Sassafrass

Do you still believe the things your ex says about you?

I've heard stories about amicable divorces. They are surely out there. Right? Can anyone verify that people really do separate on good terms?  Are there any first-hand accounts available of what it is like to interact peaceably with the other parent or former partner? If there are, I think I need a nice, long sit-down over a pot of tea to understand the mechanics of that kind of relationship.

It's no surprise I don't have that. The peace I have has come from within, and I am grateful for that. I have worked and do work hard to get to that silent, still place in myself and in my life that is not cluttered by the noise of someone else screaming, of legal issues and complicated schedules.

And no matter what I write here or say to my parents or seethe over in my mind, I work very hard to have a workable relationship with The Ex. Sometimes, it goes better than I predict, thank goodness. Many times, it is tough but manageable. Other times, it is just awful.

Today was one of those days. A complete breakdown of communication into yelling and dredging up old stuff other ugly interactions that I am ashamed to admit. In defense of myself (and if I don't do that, who will?), I gave it my all. I tried so hard to just talk. I called back a second time, calmer, asking to negotiate, trying to reason. Sadly, none of that could be heard through the name-calling and accusations. It was as raw as it was early in our divorce process.

To be fair (and really, none of this is truly fair), I yelled back. I took the bait. I engaged even when I know, I know it is better not to engage. I tried to hard to let (my) logic win and I talked too much. I felt I was being fair, but I also know that too often I am not.

And in the end, I will not win this one (and no, when it comes to divorce, especially with kids, there is never winning). I will concede because otherwise the conflict will impact Lil E and I cannot have that. I am backing down.

Here I sit, hours and hours after the hour I spent on the phone with The Ex, and I am still sad, exhausted, overwhelmed by the idea it will always be like this (I know, it won't always be like this). The thing that feels the worst to me is being told how I am, who I am, and why I do the things I do (at least according to the other person on the end of the cell phone).

When I told this to my parents (as I tell all of these things), my mother asked me a hard but important question, "Why is it that you still believe the things he says about you?"

In my head, I don't. I know myself, better now than I did when I was married. But my heart sobs every time I'm told all of those awful things.

My marriage, until the end, was not like that. But my divorce is full of those hateful moments. I guess if I wasn't internalizing all those words, I wouldn't take it so much. I don't need anyone's "awww" for that. I am more upset that I let his anger inside the door of my home. Again.

Next time, I will end the conversation. Or hang up. Or follow through on my already-outlined list of exit strategies.

But I have a bigger task that clicking "end call." The opposite of love, my mother often reminds me, is apathy. Isn't that the damn truth? Truly, I was over the love immediately, and for most aspects of The Ex's life, I am completely un-invested. But I think today I got that I have been settled in the hate for so long, and now it is time to move into an apathetic place. Why is it so hard to get over so much other stuff but this, what the other person thinks of us, lasts so much longer than the loving feelings?

I have a lot yet to unravel. I have a lot to un-believe about the woman who messes up, yells, is miles away from perfect, but is doing her best in this single mama life a great deal of the time.

Even if none of you are blessed with an amicable ex-relationship, perhaps there are those of you who have been through the un-believing process yourselves. Please, share, share.

And if you, like me, are still caught in the chaos, do you continue to take your ex's beliefs to heart?

Also:

• Are you wearing your divorce?
• One small and significant reminder of new beginnings
• Holy oh hell, I am happy

Finally, it's final

Eleven years ago, I met the man who became my husband six years ago, became the father of our son four years ago, and then became the person I left and petitioned for divorce 16 months ago. Yesterday, that relationship came to an official end.

Of course, it was over the day I packed up a few bags, took Lil E to a birthday party and made a phone call to say we wouldn't be coming home. I hadn't yet fully grasped the full gravity of the situation, but as I did, the pain intensified, both physically and emotionally. That day seems almost as long ago as the day I walked into the restaurant where he was a bartender and server and I introduced myself as the Hostess with the Mostest. He taught me how to hoist and balance a big tray full of bar glasses and entree plates, how to swiftly wield a wine key while charming a table of customers, and how fun it could be to streak drunkenly home from the bars on rainy Oregon winter nights. We had fun. And many laughs. We had a big love and, wow, we had a great kid together.

If that sounds wistful, it's not. That man I met and loved and married and grew a child inside my body with is not the man who sat on the other side of the court room with me yesterday.

This could really be the end

I have been waiting to share the postcards of our holidays and to write what has, in years past, been a Christmas letter and will be a New Year's letter, until the divorce is finalized.  Today, I believe is that day.

Last September, I was horrified that we would have to return to court, would be proceeding with a trial and that there would be a four-month pause until we could be done. Then I marked anniversary after anniversary off of my calendar -- wedding, the night the crack in my marriage first appeared, the day the fissure expanded as I filed Dissolution of Marriage papers, my attempts in writing to repair what I could, After the grief and the flowers and the deep breathing, I took matters into my own hands, trying to resolve the issues still open, still threatening to pull me in deeper and deeper into the depths of divorce. It's been a lot of work and emotion, but the day is here.

Because of work, we're not actually going to trial, and will hopefully just  be there to go about the business of signing piles of papers and the ritual of raising our hand in agreement that it is finally over. Because of the emotion, I am choosing to sit quietly until it is absolutely time to leave, to put on my court clothes and take the train downtown with my dad.

Then I am choosing to take my parents out for an expensive dinner (not just because steak seems the obvious choice after one marriage is legally undone) to toast all that has been and all that is yet to come. I am not pained that this is over and I've done my grieving for all it took with it when it left. I have not loved the Almost Ex for a very long time and I am much better now and being good to myself.  What it will be is official and a stamp on the identity change in the works for 16 months.

There has been so much conflict that although I've been assured by all the parties and attorneys involved that there is nothing left to dispute, I am not sure what to with the idea that things may go smoothly. I am not sure what to say about the divorce that may really happen after all.

My dad says it is because I've become accustomed to always waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is true. On the other side of that, though, I've had these few weeks to pull back and into myself and that has helped me be present, feel what I am feeling and be OK with not being "on" or centered or perfectly fine.

And Christmas Eve brought me something I will take with me tomorrow. As the music played in church and my favorite moment of the year unwound, I began to cry. And I cried and I cried and I cried. The tears rolled down while I sang hymns and while we prayed and while I sat in the pew with my family in the dark and quiet of the sanctuary. They weren't sad tears, though. Instead, I thought that night and still believe, I was letting go of the sadness and pain still settled in a space in me that is ready to be filled by better things.  It felt good. It was cathartic. I was relieved.

So I will go today, optimistic enough and experienced enough to know that I very well may emerge a woman no longer married. I will go, ready for the next part and open to who or what may fill the space that is waiting. I will go ready to write the words in our New Year's letter and to finally tell the final part of that story.

I am tired of writing about this. I am more tired of living it. Today, let us hope and pray upon the Pearls of Believability, it will be done.

How we're working this holiday thing out

This Thanksgiving is so different than last year's dinner, when we tried very hard to put on smiles and reassurances that we were just fine when we really were not, when we at my aunt's house and snuggled on the couch while everyone around us talked and laughed and rushed back to the hotel after Lil E was bitten by a crabby, old dog. It was all too much because it was a big metaphor for how our lives were then -- moving through days as best as we could, mustering as much celebration as we could and then letting the tears come when they did. Thankfully, that part is over. Or over enough.

I did cry when I realized that the holiday schedule I wrote as a part of our parenting agreement designated this Thanksgiving weekend entirely to Lil E's dad. But then, I put that all together in the middle of all the holiday ups and downs last year, so my reasoning is not completely clear to me today. This year, though, I cried and then I breathed. And then I made a list of all the things I could do while Lil E was spending four days with his dad in the suburbs. I could visit a friend in Portland, I could rearrange my living room, I could hibernate in a little coffee shop until the writing I've been putting off is finally done. I could sleep in, meet up with friends for a burlesque show and cocktails. I could, I could, I could... And it helped to have all those possibilities listed in front of me. If this is the way it would be -- and it is -- then I would choose to not just take the break from my regular, chaotic life, but to really use the time I have.

So I have plans. Not too many plans, but enough here and there to make me feel part of the world and not too many that I can't hide out from the world this weekend, too. I'm not getting on a plane to go anywhere and I'm not performing any major overhauls, just getting done some things around here that will ease the nagging in the back of my thoughts and will help me feel rejuvenated once the boy does come home.

Part of re-framing what I was upset would be another unraveled Thanksgiving is choosing to celebrate big, just a day early. And so, after some surprisingly cordial negotiations with the Almost Ex, LIl E will be with me on Wednesday and we will have our own Thanksgiving dinner then. He doesn't have school and I've taken the day off and we will spend the day fully immersed in pie baking and turkey cooking and hanging out with my parents. We will do it up before he heads out, just as much as we would have done if it was all happening Thursday.

Of course, I remember last year and many years before when the three of us were together. I remember years before that when the Almost Ex and I outlined our own choices for the holidays and chose carefully what we'd do and how we'd get through. Somehow, this year, in all of our changes and celebrations and even some crying, feels so much more peaceful. It feels like there's so much more to be grateful for, if that is even possible. This year, I'm not worried or trying too hard or feeling removed from the happiness I want to cling to like my child on my lap.

No, this year, we're at the center of the happiness. And we will be sitting at the table with the people who get it most and who we most want to toast for making it with us from last Thanksgiving to this one. It's more than OK and re-framed and worked out. It's really good. I don't know how it happened, but it did. That, thank God, is enough for now.

Un-planning the holiday

As the holiday weekend approached, I let down some of my planning, organizing guard and let the new, pink skin of just being unfold.

On my desk, I have a copy of the parenting agreement Lil E's dad and I have already invested several meetings, two progress hearings, hours and hours of mediation, countless text messages and burning conversations in not signing.

Although we we've had one little hour in dispute (a ridiculous reality but those sixty minutes are indicative of much bigger issues), the one thing we agreed on easily was the holiday schedule. So there it is in my calendar, laying across these limbo days between separation and divorce.

Project: Life Change. Of course. That is, change of course.

My priorities have shifted in the last month because, as I've mentioned here vaguely, we've had some turmoil in our home. And really, that is like saying parenting is hard when sometimes it feels absolutely handleable and the next moment, insurmountable. I wrote a bit about what we're are trying to move through here.

This is tough for me to write about here because it is not all mine. But several of you have kindly asked me if I am OK and even more kindly, asked my mom if I am OK. The answer is: I am trying.

I am trying to take care of myself because it is important for me and because I understand (now) that it is the best thing I can do as a mother. I am reaching out to my friends (thank you) and my parents (and thank you) and even to my blogging friends (and also you). I am reading good stuff and praying and tonight, I am going to get back to meditating because it helps my fast-forward-prone mind just rest.

And tomorrow, I am taking the day off guilt-free and going to lunch with my grrrlfriend Molls who, by the way, is getting married in March. I want to help her pick out a cake but I also want to bask in a bit of that boundless joy. I might even order a drink. After that, we're going to a movie. In the middle of the day.   

My Project: Life Change has taken an unexpected turn, or perhaps more accurately, veered way out on some frontage road I don't recognize yet. But I have not forgotten my commitment to myself and I have not forgotten all the hard work and questions and challenges and good stuff going on with many of you.  But let's not forget that even the most industrious, ambitious, A students among us need a break. Even from the release.

Happy FWEE!, beautiful boy

Dear Sweet Little Stinkpot,

Three years ago at this time, I was asleep and dreaming I was in labor. In my dreaming life, my baby emerged with big brown eyes and hair that lay in slick black curls. In my waking life, twelve hours to the minute later, you were born looking exactly as I dreamed. I even gasped when I got my first glimpse of you because I recognized you from the dream that woke me up just before my water broke all over the bedroom floor.

And you might cringe one day to read that, but the slight delay that followed me saying, "Honey, wake up. My water's breaking." followed by the beginning of it all then your daddy's frantic look as he processed it all, jumped out of bed and pulled out stacks of towels he'd stashed all over the apartment. And any feelings of embarrassment will melt into laughter to picture him nervously picking out CDs to soothe my nerves in the delivery room and throw things into an overnight bag that he'd never use.

When I look at you, I sometimes wonder what it was like when you were so fresh and new. It seems like you've always been talking, and mostly, you have. It seems like you've always had that wide, dimply grin, and mostly, you have. It seems like you've always had those soulful brown eyes and crazy hair, and of course, you have.

It seems like you've always been telling me to pretend to be you and Daddy to be Grandpa Bob and you will be Daddy.

And that's when the bomb (and the lightbulb) went off

I've needed some time off. Somehow, my career exploded last week and I spent nearly all weekend frantically catching the shrapnel in my arms. I realize this is no way to describe work that I truly love, but this is how it felt.

Like madness. And this made me frustrated and anxious and like sleeping in all weekend long. But I had five deadlines that landed on Saturday, three of them articles that require a great deal of investment and concentration and leave me feeling emotionally and physically exhausted. I also needed to blog during a deadline that I would usually designate as a no-posting time.

The good thing is, I listened to my husband who said to focus on one piece at a time and then sent me to Starbucks while he took care of the boy and the dishes and the laundry and flipping through Bob the Builder episodes.

Another good thing is that I finished. By Sunday night, I was depleted but I was done. My shoulders and chest muscles were cramped up from spending so many days at the laptop and my contacts were foggy from staying up until 2 a.m. so many nights in a row, but I did it. I felt proud of myself and I celebrated with a lot of caffeine and a little more sleep.

The tough thing is, there has been very little reprieve. Lil E's birthday is this week and his party is this weekend, which has called in family from both coasts. I want to concentrate on those celebrations and yet, there are still deadlines.

Another tough thing is, one of my jobs is on the line. A job that I love. I certainly don't want to focus on that drama or disappointment but it is still there. So I'm trying to put it aside for just long enough, at the suggestion of my mother, to just go about the business of writing -- ten, thirty or even sixty minutes at a time.

An even tougher thing is that my sweet, huggy, talkative boy has become consumed with separation anxiety.  He's also been acting out in a way that is the hallmark of being THREE but is also the hallmark of parents who are so busy getting through that small explosions are the way to demand full attention or his way or not putting cucumber on his plate as he requested because that's the way Big Josh from co-op likes it after all rather than using polite words he does actually have in his vocabulary.

I'm not sure what all of this means for me yet. But I know I need some time to be still to find my way to the answers or rather, the process to undo all these crossed wires.

I know this: I want to thrive. I want to turn off my laptop and give my evenings to my family and myself. I want to get back exercising my body, quieting my mind and to stop thinking of a walk or a nap or a manicure as unattainable luxuries that I cannot afford on many levels. I want to release this tension. I want to stop living in survival mode.

And so I began simply on Sunday morning by resigning as the co-chair of a committee I love and helped found four years ago. Now I am working up the courage to turn my thoughts about quitting one of my four jobs into action. This isn't just about work. It is about where I am and what I ask of myself and when to say, "Enough. I've had enough." And mostly, it is about all of that being OK.

Tomorrow, I will chase more of those pieces and then on Thursday, I will devote my whole day and complete attention to Lil E. He only turns three on that one day and I will be there fully.

After that, the peace-making mission in my life will begin as the war of work and home and me have been lately: One thing at a time.

Catching is easy, it's the release that's tough

Dear Tiny Grasshopper (yes, you Lil E, not the bug you captured and kept in a jar for four days),

Sometimes, the choices we have to make, even when we are very small, aren't easy. Sometimes, choosing life instead of captivity is even harder, for ourselves and the people (and even creatures) around us. Sometimes, letting go is both joyous and tearful.

But you did it. After three days of conversation, you conceded to letting the grasshopper go free. Never mind that it was hundreds of miles from its home, never mind that it was woozy and wobbly and wary on its six spindly legs when we unscrewed the top of the bug catcher jar. You did it. Even though I reminded you that the grasshopper would have a better chance of living and would probably be happier hopping through the grass in our front yard than clinging to the side of the jar on our dining room table and that he would probably die in there if we didn't release him, and you said, "I think I'd like to have a dead grasshopper!" with a twinge of mustered hope, you did let him go out into the world.

And like the sweet and fiery boy I know you to be, you gathered your gear, including Daddy's key chain with the flashlight, and we tromped down the stairs together for the Grasshopper Good-bye Party in the dark just before bedtime last night.

And so the Mommy Cult meetings begin

So last night was the first Mommy Cult co-op parent meeting of the year. All the parents of kids new to the Seventh Circle of Strangeness and Land's End Tote Bags were there, nervously wondering if they'd be able to abide by the supposedly strict "kiss and go" policy on the first day. The returning parents chatted about potty training and summer trips and got shooshed by the director for talking while a new board member (get this) read the bylaws and handbook aloud to the whole room.

What?! We're not trusted to read through or happily ignore these documents in the privacy of our own living rooms?

And as if that wasn't opportunity enough to scribble all the theme-days and future parent meetings in my calendar (and file my nails and wonder who was winning America's Got Talent at that very moment), the director then explained a new incentive raffle we could all enjoy on a monthly basis. As in the past, everyone who arrives at the meetings on time is eligible for a raffle. I've personally taken home a sweet Toys for Tots pocket calendar, you can win a pass on one of your monthly Parent of the Day responsibilities. This year, though,  some months (and get ready for the excitement here, grrrls), parents can be eligible for some drawings if they bring the nifty folder color-coded by classroom and filled with the bylaws, handbook, calendar and other goodies that is supplied to each family at the beginning of the co-op school year.

Why? Good question.

Apparently, this is an ideal place to store co-op info and for that reason, every mama needs to haul it to every meeting along with her calendar, checkbook and Diet Coke.

This is not a snazzy binder nor is it filled with information you really need to have on hand when announcements about when Teddy Bear Day will be held and what each kid should bring along with his sippy cup for Jesus' Birthday Celebration Party. It is a 50-cent folder full of paper that, yes, is helpful, but no, is not necessary to keep copies of in the glove box.

These shooshy, incentivized moments both amuse and irritate me. While I'm OK with my kid being treated like a kid at co-op, I'm just not so keen on being treated that way myself. And while this is a good, safe, nice place that I am very happy for Lil E to be (truly), there are those things that keep me shaking my head every first Wednesday of the month from August through June.

Bruce just laughs when I tell him the stories of taking votes on what color the snot should or shouldn't be in the sick policy. But we have this arrangement -- he works as Parent of the Day for our family every month so I can work.  He reads books, changes diapers, plays trucks and wipes noses of kids with all colors of nastiness coming out of there "illegally at co-op" noses. I sit through hours of culty goodness. If we were to trade (somewhere in the 'burbs, Bruce just cringed while leading some boot camp class through squat thrusts), Bruce would actually get more lauded (More than the title of Baby Whisperer in the nursery room?, you ask...hard to believe but yes) with the little golf clap of encouragement that comes when any man is ever seated at the long line of tables, "It is SO GOOD to see dads in the room! Hooray, Dads!"  (ladies, I know you feel my eye-rollish wonder at how in the hell the last sixty years of feminism has done so much and yet not seemed to penetrate these meetings...and don't get me started on how impossible it is to communicate our different last names to the Powers That Be).

I wouldn't mind working the room. In fact, the few days a year I schedule myself in, I do love to spend the day with Lil E and his buddies, pulling them apart from fighting over the pushy cars and holding a pile of them on my lap as they sing together during all-co-op music time.

For now, it is all fair and fine. But I wonder sometimes if it would be a relief to take ten toddlers to the potty at once every month and whether I'd actually miss all the meeting madness if I renegotiated the co-op contract.



Cross-posted at Chicago Moms Blog.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming

Is it possible to have major let-down and intense freak-out stress all at once? Oh yeaaaah, it's called motherhood, right? Or maybe, it's called being a mother-writer-blogger-wife-sassy layday trying to squeeze a vacation in once in a while. Just when I felt I was catching up on sleep/blogspiration/laundry/email after BlogHer, we shipped the kid off to Camp Grandma & Grandpa and headed to Vegas with two of our BFF couples.

I am sure you are all fidgety with curiosity: How was Las Vegas?

My answer: Ehhh.

I realized about an hour into our vacation that I don't love casinos, which is not the best revelation to have when you are about to spend four days in Las Vegas. But to me, casinos are loud and depressing (again with the dichotomies) and put me into an overstim that is very similar to the first time I showed Lil E a Baby Einstein DVD (which quickly - thank the goddesses -- was replaced by American Idol).

Perhaps it is because we are on a pretty tight budget around here since the total disappearance of Miss Noncommittal Lazy Pants, Bruce's thrice weekly cash-wielding, crying out for therapy more than crunches client has disappeared into the northern 'burbs, most likely in a puddle of underdeveloped biceps and Egg Beaters (not that I'm bitter about clients who never call their personal trainers back, JACKIE!*). We shouldn't have counted on the income but we did, and so that led us straight to the casinos with very little to gamble.

But not gambling was not really the issue. Gambling bores me. I'm good for twenty minutes and then I'm ready for a detox, preferably in a non-smoking bar where they make excellent lemon drops.

I should qualify my boredom by telling you I grew up in a gambling family. When we played Hearts with my Grandma Alice, we were all expected to pitch in our pennies. If we won, we celebrated. If we lost, we lost. And if we cried or complained, according to Grandma Alice's father's rules, the cards went into the fire in the woodstove (or the junk drawer, in our case).

I grew up betting on the Kentucky Derby and if necessary, by round-robin phone calls minutes before the horses hit the gate. We heard many stories of my grandfather's ability to count cards effortlessly and how my mother spent much of her childhood at the track. Even though my parents have scaled back the gambling habits of their parents' generation, we still place wagers on the Oscars and pull out jars of change for card championships at the holidays.

The slots and craps and blackjack and roulette, though, just don't trick my trigger. To make matters more uninteresting, I just did not get why it was entertaining to walk the long, scorching strip to see hotel after hotel.  After the initial ooh and ahh over rain from the ceiling or a leg of the faux Eiffel Tower sticking out in one corner, everything seemed swallowed up by the familiar bad cocktail uniforms, whirls and dings, tables and overstim.

Here's the good part: We were with our friends and they are amazing. We laughed and had drinks and told stories and used short-hand that only the six of us understand.

We lazed by the pool and hit the steam and sauna spa in the hotel. We ate one of those crazy Brazilian meatgasm dinners and saw a mediocre  comedy show that was saved by Jimmy Schubert (who's he again?) and April Macie (if you saw April Macie on Last Comic Standing a couple of seasons ago, know that she's much funnier and much raunchier live).

We also had a blast at a little pub in New York New York where the dueling piano act is hilarious and rockin' and goes great with one or five Coronas (the beer here's only $5.50 a bottle...bargain!). Here's how much fun we had dancing and singing at the tops of our lungs for 3-1/2 hours until my blisters throbbed and my voice was nearly gone (oh effin' yes, more blisters, even in the cute flats unpadded flats from the depths of Miss Thang hell I bought just for the occasion):

So it's not the most attractive of poses, but dude, we were singing Journey. What else was there to do? It was like a requirement to get all Rockstar: Supernova-ed like that.

Check out my Bizarro Mother-In-Law. I don't mean that as an insult, I mean it as the strange coincidence of my MIL look-alike  (in the floral shirt) planted right next to our friend (in the red shirt) at the bar all night long. Crazy, right?

We did not make a burlesque show after all, but Bruce and I made a deal when we hobbled home one night while our friends cruised on to more casinos that we'd be sure to get to Lipschtick and soon. I'm a little disappointed that I missed all those feathers and sheer-rhinestoned costumes that gives my inner seven-year old a little thrill, but I will be just fine. After all, I may just become that dancing grrrl myself, and wouldn't that be a kick?

* Of course, that's not her name, people. And either is Miss Noncommittal Lazy Pants. Stop looking for clues. If you think I am talking about you, stop reading immediately and CALL YOUR TRAINER!

Where are my pasties when I really need them?

Just when I'm beginning to get past my BlogHerxhaustion, Bruce and I are leaving for our very first adults-only vacation to (cue the lights)Vegas, baby.

Not to worry, I've purchased a pair of adorable flats (I know! How adult of me, right?) so as not to become one giant throbbing blistered Band Aid on the strip (ewww). 

Lil E's off to Camp Grandma & Grandpa.  We will be there with our married people BFFs and I'm hoping not to freak them out too much by mentioning the va-va-Vegas shows that my burlesque teacher told me I must see. I've gotten that look when I mentioned packing my laptop into my carry on. So it looks like you may just have to wait for boozed up, glitterati, boas, smoldering hot,daddies over-casinoed and mommies poolside pictures, sweets.

Until then, I will leave some Lifetime Channel-like programming for you to enjoy.

I heart Jillian Michaels

I'm in love with Jillian Michaels.

Sure, I've got a super-sessy personal trainer who fathered my child, trained me for several big events (including growing and carrying a human being in my belly) and who looks just as bad ass coming through a finish line as he does asleep on the couch with one hand on the remote and the other on the umm...clicker. All those years of commitment and life evolution aside, I'm seriously thinking about running away with Jillian.

That is, if I could keep up. If you've ever seen an episode of The Biggest Loser where Jillian sprints up a hill or karate chops a whiny contestant, you will have an idea of how cut-up her body is and how intense her focus is when it comes to getting fit. In person, all that is magnified.

Jillian led a lunch hosted by AOL Body Life Lab at BlogHer last weekend and I was thrilled to sit down and absorb a little of her intensity. Then my producer at That's Fit, an AOL/Weblogs Inc. blog I write for, suggested that I see if Jillian would be willing to sit down with me one-on-one. The connections came through, the interview fell in place for a celebrity fitness feature we've just launched on the site.

My friend  Kelly Leotard came along and although she is my biggest competition for Jillian's affection (what can I say? Kel's a tattooed muscle grrrl and I'm more lipsticky cuddles), she's brilliantly summed up our way-over-time, teary, giggly, self-help, inspirational, gawking, you'll-have-to-pry-us-away-you-betches session up here.

I'll let you know when my interview with Jillian goes up on That's Fit, but for now, let me share a bit of the wisdom that I've inundated Bruce with in the days that have followed meeting my grrrl:

There's hope for even the biggest haters. Jillian calls herself a "begrudging fitness guru" because she grew up a chubbers kid and hated working out. She found a physical and emotional outlet in martial arts and credits that with keeping her away from smoking and other teenage evils/delights that (ahem) I absolutely know nothing about.

She confided that "there's nothing more boring than training celebrities." She also told me that she abhors running (holla!) and that she's not giddy with exercise love each time she steps in the gym. Instead, she does it for the way she feels when she's done (I totally agree that is the sweet spot).

In some strange way, doesn't it feel good to know that a fitness guru is hating her way through arms day or spin class? It helps me.

She also was pretty straightforward about the process being ongoing. Friends, that means that this road to wellness never ends.And if we'd all put down the cabbage diet pamphlet for a second, I think we'd all have to agree.

Why is the never-ending exercise and eating right worth it? Jillian says that's just the one and only equation to living heathfully. On top of that, she unabashedly embraces the vanity of loving and wanting a kickass body.

It's OK to testify, sister. She said something I think is radical -- that it is OK to just want to be skinny. I don't think she was referring in any way to the unhealthy extremes but rather, putting words to a lot of feelings a lot of women have had.

I'll raise my hand here and say that I've given lip service to toning up or making sure the engine's purring along when I've joined a class or gotten into a walking routine. But deep in my heart and wobbly bits, I know that I'm also sweating and panting because I want a flatter tummy. Of course, I do not think you have to have a flat tummy to be fabulous or gorgeous and it is certainly not a priority or right for every woman. But is it wrong to want that?

Jillian called it out, I think, when she said that she thinks it is fine to just say, "Look, I don't want to be fat."  And she also said that if you are bigger and healthy and OK with that, then more power to you.

First part Personal, second part Trainer.  She doled out a ton of fitness and nutritional advice, but Jillian Michaels' calling is much bigger than that. As a self-described beneficiary of a lot of therapy, she's personally and professionally invested in helping people make changes for the good in their lives.

She looked at each of us when she said that when people take action in their lives, like taking a walk or going to the gym, they are telling themselves and everyone around them they they are worth it.

"Saying 'I can't'," she said, "is where the craziness comes from. You are strong, you are powerful, and yes, you are capable. Whenever you put that energy into the universe, it will all fall in place."

Can I hear an Amen!? Even Oprah would have beamed at the goodness Jillian threw out to all of us.

Her investment was obvious when women talked, spilled their challenges and heartaches in losing and gaining weight, in getting their husbands on board, in losing friends along the way, in struggling to say that they are worth it. She leaned in, fixed her eyes on the person talking, nodded her head, gave hugs, handed out her email, took care and took time with each woman. It was so connecting, it was almost startling.

All that loveliness and she's on fire. Do you get it now, why I absolutely, positively must dig up my heart rate monitor and willingly, happily hand it over to Jillian?



 

Time out

We celebrated Bruce's birthday yesterday by sleeping in (until 8 o'clock...thank you, Lil E!), getting bagels for breakfast and having a lazy morning around the apartment together. Then we packed up a bunch of bags and little containers of snacks and drove to my parents' lake house for a few days.

On the road, we talked about everything we'd like to do here in Nothing to Do, Indiana -- go to the county fair to see the animals and climb on some tractors, swim in the lake, ride the pontoon sloooowly around the lake, play in the sand, just relax. As soon as we turned off the highway and on to the windy road that leads back to the little lake house tucked in the trees, it started to rain.

We ditched our plan to swim first then grill steaks for dinner and went out to the best restaurant in town. It was dark and quiet and the martinis lulled us out of thinking about anything else but each other.

Then it poured and then lightening and thunder clapped and echoed
across the lake. It came down hard and Lil E huddled against me as I read him bedtime stories and sang him songs, pursing his eyes shut to avoid seeing the flash of lights that revealed the whole room. He fell asleep against me while the storm raged on.

Bruce decided not to go to the liquor store in town that (actually, delightfully) has shelf after shelf of microbrews to pick out a special birthday six-pack or two. Instead, we finished off a few we left in the fridge the last time we were here, popped Office Space in and cuddled on the couch.

 It was a far cry from the celebrations we've had on this day over the last ten years together, but it was right for this year.

We laughed at all the very familiar and funny parts of Office Space (my favorite:"Well, I haven't exactly been missing work, Bobs"). We stretched out and talked and sat quietly for a bit in a little romantic respite from the stormy show outside.

Lil E woke up early this morning. He always does when we're at the lake. And even though he was content to crawl in bed with us for a few minutes, he got too excited about Bruce's promise to take him "real golfing" on a local public course to stay still for too long. He danced around naked while I tried to dress him, shaking his skinny little booty and singing, "I'm so excited to go golf-iiiiing with my daddy!"

It seemed promising with a bit of sun peeking through the trees canopied over the front deck, but the boys only made it through four holes before they got rained out. For good. It was the same resurgence that nixed the weak little wireless signal I was co-opting on the deck. Also for good.

Once the golfers were home and fed and ready for naps, I went back out in the rain and headed into town to the only place for miles with any kind of wi-fi -- the nonprofit coffee shop that caters to teenagers. So here I sit, trying to catch up on work while small crowds of tweens and teens race through the cafe, cussing up a storm (hell yeah) and talking about who likes who and playing pool and taking off, standing on the back of one short kid's bike, only to return thirty seconds later. There is a girl who is about twelve, with hair that long and wavy and red and gorgeous, with a very round belly and lots of freckles, wearing a Paris Hilton flirty skirt and a t-shirt that says, "On the rebound. You'll do for now." There are four barely high-schoolers looking up girls on MySpace. There is a fifteen (or so)-year old trying very hard to dress like Eminem. This is where I am trying to work, my friends. It is funny and irritating and it is anything but quiet or peaceful.

But Norah Jones is on and I am sitting at a table by the window where I can hear all the kids say goofy stuff and I can observe that this ridiculous town is the only place in an industrialized nation where acid wash is still considered acceptable attire. But it's all good.

It's my baby's birthday and we're finally the same age, we're spending time all together and we've stepped out of our lives for a minute. It may be incessantly rainy and our hopes of swimming and boating and playing outside may have changed, but we're here. Not quite what I planned, not at all like years past, but it's still all good.

photo credit: Jessica Ashley

Pinned down in potty training hell

For over year, Lil E has dabbled in self-motivation potty going. He's done it all there, happily sitting with his magazine and requesting "privacy, please" when he needs it.

After we got the book Everyone Poops, he laughed and laughed at the pictures and, apparently thinking that going to the bathroom on the toilet would liken him to the grown-up pictured in the book, he asked for a newspaper and a pipe when he had to poop.

It was funny and fun to see him asserting his independence, anxious to pee standing up and concerned about why and how I go differently than he does. When he began reporting in when he wet his diaper and once co-op ended, I thought the natural next step was to make the potty training official.

We were given a few books -- Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day and The No-Cry Potty Training Solution. I worked with Teri Crane, the author of the boot-camp style Just One Day book, and she is enthusiastic, confident and very sure her method will work if you follow it down to the letter (which is obviously P...oh gaw, save me from the toddler talk). The No-Cry book is more laid-back, outlining different methods for different kids with different levels of readiness, resistance and needs. I liked them both for their polar approaches and we decided to create a big Potty Party, fully immersing ourselves in the Just One Day approach, but adding in some of the ideas from the other book that would work better for us.

Saturday was the full-immersion Potty Party day, complete with stickers, M&Ms, presents, new undies for Lil E, undies for his baby doll "Tiger", an Elmo potty video, a promised miniature golf outing for that evening, a big dose of mama and papa enthusiasm, all on a sports theme. Bruce was amazing, a cheerleader who made every activity, on and off the potty, fun. Lil E was way into it.

He happily "trained" Tiger, played along with the doll undies and accepted the treats on Tiger's behalf. He danced around the potty poster and decorated it with stickers. He even got excited when it was his turn to put on new Elmo undies and read a golf magazine while he tried to go on the potty. He played along so well. Except one thing: He didn't go for 8-1/2 hours.

For almost nine hours, the boy pretended to pee and poop in the potty, watched and cheered as Bruce and I -- in an effort to (ugh) "model" -- each pee about twelve times each, collected "trying" treats and the whole she-bang. All of it. All of it but the sweet release.

Which, of course, came in the car after a long day with a short nap and a round of dizzying glow-in-the-dark putt-putt and about eighteen sippy cups of lemonade, apple juice and water. Wet wet wet. Pee and tears, all over himself, the towel underneath, the car seat and just missing Tiger.

An accident? No biggie, right? Of course not. Neither Bruce nor I care about cleaning the boy or car seat or carpets that fall victim to learning this new skill. It was the total meltdown and screaming to have the diapers back. It was the Holy Terror wailing, pissed off and pissed on toddler who's will was stronger than our plans, our hype, the presents, the posters, the parade into big-boydom.

It took an hour to calm him down enough to ease him into night-time training pants and many reminders between Bruce and I that no, we could not go back on our word to ditch the diapers. By the time the boy was finally calmed down and asleep in his crib with Tiger, also in pull-up pants, we were wiped out. Totally zapped.

We had some beers, we called some friends who trained (God love them) twins, we talked each other up. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

And then Sunday came. Early. At 6:15, Lil E started yelling for us. And he was not happy to wake up to face the potty again. And he was even unhappier with us. Father's Day took second place to our boy acting out, refusing to sit down at all anywhere and asking over and over which pants would "keep him safe." He had lots of accidents, lots more tears and lots more hating on the mommy and daddy heading up this whole horrible idea.

So here we are, Monday morning. In a slightly better place, a place where there's not a struggle to get the undies on but where even M&Ms aren't even a good bribe for trying to sit it out on the potty. In a place where I can only ask, prompt and clean up as needed. In a place where I was sorry to leave a babysitter in charge of it all for four hours while I worked today and also desperately happy to flush it all for a few hours.

We're only on Day Three and I feel like we've said everything we can say, pulled out every little gimmick we've been advised to try, checked in with every parent we know who has made it through. I know it takes time, I know this shall all eventually pass (and pass and pass and pass), I know all this stuff.

But I am tired and it pains me to see my happy, chatty boy so angry and stubborn. I won't give in. I won't give in . I won't give in. I won't give in.

But I also won't lie. This is hell. Exhausting, preoccupying, booze-beckoning, depleting, crazy hell where everyone obviously does not poop.

Taking the day off

...to be Parent of the Day in Lil E's co-op classroom. It is the last day before a looooong, stretched out summer break (gulp). Usually, Bruce works our Parent of the Day gigs so I can have the time to work.  These work days have rendered him the "Toddler Whisperer" title among the swooning mommies not used to seeing a daddy herd small children and pass out graham crackers.

But today, I am putting the posting aside so I can suit my boy up for Beach Day and soak up some of the squealing, blankie-stealing and snack-hording that goes on his class.  We'll be having lunch picnic-style outside and then turning the hose and sprinklers on the kids, a perfect end to what has promised to be a 92-degree day and to a kooky/wonderful year that I'm surprisingly (or maybe not so) sentimental to say good-bye to my beloved mommy cult co-op this afternoon.

I'll meet you back here tomorrow to switch back to mama topics and spill the details of last night's burlesque class revelation. See you then!

AI, according to Bruce

On Melinda: "Oh no. Did she just make that little white girl cry?"

On Sanjaya: "What the hell?"

On my new boyfriend Beat Box Boy (and sarcastically, I might add): "Oh really. You like him. What a shock."

On other matters: "You taped over Dancing With The Stars. But I haven't watched it yet."

God, I love this man.

How to cure the flu in one glorious moment

I'm beginning to think the flu shot is a big governmental hoax. I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist (normally, in a non-Bush administration) and would blame this on the possibility of a watered down vaccination if we'd all had our shots together. But we didn't. And this weekend marked Bruce's third round of flu this year and my near-second (which practically counts since I still technically have a refill left on my appendectomy scripts). 

Maybe our flu shots were fully-loaded and germy toddler snot is just way more powerful than any prevention method manufactured in a lab over years and years and gazillions of research dollars.  It just so happens that Bruce was Parent of the Day at co-op on Thursday and came down with the nastiness on Friday. It wasn't a huge shock, what with that one kid who constantly gives our family the sickness sneezing all over the place and with Bruce's immune system of a pre-teen girl in medieval times. Then again, maybe the co-op's getting some crazy pharmaceutical funding or something and is at the root of all this illness that has me following Bruce  with rubber gloves (watch it) and bleach in a spray bottle.

Thank goodness for some points of light this weekend that diverted our attention from the fact that no, Daddy cannot come out of the bedroom his urpy-feverish-sicky smell haze for a delightful afternoon of Play-Doh and pretending to be Bob and Wendy who are building a new barn for Farmer Pickles (which sounds far more Rated R than it actually is) and the gulps of (*shudder*) Milk of Magnesia, vitamin C and ibuprofen in triplicate I had to take just to keep my body from toppling over the edge into full-blown fludom with Bruce.

The very best moment of our weekend landed right down the block on St. Patrick's Day.

I can't even believe this, but Lil E got to ride in an excavator! A real one, an operating one, a big, giant yellow excavator that we've been admiring for a week, at work in our neighborhood.

If you are/have/know a child who is as obsessed with vehicles as Lil E is (and the club of these two-year-olds is fast-growing), you'll understand what a HUGE deal this is. We took a walk to check out the big hole where the lovely old house was demolished to make room for an evil starter-castle, and were waved inside the gate to get a closer look. The dump truck driver hoisted Lil E up to see the excavator scooping dirt into his rig. Then, in this surreal moment of glory, the excavator guy waved us over and invited Lil E for a spin. There, behind the glass, I watched my boy go silent as the man showed him how to shift the levers to lower and raise the digger full of dirt. For several amazing minutes, I jumped up and down and waved at Lil E, taking many mental pictures and expressing all the complete glee that my boy holding in with a serious look of concentration and shyness.

After he was lowered down to the dump truck driver and then to me and we waved good-bye to our new friends and the construction site, I chattered on about going home to wake up Daddy to tell him. Lil E was pretty quiet and then half-way down the block said, "Oh no! I forgot to dump the dirt into the dump truck!"

He wasn't just riding along with the excavator driver. He was the excavator driver.

Whatever was or wasn't in our flu shots, we are getting good at being sick around here and seem to have our own formula for getting better. Tonight, Bruce actually ate a belated dinner of corned beef and cabbage with the rest of us at a family dinner at my parents' house. And we hunkered down on the couch together, singing silly songs designed to make a small child laugh hysterically and tickled when Lil E begged, "Tickle me some more, pleaaaaaaase!" And of course, we talked about the excavator adventure.

"Guess what?" my dad asked my boy, "YOU drove an excavator! How cool is that?! Give me a high five!"

And Lil E marched over to give a proud high-five, quietly beaming, dimples saying it all.

What Mama Woods and I might just have in common

Lil E loves golf.

I've written about before, talked about it often and it is as close to my mind as the whiffle, foam and real golf balls scattered from corner to corner of our tiny apartment.

He's nearly 2-1/2, so this obsession with putters, fairways and lining up the right shot is either adorable or creepy. We think it's adorable. The old men staring at Bruce when he took him to the Golf Dome to hit some balls? They thought it was creepy. At least until Bruce explained that going to the Golf Dome was all the shorty's idea. And trust me, it is.

People assume we push it on him or turned him on to his passion for greens and irons with our own interest in golfing. Not so. I don't remember how it began, but it was early, and it involved rapt attention while watching (yes, actual watching) golf tourneys on TV. The boy has three sets of well-used clubs -- one plastic, one real junior set and one foamy variation for rounds of (just as good) miniature furniture golf.

Many conversations in our home begin like this:
Mommy, the Golf Dome is very important because...

Earlier this week, we were camped out on the couch after a long day (and me needing another giant dose of ibuprofen) when Lil E popped up, scurried over to his bag of clubs and said:
Daddy, shall we get some golf action going?

And just this morning as we rushed to get Lil E all ready for another day at mommy cult co-op, to get Bruce geared up for Mommy Parent of the Day duties and to get me feeling awake and snazzy enough to go to a downtown doctor appointment, we were also being directed by the Benevolent Dictator himself in a golf-centered scenario:
Daddy, I will be Tiger Woods and you will be the o'er golfer guy. Daddy, you will be Vijay Singh. Mommy, you be ano'er golfer guy too!

Two years ago, I would have been astonished to hear the words that follow coming from my lips:
I could be Ernie Els.

Especially to my toddler's response:
Ooooh! Wha' you doiiiiiing, Ernie Els? Where's your driver and your iron and your putter, Ernie Els?

And most definitely not leading myself further into the imaginary conversation with:
Have you ever been to the Golf Dome, Tiger Woods and Vijay Singh?

And so it is in our little pocket of the world. Snowy, 27 degrees, behind schedule, half-dressed, out of milk and all about golf.

VDay is only for hotties in our house

Love is in the air in our little apartment. That is, if love comes in the form of oppressively hot radiator heat.

I shouldn't complain. For three days during a hell of a cold snap here in Chicago, three of our four radiators were completely cold. On Sunday, Bruce and I huddled together on the couch under blankets, which would sound romantic except that I was wearing an extra sweatshirt, hat, gloves and two pairs of socks over my clothes. Our landlord heard our teeth chattering and fixed the radiators so well that it is now officially July in our household. July without the air-conditioners, flip-flops and lazy afternoons at the park. July inside, February snowdrifts, slush puddles and frozen wind tundras outside.

But again, not complaining. At least the heat is on. On Valentine's Day, that is good. In many respects.

We'll be celebrating in true parent style, several days late and on a shoestring budget. I am good with that, happy not to feel the pressure and just focus on being together at our own pace. Here's how we are getting romantic on a budg:

First, we're seeing a play with tickets my parents passed on to us. They're not going because they're sunning and funning in Florida, so no need to harbor any feelings of sympathy that they will be missing out on a night of theatre.

Second, we will be having some kind of fabulous (possibly) dinner and (definitely) dessert and (double most definitely) drinks using an envelope of thank you-cash I got today at a market study on (don't throw up) deli meat. I eat sliced ham so we can drink extra dirty martinis with double olives. Good trade-off, right? And yes, I am that extra dirty grrrl. At least with my martoonis.

Finally, we'll be exchanging presents using five-year-old gift certificates to Williams-Sonoma and Crate & Barrel. Not that we need anymore crap to clutter up our tiny, overheated apartment, but still...A grrrl can always use another set of teensy, adorable appetizer plates, mais oui?

This whole night will really truly happen this weekend because of my kind-hearted BFF who actually loves to babysit for Lil E. No, really. We leave a twenty spot tucked in the take-out binder just for her and we're good. As much as I'm willing to pay $60+ for a romantic evening out with the hubs, I'm so thankful to have my own brilliant, fun, loving, kiddo dream of a friend to save the day. Who knew cupid changed diapers?

For now, we're doing it up kiddie style, with pink heart-shaped pancakes and BBQ-sauce covered heart-shaped meatloaf, and of course, a Bob the Builder Leggo set that really says...(Of course, it doesn't say anything but "Can we do it? Yes, we can!," which is a creepy thing to mention near Valentine's Day, but there it is.) All of it really says, I'm glad we're together. We're sweating our asses off, but I'm glad we're together.

Happy Valentine's Day! May you find the heat of the holiday in your home, too.

Photo: Bruce & Lil E collaborate on a love song / Jessica Ashley