Reconciliation: Go Get Your Life!

A lot of my reconciliations start with my boys. I try to get along with others, and when I'm not safe to be around, I tend to crave my space.  My sons are the only people in my life that are not safe from my distance.  They know that no matter what, they always have me, and they will never be asked to leave. We see the good, bad, angry and scary.  There is no face to hide behind when there is no where to hide and we get to figure out how to live with that.  

My son was angry with me. My baby . . .  you know the 10-year-old that can’t cook, or care for himself was angry enough to tell me he hates me and wants to live with his Dad.  He even broke a window, hitting it with what he said was his little hand when he locked himself in the bathroom. No injuries, but my go to glass shop is closed Sundays.  (This is not the first broken window, and it won't be the last.)

His excuse is he has no control of what he does when he’s angry.  I constantly try to remind my boys that our reaction through rage is the only thing we can control while we’re angry. While I know I have my work cut out for me in teaching him to handle his rage, I also get to reconcile with him. And don’t worry, as of right now, he loves me.  We had a full-on clearing and we understand each other again.  He’s no longer angry. There were hugs and even catch up hugs. He no longer wants to change custody arrangements. 

There’s a balance to be struck.  He felt that I didn’t listen to his wants in my last romantic relationship.  Now that the relationship has ended, he feels safe in telling me how he feels.  My ex-boyfriend always stepped in when the boys were back talking me.  I really appreciated that. Kid3 knows I will always love him, even through his pain, and so he’s letting me have it.  At the same time, I get to explain that he has no control over my love life because I’m the grown up.  I also get to explain that I will always try to do what I think is best for us as a family.  Sometimes I will put them first.  Sometimes I will put my needs first while making sure they are safe because at the end of the day, my ability to care for them depends on my ability to care for my needs.  Single mom life can be complicated.  Envy me.  I dare you. 

Sometimes the reconciliation is about money.

Sometimes people have a relational rift based on a money loan gone bad.  Back when I still thought online dating was for me, I often found myself in the cross-hairs of a catfish looking for a free ride.  I had lots of men asking for money for plane tickets, cell phones, credit card use, and even an iTunes shopping spree.  I became really jaded because I would often have men ask me for money to let them hold after a few days of our first hello.  I mean, banks that make their money by lending it will refuse to lend these men money, and they expected me to trust them.  It was ballsy.  However, there are times when someone you know and love finds themselves in a situation where they need support.  I understand this. 

I was chewing over this whole situation while balancing my checkbook and singing along with Adele cover songs.  Singing about my broken heart somehow helps it feel better.  It wasn’t about closure as much as needing to work through my feelings.

As I was looking over my account, I was somehow over by about $72.  I couldn’t figure out how because I didn’t think to look beyond my total and the bank’s total.  Flipping through pages in my checkbook register, I found the entry I forgot about.  It was an afternoon of store hopping and shopping with my boys. I wrote it in, but then forgot about it, and my totals didn’t match because it still had not cleared my account.  I had fun that day with my boys.  We ate together and shopped at Ikea before heading to Target.  A couple of weeks later and I forgot about that purchase that hadn’t cleared my account. I didn’t right away realize why my records didn’t match my bank. There was a cost associated with that afternoon and I forgot about it, although Ikea didn’t.

Most of the time when I balance my checkbook, I may be off by a few cents here or there. Or maybe I have a receipt where I forgot to write in my tip when I'm rushing from the store and shoving the receipt into my wallet to write into my register later. A larger purchase rarely escapes my notice, but sometimes it does. 

In relationships, we often have an idea of what is owed in our minds.  We know what the other person did, or what we did and who owes what. But sometimes we're wrong.  I'm often wrong.  It takes distance and compassion to see the ways I short changed someone else.  I have to let go of my pain and discomfort before I can see what I did to someone else. 

How often does that happen in relationships?

My late aunt gave me the best marriage advice.  She let me know that I was giving as much as I was getting.  It made it easier to bite my tongue through arguments and try to be as compassionate through a fight as I can be. As angry as my ex was making me, I was doing an equal amount of damage. In the end, I just had far more patience.  There was an imbalance.  A lot of times we may think the other person owes us a $10, but in reality, we owe them $5. At the end of the day, is that argument you can barely remember worth the cost of your relationship?

What price are you paying?

I’ve written before that people are not disposable.  Relationships are important to who we are as humans.  If there is a gap that seems impossible to bridge, is the cost really worth it?  

Was it a lie? Were you a safe person to trust with the truth, or were they afraid their truth wasn’t safe to give you? Is a relationship worth the words that were said or kept? 

Was it pride? How does your pride feel when you compare it to what their friendship and camaraderie used to give you? Is pride going to keep you warm at night? 

Was it something they did? How long will you choose to live in the past? The past is where you find pity parties and no one shows up to those so you get no presents.  Move on, move forward. 

Was it something you did? I’ve learned that I’m a bigger critic of my actions than anyone else.  Most people don’t care about the same things I do.  Most people don’t even notice because they’re stuck in their own world. Maybe you are over valuing your mistakes and undervaluing what you really mean to someone else. 

Was it about protecting yourself? You can keep protecting yourself.  Sometimes complete silence is the best thing for healing after a relationship. Sometimes you underestimate what a badass you are.  You don’t trust your heart to heal and protect you. I like to confront my fears, but I’m totally okay with you enrolling a little back up, if you need to. Here I think of parents.  As a mom, I know there are times when I make bone head mistakes.  I try to do what's best for my kids, but I make mistakes.  If my kids one day decide they need space to protect themselves from me, I would get it.  I will always love them, and sometimes love looks like making space so they can grow without me.  Hopefully they'll still be able to take me in smaller doses. 

At the end of the day, is the cost you’re paying worth the sacrifice of the relationship that you used to have?

Are you afraid it won’t be the same? It won’t.  It’ll never be what it once was. It might be worse.  It might be worlds better.  But you won’t know until you try. 

It’s never too late to say, “sorry.  I was wrong.”  It’s never too late to say, “when you did this, I felt this.” Tomorrow may never come, so make that call today. 

Go on.  Go get your life. 

Street Harassment Begins with Domestic Violence

Sexual harassment is a problem born in the gray areas of abuse, and silenced through rape culture. It sounds heavy.  It is. 

I’ve written my #metoo post over a year ago.  Even then, thinking of my now, I know there was a comfort level I have yet to reach.  There’s a space that doesn’t feel safe enough to speak in and that is the space I’m writing about now.  As I type, I’m unsure if my hidden stories are shame, protecting someone that I know couldn’t help it, or some misguided fear of acceptance. As open as I am on this blog and as much as I share, there's so much that I will never share. 

It’s beyond street harassment and sexual aggression.  It’s about dominance so perverse, it takes the form of politeness and dismissing what we feel is wrong as something that is in our heads. 

How do you feel about your voice being heard?

I was often accused of lying to my ex-husband.  I did. A lot.  The truth was always something I was afraid to share.  It was my truth, but I knew in his eyes, I was wrong.  What I thought was wrong.  What I felt was wrong.  What I spent (my most common lie) was too much, and wrong.  It taught me that when my kids lie to me, I’ve made the truth unsafe.  I’ve made them feel so bad about the reality they are facing, that a lie feels better.  Denying how they experience this life means my version is more important to them. 

It started in childhood.  My Dad often told me children should be seen and not heard. I try my best to let my kids feel safe in telling me how they feel.  I'm very human and often too tired to remember this is what I want to do. I try to remember to give them agency over their own bodies.  They aren't forced to give hugs or do anything with their bodies they don't want to do (except showers - with teenage boys, this is a public service). I was taught to never call someone's house between 10 pm and 8 am.  I was taught to offer refreshments to company and never let the phone ring more than twice.  I was taught to not answer on the first ring (but who has time to wait for a second ring?). There was a lot I was taught I aught to do in order to be polite.  

Sometimes being polite means I don't speak up when I think I might be in the wrong. I try my best to change what I teach my boys because I don't want to raise victims.

There was a time when I was in my late teens.  I had a friend I sometimes kissed.  He brought over alcohol and I drank with him.  It was the first and only time I've ever had a Long Island Iced Tea. Things progressed and it took years to realize that if I was too drunk to stand on my own, I was too drunk to give consent, and yet he was sober enough to drive home.  I still have a hard time calling it what it was because we were both drinking, right? And yet, if I were to see that happening to someone else, right now, I would intervene.  That is not okay.  And for me, I'm unsure if I was in the wrong.  I know what I think but I'm uncertain of what I'm supposed to feel.  

What does abuse mean?

I've never been physically harmed by an intimate partner.  Not really.  At least I'm not sure. There was one night with a lover where he was rough.  It was painful but it was right on the line where I was unsure if it was a level of kink or if he was angry and just looking to dominate me.  I was confused and hours after he fell asleep, I was staring at the wall he had forced me against and tears streamed down my face.  Shame kept my tears silent.  Shame kept me in place next to him. 

I was in counseling a few years ago.  It was several sessions in when my therapist encouraged me to say, “I am an abused woman.”  Saying it within the safety of an office where I poured my heart out to a woman (that I paid quite a bit) was hard.  

I can see it now.  I'm still paralyzed from stopping it and very much aware that I excused the inexcusable because I had compassion and no boundaries.  I love him so I can see how he's hurt or angry or tired or stressed.  I saw that as reason enough to forgive him for saying the things he did . . . For purposely trying to hurt me, no matter how often I bit my tongue and tasted my own blood to stop myself from lashing out in anger. 

I didn't understand domestic violence until I was sobbing on my therapists couch.  I had to look up her labels and once the definitions landed, my world spun as I could relate to it all.  

Isolation

I was never discouraged from seeing family and friends.  Sort of.  I wasn't told I couldn't see them, but if I went out, it was clear that my partner was sad about it.  I was expected to check in every hour and never be late in returning a call or text.  If I had a family outing, I learned it was easier to let him skip it than to see him sit in a corner, sulking. 

Intimidation

For me, it was always a look.  Each man I dated had it.  It was a look that said he loathed me.  It was often a flash of anger that would disappear, but I saw it long enough to know I'd be dancing on egg shells.  I watched their anger look like things were being destroyed with bare hands.    I was often stonewalled in a conversation.  In my last relationship, I would often shut down, or walk away.  He was bothered by this but I couldn't explain that I was taught that was the safe thing to do in an argument by a few people before him.  

Threats

I was told they would leave. I was told they would harm themselves if I left.  I was told my family would know what kind of person I was.  I was even threatened that my Dad would see the sexy pictures we took together.  

Emotional Abuse

This one is the hardest to analyze for me.  I suppose the best description is the argument that ends in me apologizing for crying after they said something to intentionally hurt me.  I was sorry my tears made them feel guilty. No concession I made was good enough.  Nothing I said or did was good enough. I've been told I made someone feel like I intentionally wanted to make him feel dumb.  I've also been told I was the dumbest person they knew.  Some of the names I've been called would make you wonder why I stayed.  I still don't know why. It's a land of feeling no matter what I did for them, I was alone in a minefield.  And yet, I could easily see how selfish they were.  It's about them.  It's about what they think, believe and feel.

Minimizing

There were times I would state my needs.  I need your insults and threats to stop.  I need you to not be so mean.  I was often told I was being sensitive and over exaggerating.  I was told I was on the attack and I started the fight.  I didn't know we were fighting.  

Financial Abuse

It wasn't just about permission to spend and having someone carefully examine my grocery store receipts.  It wasn't just being told I can't have an individual bank account or how the bills were to be paid. It was being told my spending didn't justify financial support.  I didn't spend in the approved way, so any support would be as wasteful as burning money.  

Blaming

Their mood was always my fault. I made them lash out.  I made them jealous.  I was powerful enough to make them do things they regret, but I wasn't powerful enough to make the honeymoon periods last forever. 

Denying

Gaslighting was big in all of these situations.  I was often convinced I didn't know what I saw or thought.  I was wrong.  It's actually a gift that keeps on giving.  I still doubt and question myself at every possible turn.  Was he right? Am I exaggerating? Was that what others thought? In public, they were terrific people.  They were loved.  There was a community that saw them in the best possible light.  Behind closed doors I saw the liar.  I saw the men that hated and loved me in the same week.  I saw the critical side that had no respect for me.  I wondered why anyone would have respect for me.  I wondered why I should have respect for me. And they deny that every aspect of your relationship is controlled by the mercurial moods that swing without warning.  

Abuse Meets Harassment

It's not a huge leap, if you think about it. If these very real forms of domestic violence can be dismissed . . . If I can see it in varying degrees in every single one of the intimate relationships I've had throughout my life . . . How can we expect men to understand their behavior is not okay? I'm not sure I would know what a healthy relationship feels like.  But it's that same boundary that gets crossed. 

It was crossed when I was about 7 and a man pulled up for directions while stroking his erect penis.  

It was crossed when I was 9 and on my front porch.  The neighbor was sitting near me and put his hand on my ankle and slowly felt up my leg.  I panicked and smacked his hand back at my thigh.  

It was crossed in my middle school electric class when the boys in my class felt my butt was their property and touched it as often as they could.  I wasn't safe.  My teacher laughed it off as boys being boys.  

It was crossed two summers ago when I realized I was being followed by a couple of men and they were recording me as I was walking to the Third Street Promenade on a busy summer night in Santa Monica. 

It's crossed with every swipe that becomes a dick pic while online dating.  (Don't do it.  I assure you, we've seen bigger.)

It was crossed when a quiet walk gets interrupted with cat calls.  (Really, sticking your tongue out at me won't earn you any brownie points.) 

It was crossed when consensual sex with condoms included a covert removal of that condom. 

It was crossed today as I was walking back to the office and a stranger nearly stood in my way, hoping I would acknowledge him.  He didn't notice how uncomfortable he made me and I don't think it would have mattered to him.  His need to make himself known was more important than my need to walk away.  He wasn't trying to win my heart or take me out.  He was telling me with his body language that he was dominant and it was a socially acceptable threat. 

If you are in doubt, take yourself out of the situation.  How would you feel if someone you don't know was acting this way toward someone you love? Now don't just think of her as someone's wife, sister, daughter, mother or niece. She is someone.  She has her own dreams and desires.  She has moments that make her cry and moments that bring her joy.  She is valuable and capable of love.  She's not your entertainment.  

Rape Culture

Rape culture is about our society making it easier to be a rapist than a victim of rape. It means people are discouraged from reporting it. It's when the college career of a prominent sports player is more important than the life and well being of his victim. It's when a victim's story is dismissed or not accepted as the truth.  It's when American states allow a rapist to sue his victim for custody and visitation rights but a rape victim cannot sue her rapist for child support. It's when we have politicians foolish enough to not just say, but actually believe that women can't get pregnant from rape.  And we keep voting these people into the offices they hold. 

There's no such thing as consensual sex.  Either it's sex (implying consent is the only way it went forward) or it's rape.  Drinking doesn't mean you're asking for anything but to get drunk.  It's not about what clothes were worn or what was started.  No matter how active a person has been sexually, consent means complete control over what you decide to do with your own body at all times.  You don't get to decide for someone else.  Ever.  If you're married, you can still say no. 

If you begin to ask what this person was wearing or drinking or how late it was at night, you're saying anyone in that situation is acceptable to rape. Far too many men, women and children are raped.  It's not about a person asking to be brutalized by something they wore or drank or how they behaved. It's about dominance and control. It's violence.  

If we are aware of domestic violence in all of it's forms, we can label and isolate other harassing behaviors because we'll be less likely to dismiss them. 

What To Expect with IVF

This week I've had three separate conversations about IVF and I believe it's time to write about my surrogate pregnancies. What should a person expect with IVF? I have to jog my memory a bit. 

I was an egg donor in 1999.  It was a process to stop all hormones from working with birth control pills.  Then I started hormones to ripen several eggs at once.  When it all looks terrific by ultrasound, the eggs are taken out vaginally, with a catheter. I only did one cycle, and was able to produce 24 follicles and 12 eggs.  But that was decades ago. 

For both surrogacy and egg donation, there are profiles and matching with couples.  There are contracts and financials organized.  There are physical exams and meetings with therapists.  There's a whole lot more, but I'll save it for another post. 

The sad reality is how sharply the decline in fertility hits women after the age of 35.  I believe by the age of 40, a woman's fertility hits a 50% drop. That reasoning made me not as careful when I got pregnant around February of this year.  That, and not grasping that my late grandmother had her youngest at 50. Add to that my boyfriend's physique and the sex drive of a near 40 year old woman (So your fertility and sex drive swap, go with it.) and I felt like a randy teenager with no sense when we first started dating. We're careful now. Our miscarriage gave us a whole new appreciation of each other and the importance of caution and planning. Still, my advise to younger women is to get your career going, freeze your eggs, and have the life you choose when you're ready. 

After my egg donation, I had my 3 boys at intervals of 18 months apart, then 3 years. In 2008 I delivered a boy after one IVF cycle for my first surrogacy.  In 2010 I delivered a boy after 3 IVF cycles for my second surrogacy.  In 2012 I delivered twin girls after 3 cycles of IVF for my final surrogacy.  One of those involved a cancelled cycle because of the quality of the embryos that were thawed. It happens. I won't be a surrogate again.  I loved it by my last surrogacy included a month hospitalization, preemies, and so much stress.  Without a gall bladder and a genetic disposition to clot my blood like it's a super power (Factor Five Leiden), I can't handle the IVF drugs without risking a blood clot that could end up in my lungs before creating a heart attack or stroke.  

In Vitro Fertilization includes drugs that will make you feel a little crazy.  I had pills and shots.  Sometimes the pills were suppositories.  The goal is to perfectly balance your hormone levels to sustain a pregnancy 

The goal is to first make your body stop producing all of the hormones that would normally get you prepared to have a baby, then purge your body to start over with a period.  For this, I always started with birth control pills.  Only active pills were taken until we were ready to start a cycle. 

Taking meds meant setting a specific schedule and sticking to it.  You need the constant hormone flow or you could miscarry.  I would measure the medication in the needles, swapping out gauges of needles to draw the hormones in oil into the syringe, then swapping again for a gauge that I would use to put it in my body. 

Some shots went into the fatty subcutaneous skin.  This was done with diabetic sized needles while pinching the marshmallow fluff of my belly. Speaking of marshmallow fluff, too much makes getting pregnant difficult, so with a high BMI, you are less likely able to do IVF.  At least as a surrogate. 

The hormones in oil were injected in the upper, outer quadrant of my rear end.  I would alternate sides.  Rubbing in the oil after the shot helps disperse the medication, and prevent knots. It's been a few years and I still feel the scar tissue as particularly painful when I need shots there.  As for the knots, they eventually went away, but not by the time of delivery. Sometimes the medication would seep right back out of the injection site.  Sometimes I'd hit a bleeder and stain my clothes.  Sometimes it was neat and perfect.  Other times it was super painful like I hit a nerve. I heard of other women, lucky enough to have help with their shots but I did all of mine by myself, so yes, it's doable. 

Sometimes the medication is a pill you insert as a suppository.  This is not always a better feeling.  You insert the capsule like you would a tampon.  As the capsule dissolves, the powdered medication gets wet and can be irritating.  Then you get to scoop it all out for your next dose.  

When we started a cycle and I had already been on birth control pills, I started hormones to get the lining of my uterus thick and sticky, ready to accept the embryos that were placed inside of me with another catheter.  Because the hormonal changes are influenced artificially, it's important to stay on the hormones for the first trimester, until the placenta is developed enough to sustain the pregnancy on its own. My last IVF cycle resulted in a twin pregnancy in 2012.  Luckily, I kept great notes that I kept in a private Facebook group, and I can share with you when I start writing more about surrogacy.  For now, I'm mining those pictures.  Lucky you. 

With IVF, you can also expect lots of blood draws to check hormone levels, and ultrasounds to check out your uterus.  You'll communicate mainly with your nurses to get your medications on a schedule and teach you how to administer them.  You'll meet doctors that will make sure everything is perfectly ideal before risking a precious embryo.  Their job is to get you pregnant, and they don't take unnecessary risks with the embryos in their care.

Most of the time when I was having an embryo transfer, the doctors would try two to three at a time.  The goal is one healthy pregnancy.  I've learned some doctors like a full bladder because it tilts up the uterus and makes it easier to see.  But it can be painful to have to pee and be prodded during the ultrasound. Some doctors will also like their patients on Valium.  A relaxed uterus is more likely to be inviting to a new embryo. They'll follow you up until you are done with the first trimester, when you graduate to the regular OB doctor. 

What do you do with a sharps container full of needles when you have no more fertility office visits coming up? Hospitals and pharmacies might take them.  I noticed a box for medical waste in front of a police station once.  Just know you'll have left overs.  They would rather have an excess of medication, than ever have you run out when you need it. 

Since the hormones are supposed to trick your body into thinking it's pregnant, you'll feel pregnant, even if you aren't.  You'll feel hungry and bloated, and nauseous.  Your breasts will be tender.  You'll be sensitive and emotional.  

And there's rest.  That you'll need even if you don't want it. 

Right after the embryos are transferred, you'll want to stay in bed and rest for a few days.  Even after that, I found that IVF pregnancies were far more delicate than naturally conceived babies.  I was more likely to experience spotting (bleeding) while carrying groceries with IVF.  

At the end of it all, if you're lucky, you get a baby or two. 

Sometimes I Want to Tap Out.

I want to tap out.  I really do sometimes.  It's not just a nifty name for a clothing brand.  This is something you do in (fair) fighting to admit you are defeated.  I once saw a bumper sticker that said, "Jesus never tapped out."  This person totally got the point of the phrase and in the last few weeks, the phrase has repeated in my mind.  This is me, throwing in a towel because it's drenched in sweat, I'm not getting the job done, and my moments of rest are not enough.  I want to tap out.

I'm usually much like a toddler.  I will do my best to do it all and not stop until I'm a crying heap on the ground.  I will do it all because no one can convince me I can not.  And this is one of those moments when I want to tap out.  It's the best moment to write about it. 

I'm still in the process of moving.  Not physically.  Not careers. Blog spaces. I loved my WordPress blog but wanted to shift directions.  There were great moments of exponential growth in my old playground, but there's this murky area I'm in now.  I want it to be more than fun.  I'm not yet at a business level, and it was time to change.  I'm now learning Squarespace, and if you were once signed up for updates, you'll have to sign up again.  And I get to learn about mailing lists and even newsletters.  I've never done that before.  Be patient. For a while, there were no posts.  For a while, I didn't know what to do or how to do it.  I was lost and wanted to quit. I wanted to tap out.  But I'm here.  And if you found me, you are too and that is what perseverance and tenacity look like, right? 

A couple of weeks ago while on my lunch break, I got news of a family emergency.  I have a huge family and emergencies happen more often when there are more people for them to happen to.  It's an averages/math thing. My first concern was making sure I had arrangements in place for my kids.  I rely on my family for after school care while I work.  When something happens, we shift as a family to support where we can.  I left early to get my kids that day. 

On my lunch break the next day, I was looking at a book in the nearest bookstore.  It was the Honest Body project by Natalie McCain. I flipped through the pictures, encouraged and proud of the shape of my own body.  

I opened the book to a full spread that kept my attention. It was a beautiful picture of a woman.  She shared her story about her c-section scar, which is all she had left of her child.  I stood in that store and forgot where I was.  I cried for our children, realized how much I'm still mourning their loss, and wanted to tap out. 

A few days later I was called to pick my family member up from the hospital and I really wanted to tap out.  It wasn't that I had already gotten in to work late because of a Kid3 meltdown.  It wasn't the hour and a half commute to get to the hospital after work . . . after the 2 hour commute to get there because I had a late start.  It was the memories that started plaguing me from the moment I found out about the emergency a couple of days prior.  Too many similarities allowed me to wallow in the gaping ache of losing my children.

It was too familiar for me.  The situation reminded me of the day I found out I was pregnant with the twins I lost.  I had stayed up all night with back pain.  I finally called an ambulance in the morning after the boyfriend went to work.  I found out I was 3 weeks along.  I was transferred to another hospital because insurance will do that.  I ended up a few rooms and hallways down from the person having a medical emergency now. My mom went back and forth from my room to another room because in this situation, she needed to be present for both of us.  

I wanted to tap out then.  I didn't want to be pregnant and have a gall bladder full of stones.  I didn't want the physical pain I was in.  I didn't want to start over with a baby.  Several weeks later I would have that gall bladder removed, at great risk to the pregnancy.  After the surgery, my prenatal visit told me it was twins.  As they grew, so did my love for them. They had my love and hope.  I imagined a life with them and tried out several names to see how they fit in my mouth and I imagined them calling out to each other. They were miracle babies and I was created to mother them. Then one day their hearts stopped beating and I would need to have a D and C to remove them.  There is still so much pain and heartache when I see that hospital.  The last time I walked those halls for a Kid3 emergency, the smell was familiar and painful.  I felt sick and wanted to tap out. 

Right now there are stresses and situations in my life that are taking my attention.  Not all of these stories are mine to tell.  I find ways to contribute and control the heck out of what I can, so that I can let go of what I can't control.  I volunteer where I can. I donated blood yesterday, knowing there's always a shortage every day.  I'm staying in bed as much as I can today, because I need this moment to breathe, and take care of myself so that the week ahead is one I can focus on intentionally.  

I may want to tap out, but I remember that a setback that might want to hold me, can be a launch pad if I know how I intend to land.  I can choose to look for the positive.  I can remind myself that worrying as time crawls slowly is living in the past.  Worrying I don't have enough time is living in a future I can't predict.  Things can change. They always do.  And a pity party is fueled with worry.  Worry is a waste of my imagination, and no one shows up to pity parties, so I can't expect gifts when I try to have them.  The most important thing to remember is a tap out, should I choose one, is only a moment to shift my perspective and keep trying.  I'm not quitting.  That's never an option.

Shifting Perspectives through Word Choice

A lot of times all we need to see the world differently is a shift in how we see the world.  Sometimes that's about the words we speak and internalize. Sometimes it's a shift in what we are physically doing. When I look straight into a mirror I see my face.  I see my nose.  I was once told by a classmate that it was like peanut butter and spreads across my face. I can't remember the kid.  At all. This child was such an insignificant part of my childhood that I can't remember if it was a boy or girl.  But I remember those words. I see the tiny little blackheads harbored in the safety of my pores. I see the memory of every sadness I've lived because I know what my face looks like when my smile isn't one that is in my heart or shining through my eyes. I can see my reflection when it's not the mask I present to the world.

I have a couple of mirrors in my bathroom on opposite facing doors. I can adjust them to see the back of my head or body.  The other night I was watching myself without seeing my face.  I was looking at the reflected image of the side of my face. It was an odd feeling to watch myself, watching myself, knowing I wasn’t seeing a side of me I’m used to. It was what you might see if you were watching me and I didn’t notice you. I saw the harsh angled line of my jaw.  I noticed the way my hair fell softly to frame my face and I noticed that I’m beautiful when I’m smiling at myself. Imagine that!

It was a shifted perspective.

A few years ago I would often hear, “it is what it is.”  That phrase would make me so angry because I felt powerless in it.  It meant my husband of 15 years was leaving me for another woman and I had no choice in the matter. I had to shift my perspective and once I did, I felt like I was able to gain control through an altered word choice. “It is what we have made it and we can choose to accept it or change it.”  I tried to change it.  Then accepting it meant it was a choice I was making too.  After a year of standing and waiting for my marriage, I realized I was happier embracing life as a single woman.

I had a moment this week of being coached by a co-worker. I’m so blessed to have her in my life as a friend and mentor, and surprise, yet another life coach in my life.  She’s pretty amazing.  I was having a moment of feeling out of control and not knowing how to react or respond.  It was a deer in the headlights moment for me and I was so out of my depth.  I was lost and the anxiety had me.  She could see and sense it because my emotions were so palpable.  She reminded me to be still and not puff up or shrink back. She gave me a word: Allow.

So much of life is given as moments we are told to accept. You accept what has happened and move on, but what if you don't have to? What happens when you allow it to happen? What happens when you embrace your ability to empower the situation with your ability to offer grace through allowance.  We allow things to happen and they are no longer things which have been forced . . . Things we must accept. They become things we are in control of as we offer permission.

I think of my tiara.  I blogged about it a while ago.  It’s not the idea of being a princess.  I bought it last summer to wear when I pay my bills.  It helps me feel more like the Queen that takes care of my Empire.  I am no longer being victimized by my choice to shop for junk I really don’t need at a discount.  It’s a moment to reinforce the spending I did by deciding that I made a choice, and I continue to make that choice in making payments and balancing my checkbook.  I have choice and control over my finances in a way I never have before.  Even before I met my ex, I was at the mercy of my debtors.  I wanted a night of fun, so I used a credit card to pay for that night over the next year with the interest involved. In my marriage I was often told what I could and couldn’t do, and any rebellion on my part was rebellion.  I was never an equal.  But with my tiara, and my checkbook, I feel control and empowerment.  It’s about a shifted perspective and the choice to be empowered by words.  "I am making a payment" is so different than feeling "I have to make a payment."

What do you get to do?

My job is 20 miles from home and the commute is at least an hour to and from. I get to go to work and I get to sit in traffic. Working for a company that treats you like they want to keep you is easy when you know what it's like to not be able to work, or what it feels like to work where you feel disposable. Traffic is a real treat when I get to sit alone and sing to myself to start and end my day. I get to go to work and drive through traffic!

I get to pay my bills because not everyone can.

I get to make dinner for my family because sometimes I also get to be alone.

I get to do more than was asked of me, knowing that being asked at all is an honor.

Today my shift wasn't just in word choice. I had a rough start to my day with a moment when an email made me feel defensive and insulted.  It cast a shadow over my morning and by the afternoon I had felt the weight of it physically.  I was sitting in my seat, doing my job, working on remembering to snack less, and eat an actual meal.  It was slouching and leaning forward with the weight of my head on my hand in a position that said I was uncomfortable in my skin. And then there was music.

It wasn't the lyrics.  I don't understand most of them. It was in the way I was able to step outside of the space I was in, and just feel.  The sound of Madilyn Bailey's voice hit me in a way that I started tearing up and needed to share it.  From that song, I was able to shift into the sound and feel of the other songs on my playlist.  By the end of the day, I was dancing in my seat, working and doing overtime but entirely pleased about it.  I jumped into traffic this way and got home feeling happy still.  It was a shift that came with song, and movement.

You get to shift.  And when life settles uncomfortably, shift again.  Shift several times.  It's like forgiveness.  It's for you, not the person you're forgiving.  You keep giving it, you keep shifting it, until you feel better and can move forward.  It can be a gift you give yourself.  Repeatedly.

https://open.spotify.com/track/4vxA3aI7l73i0Hi819OQhH

Crazy Stalker Ex Girlfriend and Collections

I'm doing my job by being the crazy stalker ex girlfriend that really doesn't work anywhere else. I'm a Billing Specialist.  It's a hybrid position that was created as an idea.  I was put in place and it has kind of evolved into what it is.  It's client facing finance.  It's customer service.  Whatever it is, for this company it is me and I love doing all of the things a crazy stalker ex girlfriend would do.

Reviewing the Contracts

We look over contracts and want to make sure what they have paid covers the cost of what we offered.  We want to see if there's wiggle room to maybe reduce services and lower costs.  We want to see if it's worth the time and effort to really go after someone for the debt.

You promised forever and you are going back on your word by taking the love that was promised.  I usually take this moment and try to remember the real moments of love and connection.  I want to remind myself that it was really special at one point, so I don't get bitter.  I like to push them away but let them leave. I don't want to be the one to end it because I want to know that I did all I could until the very end.   I've learned that about myself.  I can't be another person to reject them because in the end I still care and love them, but maybe it's not enough. Maybe I hold too tightly to the good and purposely ignore the bad.  Most of the time the bad really is terrible.

Stalking

I get to call customers repeatedly.  I get to leave messages and voice mails.  I send emails. I've faxed and mailed invoices.  Every day, until we're paid, I get to reach out and make myself known.

Sometimes it's about an outdated contact.  In those cases I do a Google Search or check LinkedIn.  I've texted someone from my personal cell phone. I've even checked someone's personal Facebook profile to make sure they're still around all in the name of getting a payment.

We all want to know, right? Where are they? Who are they with? Are they just as heartbroken as we are?

Begging

I'm not asking anyone for love or validation, but I get to beg them to pay us.  I ask repeatedly for what was agreed on.  You signed a contract. We gave you what we promised and now you owe us.

I suppose this could also be about getting closure but I've learned you can't get that from an ex.

Record Keeping

In collections, you document each interaction.  You want to know when you called and what efforts were made.  That way, when you enact your collections leverage, you are justified.

Toward the end, the good and the bad are measured and weighed.  We want to know when the scales tip and it's no longer worth the effort. We want to know what was good and what was accepted because of the good and is the good still there? Is it even enough?

Your Lesson Here

The lesson is this stuff works in collections, but not love relationships. I'm at a point in my latest relationship where we've pulled so far apart that I can't imagine being able to fix it.  I'm seeing that I need to acknowledge and cherish the good but let it go and move on. I'm back in self care mode, and it looks like the perfect time to be the crazy stalker ex girlfriend, but I'm trying to keep that focused and restricted to work. I'm trying to not keep dibs but I want to know where he'll go from here.  In quiet moments throughout the day since we last parted, I keep telling myself not to do all that I want to because that will drag out the pain instead of healing it.  I keep picking up my phone to read our last texts and start texting something new, only to put it down and remind myself that I will be okay when I decide to let go and move on.

I will hold each cherished memory and balance it with the bad times.  I'll take the masterpiece of who he is off of my pedestal and strip away layers I added to see the truth of who he was and areas I need to work on that I could only see in the hindsight of my relationship with him.  And I'll be alone for that healing and recovery because that's also part of honoring who we were and the memory of the babies we shared and lost.  I don't have to stop loving him yet.  He doesn't have to be here to experience that either.  I can release him moment to moment and day to day.

I suppose that lesson for you is more a lesson for me. Tonight there will be whiskey and a cigar on my porch. I'll read old texts and have a good cry. Maybe even watch some of the shows we watched together. And tomorrow will be a new opportunity to remember to love myself in spite of what I might be feeling. 

Who Are You?

She waits alone on the bluffs, facing the winds that would fight her stand.  Strands of hair whipping across cheeks lashed by the cold bluster of sea kissed air in haphazard frenzies and flurries dance chaotically around her still body.  She looks defiant and bold but courage has left her.  She trembles within where the ebb and flow of love and worry have battered her. The sun slowly warms her skin in spite of the constantly barraging wind.  The attack becomes a caress and the air breathes a whisper, "who are you?" She breathes deeply, knowing she's been given the breath of life. As she exhales, her faith is the renewed purpose begging to answer, "what's my contribution?"

She thought of her favorite literature and the accident of its survival. Through the burning of heritage by conquerors and the libraries that lost battles with floods and fire, its survival has been a lucky mistake of history.  There's no reason to its survival from oral tradition to written prose.  She is the guardian of her favorite tome, memorizing stanzas and caressing phrases on gentle lips that try to hold the beauty of each image with gentle breath in honor of the miracle of its persistence. Its survival is an accident and she will honor each word.

She feels the strain of the day as a pulse that throbs at her temple.  She feels the pressure rise a beat under her skin.  Humming and throbbing a frenetic rhythm of life.  She knows who she is.  She carries the blood of lifetimes before her.  Kings and slaves of distant lands and time came before her.  Women that carried babies and lead their households give her generational strength.  The back breaking labor of men in fields and railroads, through racism and scarcity support her and she feels her spine straightening. Her existence was no accident. Her life on this earth is woven with purpose. It runs through her veins. 

With a deep inhalation, she swelled with the fire bestowed by the breath of life and exhaled a fortified surge of power, knowing she was ready to offer the world her contribution.  She was ready to walk in love.  She was ready to be brave in spite of fear.  She was ready to be courageous, no matter how much the pain of her loss manifested as an empty ache in her belly. She would continue to lead with her heart, offering love because she knew it would only fester into pain if she held it quietly within. She was ready to lead.  She was ready to show others the power of their identity.

Relationships Aren't Disposable

Several months ago a friend posted something to the effect of, "life takes many turns." It was a phrase I held onto when one of my online relationships fizzled.  I thought it was real until I realized I was being catfished.  Again.  My catfish history has lead to my 9 day series on Anatomy of a Catfish, and here is the first post in said series. It's not all roses but it's not just piss, either. I was again on Facebook today when another friend posted about unfriending and blocking people.  We take that for granted, don't we? With the superficial aspect of online friendships, we have the full ability to cut someone off and we can choose to not acknowledge their existence.  It's easy.  It's a button and a confirmation click and you don't have to see them and you can stop them from seeing you.  When my ex first left me and I felt abandoned and attacked by everyone that knew us both, I did lots of blocking.  I've since unblocked people.  Less freakouts on my part mean I'm more passive about the secret fan club I may or may not have.  Now there's a handful of blocked people and they're only men that didn't take my direct rejection as hint enough to stop asking me out.  (Please don't try to woo a woman by telling her she doesn't know what she wants when she tells you it's not you.)

I even fully ghosted a man once.  Months later he called me from a different number to ask why and it's not something I choose to do as easily.  It's human nature to need acknowledgement.  I knew a man that was big on ignoring people.  Maybe I still know him.  I don't know if you ever know anyone right now.  I'm a little jaded. I can admit it though. We were at a gas station once and another man walked up to his window to ask for money.  The person I knew ignored him.  The acknowledgement probably hurt more than the money that wasn't given.  It's important to humans to be seen.  It's who we are. There are selfies for that reason. Personally, I have a whole blog with stats and everything.

Where is the social aspect of social media? Don't get me wrong.  I love Facebook.  I give my Facebook feed more of my free time than I give my blog. I get to spy on friends and watch their lives without taking time out of my life to actually see them in person.  I can share inspiring videos and things that make me smile.  I can share snippets of my Mommy Moments that look like snark and dark humor.  I can wish someone a happy birthday and even though that may be my only interaction with them or their page until next year, I can make you believe that phrase I typed means I hold you close to me.  Because in that moment you do. Don't get me wrong, I love all of my friends and really do stalk them all day and night.  At the same time, I can't tell you the last time I drove to a home or restaurant or cafe for a moment to really engage with someone outside of my kids.  It's totally me.  As it is, I rarely feel like there are enough hours in the day to do the things that I want to do the most.

Life would be different without social media.  I would probably make a greater effort. I mean, all of the meaning we feel in life is a reflection of the relationships in our lives.  As much as I'm big on my loner moments, I'm still very affected by my relationships and the frustration I feel with the amount and quality of interactions I rarely make time for.  When I was younger I would call my grandmother or write her letters.  When she passed, I found that she kept all of them.

Today I can share a picture and tag my mom and she doesn't need me to make the same efforts.  My mom takes Facebook photos and prints them out.  At the same time, social selling has become so easy because of these relationships.  People I know and have trusted are a few finger strokes away.  There's a whole network of people I have met or know through a network or two that share certain visionary ideals and their pictures and thoughts give me a daily boost of hope.  My point is we all need to dig deeper for a more meaningful relational experience with our friends. With the fast pace of life as a mom, I understand how busy we can all get.

Yes, I just admitted I'm not as involved in relationships as I really want to be. There are friends I've known since I was a little girl and friends from high school that I would love to spend some time with.  There's a 3 month old I am dying to hold and sing to, but I haven't made the effort.  I see his adorable pictures and pick apart the ways he looks just like his Dad did when we were all young and loving our terrible choices for after school entertainment.

What about applying the superficiality of online relationships to real life? In school we were forced to see the same people over and over again.  If you started a relationship that ended, you might get stuck with that same person sitting behind you. Talking about the new person in their life.  Making you miss them and showing you all of the reasons why you really shouldn't. You grow up and sometimes there's a spark at work and you consider that career move a little faster than you might have.  Or, like me, you go through a nasty separation with kids and have to do a custody swap.  We were lucky enough to have a judge wise enough to make most of those swaps happen from the kid's schools.  If I'm lucky, I don't have to see him.  But at the same time, we still have to see each other at functions for the kids and on custody swaps during vacation times.  It's frustrating because at one point we were close.

That's the point of relationships, right? At one point you move from strangers with nothing in common to people that share interests.  You become people that share a history.  Post relationship we might be able to be friends instead of picking fights.  That rarely happens for me.  A relationship ends and either they still love me or hate me.  There's no in between that fades into friendship. But when we blocked each other there was no fuel to fight with. It was convenient.

The thing with relationships it that they don't just end.  Months and years later, you might hear a song or smell something that brings you right back to where you were when you remember a special memory.  The people we love or have loved will leave indelible marks on our hearts and it's okay to honor that.  I think it's okay to tell someone what they meant or mean to you, even if there is nothing reciprocated because there is too much hurt to allow something like that to land.  The beauty of love is it can be unconditional.  You can give it without expecting anything in return.  You can offer it, knowing that it may always be unrequited. Giving love without it being returned can be painful.  It helps to remind yourself that your expectation meant you weren't giving it unconditionally.  That expectation was the cost of the love you offered.

Relationships aren't meant to be convenient.  They aren't meant to be one sided either.  My late aunt once gave me the best marriage advice.  You give as much as you get.  That's part of the deal.  The relationships we have take effort and communication.  They need time and intentional connection.  With all that we have and all that it takes, and our individual needs to be seen, acknowledged and loved, is it really that important to cut someone out of your life?

Self Limitation: What is Stopping You is Often Just You

A Facebook friend posted a query: What if your glass ceiling is actually a mirror?

My favorite answers were:

1. Well then you see your limiting beliefs.

2. Then I guess you’d look up and see the only thing truly holding you back.

3. Discovering what you have not been willing to see . . . jump through the ceiling to go to the next floor of your possibilities and become unstoppable.

Yes, I know some intensely visionary beings of light and they live in possibilities that not everyone can imagine. I’m very grateful for the network of ideals that flow through my Facebook feed.

How often do we stop short of taking a risk because we can imagine the outcome? Usually that outcome isn’t in our favor.  I must acknowledge what I’m doing and stop it. My kids do it and I’m trying to teach them not to, but what I have done consistently is a more solid lesson than the possibilities of what we can create when I’m choosing to be intentional.  Being intentional is a choice that needs to be chosen moment to moment when habits are easier to fall into.

An example is when we go shopping and my kids already expect what I will say yes to and what is usually a no.  Anything food related that isn’t too full of sugar or caffeine is usually a yes.  Toys are usually a no, unless it’s one that is reasonably priced.  The rest depends on my budget and how much I want to put up with it.  It’s a mom thing.  We don’t always want the loud toy that requires batteries.  We sometimes prefer quiet time. My consistency means my kids are really hesitant to dream big and ask for what isn’t usually approved.  It’s not something I want to continue teaching them.  I want them to learn to ask for the bigger things.  You don’t know what the possibilities are until you ask and are answered.  Everything in life is negotiable.  You just have to know what to ask.

In the shopping example, my kids limit themselves by thinking about my expected response. They stop themselves before giving me the opportunity to answer and in life, it’s a practice many of us have perfected.  We limit ourselves, not knowing we are often our only limit.

Sheryl Sandberg wrote Lean In and in her examples, there were many times she encourages women to Lean In.  This means not accepting what has been and pushing for the new thing.  I highly suggest it.  Her prose is easily engaging and her examples relatable.  More than that, her career altering perspective shift is just what is needed for women in the workplace. Sandberg writes about the many times in a career that a woman is likely to not lean in.  Be it starting a career, or jumping into a conversation, they often limit themselves.  Don’t get me wrong.  The glass ceiling and financial disparity in the work place are real and influenced by gender.  That’s a norm all of us get to break together.  At the same time, she points out where women are responsible and offers the authority and power to regain control of how you craft your career with her honest advice.

It’s a practice for me to ask, “what story am I telling myself?”

My big goal for the end of the year is still to take my kids to Canada.  It’s Kid1’s dream and my goal.  I do not yet have the finances, and that is the first story I tell myself. It’s hard to not think of my present financial situation as the only one there is.  It’s hard to not convince myself that the only way to make the money happen is to do what I’ve always done, and that’s going to work and making money.  Earlier this summer I started selling whitening toothpaste.  It’s work, but it’s also sitting on my phone and playing on Facebook.  (You can try it too.  It’s less risky than slanging rocks on a street corner.) Last week I was in a minor car accident with a minor payout to go with it.  Money comes to you in different ways all the time.  Why do I usually believe I won’t have enough if I don’t have a job? Because I’m living in the story I tell myself, and not the possibilities that fall in my lap because they surprise me and I can’t count on their schedule, even if I can count on those opportunities arriving (because they always do). Always doing things one way doesn’t mean I have to keep doing so.  I get to try new tricks.  I get to let the possibilities play themselves out without falling to the limits of a past that may never repeat itself.

The next story I tell myself is about access.  First on my list is to get passports.  I get to fill out forms, wait in an office and pay for them. Once I do, I also have to get permission from their Dad.  There’s also transportation and lodging. The area that limits me the most is having to ask their Dad for permission.  This was something that Kid3 also believes is impossible.  The kids aren’t convinced their Dad would let them go.  I’m not convinced either, but living in possibilities means when the time comes, I get to ask him. I will not just assume I know the answer because in reality I’m only in my own head and not always sure of what my own thoughts are.

The last story I’ll go over for now is the story that it’s not my time.  If I have until the end of the year, I can push my goals, right? I can wait for the right job.  I can wait for the right body shape to wear that outfit.  I can wait until my kids are older.  But then I’m giving the world excuses that I need to put off living my life.  What is so important that I would put it before my desire to live the life I choose to live? Go get your life! No one else gets to live it but you. Putting your life on hold doesn’t serve anyone.  Where’s your urgency?

It’s like lying.  What is so important about someone else’s perception that you can’t stand in the integrity of your word? What is so important about someone else’s feelings that you would choose to invalidate who you are by lying? If you can’t tell the truth as you see it, can you see why you would devalue yourself so much as to make someone else’s perception of you more important than how you see yourself?

So what is your story?

What do you tell yourself and convince yourself of, based on a past that has nothing to do with the future you get to create? What limits do you put on yourself?  What limits do you allow others to put on you? Why do you put these limits on yourself and do you know you really don’t have to?

Go get your life.  We get two. The second starts the moment you decide you only get one, and you won’t get out of it alive.  That’s not how the game is played.  We all die, but there’s no reason to live a dead existence.

People Are Not Labels

I love watching a man run, and yes, that is living poetry, but we are not boiled down to a word or phrase.  I might think he's sexy or even delicious, but he's probably smart and has complex feelings too. Labels are for jars of canned fruit.  Labels are for pantry items and filing cabinets.  Labels are not for people. I read an article (maybe it was a blog post) about a mom talking to her kids after her daughter (in a bit of I-want-it-so-I’m-having-a-tantrum-until-I-get-it-and-hurt-you kinda way) told her mother that she was fat.  Her mom informed her daughter that we all have body fat, and we are not defined or identified by something we may have.

That was profound.

We are not identified by a part when we are whole.  Honestly, that’s a literary trope and I am not a synecdoche.  We are not literary phrases.  It was a terrific argument. I wish I had saved that link.

I am not fat but I love my relationship with my marshmallow fluff.  I have a family member with diabetes, but he's not only diabetic.  Labels like that are for medical professionals to understand how to treat you.  That doesn't mean you are identified by a term.

My sons are not autistic, though they are on the spectrum.

This is all about relearning language because the words we use to identify us, have a strong influence on our identity.

I know I've said this before somewhere, but it's worth repeating: Labels for disabilities are like labels used in gender studies.  It's a way to classify a person so other people that can't empathize can understand them.  Labels serve to identify other people by differences, excusing us from actively looking for similarities. My sons will live in their world the exact same way if they didn't have a label.  Labels are not for them, but for the people that don't understand them. We are more than a body or a mind. If I didn't look for ways to be different from others, I would look for ways that we are the same.  This is where prejudice starts.  

When children are looking for their first friendships, they look for things in common.  When they are older and start looking for alliances in their friendships, they look for differences.  This pattern doesn't stop unless you are intentional with stopping it.

We are not the sum of our debt or how extravagantly we live.  You are so much more than words used to define you when usually you’re still working out who you are for yourself.  Understanding who I am in this world and in my skin is a life long exploration. There is so much more that makes up who we are and affects how we show up in the world.

The funny thing about defining ourselves in life is that those definitions are meaningless in death.  We pour so much into a career or home.  We want the fancy cars and the designer clothes. No one will care about what you drove or how many bills were piling up.  They won’t care about what you wore or how you wore your hair.  They’ll care about the connection they had to you and how that void will be filled, or if it even needs to be. They’ll worry about how their life will go forward without being able to rely on you.  They’ll be upset that they took for granted the fact of your existence.

At the most connected point of your interaction, that is the part of you that matters in the world.  It's not when we're on our phones, swiping or scrolling past a post that is a superficial substitution for a relationship. It's when we are sharing who we are through stories of what we have been through.  It's about holding a hand or embracing someone in a hug that is meant to hold someone together.  It's in sharing the vision of your future and the vivid dreams of your legacy.

You are not the designer clothes you wear.

You can work hard to keep it high, but you are not your FICO score.

You are not a fancy job or the transportation that gets you there.

You are not the depression that visits and holds you down.

You are not the pain of your illness.

You are not the person you are dating, nor are you defined by the connection you have.

You are an amazing and unique person and self love is essential to happiness, but even then, you are who you decide to see yourself as.

You see it, don't you? It's the many ways you are a unique and amazing person with exceptional gifts that only you can offer the world.

My point is there is so much to who we are and the ability to laugh and grow that is within us flourishes the most when we connect with others.  Humanity thrives on relational connections. No individual word or the stigma it carries can define who you are.

How to Spot a Parent

I was leaving the Barnes and Noble by my job a few weeks ago and I spotted a Dad.  He didn’t have a diaper bag or a t-shirt that identified anything other than the job he was working.  There wasn’t a stroller around him or a child he was looking after. There wasn’t a mom around, looking to him for support and he didn’t have a baby strapped to his chest in a carrier or sling. I could see his fatherhood in his stance because he wasn’t standing still. Parents with infants learn a hip swaying motion that is most soothing to little ones.  I would say it’s instinctive but it’s really a learned ability. Babies like the rocking and swaying.  They like the smooth flow in a side to side direction. It soothes them and soothing a crying infant can soothe a tired and stressed parent.

If you look around, you might see parents without kids doing the hip sway without kids around.  I do it when stressed or tired and it soothes me.  I don’t do it on purpose.  It’s become part of who I am.  I felt such a strong connection to this man in the simple body language learned through many sleepless nights that I felt the pull of his fatherhood in a way that brought me comfort.  I asked if he was a Dad and he was surprised when I shared my observation, but it was a connection that pulled me out of my thoughts and gave him something to chuckle over, breaking up the monotony of his day. He recognized the sway once I pointed it out.

I think of this so often lately.  Who we become as parents is a transformed person.  My reality before kids will never be a reality for me again.  It's impossible to go through so much and become that selfish child I was.  I will never be able to cook a meal for myself and not worry that my kids might not eat if I'm not the one to feed them.  It's impossible to think only of myself without wondering how my actions will affect my kids.  In dating, I had to learn that some choices need to be made for my sake, as my children need to learn to adapt.  They need to learn that I matter and I need to show them this by proving that I am capable of loving myself too by not sacrificing everything I am for who I want them to become.

I've been pregnant.  I've given birth.  I've lost children.  I've stayed up all night with sick children, catching projectile vomit in my bare hands.  I've kissed feverish foreheads and smelled the sickened breath on parched lips. I've sat in a cool bath, trying to break a fever with a limp child.  I've woken throughout the night to comfort and care for my child, only for him to wake and feel well enough to not allow me to take a nap, even if he was keeping me up all night.

In spotting a parent, it's the subtle things.  It's not flinching in a store when you hear a crying baby.  Or seeing a mom grab her breasts, as this sound so often made my breasts tingle and my milk would "let down." It's the sway that becomes it's own source of comfort even when there are no babies around.  It's over explaining because you're used to the many questions that come from the curiosity of a child.  It's being able to be aware of details without giving your full attention because you have the peripheral vision of parenthood that often feels like eyes in the back of your head.

It's being who our children make us and knowing we'll never be done, so long as we live, because we never stop being parents, even when our kids are no longer in our arms, or even our homes.

The Extreme Value of In-Laws

I had a set of in-laws when I married.  Some made me feel loved.  Others made me feel tolerated.  I don't plan to focus on them.  The idea of this post is more about the family of the men I'm into.

Learning How to Cook New Foods

When I was younger, my boyfriend's moms always invited me into their kitchens.  This is how I learned to make tamales. There's something about a girl willing to cook for a son that makes a mom want to give you affection.  The first instinctive act as a mom is to feed her child, and here is someone else willing to do so.  It was a time for me to learn, but a time for them to learn about me.  Do I mind getting my hands dirty? Will I clean up after myself? Will I jump at his every whim and how else will I undo all that she taught him.  Will I treat him poorly?

Someone That Understands and Still Loves Him

My favorite in-law bonus was the built in fan club.  I have a gift for finding men that are more selfish than selfless.  They tend to be stubborn and not easily coached into a shifted perspective. They tend to be dominant and aggressive. Of all the men I dated, not one escaped a moment of me thinking, "seriously? Is this what I want in my life?" At these times, I always knew that their family would get it. No one else would see selfishness or poor hygiene and still love the man I'm into like I would.  Except maybe his mom.

Deeper Understanding of His Past

No one can bring out both the best and the worst in a boyfriend like his family.  Typically, he's going to behave in a way that usually makes me feel like he wants to keep me.  When his family is around, he's likely to be at his friendliest and happiest and in the very next phrase uttered from a sibling, turn into an angry person you've never seen.

There's a gift to being the new person in the history of a family dynamic.  I can step in without the past clouding my judgement of the present.  I can see the most benign comments as innocent where my boyfriend would see something said by a sibling or parent as instigating and malicious.  I don't have history to mar the future like a sibling that has seen you with pimples would.

You Get to Glimpse into the Future

There's also a bit of fortune telling involved.  You see their kid pictures, but you get a real life experience of nieces and nephews.  You see how their siblings raise their kids and you can see echoes of what your boyfriend was raised like.  Parents learn from their parents, or work really hard to unlearn what their parents taught and it's so clear when you watch your significant other with their siblings, nieces and nephews.

Will he have a receding hairline? Will he repeat the same jokes? How does he act around his family? Does he treat his mom well? Is he respectful to his Dad? How does he describe his family to you? Is it an accurate description or does he see things entirely differently from the rest of the world and is this a good thing?

Where Do Loyalties Lie?

How honest are they? Will they tell you when you're too good for the sibling they know, or cover every sin and fault he is capable of.

Looking in the mirror, I can't deny the ways in which I favor my Dad and my sisters.  I never felt my emotional needs were met, and I'm almost paralyzed as a parent, trying to meet that need for my children.  So much of who we are is reflected in the relationships we have, and the family we're given is so much more telling than the families we choose.

Get Help Through Depression

I do collections.  What I’m doing for the company I work at is pretty much collecting payment for what most of the world sees as a luxury.  For the most part, I’m not harassing people that are trying to decide if paying me is going to cost them groceries for the next week.  But there was a call yesterday and it reminded me that I haven’t asked myself, “what’s my contribution?” in a while. I’m here to encourage you today.  My inspired moment yesterday looked like a poorly planned Facebook Live. I had the sun glaring behind me and forgot to turn off my Waze app that was taking me home.  There were lots of giggles but this is my follow up. Fewer giggles.  Same insane amounts of love for people I may never see.

I get it. Life can be overwhelming and difficult.  Bills pile up and it can be overwhelming.  Relationships can feel one sided or draining. Or they can end before you want them to. Things we hope for or expect can fail us and fall through.  It’s easy to get caught up in what we hoped for not being our reality and it can wear us down.  I can tell you to shift your perspective, but it’s not an easy thing to do and sometimes you have to shift it every couple of minutes.

Who are you?

I want to remind you that you are not your debt. You are not your job.  You are not your relationship.  When you are gone, no one will remember the details of what you did for a living, or how extravagantly you lived.  They’ll remember who you are.  So, who are you?

I’m a brave, courageous, heart-led leader.

I’m a mom who will do whatever it takes for my kids.

I am a woman capable of giving love and one day I will comfortably say I can receive it too. (Battle scars.)

My identity is not tied up in my circumstances.

I am not the jobs that come and go.

I am no longer an abandoned wife.  I’m here for me and I will not leave my side.

When we make regrettable choices in life, it’s so easy to take that moment and wear it as a punishing cloak of identity.  This is a choice you don’t have to make.

I loved being a student, so I’m asking you to take a moment to think of finishing school.  Once you graduate and are no longer a student that education is still able to serve you in knowledge as well as the habits that got you through it.  But you are no longer a student.

It’s like looking at that miniskirt I used to wear in high school.  I have the same legs, but my belly has held enough life to stretch it in ways that leave designers stumped (there really should be a market for c-section belly overhangs that just need a comfy belly bra).  It might look like it could fit, but it really doesn’t and I see it every time I try.  While it’s in my hands and not on my body, I’m imagining what could be, unable to release what doesn’t fit for the yoga pants that do.  Let it go.

You are not alone.

I understand depression.  I understand the inability to see beyond an immediate circumstance that has made me feel worthless.

My first real suicide attempt was when I was 14.  I had to have my stomach pumped and stayed in the hospital for about a week with most of that time in Intensive Care.  This was followed up in therapy. There were several other serious attempts, but I couldn’t give you a number.  I got help though.  I’ve had a therapist through the first event, the baby blues in 2001 and when my husband left me in 2015. I wasn’t counting the lows because it was a series of days that were too dark to see through. The most recent was probably around 2014.  My depression was intense but I got help in the form of a prescription that time.  The point is, I couldn’t handle things on my own and I got help.  Repeatedly.

Get help.

All I can say is I’m here today because I searched for help and didn’t stop searching until I felt I was safe.

I was never the type to tell people I wanted to kill myself.  Not in anger or as a threat. My personality is much too implosive for that.

I’m very self-aware and have always been great at torturing myself with that pain in silence.  But it has also forced me to advocate for myself in getting help.

When I started visualizing self-harm, I asked for help.

When I tried to imagine what death would do to my body, I asked for help.

When I sat alone in the dark, unable to get out of bed, I asked for help.

When insomnia was controlling my life, I asked for help.

When I couldn’t eat anything, or couldn’t’ stop myself from eating everything, I asked for help.

When I started cancelling plans with friends because I didn’t plan to be around, I asked for help.

When I held pills or something sharp in my hand, and couldn’t see myself getting past the next hour, I asked for help.

When my smile was painfully fake but no one could tell, I asked for help.

When I see that same smile on someone else’s face, I now offer help.

You will get through the next minute, hour, day.

You will learn to help yourself through hard days.

I sing out loud.  I dance or walk (endorphins are amazing). I get lots of sunshine for Vitamin D. I write, and when I feel the people I reach out to are making things worse, I step back and know that self-care is not selfish. And I catch a sunset.  Something about nature reminds me that I am tiny and as small as I am, my problems are smaller and just as the world does its thing without me, I don’t need to feel responsible for the world.

You’re not a tree.  You don’t need to stay where you are.  If you hate your job, get another.  If a relationship isn’t working, end it.  You don’t need to put a time goal on your life.  There’s no need for “I’ll give it another couple of months.” Go get your life.  Decide what you want to change or keep and work for it.  Don’t settle for the same circumstances and hope time will fix things.  If it’s meant to be done, you must get it done.  No one can live this life for you.  No one is to blame but you if you choose to settle in misery.

Again, get help.

Ask for help from your doctor.  They have pills and facilities that are made to help you when it’s too much.

Ask for help from your pastor or church.  There are religions built around helping others. Good stuff, really.

Ask for help from a therapist.  They won’t fix you.  They’ll help you learn to shift your perspective, address what is holding you back and break through to the next phase of your healing.

Ask for help from family and friends.  I can’t remember a time I tried to kill myself with an audience.  Don’t be alone if you don’t feel safe.

Know that saving your life is an inside job that no one can do but yourself.

Know that there is no shame in what you feel.

I won’t say you’re wrong in what you feel.

I won’t say you need to help me feel better about what you are going through.

I won’t guilt you for feeling bad.

It's okay to feel what you do.

If you’re hurting enough to want to hurt yourself or others, you are hurting enough to need support.

Ask for the support you need.  Know you are worthy of a happy and fulfilling life.  Know that depression isn’t a life sentence and there are always options and answers to questions we don’t always know to ask.  Wait and the question will present itself. Help comes when you look for it because it never looks the way we expect it to.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (800) 273-8255

Everything Happens the Way It's Supposed to and It Isn't Always About You

A couple of weeks ago I was getting a haircut.  I loved the way his work made me feel. I wanted a trim and a dye job.  I have a bit of hair at the nape of my neck bleached, then dyed purple. I wanted it near work in Santa Monica to help me take my time getting home so I could avoid traffic. I found a hairdresser who uses gentle products and was very social.  I loved my time in his chair. While he worked and the shop began to close, his cleaning man came in to scrub floors and make the place smell chemically clean and sanitized. We chatted about his birthday weekend plans apart from his twin sister.  We chatted about the twins I carried long enough to love. Just as my hair was washed out, a woman came into the shop.

The hairdresser was supporting her with a hug and the benefits of friendship.  She wore a cute black dress that was perfect for work and made me jealous of it until I remembered I rarely sit like a lady in a dress.  She seemed to be holding back with so much pain and emotion.  I asked if she had just endured a long day and my moment of compassion opened her up just enough to be authentic in the pain she felt.

This woman was going through a divorce with a man still intent on making her suffer even though they were no longer together, and she was faced with starting over.  New city, new job, new lower credit score (divorce will do that) and no idea how she was going to get through it. I've been there and I'm certain several of my readers have as well.

I gave her encouragement like I got so many times from people who had been divorced.  I told her she was stronger than she knew.  I was told the same thing repeatedly and it was only in the months after I found a new normal that I could see it was true.  I told her there were good times and bad times.  Remember the bad, but cling to the good.  I told her that I acknowledged her for not giving up and getting this job for herself.  She insisted the job was for others and their expectations of her, but I pointed out she was doing it for herself.  I knew because she wasn't in bed, hiding and quitting life.

The cleaning man stopped to encourage her as well.  He was a man that got to start over after nearly 40 years and and it wasn't his first choice either.  He also eventually found freedom in starting life over.

What are the odds that I would be in the right time at the right place with another stranger sharing a similar story of getting through the end of a marriage with a woman who needed to borrow our strength?  We were exactly where we needed to be when we needed to be there.

There was another hair appointment that was supposed to be worked in tandem with mine.  She had cancelled and had she been there, we might not have had that same cradle of connection and care that we were able to offer her. Had I decided to go straight home or wait for the weekend to go to a salon near my home, I would have missed her.  We are right where we need to be, when we need to be there, but sometimes we're meant to be present for someone else.  It's not always about me, and I get to see how I might help others.  That is a gift.  It is a special honor.

I told her to hold onto that moment.  It was one of the good ones where she openly cried with two strangers and she was met with love and compassion.  One day what we gave her will be needed by someone else. I'm certain she will give and also receive in the act of giving the way I did.

There is a right time and place for everything.  There's a whole song and bible verse on it if you don't believe me.  The thing is you get to look at the moment you are in and see what the purpose is.  Maybe you're there and the reason is you're meant to support someone else.

The Biggest Takeaway from my Surrogate Pregnancies is about Not Being a Bigot

I don't often write about my surrogate pregnancies.  Part of its was a non-disclosure that was signed to ensure I would give my couples their privacy.  They're amazing people and always close to my heart. In a perfect world they wouldn't have needed me. Part of me wants to keep them closely protected in my memories. I could still share about doing seven IVF cycles as a surrogate.  I could tell you about the many needles and syringes.  I could write about prepping my needles and shooting myself in the butt because help from the ex didn't look like him helping me with the awkward position of where I needed to shoot myself.  I could share the horrible feeling from hormones.  Feeling pregnant and bloated and emotional and knowing I was doing it all to myself... There's also the way it felt to be cared for and pampered by these parents or what it feels like to part with the children that spent so much time just under my heart. Maybe one day I will share.

What I am sharing is the greatest takeaway I have from it.  It's the people and the relationships and the perspective shift.

My second couple was culturally Jewish, though they weren't religious.  I wanted to get a Mezuzah for the baby's room but learned how inappropriate that is for a family that didn't plan to raise their child in the practices of a faith they weren't passing on.

I won't get into all of it, but I will share just enough about my last couple.  They were an Arab couple from a muslim country and they were practicing muslims.  I had studied geography to know where they came from but beyond that, my understanding came from the news.  I don't watch the news anymore.  It's all about creating a perspective and selling viewers to companies that want to show us their really expensive ad campaigns. I read and skim for important details through news outlets that don't try to make me throw things.

When I met my intended mom for the first time, I was told to meet this Arab woman I had never seen before in a store on Rodeo Drive.  I thought that maybe she would have dark skin but that she would be covered up in a Burqa or hijab.  I wasn't prepared for who she was and it threw me off center just enough. A couple of hours with her changed who I am as I look at the world outside of myself.

She was so beautiful with fair skin and beautiful black hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders.  She wore a long flowing top with dress pants.  Her outfits were always high fashion, but conservative. It was a hot day, but she looked comfortable even though she was covered up by her clothes, I would have never known she was muslim by her clothes. She was confident.  She had an A type personality and could easily take command of a room.  I would have never known she was the meek and oppressed woman I thought every Muslim woman was. Everything I had been told to believe about Muslim women was ridiculous compared to who she showed up as. She wasn't dominated by her husband.  She made decisions and she was empowered through his support.

Months later I was hospitalized so the twins I carried for them wouldn't come early.  The intended father refused to enter my room without my ex there.  When it occurred to me that he treated me with the respect he would show the women in his country . . . his mom, and wife and sisters . . . I was floored.  It was no longer an oppressive practice as I had once thought it was that a woman couldn't be alone in a room with a man that wasn't her family or husband.  I saw it as the highest respect he could offer me and the feeling of being cared for through this act still moves me so much five years later.

Before I met them, I had this idea of who they should be.  Before I met them, I was convinced I knew what Muslims thought and believed because my news anchor was supposed to be reliable.  After meeting them I researched enough of the Quran (a really tiny amount) to see that there's an overlap.  The books in the bible I studied as a child are also in the Quran.  We're in the middle of Ramadan.  People all over the world are fasting as I did along with prayer in my Christian church. They are looking out for others that don't have enough.  In the name of religion and through faith so strong as to wear it outwardly through the oppression of a fearful country, they are living practices I would hope to internalize myself and teach my children.

My couple through being the good people they are . . . Through proudly practicing their faith . . . Through caring for me as they did, were able to let me see how much of a bigot I was.

My lesson was that I cannot judge anyone for anything but how they show up, and even then without having the knowledge of their motivation I really can't say what makes them do what they do.  I just know I'm here on this earth to love others and support them to do better and be more and live life epicly.

And that was the greatest gift I took away from my 3 surrogate pregnancies. That and all of the love and support a pregnant lady could want.

Being a Working Single Mom and Separation Anxiety

The phrase "working mom" is complex in itself. Moms work. Nonstop. From sons up to sons down and later still because some things can only get done after they are down. For most of my marriage I stayed home or went to work or school a few hours a week. For the most part I was home with the kids doing chores, finding hobbies, baking, crafting and carrying babies as a surrogate when I wasn't earning scholarships as a student. Most of this was concurrent multi-tasking.

Life for my 10 year old hasn't been okay since the separation started two years ago. All three still haven't smiled like they used to. I can see it in their eyes and the way it feels forced and fake. It's not obvious unless you have known what it is to fake happiness for someone else. I just had another talk about depression the other night and Kid2 admitted he still struggles.

For Kid3, his identity was the youngest in a family of five. When the family of five shifted to four, who he is became a fluid identity in a sea without a stable anchor. Add Mom and Dad living differently and having new relationships and he hasn't felt safely attached for a while. Not safely enough.  He's been struggling since then with what is normal.  He's seen a therapist.  I try to do things with him around the house. Actually, projects and catching up on housework on weekends because I spend most of my week at work or driving are my new normal.  I leave at 7:30 in the morning and don't get home until around 8 at night.

My latest project was to update my pond.  Pictured is Kid3 several years ago. As for the pond, it's still evolving.

Yesterday morning was a hard one for Kid3.  Honestly, it was a rough continuation of my day before.  I left for work at 7:30 a.m..  I left work early at 3:30 that afternoon, then drove through traffic so bad over about 20 miles that I didn't get home until 5:45 where I picked kids up for an Awards night at my older kid's school, not arriving there until 6:15.

We sat through the ceremony, took a few pictures, dropped the boyfriend off at home where he could decompress, then drove around a little more before landing at a new family favorite ramen restaurant. We got home and the meltdown started.

There's a pattern.  On days when school starts or they're going back to their Dad, my little one's separation anxiety ramps up and he refuses to go to school, begging instead to stay home with me.  Yesterday morning I was trying to rush out the door and take a phone interview on my way to work (yay me! I'm over qualified for this entry level position and he'll keep me in mind if any senior positions open up that will pay more).

Kid3's tantrum was so bad that I was now 40 minutes late for work, but I had him sit in the car as I finished the interview and hung up.  Tearfully, he told me he didn't want me to work. He wanted to get me fired. He was willing to leave because calling his Dad for support resulted in a threat to go back to court for custody.   As tight as money is when I'm not working, he wants me to stay home with him.  It feels good to be that wanted.  At the same time, this tells me I'm neglecting his emotional needs and his separation anxiety is a symptom of him not feeling safe enough attachment to me to want to be independent.

That's heavy.  That last sentence is full of density and I'll unpack it.

When my kids were little, their needs were simple.  Help them rest when tired.  Feed them when hungry.  Keep them clean enough to be comfortable but dirty enough to have fun.  As they're getting older and more physically independent, their emotional needs are shifting and they need more support.  I need to help them feel so surrounded by my love that they feel it even when I'm not around.  My youngest doesn't feel that right now.

A couple of years ago I read the 5 Love Languages by Dr. Gary Chapman.  It explored the five ways we can express or feel love.

1. Gift giving - He often asks me to buy him things.
2. Quality time - He likes playing board games or being with me to watch movies or throw a ball around.
3. Words of affirmation - He needs to hear that I love him and that I value what he says when he's telling me about his day.
4. Acts of service - He often asks me to brush his hair or help him with personal hygiene. When he's happy, he's willing to do things for me.
5. Physical touch - He likes belly massages and bear hugs.

He actively asks me to do or engage in these things on a regular basis. So basically my son has shown and told me that he needs all of his emotional love needs met and he's starved for love.

The greatest lesson about the book is that it taught that the way you show love isn't necessarily the way others need to receive that love from you and love means finding out how to fulfill the needs of someone else, rather than assume what works for you is good enough in the way most of us selfishly do.

In doing projects I choose and having him join me, I assumed he was getting enough love in the time together, but over the last few days he was showing me that he was not.

At the end of the day, my relationship with my son is a relationship.  I can't assume what I've always done will always be enough because as he grows and walks in independence, his needs change and evolve.  I want to be the parent he is willing to talk to. It's a relationship that needs time and attention to detail . . . Just like any other relationship.

How To Make Bath Bombs

Quality time with Kid3 looks like projects Mom wants to do anyway.  We made bath bombs.  While my usual mold is the ball that you get your pantyhose in, I sometimes use the little paper cups I keep in my bathroom for brushing my teeth.  Last night Kid1 was being a teenager in the bathroom so we used little disposable horderve bowls.

Whisk together:

8 oz. Baking Soda

4 oz. Citric Acid (I get it from Whole Foods.  Sometimes with vitamins. Sometimes with canning supplies.)

4 oz. Corn Starch

2 oz. Epsom Salt

2 oz. Dead Sea Salt (I get the big bag next to the Epsom Salts at Walmart)

Separately, whisk together:

¾ teaspoon water

2 teaspoons essential oil (your choice, your scents)

2 ½ teaspoon almond oil (or olive)

A few drops of food coloring (going nuts will compromise how it clumps or if it reacts early)

Whisk the dry mixture while slowly pouring in the wet mixture.  It should begin to clump together and hold its shape if you squeeze it.  Too much liquid can start an early reaction and your bath bomb will bomb in your bowl.

Pack the mixture into your molds as tightly as you can.  Let it sit for a few minutes before carefully removing them from the mold.

I like to line a fluffy towel with wax paper to cradle them, but paper towels work too.  Let them sit and dry for at least a day before you use them.

Once dried, keep them in an air tight container, cellophane, or tissue.