my hands over whether or not to call the pediatrician. I spend the whole day watching her for any sign of improvements, clapping when she finally drinks a whole cup of anything, practically crying when she gives me a smile for the first time in hours. And I get angry. I want to find whoever gave her those germs and make them suffer. I demand to know exactly why an innocent little child has to feel like her world is ending because she can't just breathe like she did a few hours ago.

In a day or two, God willing, she will be completely fine and will have forgotten the whole thing. And I will go back to counting to three to get her up the stairs to her bath, bargaining with her to pick up her toys, and looking forward to naptimes. But today she was my everything again. Perhaps that's my answer.

Maybe I'm wrong but...

It all comes down to kindness. I have to say, that word makes me cringe. Its overuse by Oprah and bumperstickers has made it a do-gooder's cliche that just annoys me. And I'm quite aware of the irony of wanting to punch someone in the face when they say it.
The need to be right is so destructive. We spend so much of our younger days establishing identities and finding our voices, searching for validation by arguing our points of view until everyone agrees. And we just know that we are right. But when it becomes a mentality instead of growing pains it's just damaging.
Well, I'm old and I'm over it. I'm finally done with right. And I'm moving on to kindness. Today (and over the past couple of weeks), I've been on the wrong end of someone forcing their version of right on me, and I don't want to be pulled into their cut-and-dry world. I just want to laugh with them about it, and wish them the best. I admire courage of conviction, and, if you know me, you know I have my opinions and soapboxes. But it's getting ugly out there and, at the end of the day, if you weren't passing along some kindness instead of cramming your right in someone's psyche, you weren't helping it get prettier.
So I'll be happy to have a friendly debate over health care or whether Katy Perry sucks or not (she kind of does), but I'll let you have the win. And I'm going to hug you when we're done.

Blocked already...

I'm tired. Weary, actually. I fought too much today-fought with my daughter, my husband, and mostly with myself. Too many fights to go into specifics but let's just say I won some, and we'll call one particular battle a tie, but in the end I lost the day to pettiness and hurtful words aimed at the undeserved. Ugh. I guess when you spend the better part of your days arguing with a two-year-old, you're bound to act like one.

On days like this it's tough to come up with something for this project, so I'm going to defer to Emerson and let him fill in the writer's block for me:
"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

And I will end the day winning the last fight, the loser being the urge to go to bed with no blog post.

About that title...

I wish I had a better pen.
Those are the words I mutter when I try to write anything, and I mean anything. A letter, a grocery list, a note to my husband. Those who know me know that I am a little particular about my handwriting, which starts with the good pen. So whenever I felt the urge to start a journal or diary, I would get the best pen I could find and try to begin. And would stop. And start. And stop. And the pen was never good enough. Nor was my handwriting. The journal would get a few pages devoted to doodles, then be tossed into the stash of lovely blank books forgotten in the attic...or are they in a drawer?

I've always been a harsh critic, of myself and others. And scribbling whatever's in my brain meant opening up to some snarky self-mocking. But with the realities of daily life (an unfulfilling job, a typically exhausting two-year-old) piling on, I'm getting desperate for a little creative outlet to remind myself there is a 'me' here somewhere. And, even though I don't do resolutions, the new year seems like a good time to ease into a new attitude of more open-and-honest, less harsh-and-judgemental. To embrace my inadequacies instead of letting them dictate what I do. To laugh with me instead of at me. Maybe this blog thing will keep all of that in check.
The elusive perfect pen is a good excuse to not go there. But now there's this keyboard. So it's time to get over the self-consciousness and cynical judging of my blurbs, be they what they are, and let some stuff out of this cluttered head. I will always wish I had a better pen. I'll get over it. But I wonder if there is a better font in this template...