Sassafrass

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.

Pulling off the Pull-Ups. For good (fingers crossed).

Potty training Lil E -- or my grandiose attempts to turn it into a fabulous and enticing party -- taught me a valuable and frustrating lesson: Let the kid go in his own time.

That means go and go. By some miracle of evolution or genetics, he did not inherit the peanut bladder both his parents have (which, by the way, made every road trip we ever took sort of like we were a traveling band of pregnant ladies). The kid is a camel and can (and will, thank you very much) hold it all day. He has had very few accidents but mostly because his iron will oversees his southern regions and he refuses to go at daycare, co-op and sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa's house unless I am there with him. Handy in Target? Yes. Fun to explain to a daycamp counselor? Not so much.

The only time Lil E is challenged in cameling is at night. He's a thirsty boy and I thought I was being savvy in ending the late night wakings and calls for a drink into the dark by leaving a sippy cup full of water in his crib, then toddler bed and now, big boy bed. It's worked like a charm. So far. So far is important because tonight is Night Nine.

(Keep reading to find out why Night Nine's such a bedtime biggie).
 

Just one more post about boobs. Swearsy.

I'm not sure if it is some kind of boob divinity or coincidence that I've been so focused on breasts here on the interwebs (right, like this is a new thing) and Lil E has moved his focus northward as well. Whatever it is, it is officially the way in our cozy little home.

Or at least it has been in the last week. Soon, I am sure, his boobcentricity will go the way of Elmo, off to some lonely corner where stuffed animals and Thomas trains and (God help us) pacifiers collect dust and await the arrival of other expensive child things that you've hunted down in Target and airports and grandma's house fourteen times too many. For now, though, where it's at does not include eye contact.

Lil E has not only noticed boobs in general like some three-year old epiphany, he's (erm) seemed to notice mine.

I know, I know. This is weird.

Tending to me (hey, it was a holiday)

Memorial Day weekend was a turning point in our house. Lil E was scheduled to have lots of time with his dad and grandparents. I had a big list of things I could do to fill the time and only a few friends around and in town to convince me to scratch all that. It was up to me to choose to have a weekend I needed rather than one I thought I should have.

You know what, though? I came through for myself. Usually, I am pretty good at the talk and then struggle when it comes to forgetting about the dishes and laundry and trips to the fruit market to just enjoy myself and wiggle around in the free time I am given. This time, I did it and good Lord, it felt right.

Instead of making lots of meals and catching up on chores, here's are four things I did to tend to myself this Memorial Day weekend. Nothing fancy, nothing too involved. Just what I needed:

When just relaxing requires a major renovation

After a few days of blerghy-dramatic dizziness and migraines, I took the weekend to do what I am always telling other people to do (sigh, why is that so challenging, to be as bossy to myself as I am to my grrrlfriends?). I relaxed.

This time, relaxing didn't include unpacking eighteen boxes or stopping at three grocery stores and Target in an effort to cram as much into my down time as possible. This time, relaxing included sleeping in the middle of the day, eating take-out, camping out on the floor to watch a movie, sleeping in and then topping it off with actually taking a nap while Lil E slept.

This weekend, I tried to listen to what my body was telling me: Too little sleep, too little food, too little time away from the laptop, too little fresh air, too little transition time between work and everything else is not good.

My body, as I have learned the hard way over the years and much more experience with blerghy-dramatic dizziness and migraines, screams out at me when it needs my attention.

Clearly, when my body's that worn, my spirit and mind are exhausted as well. In that place, the relaxing is not a luxury, it is a necessary repair. While thinking of my being as plumbing or ducts or some kind of dilapidated kitchen constructed in the (previous) avocado era isn't exactly pleasing or in line with that whole temple connotation, the sad truth is that I have been more likely to give my attention and energy to a spouting sink or blinking fluorescent light long before I would take a breather in the middle of my day or trash the to-do list for a weekend.

I know this isn't anything radical and that many mamas out there have the same struggles with self-care. How do we not only lose the time and inclination to take good care of ourselves, but the understanding of where to even start?

This weekend, I started with the basics. And this week, I am going to make those basics more of a habit.

You tell me: What do you do when your body is screaming for more self-care? How do take the time to tend to all that needs to be repaired in your being?

Remember Project: Life Change? Have any of those small changes made a big difference in how you are caring for yourself these days?

 

   

Postcards from the past few days

We're taking this weekend to settle in. While Lil E plays at "Daddy's park," I'll be hitting the blocks-long garage sales in the new neighborhood, making a Target run and spending time with people who don't (normally) engage in bathroom talk 80% of the conversation. Here are a few photos to catch you up on a wonderful and very full week of transition and adventures.

The potted flowering plant Lil E was so thrilled to give me bright and early on Mother's Day morning. He picked it out, he said, because it is "our favorite color!" You've got to adore a boy who can embrace pink so vivaciously.

Walking with Grandma and Grandma Alice through the halls of her nursing home to check in on some baby chicks who hatched a few weeks ago. Grandma Alice will be 100 this summer and although Lil E has never known the feisty, smart lady she is under the veil of Alzheimer's, they have always had an unspeakable, powerful, instinctual connection. You can feel it emanating between them as they hold hands, sing and smile at each other. 

(More pics after the jump)

This is where we live now. And this is how we got here

And so, we have made the leap.

Seven months ago, I left my therapist's office, picked up Lil E from co-op, took him home for a nap and packed a big bag of clothes while he slept.

I'm not sure what was in that bag. Basics, I suppose. Undies, Pull-Ups, toothbrushes, jeans, sneakers, long-sleeved t-shirts, his favorite jammies, his babies. I packed a few things of my own, more random things like bras and yoga pants and hair clips. I focused on the boy but couldn't center when it came to myself.

My mom came by with her car and support and brave smile over her own heartache and worry and anger. When Lil E woke up we put on even happier faces and went to a birthday party. We tossed our overnight bags in and presents on top. We talked up the party and how his good friend would be so excited to be three too, so thrilled to see him there.

And then we never went home.

So this is what it looks like when you're off the grid

It has been quite a week. Scratch that -- quite a month. Make that -- quite a year. I suppose it was inevitable that, at some point, something I was clinging inside my clenched fist would fall out.

Where I show up just in time for dinner with a full basket of dirty laundry and ask for twenty bucks, please

It has been one long week since I visited and I feel a bit like a college student who is weary from killer finals and post-killer finals keggers at the frat barn who has returned home for a break that she swears will be packed full of working for some family friend or another and spending QT with the fam but will really be spent sleeping in late and hoping her mother does her laundry.

Except, without all the overly foamy Milwaukee's Best (forgive me for this, but I am totally conditioned by attending a highly-competitive state school in Missouri to follow that brand mention with horned fingers in the air and yelling, "Bring on The Beeeeaaaaast").  Oh, and without the sleep.

We've been busy. I've been working a lot of hours (this is a good thing...right?) and squeezing in an exhaustive apartment search, games of Candy Land, co-op and daycare, energy-burner laps around the block and praying for spring to arrive for real this week into any and every free moment. 

Thankfully like the whole college spring break (well, my college spring breaks which never involved bikinis or clubs in Florida filled with foam and jello shots), my parents have been very involved. My mom took on this wonderful, wired-up role as apartment finder and with my dad, did drive-bys and internet research and Google map consulting for weeks and weeks.

My dad patiently finished and folded all the laundry I neglectfully left in the washing machine for days on end and did his crossword with Lil E snuggled in beside him in the big chair while I sat in front of my laptop for seemingly endless hours, scouted out more apartments and did and re-did and re-did my monthly budget.

And just like seeing that A arrive in mail in rubbed-off type on a tissue paper report card, there are shining moments when staying up studying and cramming and flexing the brain until 3 a.m. in boxers and t-shirts from said frat barn keggers all seems worth it.

We got an apartment. An apartment (feel free to say that as shrill as needed...I do)! A lovely place that I could immediately picture us in. It is bright and safe and feels happy, even without our things inside. It is close to the apartment where we used to live, even closer to my parents and closer still to a big park that I've always loved. We will not be far from our old friends and we will be in a new place where I know there will be new neighbors to meet.

We have a lot of work to do before we settle in to our new home. There will be more late nights, more stress, more juggling of childcare and schedules and expectations. But once the books are closed, the lights are out and we are tucked into our own beds in our own home, I think there will be that sigh of relief that only comes when you've accomplished something big.

Sometimes, I guess, those accomplishments are academic, sometimes professional and often familial. They are always emotional, though, aren't they? And almost always solved by just getting home.

Wedding Weekend: The ring bearer bares it all

This weekend, Molls got married. It was one of those weddings that you leave happy -- teary from the grace and bliss of it all, exhausted from singing into thumb microphones with your grrrlfriends and dancing with your boy to Motown all night and so full of hope that there is love like that and it can last. Happy.

I was a bridesmaid, Lil E was a ring bearer and we proudly stood beside Molls, one of our favorite people in the world and one of the strongest people in  our now very definitive circle of loved ones. Lil E was ecstatic in his tiny tux and told Molls earlier in the week, "I know you will look amazing!"  And she did.

Rewinding a bit before that, though, to the rehearsal dinner and the toasts and giggles and all the pretend pomp and circumstance, Lil E was far more serious. He took his little bow to Baby Jesus that the Catholics like you to take as you greet the priest, and he stood silent and with eyebrows knit in concentration as the bride and groom lit an imaginary unity candle and exchanged air rings and mouthed their vows.

He explained the complexities of Lightning McQueen to adult members of the bridal party at dinner and raised his juice box to toast the happy couple. He was a good boy, a sweet boy and he seemed to soak up all the loving energy in the room. I held him tightly against me as he grew tired and requested his paci and babydoll Tiger and time crept far beyond his bedtime.

He was asleep by the time we got home and I carried his limp body inside, peeled off his coat and hat and shoes and dress shirt. He woke up then and smiled up at me wearily.

"Mommy, is the rehearsal over?" he asked.

I nodded. "Shhhh. Close your eyes."

And I laid him back down on the bed, ran a finger down his nose and went to find a Pull-Up and clean pajamas.

When I turned back to put them on, though, he was still reclining but with his arms back, hands behind his head, bare chest thrust out. He looked, dare I say, playboy-in-practice-ish.

"What are you doing?!" I laughed quietly and he answered me like it was completely obvious.

"Pushing out my boobies!"

"What?!" I laughed, this time louder. And then we got to the heart of the matter.

"Mommy, what are boobies?"

It was a good question, I guess, but it threw me off since the kid spent a good 18 months so attached to them. I pointed to my chest.

"These," I said matter-of-factly.

"Ohhhh."

"You don't really have boobies," I clarified. And honestly, yes, I would normally say breasts but nearly two hours after regular night time, in the nightlight-lit room of your parents' house where you are transitioning from marriage into single momdom, these formalities cease to hold such importance.

"But I like boobies," he said completely convincingly, "So why can't I have them?!"

I smiled and slid his camouflage pajama top over his head, but I was thinking as I undressed and redressed him, covering the boobies he wished he could thrust forward into the world, or at least the quiet safety of his room, that he'd tiredly tapped into a question of the ages.

Or at least of much of mankind.  Ahhh yes, small boy, if you only knew how many grown men still wonder why, if they love boobies so much, they can't have access to them all the time. And so another lesson is learned for this 3-year-old, I suppose: Sometimes we thrust out what we don't have just because we so wish we had it. Sometimes, that's adorable and optimistic and full of hope.

And other times, it's just a reality check of who we really are, what time it is and that we need some sleep before a big day of putting forward who we really are.

H-E-double hockey sticks-P

I have a hard time asking for help.

And if you know me (even a little bit), this is not news. If you know me really well (or even more than that), this has made you roll your eyes many, many times -- at Thanksgiving dinners with a child sweaty and sound asleep in a sling on my chest when I couldn't scoop my own mashed potatoes but tried desperately to do it myself thanks very much anyway, and in college when I sobbed into the echoey stall because I couldn't wash my own hair with a cast on my broken arm until my roommate forced her way into the shower with me and told me to breathe while she shampooed and conditioned and later blow-dried and brushed my hair for me, and when I've sputtered into paralyzing panic attacks over mice in the (shiver) apartment and into humor-masked rages over jackass men and when the little unattended girl in the restaurant where I waited tables in grad school jumped up and under the tray I was holding full of Mother's Day mimosas and champagne and Old Fashioneds and sodas and hit the tray, spilling the drinks all over me and the tables around me and thank the goddesses, shards of glass narrowly missing her but not the concrete floor and I just needed someone to smile at my customers for a moment while I gasped after I cleaned it all up and before I returned to my tables soaked through with orange juice and bubbly and red wine. So yes, you all are aware. I am fiercely independent.

It has served me well often. It has moved me through and helped me rise above. It has helped me survive, persevere, buck up, pack up, walk away, come home. As often as it has helped, however, it has also hurt.

Independence doesn't have to, but often does, I've have learned through many dollars in therapy co-pays, precluded reaching out for help. Knowing when to ask for help, especially when it is hardest, is as important for me as knowing when I really can go it alone.

Slowly, surely, with practice and some wincing, I am trying to reach out. I am trying to tune in to what I do need and when it is OK to ask for it. When my friends and family say they want to be there, I am really trying to say OK rather than nod politely and note-to-self that I will never take them up on their generous offers.

So today -- and this is small and significant, which is how I like my lessons these days -- I asked a friend who loves music like I love music to please send me a mellowish and nice song. A feel-good song. A song that would speak to where I am today. A song that would help me move into tomorrow peacefully, calmly after some real turbulence in the days behind me. I asked for a Song of the Day, please, in the spirit of a little help from my friends.

And this is the song I got. How did I miss this song on the Oscars? It is so lovely, so perfect for right now, it is speaking so much to me, that I have had it on repeat for almost an hour.

And considering my last post, I love the congruity of the image of the boat. That wasn't planned. Just a little bit of that daily divinity I so adore, so appreciate and so welcome. The best part is, it came my way when I asked for a little help.

I am learning. Slowly. And tonight, I am listening.  Serenely.

Scratch that...You can call him Lil P now

Ever since Lil E has leaped into potty-pendence, he's carried himself, at least in the path toward the powder room, with a confidence and pride and excitement that I find delightful and amusing. Is it wrong to be so gooby about your boy going Number One upright?

OK, maybe. Is this, as my mom would say with her talk-to-the-hand up, "T.M.I!"? Sure. But I think we can all agree that it is entertaining. So I will just keep going until, one day when he Googles himself as a break from writing out (hahahaha, writing out...who knew I was so old school already?) college apps, the first thousand hits on his nickname will be categorized under the urinary tract.  Not to worry, I already have a therapy trust earning a hefty interest rate as I type. Back to the bathroom...

The boy's taking a stance

There has been a surge of independence in the household, especially for the boy. Especially for the boy in the bathroom.

In the flick of a flusher, he can -- and more importantly for a preschooler with big opinions, he will -- GO POTTY, MOMMY, ALL BY MYSELF AND YOU STAY IN THE ODDER ROOM BECAUSE I CAN DO IT ALL BY MYSELF COMPLETELY!!! And let me tell you, mamas, there is nothing that can highlight the discomfort of perching on the side of the bathtub for long periods like not having to perch on the side of the bathtub for long periods of waiting to wipe. All the steps, from pants and Elmo undies removal to hands washing, are covered. Life is good.

For Lil E, a little potty-pendence also means standing to pee. Ohhhhh, ladies, I hear you sighing along with me. Of course, I think all boys should stand tall when they let it flow. Of course. I was just really hoping my dad would be back from vacation to help the boy finesse his technique before we entered the splash zone.