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.