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.