To Marie, On Your 9th Birthday

 Dear Marie,

This year, your birthday falls on Mother’s Day, and you are so excited about this.  To be honest, I am glad that you are excited because having your day happen on Mother’s Day feels really special to me.

The day you were born was a sort of a rebirth for me.  If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I would have the courage to figure out what I truly wanted from life and actually make plans to achieve it.

You were the first step in this journey. 

To be a better person. 

To develop healthy personal boundaries. 

To write. 

To stop saying sorry all the time for things I don’t need to be sorry.

It wasn’t until I was responsible for someone else did I realize how poorly I thought of myself.

It didn’t bother me enough to stop associating with people that did not treat me with kindness and respect.

I didn’t realize that perfectionism was just another form of self-loathing, and in fact, NOT one of my most positive personality traits.

It didn’t occur to me that it was not normal to go through life with a general and overwhelming state of malaise.

There was no way I was going to take a beautiful, brand new human down that same road. I knew that you would be watching me, and I wanted so much better for you.  And I if I wanted better for you, I would need to be better. 

If you were truly to know deep down in your bones that you deserved to be happy and treated with kindness not only by others, but from yourself, I would have to lead the way.

So I am learning how and doing my best everyday to be a positive example for you.

But we are all on own paths to happiness, and it breaks my heart to see you struggle with our common thread of anxiety. As much as I want to pave your path to happiness with all the lessons I have learned, I understand that I cannot do it for you.

My birthday wish for you is to find light and love throughout your journey.  I want you to know that you are worthy of true happiness simply because you are you.  You don’t have to earn it.  No one can give it to you, and no one can take it away.  

You are enough, my dear, just as you are.

We both are.

Love always,

Mommy

My first Mother's Day. You were only a few days old.

Love.

Growing Up and 4th of July Traditions

When I was a kid, I LOVED the 4th of July.  My family would get together with my aunt, uncle, and cousins.  We anxiously awaited until it finally became dark since my Dad and his brother were way into pyrotechnics and *may* had procured some illegal fireworks.

This one time, they lit up a firework that spun in super fast circles, like a whirling dervish.  In it’s little dance, the wheel of fire spiraled up a car and over the roof, where it landed under the car.  We squealed in equal parts of delight and sheer terror.  Would the car explode?   Would the whole neighborhood go up in flames?  (Spoiler - no, the firework just stopped.  Totally anticlimactic).

My brother, cousins, and I wanted in on this action so when we were allowed to hold sparklers and “play with fire,”  it was like, the best thing ever!  Better than eating s’mores until the break of dawn.  Better than unlimited popsicles.

These memories are the blueprints for my 4th of July celebrations, however, I am the only person out of my brother and that set of cousins that still lives here.  Even though the “adults” still get together, we’ve slowly formed our own 4th of July traditions to ensure Marie and Thomas have their own blueprints that are filled with fun times with their friends.  

Growing up, I always thought that things would always be the same, traditions and family would never change.  

They never do stay the same.  And that is bittersweet.

Sometimes things work out in ways that you could never imagine.

And that is incredible.

Hope you had a happy holiday!

I die of cuteness.

The Gang

So excited to play with fire.

This. Is. Happening.

Writing her name in fire.  Kind of like Katniss.

About 30 seconds before his sparkler went rogue and the sparks
ended up on his hand. He now has blisters.
And I will be collecting my Mother of the Year award.

The Girls.

Thoughts on the Book Room and My Struggles with Being an Adult

I love to read.  Joining a book club has been one of the best things I have done for myself.  Often times, it pushes me to read books that I would never think to read.

Case in point, Room by Emma Donoaghue.  It’s not my usual type of book since reading about a traumatic kidnapping of a young woman who is forced to have a baby while living as a captive in a very small room gives me hives.  I gave it a whirl (because I’m a team player), but I ended up being totally entranced that the first-person narrative was a five-year old son of the kidnapped victim.

The Room is everything to this child.  He has no awareness of the outside world and thinks everything on TV is not real.  Since he only knows his mother (and has to hide at night when the abuser comes to see the young woman), he personifies the objects in his room.  When he and his mother escape, all he wants to do is go back to see Room.  The little boy has a tremendously difficult time adjusting to the outside world and mourns for the safety of Room, so his mother and a police officer take him back to Room.

When he returns, the little boy doesn’t recognize it.  It’s smaller than he remembered and nothing looked the same.  His perspective had changed once he experienced life outside of those four tiny walls.

Even though the context of this story is gut-wrenching, I thought his attachment to Room and his altered perspective were an achingly beautiful metaphor for growing up.  And strangely enough, I totally relate to this little boy.

I feel these past six months have been really weighing down on me: I’ve been doing some major work on shifting the way I view myself as I’ve been strengthening my personal boundaries.  Often times, I just want to quit and go back to the way things used to be.

Except they can’t.  Because I am different.  I have witnessed life outside of Room, and now everything has changed.  I’m no longer the same person who reacts to the madness around me.  I no longer think that I am self-indulgent if I’m making time to take care of myself.

But still, I struggle.  Part of being an adult is accepting situations for what they are, yet that does not mean accepting means that I have to participate in the same unhealthy way.  This is the hardest part for me.  My therapist says it’s the internal battle between my adult self knowing what to do to protect me, and the little girl part of me waiting for someone else to step in and take over.

And I would say that is true.

In what ways do you struggle with being an adult?  

On Being an Adult

When I was a kid, I thought someone in their twenties was an actual, real adult.

For me, I was far from being an adult in my early twenties.  I was a full-time student making little dollars at my pet crematorium/salon receptionist job.  I was a *tad* financially dependent on my parents.   I partook in some light partying. 

 I thought once I graduated, got a job, and moved out, I would be an Official Adult.  But something was missing, and I felt like a big kid with her own apartment and a job.

I thought for sure when I got married, I would instantly feel like an adult.  But I didn’t.

Becoming a parent had to be that magical moment when I would feel like a real adult, but I had Postpartum Depression with both kids.  And that just made me feel like a giant fake adult pretending to be a parent.

How could this be?  At the time, I was thirty-one years old, married with two kids and a mortgage?  Those are all very adult things, and I still felt like I wasn’t legit.

I think, for me, it has been a long, subtle process of evaluating my habits and general outlook on life.  I’ve had to ask a lot of questions: Why do I think this way?  Why do I react this way?  Is this my true reaction or something hanging on from other influences?     

It’s been through choosing my own path.

It’s about learning a new dance.

It’s been about honoring my instincts.

And knowing my inner voice is wiser than the part of me that craves validation and acceptance from others.

This becoming an adult thing?  It’s not easy.  I work on it Every. Damn. Day.

Some days are hard.  That pesky measuring stick of what I *should* be doing and how I *should* be doing it is hard to put away.  And other days I am clicking along, feeling good about my choices even though they might be different choices. 

Like I said, becoming my own person has not been easy for me.  But that feeling of freedom that comes being this evolved version of myself, that feeling of lightness – it’s all been worth it.

I am better to those around me when I am not comparing myself to others or trying to do things others may have done them.

I am me.

And that’s what being an adult means to me.

When did you feel like an adult?