I'm On A Plane

Where to begin?  Let's start with the where. Newark to LAX to visit my sister and brother-in-law for Christmas.  

My days pre-trip were plagued with high anxiety about flying with a toddler--so much so that I almost pulled the plug on the trip twice. And yes, I know "everyone does it" (eye roll), but that didn't offer my virgin mom-flyer self any solace.  

The trip to LA is the longer of the two legs. Astonishingly, It was a breeze. People were friendly. And helpful. No lines, no hassle, no shoes removed, and not a lot of idle waiting around. I almost expected sparrows to fly up and hand me a card at the gate that said we'd been bumped to first class. And, on the flight, EJ was a dream. Like poster child, front of Sky Mall catalog dream (minus the yorgurt stains on his shirt). Sat in his seat the whole time. Displayed enough excitement to be cute but not annoying. Didn't cry once. Napped for two hours. Became an expert finger manipulator of i-Pad toddler puzzles (hello, Harvard). I actually watched a movie and read a magazine. I don't even get to do that at home.  In fact, once we landed, I decided that EJ and I were going to travel all over the world. And, since flying was so simple, I could start to dress like those posh, stylish traveler ladies I envied as I double-knotted my Nikes and the waistband of my sweatpants. 

Then we landed and our trip happened.

And now I'm back on a plane. And reality has hit. Apparently my first flight was a unicorn of air travel experiences. This time, I got the real deal, dawg. Crowds. Lines. Endless waiting. Everyone coughing and sneezing. Grumpiness. A toddler perpetually on the brink of a meltdown. No personal TVs. An understocked drink cart. No nap, which means no bathroom for me, as EJ cannot know walking in the aisle is an option. I am frazzled, smelly, achy, and tired, and now my first flight seems like a mirage in the desert (probably because I'm thirsty). As I curl my knees to my chest and position the i-Pad so that EJ can watch "Planes" from an angle that doesn't make him cry, I am thanking the lord for my sweatpants, and now that stylish lady two rows up in the houndstooth cape and skinny Hudson jeans just looks ridiculous.

We'll be landing soon. And I know flying will become like so many other parental experiences--from childbirth to driving lessons. I'll be proud of myself for getting through it, forget all the rough parts, and want to do it again. See you soon, friendly skies.

Deeds and Monuments

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of this holiday season, I've been reminded about what's really important.  Unfortunately, poignant reminders often come on the wings of sadness, tragedy, or despair, but if some good is garnered from bad, then so be it.


Since the only books I am reading lately are about first plane rides (EJ and I will be visiting LA for Christmas), magical elves who race to tell Santa when you refuse to eat your peas, and various animals using the potty for the first time, I will once again refer to a book I'm reading aloud to my fifth grade class.  My genius is profound, I know.

I'll spare you a synopsis of  R.J Pallacio's Wonder, and just say it's a phenomenal book with so much depth, substance, and humor.  Really good stuff. Anyways, the chapter I just finished reading to the kids revolves around the precept/quote YOUR DEEDS ARE YOUR MONUMENTS.  I keep thinking about that as myself and people everywhere race around to purchase, wrap, and give away stuff, stuff, stuff.  And sure, the stuff is great.  Big or small, expensive or simple, gifts bring joy to those around us.  I'm seeing this firsthand as my two-year-old receives presents and squeals "Whoa!?" for every single thing he opens...from a racecar track to the pack of AA batteries that powers it. But what happens in the weeks and months after the holidays when the new stuff is old hat and broken in?  What are we remembering then? Not the stuff.

We are all surrounded by temples, totem poles, and towers.  They are the monuments of those we love...unseen manifestations of legacies built up brick by brick by their words and actions. I've been lucky enough to know so many wonderful, strong, funny, good people who have left me a plethora of heartwarming memories....enough to fill dozens of museums and be archived in my memory forever...free to visit whenever I need.

I sometimes wonder what my monuments look like...what memories I'm leaving behind for my family and friends.  And, as I get caught up in the business of December, I'm trying to leave scraps of kindness and good deeds that will certainly outlive anything I can put in a box and wrap. I hope you do the same.  Happy holidays.

Getaway

(Those are my toes.)

I recently got gone.  Rather, I got away.  Or, I went on a getaway.  Whatever way you choose to say it, I left home to spend a few days in Mexico.   And, not spring break, Señor Frogs, Montezuma's revenge Mexico...serene, adults-only Mexico, with only a few drunken idiots mixed in...just the way I like it.

This was my first time going away in a long time.  In fact, I haven't traveled internationally since 2004, so I had to renew my expired passport in order to go.  Luckily, I had never updated it to reflect my married name, so that was one less government agency with whom I had to share my divorce decree. Sweet.

It took some finagling and planning, but the boyfriend and I found childcare, took off from work, etc. so that we could have four WHOLE days for our trip.  In parent time, that's like two weeks. Of course, EJ got sick the day before I left, which resulted in a stressful, harried pediatrician trip in which I had the poor doctor pinky-swear me that it was okay to leave my coughing child.   But, I won't even get into that.  Or, I will not tell you how I forgot my entire makeup bag on EJ's Playskool table, and only realized it after we'd gotten through security at JFK.  Now, before you blow off the significance of that, I must remind you that I need to draw on my eyebrows in order to look like a functioning member of society. My makeup bag did not contain frivolous items like a smoky eye kit, it contained essentials like my eyebrow tools, a comb, hair rubber bands, etc.  Do you want to go on vacation with no brows or extra hair ties?  I think not, my friends, I think not.  So, I shed exactly three tears, put this ridiculous problem into perspective, and took fifteen minutes to buy a comb, mascara, and an eyebrow pencil.  Then, I told my boyfriend to get a good look at my face with curled eyelashes and eyeliner and pronounced that I would be sporting a camping-like appearance for the next few days.  Luckily, he doesn't care about that kind of stuff (and the one hair tie I did have on me lasted the whole time).

Okay, onto the actual trip.  It was lovely.  Being able to do NOTHING for an extended period of time was wonderful.  My days were read, relax, swim, drink, repeat.  And, since my parent self is incapable of sleeping in, I was able to put in full days of doing nothing from 6:30 a.m. until bedtime.  In fact, we pretty much opened up the pool each morning, along with the nice men who were vacuuming it and folding beach towels.  And, by the end of each night, we were truly wiped.  Nothing can be tiring.

Alright, now the point of this post.  Ummm, I guess nothing.  Just like the point of a getaway.  There are no goals, no must-dos, no checklists, no divine awakenings or revelations (usually).   It's just a break.  A reprieve.  A recharge.  A time to vacate your life and up your calorie intake, just for a bit.  And maybe that in itself is a revelation.  Because if you like getting back home into your routine after a getaway, you're not doing so bad for yourself.  And, when your routine gets to be too much, you plan another getaway.  Then repeat.

Re

In life, we face a lot of  RE opportunities.  You regrow your hair after a bad cut, you refinance your house or car, you reteach your children how to ride a bike or tie their shoes, you retake bad photos or tests, and you refurnish or refurbish rooms in your home.  Sometimes your RE's are bigger and you have to rebuild something that has been decimated or taken away from you.

A RE can be just as scary and tiresome as it is exciting and invigorating.  It's part glass half empty/half full mentality, or depends on what exactly it is that needs to be done again.  I would certainly prefer reconfirming my hotel reservation in Tuscany to renewing my license at the DMV.

Two and a half years ago, the version of life I was living abruptly came to an end, and I had to start my adult life over again.  At first I was heartbroken, but then I pumped inspirational girl rock and recited various mantras and suddenly felt elated to have the opportunity to restart my life.  Yay.  One problem though, I've just realized haven't really restarted much of anything.  Bummer.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm proud of myself for standing up amidst the rubble of my married life to move forward as a pregnant lady with no plan and seemingly nowhere to go.  I found a place to live, birthed my son, etc. etc., and have even learned to relove and trust in another person.  I've managed to remain dedicated to my profession, and I've held onto most of the friends from my former life.  I also didn't start talking to cats or develop a meth problem, so I'm certainly not a slouch who has regressed.  However, none of the things that I've accomplished since EJ was born are true restarts. I've just kinda been coasting along, and though that's been absolutely fine, it's starting to feel redundant.

To be perfectly honest, I'm the type of mom who is a little self-centered, and I do better by EJ when I feel good about me.  This doesn't mean I can only parent after a mud body wrap and tennis lesson...I'm talking about a manicure here and there and seven hours of sleep.  Anyways, I think now is the time for me to truly reestablish myself.  And, not as the married lady I was in my late 20s, but the person before that.  The person who had a few ballsy hopes and goals.  The person who was less excited about cutting coupons for organic fruit pouches and more excited to travel anywhere and learn new things.  It's that person I'd like to refamiliarize myself with.  I think she'd be a cooler person and a kick-ass mom.  Since I'm a list-maker, I've made a list of things I'd like to do to truly restart my life.  And, if my effort starts to drop off as the days get shorter and the weather gets colder,  I'll reread my list and renew my dedication. 

At the end of this proposed recharge, I'll still be a coupon-cutting, suburban mom.  But, I'll be reinvigorated in other aspects of my life, which is ultimately the goal.  If you could RE something in your life, what would be it be?

Halloweenie

I am a big weenie.  A Halloweenie, to be precise.

Every year, I hide out on Halloween.  I don't know why.  I like candy.  I like children.  I like costumes.  But for some reason, all of those things combined make me want to become a shut-in...straight up Boo Radley style ala To Kill a Mockingbird.  Maybe it's the forced "awh, soo cute" conversation when a child with a hatchet jutting out of his brain stands before me, or being scared of what the 18-year-old trick-or-treaters will do to my house if I don't act like it's perfectly okay for them to be there.  Or, maybe I'm traumatized from all of the sexy service worker constumes my peers donned during my 20s while I awkwardly par-tayed as an asexual bumble bee, field hockey player, or Waldo from Where's Waldo. 

However, now that I'm a parent, my Halloweenie-ness is dwindling.  Since EJ's first two Halloweens have been canceled by bad or catastrophic weather, this year is the first time I'm actually looking forward to the day.  I can't wait to have EJ and I greet our trick-or-treating guests and then slowly toddle around the neighborhood stock-piling candy for me, errr, I mean him.  Plus, EJ is going to be Elmo, so that is just too adorable (and a good photo to share with his high-school girlfriend down the road).  Who knows, maybe next year, I'll even go to a grown-up Halloween party after trick-or-tricking.  Perhaps Halloween is more sweet than scary, Boo.

When I Grow Up

I turned 35 today.  Does this:

a) scare the crap out of me?  (As all of my students know, 35 rounds up).

b) feel extremely exhilarating? (I have bookmarked articles on how certain years of your life are better than all the others, so I will pull out the late 30's ones and just go with those until 40 hits).

c) seem utterly ridiculous? (This morning, why did that nice Starbucks barista say, "Have a good day, ma'am"?)

The answer is C...C, C, C.

I know we grow up and grow old, but what about our inner psyche?  Despite having a child, getting divorced, lamenting about high cost of living, watching HGTV obsessively, covering some gray hairs, tending to achy joints, giving into the desire to be asleep by 10 on school nights, saving for retirement, reminiscing about the simpler days of my youth, and wishing those damn teenagers would like stop saying like already, I am still a kid at heart.  Or, maybe a preteen. Or, more like a twenty-something (because of the booze).  I certainly don't feel like a real grown-up.

I read Sandra Cisneros' Eleven to my class, and although it's written for children, the story describes beautifully how when you turn a year older, you're still just really all the ages underneath that number.  We all have days when we are versions of our two, ten, twelve, and twenty-year-old selves, so we shouldn't be defined by our outermost age layer.  So, I'm not really only 35.  In fact, my younger self pops up all the time.  I still laugh when someone farts.  I still want to cry (and sometimes do) when things can't or don't go my way.  I still get grossed out by gross, icky stuff.  I still love hanging with my boyfriend and picking out my outfits the night before school.  I still get worried about being called to the principal's office, and fight the urge to roll my eyes at the adults in my life.  I still have no idea what exactly I want to be when I grow up, and I still sometimes forget that my family and friends should not be taken for granted. 

As I enter into another year of life, I'm not going to set a grown-up goal like I usually do.  Instead, I'm going to try to live a little more fully in those inner layers.  That seems like a lot more fun, since messing up and trying new things is part of what your youth is all about.  I'll learn to be 35 one day...but probably not for a couple of years.


 

The Family Tree

EJ just had his first homework assignment.  Light reminder, he's two years old.  He (read, I) had to draw a picture of his house and who lives in it for a class discussion on families.  (Side note, I can only imagine the enthralling discussion he and his peers will engage in). 

This homework assignment was traumatizing for me. 

I tried putting it off.  I tried blowing it off, with some crazy mumbling about it not being important or relevant for kids to know about their families. Finally, the teacher in me took over, and I found myself sitting glumly at my desk.  I would get this done...I am a nerd and it was, after all, assigned.

Prior to beginning my drawing, I perused EJ's class directory, only to see that my little bugger is the only kid with just his mom's name in the "Parents" column.  Eesh.  I know that single parents are everywhere, but I'm still not super siked to display it on 11x13 construction paper.  I mean, EJ's everyday family is his grandma and I...we don't even have a cat or goldfish to jazz it up.  As I faced this fact, I imagined the other class moms using brand new, fine-point colored pencils to sketch and shade perfect replicas of their husbands, kids, dogs, and butlers.  I, on the other hand, had only dulled, broken crayons....the perfect metaphor for how I was feeling.

I got to sketching.  Two tall stick figures and one short.  The brown broken crayon was perfect to replicate my big wavy hair, but my short-haired mother had what looked like gray beanie on her head.  I tried to girly her up with a huge pink bow, but now it looked like Ethan was being raised by a stick-figure Maria Menounos (my hair dream) and Minnie Mouse.  Or, by a progressive lesbian couple.

I moved on...the worst was over and the house part would be easy.  Blue house, door, some windows.  Unfortunately, I grabbed the wrong crayon, and accidentally shaded 2/3 of the house purple before I realized my error.  Since it was too late to go back, I committed to the color choice, and now Ethan lived in a violet purple house with Maria and Minnie.  I threw some bushes out front, slapped on an orange sun, and quickly folded up the paper before EJ saw it and started asking questions.

Families are made up of the people who love you, no matter whether they're your blood or not.  I think it's time for me to really get that there is no normal when it comes to their size or makeup.  EJ and I have a lot of people who love and support us, so it doesn't matter if they live in our purple house with us or not.  Lesson learned.  Assignment done.

Busy Bee

I've encountered a lot of writing disguised as lists lately.  Clever bloggers. 

People certainly don't have the time to read paragraphs and paragraphs of prose, but they do have time to read lists.  "Five things you shouldn't..." or "Fifteen ways to...." or "Ten types of...."   Clever bloggers.  You suck me in too because I may not have time to put on that extra swipe of deodorant in the morning (you know, that reassurance coat before you walk out the door?), but I can glance over a list (aka a numbered eight-paragraph essay) linked to a friend's Facebook status and hopefully become existentially enlightened while I'm in line at Dunkin' Donuts. 

The barrage of list-essays got me thinking about the last month of my life.  It's been busy, busy, busy, and in the precious free moments I can wrangle out of my day, I'll talk to anyone and everyone about just how busy I am....or, truth be told, sit alone in my bathroom for five minutes and examine my chin pores.

I think I've written about having a case of the "busies" before.  It's rampant in our society.  I think it serves two purposes.  First, it explains why you've been a crappy friend, or only shampooed your kid's hair two days this week, or neglected that paleo diet you were starting, or haven't been able to write your blog, or forgot to train for that 10K (oops...all me).  It definitely abates the guilt.  Second, it gives you a sense of purpose, because if you're not super busy and occupied, then what are you?  It's like our busy-ness ups our status in the world.  (note: there are probably many more reasons, but I don't have time to think about them).

The truth is, we really ARE busy and trying to do it all.  I get it.  Still, I'd like to take myself out of the busy race, or at the very least, stop trying to come in first place.  I don't think that on my death bed I'll happily brandish my to-do lists from my thirties and tell my family I done good getting crap done. 

So, here's a list for you:

Three times today I had absolutely nothing to do and did nonsense:

1) 5:30-5:40 a.m.: read my horoscope and browsed preppy chicks' outfits on Instragram.  This oddly makes me happy (should I have said perused I the Times?)

2) 6:40-6:55 a.m.: Sat EJ in my lap, tousled his semi-clean hair, and watched Thomas the train and his co-workers mess up things on Sodor yet again.

3) Right now.  Eating soup and writing this.  Also, just checked chin pores in compact mirror. 

I know we're busy.  I know we like how digestible lists are.  Maybe let's stop reading so many of them and start listing the tiny moments of calm, breaks, and nothingness in our busy days.  It's in those moments that the good stuff happens.

An Open Letter to Celebrities Who Write Children's Books

I'm jumping on the open letter bandwagon.

If I read EJ one more book written by an actor/singer/athlete turned children's author (they were all gifts!), I am going to lose it.  I mean, c'mon. What's next...move over Goodnight Moon because Kim Kardashian has written an inspirational tale about North West overcoming diarrhea?  It's all too much.  There is even a section on Amazon.com entitled, "Children's Book's Written by Celebrities." Really, Leanne Rimes and Terrell Owens?


Dear Celebrity Children's Book Author,

You are already a famous, notable/notorious, wealthy person.  Why must you add "children's author" to your IMDB resume? I'm not saying you can't write AT ALL....memoir it away...but please stay out of the children's section of Barnes and Noble. 

My plea comes on two fronts. The first is personal.  You see, at parties, when I introduce myself as a teacher and people look away or roll their eyes, I quickly add in the fact that I hope to write books for children one day.  That at least extends their interest and the conversation for a good minute, until I'm asked what I'd like to write about and I shrug my shoulders and say, "dunno yet."  The key word is YET, celebrity...a brilliant idea is buried somewhere in my brain, and if you have your ghost writer keep typing away and cranking out more kids' books, who's even going to listen to my story pitch one day...down the road...in the distant future?  I beg you, stick to your real craft and stop wading in my dream pool.  

My second plea comes on a parental front.  I've had to accept your voice infiltrating every animated film my son watches--I don't need to see your name engraved on the spine of a book about brushing teeth.  Normal people can fashion a children's tale about teeth-brushing just fine, thank you very much. Madonna, I will give you a nod for Mr. Peabody's Apples, but other than that, most books written by celebrities are the pits. I don't need to read EJ a pointless snoozer from you, Jaime Lee Curtis; I already eat your probiotic yogurt.  

In closing, please stop being greedy.  You are already everywhere...the small and big screens, magazines, billboards, clothing sections of department stores (really, Adam Levine at Kmart?), etc.  Stay off of our children's bookshelves and let some hardworking, everyday authors have the spotlight. Thank you.

Enough

Enough: to a degree that is not very high or very low; to a reasonable extent.

I'm not using this word correctly.

In moments of quiet retrospect, when I'm bombarding my mind with questions or statements, I certainly don't think of enough as reasonable.  To me, it means A LOT....the extreme even.  Am I smart enough?  I'm not reading enough. I'm not wealthy enough.  Do I have enough friends?  Is my wardrobe stylish enough?  Am I thin enough? I didn't work out enough this week. Am I doing enough?  I haven't traveled enough.  I'm not cooking enough. Am I fun enough?  Is my relationship exciting enough? And so on.  

Now that I'm a parent, I am putting my enoughs onto EJ.  Does he say enough?  Is his diet varied enough? Is he doing enough? Does he have enough friends?  Does he imagine enough?  Does he play nicely enough? He doesn't sleep enough.  He didn't eat enough.  Did he have enough fun today?  He doesn't help pick up his toys enough.

If I were to answer yes to all of my enough questions, I guess I would be an underweight, perfectly coiffed, War and Peace reading, philanthropic, decathlon participating, Hermes bag-toting woman who hosts parties every weekend.  Oh, and my son would be a verbose, articulate, early-enrollment Mensa member (is that a thing?), with a full social schedule and a steady of diet of the newest "it" vegetables and grains (hemp, swiss chard, and bulgur?), who cleans his room, sleeps twelve hours a night, and never gets upset....all at age 2.

I don't know where I got my version of enough from. My enough life sounds like the bad Bravo reality shows, which I swear I've stopped watching...mostly.  Anyways, that imagined life is cliche, ridiculous, and most importantly, unattainable.  It's keeping up with the Joneses gone mad wrong. Too much not enoughs can wreak havoc on you, and make great days only good, good days only okay, and bad days horrific.  Not worth it, my friend.

Tonight, EJ was throwing a tantrum because I wouldn't let him eat something out of the garbage.  I was tired, frustrated, and mentally running through all of the things I didn't get done today for him and for myself.  The not enough record started playing in my head.  It all felt pretty tragic.  Just then EJ ran out of the kitchen, ripped off his diaper, and started running around the living room like a maniac, literally going balls to the wall and having a blast.  I couldn't help but laugh and admire his physical metaphor.  How profound. Leaving your diaper behind and going all out is enough.  Or, just showing up and muddling through your day is enough. Enough is whatever you want it to be in any moment. I am enough. EJ is enough.You are enough.

EJ's Name Game

What would you do?

You are five months pregnant. Your husband has cheated on you and you are getting divorced.  He has moved across the country and you don't know if he'll ever be back.  You are more than a little hurt/pissed/shocked, and all of the baby names the two of you liked are now out of the question. Oh, and you've just found out you're having a boy.

Your sister calls and suggests the name Ethan.  You don't immediately hate it, and upon further review, it means "enduring" and "strong"...two words you've had to embrace.  Perfect. Done. Lovely. He'll be Ethan.

Now for the middle name.  You want to honor the afore-mentioned sister (an E herself) and match Ethan's middle initial to her's...J.  No J's pop out at you immediately.  This is tiring.  Jorge, Jim, John, Jerry...nothing fits.  Hold it.  You are Irish.  You've taken shots before.  Jameson.  Sounds a little snazzy/preppy, and even though you don't love whiskey, you can't name him Jagermeister.  So that's that. He's EJ.

Uh oh.  Last name.  You know you are ditching your married name ASAP, and it's hard for you to even say it out loud at the moment.  You have other things on your plate, so you block it from your mind for a few months. As your divorce proceedings ebb and flow, moments of calm and anger dictate solutions to the last name conundrum.  You've found out that you can actually name your son anything you want, and when you are pissed or hurt eccentric names flow freely.  Cute E. Pie. Aquaman. A symbol ala Prince circa 1993. When you are calm, you plan to stick with the status quo and use your married name. After all, you are a rule-follower and kids usually take their father's name.

Then it's time to give birth.  You haven't really heard from your husband in months, save for a last-minute email asking if you want him to be in the room for the birth.  No thanks.  You've already assembled a crack-team of birth coaches who are all piled in the room singing your praises and whispering words of encouragement. It's like Lilith Fair...not at dude in sight, except for the one you're all trying to coax out. Then he comes.  He is 7 lbs. 11 oz. and a real person.  An instantaneous  true love.  He's EJ.  You snuggle and cuddle and cry...partially from joy and partially from fear that you have no idea what you're doing and the hospital will only offer babysitting services for the next two days.

You wake up the next morning and it's crunch time.  The official people need to know his official name.  A woman walks in with an offical-looking clipboard.  "Can you please give me your son's full name?"  EJ. "And his last name?" Ummmm.  "Well, is his father in the picture?"  Not right now.  "Do you know the father?" Yes....I stopped turning tricks years ago (awkward silence).  "You know what, why don't I come back in an hour?"  Yes, please, that will be great (I don't like you, official lady!).

Just then, a nurse wheels EJ in from the babysitting room.  He is wrapped up and you swear he makes a cooing noise as you snuggle him into your chest.  For the first time in this name game, you think about him as a boy and then a man whose name and legacy are important and will far outlive you and the memory of this petty divorce.  It's not time for bitterness.  He was a planned baby, and even though your marriage is over, you have to honor it for his sake. Whoa, Whoa...hold on though...you just pushed this baby out of your body all on your own! You'll be doing everything for this little nugget, and then one day you'll have to hear him ask you why you have a different last name?  No, no, no, nu uh, no. Back to square one.  But wait, you majored in journalism.  You know a little bit about words and stuff.  Eureka! The hypen.  EJK-M. Everyone wins. 

The official lady comes back in.  You find your words again and spell out his full name.  "Boy, that's long." Yes, and it's wonderful.  

EJ's name is long and wonderful and slightly ridiculous-cool and one day, EJ can decide to keep, shorten, or change it.  At least then it will be his choice.  He deserves that.

Divorce and The Name Game

What's in a name?

Growing up, I liked my name just fine and would contentedly scribble MAK in 90s-style bubble letters on scraps of paper during boring classes (I'm talking to you, pre-calc!).  Other than that, I didn't give MAK any thought. Monogramming wasn't big then either, so I only had my initials inscribed on an L.L. Bean tote for my first year of teaching...it's like a rite of passage in the profession. Anyways, other than old scraps of loose leaf and my school bag, MAK was a non-issue.

Then I got married.  I loved my new name--it really rolled off the tongue and I adored my symmetrical initials-MAM. It was a monogrammist's dream.  Most importantly, I like all varieties of M&Ms and I took it as a sign from the universe that all that lay ahead for MAM was sweet, sweet love.

Since we know that my marriage imploded (I'm really holding back on dropping candy puns), four years after I'd become MAM, I stood in a depressing, taupe-colored court room, and asked a gruff, impatient judge permission to become MAK again.  Once I swore not to embark on a life of crime with my former name, or that I didn't have outstanding debts as MAM, he signed an official document, shoved in into his clerk's hands, and sent me on my way....divorced and in name purgatory until I could go through all the rigor-moral of changing my name (again). For months, I strolled around with two identities....just like Batman.  EJ was only a few weeks old and I couldn't find a second for myself, let alone time to haul it over to the DMV and Social Security Office.

Immediately, I started going by MAK at work, which was awkward, considering I worked with children who knew me by a completely different name.  My twenty students finally got into the MAK habit, only to look perplexed when former or younger students shouted and waved to MAM.  To add insult to injury, I had to drop "Mrs.", which parlayed into a confusing time referring to myself as "Miss" until one of my highly-intelligent (read it: smartass) students informed me that only girls under 18 can call themselves "Miss", and I was certainly "not anywhere close to 18."  I still don't know if he's right, but I was publicly shamed into believing it.  So, I was Ms. MAK by day and then Mrs. MAM on my license, at doctor's offices, the bank, etc. It always took me a good two seconds to think about what name to use or sign, depending upon where I was.

A few months later, I'd gotten into a grove with the whole mom thing, and MAK was feeling natural again.  Most importantly, I was feeling strong and decided that it was time to truly leave the past behind. Aside from all the government employees wishing me a heartfelt congratulations on my wedding and new name (before looking down at the divorce decree I'd handed them), it was a painless process....a mere couple of hours of my life.  But the outcome was momentous.  When the government gave me MAK back, something clicked for me.  I got an official do-over...and even have the piece of paper to prove it.

And until I figure out what I want to make happen with my old/new name, I'm going to monogram the shit out of stuff.

Toddler Scraps

I am a child of the 80's, so I will never forget that leaving food behind on my plate somehow affects African famine.  Growing up, uneaten heads of broccoli and stray macaroni noodles pushed to the side of my plate called for me to be reminded about the starving children in Africa.  My father would shake his head as he scraped leftover foold off of our dinner plates (my mom cooked and he cleaned up), and I just knew I was letting the children down. If my family and I were out at a restaurant (The Ground Round perhaps), and I didn't want to eat my last chicken tender, "We Are the World" or a Sally Struthers commercial would always come on in the background and I would then dutifully choke it down.  Food should not be wasted...think of the children.

These childhood experiences, coupled with my dessert-lovers' belief that baked goods are only really good on the first day, has made me a proud member of the clean-plate club.  Unless I am really REALLY full, I leave no morsel behind. It's the least I can do.

As a mom, this mindset has proved problematic.  Now I not only have to worry about offending the starving children with my uneaten food, but my son's as well.  And, since my toddler doesn't know about world hunger yet, his finicky-eater, two-year-old-self is perfectly content leaving A LOT of food behind on his plate.  And sometimes, I daresay, he doesn't even attempt to eat ANYTHING in front of him. What waste! So, I have selflessly taken on the roll of the family dog and I now eat all of the table scraps in my household.

The other day, my boy dumped half a bag of mini Lorna Doones on the floor and ran to the other side of the room to build blocks.  I quickly went over to the mess, and rather than sweep up the crumbs or make it into teachable moment about cleaning up after ourselves, I quickly picked up all the cookies and ate them. Phew, crisis averted.

In fact, my altruism has shown up a lot since my son started eating solids and I continually find myself having to right his food karma whether it be by eating the last spoonful of applesauce, half a fish stick, the bottom of a cupcake that he licked the icing off of (you don't leave cake behind at a birthday party!), cold mini blueberry pancakes, leftover oatmeal, 1/3 of a warm cheese stick, veggie straws that have fallen under the couch, and so on.  Don't even get me started on how he only eats the middle of bagels and bread and my stomach has become a pit for leftover crusts!

Now, as my clothes have become tighter, I'm faced with a dilemma.  I can't keep eating all of my food and his.  Although I could help the economy by buying a new larger-sized wardrobe, I'm trying to be fiscally responsible, so I've decided this: I will make and serve EJ's meals first and see what he doesn't finish. Then I will decide what's not totally gross (he has started picking his nose), and see what I can do.  If he miraculously cleans his plate, then I can go on to happily blend my kale smoothies and eat my ice cream (sharp contrast, I know) and not further contribute to the world hunger problem.   I'll let you know how it goes, but for good measure, I'll be increasing my contributions to our school food drives and running a 10K for hunger in the fall.  I anticipate needing to put a lot of good food juju back into the universe for this child.

Junebug

Well...it's been a while.  A week turned into two, then three and four, and then I just decided to take the whole month of June off from writing.  It WAS a busy month, but I really think I was being a brat because I entered a writing contest and didn't make it past the first round.  I mean, they were looking for people with a huge online following (people with more than 11 twitter followers like myself...who have tweeted or twatted or whatever more than 6 times), but I took it personally and subconsciously decided to pout for a bit. I'm a self-saboteur that way....if I can't do it perfectly, why even bother?

So there I was, chugging along in June, not bothering to write about any of the funny/weird/happy/sad things I was encountering.  I'll show you, contest judges, silent brooding gets you far!  I had a girls night out a (well, a girls evening out...dinner was at 6), and after some mild debauchery (that sensibly ended in time to catch the 11:37 back to the suburbs), my friend said, "you HAVE to write about this!"

"Noooo," I replied, "I'm not doing that anymore, I think.  There's noooo point to it...it's not like I'm helping anyone or anything, and my life is soooo not that interesting.  The whole thing is dumb."  And then I crossed my arms and dropped the subject.  If I could've whipped my thumb out and sucked it, I would have.  Wah wah.

Anyways, I see now that there is both no point and every point to doing this.  Life is funny, weird, happy, and sad and I have access to a keyboard.  So, mama's back.

On The Road Again

Last night I said goodbye to my car.

I actually said goodbye too...this isn't some metaphorical tidbit.  Ever since watching Disney's Love Bug when I was a kid, I've always felt that cars had some actual life to them.  Strange, I know. Anyways, my car and I had a brief moment alone, and, after glancing around the dealership parking lot to make sure no one was looking, I said a few brief words....mainly thanking it for being good to me for the past six years.

This was the first car I bought, and it saw a lot during our time together: my pre-wedding preparations and jitters, road trips with the husband, moving three times (all in dirty Jerz!), me as a terrified, single pregnant lady blasting angry girl rock, solo trips to divorce court and obstetrician appointments, and then finally, me as a nervous mom to a beautiful little boy, continually looking in her rearview mirror to check on him (listening to less angry, inspirational girl rock on a lower volume).

Recently, I was thinking about how my life has evolved, how EJ is no longer a baby, and how my car is the last remnant of my former life.  I knew then that I had outgrown it.  So, I did what any parent of one child would do, I got an over-sized SUV for all the crap I need to cart around.

I picked up my new truck last night, and as I mentioned, I had a sweet moment with my old whip.  And, when I closed its door for the last time and walked away, so began a new phase of my life.  Whatever is in store for me during this stint, I'll be facing it a little higher up from the ground, jamming to non-angry music on Pandora with EJ.

Make Me Up

EJ is funny.  He's hilarious when you give him any sort of lotion—he’ll put it on his cheek and say “Niiice, niiice” like he’s a 60-year-old Italian man. So quirky. Whenever he gets his hands on crayons, he’ll try to color on his lips.  Too cute.  And, last week, he got a hold of my brown eyeliner pencil and started to draw on his face.  “EJ, you are so silly,” I laughed…and then gulped.  He learned this from watching me. He knows how to put on makeup. 

I love makeup.  Truth be told, the feminist within does take issue with the fact that women are essentially told by society that they need a certain level of "doctoring up” to look presentable, and men just get to show up looking exactly as they look (must be nice).  But, the silly teenager within finds makeup fun, pretty, and interesting and gets a kick out of changing her look from day to day. 

Makeup is both a hobby and necessity for me, as somewhere between 2000 and 2001, the end of my eyebrows stopped growing in and what was left there fell out. They are now two brown tadpoles above my eyes and I have to fill them in and extend them every morning.  This requires eyebrow pencils, powders, and wax….I’ll spare you the details.

In the scheme of life, my eyebrow situation isn't a big deal.  People have real problems, and this is more of an annoyance.  I mean, the notion of the “five-minute face” doesn't apply to me (brows alone take five minutes!), but it’s fine.   It's also an awkward conversation to have out in the dating world when a sweaty activity is on the horizon (like hiking or jogging...get your mind out of the gutter!).  I never realized how the phrase "We need to talk..." can evoke so much panic in a beau, and learned to start the story of my brows by saying "Funny story to tell..." I also have bad eyebrow days every now and again, and can inadvertently look angry, bored, or puzzled. And, there have been prolonged periods of time where my brows have been too thin, too thick, too low, too arched, too short, and too long and no one’s told me until I’ve seen a horrendous picture and asked for feedback.  Hot days, boot-camp classes, chair massages, and rainstorms also cause me a small degree of panic, but now I roll with back-up brow tools in my purse.  And, on impromptu food shopping trips and early morning coffee runs when I just don’t feel like drawing eyebrows, I have to keep my big sunglasses on like I'm a hungover socialite. Other than that, my life isn’t impacted at all.  Eesh.

Back to EJ.  My lovely, observant son has milk and plays in my room while I get ready for work every morning.  PBS is on too, but he really gets a kick out of watching me do makeup, and being a mother hasn’t really changed my beauty routine.  Despite what other harried moms say about having no time to put on makeup, I can’t and don’t want this to be the case for me.  I like makeup and EJ can’t roll around with an eyebrow-less mom.  As he gets older and sleeps later, my morning makeup routine will not be a part of his life, and other hobbies will thankfully take precedence. But for now, it's fine that we both share a love for a good smoky eye.

Back in Action

Where did April go?  There I was, happily blogging along on a regular basis to the masses [dozens], and then all of the sudden, life got in the way.  Now it's May.

The last two weeks of April were filled with the ups and downs of normal daily living, but somehow they prevented me from writing.  To be honest, the month overall was very lackluster.  Even though I'm not existential or cool enough to get it, I was totally quoting the beginning of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land on most days...April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain...

Let's see...on a Seasonal Affective Disorder note (that is a thing!), it was chilly and cloudy most days. Winter unofficially lasts in Dirty Jerz for sixth months now, and I am over it.  I don't even know why I optimistically purchased a chartreuse mini skirt from J. Crew in early March...who knows when I will ever wear it, or if it still even fits after my self-declared cupcake palooza month.  It's also probably on clearance now for $70 less than what I paid, so that will only twist the knife in deeper. Other things of note: a fifth ear infection for EJ, EJ's first overnight visit with his father, EJ moved into the 2 year-old class at daycare (big boy!), things were crazy at work, and oh yeah, I have a nice boyfriend.  Well, some of those things definitely were and are good, so April gets a small yay. (yay!)

About the boyfriend...great guy, we have a ton in common, and all things are good. I'm really only bringing him up because we did go away for a night in April, and gulp, I had to have the eyebrow discussion with him...meaning, I had to explain to him that I draw on 70% of my eyebrows in the morning and wash them off at night. I'll fine you in on that ASAP, but for now happy May, and fingers crossed for it finally feel like spring.

I Learned It From Watching You!

For some reason, that 1987 anti-drug PSA sticks out in my mind...as do so many others from my youth (hello, egg in the frying pan as your brain on drugs!)  YouTube them if you forget.  Anyways, the commercial inexplicably entered my mind the other day, and I pictured the teenage boy yelling to his dad, "I learned it from watching you!" when questioned about the marijuana found in his room. This flashback got me thinking about the things that EJ could say he "learned from watching me," and here's what I came up with:

Good things that EJ can learn from watching me:

• I smile a lot.
• I rip really good jokes.
• I like to read...and series written for teenagers, fashion magazines, and J. Crew catalogs count.
• I try to be kind to people (not going to deny my biting inner monologue though!)

Bad, drug commerical-type things that EJ can learn from watching me:

• Driving aggressively and cursing at other cars (I blame New Jersey).  On that note, I do have various honking patterns that are meant to be non-threatening and teach the drivers around me to not drive so badly/stupidly, so maybe that's not all bad?
• I like sugar.  A lot.  Have dessert twice a day...after lunch and dinner.  Once I had a personal trainer who was telling me about the evils of sugar.  I told him I was so proud that I had cut my desserts down to two.  He said, "a week?" and I replied, "a day."  We didn't last after that. Ideological differences.
• I pout if I don't get my way.  Apparently you're never too old for that.
• I'm not the best with a budget.  Chanel eyeshadow quads? Check.  Six months of living expenses saved? Ummmm.

I could go on (especially with the bad..that's what us Type-A people focus on...the things we don't do well), but I'll stop myself there.  

In thinking about my less desirable traits, I'm actually pleased that they're all manageable things I can work on.  Between my spring goals and weekend lists, I can definitely strive to dial down the sugar, rushing around, being a brat, and spending frivolously.  Done, done, done, and done. Disclaimer: Will work on the sugar thing after Easter and the deeply discounted post-Easter bags of candy.

This morning, as EJ shoved pieces of blueberry gluten-free waffle in his mouth, talking and laughing to himself, I thought about what I could learn from watching him.  So many things flew into my mind: being fearless and proud of who you are, not going along with things you don't like, finding joy in the small stuff, not worrying about what's in store for you after you finish your chicken nuggets, etc. etc.  In fact, I should watch EJ more closely more often.  It seems there's a lot I can learn.

The Story of a Lunch

I've had a revelation.  Smuckers corporation (is that a thing?) listen up.  New Uncrustables sandwich idea: pasta noodles mixed with squares of bread, encased in a pretzel roll, shoved into the center of a bagel.  Delish.  If my child is any indicator of what your focus groups will say, this can become a best-seller, money-maker, pb&j kick-asser.

I'm tired of trying to hide the fact that all my son eats is carbohydrates.   Although I know that the nice daycare ladies do not have time to perseverate on what EJ's lunches say about my parenting, I'm still ashamed about his pasta-pasta-pasta-bagel-pasta rotation.  Now, I do mix in organic yogurt, cheese, fruit, and veggie pouches to hide the 'drate (is that a thing?), and I've even gone so far as to mention my intensive 10K training in hopes the ladies will think that carbo-loading is a necessary athletic practice in my home.  However, at the end of the day, no matter which way you slice it (ha!), the center of EJ's every meal is bread.  Now, before you amazing, perfect mothers shake your heads at me (talking to you, Gwyneth!), I've tried sending in some of the things that I can sometimes get EJ to eat at home: chicken nuggets, meatballs, fish sticks, carrots, etc., but nothing works.  And, EJ, likes cheese and bread....but of course, not sandwiches.  That's some sound toddler logic for you.  He will eat peanut butter as well...but of course, daycare is peanut-free.  So, basically I'm left with no options.

A few weeks ago, I had a stroke of genius.  VARY the pasta noodles.  Orecchiette, fusilli, cavatelli, penne, farfalle, gemelli, rotini...now my little gourmand seems very sophisticated and is practically fluent in Italian.  I'm actually thinking about teaching him to say Ciao! and double-kiss just to add to his European street cred.  Overall, I'm hoping this noodle shift will shift the daycare ladies' perception of me, or perhaps my perception of myself.  I'm doing the best I can and EJ likes to eat.  I also have full confidence that one day soon he'll be sipping on the kale smoothies and munching on the sunflower burgers that I love...only to have the elementary school kids make fun of him...and beg me to send him in with bread and cheese for lunch. Oy.

The Fool of April

One of my credit cards was hijacked.  Calm down, I'm fine.  It happened on April 1st, and I caught it less than 48 hours later, so it's all good in the hood.  My biggest issue with this whole thing is that the fools who did it spent my money at Walmart.com.  Now, I love getting a bang for my buck at Walmart, and I can be found there every few months stocking up on paper goods (ear muffs, Whole Foods!), supplies for EJ, and fun toiletries (can I get a woot woot for Jergens BB Body Cream?!).  I just wonder what the thieves were buying from there with my money. Jaclyn Smith dress pants? A canteen for camping? AAA batteries? Maybe they just wanted to make an innocuous first purchase and then go nuts on another site when they thought they were in the clear...I don't pretend to know how the criminal mind works.  I guess they didn't know they were messing with an elementary school teacher who stalks her accounts to see when she can squeeze out extra money for important things like ombre highlights and gel manicures...I mean, swimming lessons and educational toys for EJ.

This whole thing got me thinking about how I use my credit cards.  I'm not going to lie, at the ripe old age of 34, I still use them like when I was 20...pretending that the items I'm getting are free and someone else will pick up the tab a few weeks down the road (ear muffs, Suze Orman!)  I really should know better because I just finally paid off the interest from a pair of Diesel jeans and flared black Express pants I bought in 2001.

I think these Walmart thieves came into my life for a reason (very zen buddha thinking of me!).  In reflecting on the situation, I'm the fool, not them.  I am now someone's mother, and my divorce has left me with a shaky financial foundation that must be rebuilt.  Faux Walmart.com trips, my Starbucks runs, "needing" a $20 Josie Maran lip gloss, etc. only chip away at that foundation.  Now, I'm a firm believer in enjoying life, but debt is not fun, and I think I need to close my purse strings a little tighter...at least for a bit.  Down the road, when I'm chasing EJ down the beach in Turks and Cacos, clutching my Louis Vuitton beach bag (or in reality, on the classy beaches of the Jersey shore), I'll feel a little lighter knowing that I'm evading the quick sand of credit card debt.  And, since I have to make a quick Sephora run tomorrow, I'll definitely start on Monday.

Like Mother, Like Son

I despise onions.  Allegedly, this all started in 1983 (suspiciously the year my sister was born) at a White Castle “restaurant.” According to the only eyewitness, my mom, I threw up in the parking lot after eating a hamburger and begged to know “what the gwoss white thingys on top” were.  The rest is history, and 31 years later, I can't eat onions.  It’s been a struggle, and I am super awkward at Mexican and Italian restaurants, but somehow I’ve been able to make it this far and have had some amazing onion-free meals.

My onion phobia is a little tricky to explain on first dates because it inevitably leads to the revelation that I also don’t eat anything that is transparent with lines—celery, shallots, etc.—and then I seem like a raging weirdo.  Fortunately, I have been making some progress in peeling back my layers of fear (bam…pun intended!), and my number one roommate, also my mom, is now making homemade soups with onions and pureeing them in our Vitamix.  And, baby girl likes her some creamy soup.

The point of all this, you ask? Lately, my son EJ has been flexing his “I’m independent” muscles, which has translated into him making a stank face and throwing pieces of non-preferred food on the floor during meals.  I know this is what toddlers do, but it’s annoying nonetheless.  Since I am incredibly cerebral, self-aware, and enlightened, I’ve just made the connection that EJ’s food-aversive behavior mirrors what I have been doing to my friends and family for the better part of three decades.  “We’ll take an order of nachos with no salsa or guacamole,” “Can we just get a white pizza?” “Can you tell me how your risotto is prepared?” “Can I have shrimp fajitas with just peppers?” “I can’t eat this because the lettuce tastes like it came in contact with a red onion.” Eesh. 

So, I just want to say to my loved ones that I’m sorry and I’m working on it.  I hope EJ can work through his food issues soon too.

Memoir of a Divorce

This is not funny and lighthearted enough for Throwback Thursday, but it's a throwback nonetheless so I figured I would share it on a Tuesday to keep the alliteration going.  I wrote it nearly two years ago for an essay contest about regret, and I remember frantically trying to finish it the night before labor was induced and I had EJ. Anyways, I came across it the other day and was instantly transported back to that time in my life. Some people I know are having hard times right now, and finding this again was a wonderful reminder that bad times are finite, and there is always good ahead.  Two years later, I'm happy with my life and am a different person...but only because I went through this.

Forty weeks pregnant with my first child.  It’s been a kind pregnancy, but my little one’s movements now seem arduous for him and are indelibly uncomfortable for me.  I am ready for him to come.

By the light of day, I am a confident, excited mother-in-waiting.  My time is consumed with a never-ending slew of parental tasks, all of which I do gladly, absentmindedly rubbing my belly.

The nights are much different.  As I shift uncomfortably in bed, I feel raw and exposed, a spotlight of pitch black highlighting my truth.  I am scared and alone, nervously anticipating single parenthood and the new version of my life that has been thrust upon me by two callous souls. Hours pass by as I try to block the bad thoughts and once again chastise myself for canceling the damn singing chicken.

I don’t know when it all started, but I know exactly when it ended.  March 12^th at 11:23 p.m.  That was the night I confronted my husband, the supposed love of my life, about a discrepancy on our phone bill.  That discrepancy was a series of text messages and calls to an unfamiliar number.  Looking back, it was actually the cliché adultery scene you hear about.

My husband initially acted confused, but then his lip started to tremble and his eyes welled up. I then knew he was having an affair with his coworker. I was five months pregnant and it was the week of our fourth wedding anniversary.

I didn’t even cry.  The shock and hurt momentarily dried my tear ducts.  I don’t even think I yelled.  I remember thinking, this isn’t my life, this shouldn’t be happening to me.  I had married a great guy after dating for several years and we did everything you are supposed to do…right down to planning for a baby that we both wanted.

Regardless, I found myself looking at the clock, noting the time of death of our relationship, and then staring into the eyes of my best friend who had instantaneously become a complete stranger.  Throughout tears and an abundance of sorries, my husband was never able to say the right thing, nor did he beg for my forgiveness.  I knew that the damage was irreparable and the relationship was over.

From the moment I found out about the infidelity, I chose to take the high road and not put additional undue stress on myself or the baby.  Never did I partake in any yelling, cursing, breaking dishes, throwing clothes on the lawn, or anything else that seems satisfyingly badass in a woman-scorned movie.  My entire marriage just crumbled tidily before my eyes.

A few days after my discovery, a dear friend called me.  I had fled home to seek refuge in my mother's house, and had spent my days and nights curled in the fetal position.

“Want some cheering up?” she chirped.  I responded with a grunt, turning to face myself in the mirror and thinking how old and haggard I looked and felt.

“I did something.  Do you or do you not want to know?” she continued.

“Do,” I replied, my ambivalence palpable.

“I did some snooping and SHE is having a party tonight at a bar near where I work.”  

A guttural-sounding gasp escaped my mouth.  I pictured her having a fantastic, fun night acting as if nothing was wrong.  Like a family hadn’t been completely broken. My husband would probably even be there.   I hadn’t spoken to him in days.

“Anyways, I’m sick of women like her and men who cheat.  It is not okay!” she preached.  I sighed.

“So…..So I hired a singing telegram to serenade her and tell everyone in attendance what disgusting, vile creatures she and your husband are.  Oh, and the singer is going to be dressed in a big chicken suit.  It symbolizes what they both are and I don’t want anyone in the place to miss it!”

Silence from me.  I checked the mirror again and inadvertently, a smile had spread across my face.   The laughter was not far behind.   It was the first time I had laughed in what felt like eons.  Suddenly, it wasn’t me who felt embarrassed or ashamed.  It could be the both of them being mortified in front of coworkers and others.  They deserved it.  Maybe their night would be ruined, just like my nights had been and would continue to be.  Maybe for just a few moments, they could feel as small as I felt.

My joy was short-lived as my gaze shifted back to my reflection.  I looked at myself and noticed that my smile had taken on an eerie joker-like appearance.  I didn’t look victorious; I looked crazed.  At that same time, my baby kicked and I was brought back down to reality.  This was not me.

“You have to cancel it,” I ordered, some strength edging its way back into my voice.  “It’s just not worth it.  Let her have her party and pretend.  She knows what she is.  They know what they are.  And frankly, if they don’t, it’s not my job to show them.”

“Fine, your call,” my friend replied glumly, telling me she loved me and murmuring something about having to quickly cancel the transaction.

I looked back at myself.  The shadows were still there, along with a faint line etched into my forehead by brows that had been furrowed for days.  But, I looked like me again, and the spark in my eyes flickered back, if only for a brief moment.

           

As I stare into the darkness, and play and replay the it’s-not-fair game in my mind, I wholeheartedly envision that a singing chicken would have given me a sense of peace, making the adulterers feel some of the pain I’ve felt or perhaps help explain how my marriage fell apart. 

Thankfully, I have finally decided that this thinking is selfish.  It’s the thinking of a single girl who’s been scorned.  That’s not me anymore.  I am someone’s mother, someone’s light, someone’s beacon.  And that person doesn’t go out seeking revenge.  That person doesn’t revel in someone else’s misery.  She forges ahead and tries to make a glorious life for her child and herself. 

Now, as labor is imminent, when the chicken pops into my mind and the revenge pulse starts to quicken, I turn on the light, get out of bed and walk to my son’s crib.  I stare longingly and lovingly at his ocean-themed sheets, the hand-sewn quilt adorned with his name, and the whale decals I’ve affixed to his wall. 

There are two whales swimming along—a mother and son.  She’s showing him the way forward, both of them smiling brilliantly.  And in that moment, I know that when I finally meet my little boy, so soon from now, that there is no room for anger, only love.  Chickens don’t belong in my house.  They live far away from here, and they deserve one another.  I’ll take my little whale and swim happily off into the sunset.