BODY LANGUAGE- Teaching Our Children to Value Their Bodies.

We were the new neighbors. I had just unpacked the last box and paused by the window to appreciate our green lawn when the sprinklers popped up to do their scheduled watering.  Delighted by this new pleasure, I hollered up the stairs, “The sprinklers are on!” My six-and-under trio flew past me and burst out the front door.  They threw off their clothes and, within seconds, surrendered all their tiny dignity to the wet spray. I felt at home as I hunkered down on our new porch steps with my five-month-protrusion resting between my thighs. I sipped my tea and surveyed our tiny slice of Eden, filled to the brim with gratitude… (gratitude and a growing baby.)

I guess I just expected that the population at large would embrace the sight of my naked kids. I still adored their tiny curved bellies, their smooth little bottoms, and their complete abandonment to joy, sans all clothing. Only now, we were not in the middle of a secluded forty-acre plot, we were visible to other homes.  And I very abruptly learned that we were wearing the emperor’s new clothes. 

“Look! Those kids are all naked!” a shrill voice heckled from the end of the driveway. Side by side, two little kids pointed fingers from the serenity of a shared Power-Wheel.  My children, unaware of their indecency, sprinted forward at the sight of the new comers just as the Power-Wheel, admitting shrieks of terror and glee, turned on a dime and disappeared back down the rode.

I pregnant-strutted as quickly as possible down the steps and across the driveway to gather my flock.  We had done nothing wrong. I could fix this; make sure the shame of this moment didn’t stick. “C’mon,” I said, taking in the next row of houses, people inside, probably watching, “er…let’s all go inside.” I escorted my little exhibitionists into the house, but fearfully forgot the lesson outside.  I soon learned it takes more than one naysayer to break the unclothed spirit of a kid. 

The following week I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the house right next door was a family of crazy homeschoolers, “Like us!” (I assumed incorrectly.)  My eldest daughter gregariously enveloped this shy, polite as-all-heck, neighbor girl. Holly was one year older and loved crafting and reading and make-believe, and seemed to be a perfect companion. I had hopes upon meeting her that she would become an example of maturity and manners for Haven. 

We all became accustomed to the intermittent ring of Holly’s baking timer whenever she came over to visit. Every fifteen-minutes, a jangle notified her that it was time to run home and “check in.”  I didn’t think too much about it, until one afternoon when her mom came knocking on my door to confront me about the picture of a naked woman that my five-year-old son had in his bedroom. Confused, I allowed Holly to escort her to a poster on his wall of animated super heroes, complete with an overly busty Mystique in her blue skin.

An acute awareness befell our home during those future fifteen-minute increments.  Of notable interest was how often my family was categorized as “weird” in a squeaky little girls voice.  My 6 year-old son without a shirt on, or myself exposing a breast to feed my new born, were observed to be “gross.” If any proper names were used for body parts, I could be sure to have an overly friendly confrontational chat with the mother. We both kept the peace by fake laughing over one another about the crimes our children were committing. Exhausting!

But our girls were friends, both homeschooled. We owned houses next door to each other. There didn’t seem to be another solution. I felt panic when that sweet little face appeared at our front door.  She gently swayed side to side in her new dress, thoughtfully calling me “Miss Emily” and politely asking if Haven could play. I can still see my children’s confused expressions as she shrieked through laughter “STOP LOOKING AT ME” while they played dress up in the living room.  Later she chastised them for kissing their dad and me on the lips.  I began imagining the horror of what the neighbors would think if they found out I sometimes showered with a kid or two.

I wish that I’d foreseen the impact that this little friend would make in such a short time.  Gone were the moments of pure nudity, but I had expected that sooner or later (definitely later).  And in its place a growing fascination was fostered for all things that could be suspects of shame.

That’s when I decided to get real naked with myself. I was leading by example when it came to being comfortable in my own skin, but that hardly required me to talk about the opposition. I didn’t know how to deflect the harm of other’s judgments. I was a little kid all over again and silence reined over the ridicule of our human bodies.  If I allowed it, another family would interpret what I knew was right for our individual family, and it wouldn’t be with a favorable artillery of words.

I began to use any comparison with the neighbors as a soapbox moment in my anti-humiliation campaign.  I was not immediately successful at this, and even fearful that I couldn’t or even shouldn’t, be telling my own kids about their own bodies. Thankfully, with every new word tackled: “sex,” “vulva,” and yes, even *gasp* “masturbation,” I realized that my kids were way less mortified than I was.  I made it clear that what I expressed to them was unique for our family, just like the neighbors had their own very unique way of talking (or not talking) about bodies. 

We discussed “sexual objectification” at the Target check-out line while analyzing Kim Kardashian’s magazine cover.  We shared beautifully illustrated books about different types of bodies, allowing these to be coffee table friendly, regardless of who was visiting that day. This last year when an adult discussion on politics lead to my daughter asking some very specific questions about her president, we had an empowering talk about consent.  And nobody turned into a three-horned-sexual-ghoul.  Nobody was emotionally stunted or robbed of their innocence. If anything, after our experience with the neighbor friend, I feel that I have given that innocence back to them.

I have heard similar stories of parents who speak freely about bodies and sex with their kids. I wish that someone had told three year-old me that having a body was okay. In fact, it is super-cool, and special, and fascinating to learn about and absolutely worth protecting.  I won't pass the fear I felt about my own body onto my kids, a fear that grew mostly from silence.  My parents didn’t want to talk about it, and that void filled up with misconceptions. 

Had I not faced the obstacles that our neighbors provided us with, I may have missed an invaluable opportunity to cultivate the natural flow of conversation about our bodies. Although we struggled in the moment, I appreciate the opposition that parenting with others provides. It allows us to dig deep and get critical about why we have the values we do. As a budding teen, Holly is a less frequent visitor at our house, but we have maintained a healthy relationship with our neighbors. I hope that we have been a catalyst for productive conversations in their home, as they so clearly were in ours (even helping us to identify how Mystique was being sexually objectified right under our noses). 

I have healed some of my own un-ease about my own body through ensuring that my children value theirs.  And consequently, I can’t shut up about it now.  The more that I discuss this issue with the people in my parenting world, the more I realize that I am SO not alone. Do you have a personal stigma attached to body image from your childhood? And, does it effect the “sex /body talk” in your own home? 

-Emily

A LONG DECEMBER- THE GREY AREA OF MARRIAGE.

One of the things I miss most about my 20’s is the self-centered naivety, the notion that I knew it all and whatever I decided was simply how it was, without question. I made no apologies for my spontaneous decision making, and I honestly never second guessed myself. Confidence preceded me (not necessarily a genuine self-assuredness but I certainly had myself fooled) and for the most part, I got what I wanted. As I close in on the end of my 30’s, the only thing I can say I’ve learned for sure is that nothing is black and white. The world is eternally polarized; “This is how it ought to be, This is how it is, Period.” This is what I believed for a number of years.

Silly me.

Nothing is actually as it seems. We exist in the grey area. Perceptions and ideals with not much solid data. A million varied opinions. Everyone thinks they know everything, and everyone thinks they need to educate one another. We are all blind mice stumbling around, attempting to find a clear cut path through the darkness. The path is there, but it’s anything but obvious. This is where I find myself at age 38, living in the grey, seeking out my path in a monochromatic world where the palette is recognizable only to the colorblind.

It’s so simple to distract ourselves from the truth that lies just under the surface of our presumptuous lives. I’ve written the book on how to busy myself to the point that issues are not just swept under the rug, but the rug is superglued, stapled, and permanently affixed to the floor, preventing so much as a glimpse of the truth from showing it’s ugly face. I’m a pro at telling myself “I'm good," and actually believing it. I think it’s a gift/curse many women have become proficient in to get through the day.

When my friend asked me to contribute to this blog, she had one request- to end each post on a positive note. I think I’ve done okay, but this is not that. I can’t continue to lead readers down a path believing every day holds a valuable lesson for me or that my children go to sleep content and confident in our family unit. They aren’t made privy to details, but children are tenaciously discerning, sensing dischord without hearing a word. It’s become increasingly difficult to focus on parenting, given the current state of my relationship. Over the course of several years, but most recently and most intensely the last few months, it’s come to my attention that things are not as they seem. I’ve always had those moments where things aren’t adding up, curiosities that get instantly shut down and flipped around, leaving me asking myself if I’m nuts. “Gaslighting,” as the professionals call it. So many professionals with so many solutions. So many books and so many authors. A myriad of self-help books to teach me who I am and teach me “self-care.” “Love is a choice,” they say. “It takes hard work on both ends,” they say.

And in the end, no real change.

People think they know, boy do people know what’s best for me and my children. With whole-hearted certainty. Do they? No one knows. I felt the same about my friends’ personal situations. I've made snap judgments. I was critical, only seeing the absolutes, the decisions that clearly needed to be made, not taking into account the trickle down effect on every life involved. I thought I knew the answers. They were glaringly obvious. I feel humbled now for being so self-righteous.

I know now that nothing is black or white, and I need to live in reality. I need to know who I married ten years ago. I need to feel connected and safe. And if I can’t, I’m perfectly okay to go it alone. I’m not fearful of what alone looks like. My self-care workbooks have taught me about boundaries. We can make requests of our partners, but demands and ultimatums hold little value. Requests and agreements are supposedly the healthiest forms of communicating our needs. If this is true, then I have a simple request, and I’m hoping God will oblige: “Please, God, when the truth is brought to light, show me a clear-cut path.  A vision for what you know my life and the lives of my kids should look like. Please, God, give me clarity.” This is all I can ask, my urgent prayer in the midst of chaos, hurt, and confusion.

I so desperately want to live in that black and white world of fact or fiction again. Where lines are crisp. Where the simple words “yes” and “no” are true to their meaning. A world where I can trust those who have committed to honesty, and transparency, and all of the other qualities a relationship should consist of.

For now, I’ll accept my warm welcome into the rawness of a world where the rug and the broom have been banished, where I'm left to sift through the dirt and fragments of what I once thought was best left undisturbed.

-Shelley
 

CUPCAKES, THORNS, AND STAY AT HOME MOM GUILT.

“Okay, now stir in one cup of flour”... We’re sitting on the floor, in front of the play kitchen, making pretend chocolate cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles. “Add a teaspoon of vanilla and whisk the batter.” My two oldest children are in school until 3:30. These days, it’s just me and Indigo at home together. “Pop ‘em in the oven and set the timer.” Last year, I was a working mom. After my first child, I was putting in 50 hours per week. By the third, I’d whittled it down to 30. But, they were still 10 hour days with no lunch or break time, and me running out to nurse a baby or make my toddler a meal every time I put a client under the dryer. I’d set up shop at home right before my third was born, thinking it might ease the workload; invariably, it had the opposite effect,  making me available to do more.

It's no secret that being a working mom doesn’t remove any domestic responsibilities. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, and trying to take care of yourself just get added to the list. On the weekends we squeezed in as much family time as we could and on my weekdays off, it was a nonstop parade of errands and chores.

I was patient and loving with my children, but there wasn’t a lot of interaction happening in the form of play. I taught them all the basics. We spent a lot of time reading, baking, snuggling, and performing the requisite holiday crafting, but I couldn’t turn it off enough to relax on the floor and just BE with them. There were too many tasks looming in preparation for a workweek with long days and nights spent nursing a restless infant. I'd race from five minutes of reading to cleaning a toilet and then back to singing a quick nursery rhyme out of obligation, then off to to do dishes or fold some laundry. That, coupled with both boys living through nine months of pregnancy-induced illness, consistent pre-term labor, and basic being-with-child lethargy, robbed them of a solid year of quality parenting. I did the best I could, but it never felt like enough. I knew I wasn’t the mom I wanted to be even when not pregnant, but I justified it by telling myself I didn’t enjoy play or lacked imagination. When we moved, I left behind my clientele and embarked upon stay-at-home mommyhood.

“Alright, time to take the cupcakes out so we can put the pink frosting on.” She reaches for a hot pad and delicately removes the tray from the oven. I’ve never felt this much joy, this kind of ease. Never have I been able to relax to the point of being able to sit and immerse myself in the creativity of childhood. It took me a solid six months of not working to even allow myself this. I operated like the sky was falling and preparations need be in place at all times. That sensation slowly took leave as I realized that if the laundry didn’t get done on Tuesday, there was always every single other day. Playing with my children no longer feels like a chore, as it did when I worked. There are no tasks resting upon my shoulders to rob me of the gift of presence.

Yet, all of this leaves me with a lingering sense of guilt… on many levels.

When she lays down for her nap today, I’ll go for a run and then sit in the bathtub and read or do some writing. My husband works from home. Sure, I do all the house stuff and cooking, but he’s bringing the money in while I’m upstairs soaking in Epsom salt water infused with lavender. Guilt.

It’s too easy. I’ve never had days like this. The last eight years were spent in survival mode. Now, it's just me and a two year old. It doesn’t feel fair because I’m not toiling. Aside from minor toddler drama, it's all pleasantries. I have decent time management, so my house is clean, my laundry is done, my meals are planned. Her nap times belong solely to me. They exist for my indulgence. Deep down, I don't feel deserving. Relaxation doesn’t come naturally. I’m a better human, a better wife, a better mother for having it, but still… guilt.

Those two big boys at school all day who never got to experience their mother like this…. God, the guilt.

That one hurts so much. I can get past the fruitless guilt born from exercising and taking baths, but I can’t ever make the time lost right for them. They’ll never be home with me in that capacity again. Gone are the days of make-believe. They want to be outside adventuring with friends, not building LEGO houses with their Mommy.

I can’t help but lose my emotional shit when I think about what they’ve potentially lost from those missed interactions, from having a mommy who’s mind was always wandering from one chore to the next.

Alas, what can I do?

Nothing.

Thus is life. We have to grin and bare the casualties of our mistakes. This isn’t said to lay judgment upon working mothers. We come with different desires, thresholds, standards, support systems, and life contexts that dictate our choices if we’re so blessed to even have choices.

I write this with the intention of allaying guilt, cathartically putting pen to paper for the sole purpose of healing because it’s not something I’ve worked through or have the answer to.

The only thing I know to be true is that guilt takes up space and emotional energy. My family needs all of me. I need all of me. It changes nothing and is a senseless thief of joy and content, not worthy of creeping into priceless moments with my daughter. I’ll make that my mantra from here forward, reminding myself that I did the best I could with what I had and what I knew. In the words of Maya Angelou, “When you know better, you do better.” I hold that saying close to my heart always, especially as a mother, because grace is so important as we journey through parenthood- a thorny, winding path rife with mistakes and wishes for do-overs.

-Angi

One 'Tis the Season' Weekend in a Mom's Life.

The quarter cup of coffee John left in the Keurig this morning is a sign; if you want it, drink it. It’s not nearly enough to fill a cup, and cold for that matter, but if you don’t want to put in the effort, suck it up, literally, because that's all that's in there, a suck of coffee. I opt to prepare a giant portion of steaming, black liquid for myself. Afterwards, I finish assisting my 10-year-old son in preparing breakfast and then retreat to the far end of the bar with my coffee, where I pop open my laptop and delight in my comfort zone.

As I bring the warm liquid to my lips, and swallow, and breathe, I begin to write the first sentence of this paragraph. Suddenly, my tweenager barrels into the kitchen, pulled into the realm of wakefulness by the smell of breakfast. She slides in next to me at the bar with her plate and wolfs down the first bite while simultaneously launching into a self-indulgent recollection of a dream that she’s just had. I only have the patience to say, “I’m not really able to give you my attention right now, so maybe you can tell your siblings instead” (thank you other children) as I pull the plug from its outlet with too much zest and head for the living room. I hear her sulkily deny all eager requests to hear her dream as I resituate myself.

No sense in pretending that I am entitled to be that rude. “Haven, I’m sorry. I just made too many commitments, they are catching up with me, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.” She acknowledges me with a tip of her head while silently chewing. Now Olive, seeing that I am once again amiable, saddles up beside me to show me her latest drawing. It’s a picture of the gingerbread house, much like the one she covered in candy last night, riddled with details to be covered. And also she would like me to know that people in “magic-land” have moles on their faces that are much larger than mine. “You are lucky Mom, in magic-land people have to drag their moles on the ground when they walk because they’re so big!”

She’s right. I am lucky.

This beautiful morning, that I am now struggling to keep up with, is being thwarted by the repercussions of all those wonderful things that I filled my weekend with. I didn’t lesson plan. I didn’t make time to address my upcoming schedule. I didn’t communicate to myself, or anyone else, that I needed to make productive space for the future so I could hit the ground running instead of being a snarky, bossy grown up. I didn’t open my eyes and welcome the vast opportunities this day has to offer because I was too dang busy blowing off adulting and enjoying myself. Like filled to the brim Keurig kind of enjoyment.

The elation I felt after leaving my college campus this weekend (with a mutha-you-know-what-ing A!!!!), led to me peacefully pushing a shopping cart full of organic chicken through the pre-apocalyptic aisles of Costco and sharing a smile with every disgruntled holiday shopper I passed. Things started to lull as I got sucked into the time warp of Target, where I spent a luxurious half of an hour touching and comparing the 53 different textiles that consumers can choose from to keep the water in their shower. As fate would have it, John called at the moment I was leaving the aisle with a gold arrow embossed curtain and reminded me that we don’t need one. (Angi! The struggle is real!!)

Once home, I clung to the last strands of getting things accomplished and managed to bang out a clean kitchen. My saving grace was that dinner was being served at my mom-in-laws and all I had to do was show up. Huzzah! We ate dinner as a family and I genuinely relished Grandma Patsy’s spot-on, 83-year-old recollections of her past. To say that I felt gratitude for all of this is an understatement. The family that surrounds me and my children is a humbling experience that reminds me of any prior time in history when I took it for granted.

When I bowed out at bedtime to meet up with some friends, I traded all that responsible, mindful, and ‘determined to conquer all the things’ attitude for adult beverages, good friends that I rarely see, and copious amounts of laughter. It was a worthy endeavor, to say the least.

Don’t tell my buddies, but the next morning, after 5 hours of sleep, I regretted it. Regardless, dressing my little darlings and brushing hair at 8 am, in preparation for sitting on Santa’s lap, was an equally worthy endeavor, and clearly, if I want to have it all, I’m going to have to pay for it. Breakfast afterwards was a hit, thanks once again to my amazing MIL, who I can only imagine was just holding it all together after spending 48 hours with her own mother (Grandma Patsy) because we love the women that raise us but that raising part comes with a host of kinks; case in point, me shutting down my daughter’s dreams this morning…

I surrender myself to the couch as soon as I walk in the door after breakfast. Video games watch my kids while I throw the better part of a Sunday away. I successfully rally to stuff the kids with an early dinner before we depart for a second festivity. Loaded with $25 in candy, we join a troop of children at our neighbor Sonya’s house to deck individual homemade gingerbread houses out with every form of sugar imaginable. The amount of work that goes into this holiday endeavor is beyond the capabilities of my mind. Just know that Sonya is a freaking angel.

A friend and I take our children back to my house; two of mine have already experienced explosive, sugar-laden diarrhea, and the others are ramped to annoying as F' heights, on all forms of corn syrup. Thankfully,  there is a video game to fix this; it's an outdated Wii that makes them move while demanding their focus. So, Courtney and I retire to the kitchen, where our husbands hide during holiday festivities and drink the remainder of their beers. We let the kids stay up too late and just flat out enjoy one another’s company.

That brings us back to today, when I chastise myself for not staying on track and half-assedly coerce the kids to home school themselves while I write an overly indulgent blog post (oh gawd, she learned it all from me!) Perhaps the reality is that allowing productivity to slide and living in the moment (even if it requires a round of Ibuprofen and a midday nap), is the only way to acknowledge this decked-out-in-lights season. I am too indebted to all the wonderful people that share their time with me and my family to begrudgingly require a flawless state of efficiency. We have to give ourselves permission to play catch up, and say sorry, and be less than our 110% selves. Otherwise, we might not get a chance to eat, drink, and be merry.

-Emily

CART FULL OF ZEN- I Stopped Shopping and Here's What Happened.

I’m on my fourteenth beanie. Things are starting to look obsessive. I’m certain that the Target employees and my fellow shoppers are concerned for me. Anything that isn’t embellished with sequins has made its way to the top of my head and been paraded in front of the tiny mirror. We’ve taken up residence of the accessory section long enough for Indigo to litter the aisle with fuzzy gloves and purses so small that grown women really shouldn't own them... and I’m not showing signs of stopping.

I’ve never been on a budget before, always having worked and been fortunate enough to make decent money. We’ve never Dave Ramsey’d it. No envelopes. Yet. There's never been a need to run a personal purchase by my husband. I do have some restraint. There are certainly tons of things I want that don’t come home with me. Being cheap is a beneficial roadblock to accumulation- my dad’s voice echoing in my head, “If it’s not on sale, then it’s not for sale.”

But, I don’t work anymore. It's been a really fun, rather indulgent year, and now it’s time to reel it in. I thought I’d been doing that, but as it turns out, my subdued version of shopping isn’t cutting it. The unexpected expenses now seem to be given monthly occurrences. This is an “absolutely no extras” situation until we get our shit together.

I’ve done this once before in years past, for a very short spell. Walking the aisles proved to be a losing battle. Just get the stuff on the list, don't veer from the periperhal, and hightail it outta there before catching a glimpse of anything Nate Berkus. It’s the home stuff and the little girl clothes, they make me weak in the knees every time.

But something else happened when I refrained for that month- a surprising and behemoth sense of relief. I didn’t have to search for things online to “make my life better” or my person “cuter.” There was no wrestling with myself about “should I or shouldn’t I," and no pressure to improve my situation, as defined in a completely material way. 

So, when the budget crisis 2017 hit our house, I felt that same wave of relief take residence. I’d effectively removed the pressure to strive for more, but this time around I noticed a nagging feeling that I hadn't given the space for introspection before. I realized that when I become adrift from purpose and self-care, l try to recreate feelings of abundance and importance through shopping. Except, it's completely extrinsic in nature, and any good feelings it elicits are short-lived, which means more stuff needs to be bought on the regular. Controlling my environment is the obvious but ultimately inadequate stand-in for the lack of control, intention, and purpose I’m feeling internally.

Today I had pie and espresso for lunch. I skipped my workout. After six days of the stomach flu and house guests thereafter, the whole week had fallen into that vein, and then I went to Target and lost whatever morsel of self-control I had left. It’s an avalanche of mindless choices.

I craved it, the shopping, the spending, the hunt, the incongruity even. I dressed it up first- “Indigo needs a snow hat, and we need a bin to organize her toys.” But, since I’m outing myself, her old hat just requires mending and no one “needs” an organizational bin. Ever. Fucking Martha Stewart, planting her evil seeds in my head.

We walked around Target for two hours. Yes, two hours. I threw in a snow hat with kitty cat ears, I bought the damn gold polka dotted bin. And now here I am, in a mustard yellow beanie, batting my eyelashes at the mirror, feeling like I won’t be able to find it again in this weird hipster color if I don’t just do the damn thing. It’s $5. I’m justifying. I buy it. And a cream one too. Uffff, failure.

I get home and immediately announce to my husband that I’ve fallen off the wagon and just needed a fix. I try to validate my purchases to him, but I can’t even reason them to myself.

When we stop taking care of ourselves, when we don’t listen to our internal compasses, the slippery slope starts to form and it’s so easy to slowly slide down, sinking further into the deluge. The stuff and the poor choices all serve as distractions from the neglect of my inner voice.

Eating pie for lunch tasted good, but it didn’t feel good. Carrying the polka dotted bin full of stuff into the house didn’t bring purpose or mindfulness to my life. I know what self love looks like for me, which things bring me intrinsic abundance- building lego houses and making pretend cupcakes with my daughter, reading self-help books, meditating, getting outside, exercising, eating well, connecting with my husband… Shopping isn’t on that list. Often, making just one grand gesture on my own behalf is enough to careen me back towards my path of mindfulness and self-care.

So, I’m gonna pack the Target crap up, mend the beanie, go put in a workout DVD, eat sautéed kale salad for dinner, hope that the world goes on without ever having seen me in a mustard-colored beanie, and freeze the rest of the cherry pie.

-Angi