The Perfect Mess

I was running behind schedule this morning.

I did my usual workout at 5 and was back home by 6:15. But somehow, between 6:15 and 7 a.m., I had the nerve to sit down and have my breakfast rather than taking bites of it as I scrambled past the kitchen island.

Oscar saw me and was so confused by this that he asked me if it was Saturday.

"No, it's Wednesday," I explained.

And I have lost all motivation to move.

I managed to make my way into the shower, and I just stood there in a strange time warp, actually enjoying the hot water running down my back.

I even decided to wash my hair today.

Seriously, who in the hell did I think I was? A lady of leisure?

Just as I was about to apply conditioner, Oscar burst into the bathroom and asked if he could have my thumb.

He needed it to unlock my phone.

I stuck my thumb out of the shower, and he dried it off and pushed the phone against it.

"Why?" I asked.

He said he had made the perfect mess and wanted to take a picture of it.

I tried not to freak out, and my shower euphoria came to an abrupt end.

I'm not a messy person on the outside.

But on the inside, dear Lord, help me.

Let me share a little insight.

A couple of weeks ago, my foundation was compromised.

What I mean is, on the outside, my structure looked normal, but on the inside, I was crumbling.

Anxiety was eroding any solid beams that were keeping me standing.

For me, anxiety is like a closet that you stuff everything into before you have company come over.

Remember, I don't like a mess.

If someone is sad, I want to cheer them up. If someone is mourning, I want to shower them with love. If someone is angry, I'll take the hit. If someone is lost, I want to help them find their way. Totally metaphorically, I have a horrific sense of direction.

I want to take those painful things away from others and lock them away.

At least for a little while.

Because for me, there is such beauty in a clean space. It's when I can finally breathe.

Then, one day, something happened that forced the door to the closet to open, and everything spilled out.

I panicked as I tried to stuff it all back in, but I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried.

Things spilled out in plain sight.

Every anxiety I had hidden away. All my insecurities about every aspect of my life. My marriage, my friendships, my work, my school.

Everything.

I had been here before, and I knew I needed help, so I called a therapist.

I have had one fantastic therapist in my life, and I became friends with him, so now he isn't my therapist. And that is really cool, but also sad because every other therapist I have had is, well, nuts.

So I went to a new therapist and sat with him for two hours.

TWO hours.

Answering his questions about why I feel overwhelmed with anxiety.

He told me he had never met a woman with more on her plate, and I agreed with him.

And then he told me he knew why I was having such anxiety.

I was so thrilled to finally have someone offer a solution.

He told me it was Satan.

(See above comment about my luck with therapists.)

I had allowed Satan into my life, and he was causing the anxiety.

Yep.

Our session ended abruptly after that.

How ridiculous, right?

Satan?

But then I started thinking about it.

Maybe he was right?

Maybe I had...

I mean, I was pretty crazy at one point in my life. Maybe he saw a vulnerable window open and crawled on in?

Oh my God.

Maybe I AM possessed?

I pulled over and messaged my pastor.

Actually, my former pastor, but he is still on my crisis contact list.

Surely he would know.

He responded almost instantly and apologized for the therapist who offered such a suggestion and said that, indeed, he did not believe Satan was the cause of my anxiety.

I texted/called four of my closest friends and asked them if they thought I had been acting weird(er) and if it was possible that Satan had entered my body.

They all responded and said no.

I didn't text my mom because she would have had an exorcism arranged by the time I got off work.

When I did get home, I poured a glass of wine—i.e., if blessed, the blood of Christ—and called my brother.

I told him what the therapist had told me.

He had a good point.

He explained that if the worst thing Satan is capable of doing is causing a busy mom who has four growing boys, a full-time job, a part-time job, a theatrical show, is going to grad school, helps take care of her parents, and has a husband to have anxiety, then I must be one strong mo-fo.

OR, the guy was full of shit.

I can always count on him to make me see things clearly.

When I think of evil, I think of death, destruction, manipulation, politics, but anxiety isn't at the top of the list.

Or even on the bottom.

I discovered a few things.

In addition to finding a new therapist, I realized that most of my anxiety is caused by trying to conceal the things that make us imperfect.

What Oscar saw in his "perfect mess" was that it was the shape of a flower.

What causes me anxiety is all the things that are messy.

I worry I'm f'ing up my boys' lives.

I worry that Don thinks I'm not doing a good job as a wife or mother.

I worry that I'm not smart.

I worry that I'm not doing enough for others.

On certain days, I worry if I'm chubby/ugly.

I know it sounds petty, but these things are a concern.

My biggest and most frequent worry is that I just can't do it all.

But as my brother pointed out, I kind of am.

On a difficult day, I need to focus on the times when I saw this.

Like when Fin was at a rehearsal for his play and was the happiest I had ever seen him.

When I broke the garage door (again) and Don didn't blame me, just fixed it.

When I got an A on a paper that I did at the very last minute because I was too busy helping Parker with his homework.

When a co-worker tells me I look nice when I didn't even shower that day.

If I look closely enough, I too can see that true perfection is messy, ugly, hard, brutal, and, most importantly, real.

And most significant are the people who love me for it.

Did I mention that not one single person I asked about my Satan-induced anxiety hesitated to help me?

Or to talk me through it?

Not one of them told me I was to blame.

Compassion for others—and for oneself—is being able to see the flower in the mess.

The Scarlet letter F

I have not tried to hide the fact that I was a bit of a troublemaker as a kid.

Well, I have hidden it from my own kids, but not everyone else.

I like to act shocked when they get caught doing something they shouldn't be doing.

In fourth grade, I tried to use my sister's bug collection and pass it off as my own. She and my dad spent weeks making a wooden case with a plexiglass window. Inside were all the insects she had collected day and night all summer. All of them intact, with a long needle right through the middle. Each was labeled with labels she lined up in the typewriter to get just perfect.

We went to a small private school, but nonetheless, I thought I could pass it off as my own.

I might mention that she is nine years older than me, and the insects looked a little... crusty.

Despite my sister's research on what looked to be expert insect taxidermy, my teacher could clearly see that these insects had been dead for almost a decade. They had legs falling off. Some even had cobwebs.

But on the day it was due, I marched it in and presented it to my teacher.

This box was not light. It was cumbersome, so my dad had to help me carry it in.

He didn't say a word.

I set it on the table next to all the other bug collections, and although I felt a tinge of guilt, I was happy I had spent my summer swimming and not killing bugs.

At the end of the day, the teacher gave me a note and a grade.

The note said I needed to take it home, that I got an F, and that my parents had to sign it.

This time, I had to carry the stupid bug collection out to my mom's car by myself.

She didn't say a word.

They knew very well what I was doing, and neither one of them stopped me.

They let me get caught.

The teacher didn't give me a chance to make it up, either. I had to carry that F for the rest of the trimester and work my butt off to get a C.

Which I did.

My parents didn't seem to think my actions were a reflection on them, but more on me.

I realize now that my parents were badasses.

At the time, I blamed them for all of my problems, like most kids, but I'm glad they let me walk out of the house and into a trap that I had set for myself and that they were going to let me get caught in.

Did I try and cheat again?

Yes.

A few years later, I waited until the last minute to do a leaf collection. Rather than collecting leaves all fall, I waited until they were dead and covered in snow the night before it was due.

I attempted to color and cut the leaves into various leaf shapes, then laminate and label them.

Although an oak leaf may not look like a maple leaf, with a little help from some craft scissors, it can.

It is no surprise that I got caught... again.

I would like to say that was the last time, but it wasn't.

In high school, I missed a history quiz, so I was taking it in the library and used my textbook to find all the answers.

But as I was turning it in to Mr. Rethlake, I burst into tears and told him what I had done.

Once again, I got an F, but rather than making me tell my parents, he made me read him the chapters that I should have read, out loud, and then asked me the same questions that were on the quiz until I got them right.

Because of this, I was late to soccer practice.

Because I was late to soccer practice, I had to tell my coach why I was late. He made me run laps around the field for an hour and a half.

In unrelated news, that day my boyfriend broke up with me.

#worstdayever

It was around that time I decided that it wasn't worth it.

I was destined to get caught, and not only that, I wasn't going to get off easy.

As much as I don't want my boys to experience pain or humiliation, a little discomfort goes a long way.

Of course, they are perfect in every way, yet they have each done some seriously stupid things, and I have let them.

As long as it wasn't going to result in physical trauma, I stepped aside.

What I didn't realize is that it is not easy to do that for parents.

Not at all.

It hurts ten times worse.

I find myself wanting to correct their wrongs, but if I constantly do that, how will they learn what is right and what is wrong?

Recently, one of the boys plagiarized a book report.

I was a little suspicious because all summer I had not seen him open the book once.

But I'm not a helicopter mom, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

On the day he presented his report to the class, he was feeling sick to his stomach.

By the time he did, he was in full-on guilt mode.

He admitted it to his teachers.

He didn't eat his lunch, he barely touched his dinner, and afterward, he called Don into the bedroom.

On the bed, he had every item of value to him.

His laptop.

His iPod.

His gaming system.

He, in dramatic fashion, said he needed to confess something.

But before he did, he was grounding himself from screens.

Don watched as he dry-heaved, confessing something he thought we didn't know.

He made it right.

It's like we are raising self-cleaning ovens!

They are regulating themselves.

By the time he told me, I too, in dramatic fashion, acted shocked and dismayed.

I'm not at the level of badassery as my parents were to let him know I knew.

I'll get there, I'm sure.

Being a kid is hard sometimes, but if I make it easy for him, how will he ever be able to cope with the fact that being an adult is even harder?

As an adult, I can't blame my mistakes on not knowing better.

Chances are I do, but still make the dumb choices.

Or the easy choice.

Like saying yes to that third glass of wine or saying yes, I want to watch the next episode of Orange Is the New Black even though I have to wake up in five hours.

I digress.

When you know better, you do better...

Most of the time.

Shutting up and letting go

Right now, the stars have aligned, and I have boys in different, yet equally crucial, emotional growth stages. At times, I feel that each of them has a fish hook attached to a chamber of my heart, and each is pulling the attached string in different directions.

I realize that it is a natural progression in the relationship between a parent and child, but having all boys and trying to raise gentlemen in today's world is challenging, to say the least.

Although my heart is pulling in different directions, sometimes I have to lean into the one who needs me most.

My oldest son is starting high school this month. He has grown at least three inches this summer, and yesterday, for a snack, he ate an entire rotisserie chicken.

I asked him how football practice went, and I got a one-word answer.

He went to camp last week, and when I asked him what his favorite part was, he said, "Talking to people."

The boy who doesn't say three words to me before noon, and the best part of camp was talking to people?

What about talking to the person who spent 26 hours birthing him?

I'm trying so hard to not mess this transition to high school up. It scares me more than him. At least, I think it does.

I don't want to be the mom who keeps asking annoying questions, but there is so much I want to know!

Last night, after he had his second dinner, he sat down next to me on the couch and told me about a troubled girl he met at camp.

I wanted so badly to offer advice, to give him a glass of milk, turn on Higglytown Heroes, and snuggle.

But for the sake of preserving any mom credit I had, I did what is hardest for me to do...

I said nothing.

I literally bit my tongue, and a crazy thing happened.

He talked more... and more... and even sat with me for an entire 20 minutes.

I didn't offer any advice or tell him a relatable story about my life.

I was as quiet as a ninja.

His teen life is so different from mine.

I made the mistake of calling some of his friends "just virtual friends," and he was hurt by that.

Why?

Because he may not see those friends, but he talks to them, plays games with them, and communicates with them daily.

He is living in an age where everything is at his fingertips, and he has to make the decision to click or not.

Girls sharing fleeting bikini shots while wearing over-contoured makeup to perfect their already flawless faces.

Because somehow she believes that is what he wants, my 14-year-old son.

My boy who is growing up in a country where the president tweets vengeful things about people on social media, something I have told my son never to do.

So who am I to tell my son how to be a teen in a world that I have a hard time adulting in?

I'm in the process of learning a lot about boys and men.

The majority of my life has been spent with boys. My closest and first examples are my brother and my dad. My first best friend was a boy named Adam.

I have had a boyfriend pretty much consecutively since I was 15.

Some of my best friends today are men, including my husband.

And with this history of men, I like to think I have learned a few things.

Men have the same wants, needs, and desires as women do, but they are hesitant to share them.

Hesitant because they want so badly to be seen as strong, yet fear that vulnerability will make them appear weak.

Some of the most successful men I know have moments of the most insecurity.

And sometimes they need someone to re-secure them.

The men in my life are not intimidated by strong women. In fact, almost all my best guy friends are married to strong women.

This includes my dad, brother, and husband.

And that is something I want my boys to witness.

They need physical connection.

Around the age of twelve, my boys suddenly become an island. I have noticed that they become awkward and don't know what to do with their freakishly growing bodies.

I no longer get the big hug when I drop them off at school.

But I do get the back of his head leaned in just close enough for me to air-kiss it.

It may not be a mother's touch a teen boy wants, but have you ever seen a bunch of teen boys in a group?

If they aren't wrestling, they are high-fiving or jabbing each other's ribs.

What I see is that men and boys still want the connection of touch, even if it appears barbaric at times and breaks furniture.

In contrast, my youngest son has spent almost the entire summer touching me.

At the pool, he has to lay his freezing, wet body on top of mine to get warm when the lifeguard blows the whistle.

This could be partially in part to the fact that earlier in the summer, we lost him at an aquarium for 45 minutes.

Huge parental low.

When we finally did locate him, we hugged in the middle of the penguin exhibit, and both cried.

Did I mention how we lost him?

I was trying to post a perfect picture on Instagram.

I was looking down.

I wasn't paying attention to what was actually happening and was more interested in documenting a moment with friends on social media.

I lost my son in the process.

How many other moments have I lost trying to freeze a moment that had already passed?

I remember an old woman in a grocery store telling me to never have so many kids that you don't have a hand to hold them.

Between my husband and me, we have enough hands.

What this woman failed to mention is that as they grow, they need you to know when to let it go.

I want my sons to be great athletes, globally conscious citizens, and stellar students.

But nobody but them can make that happen.

I have to know when to be quiet and step aside.

But you better believe I will still be within arm's reach if he needs to grab my hand.

Zero Fox Given

This past week, we had a lot of exciting things happen. To name a couple, my oldest son graduated from 8th grade. Next, the pool opened, and it was also the first time I had worn a bathing suit since turning 40.

Sure, the first one is a milestone.

But I have to feel like the second one is too, except nobody throws you a party.

Here is the deal: no matter how much you work out, it is still a little weird stepping out into public, exposing yourself legally. Especially in a climate where certain areas of your body don't see the light of day except two months out of the year.

Don and I had planned on going on a trip to Antigua, but his mom got sick, and he was needed there. I had purchased two very little bikinis for the trip that are totally acceptable in a place like Antigua, and a place where you don't know anybody.

But now I have these unworn bikinis that I'm thinking about wearing to our country club, where I know everybody and my son's teenage friends will be joining us.

When I turned 40, my singular goal was to live as authentically and true to myself as possible.

Basically, to give 0 fucks.

But I guess I hadn't thought about this part of my authenticity.

And if I'm going to be honest, I give a lot of fucks.

Or, as I say in front of the boys, so as not to cuss, "Zero Fox."

I can't help it. I care so much about everything and everyone.

Including my son's feelings about me wearing a skimpy bikini in front of his friends.

Teen boys are awkward anyway. Then you add a teen boy with a mom who is practically naked standing in front of them, and all the fucks I'm not supposed to give are out on the table for everyone to see.

But I really like this bikini.

It has pineapples on it.

When I purchased it, I pictured myself on a white sand beach, lounging in the sun, and the only question I had to answer was, "What kind of drink would you like?"

Now, I will be sitting on white cement, and the only questions I will be hearing are, "Will you fix my goggles?" and "Watch this!"

Over and over and over and over.

So, if only once, I decided to wear my bikini and try giving zero Fox as to what anyone thought, including my sons.

I went to my room and put it on.

Why can't swimsuits fit like underwear?

They never do.

I walked over to the mirror and didn't open my eyes.

I could hear the gang of boys starting to get impatient behind the door, including Don. They had put their suits on in four seconds and couldn't understand why it was taking me so long.

But I was having an internal debate that was going on longer than I had anticipated.

I opened my eyes.

I saw a 40-year-old woman in a pineapple bikini.

I started to tell myself that it was appropriate because SpongeBob lives in a pineapple, and I looked just like him right now.

Spongy torso and stretch marks and—

"STOP," I told myself.

I could hear the people who gave me the stretch marks that I loathe chanting my name outside the door.

"Let's go!"

I was holding up my family for a fun day because of all the Foxes I was giving.

Screw it, I thought.

Here we go.

We arrived at the pool, and I took off my cover-up and revealed my beach... I mean, pool body.

I stood half-naked in public, and nobody cared.

Not a single person even looked in my direction.

Don was already asleep in his chair, and the boys were jumping off the diving board.

The boys didn't even notice as they came up to me and asked me if they could order shakes.

To them, I'm just Mom.

When Don finally woke up, he said, "Is that suit new?"

"Yes," I said.

He then took out his phone to take a picture of me.

And not at the good angle.

The angle that is from below and too close, and why the hell does he think this is a good time to take a picture of me?!

And then something hit me.

A woman who I just met, who I admire and who will be performing in the next Mamalogues, told a story about just taking the picture. To get over your hang-ups and just allow a normal, everyday picture to be taken.

A picture that is real and authentic.

Damn it, that's my 40-year-old goal.

And when the boys see it someday, it will be exactly like they remember.

I have a photo of my mom like that.

I love it.

She is in a bikini, laying out in the sun, and I'm wearing one too, right next to her. She looks like she is giving zero Fox, and damn it, here I am in the exact same situation, and I'm freaking out about SpongeBob and stretch marks.

Did I ever look at my mom and think... eew?

No.

I just remember her spending time with me, hanging out in the sun.

In the glorious 1980s, on a silver tanning blanket, without sunscreen, I might add.

I want to be that woman.

So I agreed. He could take the picture as long as he didn't post it on any social media platform.

He did.

Just like my dad had done, he took the picture of my mom and me.

The day ended, and not a single one of my boys said anything about my bikini.

I even got a little sun and had fun.

When I looked at the picture Don had taken, I saw what he saw.

Not a self-conscious Mommy.

It was Oscar proudly standing behind me with his goggles on, a shake in one hand and the other on my shoulder.

Not giving a thought in the world other than summer and ice cream.

And with that, I began my quest for a summer with zero Foxes.

What Strong Women Do

Every so often, I fall apart. I would say it happens at least once every few months.

I had this favorite pair of high heels. They were perfectly broken in. They had carried me across campus for the past five years, at least 1,000 times.

A few years ago, the heel became detached from the sole. Just a little bit, and I ignored it and kept stomping across campus.

You see, these shoes were perfect. My pants were the perfect length for them. When I wore skirts, they were high enough to make me feel professional, but not too high to look like a streetwalker. Well, they were kind of on the border of the two, and I was okay with that.

I had the soles of these heels repaired twice. But the heel was wobbly. It threw me off balance several times, but I kept going. One of my colleagues helped me duct-tape it once. Don applied super glue at least three times.

But last week, as it was starting to rain, the heel came completely off. I didn't have an umbrella, and I stood in front of a group of college guys and had an adult breakdown.

I took them both off and threw them in the trash and proceeded to walk in my stocking feet in the cold rain to my car.

My husband was out of town, and I was single parenting for the week. I had several work projects I had been working on but was unable to complete because I had to leave work early to pick the boys up from school.

I had a paper due in grad school.

My oldest son, Parker, had a major conference for school that he was stressing about.

I got an email from Fin's violin teacher informing me that he keeps forgetting his violin.

My son Jack had made it his mission to be mean to his younger brother, which caused said younger brother to cling to me like he hadn't since he was two.

Top that off with morning workouts that made me say things like, "My body is showing its age," and stop for air.

Also, I found out someone was trying to steal the name Mamalogues, which I had trademarked, and I know for a fact they didn't have a trademark.

And that was just in one day.

And then my fricking heel came off my favorite shoe.

When I got home, I checked my email and had one from my professor. I received an A, but then she wrote, "I think you would benefit from a writing tutor for APA formatting."

WTH?

That is like telling my brother, who is a professional opera singer, that he needs opera lessons.

I understand what she was saying, but it was too late.

Cue: Falling apart.

I decided to screw dinner. I told the boys to eat whatever they wanted.

I had to say it twice because they didn't believe me.

I then proceeded to sit on the couch with a glass of wine, holding back tears as I texted my friends.

My tribe of women who I know I can trust. Who I admire.

It was dinner, after all, and after I rapid-fired a dozen texts, my phone was silent.

I could hear the microwave beeping, the blender buzzing as the boys made a cornucopia buffet of everything they weren't supposed to make for dinner.

Smoothies. Nachos. Pickles.

I saw them peek in to see if I really meant it when I said they could eat whatever, and I did.

Hell, I was having Pinot Noir with a side of nothing.

I wasn't one to talk.

The boys have seen me cry before, but you see, Don's mom and dad were really ill, and that is why he was in Florida. I felt like my problems were self-induced and insignificant. I didn't want to worry the boys more than they already were.

So I tried to maintain a somewhat normal composure as I stared at the wall, doubting all my life decisions while drinking my dinner.

What felt like hours, but was actually just minutes, was when my phone started going off.

All the friends I had texted were texting me back.

My phone has a light that flashes when I get a text, and it made my family room look like a disco.

One text after another.

Telling me to shut up. That I'm fully capable. That they love me. That I'm stronger than I think.

That I'm not a dumbass.

It was then that I started crying.

Damn, I have amazing, strong, and wonderful friends.

We don't see each other often because the truth is, we all have careers and mortgages, and we have to take care of kids and husbands, and maybe just life.

They were busy making dinner, sitting at practice, running their own company, or grading exams.

But when a friend sent out a message, they stopped what they were doing, and they were all there, at least in texting form.

And that is what I needed.

What strong women do is they don't avoid the pain of a friend. They rush to it.

They swoop in and take care of business.

The business of repairing a wobbly soul.

I'm not throwing this one out.

By this time, the boys had taken the free-for-all dinner to mean they could eat on the couch.

I didn't care.

They were also watching Teen Titans, a show I happen to like.

Fin—the one who keeps forgetting his violin at home—made half of his nachos the way I like them, just in case I wanted some.

And I did.

We all fall apart for whatever reason, but surrounding yourself with people who won't rush in to pick you up, but instead give you encouraging words that let you know that YOU are fully capable of picking your own damn self up, is everything.

Even if it is shoeless and in the rain, they know you will find a way, because deep down they know you have got it in you.

And you can.

And when you do, you will be even stronger.

They knew I wasn't going to give up.

I wasn't going to call in sick, quit my job or school, go AWOL, or leave the kids alone.

They have no doubt in me because they have been there too.

They know that on the other side of this, I will be fine.

The painful and crucial times like this are when true personal strength and growth happens.

The Sweet Spot

On Sunday we packed our entire family (including the dog) in the SUV  and heading on an adventure.  Don and I didn't tell the boys where we were going, but we packed a picnic and heading North to where the water was.

The other day, I posted something on Facebook about how our door to our home should be replaced with a revolving one.  During the day, when we are all home from work and school there is always someone coming or going.  Neighborhood friends, the boys, sometimes a random dog.   As much as I hate the door being slammed, I must admit, laughter adds life to a house... and chaos.
Our wedding photographer from 16 years ago commented on my post. He has never commented on anything, in fact, I forgot he was my friend. All he said was " I miss those days; they were the best of my life."

A friend of mine has five children, one is in college, and the next will be heading there next year. She just took on two foreign exchange students, because she understands the beauty in a full and busy house.

As we reached our destination which was a dog-friendly hiking trail that wound us up and down a heavily wooded path, through swamp-like mud, into sand dunes which led to Lake Michigan, to what seemed like our very own secluded lake front property.  I could actually feel the stress leave my body with every step I took.

Next year my oldest will be in high school.  I have already felt his enthusiasm for family outings start to decline.  I get it.  But I also know this is our sweet spot. This is the time of our lives we will talk about, look back on with fondness. The time we will miss. The time the boys will joke about with their future spouses when they tell them about their childhood at our big Thanksgiving dinner.  This is our sweet spot.  And I want to soak in every single drop of it.

After hours of running up and down sand dunes and putting our toes and paws in the water, we decided to return to the top to get our picnic and have lunch.

Don takes pride in leading the pack, and we all follow, and I hope ( in my head) that he knows where he was going.  I'm in the back making sure someone doesn't get distracted and veer off course. Which almost happens when we saw "Dirty Diana" carved in a bench. No joke.  It caused a big Michael Jackson discussion about how he really isn't dead.

But Don kept walking and his image was getting smaller and smaller, and I was trying to get Oscar to get moving.  He had made a sand ball out of black sand and water and told me all the treasures he had mixed into it.  But as we walked, the sand he was holding on so tightly began to dry and fall apart and slip through his hands.  He tried desperately to pick up the black sand as it dropped on the brown sand but he couldn't.  I watched as his magic sand ball fell apart before his very eyes.

Finally, he gave up hope, opened his hands and let all of it go. It blended perfectly back into the rest of the sand, and I don't know what his treasures were, but they were gone now too.   He threw himself on the ground and started a monumental tantrum that echoed across Lake Michigan. I tried to tell him that it was okay and that we could make another one at home. That didn't help. As Don was now, far gone, I pictured Oscar and myself getting lost in the woods and amber alerts for both of us.

He refused to move. He told me to go on, and he would sleep there.  He wanted to be alone. His feet were tired.  So I started up the trail and knew he would scurry to catch up at some point.
He didn't.
I turned around, and he was gone. He had gone back to the lake and was determined to make an identical sand ball.   At this point, my heart stopped for a second. Not because I thought I lost him, but moreover that he wanted to lose me.   I found him on his knees frantically scooping.

I told him he had to come with me because we needed him at lunch. That didn't work.
I told him that it was going to get dark soon.
That really didn't work.
I told him that I thought I saw a bear.
That kind of worked.
I told him that I needed him to help me find my way back.
.... and that worked.

A guy always wants to save a woman,  or at least think he did. He helped me to find our trail and eventually catch up with the rest of the family.

I know that just like Oscar's sand ball, we will not always be this close.  I left my house when I turned 18, graduated college at 22, lived on my own until 24 and then I got married.  The unit that was once my world grew in different locations and added spouses and children, but that cohesive sand ball of a family is just in my memory, and at times I miss it.

So, I know this spot we are in is bittersweet.

What never changed in my family unit was my parents.  They never went anywhere.  They stayed exactly where we could find them.

I was sitting with my brother in a recent visit and we just sat on a park bench watching people go by.  We were both working, so we didn't have our spouses, or our kids, just us, talking about a squirrel.  I'm 75% sure we had the exact same conversation on the exact same campus when he was 11 and I was 5. I know the notion of squirrel herds sounded familiar.
Our family unit has just changed shape.  The sand drifted to different places, but when it is together it is as close as it ever was.

Maybe the next four years will be just as sweet with the boys.  The unknown is what worries me.  I love our unit now. That we all fit in the same car, and that we can entertain them all with the idea of an adventure.

Eventually, Oscar and I joined the rest of the family, and Don was already dividing the sandwiches, and drinks and sides.  Wally was tied to a picnic table together.  I don't know what we talked about, but I made a mental note to never forget how good this felt.

I have turned into "one of those Moms" who get teary at the sight of her kids, for absolutely no reason.

And all I kept thinking was, it doesn't get much sweeter than this.

Oscar holding his sand ball.

No Filter

I asked my husband to change the light bulb in our bathroom because it had gone out. He has a fascination with light bulbs, always searching for the most energy-efficient one he can find. When I returned to the bathroom, there was nothing efficient about this one, other than the fact that it was scorching my retinas. I needed sunglasses; it was so bright. We live in a house that was built in 1941, and whatever light bulb he screwed in was making a buzzing sound.

There in front of me was a woman who was about to turn 40. I immediately closed my eyes, one because it was bright, and two because I was nervous. Do I have the courage to really examine this face under the harsh reality of this light?

What I have noticed lately, especially on social media, is the filters. I have an iPhone, but a friend told me that Android phones have an app that can make your skin look flawless and even slim it. There is a filter for everything. I'm sure the iPhone has it, but beyond Instagram, I'm clueless about these things.

I recently had headshots done with a fantastic creative photographer. He used natural light and sent me the proofs the same day. I wondered how he could edit them so quickly, and he told me that he hadn't.

This scared me.

In the past month, I have had two incidents that I'm afraid to look at my own face. What am I afraid of? If I can't look at my face just the way it is, how can I be confident that anyone else would want to?

I took a deep breath and looked in the mirror.

I have dark spots on my face, not from sun damage, but from a condition called melasma that sometimes goes away after pregnancy. Mine stuck. Since I don't have stretch marks on my face, I apparently needed a facial reminder of the kids I have carried.

I see a few lines around my eyes. A few hairs that shouldn't be there. Eyebrows that are unruly. I see a chicken pox scar that has been in every single one of my school photos since I was seven years old.

I also see the face that my boys see when they look at me.

The same face that my youngest touches constantly, so much so that sometimes I don't even notice.

Just like when I look at my mom, I see beauty even when she doesn't.

My oldest son is about to turn 14 and told me that he prefers when I don't wear makeup. Not because he thinks I look beautiful without it, but because he thinks I don't look like myself with it.

What if you could post a picture of yourself the way your children see you?

Sure, I'm not about to stop wearing makeup because, truthfully, I prefer the way I look with it. But I don't want to get to the point that I will stop doing things I love if I don't have access to it.

I love working out. That is not a secret. The people I work out with are some of my best friends.

There is no filter.

There are no flattering lights in the gym.

There isn't a slimming mirror.

At times, I have sweat dripping everywhere, my clothes are stuck to me, I probably don't smell great, and my hair, which was in a tight ponytail, is now half loose. At times, I have snot running down my lip and calluses bleeding on my hands.

It may not sound pretty, but it is when I feel the most beautiful.

Life doesn't happen in aesthetically pleasing filters.

Beauty is found in reality.

It's found in the middle of the night when I hear one of the boys have a nightmare and my face is what gives them comfort. I remember talking to a friend who was upset and crying, and I thought to myself that she had never looked more raw, real, or beautiful.

Why filter out the good stuff?

So the next time I think I should add a filter to my Instagram post, I'm going to ask myself: What am I trying to hide? Is it the things that make me, me? The things that make the people I hold closest to my heart love me?

I had coffee with a friend of mine, who also is my trainer, yesterday and was voicing my concerns about my body. Specifically, the amount of time that I spend in the gym and that I don't think my body reflects that.

He asked me what I was comparing myself to.

I told him I would think about that, but the truth is, I knew. I just wasn't willing to admit it.

I was comparing myself to something that doesn't exist.

A time-filtered image of myself, 20 years younger.

A version of myself that was great, but was just getting started.

Just like our house, the imperfections are what make it a home.

And the truth is, I want to look like I have lived because the last 20 years I have... and then some. Even if I did try and hide that, if someone saw me in real life, it would be very obvious.

I saw a woman whom I'm friends with on social media at a meeting, and I couldn't believe how different she looked. Not bad, just different from what I see in her posts.

I don't want that.

I want to look like me.

Today, I had one of the most challenging workouts I have ever done. It was more mentally challenging than physical. And my friend just kept talking to me, telling me not to stop, not to worry about the people around me, or my body that was telling me to quit.

He encouraged me to just keep going because he knew I could do it.

And I did.

And I felt amazing.

I went home and put my phone on the table and returned to mommy mode. While I was making eggs, I casually mentioned that I did 210 burpees to my boys, and Jack wanted to give me a hug.

Because I snap photos of everything, Oscar took a picture.

Sure, I could look at it and see the sweat, the rolls, the dark spots, but instead I will choose to look at the arms around my neck.

A hug is a way of telling me, "Good job."

And his expression shows it.

The best filter you can add is life.

Even if you have been through hell and back, it looks so much better than a lifeless, airbrushed face.

As I approach my 40th trip around the sun, I'm going to try and see myself as I am, not as I was, not as someone else.

No filter.

Just me.

Making a Choice to Jump

When I was ten years old, I waited until the very last day of summer camp to jump off the high dive. The camp was in Michigan on a beautiful lake. I can't tell you exactly how high the high dive was, but to me, it seems like it must have reached the clouds.

I remember everything about the moment right before I jumped. Climbing the stairs, the wind, the lifeguards, my cabin mates cheering me on, my worn-out swimsuit that had pilling all over the butt and was giving me a massive wedgie. I remember it all.

I lunged forward at least three times before I actually made the jump. I didn't look down. Finally, the whistle blew, and I had to do it. I just made the choice that I was going to do it, and I might die in the process, but I had mustered up the courage all week.

This was the craziest thing I had done in my decade of life.

When I stepped off, I regretted the decision immediately. The two-second drop felt like it took an hour, and when I finally hit the water with my feet, it stung like a mofo.

This was the '80s, and John Mellencamp's song Hurts So Good was popular, and I thought that this is what this song was about. It hurt, but at the same time, it felt so good.

I was on a high-dive high for at least a day, possibly the next decade.

Last Sunday, I was in the grocery store picking up stuff I had forgotten to get the other four times I was there that weekend when a woman standing behind me asked if I worked at Notre Dame.

I looked down to make sure I wasn't still wearing my name tag and said, “Yes, I do.”

“You're the marcher.”

And she laughed.

I had no idea what she meant. I mean, I work in music, but I don't march.

We chatted, and she told me that she works in housekeeping in the business school, and every day she sees me at the same time, with headphones on, “marching” through her building. She said it's funny because she knows it's me by my heels, and I look like I'm having fun.

This is not the first time someone has told me I am heavy on my heels. When my dad was in the hospital, he said he knew I was coming because he could hear me walking down the hall.

What the housekeeper must be referring to is the fact that I always have earbuds in my ears. I felt bad for not noticing her when clearly she was noticing me.

It isn't that I'm trying to avoid the reality around me by drowning everyone out.

It is that I'm making a choice.

I have mentioned this before, but I have a playlist for almost every occasion. Before I step out of my car in the parking lot at work, I select my playlist. It helps motivate me to start my workday, and it makes the 15-minute walk more fun.

What is on my playlist may surprise some people. I know it mortified Parker when he learned that his mom could recite every word of Caroline by Aminé. More urgently, why the hell does he know that song?

The nastier the gangster rap, the better.

No joke.

This is a choice I make.

Yes, there are days when I don't want to do things. Like go to work. But I make a choice to make it enjoyable, like blasting inappropriate, raunchy-ass music as I pass a campus chapel.

It makes me feel rebellious and wild, even though I just dropped off my boys at school, gave them all a kiss, and said something like, “Mommy loves you and knows you are going to have a great day!” while giving them lunches in bento boxes with the crusts cut off and baby carrots for a snack.

There are also times when my husband and I have been having the same argument for the past month, and I finally just make a choice to wave the white flag because it doesn't matter who is right or wrong.

I'm choosing to live the rest of my life with this person; I might as well make it enjoyable.

That is an adult example of hurting so good.

Thanks, John Mellencamp.

By shifting my thought process, I can make a choice to love rather than dislike. And trust me, there have been several times this year that hate or self-doubt has crept in, and I have to hit it like a Whac-A-Mole and send it back down.

And it will keep popping up, trust me.

But I have the power because I have the mallet.

As I'm walking into work, listening to music that I should have a hard time relating to, but somehow can manage to make it about my life, I see my reflection in a window.

I see a professional-ish woman in heels, with her hair tied back in a bun because she didn't have time to dry it. Whose makeup is the best she could do with drugstore concealer and lip gloss. Who is carrying the same Kate Spade messenger bag her parents bought her for college.

Who looks pretty damn good for what she has been through already this morning.

But when I look closely, I still see that little blond girl on the high dive.

Eager to jump, but scared.

In retrospect, I love that little tomboy.

I don't want to ever lose sight of her when I see my reflection.

Some days I do, and those are the hardest days. I have to make a choice to reconnect with who I am. At the very core of myself, I choose not to let that little version of me slip away.

Some days it is harder to see her, buried under all the adulting I have to do, or have chosen to do.

But beneath the mortgage, the bills, the marriage, the motherhood, the career, the responsibilities, and all the bullshit I have collected along the way, she is still there.

She is still the girl who climbed the stairs even though she was scared. The girl who didn't know what would happen when she stepped off the edge, but jumped anyway.

And today, what makes me happy is gangsta rap.

I don't want to become so busy being an adult that I forget her.

That ten-year-old version of myself is the one who will remind me to take a leap of faith into the unknown every single time.

I gaze a bit longer at my reflection—not long enough to find faults in my hips, but long enough to find the beauty that every child has, and every adult has if they allow themselves to see it.

Our kid spirit and drive never leave us. They are still there, underneath everything.

We just have to make a choice to see them.

And sometimes, we just have to jump.

You Are Not the Boss of My Talent

Weekday mornings in my home are peaceful and rather quiet until five minutes before we need to leave. It is then that everyone feels like I have somehow deceived them and I'm leading them down the path to Satan by telling them it's time to go.

Even though it is the same time every day.

Someone doesn't have their clothes on; another just remembered an assignment is due. Inevitably, someone has to go poop. Or has forgotten to eat breakfast. Yet all of them are angry that I would have the nerve to suggest that we need to leave the house.

To give you perspective, I work out, return from working out, make breakfast, clean up breakfast, take a shower, and get ready for work in the time it takes for Oscar to put on one sock.

Socks are his nemesis.

It is the same conversation most mornings. Don leaves before us and can't be interrupted from the conversation he is having with Alexa.

“Alexa, what time are the Steelers playing the blah blahs?”

“I do not understand the question.”

So he says it louder. She does not respond. Then he calls her a bad name, and I stand up for her because we women have to stick together. And he knows that the only way he can call a woman a name in front of me is if she is a cylindrical audio system.

Eventually, he leaves without his answer, and I'm left to get everyone to school on time.

I have heard that it is hard to wrangle cats, but I think those people have never tried to wrangle sloths. It is much harder. Especially when two of the sloths weigh more than I do.

I had finally gotten the majority of them out the door when I couldn't find Oscar.

The only time he is quiet is when I'm looking for him.

When I finally found him, he was playing Minecraft and crying. The thought of playing Minecraft makes me cry, too, but for different reasons.

He was upset because he couldn't make it past a level that all his brothers, and apparently every U.S. citizen, can. (His words, not mine.)

I told him to turn the tablet off, get his other sock on, and get in the car.

He didn't listen, so naturally, I got louder.

I read an article recently about how there is a way to get your kids to do what you want them to without yelling.

And it's a scam.

My voice is at an octave that is unheard unless I yell.

As I crammed his Fred Flintstone foot into a sock, I told him that he had lost his Minecraft privilege until further notice.

Then he said, “You are not the boss of my talent.”

Before I went into an orbit of anger about how he shouldn't be talking to me like that, or that Minecraft wasn't a talent, I thought about what he said.

Sometimes kids say things that are completely nonsensical. Like when he told me that he had seen a raccoon eat a frog.

But this, this made sense!

You are not the boss of my talent.

It was exactly what I needed to hear at that very moment.

Nobody is the boss of your talent.

That is what is so fantastic about a talent. You are the boss of it.

In my career, I have had some pretty awful bosses. I have had some good ones, too, though. But the horrible ones leave scars. Scars that make me doubt I'm competent or capable. Those thoughts sometimes come up when I have a tough day (like last week).

But what no boss or person can tell me is how to do my talent.

I'm the only one.

And if I view it as my talent, it's not subjective.

One talent that I have is persistence. It starts as an idea, and until I get what I want, I keep trying.

Example: Four boys.

Did I give up when I didn't have a girl? No, but I did when I realized my body had produced enough healthy babies in this lifetime.

This past weekend, as a friend and I were making posters for the Women's March, she said, “Noelle, you are a boss woman.”

I didn't know exactly what that meant. I mean, I do have a tendency to be bossy, yet I have never actually been the boss of anyone.

But then I thought about what my son had said.

Maybe being a boss woman isn't about being the boss of anyone else.

Maybe it's about being the boss of yourself.

Then I saw the definition of a boss woman on Instagram....

Well, hot damn, I guess I am a boss woman!

(At least I try to be on most days.)

And thankfully, I surround myself with other boss women—and men, for that matter.

People who have their own talents, their own opinions, their own paths, and aren't waiting for someone else to tell them they are allowed to take up space.

I recently found out that a woman said some nasty things about me. Not the good Nasty, the bad kind. And she is now on my list of women who I do not want to be associated with.

Unless she changes directions and can support women as a whole and not tear them down.

If she does this, then I will make space for her at my table. But until then, I'm not holding up dinner for her.

The truth is, we all have talents. Some people hide them (lame); others put them out into the universe.

If they make you happy, then it can only be right.

You may paint or do pottery. Do you like it?

Good.

Nobody else needs to.

My dad is a phenomenal artist and won't sell his art. Rather, he gifts it to people because nobody is the boss of his talent.

Just remember what a wise 6-year-old said during his sock resistance the next time you doubt yourself.

Nobody is the boss of your talent.

Heartbreak and Jedi training

I was talking to a friend of mine about our past. He was saying that it would be so great to go back in time and do things differently. He said he would go back to high school and not give a f*ck about what anyone said or did.

I get that.

But junior high and high school are what taught me about emotions, or more importantly, how to handle them, or even more crucial, how to not handle them.

I was 15 when I had my first heartbreak. I remember the day that my boyfriend told me it was over. More than heartbreak, my body felt broken. In that very moment, everything hurt. Like my heart sent out a panic button to my brain that I must shut down.

I couldn't even cry. I was so shocked and just terribly sad. I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't eat. All I could do was write.

I can look back on that and think it was overly dramatic, but at the time, it felt so real.

I still have those journals tucked away in a closet. A few years ago, I pulled them out and read a few pages.

If there was ever a time when I wanted to go back, it would be then. I want to shake myself and say, “It will be okay. It is not the end of the world!” But even if I did that, my 15-year-old self wouldn't have been able to hear it.

What I think about looking back now isn't so much about the boy because, like an old cologne or perfume, as soon as you smell it, it takes you back to that person or moment in your life without any effort. I have a strong emotional memory, and I can feel, albeit dull and diluted, the same pain all over again.

But what I can see even more clearly now than I did then is my Mom.

How she didn't tell me to get over it.

She sat at the end of my bed.

She bought several boxes of tissues without prompting.

She listened... and listened... and listened.

As I fell apart into tiny teen pieces.

Of course, she had a million other things to do that I, as her daughter, didn't even notice. She let me work through it. She didn't try and fix me.

She is such a strong woman. She must have known this was just a test in my strong woman Jedi training.

On Monday, I found myself in a similar situation, but now the roles had reversed. I was sitting with my son, and he had just told me that he broke up with his girlfriend.

Now, I realize he is 13 and that this relationship is as complicated as a stoplight, but to him, it was his first girlfriend, and to me, it was my first experience on this side.

How wonderful that I have this opportunity to influence a boy to see the girl's side of things.

Not shocking in 2017, he had done this over text, and I tried to explain that he should have at least done it over FaceTime, or God forbid, a phone call. But I had to remember that almost their entire relationship was over text, so I refrained from being too judgmental.

I just told him that whatever he texted would probably be read to her friends and analyzed by her. I also explained that she would wonder what was wrong with her.

I know I'm thinking for a 13-year-old girl, and I really don't know for sure, but I sure as hell know that when I feel rejected, even as a 39-year-old woman, I still wonder what is wrong with me.

I told him to be a gentleman. To be honest, kind, and respectful.

It was interesting to see the other side of things. The boy side.

Now, I can't speak for my boyfriend who broke up with me, but there isn't nearly as much complexity as I thought there was back in 1993.

My son said he just wasn't having fun anymore. Nothing is wrong with her. He doesn't think she is ugly; there is nobody else. He was just bored.

And I don't blame him!

How much fun can texting be after six months?

I'm sure my boyfriend's feelings were probably the same thing, but he didn't tell me that. And I spent a long time (that I don't regret) processing those feelings of rejection.

What I really wanted was for my son to have a foundation to build on that he may reflect on in the future when his heart gets broken someday.

Because it will.

If he is anything of an empath like his mother is, he is guaranteed to.

When I was done talking to him, I called my Mom.

She is the first person I want to bounce ideas off of, who I want to know if I'm doing the right thing, or if I'm totally screwing up.

She listened... and listened... and listened.

If she knew how to order tissues over Amazon Prime, she would have sent them across the country in an instant.

She let me work through it. I could almost hear a sense of pride in her voice.

It wasn't just about my son. I went on to discuss what is wrong with the world, and how hard it is going to be to raise gentlemen, and on and on.

Because if there is one thing I am good at, it's snowballing worries from every minuscule aspect of not only my life, but my friends' lives and strangers' lives.

She just listened.

And by the end of the conversation, I felt better.

I'm far from completing my strong woman Jedi training. But I think I may have just gotten to a new level.l.

I have Confidence

When I was in second grade, my music teacher, Ms. Bellsauce, assigned songs from the movie The Sound of Music for us to learn. I sat in the music room eagerly waiting for my turn. My friends and I wanted to sing Favorite Things together. My second choice was the So Long, Farewell song. But when she got to me, she said, “Noelle, you will be singing I Have Confidence.”

I was devastated. Not only did I not get a cool song, I got the one song I had no idea what it meant. I didn't want to sing alone either.

She sang each of the songs for us, and then we left with the sheet music to learn. I remember practicing with my mom and brother in the car.

I began to like the song, and when it was time to sing it in music class, I nailed it. Not Tony Award-worthy, but for an eight-year-old, I did pretty well.

That song is on my favorite playlist on Spotify. When it's not on a loop in my head, it is playing in the background.

I met with Ms. Bellsauce for coffee a couple of years ago. I reached out to her because she was still teaching at my elementary school, and I needed to ask her a few questions relating to my current job.

I told her how much singing that song had influenced my life and how crazy it was that a random decision could mean so much to a kid.

Thirty years later, she told me there was nothing random about that decision.

She chose the song for me because I lacked... confidence.

Duh.

Confidence is something I have had to work on very hard. It does not come easily.

Early on, I discovered that I had physical confidence. There wasn't a sport I didn't try or that I didn't excel at. Being athletic gave me body confidence. I celebrated what my body could do.

Of course, when I got to high school, there was a brief moment when I thought girls shouldn't beat boys at soccer, and I would act shy and not run after the ball. But then I woke up once I discovered that was idiotic and not nearly as much fun.

The confidence I had in my athletic ability, unfortunately, didn't carry over to other aspects of my life.

I'm an extremely slow learner. I can read things to learn, but I can understand things much better if someone explains them to me. Or if I ask questions. Sometimes the same question, again and again.

So I would do this in class, and kids began to notice. I quickly earned a reputation for being stupid.

Now, I admit, I can be a bit ditzy at times, but it is only because I have about ten things going on in my mind at once.

Once you get a reputation, it's kind of hard to shake. And I began to believe it.

And once you form an opinion about something, no matter what it is, you will continue to believe it until you are shown something different.

It seemed that the older I got, the less confident I was becoming.

The first time I recall singing I Have Confidence was on my way to an interview for an internship with a production company in California.

I got it.

The next time was drumming up the courage to kiss a handsome guy sitting on the barstool next to me at Harvell's on 4th Street in Santa Monica.

He kissed me back.

I had to work really hard to graduate from high school. Doubly hard in college. I recall singing I Have Confidence on my way to my last final exam in college.

I passed.

I hummed it right before I walked down the aisle to marry the guy from the bar.

I blared it in my car on my way to my first post-college interview at a radio station, and I got that, too.

I have confidence the world can all be mine,
I have to agree,
I have confidence in me.

It sounds silly, but that song has given me such courage when I have lacked it.

My brain is telling me, I'm stupid, not pretty enough, not thin enough, not smart enough, not funny enough, not __________ enough.

I just applied for grad school.

During the entire process, I found reasons why this was a horrible idea. I'm almost 40. I have been working for the past 15 years in the field. What more could I learn? I have four young kids and a mortgage and a million other adult expenses.

Plus, I'm a slow learner. I'm lucky to have just gotten out of college in five years.

Plus, I had to get my transcripts and ask people for recommendation letters. Who the hell is going to recommend me?

But I just did it. I stopped making excuses and just applied, and after what felt like an eternity (two weeks), I was accepted.

Somewhere in the acceptance letter, it said that me, Mommy, was going to be going to graduate school. Not only that, they WANTED me.

Had I listened to my doubts instead of my recording of Julie Andrews, I may have never applied.

The courage to serve them with reliance,
Face my mistakes without defiance.
Show them I'm worthy
And while I show them
I'll show me!

I created the Mamalogues out of a crazy idea I had one night. Had I just left it on the table and never followed through, it would have never existed.

And what is the purpose of our staged show?

To give women a voice, to give them a platform and, get this... to give them confidence.

I see so many great things in other people, but I am blind to seeing those things in myself.

But for whatever reason, this letter of acceptance meant a lot to me. Not for the degree, but for the crazy notion that I believed that this stupid girl who failed Algebra II four times could even have a chance.

Whenever I feel defeated or scared, I call my mom. I think she has a list stored in her phone of all my “adult milestones” that she recites in an effort to remind me of everything I have done with my life.

“You graduated college with honors,” she still says with a bit of shock in her voice.

I reply, “But it took me five years!”

“You had four babies.”

I reply, “But I had C-sections.”

“You got married.”

I reply, “Because I gave him an ultimatum.”

Not really, but I did mention that I wasn't going to wait forever... (I was 24 when we got married.)

“But—” I begin, and she always stops me because she already knows that I'm going to go into a rant about someone else who has had five babies and has three PhDs and makes $5 million dollars and has not only a husband but a boyfriend, too, and... (Just kidding on that part.)

I begin to lack confidence most when I start comparing myself to others.

If someone is beautiful, does that make me less pretty? If someone is intelligent, does that make me stupid? If someone appears to have all their shit together, does that mean I don't?

I have a friend who is an artist and lives in Santa Fe. She didn't finish college, she doesn't have children, and isn't married. But she is the most badass, cool, independent, wonderfully happy, radiant woman I know.

She is so cool that she doesn't even have a Facebook account.

And sure, she is wonderfully confident in her life and her career.

Her confidence comes from just being who she is, not trying to impress anyone or one-up anyone. She just creates and exists and is perfectly content.

What she creates is one of a kind.

What I create is one of a kind.

What anyone creates is unique and can't be compared, especially if it is original.

Ms. Bellsauce knew this, even in a class of second graders.

Confidence should come from within.

I'm almost 40 and still learning this, and it isn't something that a degree will give me. I have to figure it out on my own.

Yesterday morning, as I left a particularly difficult workout, I started to tell myself untruths. I was cursing myself for eating like crap over break, for drinking too much, for not sleeping enough.

Then I literally stopped.

It was an effort to calibrate.

Instead of adding to my list of gripes that I was lame for putting myself down, I decided to think something positive.

I'm here.

I'm healthy.

I'm breathing.

I'm loved.

My car is going to start.

And I took a step.

With each step, I occupied my thoughts with something, anything, as long as it wasn't negative.

By the time I got home, I had already built my confidence to an acceptable level to face a day of work, and I did it all without calling my mom.

Which I'm sure she is grateful for, considering she is on West Coast time.

All I trust I leave my heart to,
All I trust becomes my own!
I have confidence in confidence alone.

Out of Body Parenting

I have played soccer most of my life. It has always been my go-to sport when I feel like I need to have my butt handed to me. Or when I want to meet new friends. When I returned to soccer after my first son was born, it was almost as painful as the birth itself.

I was on a co-ed team that wasn't exactly thrilled that a new mom, just eight weeks postpartum, had decided it was a good idea to play soccer while nursing. I missed many passes because I was trying to decipher whether my son's cry was a hungry, poopy, or tired cry. I would look to my husband to see if he was giving me the sign that I needed to get off the field to feed our baby.

Yesterday, I sat in the very same building, but now I am on the sidelines, and the baby I nursed is on the field. He is 13.

For a moment, I had a complete out-of-body experience. The kind you have when you are floating above your body and can see everything from a bird's-eye view.

I don't look that old, do I? I mean, yes, my son is taller than me, but I would swear I know exactly what it felt like to hold him in my arms.

How in the hell did I get here?

I really don't feel like so many years can pass by so quickly when Monday afternoon feels like an eternity.

He was staring at me from across the field. He made some kind of tackle or something. Whatever it was, it must have been big because he was looking to me to give him the thumbs-up. Which I frantically did, causing him to be mortified and then act like he didn't know who I was.

So, I folded my hands in my lap and acted like a good mom should. I reached into my purse to down a bottle of water because I had unintentionally drank a little too much the night before. I mean, nowadays, it's never intentional. The days of trying to get drunk on purpose are long past. I can still be that fun party girl, but in his eyes, I'm... well, a Mom.

DISCLAIMER It has come to my attention that some of his girlfriends learned about my blog and now read it. Just stop now. Nothing to see here. Nothing to tease him about at school. Boring Mom stuff from now on.

The two of us had a turbulent week. I had taken him to get his hair cut on Monday. I almost cried as I watched him ask the stylist about her Thanksgiving and tell her about ours. He was so mature. And when we left, we ran into a friend's parent, and he shook his hand and told him to have a good night.

That is my boy, I thought. I must be doing something right.

By Tuesday, he had made his brother cry, filmed it, and was going to post it on Snapchat. I didn't even know he had a Snapchat account. But this really made me angry. So, I took his phone away.

I was making dinner at that moment, and I almost submerged his phone in a pot of crock-pot chili. But I didn't. Instead, I let him know how I felt.

I can't and I won't have my son be a boy who bullies anyone, especially his brother. I refuse to raise a jerk, even though the world is filled with them.

In addition to this cyber atrocity, I found out he had attempted to insult his brother by calling him a feminist.

A feminist.

A FEMINIST.

Now I wanted to place his phone in the oven with the cornbread so he could watch his social life melt away.

I understand. Sometimes the teen brain has a short circuit, and they say inconsiderate, asinine things. But this needed some explaining.

He knew by my expression and sarcastic tone that I was upset. I turned around and asked him to explain what that meant and how it was that he was using that as a put-down to his brother.

Before he could give me a sad, unsatisfactory answer, I went on a 15-minute rant about how women are just as equal to men. How, because of strong women, I am able to not only work but have a family, too. How women have come a long way but still have a long way to go, and I would be damned if he grew up to be a man who stood in the way of that.

I explained that he may not have a sister, but he has a strong mother, and anything he generalizes about the female sex, he is essentially saying about me or his grandmothers or his aunts.

And with that, I have a problem.

I found myself again in an out-of-body experience, with a bird's-eye view of a mom trying desperately to understand her child's actions. I was witnessing a woman who really didn't know what she was doing, but was trying so hard to play it off like she knew where her rant was going.

He sat there at the kitchen table, playing with a Cheerio left over from breakfast. His expression didn't look much different than when he was a toddler sitting in that exact spot, doing the same thing.

I wanted to shake him and hug him at the same time.

He didn't argue about the phone. He didn't attempt to make excuses. I told him I was done, and he stood up. I thought he was going to his room to sulk, but instead, he headed over to the utensils and began setting the table. He then took the garbage out.

He is still that gentleman from the day before. He had just had a serious lapse in judgment.

At dinner, we always go around the table and discuss our high and low points for the day. When it got to me, I said my high point was applying to grad school; my low point was the discussion I had with Parker.

When it got to him, he said his low point and high point was his discussion with me. Nobody besides his younger brother knew what we were talking about.

I could blame the media, or music, or the Bible, or whatever source I could find to support my excuse as to why my son did and said the things he did that day.

But it doesn't matter.

Whatever motivated him at 13 years old to say and do those things is inconsequential. What matters most is that someone noticed and spun him around to see that the person he was hurting with his inconsiderate remarks and actions wasn't just his brother. It was his mother. It was the generations of people who have suffered at the hands of a bully.

If his discussion with me was a high point, and that was his attempt at an olive branch, I took it.

That out-of-body experience I was having earlier has dissipated, and the weight of motherhood is firmly grounded in my gut.

I'm here.

And as hard and ugly and funny and heavy as things get—and are going to get—we will get through it together.