Entries Tagged 'Identity crisis' ↓

You know how when you’re in a certain frame of mind, you keep seeing the same thing everywhere? Like spotting pregnant women when you’re trying to get pregnant or cuddling couples when you miss your sweetie? Today I saw moms battling through their days on the front lines of parenting everywhere I turned. And I realized, quite suddenly, that I wasn’t one of them. Not in a permanent, never catch a break, Chinese water torture kind of way anyway. And it sort of blew my mind.

It all started while I was waiting in a crowded waiting room. I was watching the mom across me with her baby. Usually a mom like that would see me back. We would nod and smile and ask each other how old our babies were. I kept waiting for our eyes to meet. I kept smiling at her son. She talked to the lady with the baby next to her, but me? Nothing. And that’s when I realized the deal. I didn’t have a baby with me. I was just another person, a person who probably didn’t get it anyway.

Whoa.

When my appointment was over, I jumped into my car, turned up the radio, and headed over to Barnes and Noble. I sat there amongst the stacks paging through various books. It was quiet. No rushing. Nobody tugging at me, no one verging on a melt down. I paid for my purchases and left.

But as I pushed through the doors, I saw more mothers by the fountain outside the store. Meeting, chatting, rocking their strollers back and forth, sipping coffee, disheveled, ponytails, all in it together. I walked by. I wasn’t part of this.

In Target I circled the grown-up clothes, considering office appropriate options. I looked at my leisure. But all around me, it was on. Babies screaming, children tantruming, rolling and pleading on the carpet. I saw one toddler beam his sippy cup off the floor and, while his mom scurried after it, he upended the bag of goldfish he had been snacking on. Her face – tight, colorless – said it all. But my attempts to help her were rebuffed. I was an outsider. I wasn’t in it right then. I had no diapered, sticky-chinned, napless wee one in the seat of my cart. How could I possibly understand what she was going through? How dare I consider myself part of this?

At check out, a pregnant mother searched everywhere for a gift card she had counted on to buy her kids shoes. Through her purse, through her pockets, she was frantic. And while she searched, her toddler proceeded to untie the back of her shirt while her preschooler took her searching as a cue to entirely unpack her purse. Change clinked through the holes in the cart, a lip gloss rolled under the cash register.

But I was two people back. I was not part of this. I was only an observer.

Now. Before I get all solemn and reflective here, I actually returned to the front lines only a couple hours later. My four year old, with yogurt stains on this pants and glitter in his hair, found his place by my side on the way into the grocery store after school pick-up. And he, being exhausted by his day, decided he needed a snack, water AND one of those ginormous child-friendly shopping carts that I hate with a passion crash into everything. Unable to provide him with all three, he lost his mind right there and then.

Pinwheeling arms, spitty howls, dirty tear streaked cheeks, time outs, trips to the water fountain, hugs.

And there they were all around me. The observers. The people who didn’t get it. I don’t care how many children they had once upon a time, I wasn’t about to look up at them and meet any one’s sympathetic stares. They weren’t in it right then, right there. How could they possibly understand? How dare they try.

My trips to the front lines are certainly less frequent now – and that means a very unfamiliar shift for my identity. There will be more of me, just me, finding my way through the day. And there won’t be a child erupting besides me explaining, defining who I am or what I do either . So I guess it’s my job to make sure I know how to be just me now and maybe use my new perspective to be a better parent when I do revisit the front lines.

Well, enough of these deep thoughts for this Friday afternoon. I hear my kids calling me over for a round of “Just Dance”. Before I go dust off my “running man”, I will say just this. No matter how much of me is on my own these days, those boys of mine still define an enormous part of me. It’s just that, kind of all of the sudden, they aren’t all of me.

Huh.

Like I said, mind-blowing.

Have a good weekend.

You know you do it. I know I do it. I think everyone does it. Vanity checks itself in and we just can’t help ourselves. I want to look my best, I want people to think I look like that all the time, no really, that’s how I look.

What am I talking about? You know. When you post Facebook or Flickr pics or some carefully crafted Shutterfly photo album, you make every effort to upload only your most flattering pictures.

Not that one, my head looks big. Oh not that one, one eye is shut. DEFINITELY not that one, holy muffin-top pouring out of the top of my jeans.

I read a post on BlogHer titled Own Your Beauty. And while a beautifully written post, it challenged each reader to start a self-potrait project and take pictures of yourself everyday. An interesting idea indeed. But I pushed it aside. I’m not sure I had the energy or care to really pony up, snap and post my own picture everyday. Yawn. Who needs it.

But then I kept thinking about it. Would I even have the ovaries to post a pic of myself everyday in the first place? On the days when I don’t like how I feel. On the days when my muffin-top seems to pour out and smother any “feel good” vibes I may have had about myself? No way. I don’t want to. I don’t think people want or care to see it. I don’t think it’s worth it.

And then I got to thinking about the things I don’t like about myself. And how relative it all is. I am well aware I’m just up in my own mind about it. I know these are my own weird particular issues. And I know all of these things drag me down, blind me to the rest of it and render me  impossibly self-conscious.

It is so frustrating. Because on the flip side I understand (in a very secure, logical way) that I’m a regular woman and I look just fine. I get that these insecurities are all just silly. I know I’m better than that anyway.

Why?

Because I’m a feminist, dammit. I read The Beauty Myth in college (required reading for every woman, totally changed my life). I GET IT. I know how messed up our standards of beauty are in this country. I KNOW we need to love ourselves and not let any of this misogynistic crap get us down. To hell with them!

So why do I look over at my husband and shyly tell him I feel awful about myself sometimes? What the hell is that about? How can I claim these rational ideals with pride but they still can’t push me past my own hang-ups?

Because everyone has their stuff. I have my stuff.

I hate my glasses. They represent some ugly ducking part of my childhood that I wore over my face. Growing up, I truly believed that no cute boy would ever really see past them. And then I said, screw it, glasses are who I am. Rock on. It’s MY identity. And yet, when I got contacts at 20, I felt like some new person. As if I had just gotten reconstructive surgery and they had just removed an enormous wart off my face. I was free!

I hate my front tooth. Long story but it was shattered by a piece of a telephone when I was 15. And I have not had the funds to really fix it. I hate hate hate it.

I could go on. But the point is WE ALL COULD GO ON. With a laundry list of stuff we can’t stand about ourselves. And I would bet every single dollar in my savings AND my Kia that even the most lovely women in the world have a list as equally long as yours and mine. And you might say “F them, what have THEY got to complain about?”

Yeah, exactly. None of it makes sense. Beauty may be something society determines but WE have ourselves all carved up and hidden thanks to our own subjective, warped preconceptions.

So, as a small form of social protest, here’s my salute to my own beauty this morning.

(This will be my only pic. In fact, I do NOT have the ovaries, the time or the focus to take pics of myself everyday.)

I’m not showered. My teeth aren’t brushed. My split ends haven’t been trimmed since June. I am wearing an old T Shirt I got at BlogHer 08. My recently obsessed over lines on my face are smiling back at you. And my fab, in need of a prescription update glasses are front and center. And so is my stupid tooth, glaring out for the world to see.

Good morning.

But it is me. And I swear to you — taking a deep breath and infusing my heart with every lesson I ever learned in The Beauty Myth right now, I swear to God — I look just FINE. Really.

But don’t get me wrong. I won’t be posting my muffin-top, one eye closed, tooth glaring pics on Facebook from now on or anything. Hellllll no.

I’m just being “SELF-AWARE” right now. And promising to you all that “I GET IT”.

Damn. What a mess.

Vanity, self-worth, beauty, all of it.

There is no rhyme or reason to it whatsoever.

Here’s hoping you find your beauty and hold on to it tightly whenever and where ever you find it. TIGHT I tell you. Those pretty days, those awesome hair days, those I look SO DAMN CUTE in my jeans days… hold on to them. Revel in them. Roll around in them. And take pictures and pin them up and remind yourself that THAT is YOU.

Now excuse me. It’s time I go have a shower, get on with my day, and (good Lord woman, brush your hair at least) stop fixating on everything I see in the mirror.

I promised a second BlogHer post. You know the one where I tell all of you what I learned there? So I think I’ll start by sharing the questions that I had rattling around in my brain when I arrived. Not that there are clean answers to anything. But understanding the question is the only way to figure out an answer, right?

So here we go.

• What am I doing here?

• Can I really justify being at this fancy shmancy blogging conference?

• Is blogging just a hobby or a real professional gig?

• Can bloggers who write (rather than strictly review) succeed as writers? And I mean as real, legitimate writers?

• How are bloggers really perceived by the outside world? Are they considered writers? Or as people who just write their opinions about products and what their kid just did in his pants?

• How much skill is involved to succeed as a writer? Or is it more about persistence? Or luck? Or perception?

• How much change can a blogger affect by writing? Is writing blog posts about something you feel passionate about enough? Or should you practice what you write more often, so to speak.

• Do companies ever want to engage with bloggers because of their writing? Or do they want us for our readership? Or both?

• How much do bloggers need to brand themselves? Is branding yourself the only way to create a perception that you are kind of a big deal? Does the writing ever speak for itself?

• Does blogging spoil a writer? Is posting everything she thinks a bad idea (rather than work on an idea, expand on it, edit it, perfect it and submit it to something real)?

• If a blog post falls in the forest, does it make any noise if no one is there to hear it? In other words, is blogging ultimately about readership and outreach?

• Can bloggers succeed without being their own PR and legal rep? Or will we all be taken advantage of and wind up blogging for pennies in dingy basements never to see the light of a real, true, “I can pay my bills now” paycheck?

• Does blogging ever give you enough return on your investment? Is it worth all of the hard work?

• Which leads me back to my first question: what am I doing here?

BlogHer had every assortment of panel to sit in on and learn from. And so many amazing people were crammed into those rooms to attempt to answer some of these questions. Conversations were had in hallways, over meals at outdoor cafes, while recharging laptops, rumbling through town in taxis, up in hotel rooms sprawled out on beds and on top of cheeseburger shaped furniture.

Were my questions answered?

Um. Well. Here are the conclusions I’ve come to. For what they’re worth.

• Blogging can be just a hobby. But it can definitely work to your advantage in your profession, whatever that might be. It’s up to you.

• No one will hand you a writing career on a silver platter, no matter how many posts a week you crank out.

• Blogging for and about stuff is most certainly not the same as blogging for the sake of writing. But both are blogging. And that’s ok.

• Yes, perception (yours, your reader’s, the non blogging world’s) absolutely matters.

• Writers get better by writing. So keep writing. Where ever, whenever. Writers also get better by reading so don’t forget to read and connect with other writers.

• Companies really really like your readership. But. They might like the magic you write to make that readership come to you in the first place too. And they hope you can spin a spell about their stuff with your words. That is valuable. If you want it to be.

• The number of comments or size of your readership is most certainly not an accurate reflection on the quality of your writing. At least that’s what they keep telling me.

• Bloggers CAN affect change just by writing. They really, truly, without a doubt can. (And I adore all the women who tackled me to say so after I asked that question at a panel.)

• Decide what you want from blogging. Then decide if pushing your own “brand” will then get you what you want. Bloggers blog for many different reasons so how you approach blogging does not need to be the same.

• People should read your posts and hear your voice. Because blogging is not just about your writing but most importantly about conversations, connecting and reaching out to an important community.

• Yes blogging is worth it for the friendship, the growth, the self-evaluation, the support, for so so much we just can’t put a price tag on. But is it worth it for the money? Um. No.

• Yes writers can make money writing. Or so I hear.

So what am I doing here?

My blog is my home. It is my most comfy chair, with my most comfy blanket thrown over top, with a cup of cocoa, a really good movie on and my cat curled at my feet. I love it here. I’m not going anywhere. It is here where I will practice this concept of “writing” – I’ll kick it around, try it on, spin it in front of a mirror and see how it looks.

As for writing as a profession, I’ll just keep plugging away at other venues and see where it takes me – one itty bitty paycheck at a time.

So was being at BlogHer worth it? Yes, I think so. It’s breath-taking to be part of something so incredible with such a powerful voice. And I adored seeing all of my friends. It was as if my twitter stream had come to life – all of those avatars had grown legs and were passing me left and right in the hallway. It was kind of great. Plus I think justifying anything empowering for me – when I give myself so little most of the time – is totally ok.

Sure, I still kind of struggle with my blogging identity. But that’s ok too. Because the minute I get too comfortable I won’t challenge myself, I won’t grow, I won’t get better at any of it.

So, one more time, what am I doing here?

I writing. And connecting. It’s as simple as that.

I remember seven.

I remember plastic bobbled ponytails and faded iron on t-shirts and socks with colored bands around my calves.

I remember dancing with my friend in front of her record player, the Bee Gees pumping night fever, night fever, we know how to do it. And collapsing into bean bags chairs, gulping down Kool Aid out of sticky McDonald’s glasses.

I remember roller skating, crunching over sandy sidewalks, rolling around and around the playground while my brother pushed his cars in the sandbox.

I remember cramming into the back of my parent’s station wagon with friends, a faded green swimsuit, powdered rubber swim caps, piling and pushing each other out and lining up in front of a freezing swimming pool.

I remember testing out a quick kiss with a boy named Matt under the jungle gym and wondering what the big deal was.

I remember speeding through the neighborhood on a banana seat bike with glittery orange and pink fringe whipping in the wind from the tips of my handlebars.

I remember car trips and train trips and camping with my family. I remember Disneyland and climbing trees and learning how to dive under waves at the ocean. I remember figuring out how to wash my own hair and standing on a chair backed up to the sink helping my mother wash dishes. I remember asking if driving a car was fun and what it felt like to be tall. I remember believing in the Easter Bunny and Santa, kind of.

I remember being seven.

And now my oldest child is turning seven.

I know memories are being created and carefully slotted into his mind everyday. And I know I am charged with tending to his childhood, tilling his experiences, allowing him to grow and be and explore and eventually remember it all. Hopefully fondly.

But in a mind blowing, “this is the meaning of life” kind of way, my seven does not seem that long ago. Only a few years back even. The taste of Kool Aid and feel of ponytails and fun of climbing trees and trust and wonderment and identity of seven only just happened. It seems.

Yet now here’s his seven. His childhood has arrived.

This small boy who I gave birth to on a rainy May evening is now experiencing his world in ways that will create the person he will become. And while fighting off my own self indulgent tendencies to insist that I am still a child in fact and any child of mine could not possibly be… seven. While I’m doing plenty of that, I hold tight and steady myself. It’s on me to make sure that his seven counts. That these years are good years that he will look back on and laugh and wonder and ask who remembers Wii and the 2010 Tampa Rays and Little League and chocolate milk after school and popcorn during Friday night movies and swimming for hours at the local swimming pool.

His seven is right here, right now.

But my seven is still here too, reminding me what it means, what really matters, and insisting that I cherish all of what seven should be about.

I wonder. Has he ever heard the Bee Gees cranked at full volume? It may be time that he does.

I have lines on my face.

And so does just about every woman in her thirties and far far far beyond.

But humor me while I quickly consider this fact. And you probably will since I’m going to bet that many readers have been at this moment, pouting deep within the indulgence of his or her own ego, realizing that her face is simply not what it was.

In those very early, hardly adult years, I think a lot of us kind of kid ourselves. Not me. I won’t get lines. I’ll be one of those Jane Seymour types that never ages. Lines happen to everyone else. Like my mom. Or, ok, if I do get lines, it will be a long, long, very long time from now. Like when I’m as old as Rose from “Titanic”, and they will look beautiful, regal and well earned after the amazing life I’ve led. And then with a dramatic sigh, I will die peacefully in my sleep with memories of steamy love affairs with Leonardo DiCaprio comforting my way to the pearly gates. Lines show up then. Not now…

Not true.

The other day I was flying about my house trying to get my kids out the door to a game. Did they have their shoes, where are their snacks, stop hitting your brother, get in the car, STOP hitting your brother, where is my cell, SIT DOWN, stop hitting your brother, here is your water, are you strapped in, ok.

And I shut the car door.

Well, there I was staring back in the window’s reflection. I’m not sure what it is about a car window’s reflection – but I saw it all. Or at least more than I usually do. Deep, annoyed grooves, pressed lips, sagging parentheses around my mouth, horizontal zigzags across my forehead and two harsh vertical divots between my eyes which I believe are called the “elevens” (thank you Dr. 90210 for naming the ugly).

So much for Jane Seymour.

Now I know this is nothing unique and hardly deserves any sympathy. I am 37. Time goes by, your face changes, suck it up. I’m not even all that woeful and wishing I was a pretty little 23 year old thing. Because I’m just not. I’m a 37 year old mature, regular, typical mom thing. And that’s totally fine.

But seeing that reflection was certainly one more lesson in vanity and the useless time wasted on vanity, a lesson on time gone by and of course my own mortality.

I watch my children grow and run and change around me everyday. My six year old’s ankles have suddenly shown themselves under the cuffs of his pants legs. His new, adult teeth are boldly making their place in his mouth. I find him standing with his hands in his pockets, or lying on the carpet with his hands behind his head – glimpses of the relaxed adult he will be. And my three year old is going to school too and even reading. And finding the bathroom when he needs to go on his own. And finally taking turns. They are morphing before my very eyes, becoming something completely new over the course of days, months and years.

Why do I assume that time stands still for me? That I remain unchanged and unaffected? I honestly shouldn’t. Because I don’t.

This post isn’t supposed to be another wistful feel sorry for myself blather. I mean it. I don’t think I look particularly awful or anything. And I am certainly not hoping to score some free botox for a nice little review on my site. (Although I’m betting it happens on blogs elsewhere.)

I’m really ok about it (…I post here as convincingly as possible…). I’m just making a note of it. I have lines on my face. I am not who I was. I age.

(Bleh.)

Now to make sure any new arrivals become laugh lines instead of any other kind. It’s something to work on at least. That and to someday be as beautiful, as at peace and as satisfied with my life as Rose’s character was in Titanic. I’d toss everything of value in the ocean too if I could have that.

So until then, onward.

(Just promise not to tell my husband about those Leonardo DiCaprio affairs. A lady must have her secrets…)

Confidence is such a tricky thing. For anyone. I don’t care how many fancy degrees you do or don’t have under your belt, how hard you rock your job or how many awards you’ve earned as mother of the year. Confidence never comes automatically with any of it.

I am struggling to find a little of it myself these days. I privately brim and bubble with so much self doubt. It feels a little pathetic, and lonely, and then just feeds back into the cycle, so I feel worse and silly and not worth the trouble.

How did I get to this point? Why can’t I find my own private brand of “awesome” and feed off of that all day?

I have been out of an office place for almost seven years. And I am starting to re-fire my engines and consider going back (into something, anything) later this year. I don’t feel ready, I don’t know what I am doing, my professional skills feel entirely too atrophied, any competitive edge I thought I had seems long LONG gone.

Something happens when you stay home with your children. Something happens when you bring home your newborn and have to lower your expectations of productivity to a snails pace. Maybe you’ll get a shower in during the day or a bit of food. Maybe. You don’t prioritize your needs and then you don’t expect to owe yourself much. I think I kind of just got used to never quite being 100% so great at anything ever since. Or I assumed I wasn’t. It’s just not about me anymore.

(Ugh. Patheticness. Am already annoying myself with this post.)

Ok, its not as if I shouldn’t feel proud of some of the things I have accomplished. My children are amazing. And I am grateful for that. And to make a general statement that staying home with your kids makes you weak, well, come on. We KNOW that’s not true.

It’s just you have to dig way down deep to reclaim that piece of awesome I had reinforced on a regular basis beforehand.

Because you know that having children just adds a heap load more reasons to doubt myself. A heap load. When it comes to something so dear to your heart, when you have two children’s futures resting in your hands, when its on you to make sure they turn out ok… well, it’s hard to feel like any kind of rock star parent. There is a LOT to mess up, my friends. A lot.

Plus raising children 24/7 with no job review, or cute clothes, or pat on the back from any sort of boss, or flashy benefits assuring that you are SO worth that fancy “mom” title. Well. I usually have no idea if I am even in the ballpark of doing an ok-ish job as a mom.

So I have to dig deep.

Shovel, sling dirt, Yoo hoo, where’s my awesome? Shovel, sling dirt, it’s gotta be down here. Shovel, sling dirt, I think. Shovel, sling dirt, somewhere.

Somewhere, somehow, that old “who gives a crap what they think” will resurface, that swagger, that special something that I used to have.

Meh. Yeah. I don’t know.

And I know its not just me. I know lots of parents feel this way. Or every day folk stuck in jobs that they don’t love but are lucky to have. Or anyone stuck in any kind of rut or wishing for something more or wondering where the old “me” went and if they ever had it in the first place.

I am going to have to muster up a sizeable amount of “I’ve got nothing to lose” if I want to get back out there and work again. I have to find my value, my real worth and then – *eeps* – actually flaunt it. I have to convince someone, anyone that I am worth paying a chunk of money to and that I am so super-fabulous-awesome even though I’ve only worked part time here and there and really the only productive thing I’ve done over the past seven years is write. But how productive is that when it’s amounted to the equivalent of a few grocery trips and tanks of gas? No disrespect, glad to have that much, but how the hell do I, little ol’ me, translate as anything worthy?

Groan. WOW. I don’t like not being confident. I don’t like how I sound. I feel all kinds of icky when I’m feeling sorry for myself. And then I assume if I annoy myself this much, I must be annoying to everyone else so I back off. Don’t mind me. I’m the frumpy mommy mess, talking to myself in a corner. Move along. Nothing to see here.

I SO scream “hire me!” don’t I?

So yeah. Confidence is a tricky thing. Fleeting, here and there, evaporating, condensing, dropping back in, and gone again.

I think its rebuilt on the little achievements and the possibility of doing more the next time. I think its about taking chances and promising yourself that any risk is worth the reward. Its about reminding yourself about what you’ve done before and your ability to do that bigger and better the next time.

My parenting abilities, my writing skills, my job worthiness, my value as a friend, my position as a valuable, contributing member of society.

I’m working on it. I’m digging for it. Deep. Shovel, sling dirt, I remember leaving it down here, somewhere.

Do you know that feeling when you watch reality shows like “Extreme Home Makeover” and you see amazing things happen for people and you say out loud “that sort of stuff never happens to me”? Or how about the reality show ”What Not to Wear”. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to wear really nice clothes instead of jelly smeared jeans? I know these sorts of shows well. I watch, I smile and I think “not in a million years”.

Well, during my time in NYC, I kind of had an “Extreme Home Makeover / What Not to wear” moment. A real one. I think it would have made a great reality show actually. And it all has to do with Vivienne Tam.

As you know by now, I spent 4 amazing days in New York City for fashion week thanks to the folks at Buzz Corps, HP and Vivienne Tam. The entire experience in itself was “reality show” worthy in that this sort of stuff *SO* does not happen to me. I spent every day thanking everyone around me. I thanked drivers (oh wait I hugged him too), door holders, hotel folks, waiters, even random people I passed on the streets for slightly stepping out of my way. I was so damn grateful to be there. Every crack and crevice I happened upon heard my gratitude, loud and clear.

But then something even more amazing happened to all the bloggers on this trip. “What? MORE?!” I hear you mumble. Yes, more. We were given a gift.

We started out mid morning in our shuttle not exactly knowing where we were headed. When we pulled up to Vivienne Tam’s boutique, it was familiar to us after having been there the night before for her show. So we stepped out of the bus and walked in, curious. The entire space had changed into a “store” with racks of her dresses lined up, mannequins dressed, shoes and bags on display. We all wandered around, happy to see the goods in daylight for better pictures and also excited to see more of her line. We snapped pics, picked out favorites, held them up to each other, laughed at the possibilities and moved along.

And then Alan Wang, the Vivienne Tam boutique manager and all around very nice man, got our attention. He stood at the front of the store and thanked us for being here this week. He told us how much Vivienne Tam truly appreciates our support and that she recognizes the important work we do. And as a symbol of her gratitude, she would like to give us a gift. Each of us were welcome to pick out one dress. To keep.

Blank stares. It dawns on us. Mouths drop. Rushed whispering. Quiet squeals. And then me, “Can I hug you right now?”

I am not sure what he said next (although I remember that he diplomatically ignored my invitation for a hug, smart man), but it had begun to sink in. Kind of. We could pick a dress in that room to take home. To wear. To have. To feel fabulous in.

And we were off. Some spending time carefully considering. Others leaping on the handbags and shoes (understandably). And then there was me who grabbed one dress and dashed for the dressing room. What if they changed their minds? Quick. Let me get this on and out the door before they decide this isn’t such a great idea.

I wound up with the second dress I tried on. I truly felt amazing in it. I ran around the store in it. I teared up. Three times. Shamelessly. My friend Moosh in Indy saw my Hanes her Way and that’s cool by me. This was serious business. I got an amazing dress. A Vivienne Tam dress. Glamorous pieces of clothing like this just don’t exist in my life. But now one does. (And it is laughing at everything else in my closet as I write this.)

So what happened next? Just wait. Yes, there’s more.

That night we were welcome to attend another event back at the Vivienne Tam boutique. This was the official launch of the Vivienne Tam Hp Mini. Another night on the town? What better excuse to don our fab dresses. And that we did.

I also brought my VT HP Mini with me. I just figured it would be good to have it since that evening was all about it.

And so what happens? Vivienne Tam arrives, speaks to her guests and then offers to sign anyone’s computers. So now, under my right hand in the bottom corner of my Mini, is Vivienne Tam’s signature. She signed it for me and you know what she said to me? She said I was so beautiful in her dress.

Wow. This mom with jelly smeared jeans and a leaking sippy cup in her purse could be beautiful.

It was a moment. To be sure.

And that’s what the dress and the computer have come to represent. Women running around managing the insanity of their lives, elbow deep in dirty boy socks and sticky pots of mac and cheese DO deserve nice things. A dress like this, a computer like this – well, they are simply special things. Little bits of fabulous that remind you that you are actually “worthy” – socks and mac n cheese aside.

So I had that “What not to Wear” moment. And staying true to the thanking theme of my week, I thanked Vivienne Tam that night. I thanked her for making me feel more beautiful and special than I had in years.

My gratitude is endless, my heart is full and my sense of beautiful is in check.

For that (just one more time) I say: Thank you.

For more information about the HP products I review, please visit my HP Update page.

As much as I try to deny it, my children are growing up. (Damn.) My sweet little two year old C.  is going to be three this summer. I have even begun the process of enrolling him in school part time this fall. Its hard to believe that in a mere nine months, I won’t have a child home with me full time.

How did that happen?

And where does that leave me?

In 2003, I quit my full time job to be home with my children. And soon, over five years later with two kids in school and a huge gap in my resume, I have to figure out how I am going to help earn more for this family. Times are tough everywhere. We are lucky my husband is even employed. I am an able bodied person, so back to work with me. If this all sounds familiar, it should because I have been stressed about this issue before. Its one I go round in circles about. I think we all do.

But here’s the thing. This past year, some amazing things have happened for me. I am beginning to feel that I need to pay careful attention to whats going on around me. The signs are there.  It seems that something real may waiting for me in my future. I know this sounds like I am buying into some new age hocus pocus… *Shrug* Well. I don’t know. Maybe I am. Because I almost feel like the universe – and all that is beyond me - is quietly trying to tell me something. You might remember I have noticed this before. And all of those crazy signs I was talking about then still just keep popping up everywhere.

This way, this way. Over here. Come this way…

So, if we are going to go there, and get all spiritual up on this blog, I think I am going to go ahead and practice a tried and true lesson from the heavens. I have heard that in order to get what you want, you must ask for it. So that’s what I am going to do. I am going push aside those feelings of “I shouldn’t ask for anything, I don’t deserve anything more, I have enough” and just simply ask the powers that be for a little favor.

To all that are listening, whether they be up at the pearly gates or right here next to me as I type this post (cue the inspirational Enya music, switch on the hallowed lights from the heavens) - this is what I hope I can do to earn my keep around here:

I want to write.

(Shocking, I know.)

But I want to be paid to write. And I adore blogging, really I do, and I plan to keep doing it. But am I the next Dooce? I don’t think so. My life is really not interesting enough to have a well paying blog about… err… little ol’ me.

But I would love to write articles, be paid to post on other blogs, write reviews, write editorials in magazines or online… shoot, whatever it is, I just want to write and make some extra scratch for groceries or (eeks, this seems like a lot to ask) maybe even a car payment.

Now if you are a parent blogger, writing from home like I am, I am betting you are having a good laugh right about now. Because this is probably exactly what you want too. You know how great writing is. You can work from home and then be there for your children when they get home from school. You set your own hours and you take on as much work as you can handle. Its kind of ideal, right? Yeah, that’s what I think too.

Well, even if every other parent blogger wants to do what I hope to do, so what. It still can’t hurt to ask, right?

So. To the powers that be. Whoever is out there, up there, over there, right here pushing mystical buttons and pulling heavenly levers… could you just make a note? Maybe tag me and set me aside for something that seems to fit my needs down the road a bit? I’m not asking to be Editor in Chief of Redbook or the next Jen Weiner, I just want to love what I do… and write. Then maybe I can help pay some bills around here and make sure T. is getting his homework done before he turns on the Wii. It’s not too much to ask, right? I hope not.

Anyway. Back I go to stumbling down this path, with no clue where it will take me, uncovering the tiny little signs that are pointing me this way.  I know I keep checking myself, questioning my faith in it all, saying “Well, I don’t know, I’ll try it for now but lets not get our hopes up.” But then, right at my feet, another sign will appear. And if I look very, very closely it says the same thing that they all do. It simply says ”write, write, write”. So I am.

This is a post for parents. For mothers and fathers whose lives have done an entire 180 and have landed *splat* face down on the sidewalk since they have had children. After five years of parenting, I consider myself entirely too enlightened about one key factor: the you, the “you” you knew before your kids were left in a bundle on your doorstep, will become a scarce, mythical beast, read only about in fairy tales, lest you corner that old “you”, wrastle it to the ground and trap it in a place you can access on a daily basis.

What am I on about? Parents know. Its the days of wearing old t-shirts because your breasts are leaking constantly. Its cutting your hair because you are tired of having it yanked out a strand at a time. Its crushed crackers in a diaper bag, while all the cute bags slowly fade out of style in your closet. Its Friday nights asleep on the couch while a well intentioned DVD plays in the background. Its the groundhog days filled with time outs, thrown applesauce, nails down the chalk board screams, flushed toys and poopy diaper wrestling. It’s considering your annual trip to your OBGYN “a day out”. It’s never having a private moment in the bathroom. Ever.

Please. To all my brothers and sisters in the trenches of parenthood. Take a look around. When was the last time you went on a date with your partner? When was the last time you wore something ”dry clean only”? When was the last time you left the house without diapers, snacks, sippy cups, and an outift change? When was the last time you slept somewhere away from your children and then – gasp - allowed yourself to sleep in past 7am?

It is so very important to remember what makes you happy. Yes, yes. Your happy child makes you happy. So does 8pm when they are (God willing) in bed finally. But what makes YOU tick? Before kids. Did you like to read? (And I don’t mean board books.) Did you have a hobby? Did you see friends often? Did you exercise? Did you have actual leisure time?

Did you?

Do you have any of that stuff now? No??? Go find it. Quick. Hire a sitter, even if it costs money. Figure out a girls night out. Have a friend take the kids for an afternoon. Check the guilt at the door and do something for YOURSELF.

Because if you don’t, you will truly lose yourself and your mind. You will forget who you are. You will actually forget what you truly LIKE to do. All of the sudden, ALL that you know about yourself is being… well… a parent. Take away the kids, and suddenly there is nothing left. Your identity is simply… a mom. Or a dad.

And it can happen so quickly. You’re there and then *POOF*, suddenly, you’re gone.

No disrespect of course. Being a parent is an incredible and, yes, noble job. It is an honorable identity to assume, and every parent should claim that title with pride. As my aunt always reminds me, parenting it the hardest job there is. Yeah, you bet your animal crackers it is. And THAT’S exactly why its so easy to loose yourself. There is so much to do while parenting that when you forget about the “you” stuff, the “kid” stuff seeps in and fills in all the cracks. There is always a sippy cup to fill, a puzzle to make, and a nose – or bum – to wipe. Just let someone else do it once in awhile, that’s all. It will still be there when you get back. No one will take the title of “mom” or “dad” away from you. Just be your first name, the name you had before “mom” or “dad”, once and awhile.

Have you still not shaken your parental guilt to consider more time for yourself? Don’t forget that when you are happier, you are a happier – and therefore better – parent. And then theres the whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” thing. When you take some time away, you do miss your kids. And upon your return, you and your partner will actually fight for the chance to change a poopy diaper. Seriously, it happens.

And I know the tough times of parenting are fleeting. I am betting my wiser readers who have been parents longer than I have are pleading to me “Oh but enjoy these tough days. Enjoy your child before he grows up. They will be gone in an instant!”

Sadly, I know that. And I fear that. Everyday I bring my 5 year old home from school and I hold him tight tight tight because I can literally feel his mind and body growing in my arms. But that is also my point. They DO grow up so damn fast. And then in an instant, they are off to college. Where does that leave you? If your child went to college today (forget that he or she is a 2 year old toddler) – who would you be right now? How would you identify yourself? What kind of fun would you have with your spouse? Do you know? You need to know. Think about it.

Now please do not assume I actually have this figured out. (Snort.) Honestly? I am writing this post while deeply in the trenches of an extraordinarily all consuming phase of parenting. My husband is just about to begin his season and that will require him to work six days a week, working as late as 10pm. But in the midst of this time, while I raise these wonderful but tough kids of mine and my husband works so that I can take care of these wonderful but tough kids of ours, I am trying to keep track of myself. For instance, I write when I have any time, from my home, with the kids here next to me. While multi-tasking this mommy stuff, I am hoping to piece together some clue so I can be a better (potentially paid) writer “when I grow up”. And I have started running. Insane, right? But I’m into it (I’ll even go before my husband leaves for work) and now dream of finding some way to have my kids watched so I can run a 5K.

Granted, I keep reminding myself to keep my expectations reasonable. Diaper changing, referreeing the rules of sharing and helping with homework is just what I do for now. But dreaming, and clinging stubbornly onto what truly makes me tick, does allow me to be more than just “Mom” - but “Caroline” too.

The picture posted above is of me with my boys. It was taken about a year and a half ago and might be titled “Me as Mommy”. It is one of my favorites as I am caught in a very typical, absolutely wonderful, however all consuming parenting moment.

I loathe my baby belly.

And all the mother’s out there who have given birth to their children know exactly what I mean. It’s that tire of flabbed out muscle and mushy fat left over from carrying watermelon sized babies around in your abdomen. And even after you’ve breastfed both children (hoping they suck off the extra pounds), even after you patiently wait out the old mantra “9 months in, 9 months out”, even after everything else seems to have gone back to where it was… (eh… pretty much… good enough at least… if you squint with one eye… after your contacts are out) - that baby belly stays right with me like some trusty sidekick. It just won’t quit. It’s as if your abdomen is thinking “Hey, hanging out here in the wind really ain’t so bad after all. If it works for Homer Simpson, it works for me.” And you are left avoiding the empire waisted shirts or anything remotely maternity-ish for fear that if you wander too close to a Babies R Us, you’ll hear a squealed “ooooh, when are you due???” I’m not exaggerating either. It’s happened to me.

So I really loathe my baby belly. And I swear to you. I am not getting all vain here either. Honestly. I am not all into losing weight or getting some hard, Linda Hamilton type of bod. No way, being stacked like that just doesn’t get me that fired up. My body is my body, take it or leave it. All I reeeeally want to do is wear jeans WITHOUT the muffin top - do you catch what I’m saying?

So back to that damned baby belly. I want it gone. And how do I do that? Hold on to your hats folks, its a totally crazy concept for me. Here it comes… Exercise.

BOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Hiiiisssssssss…. virtual rotten tomatoes are being lobbed at such a concept.

But, heres the thing. Or irony of it all. I have a college coach for a husband. And he majored in – of all things - P.E. (For real, he did. Side bar I know, but he actually took college classes in badminton and ballroom dancing and teaching kids how to play kickball. And he ALSO took a lot of nutrition and physiology classes. Hence my perfect resource.) It’s crazy really. I had to marry a guy who is so damn physically gifted - athletics, sports, and physical fitness come as naturally as breathing for him. So, yeah, he certainly knows what it takes to get my flabby midsection back in the saddle again. I have an expert living right along next to me.

But can I also mention WHY I love my husband dearly? Because he NEVER, and I mean NEVER, has suggested I work on my belly by the way. He could care less if I do. He loves me as is. But when I ask questions, he is happy to provide information. Score for me.

So. Finally. I asked that husband of mine what I need to do to get my baby belly to bugger off. And he said two things. Aerobic exercise and toning my ab muscles.

(And then there is a third. Eat better. Whatever. Pass the Halloween candy.)

Huh. Now lets back the truck up a bit here. I hate exercise. (Hence those lobbed tomatoes.) I was the dorky, awkwardly tall, uncoordinated kid in bad glasses who dreaded P.E. I have not one ounce of competitiveness in me. And so when a soccer ball hit me square in the face at age 6 and my glasses went flying – I cashed it in. I mean, ow. That hurt. I could care less which net the ball got into. Exercise, sports, getting all sweaty = NOT. FOR. ME.

Well, at the ripe age of 35 and after having two large boys, exercise is no longer optional. If I don’t want to look like a potato with toothpicks sticking out of it, I better get off my ass. (Note: yeah, yeah, I am sure I am exaggerating. While I may not look exactly like said potato, I feel like said potato – and THAT, my friends, is JUST as bad in my book.)

And let’s not forget that studies have proven that exercise lowers a woman’s risk of breast cancer – which my mother has had. And weight bearing exercise will build my bones now and help me avoid osteoporosis – which my mother has. It’s time to get out the door and get it done.

So after all this whining about my baby belly, what have I started doing about it? How do I get to work on kicking its ass when I have a coach husband who never works regular hours like 9 to 5 and is often gone weekends? When I don’t have the extra cash to join the Y (with the baby sitting included)? When I don’t have any fancy stair master in some personal gym in the basement? How do I commit to cardio and toning? This is what I do.

1) Do I have a half hour? Yup. All I ask myself is to spend a half hour of my day doing something that raises my heart rate above “yawn, stretch, thump, wassup, oh yeah right, thump“.

2) If I am by myself, I get out the door and walk. Fast. With music. Walk, walk, walk.

3) If I am by myself, can I dare myself to run, just a little bit? Yup. It sucks, but I get done faster.

4) If I have the kids, can I drag or push them in any way? I don’t have a jogging stroller but pushing a heavy sit-n-stand or pulling 75 pounds of children in wagon has gotta give me some kind of work out.

5) Can’t leave the house? Out comes my jump rope in front of the TV

6) Ab time? Groan. I ask myself to do 80 sit ups, 20 jack knifes and some minimal core work. That’s it.

So its not much, right? But its more than what I was doing. A LOT more. And the funny part is that its actually becoming addicting. I can’t wait to get out and do it – even if it SUCKS while I’m doing it. But I will do whatever I can to get out there.

This is all so UN-me, I am telling you. Like today, me, dragging that wagon full of my kids. Even trying to run while pulling it. I swear I must have looked like I was in The Worlds Strongest Man (Or World’s Lamest Mom) competition. You know, when they are pulling a car behind them? That was me and that wagon trying to run but really barely getting anywhere. It kicked my ass, I am telling you. And probably offered my neighbors some comedy in their day.

But I’m doing it. I’m trying.

Do I see any difference? Nope, not yet. No idea if I’m losing weight because I don’t care about that (I don’t even own a scale, I think they’re evil). I still have my tried and true muffin top rockin out of my jean top. But I remind myself that it can’t happen over night. (Not with that lovely, delish bowl of Halloween candy sitting right here besides me as I type this. Oh no.)

But I’m doing it. I’m trying.