I'm just a little bit caught in the middle.

I was excited to attend my daughter's middle school information session this morning. I took a shower, did my hair and make-up and was pleasantly surprised at how I turned out. So surprised in fact, I had to re-introduce myself to the woman in the mirror because it had been awhile since showered Me had met work-out clothes Me. Sweetly, they winked to each other, smiled and did a double thumbs-up. It was just yesterday, I was feeling like I was the least showered Mom on an elementary school campus, ever. "Oh, she must've just worked out" is the look I normally go for. But today, I was all put together and feeling very mature. I chose to wear sensible Gap jeans, a black, ribbed turtleneck sweater and a royal blue Georgiou brand jacket that I got on sale but hadn't worn yet because I wondered if it was too mature for me. But this morning, I pulled the tag off.

From the onset of the meeting I noticed many worried faces, the majority seemed to rule that they can't imagine we are already "here". A collective sigh, 'ugh, middle school' seemed to fill the air. But I didn't get it. The Principal gave a nice talk and everything sounded peachy to me. Then, parents started asking questions about discipline policies, GATE programs, how they are handling this increase and that decrease. All wanting to know how their child will fit in and will they be supported. Words like 'detention', 'fights' and 'bullying' came up. I started to feel like I should be thinking up some serious questions too but I just didn't have any at that point. Through the years, I have come to rely on these thoughtful parents who ask the hard questions. They get to the bottom of important issues quickly and I am comforted in the end to have the knowledge their inquiries provide.

However, I couldn't help but wonder and question myself as to why I felt so optimistic amongst the vibe of concern? It seemed like an exciting, fun, challenging adventure to look forward to. Truth is, I had more question and concern before her middle school immunizations. Am I from planet 'Naive' which is next to planet 'Ignorant' which circles planet 'Head in the Clouds'? My thoughts were like this, 'Wow, the campus is beautiful and smaller than I imagined…..the teachers look young and hip and easy to relate to. The art program makes me want to jump for joy, and hearing the 8th grade band makes me want to cry because I feel so proud of the students and impressed by the teacher! The library is big and friendly with books I can imagine my daughter reading. The staff wants to make geography fun so kids really know where they are in the world, and they understand that algebra is the foundation for all higher math classes so they work long and hard to prepare the students. Academic support, open communication policies, clubs for everyone. All for free? Sign.me.up.

The only time a little, tiny pink flag went up in my mind was when I saw a handwritten, glittery poster advertising 'Valentines Day Dance'. Imagining my 6th grader at a dance with 8th graders kinda freaked me out, but then I remembered another word that came up during the Principal's nice talk and that was 'volunteer'. And then, I dusted off the word 'chaperone' from my vocabulary and I was immediately soothed.

No one is more surprised by my relaxed and enthusiastic attitude than I am. I'm normally wired so that if I was doing a free association test in a psychiatrist's office and they were to say a word, then you say the first thing that comes to mind, it would go like this, "apple"-"choking hazard", "flower"-"allergies". In my mind if I hear that someone has a stiff neck, I immediately think they might have meningitis, and a tummy ache goes to appendicitis in less than 5 seconds.

So, it's like it was getting dressed this morning. I'm sitting with that woman I haven't met since kindergarten orientation when I felt happy for my daughter to begin her academic journey but of course, I was also nervous. Who was going to remind her to go potty, tie her shoes laces, and would she ever learn to read? But, what I worried about most, was her getting lost. Some things never change. However, I wasn't the Mom who cried after drop off because my baby is all grown up, nor was I the Mom who did the happy dance because now I had more free time. I was somewhere in the middle.

I remember the challenges of middle school well. The awkward dances, awkward zits, awkward discoveries, awkward feelings, awkward growth. But it's not ALWAYS awkward! I remember turning out impressive projects and figuring out how to be a student, and friend. I remember feeling things deeply and having real conversations with grown-ups. I remember being taken seriously by my teachers, and I remember feeling brave. And I have very fond memories of curling my hair in the bathrooms in between classes with the cordless Clicker curling iron.

My daughter may love her new school, or hate it, or be somewhere in the middle. And, her feelings may change day to day. I totally get that. I want her to experience her own independence without her feeling abandoned, and I want her to know that I'm there for her without her being embarrassed by it. By the end of the tour, I finally did have one question that I asked privately on my way out from the tour. It was about the first day of school drop off situation. In my most casual, easy going persona I asked, "So…on the first day……what do we do…. just drop them off at the gate? or do we walk onto campus with them?" The Vice Principal looked at me with kindness in his eyes and said, "you do what's right for your child, if they want you to walk in with them you can, but rest assured they will be prepared during orientation." And I was reminded of my upcoming and ongoing challenge, balance, and how it always seems to be found somewhere in the middle.

Sometimes...
not very often,
we are moved beyond our own understanding.

Energy is communing so purposely within us,
we just do
or say
or sit
and listen

To a moment perhaps so important,
nothing stops its momentum
and nothing should

For these moments are pure,
and true
and full.

Allow yourself the grace,
to rejoice in that which has moved you

Allow yourself
to rejoice,
in this ongoing procession
of Love.

forget chocolate

Really, we just want some oxytocin for Valentines Day.

If you aren’t giving birth, nursing, or getting busy, here are a few quick, easy ways to increase oxytocin (trust/bonding hormone, love molecule, empathy's bff, pain reliever, calming chemical, craving reducer, immunity booster) into your system:

Hugs. 8 hugs a day is optimal, according to Dr. Paul Zak. If that sounds like a lot, think quality not quantity. Researchers have determined that after 20 seconds of hugging, oxytocin begins to secrete.

Get a massage. Just book one for yourself!

Dance. Whether you are in your car, in the kitchen, or playing Just Dance with the kiddos, shake it up!

Prayer and Meditation increase oxytocin.

Sing in a choir.

Hang out. Share your company over a meal or a cup of tea.

Pet your pets.

Enjoy the feeling of connection provided by social media.

Enjoy the feeling of connection provided by eye contact, "listen with your eyes".

Do something nice for someone with no expectation of anything in return.

Cheer on your favorite team or do something thrilling like ride a roller coaster with someone.

Offer a sweet kiss.

But, enjoy the oxytocin increase while it lasts because the half-life is only 3 minutes.

So consider giving the gift of oxytocin this Valentines day to yourself and to others. The more you practice increasing oxytocin, the easier it becomes released in your body and you will receive more benefits from this natural wonder molecule.

Share the love!

Happy Valentines Day!

Yoga-ing

I yoga’d twice this week and I’m sore in places I’ve longed to be sore. My lower abs, between my shoulder blades, the back of my mom-arms, all sore. Not sore in an Advil way, more like, “Hey girl, just a friendly reminder to stand a little taller.” And I find myself replying by cutting back my dessert intake. 

Yoga has been patiently waiting at the bottom of my to-do list, forever. If someone mentions yoga I hear myself saying, “I KNOW…I LOVE YOGA” shamelessly emphatic, as if I have a practice of my own. Truth is, I love the idea of yoga. Yogis seem to have a serene secret I’m curious to learn about. It’s as if they have keys to a portal entering another world, where a different language is spoken, and cell phones are like cigarettes smoke.

“Opening, surrender, presence” are words my body understands before my mind analyzes them, and if you have an instructor with a sultry rasp to her voice and a smile that makes you feel connected, you get transported quickly.

I’ve been pounding pavement with running shoes for years, impassioned by endorphins and a calorie deficit. Readying myself for a run takes me 5 minutes, blindfolded. But when it came time for yoga, I felt lost. What do I wear? Is this a make-up kind of workout? Running shoes seem cumbersome but it’s too cold for sandals. I showed up without much fuss and it turns out, that’s all it takes.

I obviously don't know much about yoga, but I know what it's like to be new to yoga so I have a few heads-up:

Being on time to class actually means be there 10 minutes early to set up and settle in. 

Wear snug fitting clothes so you don’t flash your neighbors while in downward facing dog. Chances are they aren’t looking at you, but still.

I’m pretty sure that when you suddenly forget how to breathe rhythmically, you have found the start line.

Bring your own mat because you will smell it and your pores will make-out with it. You'll want any germs to be your own.

Wear your ponytail either high up or down low so you aren't wobbling your head on the ponytail axis as you lie on your back.

Even though you may be able to run 10 miles or lift a barbell over your head, opening your body and heart to receive takes a new kind of strength.

Google “Namaste”.

Enjoy the figurative language and poetic sequence of poses.

I found that leaving my cell phone in the car is a practice within a practice.

Don’t be judgmental about the way you look in the mirror. Quickly dismiss thoughts like, “I look like I’m squatting over a port-o-potty”.

Don’t wear a bra that has a raised clasp in the back, ouch.

When you feel grace fall upon your pose, I’m pretty sure you should accept that it is.

Don’t be alarmed by the feeling of your mind spinning a little slower for hours after you leave class.

 

At the end of classes last week, I looked around the room and saw something more than bed headed hair and stretchy clothing, and it made me feel comfortable. I thought to myself as I rolled up my mat and exhaled, this is nice.

Church is everywhere

I woke up yesterday in the serene, charcoal shades of early morning. I was in bed drifting in that space between sleep and wake, the marrow of consciousness, where thoughts weave like lucid dreams. I heard the sound of rain and a giddiness rose from inside of me. It seemed as if hope and relief from the threat of drought to California were now tap dancing on my rooftop. Please don’t stop, I whispered to the rain. And for hours, it didn’t stop, and I let my own soul become saturated.

It was Sunday, and I thought today rain is church. Windshield wipers are church. The gentle sound of tire spray through new born puddles, church. The stop sign I frequent, became a drizzled work of art. The silhouette of barren trees on the lowered gray sky, more church. The white picket fence winked, charming me in a way it hadn't before. Even the playlist on my car radio- Liz Longley, David Gray, Jack Johnson, and Dave Mathews all sounded more intimate against the backdrop of rain. By way of gravity I suppose, the rain grounded my floating thoughts, swaddling them closer to my heart, and I felt all of them more purely.

On my next anxiety trip I will take....

Separation has never been my strong suit. When it comes to saying goodbye to someone I’ve become emotionally attached to I often don’t feel like I’m wearing a suit at all.

I crumble, like a gluten free scone. A good portion of me falls to the floor and the whole process gets stuck, dry in my throat. I need someone to put a mason jar full water to my lips, tilt my head back then stroke it all down my throat, the way you give your pet a pill they refuse to swallow.

The idea of separation tends to unravel my heart like a tragic play, then it signals anxiety to my brain. I don’t exaggerate when I say that for the first 4 to 5 years of elementary school, I’d become sick and miss the last day of school with all the fun hoopla - and the goodbyes. I wasn't sick in quotation marks either. I’d literally work my body up to a fever, or wear myself down to strep throat. It was a way of protecting myself from the sadness of separating from the teachers and friends I had grown to love. Even today, I have to mentally prepare for the last day of school, summoning my courage so I can offer a thoughtful and often tearful, “thank you” to the kid's teachers, principals, janitors and crossing guards.

I am sensitive about saying, “I’m sensitive” because I worry that it may seem like I’m implying that others aren’t sensitive, and that somehow there is a judgement there. Sensitivity is just part of my nature, but I don’t think I’m stand out special because of it. I assume everyone has sensitivities, or soft spots, and I think they’re all fascinating.

Anyway, my sensitivity to partings feels like a wound that never quite heals up, but I'm finally okay with it. I don’t care anymore if this sensitivity came from a past life experience, or if I was dropped on my head when I was a baby. I only care about strategies to make myself more comfortable when I send my children to summer camp, or on a field trip, or when it’s time to say goodbye to my favorite pediatrician who retired. I was a hot mess for that one. But then again, I was messy over my cleaning lady who went back to Brazil to tend to her sick father. She was sweet, I was going to miss her. Leaving my dog at the kennel? Who cares that we were going to Hawaii in the morning, I was sleeping on a wet pillow from crying so much.

I have a black leather jacket and whenever I put it on, I think it looks slightly harsh on me. At the same time however, I feel edgy and tough, dare I say badass? So on my next anxiety trip, when my soul is feeling extra sensitive and in need of that thicker skin I wasn’t born with, I’ll grab my leather jacket.

Me, filters and my borrowed thick skin

The other day I said, 'Some days are a march.' Meaning, some days you just have to hold your head high and rely on your strength of muscle memory to move you forward. It's become a mantra for me. So, on my next anxiety trip, I'll grab my leather jacket, and I'll march.

Buddhists assert that pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. One might simply nod to the anxiety when it arises the way you would a passerby, then shift the focus of your attention to something else. Of course, this is an ongoing practice. And although I work at it, my practice hasn’t become second nature quite yet. I feel I have a window of opportunity to manage my anxiety. Sometimes, it not only gets ahead of me, but it can get ahold of me too. Instead of being a passerby, it feels more like a stalker. So, on my next anxiety trip, I’ll grab my leather jacket, I’ll march, and I’ll decide I don’t need to suffer.

I wish it were that simple.

Anxiety is a butt kicker.

Slam Poetry for Monday

240 seconds slip away like vapor under the door

And we are stuck inside

Still scrambling for lunches, tying a shoe, kicking a ball around inside our heads

Readying ourselves for the day as if time is on our side

But we have turned away from the diligence of time, and it is pissed

This Monday feels more like entering a hazard zone than a new day

This Monday drop-off has moms lighting cigarettes in their cars

One behind me, and the other as she swerves around me

Hoping her child can slide past home plate before the bell

The bell is order and discipline

A fair and noble judge

A signal of preparation and of hope

4.0 kids scrambling out of cars

Dragging their backpack and violins

What the heck is going on here?

Why am I yelling? Why is she lighting up?

Don’t hit that small one who’s dodging cars towards class!

The first bell rings, “You can’t get out of the car here! There are too many cars behind me!”

The threat of trash pick up is real.

My first thought, “Humiliation is what they’ll feel”

My second thought,  “That’s not what they need today”

My third thought, “I hope they provide gloves”

A ping-pong yelling match sets off in my car-

I try to remind myself this is only discomfort

This is not life threatening.

My children can pick up trash. It won’t kill them.

But it will hurt me.

And I won’t. I won’t push snooze tomorrow.

98 years of marriage!

My 14^th wedding anniversary is coming up, and I keep thinking how marriage should be calculated in dog years. 14 human years multiplied by 7 (dog years) is 98 years of marriage! And what is more romantic and inspiring than an old married couple? Some days, it feels like 98 years of devotion and gratitude, other days it feels like tolerance and long suffering. Love is either around every corner, or hiding in a corner waiting to be drawn back out.

I am just seven dog years away from being married as long as my parents were. I'm talking about my two biological parents who were married 15 years, or 105 dog years. Unfortunately, the last few years of their marriage were "ruff". We all suffered in our own way. And for better or for worse, I retreated into my own head. My quiet, introverted nature served as my solace. I found a favorite tree branch and sat on it for hours, alone but not lonely.

It was a Saturday morning, and my parents were gathering us together into the living room to tell us something. Being a sensitive twelve year old, I suspected it was about their divorce that seemed to be looming in the thick air. So, I turned the volume way up on the television set to drown out their voices. The show, The Jeffersons was on, and the theme song was playing, “We’re movin’ on up…movin’ on up, to the top…to the top…to a de-luxe apartment in the sky-yie-yie"....."We finally got a piece of the pie-yie-yie-yie". 

I held tears sore in my throat as I ran down the hallway back to my bedroom. I slammed the door behind me as loudly as I could, then, I buried myself under my yellow bedcovers. As I cried, I repeated the words into my pillow, “I am never getting married,  I am never getting married, I am never getting married…..”.

Fortunately, these thoughts didn't repeat themselves (at least consciously) into my adult years. I daydreamed about marriage and family. I had no reservations when it came to marrying my beloved hubs. I was the happiest I had ever been, and I still blame him for everything good in my life. This is not to say I wasn't affected by the divorce because absolutely, I was. I am. And now, as a married adult with children, I am also aware of the tremendous emotional pain my parents must have felt. 

The best and worst moments in my marriage have come from vulnerability. Could a good marriage be as simple as two imperfect people who refuse to give up on each other? Hope so. Getting along can be hard, even for four hours in a row, but hey, in dog years that's a whole week!

I look forward to celebrating my old married couple status this year because really, I can't think of anything sweeter.

don't buy cheap SPANX

It was a Christmas Eve party, a legitimate occasion to take my new little black dress out for her maiden voyage.  I don't normally have occasions for a little black dress, so I felt daring, as one should, and body-shy, as one would.  So, while I was picking up cat food and evaporated condensed milk from Target, I grabbed a pair of generic SPANX. With my little black dress, I wore shiny black boots, black tights, and the black, off brand spanx pencil skirt.

I was all dressed up and feeling fancy.  I danced like a party girl with my own image in the bathroom mirror for a few minutes, free as the wind.  However, before I left the house, I covered little black dress with a sensible denim jacket, then weighed her down even further with a bobble necklace to counteract any va va voom she might be inclined to feel.  It was a family gathering after all.

The Christmas Eve party was great.  I mingled with family, saw Santa, indulged on appetizers, and incorrectly decorated a gingerbread house.  My cousin hosts an amazing party.  She has a gingerbread decorating station that makes you feel like you've just entered Candyland.  I couldn't resist the fun.  I didn’t realize I was supposed to break the one large, pre-packaged piece of gingerbread into smaller pieces, then candy glue them together to form a 3 dimensional house.  The word decorate a gingerbread "house" was lost on me.  What I saw was a big, flat, tallish windowed cookie and I just assumed I was decorating the front of an apartment building.  It seemed a little urban and non traditional, but at the same time politically correct.  House and home are words often used to describe any place of residence.

Adult party goers perused the kid friendly gingerbread station where I parked myself.  They glanced a little longer at my design than the other kids which made me feel a little bit like a show off.  They'd say with a smile, “Oh...look at yours…” and I was thinking to myself, "It’s good, but not that good, let's focus on the kids."  After that person walked away, my daughter very sweetly pointed out to me that I was not doing it right.  Hearing this, I finally looked up from my work and saw her pop-up structure.  In between her giggles she said, “It’s okay Mom, maybe you should just walk away, you could pretend a little kid made it.”  

Being ashamed of your work is not a good lesson to teach your kids so, I thought I would teach my daughter the art of holding your head high and believing in your work.  So, I sat at the table with my back straight, and when people passed by to chat about our designs, I explained plainly, that I decorated an apartment building. No biggie.

Anyway, little black dress, in cahoots with generic spanxs, did what they do well. They made me feel sucked in and smooth, conservative and sassy.  A little Jackie and a little Pamela.

We got home from our evening out and I headed to the bedroom to take off my heeled boots, peel out of my spanx and snuggle into my Christmas-scene flannel pajamas.  I took my denim jacket off first and in the mirror, I noticed I looked unusually lumpy around the middle.  I lifted my dress off and realized that throughout the course of the night, my black generic spanx had shimmied their way up my tights and over my hips, where they landed in the shape of an inner-tube upon my waist, creating what can only be described as, a muffin top.