The Things I (Don’t) Do For My Kids

This morning I awoke with a spring in my step.

Literally.

There was an actual spring–one of those little thingys you find inside a ballpoint pen to make the pen click in and out–lodged in my foot.

Owwww.

As I tried to catch myself from falling head-first into the laundry basket, I recalled being taught that the best way to fall was to relax the body, tuck the head in, and roll.

All I remember next is that I was in the kitchen, happily making breakfast for my gaggle of girls and a teenage boy who wouldn’t be out of bed until closer to
dinner time.

Teenagers are so adorable when they’re asleep.

As is my ritual during the lazy months of summer, I went outside to snip some  roses from the lovely rose garden which I tend to daily.

Lovingly, I carried them into the kitchen and placed them in the crystal bud vases on each (yes, each) of my cherub’s four place mats, right next to the linen napkins I had folded into various shapes; a dolphin, a hummingbird, a daffodil…

…and a Pamela Anderson-shaped napkin for my hormone-powered son. I actually needed two napkins for Pamela, bless her giant boobs heart.

I hope my darling boy appreciates my thoughtfulness.

Next I took out the flaky, home-made croissants (made by me, in my home) I had warmed in the oven. I placed four cute little jars of preserves at each (once again, that was each) place setting–apricot, strawberry, peach, and marmalade.

I like my children to have options.

When I’m serving croissants (as opposed to brioches, or crepes, or my out-of-this-world home-made waffles), I prefer to use our special little crystal side-dishes. That’s so my sweet munchkins can see through their plates to those placemats I mentioned above–each one hand-made, by me, in a collage of pictures chronicling their childhood adventures.

There’s that time we went whale riding in Honolulu…

And white-water rafting in Alaska; and of course there’s the time we were all sipping hot cocoa atop the Swiss Alps after an arduous day of skiing….

Ah, the memories.

As we all sit down happily to eat the delicious breakfast, my darling babies compliment me on my culinary skills and we all giggle as we reminisce about our  globe-trotting experiences and brainstorm ideas about how we’ll spend  yet another glorious summer day together.

Maybe we should go rock climbing… but surely not before going to the museum for a daily dose of the arts.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder,  shaking me.

What the….???

Mom, why are you on the floor? Why are you bleeding?

Um. Let me see. I woke up with a spring in my step and I must’ve tripped and hit my head. I think I fainted. I must’ve been dreaming.

Whatever, Mom! Can we puh-lease have something to eat?

What do you think this is, a restaurant? Go grab some frozen waffles and throw them in the toaster. And don’t forget to use the paper
plates!

Because I don’t do dishes.

And whale-riding is for sissies.

 

 

The Things I Do For You!

I’m gonna go all rogue here and say something a mother should never admit.

Never!

It’s just bad form.

It goes against the rules of mommyquette.

But, since I am your leader, I shall proceed.

First I need to put on my disguise.

No one must ever know I said this.

Oy… the things I do for you.

Promise you won’t blow my cover?

Wouldn’t want anyone gettin’ all up in my grill for tellin’ it like it is.

Ok, here goes.

Hmmmmmmm?

What’s that?

Louder, you say?

Okayyyy….

Huh?

I’m slurring my words?

Fine.

But please understand this is hard for me to say out loud.

And remember…

…be nice!

Here goes…

See?

I knew it!

I should’ve worn the bigger glasses!

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

You judged me. You really judged me.

And I thought you loved me.

I hope you feel really bad about this.

Because you made an assumption about me.

Aha! I caught you.

I bribe my kids is just another way of saying I use cajoling, rewards, stickers and the occasional junk bond or t bill to get the behavior I demand desire.

It’s all manipulation to me.

We just don’t like to call it that.

It’s the word that got you, right?

I get it.

We often get baited by the words.

And when we fall for the bait, we jump in and start to judge.  Or get angry. Or defend.

Or kick someone in the shins.

In other words, we lose.

Don’t fall for words.

They are just words.

Soooooooooooooooooooooooooo….

I bet you thought this post was about bribery.

Hahahahahaha. 

I disguised this post about word-bait by using bribery as a disguise.

Me so clever.

Ok, that makes no sense. I’ll give you that.

But do you see what I’m saying my little chicas?

Don’t fall for the word-bait.

And no, I did not tell you what to do.

I told you what not to do.

Besides, I am your leader.

Kinda like the Queen Mother, only I have a bigger crown.

And I let common folk hug me whenever they want.

You still love me. I can tell.

 

My Story Sucks. And I’m Sticking To It.

My lovely and dear one-legged friend Kataronica loves a man who does not love her.  Or… he doesn’t love her the way she wants to be loved.

This makes her very sad.

It’s not the first time this has happened to her.  In fact, she says it’s a pattern she’s become used to.

Kataronic is very sad that this jerk guy won’t love her back. But instead of thinking that there must be something wrong with him if he doesn’t love her, she makes it all about her.

All of it.

She says it’s because there’s something terribly and horribly wrong. With her.

She is unlovable.

Kataronica believes this with every fiber of her being.

She. Is. Unlovable.  Full stop.

So I asked Katty why she believed this and she said it’s because her mother never loved her, never wanted her.

As a little girl she latched on to the (hugely mistaken) belief that the reason her mother didn’t love or want her was because of something that was wrong with Kataronica, not her mother. And ever since then, Kataronica has placed a huge importance on how other people feel about her, especially the men in her life.

And just about all of them have proven Kataronica’s theory to be completely true: that she is unlovable, unwanted.

Unworthy.

Hmmm.  I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.

And, let me tell you, it’s pretty much impossible to talk her out of it.  I’ve given her a huge list of reasons that prove she is lovable.

If you met Kataronica I just know you would think this: she’s so lovely, and kind-hearted and fun to be with.

And you would try so hard to convince her that she is all those things.

And it would be futile.

Because as long as she has the core belief that she is unwanted and therefore unlovable, no one will ever ever never ever never ever ever never ever! convince her otherwise.

Unless…

She decides she’s ready to let go of her security blanket, which is pretty much what her old story is for her. Here’s why…

Kataronica’s story is incredibly familiar to her.  In a weird and crazy way, it’s even comfortable.  It serves a purpose.  Re-writing her old story means Kataronica would have to give up her old way of thinking about herself in relationship to everyone else in the world. She would have to give up her little-girl beliefs for ones that make sense from a grown woman perspective.

In fact, if grown-up Kataronica were to magically come face to face with little-girl Kataronica, I’m guessing she would fall in love with her young self, instantly.  She would see the innocent child’s flawed thinking. She could then come to the realization that her mother had her own shit shirtsleeves and she was incapable of wanting and loving a child… any child.

In other words, how her mother felt or didn’t feel has nothing to do with Kataronica.

Yes.  Well….

The really cool thing is, Kataronica says she may be ready to grow up, in the most powerful sense of the word(s).  She’s finally become weary of her story. She’s starting to think that it may be a load of, well, shirtsleeves.

There’s been a chink in the armor that protects her story.  She senses there is another way.  She’s starting to challenge her own thinking.

She’s starting to re-write her story. Starting with…

Maybe I am enough, just the way I am.  

And this is how Katty makes room for grown-up men to start showing up in her life.

And don’t we all just LOVE grown-up men.

—————————————————

June Cleaver Must Die Too!

Remember when I was telling you how Everyone must die, along with Everybody, Them, and They?

I forgot one.

June Cleaver. 

You may have heard that Junie C was TV’s icon of a mother in the fifties.

Well, she turned out to be the mother of Them all.  Pun intentionally intended

That’s why June Cleaver is soooooooooooo goin’ down!

I’m in the midst of plotting her death with my co-conspirator Patty Lennon.  Wanna help?  Of course you do.

Yes, you must come with me on this (mostly) excellent adventure of intrigue, espionage, and murder.

Oh, excuse me… you want an explanation for this murderous plot before you commit?

Fine.

Here it is:

June Cleaver became known as America’s Mom on the popular television sitcom Leave It To Beaver. However, the dirty little secret, which I’m totally making up, is that when the television cameras stopped rolling, little-miss-perfect mother Junebug would throw herself on a couch, pull out a candy bar, and start yelling at The Beav to put a sock in it.

She had such a potty mouth, June Cleaver did.

Hmmmm… bet you didn’t know that scintillating little tidbit  did you?

Still don’t believe me?

Well, I’ve got the photoshopped pictures to prove it!

Need more ‘splainin’?

Okay… you asked for it:

June Cleaver, with her pretty and perfectly coiffed hair, tiny waist, and sensible shoes, made moms all over America start second-guessing themselves. IT’S ALL HER FAULT that mothers started to question their own sanity and began looking over their shoulders to see what all the other moms were doing.

AND… they began to lower themselves further and further down the family totem pole.

As in: all the way down to the bottom.

Is this starting to make sense? Are you beginning to see why Junie-Two-Shoes has got to go? Then get out your cleaver (hahaha), um, poison sword (mine is disguised as a tube of lip gloss, natch) because that chick is going down.

Hard.

And fast.

Who knew plotting a murder would be so much fun!?

I know what you’re thinking:

She (as in, moi) used to be such a nice girl. She was always baking (burnt) cookies and giving out (stale) candy. She was always trying to help people.  She was such a quiet neighbor. Now look what’s happened to her.

She must’a snapped.

Okay, so I’ve snapped.

But just a little.

Can’t a girl get a break?  It’s not like I’ve killed before.

Wait, yes I have.  But They deserved it.

And so does JC.  Oh my goodness, I just noticed those initials. Yikes!

Seriously now…

June Cleaver is a lie.

She penetrated America’s collective psyche and burned a hole in it with the messed up message that women were less than, and moms were less than that. That Everyone and Everything else came first.

Oh, I know, she didn’t mean it. She probably wasn’t even aware she was doing it, poor thing.  She was the fantasy concocted by the producers, directors, and writers of the show: she embodied the so-called ‘ideal woman.’  Basically, she was the first Stepford Wife.  

Women took the bait and soon found themselves constructing their identities around the June Cleaver model.

And so it began.

That’s when the shoulds and have-to’s and supposed-to’s came flooding in.  In torrents.

It was as if there were a political-socio-economic effort to reconstruct Woman’s role as that of wife, mom, home-maker.  World War II was over.  Women belonged back at home. Otherwise the sky would fall.

Yeah yeah, you know the story.

But I want to have a career.

The war is over honey, get back in the house.

But I want more. 

You should be happy at home.

But I want to do something else.

Why can’t you just be like June Cleaver?   

Then along came Gloria Steinem.

Then along came Martha Stewart.

Then along came Oprah.

WHAT THE FRUIT LOOPS!

Confused yet?

Fine, let’s get back to my murderous plot, which is far less complicated.

It goes like this…

As is so clearly illustrated above, being a woman is the greatest invention since Adam.

How did we forget that?  Oh yeah… it’s all June’s fault.  Poor June. She meant well. I think.

And now it’s time to turn that ship around for YOU, my fair maidens.

Oprah always talks about living your best life, and this is what that really looks like:

Being on top means….

Staying home and being a mom; as long as that is what fills your soul.

OR…

Going to work, as long as your job fills your soul.

OR…

Staying home, baking (or burning, who really cares) cookies, loving your babies and your husband, taking care of the house and all the things that make it a home, as long as it fills your soul.

OR…

Anything else YOUR HEART desires (as opposed to what someone else desires for you), like: working part-time if you want to, writing a book, or painting, or making a paper mache totem pole with you on top…  whatever floats your boat, as long as it fills your soul. 

It’s the filling your soul part that ought to be your number one priority.

Number. ONE.

When you fill your soul first you automatically pass it on to the people in your life, especially the ones closest to you.

How do you do that?

Well, first of all, you don’t have to quit your job or get a job or leave your husband or unbirth your kids. (The last one is really really hard. Don’t bother trying.)

You do have to commit to finding out  exactly what it is that would put you back on top.

If you’re not sure, then get in on the murderous plot, I tell you!  This is more than a conspiracy theory poppets. There is a way to actually do this “fill your soul/get-back-on-top” thing.

You can’t not do this. It’s your key. Your holy grail. Your big AhaHA!!! (Because it’s bigger than a mere “Aha”).

Are you in?

Good. Then go here.

Or I am going to have to kill you too.

——————–

Remembering My Dad

I lost my Dad when I was only 17. 

He was such a Smart Ass. 

This is my Dad.

I know what you’re thinking! 

It’s taken me a long time to embrace my inner Smart Ass.

Happy Fathers Day Dad

and…

Thank you.

And I just know you would be so proud of the man I married.

Yes… I did good.

He’s a great dad!

No, he doesn’t really smoke. But he looks good with a cigarette.

I wonder why…

TGIF: Thank God I’m Female

The other day I felt that familiar pang I get whenever I hear something irksome bordering on insanity.  My friend and fellow attorney/kife loach Dana Boyle, told me that her doctor said this to her:

God gives all the bad stuff to females because men can’t handle it. 

He meant it as a compliment.

Hmmmm.

I could feel the heat starting to rise inside me…

Put-downs disguised as compliments are fed to women and girls all day long.

Be careful, don’t eat that, it’ll ruin your lovely figure. 

I’m glad you’re not one of those women who cries whenever she’s upset. 

Thank goodness you don’t throw like a girl. 

But I am a girl.

I do throw like a girl.

I also walk, talk, run and cry…

… just like a girl.

I also fight like a girl.

Think like a girl.

Wear lip gloss like a girl.

Sound like a girl.

Giggle like a girl.

Get all sentimental and weepy just like a girl. Because…

I.

Am.

A.

Girl.

God gave girls so many wonderful things.

And this isn’t just some knee-jerk retort to Dana’s doctor.  I believe this with all my heart.  And I want you to believe it too.

Anything else is a lie.

Pass it on girlfriends!

PS: yes, I know, we are women, but we were girls first and being a girl is the best part of being a woman!

AFGO Bustin’ Hokey Pokey Contract Drafting or: How to Save Your Life!

Run for your lives!!!! 

Wait, how do you run from your own self?  Hmmmm.

A woman I know who is in a very unhappy marriage tells me that her family is encouraging her to leave the marriage.

They’ve been telling her this for twenty years!

The reason this woman can’t leave her marriage is that her contract with herself tells her that this is where she belongs. Everything she believes about herself convinces her that she can’t leave the marriage.  Of course, she’ll tell you it’s because she can’t afford to, that her husband isn’t that bad, that she has nowhere else to go and, because of the kids. 

None of this is true, or relevant for that matter.

The truth is she cannot leave because she believes she cannot leave.  Leaving means she would have to leave her self. She can’t do that. Her self contract requires her to stay in situations (marriage, work, friendships) that reinforce the belief system she has about herself.  That this is what she deserves. This is what she is worth.

She doesn’t see that.  Instead, she has convinced herself that her husband is the problem, the kids are the problem, money is the problem, her weight is the problem.

And this is what I say to her:

You must not leave,

you cannot leave,

until you understand,

really really believe

your true worth.  

Leaving is not the answer.

Neither is staying and complaining.

The answer lies in her self contract. 

Does she even know what’s in that old thing?

No wonder she thinks staying in this marriage is her only option!  

In her mind, it’s all she deserves.  It’s all she’s capable of. It’s all she’s worth.

Even if she did leave, she’d very likely find herself in a similar relationship, UNLESS…. 

…she breaches her self contract.

In other words, she has to tell herself to go stuff herself. 

To do this she needs to re-write that smelly contract she’s been carrying around in her back pocket her whole life.  That thing seriously stinks!

So, how does one go about writing a new self contract or, what we call an AFGO BUSTIN’ HOKEY POKEY CONTRACT?

Well, it really is all in the wrist action!

Get out a pen and paper and start writing.  Write it down. Write it down. Write it all down.

Keep writing.

Hey!  Did I say you could stop?

Um…. EVERYTHING!

Write about what makes you happy.

What makes you sad.

What you like. Why don’t you have more of it?

What you don’t like.  Why do you still have it?

Who you like.

Who you don’t like yet still bother to keep in your life.

What do you believe in?

What are you values?

Do you live by your values?

What kind of daughter are you?

What kind of friend are you?

What kind of wife are you?

Are you kind-hearted?  To Everyone?

And the biggest one of all….

How (un)kind are you to your self?

How do you love YOU?

Can you list 10 things you love about yourself, like I did?

This takes some work.  Deep work.  It requires introspection.

This could take a while.

And so it should!

But when you’re done you’ll be able to do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around without even having to put your left foot in.

In other words: You’ll know exactly what you need to do in your marriage, your job, your life!

Think of the possibilities.  Don’t let fear stand in your way.

Don’t settle.

———————————–

Hey kids…  next Tuesday June 7th is the next meeting of The WORST Club.  You HAVE TO come. There will be dancing Polar Bears (the Grizzlies can’t make it, sorry).  We are going to be talkin’ ’bout AFGO BUSTIN’ Hokey Pokey Contracts.  We’ll help you write yours.  Go HERE to find out the details!

Or to Facebook, The WORST Club page, and click LIKE.  Because you like me. Admit it!

Motherhood Sucks. And then you DON’T die.

Yeah, you heard me.

MOTHERHOOD SUCKS!

With a capital M-O-T-H-E-R-H-O-O-D-S-U-C-K-S

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why are moms so afraid to admit this?  Oh, that’s right, I know….

BECAUSE REAL MOMS LOVE EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF BEING A MOTHER.

EVERY.

SINGLE.

WAKING.

MOMENT.

So, does that mean there is something wrong with ME?

I am mother. Hear me grrrrr.

And whine.

And complain.

And admit that sometimes I SUCK! at being a mother.

Because motherhood does suck.

It brings out the worst in me.

I feel resentful.

I cry.  I kick.  I  scream.

And then…

I feel bad. I feel guilty. I feel like I broke The Cardinal Rules.

Some would say it’s because our identities are so tied to motherhood that if we break the rules, even for a moment, we will have failed.  Our children. Our selves. The entire Milky Way galaxy.

But that’s just not true.  In fact, not only is it not true, it’s a big fat lie.

Let me say that again.

It’s a big fat lie.

Very big.  And very very fat.

Why?  Because motherhood can suck AND we can love it just as much.

Maybe even more.

Because with acceptance comes…

Peace. Comfort. Joy

“Motherhood sucks,” said with resentment, anger, and disappointment, only leads to more resentment, anger, and disappointment.

“Motherhood sucks,” said with compassion and acceptance, feels so much better.

When we can truly accept that, at times, motherhood really does suck, and that’s okay, then we are likely to take action that exudes love, kindness and compassion.

And once we embrace the thought that motherhood sucks, it really sucks, we can then accept that sometimes, we just plain suck at being a mom.

Oh well.

No biggie.

And that is why I took it upon myself to re-write the unwritten Cardinal Rules of motherhood.

Motherhood does suck. Go on, admit it. Tell your friends. Tell your fellow moms. Especially tell your fellow moms.

Say it, dammit.  Say it out loud. Don’t be afraid. Your fear is keeping you from having more of when it doesn’t suck.

Oh, did I not mention that motherhood doesn’t suck?

Except when it does.

Fine Print:

This AFGO* moment was brought to you by the words suck, Suck, and SUCK.

*AFGO = Another F***ing Growth Opportunity.  Have you had one lately?