I spent two hours last night pouring over one of the saddest blogs I've ever visited. When I was finished, I had a pounding headache from the seemingly endless tears I cried reading this family's heartbreaking story of losing their eight-month-old son to a brain tumor.
This morning at the gym, I picked up an old issue of Ladies' Home Journal to find an article about a mother who'd lost her three young daughters in what was then a nationally-publicized wrong-way vehicle crash.
I read the first three paragraphs of this article before emphatically closing the magazine and letting it drop to the floor beneath my elliptical trainer.
I just couldn't read another word.
The internet -- whether through blogs or news stories -- is full of sad stories. Heartwrenching stories. Terrible tragedies that make you realize how lucky you are to have two healthy kids.
But these stories tend to have a deeper affect on me. When I read about the baby boy with the tumor, it made me scared to death that my son would experience the same fate. When G was little, I read a blog about an 11-month-old boy named Sage who had died from SIDS; it gave me anxiety every night as I laid G down to sleep until she reached a full year old. When I read magazine articles about a family losing all their children in one horrible accident, it makes me want to hunker down in our home and keep the car permanently in park.
I've said on this blog that you have a choice -- to read or not to read. Funny, but I never realized that I have a choice as well. In the past, I've chosen to read these stories and, in the process, internalize them to some degree.
This makes me sad.
This makes me fearful.
This makes me paranoid.
And while, yes, it also makes me hug my children a little more tightly and realize how lucky we are, the negative emotions associated with reading these devastatingly sad stories far outweigh any positives.
So, I'm making a choice. I won't be reading these stories anymore. Not to say they don't have a place on the web, or on the news, or in my favorite magazine; they are an important part of the human record. But they are not for me... not until I can learn not to process them so deeply, to a point where they own my feelings.
Sniff the air... can you smell it?
It's Christmas. And it's only 62 days away (I could lie and say I'm not counting, but who am I kidding? I am counting. In fact, on the 25th of every month -- including January -- I pause and think, "Hooray! Christmas is only X months away.")
Don't worry. I'm not so obsessed with this holiday that I'll forget Halloween or skip right over Thanksgiving. I have a hard and fast rule that I don't turn to the all-Christmas-music-all-the-time XM radio station until the first Sunday inhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif Advent; I also wait until the Friday after Thanksgiving to put up our Christmas tree and other holiday decorations. I know how to be patient, even though I may not like it.
But one thing I know I can't wait to do until after Thanksgiving is order my holiday cards. In past years, I have delayed this annual rite of passage, only to be bombarded with addressing and mailing dozens of envelops at the same time that I'm trying to wrap all my family's presents, make some appearances on the holiday party circuit and do a little cookie baking.
This year, Shutterfly is making it easy. In addition to their holiday cards, they also have a wide range of photo Christmas cards, giving you tons of options to help you give your Christmas cards a custom look. I started using Shutterfly for my Christmas cards last year, and also used them earlier this year for Baby C's birth announcements -- which were adorable, if I do say so myself!
I'm still trying to nail down a photographer to take our family pictures for this year's card (note to self: do NOT wait until mid-October to schedule a holiday portrait session!), but I've already got my list of potential cards down to three. Take a look:
OPTION #1:
OPTION #2:
OPTION #3:
WIN IT!
THREE of my lucky readers will each win 25 holiday cards from Shutterfly!
HOW TO ENTER:http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif
To enter, you must do two things -- first, you must follow my blog on Google Friend Connect. I will be checking! Next, head over to Shutterfly's holiday card section and leave a comment telling me which card you'll select if you win. You must leave me a link to your favorite card.
THE RULES:
One entry per person -- multiple entries and entries from individuals who do not follow this blog on Google Friend Connect will be deleted. This giveaway is open to readers worldwide; winners will pay shipping for their free cards. The giveaway is open through Sunday, November 6th. Three winners will be selected using a random number generator.
GOOD LUCK!
FCC DISCLAIMER: I was provided with 50 free holiday cards from Shutterfly for the purpose of this review. No other compensation was provided. The opinions expressed in this review are my own, and were not influenced by the sponsor company.
It had been the perfect afternoon at the fair. G had ridden dozens of rides, we'd gorged on lots of fried food, and were getting ready to pack up and head home -- just in time for bedtime! -- when G begged for one more ride.
When we headed over to the Wiggle Worm, that same little boy followed us -- this time with his mother in tow. When he tried to push in front of us for the second straight time, I told him we were in line and he could wait behind us.
That's when the trouble began.
The boy's mother asked me if I was in line for the ride. No, I told her, I was standing in line with my daughter. She told me that by doing so, I was messing up the line; if I wasn't riding, I should stand to the side. I told the woman that my daughter was three years old, and I was not comfortable letting her stand by herself. The woman wouldn't it go. She kept saying to everyone who would listen that "this white lady" was holding up the line with increasing volume and anger to her voice.
At this point, other parents started sticking up for me. One grandmother outright told the woman to leave me alone, that I had every right to stand in line with my preschooler, and why did it affect anyone else what I did anyway? I was in line first. As I tried to remain stoic (which is hard for my hot temper), I heard the woman say:
"That stupid b!itch is just doing it cuz she thinks she's better than me."
Now, let's be clear here: I am not stupid. I have two degrees from two of the country's best universities that I think pretty well prove that point. But when a woman picks a fight with me for no real reason, my temper flares up and I tend to act pretty darn stupid.
I am better than you, I started to say. I'm here watching over my child, making sure she doesn't do anything dangerous, making sure she's safe. I'm an almost-Ivy-league grad; I bought my own home at the age of 24; I have a wonderful husband who loves and supports his family (by the way, at this point my husband was trying to usher me away from the provocateur); I was wooed away from my first job for one with a higher salary, better hours and more lucrative benefits; I always pay my credit card bill on time. So yeah sweetheart, I DO think I'm better than you.
Of course, I didn't say that out loud. At that exact moment, G announced to all within a 50-mile radius that she had to go pee pee and we had an excuse to leave the scene, just before I started to rip the woman's weave out in the middle of the midway.
Later that night, though, I started thinking. What gave me the right to think I was better than that woman? The fact that she was obviously from a different socio-economic group? Her marital status? Her vulgar language? Her parenting choices? Or just the fact that she couldn't mind her own business and let me and my family enjoy a nice night at the fair?
In reality, I had no right to think I was better than her -- or anybody else. In fact, maybe if I'd had shown her some compassion -- something I'm afraid she's got painfully little of in her life, especially from "white ladies" like me -- I'd have softened her, if even just slightly.
God's the one -- the only one -- who can decide if someone is better than anybody else; and when it comes down to it, he never makes that distinction. Although he acts as judge, jury and executioner, he never pulls the trigger; he allows saints and sinners through the pearly gates. And even though this woman's behavior wasn't exactly going in the "nice" column in St. Peter's big book, my reaction to her wasn't setting me up for a spot in front of the line on judgment day either.
It can be nearly impossible to swallow hard and take a blow to your ego when the words to defend oneself are so readily available. But showing compassion and a bit more meekness might have served me better in this situation than putting on my Mother Superior habit.
I loved being an only child. I loved having my parents all to myself. I loved being included in their adult world. I loved the privileges and access my only-child status got me. I loved it so much that I wanted G to be an only child as well, and cried bitter tears when I realized she'd never have that same upbringing.
Would you believe that nearly 30 years of life experience has been changed by a single book?
OK, probably not... but Jeffrey Kluger's new book "The Sibling Effect: What the Bonds Among Brothers and Sisters Reveal About Us" (Riverhead; $26.95) comes close. Kluger, himself a sibling with three brothers and a half-brother and half-sister, is also a journalist; he wrote two cover articles for Time magazine on siblings, which gave him the inspiration for this book.
In the book, which skillfully weaves Kluger's personal narrative with stories from other siblings along with a compilation of research and academic experts, Kluger touches on just about every facet of sibling revelry -- and rivalry -- out there. Birth order, blended families, the impact of gender, age, and ethnicity: they're all in here. (So are two references to Peyton Manning and his prolific football family, which, of course, automatically endeared me to Kluger, whom I now believe is a closet Colts fan despite living in Eli Manning's backyard.)
But it was the chapter on only children that captured my attention so completely that I reread it three times. Of course, I already knew a lot of Kluger had to say and what his research affirmed: singletons -- because of their intense, prolonged exposure to adults -- tend to be more mature, better integrated into the adult world, and (contrary to popular belief) just as social and outgoing as their peers with siblings. I even knew that research showed positive benefits when it comes to the IQ of many singletons.
What I didn't realize was how much -- deep, deep down inside -- I always wanted a sibling. How scared I am of growing old and having no one to help me (physically, financially, emotionally) support my parents. How lonely I was at times as a child. How happy I am that I didn't force G to be an only child like I'd originally planned.
Kluger's crafty writing changed how I view my husband's relationships with his siblings; as the third of four children and the "middle" of three boys, I now see why he felt the need to leave home -- since he wasn't the oldest, the youngest or the only girl, he didn't feel as "needed" by his parents as the other kids. This book changed how I view my relationship with my parents. But -- and most importantly -- it's changed how I view my relationship with my children, and the relationship my children will have with each other.
I won't go into a summary of the whole book, because (a) it's too long and (b) I couldn't put it half as eloquently as Kluger. But I've never been so entertained or intrigued by a research-based book as I was by "The Sibling Effect."
By the way, if you think Kluger or his book sound familiar, you're probably right; during the PR uptick for the release of "The Sibling Effect," Kluger appeared on several shows including Comedy Central's "The Colbert Report"!
Tomorrow marks one year since I left the rat race and joined the ranks of the stay-at-home mothers (and subsequently, the ranks of the work-at-home mothers).
At the time, I wasn't sure how long term my arrangement would be. DH & I had discussed our finances, crafting a strict budget that we'd have to adhere to -- no matter what -- in order to stay above water, let alone add to our savings or investments. I knew exactly how much I could spend every month on gas; I knew down to the penny how much I had for groceries. What I didn't know what if we could survive, let alone thrive, under our new system.
Fast-forward a year, and I can now say that -- barring any tragedies (which, if you judge by Monday's post, I'm not letting myself even consider) -- I never plan on returning to the office. I'll admit that I've worked far more hours in the past year than I initially planned when I left my news producer job at the local NBC station, mostly for selfish, materialistic reasons: to buy me (or the kids) new clothes; in order to pay for a nice dinner for me and DH; to stock money away for our planned trip to Disney World next summer to celebrate G's 4th birthday. But, true to a career in freelancing, every hour I worked was an hour I chose to work. I had the option -- an option I didn't have in my traditional working days -- to say no to any assignment or project offered to me.
I took vacations when I wanted to, sometimes on short notice. When I had a headache or simply felt too tired (or for much of the year, too pregnant) to work, I turned off my computer and took an impromptu sick day. I spent hours upon hours scribbling in a Tinkerbell coloring book alongside G on the living room floor. I watched my son turn from a bump in my belly to a red, writhing newborn to a chubby, bubbly five-month-old without missing (almost) a single minute.
I'm surprised to say that I've never regretted my decision to leave my job and my career behind. Honestly. That first morning I woke up feeling relieved, confident that I'd done what was best for me and my family; a year later, I hold on to that same feeling with, dare I say, even more confidence. I didn't like my job. I didn't like my boss. I didn't like where the industry was headed. Taking control of my life and realizing that, despite the inherent risks of being technically unemployed in a dicey economy, I could choose another path were the best decisions of my life.
I don't mean to suggest that I'll never work another day in my life; in some respects, I've worked harder in the past year than I ever did in a traditional work setting. I enjoy the work I do these days -- far more, in fact, than I ever did while working in TV. But I like the fact that I don't work inside an office. I like that I don't work Monday through Friday, 9am to 6pm. I may even choose to work full-time again one day; I have a sneaking suspicion one friend won't let me avoid corporate America for ever.
But I do plan to avoid the office for the rest of my life. I don't need a cubicle or a morning editorial meeting to validate the job I do or the results I get. For me, working at 10am on a Saturday morning or 9pm on a Sunday night is ideal. I don't need the structure of a boss hovering over my shoulder, or a clock ticking away precious minutes of sunlight while I'm locked inside a cavernous office. I need freedom.
And a year ago this week, I made a decision that's allowed me to get just what I need.
And it's everything I ever wanted.
Earlier this month, I turned 29 1/2 years old.
It may seem juvenile that I still celebrate my "un"-birthday, but it's a tradition between me and my mom. It started because my closest cousin's birthday is one day shy of my half-birthday. Since my mom was never one to throw big parties on my actual birthday, she made up for it by giving me a smaller gift on my half-birthday. (Yes, I realize by admitting this I am only validating that I'm a spoiled only child. Oh well.)
As I creep closer to 30, I'm looking at the dawn of a new decade with both exuberance and anxiety, confidence and trepidation. On one hand, the close of my 20s marks the end of a pretty remarkable run: the decade in which I graduated from my dream college, married my dream man, bought our dream house, had not one but two children, left one not-so-dreamy career for one that's exceeded my wildest expectations.
It's been an adventure.
As I look ahead to the next phase of my life, I am captivated by the stability it seems to offer. Whereas your 20s can be a time of upheaval -- searching for a home, both physically and metaphorically, and someone (or several someones) to share it with -- your 30s, at least from the outside looking in, seem like a period of security. Of knowing what you want and, if you're lucky, having the resources and wherewithall to go after it.
Of course, your 30s are also a sign you're getting older. At 30, I won't be able to claim I'm a kid anymore. The mistakes of my youth will -- hopefully -- be behind me. As a full-fledged, card-carrying adult (they do give you an adult card when you hit the big 3-0, right?), you don't depend on your parents as much... and this is where the fear comes in. I have so many friends who have lost a parent in their 30s; as I get older, so do my parents and everyone else I hold dear. I know the passage of time is inevitable, but its affects can still be a tough pill to swallow.
So here's to 29 1/2... I plan to hang on to that "1/2" for as long as I can. And when next April 6th rolls around (don't you dare forget my birthday!), I'll embrace the arrival of my 30s as much as I'll be mourning the end of my 20s.
I look at myself in the mirror and it ain't pretty.
G is standing at my doorway and she won't go away--
But then I suddenly remember, we have preschool today!
So I get the kids dressed, in the car 'fore 9 o'clock.
G's got a tutu on, but she forgot to wear socks.
We're at her classroom door -- soon, I'll get to leave;
Her teacher says "Hello" - I'm free! It's hard to believe.
What will I do today, tell me: where will I go?
Maybe a trip to Kohl's or Target -- G can't tell me no!
I'll go to Starbucks for a while, slowly drinking my chai tea.
Do you that sound? No whining! Cuz it's just the baby and me.
Back to home we go, I nurse Baby C in my lap.
When he's full of milk I lay us both back down for a nap.
Watching trashy primetime TV I DVR'd the night before --
Having G all day at preschool is like giving up chores!
I shower by myself -- ahhhh -- at last, I'm finally alone!
But as soon as I towel off I hear my cell phone.
"Can you come pick her up?" says the voice on the line.
"But why?" I ask. "I thought that she was doing just fine!"
"Well she was," says her teacher with a frustrated sigh.
"But now there's pee pee running down the length of her thigh."
When I pick her up she's crying, I guess that it ain't cool
To wet your pants on the third day of preschool.
In my daughter's defense, I took some artistic liberties with this poem. It turns out it wasn't pee pee on her pants; upon further inspection at home, I discovered it was just water; she'd apparently decided to play in the sink in the bathroom after going pee pee, hence the confusion.
Today is my anniversary.
No, it's not the day I met my DH. Or became engaged to him. Or married him.
No, it's not an anniversary with an ex-boyfriend, either.
It's my anniversary with my best friend, J.
(And, for clarification, I -- like J -- do believe you can have more than one best friend; in fact, I have a little circle of girls whom I consider to be my besties... but I didn't meet them three years ago today! And when I did meet them, do you know who was by my side? That's right -- J!)
The first time I met her -- exactly three years ago today -- she showed me her boobs. I showed her mine, too. We weren't crazy exhibitionists, just first-time nursing mothers trying to get a handle on breastfeeding at a support group at our local hospital. I was the "more experienced" mom; G was 18 days old at the time, a full 11 days older than her daughter, K. J complained that K wasn't sleeping well, and I urged her to start swaddling and use white noise. She did, it worked, and we've never looked back.
From the outside looking in, our friendship is unconventional. J just celebrated her 40th birthday in August; I don't celebrate my 30th til April, meaning we will never be in the same decade. She comes from a big -- and I mean BIG -- family; I'm an only child. She graduated from the University of Florida and cheers for the Gators; Tim Tebow makes me want to yak.
What we have in common far outshines our differences. We both have two children -- our three-year-old daughters, who brought us together in the first place, and our infant sons, born exactly two months apart. Our husbands both love sports, and play on the same flag football team. We both have one dog, a three bedroom/2.5 bathroom house with a similar floor plan and bought our new SUVs the same month. We went out to lunch a few weeks ago and ordered the exact same salad. We both chose to cloth diaper our sons, and make our own homemade baby food for them as well.
But its our personalities that have truly made our friendship what it is. If you were to look at her comments on my blog, they'll read something like, "I could have written this post!" If you looked at my comments on her blog, they say the exact same thing. We can finish each others sentences. We both left our jobs within a six month period, and became inherently frugal -- far more frugal than our other mutual friends -- in the process. There are times, even when we're with a large group, that she can catch my eye and I know instantly what she's thinking.
We've made concrete plans for the future. We've already decided that my G will marry her son; my C will marry her three-year-old daughter. That way, we won't have to split holidays, but will instead spend them together as one big happy family -- which we tend to do already.
So, to my best friend (whom I don't think I've ever called my best friend out loud to anyone else but my husband) -- thank you. Thank you for letting me be me when I'm around you, and for loving me because of it -- or maybe despite of it. Thank you for sharing your family with mine. Thank you for the advice and sometimes, just for an ear to listen or a shoulder upon which to lean.
