In Her Shoes

Everyone has their favorite room in their house.  It could be the place where you have your favorite chair, or created a tranquil space all your own where every Sunday you read the paper.  It could be due to the color scheme, or that it is typically alive with the energy of the family, or maybe you like the way the light shines into the space during the early morning hours.  I love certain places in my house for all of these reasons and more, but there is a place that truly expresses who I am-

My closet.

OK- more specifically, the shoes in my closet.

I am not even embarrassed to admit this.  Anyone that knows me knows that I love shoes- they are the icing to any outfit, and can take you from dull to daring in 3.2 seconds.  But if you were ever to come over and stand in front of my collection of shoes all lined up in a row, there is something else that you would see if you just look a little closer… all of the facets of myself that these shoes represent.

I love how my career shoes are all together (organized by color and then style, of course).  Their long heels hanging over the edge, just looking intimidating and powerful.  Move down a little more and you will see a nice collection of high heel sandals and wedges, dressy and fun, just waiting for the right evening out.  Then we will move onto pairs that are a little more practical- the lower heels, and the many, many pair of flip flops.  Fast.  Efficient.  Low maintenance.  They cover my feet in a flash for when I am ready to be on the go.  Eventually, you will come to the last section, which is functional.  Here rests my running shoes, outdoor work shoes, and hiking boots.  And yes, the one pair of snow boots that I diligently hung on to- just in case.

The point of this is, like so many women, I have many facets of who I am as an individual.  Who I am in one situation may change as to who I need to be in the next, but all of these characteristics never go away- I just pull them off the shelf as needed to help carry me through the moment.

So in this I find a very interesting quandary; if we, as women, acknowledge that we are all complex creatures, and can share a love for something as simple as shoes, then why are we so judgmental and hard on each other?

This has really been on my mind over the past few weeks.  Personally, I struggle with the feeling of being judged- I will admit that I am sensitive to it, and feel that I am probably more than actually happens.   Take in point an incident that occurred a few weeks ago.  I was stranded in the O’hare airport due to delayed flight (over 5 hours delayed, but that is another story).  It was challenging enough to try to reschedule conference calls and due dates that I would miss due to being mid-air when I thought I would have been long since home, but the real challenge was trying to arrange child care for my girls.  I thought I would be the one to get them off the bus and where they needed to be that evening, but as sometimes happens, life got in the way of my well laid out plans.  After multiple frantic calls to family, I thought I had it figured out.  When I landed, I called my mom, and the line went to voice mail.  I then called my dad, who picked up the phone and said he was at Church.  He was the one who was supposed to have my kids.   I immediately imagine them stranded, all alone.  I took a quick inventory and suddenly I was the crazy woman screaming into the phone “WHO HAS MY KIDS!?!?!”

Oh…. The looks I had from the other women around me.  I am sure the thoughts of “What kind of mother doesn’t even know who has her kids?” flashed as fast as lightening in a summer storm through their minds.  Or maybe it didn’t, because it was too busy going through my own mind. 

 But even if it didn’t happen, we all know that it does happen, and we women tend to be the guilty party.  In the end my situation was a simple misunderstanding and everyone was safe and sound, but the bystanders never see that side of the story.

Here’s the ironic thing- we, as women, know that we all struggle.  We struggle to be everything to everyone, to find time, to find balance, to find ourselves.  We expect perfection from ourselves and certainly from others, and are disappointed when this unrealistic expectation can’t be met.  We should be the community that lifts each other up, and instead we are the first ones to cut each other down.   I think this is one reason why we are so fiercely loyal to our friends, and rely on them so heavily for support.  We know that we will never have to worry about that with these comrades, we will have each other’s back in any battle big or small.  In this group we are not working against each other, but instead come together as a band of sisters that are there for each other, no matter what.

I saw a facebook posting the other day from a mom who was commenting about other girls being cruel to her young daughter.  It was not the first time I saw something like this, and I am certain it will not be the last.  It is heartbreaking to have an outward reminder that this behavior starts so young, and realize that this girl will one day be the woman trying to undermine another female co-worker, make the flash judgment of the mom with the screaming child in the grocery store, or perhaps the crazy lady in the airport. 

I would never say that I am not guilty of this, but I do think that I have gotten better over the years to realize that there is no one way to do something, but I do the best I can with my way.   I would be the first to admit that my way is not right for everyone, just as your way may not be right for me.  But I have committed that before I make that judgment of another woman, before I snap to thinking about how she is doing it all wrong, I will take a step back, and think about her shoes, and all the other ones she inevitably has at home.  I will take a moment to realize that maybe today just isn’t her day, and this is the best she has in this moment, and most importantly, that I myself have been there.    

Remember

Do you remember where you were when you heard the news?

How unbelievable it was, that you were trying to grasp the nature of what was happening.

Who you first thought of.

Seeing it as it happened- or, the first of many replays….  

The second tower being hit.

Wave after wave of first responders pouring into the buildings.

News of other attempts that failed to reach their targets, but didn’t fail in taking lives.

When the first tower fell.

Then the second.

That it looked like a child’s erector set.  Except it wasn’t.

How young your children were.

How tightly you held them.

How you feared for their future.

How you feared for the present.

The eerie emptiness of the skies.

How everyone went where it mattered most- home.

Seeing the brave police officers, firefighters, EMTs and military personal who came onto the scene as everyone else was trying to flee.

Later, supporters lining the streets, cheering them on as they searched for those they already knew were lost.

How homes all had candles burning in the windows that night.

How you never saw so many American Flags flying in the wind.

How you no longer fell under a specific political party, but instead were just American.

How after 10 years, your kids are older, you are wiser, and life went on, but it still seems unbelievable that it happened.

Let us continue to grow older.  Be wiser. Hold our children tighter. Be brave.

But never let us forget.

Thank You For Being A Friend

Lately, the reality that the man I have known since the age of 15, married to for 13 years and have two children with has never even seen where I live has seemed a little surreal. 

To think that this person that has so much significance in our lives has no idea what our day to day looks like… well- to be honest, it has had me feeling a little bit sad. 

I have lived here for six months, and we have now established some roots.  I know where items are located on the grocery store shelves. The girls love their school.  GG is in soccer.  Belle is in tennis.  They have a good connection with the neighborhood kids, and are making friends with other kids in their classes.  They are starting to accept Georgia as home, and Michigan as a place where they are from.

And through it all, M has no idea what this “looks” like.

It’s not that I am looking for his (or anyone’s) approval.  There is this sense of liberation that surrounds me when I realize that along with the challenges, the reality is that this is my house, and I make the decisions that go along with that ownership.  So no, you don’t have to like my decor, the gray paint that will someday be on the walls, or the white sectional.  All you have to do is realize that these are my decisions, and I own them.

But all of that changed over Labor Day weekend.  M and his parents (or, more specifically, my ex-husband and now ex- in-laws) came to Georgia to visit.

And overall, I have to say it was great.

It’s not that there wasn’t anxiety over this.  To have the man that used to be my husband now coming as a visitor was weird, for sure.  But putting ourselves to the side, we both knew how important it was to make it un-weird for the girls’ sake.  One big happy broken family, right?

Yep- that about sums it up.

Friday, the girls and I went to pick M up at the airport.  They were so excited I could barely get the car in park before they threw open the door and ran out to meet him.   It was evident how much they missed him.  I sat patiently in the car- this was their moment to reconnect.  But after they all piled back in, it was as comfortable as could be.

We arrived at the house, and giving M the home tour was again, surreal (maybe it should be some sort of game on how many times I can use the word “surreal” in this post.)    And to answer your next question, yes, he stayed at the house.  M and I have had this unsaid agreement since the moment the word “divorce” was uttered- it’s no longer about us, it’s all about the kids.  And that has remained true every moment since. With that in mind, I would have hated for him to waste any amount of time traveling back and forth to a hotel, missing the early morning schmuggle time, or being there to kiss the girls goodnight.  So yes, the play room became his home away from home for the weekend.

The next day was the family birthday party we had for the girls.  We do this every year as the girls birthdays are only 7 weeks apart.  All morning we were working together to get the house ready; I was cooking in the kitchen, M helped clean up. I wrapped the girls gifts, M went out for ice and beer.  After he returned, M poured us both a cold beverage and we sat and watched the first part of the Michigan game.  It was so relaxed, so comfortable, it could have been any Saturday in our house years ago….

But it wasn’t.

Soon after, M’s parents arrived.  They had made the drive from Michigan to help celebrate the girls’ birthday.  Yes, it was tense at first, but soon we all relaxed a little and easily fell into our rhythm.  Not long after the rest of the family came over- Italian dinner for 12 in my little house.  Through it all, M and I kept sneaking glances at each other during the party; the unsaid conversation going on with each look, the inside jokes, the sarcastic remarks that we knew each other was making internally…  the love we both felt for each of our girls as we watched them open gifts and blow out the candles on their birthday cake.  Divorce does not take any of that away- not unless you let it.

The rest of the weekend went pretty much the same way.  M and I feel into that easy rhythm that we have when we are together.  He made coffee first thing in the morning, and had my cup ready before I got out of bed.  I made him lunch before he even asked for it.  We parented the kids together.  And the reality is- I really missed it.  I missed having someone else there to help. I missed that easy, comfortable feeling of hanging out on the couch after the kids have gone to bed- sharing some wine, and making witty commentary about a favorite program on TV.

The beauty of our relationship is that both M and I admitted that we missed this- but in that same breath realize that doesn’t mean that we were meant to be married.  Being comfortable and easy does not make a marriage;  there needs to be that spark, that passion… the sharing of same interests and desires, the acceptance of who each of you are as individuals that creates the foundation and helps drive a marriage.  Once upon a time we used to be that, but no longer. Staying married only prohibits us from finding that again with the person that we are truly meant to be with.  M is- and always will be- one of my best friends.  He knows me, all of me, in a way that really no one else does.   He cheered me on from the sidelines during my 5k Saturday and afterward said how proud he was of me.  He remains my voice of reason when I feel things are getting out of control.  He has been supportive of my career when other men would have been intimidated by a woman with professional aspirations.  And while it may be hard to understand, through it all this doesn’t make him my husband.

This makes him my friend.

And for that, I will always be thankful.

You Are Six, Going On Seventeen

Today my Belle turns 7.

Could someone please explain how 7 years has gone by?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was that bald headed baby clutching the blankie in one hand and her favorite purple cup in the other?

And now, she is truly a personality to behold.

I will admit, I love being able to still see so many sides of her.  On any given day, she will vacillate between being my little girl and asking me to “schmuggle” with her, and then turn around and provide me a glimpse of that sassy Tween that I know is lurking right around the corner.

Sigh.

At 7, these are the things that I already know about my Belle:

1.     She is a force to be reckoned with

2.    She already has an amazing sense of style

3.    While good in school, she’s going to have to work at her studies.  She is never going to have to work at making friends

4.    She can turn your day around on a dime- and yes, that means in either way

5.    Did I mention she is a force to be reckoned with?

Belle is that child that you miss, and then she comes back and totally tries your patience, and then 5 minutes later you miss her again. 

Her smile is priceless.  Her laughter is golden.  Her personality is strong.

And now, at 7, she seems so mature… more than GG ever did at this age. 

I know that both girls have had to do a lot of growing up this year, but Belle, as always, is ahead of her time.

I just want to capture this moment- the here and now- and keep it locked in my memory forever. 

She has promised me that if I still give her birthday parties, she won’t actually get any older.

Any chance I can make that wish come true?

Sponge Worthy

Do you remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine, given the knowledge that the Today Sponge was going off the market, purchased every surplus she could get her hands on to create her personal stockpile?  She then proceeded to quiz any man she dated to determine if he was "Sponge Worthy"; using up her precious resources, he had better be pretty damn good in order to deplete her stockpile, else someone better could come along who would have been MORE sponge worthy, and then she would be pissed off that she used the goods on a lesser person?

Yeah, my social life is kinda like that.

Let me first and foremost establish that I am certainly not talking about the sponge, or "it" for that matter, but I am referencing much more precious recourses- time and money.

In an effort to break the vicious cycle of the "to do" syndrome (please see previous post), or more accurately, wanting to experience this fabulous city I now call home, I have joined some singles groups in an effort to meet like minded people my age.  And by like minded, I mean not crazy, obsessive, normal people that like good food and a few beers.  But how do you determine someone isn't crazy until you take the time to meet them in person?

Here in lays the problem.

How do you determine when something is Sponge Worthy? 

I think I have done a good job so far to determine the cost to outcome ratio on a night out.  Does it involve larger groups of people (aka- more people to sort through in hopes of finding the normal ones).  Do I already have things in common with them (there is a much higher relateability factor with the Professional Singles group than any "Hot Chick In ATL"ish group.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm still a hot chick, but I don't want to be next to someone who could be using a fake I.D. Or mistake me for their mom). Most importantly, what is the possibility of success (success being defined as someone - male or female- that I would establish a friendship with).  All of this is combated with those ever precious resources- time and money.  How long am I going to be gone for?  Have you SEEN the cost of some babysitters these days?  I am clearly doing it all wrong, let me tell you.  Suck it college degree- I am starting my very own Babysitters Club.  Anyway, there is that, combined with will I have to ship the girls off for the night (they already have to spend nights away from home when I travel, and all I really want is for them to fall asleep in their own beds, despite their begging at the idea of a glorious sleep over where they can sleep in the next day).  Then there is the comparison of if this event is worth the one or two nights out a week that all these factors combined I typically allow myself (that is, if I am not traveling that week.  Then it's pretty much 0).  And don't go judging- one night for me to look hot and talk to other adults is not a lot to ask in my book.  I am supposedly supposed to be living some fabulous singles life, or so I have been told. 

Anyway, I have established some criteria that on the flow chart, er, I mean 'hypothetically", makes the decision fairly clear on when it's worth it to give up the goods.  And of course, a night out with girlfriends trumps everything else. 

So until my next evening out (please stand by for a future post, because believe me, it could be a good one) I will be here, trying to hold onto my resources tight enough to make any one featured on "Hoarders" proud.

Constant

There is a dead spider in my hallway.

I am embarrassed to say how long it has been there, but let’s just say I might have noticed it shortly after my last post.

It’s not that it doesn’t freak me out a little every time I pass it, and I am certainly not keeping it there for any particular reason, I just haven’t quiet gotten to it yet.

As of late, my house has looked more like a pack of rabid weasels have come in and torn the place apart than the organized tight ship I like to run.  OK, so maybe it’s more like organized chaos with one oar out of the water type of life raft, but it works for me.  As of late, it’s not even a pool floaty with a slow leak.

As in most households with school age children, the craziness involved in the transition from the relaxed wonders of summer vacation to the ramp up of a new school year has once again provided a quick snap back to reality.  Only, the problem is, this reality (that of being a working single mom) and I have yet to really meet, let alone become friends.

Over the past few crazy weeks, while I have been coming to grips with what this looks like, there is one word that keeps coming back and best defines it; this new life is constant.

This life is a constant state of what’s next, what was left un-done, and that is just going to have to wait for another day because it’s not vital that I do it today.  A constant state of never enough time, constant reference to the “to-do” list, and constant longing for 15 minutes to just sit down in silence and breathe.

As with the majority of women I know, I felt that I pretty much did the crux of the household management when I was married.  Even if that was true, there was always someone to tap me out of the ring when it became too much; the fall back of divide and conquer.  But now, that dynamic no longer exists.   This truly came to light on the Fourth of July in what can now be called “The Great Taco Sauce Incident”. We had dinner with all of the neighbors at the pool, and as the sky became overcast we all headed home.  There was some debate on whether to go into town to try to watch the fireworks vs. get caught in a legendary southern downpour, and in the end we decided to go for it.  As I was handing out typical pre-departure directions to the girls (go to the bathroom, grab a raincoat, and for the love of God please take off those new white sandals before they are covered in red Georgia mud) I was quickly unloading the dinner contents out of the cooler and into the fridge.  The jar of taco sauce slipped out of my hands.  It was new. It was family size.  It was practically full.  Trying to grab it mid-air only made it tumble out of control and cover the walls, cupboards, and inside the fridge with red taco sauce.  At the same moment my sister honks the horn indicating that her family is waiting for us to pile into the minivan and head downtown.   In my prior life it would have been easy to say “you get the kids and I will clean this up” or, ideally, had another pair of hands to help with the mess.  But as it quickly came to light, it’s all me, baby.

That is just one example of many where it is not only the physical (how do I move that filing cabinet down the stairs by myself, or accept the fact that I have to wait for someone to come over to help me) to the logistical (no one else to attend school open house, review homework, or share soccer practice duties with.  Trying to scheduling each girls’ activities on separate days so there are no driving conflicts) to the financial (no one to discuss with the pros and cons of getting the chimney cap sanded and painted vs. replacing it with a new one). 

Which brings me to the last constant, and that is one that I know so well; guilt.

Oh, guilt is my constant companion and loves to keep me company late at night.  Guilt that it’s never good enough.  If I need to focus on the kids, work suffers.  If I focus on work, the kids suffer.  Guilt knowing that in either situation I am doing all I can and I feel it’s barely enough to get by.  My inbox is out of control, and I missed items on the girls’ school supply list.  I decline a call to be able to attend meet and greet, and I miss open house because I am on a plane coming back from who knows where.  I greet them at the bus stop every day I am home at 2:30 but am not always there to kiss them goodnight. All the while I am just trying to keep that constant pace, reminding myself to still talk kindly, keep a smile on, keep it in perspective, and most importantly keep it together.

Look, it’s not that I didn’t know it was going to be hard.  I really did think these scenarios through.  And it may come off like this post is just one big complaint, but I really mean it when I say it’s not- it just is what it is.  I am beyond grateful to have support from my amazing sister and her family, which I would never be able to do any of this without. Because while the reality is that it may seem I have made it more difficult than it needs to be because we moved, I would gladly take this constant pace with the other constant that I know- and that is that moving is still the right choice, and I would make the same decision all over again if I had to.

So, I acknowledge that reality- my reality- is changing.  And I guess that is the true constant in life- change. We learn to grow and adapt better than we ever thought possible, and in looking back we amaze even ourselves when we say “I can’t believe I made it through that”.

Well, at least that’s what I hope I will say, or at least something like it.

Until then, I have a dead spider I need to attend to.

Lessons on Life and Running

After traveling for business last week, and then enjoying a fun Friday night on the town with my partner in crime J (Chicago is her home town) I was feeling more than a little off.  Perhaps it was the combination of beer + carbs + more beer + more carbs that we consumed for copious amounts of hours.  Just sayin’. This riotous evening was soon followed by a very challenging 12 hour drive from Michigan to Georgia, where I was consuming anything with caffeine and sugar just to stay awake.  Needless to say, by the time I got home I was feeling blegh, akin to the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I knew there was only one solution:

I needed to run.

I had been so diligent on my training for the 5k, and afterward, while not stopping “per se”, there was a definitely a slowdown that first week.  Then came more travel, and I just never seemed to get back into the rhythm I had created over the previous few weeks.  Now that I was back home, there were no more excuses.

But here is the truth.... dare I admit... I missed it.

For me, running is more than just a form of exercise.  For those that have known me a long time, you will understand the significance much more than most- it is a true departure from who I was years ago.  Running used to be this ever looming "thing" that just seemed impossible- that I would never be able to do.  And yet, here I am- hair pulled back into my Shrek-looking ponytails, nylon running shorts swishing as I zip around the house gathering my IPod, running watch and water bottle before heading out the door.

After a quick 10 minute drive I arrive at the running park, and I immediately set into my routine.  Stretch in the parking lot, walk to the place where I like to start on the path, and as I take my warm up walk I strap my IPod to my arm and arrange my headphones.  I feel comfortable, secure… this is my place, and I know it well.  As I hit the third .10 mile marker, I start to run.  And so it begins….

"Keep your pace" is my first mantra... if I start to fast I will burn out by the end of the first mile.  I slowly get my rhythm.  I have to remind myself, I am not here to impress anyone; it’s just me, the path I know, and the never ending fact that I am running.  I hear Eminem in my ears... his bitterness and angst getting me revved up.  Half a mile in, and I start to notice my breathing has fallen into place.  By 3/4 mile, already there is sweat streaming down my forehead (did I mention this state is HOT?).

My first mile is complete, and I feel like I can accomplish anything.  There is no challenge I can't take on! I recognize my running trail peeps that I have come to know and love; the man that walks the track holding a golf club, like he expects to be searching for a ball he shanked at any moment.  The group of new moms with their tiny babies in jogging strollers, starting that never ending battle to get the baby weight off, as well as the group of moms that look like a flash forward 10 years who realize they are beautiful as they are still carrying that post baby weight, and walk to commiserate with other likeminded women for that essential companionship.  There are many other runners, all at varying levels, just trying to beat their personal best. And then there is my personal cheerleader, a man whom I would guess is in his mid seventies, who applauds every time I pass him on the track.  Maybe it’s because by this point my face matches the color of my hair.

I am well into the next mile, and I hear Brittney singing to me, edging me on... "Stronger than yesterday, it's nothing but a mile away..." yes, Britney, just another mile. (and don't judge, Foo Fighters are next on the play list....) but now I'm half way in, and my legs are starting to burn.  My breathing becomes just a little more labored, and I have to be more cautious about keeping my rhythm.  And then, the argument ensues. 

It goes something like this.

"Just keep going.... "
"If you stop after this mile, no one will know.  Hey- at least you did something...."
"But YOU will know. And you have done this run before... why stop now?"
"You know how many other things you have to get done today?  Do you really have time for another mile?"
"Think about it- what will you feel like 30 minutes after you cut it short?  You will be so mad at yourself!”
"But do you really think you have enough in you to keep going?"

So I don't stop... but I don't fully commit to the next mile, either.  I know that at this moment, that next mile- that I have already accomplished before- seems like a marathon.  And as I round the corner and hit that mile marker, I start to will myself with every next step.

"Just make it to the next lamp post... don't think about the entire mile.  Just to the next lamp post." 

So, I start up the next hill.  A little slower than what I have done before, but the important thing is that I am still moving.  Moving forward. Not staying still, not sliding back.  And maybe not at the pace I want to go at, but the important thing is that I keep at it.

I make it up the hill and to the next lamp post, as if it were a beacon guiding me home.  Now the path starts to decline. Easy to think that here come a respite, but I have to remember to be careful- if I lose focus and coast I could go to fast and stumble out of control.  I tell myself- maintain pace, form, even when it seems a little easier.

I round the next corner, and I see the next hill looming- didn't I just get through the last one? It's at this point that I am almost screaming to myself, "If you even think about walking I will kick your ass!" (Yes, that would be me, kicking my own ass.  Nice.) But I know the reality- that once I stop, it is almost impossible to start again, and if I do, it’s twice as hard than if I had just fought through the pain and kept on going, regardless of my pace. 

The irony of how running reflects life is not lost on me.  It creeps in almost every time I run.  There is this “thing”… something looming in your life that seems so insurmountable that you wonder why you should even try.  It’s the proverbial pipe dream. But then one day, you decide ok, I am just going to try… and then you have to accept that just because you try doesn’t mean that you are going to be able to run 13.1 miles your first trip out the door.  Oh no- you have to start slow.  Walking.  And then adding some running in.  So slow it’s a frustrating unnaturally slow pace that you wonder if you are making any progress at all.  But you still keep at it.  And the path is not flat- there are ups and downs, and you have to navigate those while still maintaining your pace, willing yourself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and not lose control on the easy parts or else you won’t be able to recover when the path levels out.  And whatever you do- don’t walk.  Don’t quit- it’s so much harder to get your legs to run again after you have allowed them to stop.  And just when you think you’ve got it, along comes another hill.  And you do it all again. 

Because the truth that is so hard for me to accept is that this is not a race. No timer, no record to beat, no bonus if I just get this task accomplished faster than anyone else. It’s all about the journey, so appreciate it- even if it the path is a hilly oval running track that you are not sure if you will ever get off of.  I run just for me, and with every step I am closer to filling the gap of completing something that I set out to do.  Something that is a big deal to me, something that used to be a "thing" and instead is now "something" that I do.

I run.