Here Comes The Sun

Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun, and I say
It's all right

Little darling
It's been a long, cold lonely winter
Little darling
It feels like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun, and I say
It's all right

Little darling
The smiles returning to the faces
Little darling
It seems like years since it's been here

 

 

 

 

Moving from Oakland to Denver I knew one thing for sure, I would miss the year long mild weather. 

The January afternoons in shirt sleeves. The outdoor running year round. Hell yes. I have missed it, and perhaps I didn't realize how much until the sun returned today. That isn't to say that Denver is short on sunny days. Shortly after moving west from Minneapolis all those years ago,  I got a sun inked on my back to represent our new life in a much sunnier state. But after spending four years in California, I have come to realize that it can be awfully cold in Colorado. In fact, the past few weeks have seemed pretty grey and dark, the cold muted colors seeping through my skin chilling my insides and leaving me feeling as dull and tired as the leafless trees out my front window.

 

Today the sun was bright and warm. We ventured out in long sleeves and light jackets, but  were wishing for t-sthirts only a few minutes into our park visit. I turned my face towards the light and soaked up just as much vitamin D as I could stand. We played hoops, scaled the jungle gym, got ice cream cones and just basked in the blessed sunshine. And the world just seemed.... better.  My mood lifted, today's sun whispering of better days to come, days spent sitting on our front steps and chatting with our neighbors. Mornings in the mountains, afternoons at the pool, open windows, air and light kissing skin and lifting spirits.

 

Here come the sun,

and I say...it's alright

My Funny Valentine

I know it's a mixed bag when it comes to Valentine's Day. It seems that the world is polarized, there are those of us who ADORE the holiday, embracing it as a day of love and viewing it as an opportunity to express what is in our hearts with overpriced roses and boxes of chocolates.  And then you have the HATERS. Those who roll their eyes and wave away St. Valentine's Day, explaining that it is a Hallmark holiday, created out of commercialism and a thorn in the side of those in the lonely hearts club.

I know better than to try and convince the HATERS of the merits of the holiday, so I will save my breath. Instead  in honor of the special day I am going to tell you a little story.

For my 16th or 17th birthday ( I honestly cannot remember which one) my grandmother took me out to Ruby Tuesdays to celebrate. We had lunch and split a desert with a single candle in it. After our meal while still sitting in our booth my grandmother handed me a small gift wrapped package and told me she had a story that went along with it. I unwrapped my present to find a gold cocktail ring with a gigantic red garnet stone. I loved the stone but was taken aback by the size and couldn't imagine wearing that ring on my small fingers. My grandmother then told me the story of her first Valentine's Day after my grandfather passed away. She was alone and mourning and working hard to make ends meet. After work she wandered into a jewelry store, browsing, feeling sad that her valentine was gone. She came upon this sparkly red ring. She asked the jeweler if she could try it on and once she slipped it on her finger she decided she had to have it. My grandmother was not accustomed to buying fancy things for herself, but she realized, that with her husband gone she was her own valentine, and if she didn't purchase that ring, nobody else was going to buy it for her.

And she gave the ring to me. I wish I could say I still had it, but unfortunately it got lost in one of my many moves after college and is now only a memory. But her story was the real gift. It was a tale of empowerment and self love.

I have a lot of valentines. My three munchkins and my husband. And I am grateful for them all. They will each receive some sort of gift from me, but this year I'm also my very own valentine. I'm not buying a fancy piece of jewelry, but I'm taking extra steps to make myself happy. Yesterday I purchased an orchid to brighten up my dreary basement office. Today I packed up my laptop and drove to a sunny coffee shop where I worked for several hours, a change of scenery, something small but simple that I could do just for me.  After the gym I went to my favorite wine store and asked for a good (not cheap!) bottle of Syrah, which I am enjoying right now. ($29.99, Phoenix Ranch 2009)  And I took time out of my day to write this post, because writing makes me happy and I don't do it often enough

So Happy Valentine's Day to all of my friends, loved ones, and even you Valentine's Day HATERS. Be good to those you love. Be good to you.

Warning: Language

How much can I get for this fucking shirt? 

Do you ever have one of those moments where you take a step back and think REALLY? THIS IS MY LIFE?

Well I do, actually I just did on Super Bowl Sunday. Yes. We watched the Broncos get their butts kicked in a blow-out game, and I wouldn't have cared all that much had I not dropped way too much money at Target buying the family over-priced Bronco's attire and had my eight year old son not felt personally invested in the outcome of the game. You see I'm really not a football fan. In fact I can't tell you anything about the sport. I don't really know what a running back or a tight end is, I don't understand the rules and my only interest in the big game is in the splashy commercials. But we were invited to a party and attending just felt like the right thing to do.

Our party hosts were really friends of friends. We had never been to their home before and in fact we were meeting many of the guests for the first time. It was a welcoming group. There were tons of kids. Tons of  food. And booze. You can't forget the booze. Mmmm. So much sweet liquor. It was hospitality at it's finest.

We had a genuinely nice time. Even though the game was dismal and the commercials lack-luster,  the company was good, the kids were happy. We barely saw our children  they were busy chasing each other, building Lego "creations" and stuffing their faces with baked goods. Things were going so damn well that Julian actually came up and informed me when he had to go potty (since I was busy admiring a mostly naked David Beckham in an ad for... I'm not sure what it was.)

As the evening drew to a close, heads shaking, how did this happen?, we began to collect our things and ready for our departure. Time to gather the kiddos together, if we could find them.  But where were they? Just as we began to look for our three monsters they appeared before our eyes. Let me rephrase, we were approached by an unruly group of youngsters, giggling that naughty laugh, among them, my two eldest. I was quickly informed that my five year old Evan had taken a marker to the hostess's daughter and wrote FUCK in crude script across her naked shoulder. Oh. FUCK. Are you kidding me? The kids were all smiles and the parents were stifling their laughter. But this was my FUCKING child! The little girl was quickly escorted by her mother to the bathroom to scrub away the offensive marker and I was left standing there thinking, now what the FUCK do I do?

Lucky for us we were leaving anyway, so I grabbed my five year old by the arm and informed him that due to his poor behavior we had to go. He smirked his little five year old smirk. I felt my face flush. Clearly this kid didn't give a flying fuck about leaving. I kneeled down to eye level with my son and attempted a snarl. I gritted my teeth and tried to appear somewhat threatening. "This is not okay. You will apologize to your friend and her parents, or you will be very, very sorry." I took his hand in a firm grip and marched him to the bathroom where the little girl's back was being scrubbed cleaned by her mother. Evan said nothing. I squeezed his hand a little too hard and demanded from my son "What do you have to say???" He mumbled a feeble "sorry" and that was that.

I left the party shaking my head in disbelief.  How is this my life? How is this my child? He comes from a good family damn it!! I'm supposed to be the one worried about bad influences as I patiently teach my children how to be good and kind. Instead I am now the mom working to craft a humble email to our new friends:

 "We deeply regret our son's poor behavior. We are so FUCKING embarrassed."   

Exit from Babyland.

I admit that I dragged my feet a bit. We probably could have started the process at least a few months ago, but I hesitated. I wanted to hold on to babyland for just a little bit longer.

Julian is my last baby. And while I know there are many parents high-fiving and breaking out champagne glasses when they leave behind diapers, forever, I feel a twinge of sadness as I say goodbye to an entire department of Target. No more  jars of pureed peas, no more bibs, "my first Christmas" pajamas, and no more diapers.

Yes, we will save money on diapers, but really, all of those costs are replaced with big boy stuff. Little League, real bikes, video games and some day... an Iphone? Turns out diapers weren't that expensive after all.

But at over 2.5 we felt it was time to potty train our growing toddler. Let me rephrase that, one day our 24- year old nanny came home from the library with an armful of potty books and a look in her eye which told us that even though Julian was our third, clearly we didn't recognize that it was time.

So last week we stripped away the diapers and let Julian wander around sans pants, a tiny potty within eye shot at all times. Part of me wondered (hoped) that perhaps we were jumping the gun a bit and that Julian was still too young to be successful. Turns out the combination of his 2.5 years of development and the lure of  m&m's proved to be the perfect cocktail for potty training. One week later and the kid is walking around in the Hello Kitty underwear (that he picked himself!) and for the most part dry!  When we venture out of the house and at bed time we reach for the pull ups, but the 40 diapers we still have sitting on the changing table have gone untouched.

We still have accidents. The unfortunate moment you see a look cross that toddler face and realize you are a few seconds too late, the inconvenience of having to plan everything around immediate potty access but the reality is we are crossing the threshold. No longer are we  citizens of babyland. We don't fit in with the nursing mamas, the dads sporting baby slings, or the the chat rooms discussing sleep training and spit up. No. We had our stop int babyland, and now we are officially moving on, to what is next, leaving this magical time behind us, left to photographs and memories.

Goodbye Babyland.... Thank you.

Thank you.

With Grace

Grace: 

Elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion or action

A pleasing or attractive quality or endowment

Favor of goodwill

I have a new motto. I cannot take full credit for it, as it came from a recent conversation I had with my shrink. Yes, I have a therapist! Did you really believe I was this well-adjusted all on my own? Puh-lease. 

So what is my new mantra? 

"Respond with grace" 

Why? Because I'm working on being a better person. A better mother. A better friend. A better wife. A better employee. A better human being.  

For those of you who know me, it is clear I am a sensitive chick. In other words, my feelings are quiet easily hurt. I take everything personally. I mean everything. And when my feelings are hurt, I get....defensive. When I get defensive, I get sarcastic and nasty. So do the math folks and you will  come to realize that I spend a lot of my life being down-right....BITCHY. 

Bitchy isn't good. No. People don't like to be friends with bitches. People don't sit around thinking... you know who we should invite to our party? That BITCH! Nope. The world doesn't work that way. 

I don't want to be a bitter sarcastic woman. And while I am still learning how I can be a little less sensitive, and I am still trying to figure out how to deal with the stress of raising three moody little boys, one thing I can do with some relative ease is choose how I respond to these perceived slights, or negative situations. And I can choose to respond with grace.

What does that mean? When I looked up the word I found a few definitions, many of them religious. But the bottom line is, it means beauty and goodwill. And that folks is who I want to be. I want to be someone who is fair, good and can take other's feelings into account.. I want to be able to stand behind my words and demonstrate patience and thoughtfulness. 

So I have spent the last few days trying this on for size. I won't lie, I hasn't been easy every time, and I have had some knee-jerk reaction backslides, but for the most part I have been pleased with my actions.

Take for example a recent epic-eight-year-old-meltdown. A meltdown that had dad red faced and sentencing one little boy to basically a lifetime of time outs. That boy can be infuriating. He can leave me wanting to stamp my feet, slam the door and revert back to my own childhood. My gut wanted to scream "Shut up Zachary! You are behaving like a baby!" 

But I took a step back and nearly said the words out-loud  "Respond with grace"

How could I respond in a caring way? A way that I would be proud of? A way that I could stand by? 

Deep breath, and I sat down  on my son's bed as he stood there furious and crying. Calling names and being generally awful. In my calmest voice I started to talk to him about his feelings, and how he could use his thoughts to calm down his angry feelings. I was kind and firm, and damn it was rather graceful. 

I showed by example. 

I acted in a way I was proud of. 

I was respectful.

I was kind.

And....it worked. It freaking worked! The kid calmed down. The kid reflected what I was showing him. 

It was a a miracle!! 

In all seriousness, I know that I cannot control the actions of others. I know that even if I am Mother-Effing-Theresa, I still may not get the response from  that I desire. But what I can control, are my own actions and responses. These are a reflection of me, and I want to like what I see in the mirror. 

So when that sales clerk is rude, when my kid wishes I was dead, when my client belittles me, or when a friend offends me, I will try to remember my motto and respond with grace and show the world who I really am.

In his eyes: Capturing the moment

Me & my Evan

I gaze at him across the crowed room. It took me a good forty-five seconds to locate him among the chaos. A mess of young children jacked up on orange soda and birthday cake, jumping on trampolines and hurling themselves into the ball-pit-of-e-coli. I'm watching from the sidelines, unable to bounce due to a  recent running injury. I have been alternating small talk with fellow parents and feverishly reviewing my friend's Facebook statuses. But he catches my eye, my sweet five year old middle child. My Evan. The way he moves so effortlessly on the trampoline flapping his skinny arms around with a giant goofy grin. He has sheer happiness spread across his tiny face.

I stare at him, taking in his joy. I wonder where the baby fat went. When did the round little tummy that was so very kissable melt away? When did I stop carrying him on my hip and pushing him in the grocery cart? The demands of my eldest son, and the arrival of his little brother makes that time blurry. I don't remember when Evan left his babyhood behind and became a kid.

But now I see him bouncing about solo. He isn't playing with the other children at this moment, but skipping across the trampoline simply enjoying the effortless way his body moves. Smiling at the lightness of his feet and the air he catches when he leaps up. It hits me. My son is happy. He is secure and happy. We think about childhood as carefree, and while I don't believe children escape feelings of anxiety, fear and worry, I do marvel at the pleasure they find in the simple moments of
life. Evan wasn't noticing the dingy carpeting, the chipped paint or the faint smell of diapers, he was focused on the way it felt to be light on his feet, the way his limbs moved with ease.

I want to run up and hug him tight, perhaps soak up some of his innocence. I want to beg time to stand still so he can remain this happy forever. I think about trying to capture the moment with a photograph but I know that no picture will do it justice. And time will march on relentlessly. He will continue to grow, from my small five year old, to an awkward adolescent and someday a man towering over me. Perhaps Evan  will have children of his own someday and if so I hope they can bring him back to his childhood, this time I gave him, this time that was just for him. And I hope as he watches his own babies that he is reminded of the joy I see in his eyes today.

Liar, Liar: Victoria's Secret

I probably get at least three to four Victoria's Secret's catalogs in the mail each week. Even though I am fully aware that for every two minutes I spend perusing through pages of airbrushed 22 year old models  I add another ten hours of therapy to address my body image issues, I can't seem to turn away. I can't shake myself of the desire to punch those Victoria's Secret marketing executives in the face.

It must be working. The company seems to sell plenty of bras. I shop there myself. But I don't get it. As I page through the catalog taking in picture after picture of a tight, tanned pretty young thing with her breasts busting  out of her "Very Sexy" bra, and her hip bone jutting out just beneath her cheeky, barely there panties I feel more and more inadequate. The thought crosses my mind that since I'm going to look nothing like the hottie with the bedroom eyes and the boob job I might as well save my money and buy my undies at Target.

I never used to pay much attention to their athletic wear.  Recently I came to terms with the fact that I needed an upgrade to my gym wardrobe, thus when my Vicky's catalog arrived for the fourth time that week, I flipped to the workout section. To my delight and amazement,  I discovered that Victoria's Secret models work out in brightly color coordinated sport bras and tight yoga pants. Somehow their hair either stays perfectly shiny and styled, or is tousled in their eyes, slightly damp from the exertion of a hard work out. The models are bent over their exercise bikes showing a "hint" of cleavage, their lips parted in a sexy pout, their eyes slightly closed and beckoning. Wow. I need one of those sport bras STAT! So I purchased two, but could not afford the matching skin-tight "yoga" pants and would have to make due with my faded Old Navy wear.

Last weekend I put on one of my pretty new bras and got ready to head to the gym. It's true, unlike the VS models, I always cover up with a t-shirt, no matter how hot that gym gets. But just for fun I decided to check myself out in the mirror before throwing on my not so stylish shirt to see if I had been magically transformed  into something resembling a page from the catalog. At first glance, it wasn't all that bad. No. I didn't look quiet as voluptuous, but I passed. Then I hit the floor in a plank to see what gravity did to my mid-section and I was less than pleased. So I covered up and hit the gym wondering if while using the elliptical with the private knowledge that I was wearing a Victoria's Secret's sports bra I would be inspired to smolder as I moved up and down on the machine. I wondered if my ponytail might have a bit more bounce and if I would develop a new sexy work-out pout.

None of the above.

God damn it Victoria's Secret! This is no different than the glittery red teddy I purchased in December! I was supposed to look like a sexy Christmas surprise. I ended up looking like I belonged in the cast of Disney on Ice. What gives? Why aren't your underwear working for me? Is it because I purchased the bras on clearance? Would they have been more effective had I paid full price? Please tell me, because I'll pay four times as much for a sports bra that makes me look like your cover model. Hell. I'll give you a kidney. Or my dog*.

Or perhaps I'll realize that you are bunch of liars. Perhaps I'll watch a video on Buzzfeed that illustrates the power of Photoshop. I'll remember  that your models were digitally corrected to make them flawless, their lines, folds, and inches magically erased. I'll tell my self that I am more than a skeleton in panties, figure out that when I exercise  it is for me, not for a camera, or anyone's approval.

Screw you Victoria's Secret. Screw you for making so many of us feel inadequate , undesirable and imperfect.  And shame on me for buying into it.

*My dog is old. I don't really like her. It doesn't really count.

Looking good right?

And then you see her. Tell me they didn't "erase" a few inches from her waste...