Tag: parenting

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When the little things become the big things and the big things become the little things…

chalk board pic for blog

When I was 5, it was learning a new letter, skinned knees, and rain storms that were “big deals”. When I was 10, it was breast buds, a new school binder and a trip to the beach. At 15, it was my own phone line, name-brand jeans and a boyfriend. At 20, it was a new car, a new apartment, a new job. At 25, it was a baby, a new house and a wedding. At 30, it was an ADD diagnosis, a family trip across the country and finally getting date nights again. At 35, it was starting a blog, expanding my career, learning how to raise a teenager and finally feeling really good at the things I did well and completely humbled by my challenges.

Life is forever a journey.

In addition to writing, my followers know, I am also a veteran OB nurse as well as a clinical nursing instructor, perinatal bereavement coordinator, a mother, and a wife. (I know… I know… lots of hats). While I love bedside nursing, am driven to help bereaved families and find writing therapeutic, it’s teaching and raising kids that keeps me mindful of life’s stages and the way those stages formulate our priorities. Through my interactions with my students and in watching my children grow, in all their selfish glory, it is clear that what is meaningful/overwhelming/significant (whether good or bad) to a 10-year-old is very different from that of a 20-year-old is very different from that of a 40-year-old… from that of a 60-year-old.

I was recently talking to someone 10+ years my minor who was horrified that someone mistook her father for her husband. I had to giggle as my own father has aged well and my husband is 18 years my senior. And I told her of the same mistake being made for myself… as well as my husband being mistook for my father. “Doesn’t that upset you?!” she asked. And I had to laugh. You can’t marry someone 18 years older than you and get upset when someone thinks he’s your Dad. He could be! And if my own father’s genetics serve and allow him to appear much younger than he is… Hallelujah! Perhaps something in my genetic make-up might just benefit me.

My flippancy in this moment wasn’t born overnight. It was born from the last 10 years of challenges and experiences which have formed my hierarchy of importance. This conversation is just one of many that reminded me of life stages and priorities and it had me reflecting on my youth.

I remember when I was around 18, I paid almost $200 for a pair of shoes. They were completely impractical, but they were cool. They had these huge wooden platforms that were carved into these psychedelic swirls in the middle. You could literally stick your hand through the swirl in the base of the shoe. The shoe-salesman convinced me that the edgy accessory matched my edgy personality. And I was convinced that I needed to have them. They were so high that walking in them was like walking in stilts – time-consuming and painful. I think I wore them to the club once and spent most of the night sitting down.

I remember when making a statement with apparel was more important than making a statement with words or life choices.

I remember when my money was my own and I had no one to spend it on but myself. I was raised to buy many of my own things from a young age. And in that, I was a step ahead of many. But still, my phone bill, clothes and toiletries, were such little things. But they consumed me. My parents talking about “bills” sounded like background noise. They were always talking about money. But electricity and insurance wasn’t “my problem.”

I remember when I cared what some random girl thought about me; like her nameless opinion held any weight or at all defined my character. Those stupid words could make or break my day back then.

I remember when the highlight of my year was an all-day music festival and I camped-out all night to get tickets. That festival consumed me. I missed some really good acts because I was too drunk or too tired to make my way to that stage. But my friends and rebellion was more important than artistic experience.

I remember my older colleagues talking about the fiber content in food and jokingly asking “At what age will I start to check the fiber content in food?”

I remember listening to parents talk about their children with concern and being so flippant in my response, “Don’t worry about it.” “They’ll figure it out.” “They’ll survive.” I remember seeing mothers cry over their children getting into the same nonsense I was getting into and thinking, “What’s the big deal?”

I remember thinking drugs were cool and psychiatry was amusing.

I remember being hardened and unfettered by virtually everything.

I remember disrespecting the people I love the most and catering to simple fools.

I remember when I trusted that things would “just work out” and when they didn’t, I convinced myself that it wasn’t “important anyway.”

I remember when everything little thing… was a big thing- my clothes, my car, a cute guy, gossip…

And every big thing, seemed so little… like raising kids, medical problems, marriage and finances.

It seemed at times, that adults just over-dramatized things.

And now…

Raising children is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Medical problems literally end lives. Marriage is immensely complicated and yet more rewarding than I ever imagined. And finances? Shit! I wish I could afford those platforms again, but I need a new roof!

The people I once aspired to be, haven’t gone anywhere in life and the old folks who were “outdated,” are my closest confidants.

And I wonder, when that will change again.

Because you see, the last new shoes I bought were for work. I got tennis shoes (I can’t remember how long I went without wearing tennis shoes) because, “fuck what’s ‘cute'”, they help my chronic back pain. And I scoured Amazon to get them for $89. The kids meanwhile have outgrown 3 pairs of shoes that cost just as much.

Bills are the phantoms that haunt my dreams and rob the world of all things “fun”. And I find myself saying all the same things my parents said to us about “Turning off the lights” and “making do” and explaining the cost of all the things children take for granted… and I cringe at myself. Finances are a monthly juggling act and sometimes I wonder how my parents didn’t swallow a bullet when the electricity got turned off, again. I have an education and job security. My parents had odd jobs and 4 kids. My life is full with 2.

I couldn’t care less what people say about me unless I have genuinely hurt their feelings or it taints my professional reputation. Then, I’ll hear them out and prepare my apology or my rebuttal. Thank god my skills and reputation usually speak for themselves.

I can’t remember the last concert I attended, or even the last new movie for that matter. The highlight of my year is usually our family vacation or even just a really good day when everyone is happy and unconsumed by life’s challenges.

Fiber?! Ha, along with the sugar content and protein, salt for my hypertensive husband, artificial dyes for my ADD kids… no wonder grocery shopping takes so long! The nutrients my family consumes is a direct link to their health and longevity. And it all falls on my shoulders. And still, some days I only have energy for Chik-fil-A.

Worries for my children keep me awake every night. It’s not an 18 year commitment, it’s a lifetime commitment. And the love I have for them, no one could have ever described. The fairytale life you envisioned for them isn’t reality. They make their own choices and sometimes those choices are painful. They all come with their own issues and there’s no handbook.

That simple little ADD diagnosis that I once blew off with “Pfff … everybody has that!” has me sitting with my children sometimes 4 hours at a time and e-mailing teachers daily. They cry and I cry when I go to bed. Even with that and a new school and a 504 plan (I’d never even heard of a 504 plan before I had kids!) B’s are a struggle. Why does it seem like everyone’s kids get honor roll every fucking report card!? Keeping up with the Jones’s?! Pfff, most days I’m just in survival mode.

And still ADD is far from the worst diagnosis you could get.

Drugs are a death sentence. I see the casualties at work and in the neighborhood. Those once “cool” kids, no longer have their teeth and they leave their children parentless. And I know them. Please god, don’t let my kids think they are “cool”.

And psych?! Fucking terrifying. I mean the way the mind works is in fact fascinating but with my genetic history, I’m afraid, afraid for my children and what their future might hold. Knowledge might be power but that power can be unbearably heavy at times. Psych is fascinating until it affects the people you love the most. And then it’s heartbreaking.

I used to be so hard. And I’m still pretty damn tough… but 15 years ago, I allowed someone to love me. And in allowing that, I had to take down walls. Those walls are what made me hard. Now I am vulnerable and weak, sensitive and easily hurt, but only by those I hold close. And that isn’t a bad thing. Euphoria does not exist behind steel walls, it is grown when the walls come down.

My profession has taught me to speak to everyone with respect and to find respect for every walk of life. But I don’t cater to anyone. Nor do I have time for petty gossip.

So many things that were once so big feel so small now and the big things in my life now, feel overwhelmingly oppressive… and I wonder when that will change.

I find myself talking to the people who have survived, the “wise owls” and the veteran parents. The people who have maintained a happy 40 year marriage and successfully raised children to become contributing members of society, are the people I look up to now. I’ve learned that “out-dated” often refers to “adaptability” over decades and “class” has little to do with money.

And perhaps, some day, that will all change again.

Sometimes the things that my kids lose their shit over seems so small. Whether it’s a video game or a mean girl at school, I want to tell them, “Honey, this ain’t nothin!” But in order to honor and respect them where they are at right now, I have to remind myself that it’s big to them. 10 years from now, they probably won’t remember who hurt their feelings or how hard their math homework was … but if I support them and respect them instead of dismiss them, they’ll remember that their Mom was always on their team and made them feel important.

And for me, I need to remember that what feels oppressively huge to me right now, might only be a bump in the road when I’m 60. Challenges when they’re new always seem harder. With hard work, we usually survive. And building memories is more important than meeting deadlines.

If life’s patterns serve, my priorities will one day shift and the house repairs, job juggling and my children’s struggles will no longer consume me. Maybe my life expectancy will change my view on long-term planning and finances. And “comfort” will become even more relative. Maybe one day, the projected prognosis of the people I am responsible for raising, will no longer feel so overwhelming; and the little things like matching socks will one day matter again. I believe that what is “little” or “big” is all relative to your life stage.

For now, I’ll try not to roll my eyes at tween drama, I’ll still giggle at the college kids, sympathize with other middle-aged parents, look to the 60 year olds for their wisdom and pray that I die after the kids are grown but before I lose my mind 🙂

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Steel and snow…the angst of adolescence

snow heartI still remember the night we lost her like it was yesterday.

It was always the four of us. Two boys. Two girls. Just friends and nothing more. Every weekend we knew the best clubs. We’d close the bars down. And we were always the ‘last man standing’…dancing actually, at a party.

I was away on vacation when she got in the accident. And I wasn’t home long before her fight was over. I never made it up to the hospital to see her. Though the boys told me it was better that way.

They got the phone call first and they came to the house to tell me. I thought we were going to hang out … to try to get our minds off the worry. But distraction turned to mourning when they told me “Our girl didn’t make it.” We left my house and went to a small shrine to pray. Something we didn’t do much of in those days.

And then we gathered to tell the rest and to wash our sorrows away with the bottle.

I came home late that night. Just as my Dad was getting in the door from his middle-of-the-night shift. He tells the story that I came in behind him and stopped short in the foyer. “Dad…” I was still standing there, just in front of the door, steel-framed and expressionless, when he turned around. I told him in a deadpan voice, “Jenny died tonight.” He crossed the living room in silence; and when he embraced me, my steel-framed stance broke and melting into my father’s arms, I wailed like a child.

Her funeral was only two days apart from an old classmate’s who had committed suicide. It was unseasonably cold and there was frost on the ground and in my heart. And my knees shook as I stood graveside in my thin dress and no proper coat. And I thought I was “grown.”

While my brother’s death rocked my world in a way from which I will never fully recover, I always knew, deep down, that my brother wasn’t well. And there was some small sense of expectancy amongst his terribly tragic death. But Jenny’s death, and the old classmate too for that matter … nobody saw those coming. I hate unpleasant surprises.

I was 18 and practically on my own and I didn’t even have something appropriate to wear to the funerals, much less coping skills or the ability to properly process. I was just a teenager, hanging on by a thread … a hardened ball of snow, constantly getting too close to the flames. A warrior in the making, but so unbelievably broken in the meantime.

Trying to navigate, trying to understand, trying to grow up, trying to live … I still remember it all, like it was yesterday…

And just like that…

I am the mother of a teenager. And the subtle signs of the recklessness of adolescence are beginning to surface. And it is a far scarier view from this seat than the seat I took twenty years ago.

Last week, my daughter received her letter of acceptance into her high school of choice. Along with that letter came a sigh of relief, a surge of pride, tears of happiness and legitimate excitement for the journey that she is about to embark on. There are so many “firsts” just around the corner for her. And she deserves all of the goodness that is to come. She has worked hard to get here.

That letter left me reflecting on my own teenage journey and the complexities that plagued it: Jenny’s death, several suicides, my car accident, reckless choices, stupid boyfriends, the partying and the pain. The peer pressure was suffocating and yet I yearned for adult independence. My support at home was minimal but what I had, I often pushed away in anger. Grappling to make adult decisions with a brain that still had one foot in childhood, I stumbled more than I walked. My friends held the highest significance in my life and consumed my time and yet somehow, I always felt alone. The empty promises, the wrong calls, the blatant mistakes, the imbalance of knowledge and ability …. the angst of adolescence, that sits like a thin line of snow on a steel rail. Precariously perched, under the warm rays of sun, it will melt. With the untimely swipe of a hand, it will crumble. And with colder conditions, it will harden and freeze. Rarely is it allowed to just be.

While our lives are very different and our struggles are not the same, it seems that whoever you are, adolescence always seems to come with hard lessons, high emotions and inevitably, some tragedy. While it was in my teens that I learned all too well, the smell of death; it was also where I learned the taste of love. While I took unwise risks and made some poor choices, I also came out of my shell and began to make a name for myself. While I rebelled and was unkind at times, it’s where I separated my self from the things and the people who were holding me back and began living my life as my own. While I suffered, I grew.

I am acutely aware of my insatiable desire to protect my children, both in the physical and emotional realm. And the journey that lies ahead of us, is a frightening one. I want so desperately to save her from heartache. And I want to keep her safe. I want her to have the strength that I have, without the pain. I want her to have the wisdom, without the consequences. I want her to soar without ever falling. I want her story to be a good one, with a happy ending, like mine, but without the tragedy.

But I also know that it isn’t my story to write … and that there’s no such thing as achievement without struggle. Nor are there ever any guarantees.

I hope that the ‘growing up fast’ that I had to do, pays off as I mother this teen. I’ll continue to teach her the lessons I learned hard and share with her my pearls of wisdom. I hope that the smiles are many and the tears are few. And when the day comes that I have to hold her like my father did me, I hope that I have the strength to be her steel when she isn’t. For her heartache will certainly shatter mine.

I hope that we survive adolescence.

And when we do, I hope that she looks back and through my strength, she sees my fragility and she thanks me for building another warrior – with a frame made of steel and a heart that melts like snow.

 

 

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The Curse of Motherhood

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAI have always said that… Being a mother is the greatest gift and …. the biggest curse.

Despite the fact that my first pregnancy was not planned, as far as timing goes, I knew then, and all along, that there was nothing on my list of life goals that I wanted more, than to be a mother. So despite the fact that I was 21 and in nursing school, I knew that I would find a way to “make it work”. Continuing my pregnancy was the only option. Becoming a nurse was certainly high on the list too and I didn’t give up on that one either, but motherhood held the top spot.

I know that I’m not alone when I say “My children are my greatest accomplishment and my biggest source of pride.” I know that I’m not alone when I speak of the joy that they bring to my life, every day. On my hardest days, they are the reason I get out of bed. When I’m afraid to take a chance or try something new, it’s because of their innocent good faith in me and the good example I want to set for them, that I take that leap of faith. When it feels like nothing else in the world is right, it’s their faces that give me hope. They inspire me to create memories, to craft, to explore and to have fun. They have taught me humility, patience, endurance and hope. They’ve made me believe in self-control, forgiveness and second chances.

Studying my every move, they learn how to be human from me. And so I am prompted to watch my mouth, control my anger, be polite, honest and show empathy towards others, even on days when I might otherwise forgo such acts of character. I do it so that they will learn how to be good humans, and they in turn teach me. I am without a doubt, a stronger and better person because I am a mother.

My heart and soul never knew the highest intensity of love until I held my child. They are my everything. And because they are my everything … the blessing that they are, is equally enrobed in their curse. The curse that is to love another being more than ones own self. Never again will my mind or my soul rest at perfect ease. Never again will a day go by that I am not plagued by some worry for them. Never a night shall pass that I am not delayed or awoken from sleep because their well-being is on my mind. Along with the honor of motherhood, comes the greatest of responsibility. Along with the ultimate love, comes the ultimate fear of loss.

Bodies of water that were once only visions of pleasure and relaxation are now viable sources of harm, drowning risks. Cars are no longer just modes of transportation but the leading cause of death. Medications, even Tylenol are an over-dose potential and stairs, sharp objects, high places, plastic bags, household cleaners, all hold the same threat. My children’s eyes have shown me the wonders of the world and their presence has made be forever aware of its dangers.

Objects, animals, weather, life circumstances, all hold frightening possibilities in the eyes and minds of mothers everywhere. But it’s people and biology that scare me the most. People who were “Ok” before, no longer meet the standards I hold to entrust them with my children. The bar for responsibility and goodness has risen to the highest degree. Small nuances in behavior that I would have previously dismissed, are now “red flags”. Sleep-overs are terrifying. Human trafficking is real. Predators lie in every neighborhood. And smart phones and the internet are the scariest technology to date, because people are the biggest monsters of all. Any harm/threat to my children is the ultimate betrayal and hell hath no fury than that of a mother whose babe has been hurt. And so any person whom I allow into my children’s lives must earn my trust.

Although I have reasonable control over the persons in my children’s lives, it’s biology that holds the potential for the most frightening degree of influence. While people can be denied or removed, our DNA is established at conception. The same helix of chromosomes that gave my son his striking blue eyes and infectious laughter and my daughter her beautiful caramel skin and spunky spirit, also holds spirals of daunting risks. Attached to us from the inside, influencing and infecting us from our core, we can’t deny or remove them. Drawing us into behavioral tendencies and illnesses that betray our every wish and desire, it’s biology that robs us of the control that we think we have.

But knowing our history and observing changes in behavior is how we regain that control. A family history of cancer, disease, mental illness or addiction isn’t a “Get out of jail free card” and it isn’t a death sentence. It’s not an excuse nor a condemnation. It is knowledge. It’s a heads up. It’s a reason to watch close and act fast. We don’t have to be crippled by it, instead, we can choose to be empowered.

In a life filled with challenges, motherhood is by far-the biggest challenge I’ve ever encountered. Every day I am both proud and disappointed, encouraged and afraid, hopeful and weary. I have cried tears of both joy and pain. I have been saved by good souls who have helped me learn how to mother and have given me a place to vent and a place of respite. And yet I have been hurt by others and betrayed by my own genetics. But neither of these will be a reason for me to lay down in surrender. I will fight to the death for the two hearts I hold dearest and I will relish in their every presence. I will give them every ounce of my self and my energy and my potential. And then, my hope for myself, is that regardless of the outcome of the journey we call “Motherhood”, I will allow myself to be freed from burden and guilt. I hope that I will meet my end knowing that I gave motherhood everything that I had and that victory was still mine.

The curse of motherhood might be a curse that I carry to my last days, but it’s a curse that is wrapped in blessings. There is no antidote but there are moments of ease. Raising children is the greatest adventure in the world. It is filled with new experiences, reasons to laugh and smile, hope on difficult days and lessons that only children can teach you. Every adventure has its rewards and its challenges. To behold the spectacular views of the summit, one must invest hard work, blood, sweat and tears. To rest, one must first persevere through the climb. To hold the blessings that a mother is given, one must also accept the curse. I am honored to be called one of the blessed … and I am sobered to be one of the cursed.

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The Yellow School Bus

It’s that time of year again! The lazy days of summer are coming to a close and a new school year is about to begin. It’s another year of learning, another year of adventures and another year older. The pencils have been sharpened, the notebooks labeled and the new lunch boxes are ready to go! My days will once again be mine … but my evenings just got much busier.

As a mother of two ADD kids, I do my best to be positive about school and I try hard to keep learning exciting for them. I still love to learn. In my professional life, I take every opportunity I can to understand something better and every family vacation is sure to include some aspect of science and history. I want my children to have the same love of learning that I do.

But my confession is that I dread the start of school as much as my children do. I like to sleep-in. I hate rushing back from my afternoon activities at 3pm for pick-up (no bus service for us). The after-school sports and activities are cumbersome. And the 3-4 hours of assisted homework and assignments are the price we pay for our children’s learning challenges, as take-home work is a necessary part of knowledge retention, I’m sure. But it’s not fun … it’s painful actually. I much prefer learning in the form of snorkeling a reef, hiking a military fort and shouting out state capitals in the car. Don’t get me wrong, the peaceful and open day-times are wonderful …. but they don’t make-up for the non-stop run-around in the afternoons and the tear-filled evenings.

Many days I dream to say “We survived academia!” I long for the moment when their education has paid off and when my evenings are no longer filled with “I don’t want to”, “I don’t understand”, “That’s not how my teacher does it” and “I hate school”… I look forward to the days when their learning is an independent experience … and I’m not the evil cohort who is forcing them into this torturous practice.

But I know that along with that peace and independence will come an empty house, less hugs and a “letting go” that I’m not ready for.

Just like my children, I too, am on a journey and with each passing year I have something more to learn. I need more patience. They need more independence. Together, we need to continue fighting through and building our bond – because one day, they will call me with a challenge far greater than “Mom, my science project is due tomorrow.” And they will rely on my knowledge and experience to get them through … and I will wish that life was once again simpler for them. But I will thank the lucky stars that it was me that they called first.

So for every parent who is going to cry when they put their babes on the school bus … for every parent who at some point this school year will get a phone call from administration reporting that their child has done something that they as a parent never dreamed their kid would do …. for all the parents of children who don’t enjoy school …. for the homework no one understands and the science projects that you learn about the day before they are due … I give you the slightly sweet yet potent:

Yellow School Bus

  • 1/2 cup gin
  • 1/2 cup white rum
  • 1/2 cup vodka
  • 1/2 cup triple sec
  • 1/4 cup amaretto
  • 1/4 cup 151 proof rum
  • 1/4 cup sweetened lime juice
  • 4 cups pineapple juice
  • 2 cups grapefruit juice

Mix all the liquors, then add the juices. Serve cold or over ice.

img_4026-1img_4027-1img_4028-1

May your tears be fewer, your stress be lowered and may school be just a little more palatable for ALL parties involved!

This recipe makes a carafe that will last you all week, saving you time later. And just like a school bus, it’s full of lots of different characters! There’s enough alcohol that its sure to be effective. And because there’s pineapple and grapefruit juice in it … you can start at 9 am and nobody’s gonna judge 😉 LOL

Happy First Day of School! Good luck!

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Do as I say … not as I do ….

chalk board pic for blog

"Do as I say, not as I do"….

Not sure who came up with that one-liner but clearly, it's bullshit. You don't have to be a child psychologist to know that children learn most from what they observe in adult behavior and much less in what they are instructed to do. If you tell your kids not to curse, but everyday you fill their ears with obscenities … odds are they will grow up talking like sailors. If you tell your kids to eat their veggies but you yourself always pass the salad and live off of carbs and protein … I promise, you will have a hard time getting your kids to comply with eating the green stuff. It's simple.

Statistics have shown very clearly that our children tend to copy the behaviors we display. According to many studies … teens whose parents are current smokers are substantially more at risk to become regular smokers at an early age or to experiment early on with cigarettes than kids with nonsmoking parents. Studies on alcohol abuse carry similar results. Study after study confirms the propensity for cycles of abuse. Be it verbal, emotional, physical or sexual … those who are abused tend to abuse others. And anyone who has survived this in their youth needs to seek professional help to learn how to break those cycles. Hating what your parents did to you typically doesn't create the skill that is needed to initiate positive change. You need help to learn how to behave differently.

These findings are no surprise to anyone. But what about the more subtle habits and behaviors we display? How do they affect our children? What messages do our word choices and body language and home environment teach our children? If we roll our eyes and dismiss our children, will they feel important and validated? (Ugh … that one is hard with teenagers … but one I am working hard to fix!) If we mock them or criticise them for their display of emotions – be it crying or feeling angry, will they grow to be emotionally vulnerable adults or will they shut down and become hardened? Can we teach them that feelings are real and emotions are vital and still teach them self-control?

What if we replied to the complaining child "I understand that this is frustrating, nonetheless, this is my decision." – rather than "I said shut your mouth" or, in the other direction, "Fine, go do what you want … I'm tired of your complaining." What do those words and actions teach our children? And in reference to the constant rec sport debate …. No, not everyone needs a trophy, but we can praise them for playing their best and teach them to shake hands with the other team. This "snowflake" generation is a direct response to a hardened generation and the right way, as always, is somewhere in between. We don't need to coddle our children, but we do need to respect them. Not everything needs to be sugar-coated but it doesn't have to be a smack in the face either.

Through either action or inaction, our habits, mannerisms and body language speak volumes. Through our words too, we teach our children when we talk to them, about them and around them. Our word choice, voice inflection and tone send messages much louder than the actual speech we may be giving.

It's no secret now that what we say to our children shapes what they think of themselves. Calling them "dumbasses" or "sluts" doesn't typically yield intelligent and self-respecting individuals. But fewer people discuss how our words and behaviors in regards to other people shape what our children think of themselves. God knows I am far from a perfect mother, but my hope for myself and others is that as we reflect on our own childhood, we learn to be better parents and role models every day.

I can still remember times that my mother criticised other girls behind their backs and how I, despite her best intentions, turned that criticism inwards. She wasn't talking to or about me, but I saw myself in those other girls. When we criticise the way other people act or dress or behave in an unkind way – we teach our children not only to exclude or to judge other people, but we create insecurities in our children. We send them the message that we look down on certain types of people.

And the truth is, we don't get to choose who our children become. We can help shape their character, but who they are is deep within them and we can't change that. You can make them go to medical school but you can't make them enjoy being a physician. You can tell them to get married but you can't make that marriage work. A "my way or the highway" mentality doesn't usually work unless you have super passive kids and super passive kids never grow up to change the world. But nurturing our children and gently guiding them allows them to build strong roots and to grow.

Remember that flamboyant guy you imitated? … Maybe your son is grappling with his own sexuality. Making fun of that man could end-up delaying your son's ability to come out for years. Don't approve of homosexuality? Well … our nations history shows us that ridiculing it, didn't stop it. People simply stayed "in the closet" and families were hurt because of it. Would you rather your son feel hurt and rejected and carry on a secret lifestyle or would you rather show him respect and tolerance and give him a safe place to call home?

Remember that girl who dresses sexy, who you referred to as "the little hooker"? Your daughter will one day want to look and feel sexy. Do you want her identifying herself as a "hooker" when she does? Or is there a way to channel your reasonable concern and focus on safety and self-respect rather than character, to encourage her to make positive choices in the future?

Remember how you rolled your eyes or giggled at that kid who was dressed "weird". Maybe your kid liked the way he looked and your reaction sent the message that he can't reeaally be himself. Are you sending the message that your kids can only be themselves if it meets your liking?

Remember how you talked about someone or teased them for crying/being fat/not doing something right? Your child was watching … and will likely copy your behavior and do the same to others. …. Even worse, they will choose a mate who behaves like you … and their spouse will be making fun of them for crying, for gaining weight, for not doing something right. Think you're immune?… Then you're about to get served a big 'ol dose of humble pie. Parenting is good for that. Teaching your child that they "Can be anything they want to be!" means nothing if your criticism of others and body language says otherwise.

As a mother, I have had my moments. Sometimes it's hard to teach my teenager that the way they or their classmates are acting is less than ideal without using the words "obnoxious", "ridiculous", "annoying", "attention-seeking", "dumb"…. but I've discovered that "bothersome", "unnecessary", "unkind", "unsafe", and "disrespectful" also convey the message I am trying to send without the dismissive and hurtful tone. It's equally hard not to roll my eyes when they are being dramatic but I'm perfectly okay with "You're going to need to take it down a notch."

Being a parent requires us to always be "on" and I am a work in progress. I wear my emotions on my sleeves and my thoughts seems to drool right out the side of my mouth. But I'm trying. I don't want to cause my children the hurt that I experienced as a child. I don't want them to pretend to be something that they aren't in order to meet my approval and I also don't want them to pull away and rebel because my expectations were too aloof and my rules were too rigid. And yet, I want them to be safe and I want to create the best human beings that I can.

My god, it's hard! Parenting is rarely the beautiful thing I once thought it would be. In fact, it's quite ugly most of the time. But my hope is that my results will one day reflect my efforts. Plenty of times I screw up and say the wrong thing and hurt my children without intending to do so. I am human. I swear like my father and I worry like my mother. I can't change everything or break every generational cycle. But my hope is that the more aware I am of myself and my tendencies, the more I will improve. And if I use the mistakes of my parents as inspiration to do better instead of excuses to repeat them or a reason to be angry, than goodness came from a dark place. And unlike parenting, that is always a beautiful thing.

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Mango Mojitos…add an element of fun to your every day!

Mary Poppins, my favorite character of all time says, “With every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. Find the fun … and snap … the job’s a game.” This saying is painted on a sign that sits on my desk.

When the kids started fighting and I looked around to see myself surrounded by a messy house and laundry mountains that reached my waist … I was faced with two choices … I could lose my shit, scream at everybody and make everyone’s day hell with a list of chores that they’d hate and I’d hate following-up on –or– I could find a way to salvage the day. I decided to go for the later. I sent one child outside to run a couple of laps around the yard and told him to pick me a couple of sprigs of mint while he was out there. I told my other child that she had 30 more minutes of free time and then we were going to start family laundry time. Advanced warning on chores always works better than “right now!”

Despite a couple of eye rolls, miraculously, it worked! While the littlest one ran around, I ran to the fruit bowl and the bar and began chopping mangos. By the time he returned with my mint, I was ready to complete my cocktail. They finished their free-time while I sat outside and had a mini-vacay, soaking in the fresh air and the sun while I sipped rum infused mango and mint. I felt like I was on a tropical island instead of in the suburbs. It was delicious!

Because motherhood can’t be all play …. I poured a second one to accompany my laundry-folding extravaganza. By then, the kids knew the expectation. We took over the living room with a laundry sorting game and they used team work to carry each load downstairs. Teaching them how to sort not just colors but also fabric weights and showing them how enormously annoying it is to inside-out everyone’s dirty socks are also life lessons, LOL. I let them go back outside while the first two loads washed and dried and then we put on a movie while we folded and rotated the remaining loads. They sipped smoothies while I sipped mojitos. We finished all of the laundry and no one managed to die 🙂 They carried all their laundry to their rooms on their way to bed.

Some days parenting is just surviving …. but other days, if we’re lucky and we play our cards right …. it’s a task well done, it’s a game well-played and it’s a cocktail mixed just right!

Mango Mojitos

Ingredients:

  • 1 whole fresh mango
  • 2 limes
  • 3 sprigs mint
  • 1 TBS agave
  • 3 oz white rum
  • seltzer water

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  • Peal and chop mango into a tall container or blender

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  • Squeeze two limes into the chopped mango
  • Add the leaves of two mint sprigs 
  • Add 1 TBS agave
  • Blend with an immersion blender or traditional blender

Blend well for a smooth drink with minced mint or blend lightly to be left with chunks of mango and a few mint leaves to chew on. Your choice, your life, Live it!

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  • Mix 3 oz white rum into the mango, mint, lime purée
  • Divide the purée into two tall glasses and top with seltzer

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  • Add ice and garnish with a sprig of mint
  • Enjoy!
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Birthing and Life’ing Un-medicated or not

birthAs a labor and delivery nurse, you can imagine I do a lot of educating. Childbirth, whether you’re a first-timer or an old veteran, can differ with each baby and so the questions that are asked, differ too. I like educating. I like helping. I like being able to offer assurance and answer questions whenever the situation allows me. I like being able to use my own experience to help my laboring families.

But there is one question that I just hate getting asked. The question that inevitably rears its ugly head every so often and I dread answering every time is – “Did you get an epidural?”… And the reason I hate it so much is because 9 times out of 10 it’s a conflicted woman in agony who’s asking me. And the decision to treat one day of pain holds way too much weight in the world. My labor doesn’t matter right now… today is your day! Depending on the patient and the circumstance … my answer varies.

The truth is, No, I didn’t get an epidural … or any pain medication for that matter. And yes, even more ridiculously, I planned it that way. Why? I really don’t have a good answer. The best I can come up with is that I have control issues, LOL. Not having control over the lower half of my body or being aware of my every stage of labor was unsettling to me. Weird, I know. I also come from a family of strong women who also birthed un-medicated and that’s what I was brought-up to expect. Epidurals are safe, they don’t drug your baby and they seem lovely. Ninety-five percent of my patients get them and a mere fraction-of-a-percent experience any complications from them. In short, it’s a great option that I simply decided not to take.

If I admit to birthing un-medicated the next question I get is, “How did you do it?” And my response is always, “Anyone can do it”. We all have the capability of withstanding that level of pain. It’s much more a matter of whether or not you can maintain self-control AND whether or not you want to. I often times tell my patients “This is your day. This is a story you will tell for the rest of your life. Make it a good one!” I had a wonderful experience birthing my children un-medicated. Some women who go un-medicated hate it, are out-of-control and feel traumatized. They should’ve gotten epidurals …. because plenty of women do and have great stories to tell. There is no absolute truth when it comes to pain management in childbirth. Every woman, every baby, every labor is different.

But how really did I do it? Well, first, let me say I had good labors. I make small babies. I have a high pain tolerance and I had a wonderful support system. And luck of course …every good outcome always has a smidgen of good luck! From very early on in my pregnancy, I committed to the idea that an epidural wasn’t available. However, I also understood that if at any time my baby or my labor decided to take a different path that my plan would have to be re-negotiated. An openness to change translates to an openness of the mind and body. Close-minded people never labor well – twelve years of experience and I can tell you that for sure!

Now if you want the specifics, I don’t carry any magic advice. I took each contraction, one at a time. I didn’t think about the contraction that would come or the contraction that had passed. When the contraction started, I started to breath. Every other second I had to remind myself to relax my muscles and every next second, my muscles were tense and I had to relax them again. None of the breathing techniques I practiced worked for me so I did my own thing. And the shower was a god-send. Don’t believe me, research water-therapy in labor. There’s science behind it and it allowed me to keep going for the last leg of my labor.

I hardly have any visual memories of my labor. I was so entranced in my own state that an occasional peek at Fernando or the labor room is about all that I remember visually,  of my labor. But what I do remember very clearly, is being inside my own head. I remember the exhaustion. I remember starting to cry when another contraction started before the last even seemed to finish. I remember there was an absence of thought and time. I think that if for even a moment, I wondered how much longer I had to labor or how much worse it could get… I would’ve lost it. The resiliency of my youth, a functional labor, uncomplicated pregnancies and my genetic predisposition to be a strong, determined female was certainly on my side as well.

And when it came time for delivery, I remember that it was the most physically and emotionally intense moment of my life. If at any point in your life, other than childbirth, you experience that level of pain, I assure you, something is terribly wrong. And yet, with childbirth, everything is terribly right. It feels as though your hip bones are breaking, your bowels are being removed and your vaginal tissue is splitting in half. And just when the intensity of your pain can’t get any higher… it falls away and you are handed the most beautiful, wonderful creature you’ve ever seen. The universe holds you on a pedestal while you are enraptured by the squirming, wet creation on your chest. And you will know no greater love.

No matter the woman, no matter the story, birth stories always get retold, over and over again. It’s a story that leaves such an indelible mark, that we can’t help but to re-tell it. And given the job title I carry, I suppose I probably recall my own story a little more often than the average. And once you start to recall it, it’s like opening the flood gates. A barrage of memories and emotions saturate you all over again as you recall the moment you met your child face to face.

Often times the details you remember are random and disorganized. For my first delivery, I can’t recall the hour she was born, but I can tell you what Fernando was wearing. For my second, I can’t remember a word the midwife said, but I can remember my oldest child’s face as she watched me deliver her brother. And one silly detail I remember, is remarking to my family, after my first delivery, “Well at least the hard part is over”. And they laughed at me. I think they’re still laughing …. or at least pathetically shaking their heads.  LOL

Anyone who has raised a child, especially a teenager, knows exactly why they laughed. Because it’s not childbirth that poses the biggest challenge. It’s raising them. Many have the days been, where I’ve wished I could get back in that bed and just breath. I’ve cried, hoping that relaxation and practice would make it all better. And I’m still working on taking things one moment at a time and not thinking ahead or dwelling on the past. The causes and treatments for physical pain are, for the most part, so simple, so easy to treat. And yet the angst that comes with raising children is so much deeper, so much more complicated, so much more painful.

And so, while only some of us are called to labor and deliver our children at their birth, we are all called to raise them. And life’ing, parenting, adult’ing …. that’s the real challenge. We have baby showers to welcome new arrivals. Delivery rooms are often times packed with family and friends celebrating the newest addition. Everyone is eager to help and to hold the newest bundle. Childbirth classes are advertised in every OB office. But where is all the support and the help when that cute little baby grows and the challenges grow with it? You feel like a goddess the day you deliver and a few years down the road you’re a haggardly maiden just trying to find some clean clothes to wear.

As I raise a teenager and two strong-willed children, I look back on my labors for help and perspective. I remember when my first labor started. I was scared. Those contractions that I prayed for, hurt. It was the distraction and companionship of my female support system that occupied my thoughts and dulled that pain. Pain is easier to bear when you have good company and someone to make you laugh. Don’t be afraid to call someone when you need that distraction or companionship again …. but be careful who you call. You don’t want drama. You don’t want questions. You don’t want spectators. You want a movie date, a foot massage, a quiet conversation, or even better, a kind heart to confide in.

When the pain became too much to ignore despite my company, my strongest supporters became evident. Only those who love you most will lie in bed and rub your back for hours, will hold your puke bucket, will be present at any hour, will hold your hand when you are at your worst. Not a word of criticism or unsolicited advise but the gentle words of “You got this…keep breathing” and the rhythmic stroking on your back, that is support. Remember those people … they’re the ones to call when life hands you a shit storm.

When its time to seek help, know when to go and who to trust. Know who to listen to when they say, “It’s time to go now.” The best labor in the world, the best life in the world, can end tragically if you don’t know when to go for help. Don’t be so arrogant or close-minded that those whom you love the most suffer because you didn’t call for help. Listen to those that matter and ignore the anxious and nosy busy-bodies. They are the drama you don’t need.

Use all the tools they give you. In labor- it’s positions, and water and yes, even pain medicine, if you need it. In life, it’s counting to ten and relaxation and walking away so you don’t lose your shit. It’s discipline techniques and advise from those who have treaded those heavy waters before you. It’s wine and talk therapy with your BFF when you think you can’t handle another thing. It’s an emergency text- “Are you available to talk”? It’s free babysitting so you and your partner can go out for a much-needed break. It’s a dinner or a hug or a simple … “You’ve got this” that keeps us going through the lifelong labor of parenting.

While an epidural is a suitable option for women who choose not to labor un-medicated, the same pain-blocking options aren’t available for parenting. You can’t numb yourself from the rigors of raising children (and those who try to, fail miserably) the way an epidural numbs your lower half from contractions.

In short, get the damn epidural if you want it – because there’s no epidural for raising children.

If you didn’t get the epidural, remember the moment when the baby was crowning and you thought for sure that you were probably dying. Remember that you didn’t die. Instead, when you reached the point when you hurt so bad you could hardly breathe and you thought you were either going to explode or pass out, the pain subsided and you were handed the most beautiful thing you ever saw. Parenting too, will yield much pain … but the pain will one day subside and it will lead you to new moments of beauty. And the gifts you receive, once cute outfits and toys, will become richer by the day – patience, empathy, understanding …. and my favorite, humility.

“Oh, you went un-medicated!? How was it?”

It was the hardest, most painful, most exhausting thing I’ve ever done … and it was also the coolest and most rewarding.

That’s my inside answer …. for labor and life raising kids.

I’ll grab you a cool wash-cloth and you grab me some soothing music and together we’ll tackle this thing … one contraction, one day at a time.

Labor, un-medicated or not, is a matter of the mind and body. Life, on the other hand, takes your soul and is a far greater hurdle to clear. Build your support system with a stable base, accept help when it’s offered, learn to rest and appreciate the breaks in-between, remember that everything is temporary and …. stop stressing about a stupid epidural injection.