Other Mothers

Ryann started Kindergarten this year.  It has been a much anticipated milestone in this house.  She has always loved school, loved the friends, loved the teachers and the learning.  She also super loved that all of her preschool classrooms had multiple toy phones.  I think the lack of toy phones is the only downside to Kindergarten.  

In our little tribe of “friends who have become a family of sorts” there are three other kiddos starting Kindergarten this year, too.  One in each family.  Each kid started “big school” at a different school last month.  Many months ago the moms dreamed up “Kindergarten dinner.”  We wanted to take these soon-to-be Kindergarteners out for a special dinner, just them and their moms, to celebrate this big milestone. 

A few weeks ago four moms and four five and six year olds met at Portillo’s for Kindergarten dinner.  We ordered hot dogs and hamburgers and chicken nuggets (and a few chopped salads) and moved a few tables together for our feast.  As we’d finalized our plans the week before I’d wondered if Portillo’s was the right choice.  Should we have done something more “sit-down” and grown up to celebrate the big occasion?  After watching their squirrelly excitement multiply with proximity to each other I knew we’d made the right call.  They may be "big kids" but they’re still unable to sit still when they all get together.  We gave each kid a chance to share about their schools and classrooms, what they loved, who they sat by, what the best part of the day was.  They excitedly found similarities in each other’s school lives (“I go to the library too!  You have recess??  Me too!”) and they all reported that they liked their teachers.  At the end of dinner there was a lot of coordinated hands in the circle “go teaming” to the shouts of Kindergarten!  (Five and six year olds are so funny!)  At some point in the meal they’d started planning the band they were going to form and, outside of Portillo's, the drive through line was treated to four raucous kindergarteners singing/playing four different songs on imaginary instruments.  I predict their first record will go platinum. 

In this little Kindergarten cohort there are two boys and two girls.  Finn and Grayson were born just a few days apart in August.  Nine months later Ryann was born and six weeks after that came Caroline.  I’ve known their moms since high school, but it was when these guys were babies that our tribe fully came together and we started meeting intentionally and regularly.  Charity and her family had just moved back to the area and Kelly and her family came into the fold all around the same time.  For the whole of Ry’s life she has known these three women.  Finn, Grayson and Caroline have been her constant playmates.  They’ve celebrated each of her birthdays, she knows the ins and outs of all their homes and their families.  Outside of her siblings, these are the kids that are closest to her, her people.  And their moms are her second moms.  She knows Lauren will pick her up and give her the biggest hug when she sees her, Charity will stop everything to hear about her day and Kelly will cheer her on in whatever she does.  

At one point in the dinner Charity told the kids she was really excited that there were four amazing kids going out into the world to be brave and kind and loving and that we wanted to mark that with our little celebration.  I added that I wanted each of them to know that there are four moms here who love each of them so much and who will be cheering them all on every step of the way as they go out into the world. 

There’s been lots said about the need for a village.  Jen Hatmaker calls them “bonus moms” in her new book and writes a more beautiful tribute to them than I ever could.  Whatever you want to call it, a tribe, a village, bonus moms, second mothers, the experience of other people loving and caring about my kids has changed me and shaped my kids lives in incredible ways.  I am so incredibly thankful for these women in my kids lives.  Thankful that I get to be in their kids lives.

At the dinner we decided that this would be a tradition for the (many) kids we have coming up behind these four.  (Between the four families we have 12 kids…so far.)  This is the only year that each of us have a kid starting kindergarten, but we decided that in the future all four moms will attend the Kindergarten Dinner, even if we don’t have a kindergartener that year.  Because we want all our kids to know that all the moms care about them deeply, that we’re here for them, that we’re cheering them on, rooting for them, eager to celebrate their successes and help pick them up after the losses.  These kids have a tribe and I’m so happy to be a part of it.    

Rejection!

I was at the farm when I got the email, which is remarkable in that my reception at the farm is always spotty so I don't usually bother checking much.  When I saw the sender and the subject title (re: your submission) my heart leapt and I rushed to open it, praying the few bars I had would be enough for the content to load.  It was and as I scanned over the words of the message I found myself smiling despite what those words said.  It was a rejection letter.  My first rejection letter.

Well, to be clear this wasn’t my first rejection letter of all time.  I’ve received plenty of those.  In fact, there were a few weeks in 2001 when I received a string of rejection letters from almost every college I applied to.  Even the mailman started giving me sympathetic looks as I hopefully awaited his arrival.  This email was my first rejection letter for a writing submission.  And while outwardly I received that solid, unmistakable “no,” inside I was warm and even unmistakably happy.  

I’d thought about submitting pieces to magazines and online publications forever.  I’d toy with the essay contest for Real Simple each month, spend an inordinate amount of time researching “how and where to submit writing samples," think about what I’d write and where I’d submit it, sometimes actually start said submission but never, ever did I actually write, edit, finish and submit any of my writing.  

I don’t even remember exactly what was the catalyst for this submission.  For months I’d been circling the 15th in my calendar each month as a reminder that this was the deadline for submissions to a particular online magazine.  Each and every month the 15th would pass and I would fail to send anything, worried that whatever I’d been working on wasn’t quite “right” for their site.  I do remember, when I finally did finish something, thinking, this may not be quite what they’re looking for, but screw it.  Send it anyway.  And before I had a chance to overthink it or back out, I did.

And, a few weeks later I heard back from them.  The response to my very attempt at the sacred act of “putting yourself out there” in this area of my life was a resounding (but very kind and polite) no.

And so, in the face of that first rejection I became surprised at the overriding emotion of… pride.  I wasn’t upset at being told “thanks, but no thanks.”  Instead I was proud that I’d had the courage to follow through and submit something in the first place.  Instead of deleting that email, dejected, I smiled a little to myself and saved that sucker, proof that I’d been brave and vulnerable and lived to tell the tale.

In his memoir “On Writing” author Stephen King writes about how he used to stick all of his rejection letters to a nail in his wall and that by the age of 14 he’d had to upgrade to a spike because the nail could no longer support the weight of all those letters.  By the age of fourteen he’d had the courage to submit enough work that a nail couldn’t hold all the proof of his chutzpah!  I marveled over this story when I read it and committed to racking up at least a few more rejection emails.

I now have a file, nested under Personal in my complex and numerous gmail label system, entitled “rejections!” It looks just like that, too, with the ! serving as a reminder that these emails are exciting!  They are not rejections, but rather marks of your daring, your chance taking, your “putting it out there-ness”!  Collect them happily because it means you are trying.  In 2018 I just may set a goal for myself to receive a certain number of those emails.

This is easy to say, at the beginning of this journey.  When that file has accumulated hundreds of “thanks, but no thanks” emails, I may not be so cheerful about my rejection epiphany.  Be careful what you wish for and all that jazz.

But I am careful about what I’m wishing for.  I’m wishing to be brave and bold.  I’m wishing to follow through on long held dreams.  I’m wishing to show up and do the work for the work’s sake.  I’m wishing to put myself out there a bit more, to dare and chance and dream.  And so if all I end up with is an email file filled with receipts that I tried and took a risk I will still have gotten what I wished for.

And so, fellow dreamers, this one is for you.  Could we do this?  Can we wear letters of rejection as badges of honor, a testament to our bravery?  Can we face the fear and celebrate when we survive that of which we were so afraid?  What are your "rejection letters" and how can you flip the script on them?  

Let’s do this, friends.  Make your own rejections! pile and let them stack up, smiling with each one.  Follow in the footsteps of Stephen King and really rack ‘em up, high-fiving your chutzpah along the way.  Let’s try something, be brave, put ourselves out there and fail.  And then let’s happily get up and try again. 

To Messier Houses in 2017

I think it was J.K. Rowling who, when asked how she managed to write those epic books while raising her young children as a single parent, responded that while she was writing her house was a disaster, her bathrooms unclean and the laundry left to pile up.  She said you can’t do it all, all the time.

When I first heard that truth I “Amen, sister”-ed and mentally high-fived a thousand angels.  And then I probably went back to cleaning my bathroom.

I’ve been home with my four kids full time for eighteen months, since just before the youngest was born.  I stepped down from a part-time role in youth ministry because frankly, having four kids in five years will break you a little.  That and no one wants to watch that many kids for free anymore (not even grandma). 

So I found myself home a lot more.  And suddenly every cabinet and closets and hidden nooks and crannies in my home began screaming for attention.  I noticed all the things I should be attending to that I’d previously been unable to pay attention to when I was working part-time outside of the home. My to-do list had monthly projects like cleaning out every closet and cabinet or finally getting around to organizing all those photo albums.  Once I started paying attention to these projects that could but did not need to be done my lists grew exponentially, multiplying like those proverbial rabbits.

And one day I realized that my house was regularly clean, the laundry was done and put away and the major monthly projects were slowly getting done, but my "career" was non-existent.  There is more order than I could possibly need in my home, but not enough fulfilling, creative work in my life.  And I was filled with more angst and less energy than I’d ever felt during my most chaotic days of being a “working mom.”

Over the past few months I've set about trying to reverse that.  I redesigned my weekly rhythms, building in time for creative work and writing when I am most mentally energized, in the mornings at the beginning of the week.  I reprioritized when and how I get things done.  I tackle my work first, the work that gives me energy and stretches my mental muscles.  I fit in workouts in different pockets than I had done before, in an effort to give my best time to the work.  And I leave cleaning for the end of the week, when I’m pretty mentally fried anyway.  (I’ve also taught my kids to dust and clean bathrooms which has changed my life in immeasurable ways.)  I’ve also reprioritized what needs to get done to keep our house afloat and keep me from going crazy and let go of what could get done but could also just as easily be ignored.  I stopped putting five big “organization/cleaning” projects on my monthly to do list.  I put one on there and don’t stress too much if I never get to it.  This means my photo albums are unfinished and my closets a bit chaotic.  But my soul is singing in a way that it wasn’t before.

I’m writing more and planning other projects.  I’ve engaged in activist work in a way that has connected me freshly to God.  I’m happier in my home because I don’t feel a slave to it, which in turn makes me better to my people who live in that home.  They were simple tweaks, inspired by the realization that all the order and organization in my home would never bring me the joy fulfilling and energizing creative work would.  And the reminder that J.K. Rowling didn’t write those beloved books while also keeping a spotless house.  It’s better for me and my family when our house is a little messier but mama feels a little more whole.

The Great Closet Clean Out

A few weeks ago after the kids were all in bed my friend Charity came over to help me with a project.  My wardrobe needed a complete, top to bottom rehab. 

Since I got pregnant with Lou in August of 2013 my body has gone through the ringer.  It’s been three years straight of growing with pregnancy, shrinking much more slowly than I’d like, growing again and shrinking again (even more slowly, of course).  All while breastfeeding, the needs of which do not lend themselves to all clothes equally.  For the last three years I’ve worn whatever was comfortable, whatever fit in my in-between sizing states, and whatever allowed me to whip a boob out at a moment’s notice.  This mostly looked like wearing yoga leggings and oversized tops.

I’m pretty much done with breastfeeding and I’ve come to terms with the fact that as much “baby weight” that’s going to come off post Rory has departed; this is my body now.  As I mentioned before, my closet was a weird combination of clothes I wish would fit me, clothes I bought right after I had babies that were weird fitting, and clothes that I never wear because I don’t know how or what to wear them with.  I’m tired of feeling frumpy at school pick up, tired of wearing stained, hole-y clothes because nothing else fits and this is the only white tee shirt I have left.  So it was time to go through each article of clothing and make a decision: keep or toss.  

Prior to Charity’s arrival I’d spent a few days pre-purging.  I got rid of everything that I was stained or had holes and the things that I knew just really didn’t fit/look good. By the time she arrived that evening I was ready to blow up my whole closet and start from scratch, so I was surprised with how much I ended up keeping when it was all said and done.  But of course that is the genius of my friend Charity-she has a keen eye for how to wear things and the most encouraging spirit in the world.  

Here are the things I learned in The Great Closet Clean Out:

Often just adding a different shoe changed a whole outfit from tosser to keeper.  

There were so many things I assumed would end up in the “donate” pile that wound up in my closet purely because of the shoes Charity told me to try them with.  I have a pair of loose, printed summery pants I didn’t wear all summer.  Charity paired them with my wedge booties and they will now live to see the fall.  The fall!  These were unflattering summer pants only in my mind and suddenly with a heel they are chic and awesome printed pants that will be making an appearance all fall.  I had a pair of old pumas that I was certain were on their way out that are now going to be worn with a number of different outfits in coming weeks.  I don’t think much about shoes when I buy clothes or plan outfits but this experience taught me that shoes can make our break an outfit.

You need good basics. 

We discovered in The Great Closet Clean Out that I was long on funky or “interesting” pieces but very short on basics which was preventing me from wearing all those interesting pieces.  This is ironic because I told Charity when she arrived that I’d been living in the suburbs for too long and my wardrobe was boring.  Back in my NYC days I’d been a little bolder when it came to wearing clothes.  Everyone was a walking canvas in New York when it came to fashion-you would stick out if you didn’t try a few funky pieces from time to time.  I missed wearing clothes that were a little unique.  I felt like I was wearing the same combination of yoga pants and cotton tops, and everything else in my closet was unwearable or weird.  Charity helped me realize I had all the unique pieces, but they needed some basics to make them wearable.

It’s ok to hang on to clothes for sentimental reasons.

There were a few pieces in my closet that carried a story.  The green skirt I bought at a flea market the summer I worked in NYC during college and was wearing when Tommy knew he wanted to date me, a white skirt with embroidered flowers I purchased in Ireland during my study abroad year, a pair of pants Tommy had bought me when we were first dating.  Some of these things had been ill-fitting over the years, or wavered between fashionable or not, but I held on to them because they carried a beloved story.  I was pretty sure my time with Charity was going to be the push I needed to finally say good-bye, but instead she was a champion in encouraging me to put them in the keep pile.  She helped me find ways to wear some of them, convincing me that the clothes looked good and not, as some of them were, almost 12 years old.  She championed the notion that clothing with history is important.  Since then I’ve worn an orange skirt with beautiful embroidered flowers and delicate beadwork twice, each time remembering my favorite little boutique in New York and my early days dating Tommy.  And I put aside a few pieces that no longer fit great to hand down to the girls.  Maybe someday they’ll love the blue, velvety flair pants that their dad picked out when we were first dating.  Or maybe I’ll just love telling the story.   Either way I’m thankful she persuaded me to save a few pieces for sentimental reasons and helped me freshen them up.

  

Be ruthless about what comes and goes

I had to get real strict when it came to getting rid of stuff.  My favorite shirt with the hole?  Time to say good bye.  Those pants I spent too much on, but look terrible on me?  Sorry you’re gone.  Anything that fits weird? Out.  I’m learning that I’m super picky about how clothes feel on my body.  If I find myself thinking about my clothes all day, adjusting them or pulling on them because I can feel them on me I’m less likely to wear them again.  I got rid of a lot of great clothes that weren’t great for me.  And from now on I’m going to be equally ruthless about what I buy.  No more shopping online at stores that are difficult to make returns.  No more clothes that I only sorta like but bought because they were cheap.  I want to build my wardrobe with good quality necessities from now on.  

  

It’s not just about getting dressed to get dressed.

Thanks to the great closet clean out I’m excited about getting dressed again.  There’s a creative element to it for me and I really do feel more confident when I walk out the door.  I’m learning that it’s not shallow to care about what you wear because it really does do something inside of you.  I have a different energy and a different “I got this” attitude.  I don’t know why exactly, but I know that by clearing out all the things I owned that didn’t make me feel confident to wear and reworking what was left, getting dressed is easier in the morning and I feel better all day.  

And lastly…. At the end of the day, who cares?  Just try something bold

I bought overalls.  Yeah I did.  I have long loved overalls and when they started coming back around in the last few years I wanted desperately to try them out again.  I found a pair for $12 at Von Maur that actually looked cute on me and I knew I had to try it.  For $12 I could take that fashion risk.  And friends I love them.  It makes an average Friday chasing around my kids so much more fun.  What’s fashion risk are you secretly dying to try?  Just do it.  I don’t think you’ll regret it!

The Messy Middle

I read a story recently about Rob Reiner’s son.  Rob Reiner is a pretty famous director.  He’s the guy behind When Harry Met Sally and The Princess Bride (and he made one of my favorite cameos on 30 Rock).  His newest movie, Being Charlie, was co-written by his son, Nick, and is loosely based on Nick’s 17 stints in rehab (all before he’d turned 20).

Nick’s first stint in rehab occurred when he was 15.  The years that followed included addiction, homelessness, rock bottom.  Once he’d made it through recovery he wrote this film and now he and his father share this story with the world.  

I thought about this story and the Hollywood ending of it all.  Prodigal son gets clean, movie director father makes his movie, all the happy tears.  I wondered what film Rob would have made in the middle of it all.  When his son was still addicted and homeless and Rob was probably scared out of his mind and also unclear on exactly how it would all end.  When, for all Rob knew, the story could end tragically with an overdose or arrest.

So often we share our stories once they’ve ended.  After we’ve gotten perspective and clarity and we know how everything turns out.  There aren’t many stories written in the messy middle when we’re scared and confused and don’t know exactly what to say and can’t write with the hopeful optimism because we’re not sure if the story is going to turn out happily.

There is value in sharing our story once we’ve gotten perspective.  Hindsight is an important wisdom and I’ve learned so much in the past few years about how much time can heal and change a story.  And the hopeful optimist in me wants a story to end with something positive.  Even the saddest story should have redemption and hope.  That often only comes when we see it through, get to the end and then tell our tale.

But I’m finding myself drawn to the messy middle of people’s stories.  I’m impressed when people can share in the thick of things and offer up whatever wisdom they may have in the moment or share with great vulnerability that they have no idea what life looks like. The deepest intimacy I’ve found with friends has come when they’ve opened up about whatever is true and terrible or hard right there in the middle without worrying about wrapping things up with tidy, hopeful optimism.

There are a few big things in my life that I don’t quite know how to write about.  I’m in the middle of the story and I don’t have the ability to pull back with the perspective of time to wrap it up with a hopeful or positive ending.  For all I know right now this story could end terribly, or at least not how I hope it will.

This middle place in my own story has shown me that some stories stay in the middle a lot longer than we want them to.  I keep trying to rush to the end, to the conclusion, to the moment of clarity and understanding, but life keeps forcing me back, unable to honestly claim any sort of even nuanced wisdom or concrete understanding.  I’m still mucking through my story, untethered in many ways and with more questions than answers.

I’m tempted to fake it.  To claim the ending I hope to have and wrap it up with the wisdom and perspective I’d like to wind up with.  To rush ahead and skip this mucky, messed up middle, even if the results are inauthentic and forced.  But I can’t do that.  My need for honesty and truth, even in the depths of my being trump any desire for solid ground.

And so in the meantime I find myself quiet, unsure of how to talk about my story from this middle place.  If I share honestly about where I’m at right now it feels dark and a little hopeless.  But even more than that, I’m hesitant to speak the truth as I understand it now because that truth feels a little unformed, a sculpture still in process.  I know where it’s heading, but right now it doesn’t look anything like the final product I envision.  What is true at this point in the middle of my story may not still be true in the end and that is why I’m afraid to speak it all aloud.   

And yet, I’m finding myself wanting to speak from this middle place.  I want the freedom to tell my truth in this in between beginning and end spot even if that truth looks different at the conclusion.  At the same time I’m afraid to be held to who I was or what I came to believe in the middle.  I don’t want someone to be able to point to my words in the middle and say, “but what about that!  You said that and now you are saying this!”  

But isn’t that what we are supposed to do in life?  Grow and change and transform.  Shouldn’t we be someone different in the middle and why isn’t it ok to say this is what I am right now in this moment and then however many months later say this is who I am now?  Both are true.  

I want to hear more stories from the middle, from people fully admitting that they haven’t got an ounce of it figured out, if only so that I can get braver about sharing my own.  I want to be able to accept the offerings of the middle place wisdom, to hold them preciously but loosely, giving room for the offerings that come further down the road with time and perspective and wisdom.  I want to value the hard earned, albeit fluid, truth of this messy middle as important and necessary in its own right, even though it may be dark and a little hopeless and unwilling to be wrapped up with a bow.  I need to hear these stories because I need bravery to share my own.  I want to accept those middle place offerings of others so that I can accept my own, so that I can embrace or at least hold preciously the half truths I’ve come to understand and the unknown I’m still moving towards.  

I need others’ messy middles so I can make peace with my own.

What is a story you are still in the middle of?  What momentary truths are you discovering from this shaky, unreliable ground?  Can you speak with tentative hope what you wish to be?  And fear of what you hope will not but still could be?  The middle of our hard stories is confusing and dark and fraught with doubt and uncertainty.  But we don’t get to the end without first going through it.  Today I’m looking to respect and revere this middle place because it is necessary and who I am right in this moment is just as important as who I will be at the end of the story. 

The Fire I'm Refusing to Ignore

I started this post yesterday but couldn't finish it.  I woke up this morning to the news of the Dallas shootings and my heart is heavier still.  I don't really know if I have any words of wisdom or if I'm just another white girl who is more clueless than not.  But my reasons for not posting this had more to do with my own self-preservation and fear of judgement which felt small and selfish.  I can't pretend there isn't a fire anymore.  

I’m heavy hearted this morning, unable to shake the feeling that something is wrong.  My Facebook feed is filled with #AltonSterling and #PhilandoCastile and pleas for our country to wake up and see that for some the world is on fire and the people with water are denying the flames’ existence.  Because they can.  Because they live in safe, fireproof houses and they don’t even realize that those fireproof houses allow them to chose blindness and that is privilege.  I can’t stop thinking about Alton Sterling’s fifteen year old son.  I was going to post something dumb about the books I’m reading but it all feels trite right now.

I don’t like feeling like this, heavy hearted with the burdens of others.  I don’t enjoy lamenting and feeling angry at God for not doing something already.  And I suppose you could say that I bring this on myself.  In an attempt to see and hear I’ve started following more people of color, those in the LGBTQ community and civil rights activists on social media.  Which of course fills my feed with more hashtags documenting the names of men and women whose lives were taken unjustly.  I’m forcing myself to look at the problems and that in turn makes my heart break.  

I could stop looking.  I could easily unfollow all those voices on social media, take Facebook and Instagram off my phone all together and never open another news outlet site again.  I could easily pretend like those injustices don’t exist.  Because of my white privilege I have the choice to look the other way.  But I can’t un-know what I know.  My eyes were opened when I was fifteen and I read “To Kill a Mocking Bird” and “Black Boy.”  They were opened again when I was 19 and I took my first African American Studies class.  And again when I was 21 and took the Social Justice track at Intervarsity’s summer camp.  I can’t un-see what I saw when I taught at George Westinghouse high school in Brooklyn, New York, a stone’s throw away from the projects that raised Jay Z.  I could feign ignorance, but the truth is I know.  I’ve seen the injustice and one day I think I will be accountable to God for what I did with that knowledge.

So I keep looking.  I keep reading.  I keep feeling heavy and helpless because it feels like the least I can do.  To not look away.  To see it and bear just a fraction of the burden my black brothers and sisters bear.  

And maybe that’s the hard part for me.  It feels like the absolute least I can do, but I don’t know what else to do.  I’ve been reliving this cycle for years now, since the Trayvon Martin shooting.  I feel the burden and the grief, I lament and post articles and like posts on Facebook until the media coverage dies down and the death becomes a little more removed.  And then I can forget (I have the luxury of forgetting) for a little while until the next shooting, the next unarmed or unaggressive black man or boy dies and the cycle repeats.  It feels so… worthless and unhelpful.

I heard on the Liturgists podcast (episode 30: Prophet or Ass, around the 18 minute mark) that in order to bring about real social change two kinds of people are needed.  We need the prophets, the ones who are outside of the power structure and who decry injustice loudly and clearly.  For the others outside the power structure these prophets are affirming and life giving.  They are leading the cause, giving a voice, pointing to the injustice and spreading the message needed for change.  Martin Luther King Jr. would be an example of such a prophet.  Those most empathetic within a power structure are also affected by the prophet’s message.  What happens though is that as human beings it is essential to our cognition to identify as a good person and so we subconsciously filter any information that undermines our self identification as a good person.  When a prophet brings forth evidence that our way of life oppresses another group of people we get defensive and we tune out because it challenges our identity as good.  For most within power structure we are unable to hear the message of the prophet.  Mentally we shut down.  And so a second group is necessary.  I like to think of them as allies.  An ally is someone within the power structure that can present the message of the prophet in a way that clearly and specifically calls out oppressive behavior while still speaking in a language that affirms the goodness of the identity of those within the oppressing groups.  An ally can take the prophet’s message back to the others and gently educate and inform.  Allies can have lower stakes conversations about the structure of white supremacy and its damage with those who have benefited (whether they realize it or not) from that structure.  They can call it out in a way that acknowledges that most of these actions are unthinking and affirm the basic goodness of those inside the oppressing group.  Both groups are needed to bring about social change on a large scale.   

I’m beginning to understand my role as an ally.  I need to speak up, to have hard conversations, to call out oppressive behavior.  And I need to do it in a way that still affirms our basic decency.  Without this approach it is scientifically proven that cognitively those in power will shut down, tune out, and forget. 

So I’m trying that today.  I’m refusing to look away and I’m being brave and kind with those around me.  In person I want to keep quiet because it’s hard to have difficult conversations face to face and point out someone’s conscious or subconscious bias.  Online I want to be cutting and snarky because I’m angry at myself for being so quiet and impatient with those that I think just don’t understand.  It’s easy to be bold and harsh online when you don’t have to see the effect of your words.  I’m raising my voice AND I’m doing it in love.  Because my role in bringing about social change is to be an ally, and this is the best way I know how.

For what it’s worth, this podcast is an excellent listen.  It’s another one from The Liturgists, called Black and White: Racism in America.  I think it’s a great entry point for those of us within the power structure to begin to open our eyes and learn.  

Things I've (finally) Learned After Four Kids

These kids are nuts.

Ya’ll.  I have four kids.  It’s kind of a lot.  I’ve spent the last eight months feeling a little bit like the stereotypical crazed mom of lots of littles.  You know, manic eyes, unshowered, yoga pants and spit up covered shirt.  (Can we talk about the spit up?  Rory is still spitting up after pretty much every meal.  Now that she’s eating solids her spit up is a rainbow of colors and it has stained every article of clothing I own.)  Now, though, it’s summer and I’m slowly crawling my way out of the hole.  The weather is better, our schedule is a little more relaxed but also defined.  Rory can handle a shorter morning nap and a few more excursions.  I’m feeling more like myself.  It’s kinda nice.

And over the past eight months I’ve learned some lessons that I’m slightly embarrassed to admit took me four kids to figure out.  So I figured I should share them, if only to allow you to benefit from my stupidity/wisdom sooner than later.

And so, without further adieu: A few things I’ve finally learned after four kids…

1.) How to remove a onesie after a blowout.

Those shoulder slits do more than just get the onesie over the kids head...

You guys.  You guys.  This one will change your life if you’re like me and you cleaned up countless diaper blowouts without figuring this out.  You know how onesies have those funny shoulders with the slits?  I always thought it was just so you could get the onesies over babies’ huge domes.  But you know what else you can do with them?  Pull the onesie down over their shoulders in the event of a blowout diaper.

I mean, all those years of trying to get poop filled onesies over my kids heads without getting crap in their hair and it wasn’t until kid number four that I finally figured out I could just pull it down.  Life changing I tell you.  And it came just in time because for a while there Rory was only pooping once a day and it was a disaster every. single. time.

2.) Sometimes, like when you serve chili to a 6 month old, its just best to strip them down to their diaper.

so much mess.

Rory loves ground beef.  Taco Tuesday is her favorite.  Chili mac makes her heart soar.  Pasta sauce with meat in it is her love language.  And I’ve finally learned that when she is eating messy meals like this I should just strip her down to her diaper before we eat.  Because there is not a bib in the world that will protect her clothing from that mess.  Somehow she manages to get pasta sauce on her toes.  Her clothes don’t stand a chance.  So it’s hillbilly style dining around here and I’m fine with it.

3.) Some toys are just not worth it.

I’ve developed what I call the “Out of my hair to clean up ratio” when it comes to toys.  I think that the primary function of toys should be to entertain my kids so I don’t have to.  But after four kids I’ve realized that not all toys and activities were created equal in their ability to do this job.  And I’ve become ruthless in eliminating/hiding toys that don’t meet the proper “Out of my hair/clean up ratio” standards.  In order for a toy to remain in good standing around here it needs to occupy my kids for at least three times as long as it takes to clean up said toy.  This is why I will let my kids remove every costume in the bin, turn any and all boxes into robots/computers/airplanes/sea creature, and drag their laundry basket to the basement so it can be an elevator (I still can’t figure out what they were doing with that one).  Because these things occupy my kids for hours.  Or at least 45 minutes.  It’s why I leave crayons, markers coloring books and pads of paper at eye level on the closet shelf and don’t complain when every crayon ends up on the floor.  They’ve spent 25 minutes coloring one scribble on each page in the book and not whining at my feet to be picked up (side eye to you Lou).  If it takes me 7 minutes to clean all that up I’ll still think it was worth it.

Things that do not make the cut include play dough, arts and crafts projects and legos (kinda).  Play dough occupies my kids for approximately 3 and a half minutes and then I spend the next three weeks finding dried up dough inside every crevice, on every surface, and under every fingernail in my house.  Arts and crafts project kits don’t make the cut because it is decidedly not an “out of my hair” activity.  I have the help with the gluing and the cutting and in the end my kids have a paper owl that looks more like a disfigured snake and I’m supposed to treasure it always.  And also the whole time I want to stab my eyes with the scissors.  Liam is just starting to be able to assemble legos on his own, but for years it required me trying to access the non existent engineer in my brain to figure out the instructions.  

And finally number 4:  I don’t have to be all the moms 

Some moms are great “arts and crafts” moms.  Some are “play with trains for hours” moms.  Some are “chase you around the park for hours” moms.  These are examples of mom-ing things that I am maybe not great at.  I remember once taking Liam to the park when I was 17 months pregnant with Ryann.  There was a mom there who was the quintessential “cool mom.”  She was young and fit and obviously so fun.  She chased her kid around the park, running up the equipment and sliding down the slide, laughing with seemingly endless bounds of energy.  I watched her, hand resting on my gigantic belly vowing to be like her as soon as this kid was evicted from my womb.  But the reality is I’m just not that mom.  I would like to be, but I’m really not.  When I do it I feel unnatural.  Like I’m playing a character.

I am the kind of mom that sings show tunes in my kitchen with the girls.  The mom that takes the kids on the train or to the pool.  I’m the mom who reads their favorite books a million times and uses my full arsenal of accents and voices.  I’m a “dance party when everyone is melting down” mom.  I’m a “get out of the house” mom.  I’m the “scratch your back forever” mom.  I’m finding that when I am intentional about focusing my energy in these ways with my kids I don’t feel guilty about not being the other moms.  I can love it when my friends are the kind of moms they were built to be without feeling all the “I should do that too” angst.  And my kids don’t care.  They just want me to be their mom, whichever kind of mom that is.  

So, there’s a few things I’m (slowly) learning.  What about you?  Anything 2 or 3 or 4 kids are teaching you??

On Owning It. Or The Fart Backstage.

We were in the wings of the middle school auditorium.  I’m fairly certain this was during a rehearsal and not an actual show because I don’t remember wearing costumes.  I do remember who I was with back there.  Two of the popular middle school girls.  In middle school I was cool girl adjacent, on the peripheral of the group not an included member.  Of course now, looking back, I realize that my refusal to just make actual, real, non-cool girl friends rather than hang on to a group of people who didn’t really like me says a lot more about me than them.  But it was middle school and I just desperately wanted to be accepted by the accepted.

So I hung on.

Around that time these two popular girls had started the trend of “owning their farts.”  It was genius, really.  These two girls knew how to take the most embarrassing of situations (a fart in middle school) and turn it into an opportunity to be awesome.  If one of them made the social faux pas of all faux pas, they would shrug and say, “I farted” with a who cares, I did this thing and I’m too cool to be embarrassed by it attitude.  Or they would say it loudly and proudly, laughing as though their gas was the funniest thing ever.  And that made them cooler.  If you were secure enough to own your fart, no one could get to you.   I was obsessed with this who gives a crap mentality.  Because I so couldn’t do it.  If I farted in school I’d keep my mouth shut and hope everyone pinned it on the smelly kid.

Any way I’m backstage with the Heathers and I fart.  And in a single moment I decide go with their tactic.  I think I thought if I tried on this attitude, like one of the school play costumes, I would become more like them, which is to say cooler and less insecure.  Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “I farted.  That one was me.”

The girls burst out laughing and I knew I’d done it wrong.  I didn’t say it with the same “I’m so secure about this” tone.  Something about it was cute, like when a little kid repeats words she’s only heard the grown ups say.  And I was still mortified.  I went through the act of owning my fart without really owning it. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this “owning your fart” mentality.  One of the truest lessons I’ve learned in the last decade is that the act of speaking your shame aloud always diminishes its power.  I’ve found freedom in this truth with some of my deepest shames. 

But today I’m thinking of some smaller shames.  You know the truths about yourself that aren’t a big deal, but you still hope you’ll outgrow before anyone figures them out.  The things about yourself that you fear make you shallow, or silly or dumb.  The farts backstage.  These are the things that make me human in the easiest possible way and also the things I don’t really want anyone to realize.

Today though, I’m owning it.  I’m realizing the freedom and joy that’s found in living fully into who you are, quirks and embarrassments and all.  I’m tired of waiting to outgrow something, or change into the person I think I would be better off being.  I'm tired of the shame and panic that rises in me when someone starts to tease me about one of these things.  And so today, I’m confessing loud and proud a few of these smaller shames.  Imagine I’m saying it with the “who cares, this is me, and I’m too cool to be embarrassed” tone that I failed so miserably with twenty years ago.

My name is Colleen and I love celebrities.  I have always been easily star-struck.  I love People magazine, E! News, and I can tell you about every time I’ve been in proximity of someone of note.  I’m desperate to know what famous people are really like, and if I find out you know some one of some reputable fame I will grill you for hours.  I sat next to a very chatty someone who worked for the producers of Lost during what became my most favorite flight.  This girl was not afraid to spill insider secrets and for the entire trip from New York to Phoenix I got all the dirt.  What’s even worse is that my litmus test for celebrity is incredibly easy to pass.  Basically if people know about you, you are famous in my eyes.  My friend Marty once won a trip to Mexico by calling into a morning radio talk show that I love.  He charmed his way into the hearts of the hosts and was featured on the show’s broadcast from Mexico.  And now Marty has achieved celebrity status.  Because one time he was on the radio.  I’m ashamed of this quality because I fear it reveals some sort of shallow, celebrity worshiping quality in me.  Or that people will deduct my own desires for fame.  And also it taps into one of my worst qualities, gossipy-ness  (definitely a real word).  So I try, without success, to down play this quality, but today I’m claiming it.  I get star-struck about celebrities (shoulder shrug).

This second confession kind of goes along with the first, but I like pop culture way more than high-minded things.  I’d rather listen to the Entertainment Weekly radio station than NPR in the car and I’d rather read People Magazine than Time at the dentist.  I’ve got loads of really great documentaries in my Netflix queue, but all I watch is Friends and Gilmore Girls reruns.  And I’ve never read the New Yorker.  In my defense I do listen to NPR, read Time and watch documentaries, but when given the choice I will always choose the pop culture route first.  Again, I fear this makes me so, so shallow and less intelligent in the eyes of others.  But I can’t deny it.   I want to be a person that knows all about the conflict in Syria but has no clue about the conflict amongst the cast of a Shonda Rhimes show.  But I'm not.

Also, I talk to myself in my car when I’m alone.  Sometimes I play out conversations that I need to have, but am afraid of.  Or I have imaginary conversations pertaining to all sorts of imaginary things I hope to one day accomplish but probably never will. (I’m fairly certain my days starring in an academy award-winning movie are behind me.)  I’m a daydreamer and always have been.  It’s silly and weird and something I probably should have stopped doing when I was nine, but there you go. 

FIESTA! Also, don't try to discern a patters.  There isn't one.  I'm going to get ALL the colors.

Finally, I love color way more than classic neutral tones.  This isn’t one I’ve necessarily tried to hide, but I’ve always sort of hoped eventually I’d get my act together and become someone with classic whites and neutral shades all through her home.  For years I’ve coveted Fiestaware, the most colorful of all dinnerware, but never committed to buying it because I was always worried people would think it was childish.  But you know what?  My mom got me some settings for my birthday this year, and then I used the birthday money from my mother-in-law to buy more settings and now I have nine settings in nine different colors and I can’t even tell you how happy it makes me to open my cabinets.  It’s silly really that a rainbow of dishes could bring so much joy.  But I love it.    

Ok, so now I’m a little mortified at these metaphorical farts that I’ve just owned.  But next time I start gushing over some blogger that isn’t really a celebrity I’m not going to feel ashamed.  I’m just going to own it.  And really this is just the tip of the iceberg.   There is so much more I could have said, and probably one day will- if only to give you all the freedom to claim your own farts and feel no more shame.   Maybe we’ll host an “Owning It Friday” around here.   What about you?  Anything you’d like to not feel ashamed of anymore?

(For the record, when it comes to actual farts I absolutely do not own those.  I will throw my kids, husband or complete strangers under the bus if I happen to fart in public.  No way am I ‘fessing up to that if I can help it.)