Bittersweet

I put away RJ's train set last week. I wiped the crumbs from Thomas, James, and Percy, carefully placing them in a plastic bin. "It's just for now," I told myself. "We can always pull them out when RJ asks to play with them again." I carefully stacked the bridges and curves inside the bin so that they won't warp, because deep inside, I know that they're going to be stored for years. Gordon, Henry, Emily, and Victor have chugged their last chug powered by my little man's fingers (for now, right? He's not really finished with them?).

I used to think I understood "bittersweet." It's that feeling of dark chocolate--so sweet you nearly can't stand it until that little bite of bitterness pierces through you, though not the kind of bitter that chews away at your soul but rather, the bitterness that remains after some type of loss. The sweetness ultimately overcomes the bitter, leaving nothing but a mild melancholy, a hint of pride, and tension between longing for the past and looking forward to the future.

Motherhood has given me this feeling of bittersweet. Without it, I would never have shed a tear over a wooden track and a few (okay, many) tiny railroad engines. But, I'm a mom above all else. I'm not ashamed. I cried like a toddler who dropped her ice cream cone when I put those little trains away. I convinced myself that I'm happy that RJ prefers Legos and racing cars to little steam engines who wile away their days trying to be nothing more than really useful. I am happy that he's growing up, and that Gigi is too.

But it's only now that I'm truly understanding that "bittersweet" is more than a key ingredient on my Christmas baking list. "Bittersweet" is the recurring theme of motherhood. It's a feeling I know will come next week at kindergarten graduation. I'll be visited by that melancholy and pride again when Gigi starts pre-school. Someday (not too soon!), I'll watch my babies go on first dates, mend broken hearts (and break a few too).

Yesterday, I was reminded of the bittersweetness of Mother's Day for a dear friend, and after a day spent with my mom, I appreciated the sweetness of my day that came without any bitterness. Happy Mother's Day to all of my mommy friends, and to all of our moms who cried their own tears at those little bittersweet moments. I'm lucky that my mom is still with me, and I can tell her, "I love you." And to my friends who missed their moms yesterday, I remember them. Our moms all raised good women, and I know they're proud, whether here or in heaven.

And because I'm feeling a little bit of melancholy and a little bit proud,

This was my first Mother's Day, when I swore I'd never have a train table in my living room, and I'd never heard of Thomas the Tank Engine. I didn't know that there's one evil diesel engine on the happy Island of Sodor, and I certainly didn't know that someday, I'd shed a tear when that little diesel engine pulled into Tidmouth Shed one last time. RJ was so little on my first Mother's Day that I only knew the sweet, without a hint of the bitter. 

This year, he's gotten a little bigger, and he gained a best friend and sister along the way. 

This is my happy place. 

This makes me pretty happy too--a Mother's Day tea at our little Lutheran school. 

Yoga and the Child Within

After the half marathon, I was feeling a little let down. I had trained for months, and in one morning, I  checked a culminating box on my to-do list. The presents had been opened, the cake had been eaten, and the candles had been blown out (I need to blog RJ's birthday and then some).

I felt a little out of sorts.

I wasn't sure if I needed a nap, the potty, or a cracker. 

My world had been flipped upside down after being right side up for nearly a year. 

I felt off balance. 

Just generally out of whack, helper-skelter, and kind of wacky. 

I swam a few laps, lifted a few weights, researched full marathons (am I crazy?!), and ultimately decided to try something completely new. 

Yoga. That thing stretchy, balanced people do. And with legs carrying knots like grapefruits and a general feeling of weightiness on my left side and weightlessness on my right side, I decided I should be a stretchy, balanced person. 

I don't do well in fitness classes. When I was two, I peed in my tap shoes. I'd like to say I got better after that, but really, the only thing that improved was my potty training. If the teacher says "left," I go right. 

But this is yoga; it's slow and easy, right?

My first class, I uncurled my fresh-out-of the-wrapper mat beside a friendly looking woman who didn't cringe when I told her it was my first time. The instructor was about 50, and much to my delight, she wore a leather headband and tie-dye. She turned on music that chimed, and I found myself upside down in Downward Dog at 6:30 on a Tuesday evening. My arms shook, and I felt slightly dizzy and more than slightly out of place. But I persevered. I stood on one foot. Then the other. My abs screamed. I inhaled on the exhale, exhaled on the inhale, and found myself holding my breath, desperate for oxygen while the rest of the class rested in something called the "prayer" pose. My only prayer was for strength to finish the class without passing out. 

Then, something kind of magical happened: I started to understand. I followed instructions and figured out a pose or two. 

I can do this. I can be stretchy and balanced! 

Then, my friendly tie-dyed yogi (who, it turns out, is not a picnic loving bear) asked me to feel the energy of the room. I felt it. It pulsed in my aching ankles. She asked me to be aware of the energy. I was aware. She asked me to notice it pulsing "about three-inches in front of the mirrors."

I lost what energy flow I had in the stream of giggles that escaped on the exhale. I wasn't balanced anymore. It all seemed a little silly. And, as a silly girl should, I found my way back to the child's pose (because I behaved like one--just a little bit): 

But I felt relaxed. I felt stretchy. I felt kind of balanced. 

So, I went back for another class. I stretched into a headstand. I was sore in all the right places. I started to notice the energy in the room. Even better? I started to become aware of the energy outside of the yoga studio (so, it's a YMCA gym--why quibble over small details?). 

I've always said that if I could find a way to bottle my kids' energy, I'd be a happy, rich woman. 

I want to discover this kind of energy within. The pure delight that only comes from the first summer spray of the water hose. 

I want to place my hands carefully at shoulder level and feel the giggles bubbling from deep within my soul. 

I can see the energy rushing from his laugh out into the cosmos for all within earshot to enjoy. 

I'm quite certain that this is the look of the energy that has been balled up just behind my knees until its spectacular release that left me balanced and stretchy. 

Somewhere, in the midst of something new,  I'm finding myself floating, nearly flying.  I'm aware of the air on my skin, the breath in my lungs, and the energy inside and outside my body. 

And slowly, I'm stretching my mind. I'm balancing my right foot and my left brain. Tonight, we worked on our back muscles, and for the first time in years, the stabbing pain in my right hip and thigh has completely vanished. Even if the relief is temporary, it's relief nonetheless. I'm learning to control my thoughts with my breath and my breath with my thoughts. I'm becoming aware of the child that does still reside in my soul--the little girl who delights in spinning her sundress skirt; the excitement of a freshly-baked cookie; the little twinge of happiness that fizzles down the fuse toward the quickly approaching explosion of summertime. The energy flowed about three inches in front of me tonight, and tonight, this silly girl is happy and rich (for now--I've given myself until July to commit to a new goal because you can put a Type A in tie-dye, but you can't bask in the golden energy forever.).  

The Other Half (Marathon)

About a year ago, I decided to do something about my fitness. My back hurt. I was tired. I was sad and grumpy, out of sorts, and kind of lumpy (thanks to Ann Dewdney and Grumpy Gloria for aptly describing not only a sad, fat bulldog, but also me).  Swimming is bad on my naturally golden locks, and my bestie had taken up running. I decided to give it a whirl.

I started out at a 14-minute mile. Yes, I was running. Yes, it really took me that long. Yes, I was proud I could run a mile. Then I ran 2, 3, and even 4. My times came down. I ran a 5K and a 10K.
I started to get ideas. Crazy ideas. I signed up for a half marathon.

My goals shifted. I aimed for a sub-11 mile, then under 10. Last month, I paced below a  9-minute mile for a whole 10K.I set a few more goals. My race plans were set. I was going to run a half marathon in less than 2 hours. I had the legs. I had the ambition. I had the shoes, the leggings, the sweatband, blister-proof socks, anti-chafe balm, and headphones. I trained. I cross-trained.

As race day approached, I hydrated. I ate protein and carbs. I could see the finish line, and I visualized the clock time and again (just like my old swimming days had taught me.) I envisioned the healthy breakfast I would eat on race day: a bit of cereal, perhaps some fruit, a relaxing cup of tea. I planned my outfit (key, as any girl can tell you): an adorable white running skirt, blue hat, blue shirt.

This morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 4:30 a.m., took a shot of Imodium and assessed the damage. The stomach flu had knocked me down. I missed RJ's 6th birthday party and most of the 24-hours leading up to race day.

This morning, I ran my other half-marathon. The one I hadn't planned. I donned my old black leggings ('cause you know, Imodium) and scraped my hair into a ponytail. My pre-race diet? A cup of chicken broth and all the Powerade I could take down in 2 hours before crashing at 8:30 the night before the race.

By the 6:30 a.m. start time, we were walking away from the starting line and into a downtown office building, where we watched the radar for an hour of race delays. Rumors abounded. Cancellation seemed imminent (and I was secretly really happy).

At 8:15 a.m., the starting gun sounded, and we shuffled into the mass of discarded trash-bag ponchos. By mile 4, somewhere around the state capitol, I started to believe I could make it to the  halfway point. By mile 7, I had completely drained my handheld Powerade stash and was desperately seeking the next water stop. There wasn't enough water in Lake Hefner to adequately hydrate me.

Somewhere around mile 8, I started high-fiving toddlers and old men on the sidelines. At mile 11 I started counting down the distance instead of up.

And suddenly, 2 hours and 8 minutes later, I ran across the finish line.  I didn't break 2 hours, but I came close. Eight minutes isn't all that long in the grand scheme of things. Today, those 8 minutes were insurmountable. I'm okay with that.

It wasn't the half marathon I had envisioned. That will be some other race, some other day.

For now, I'm pretty proud of my other half-marathon--the one I finished!  (And I'm awfully proud of my racing buddies too):

After a 2-hour delay, we were ready to go!

We did it!

Curls for the Girl: Frozen Fantasy

A few years ago, I started seeing signs for daddy-daughter dances. Daddy-daughter dances? What are these newfangled parties? Are we really sending little girls on dates with their dads now? I don't even get a date with Gigi's dad anymore (yes, we're still married--I know how that sounded). I scoffed. I poked fun. I wondered at the wisdom of spending hard-earned cash for toddler dancing dresses. If you spend $30 on a dress for a dance when they're two, what on earth will you be spending for prom? Or for a wedding dress (shudder)?

Then I had a baby girl. A pink bow on her head (I would say in her hair, but I'd be lying--my little woman was darn near bald, but bald is beautiful). Her daddy wore pink the day she was born, and so began that relationship that can only be understood by another daughter who thinks her daddy hung the moon too.

Gigi and her daddy have a thing going on. I'm okay with it. My daddy and I had (have) a thing going on too. There used to be a cute little warning label that made the rounds on the Internet--something along the lines that men should look out for any grown woman who still called her father "daddy."

Gentlemen, look out. This pretty little lady will be calling her father "daddy" for a while:

She requested curls for her big dancing date.

Major thanks to our little Lutheran school for giving my baby girl the best night ever. (Someone really should talk to this one's mother; she needs to learn to sit like a lady.)

She asked for pink lipstick too. 

And for days leading up to her big dance, she boogied to her own beat. She was singing "Let It Go" before letting go was what the cool kids were doing. She's got the beat, and she just wants to have fun.

I promise, they really do have a thing going on. She just wanted to dance. 

The sky was awake. She was awake. And it was time to dance. 

I can't wait until I have to spend way too much on a prom dress and make him pose with his little sister.  Actually, I can wait a few years. I didn't have to worry about her dad getting her home safely before curfew. 

We had our own date night (to soften the blow when he learned that sons and mommies couldn't go to the Frozen dance. He likes to let it go too.)

I used to question daddy-daughter dances. They seemed extravagant and unnecessary. I didn't have a daddy-daughter dance until my wedding. Until then, fishing trips with my belt-loops tied snugly to the truck bumper were just as fun as any princess dance could have been. (I love you too, Daddy.) 

I hear that Gigi partied hard. The word around the playground is that she shook her bootie for two hours straight. She came home that night, snuggled into the chair and told me, "I had fun. Can I have nay-nay?" She's a dancing queen and a daddy's girl, but at the end of the night, when her curls have fallen, and the lipstick has faded, she's still my baby. 

And didn't this baby have fun! (She has worn the crown everyday since the dance.)

P.S. To the moms who made it happen, thank you! The effort was well worth the memories you made for a whole lot of little girls. 

A Total Mommy Brag: Gigi Swims (With Video!)

A big thank you to LeAnne and Meghan with Let's All Swim--proof positive that great teachers don't need fancy equipment to make big things happen. After six months of lessons, my two-year old can swim! (Apologies for the quality--mommy's hands were a wee bit wobbly watching her toddler traverse the depths.)

The best part? She loves it. After swimming across the pool, she spent the rest of her lesson diving for rings,  and tonight, she taught her baby dolls how to swim in the tub.

The '80s Came Calling, and Other Major Minor Moments

Life can get you down if you don't make an everyday effort to find the fun in life's major minor moments. Mary Poppins used a spoonful of sugar to find the fun, and "Snap! the job's a game."  My spoonfuls of sugar happen to be my little ones. When I remember that they're kids, not miniature grown-ups, we have a lot of fun.

Sometimes, it's pretty easy to remember that they're not miniature grown-ups. A grown-up wouldn't bang her head on a wall because she didn't like her blue ruffled blouse. She wouldn't kick her mother because her skirt didn't twirl. Fashion is becoming increasingly important to my little woman. Yesterday, I went to check on her in the wee hours of the day because she was muttering. A close listen revealed her deepest, darkest fear: "I don't have any clothes!" Poor girl. She might have to go naked if I don't get the laundry put away.

Anger management is a big issue for us. A grown-up might tell you, "I'm mad at you!" But I really doubt a grown-up would then growl and fling her hand at you while shouting "Snowflake!" (Though I'd pay good money to watch an attorney throw a snowflake in court, just once.) Frozen is a really good movie. Gigi will tell you, "It's my bestest movie!"  I think there may be a few lines here and there that speak to empowering females. Gigi's takeaway from it? When mom ruins your fashion plans, you throw magic snowflakes. Sometimes I wish I was a kid too. I've had a few snowflake moments myself. RJ, on the other hand, takes out his aggression a little differently. "Mom, you know what I could do to you right now?" he spat at me from the tub. "What?" I sighed, preparing for battle. "I could give you a big kiss and a hug." He's a lover, not a fighter.

Gigi and I have been spending a lot of time together.

This outfit pleases her. No snowflakes were thrown. 

This outfit pleases her too, so do the pigtails. Her daddy makes her pretty happy too. 

Gardening pleases her. 

So does the library. 

What really makes her happy? A lunch date. She ordered her own chocolate milk and ice cream. Because, being a miniature grown-up sometimes makes her happy too. It's tough to remember that she's only two some days. She still has accidents and wants to snuggle on her mommy's shoulder at night. And the next day? She'll tell her bestie, "Honey, I can't hold your hand right now. I'm holding a napkin." Or, she'll let me know that her kitchen isn't stocked well: "Honey, I'm out of tea. You want coffee?" (She's well on her way to becoming a southern belle with all of her honey's, her twirl skirts, and her deep affection for all things buttered.)

With RJ, it's a little more difficult to remember that he's still a little boy. Sometimes, he's pretty deep, particularly at bedtime. Because really, when else would you tackle the chicken versus the egg? "Mom, how do chickens make eggs? 'Cause when you crack them, they break? And they were chickens? Do mom chickens put them back together?"

Then again, sometimes, he's just such a little boy it almost hurts to think of him growing up. He needs naps and chocolate milk. Kindergarten is exhausting. Last week, he told his swim teacher, "I'm tired today. I did a lot of bending. I dropped my pencil twice!" You've got to hold onto those pens and pencils folks--all of that bending can wear you out.

Tonight, I dressed them up like little grown-ups. It seemed like a fun idea.  It didn't go exactly as planned:

The '80s called. They want their hair back. 

Then again...this kid can pull off anything. Ladies, don't say I didn't warn you. 

Eventually, I'll find my way back to more interesting, more cohesive thoughts. (Those thoughts are being devoted to bar journal articles and the like these days.) For now, these are the major minor moments that help me remember that they're kids, not miniature grown-ups. 

Shawshank Sunshine and Rainbows

Spoiler alert. I finally watched The Shawshank Redemption. (Do I really have to give a spoiler alert for a film that's 20 years old?). But seriously, if you haven't seen the movie, don't read this post. Just don't do it. It's a fabulous film; you owe it to yourself to watch it with a clear mind. 

I'm serious. 

Don't read this post if you haven't seen the movie. I'm about to ruin it for you. 

You understand? 

Okay. 

Stop reading now. 

I avoided The Shawshank Redemption for years. When it was released in 1994, I was barely 17 years old--just old enough to legally see a rated "R" film, but not quite old enough to tell my parents I wanted to watch a rated "R" film. I led a sheltered life. Really sheltered. I went to a little Lutheran school where sex ed was taught by way of a little cartoon book entitled "How You Got to Be You--God's Plan." Seventh grade at public school was nearly death by embarrassment and humiliation. As for prison, punishment, and penalties? I knew that some kids had to go to traffic court for speeding tickets, but that if I had to go to traffic court for a speeding ticket, I could kiss the keys to my classic coupe goodbye. 

My favorite movies in 1994 ranged from The Little Mermaid to anything starring John Candy. (Who am I kidding? I still love Summer Rental, and The Great Outdoors will always be one fine piece of cinema in my opinion.). In the 8th grade, my bestie and I walked from my house to Hastings to rent Airplane! right before we flew to Washington D.C. We felt really naughty. It was rated PG. 

So, I missed The Shawshank Redemption when it hit theaters. I missed it on VHS and then again on DVD. At some point, it became the Shawshank Challenge. How long could I shelter myself from seeing this highly acclaimed prison film that was sure to be a tear jerker? I avoided it as long as I could--until curiosity and a down-turned mood finally got me. 

I volunteer about once a month at a legal clinic. Our clients have some sad stories. Last week, a young woman visited for advice. She was about 23 years old, and but for the braces that my parents gifted to an eighth grade girl's smile (thanks mom and dad), she could have been me--at least from an initial impression. Her case details shattered the sunshiney rainbow that I've learned follows me everywhere. She was visibly pregnant. She has two other children by two different fathers. She lives with "an older gentleman" who "wants to help her and pays her rent." She has not seen her 6 year old daughter in 4 years. She has no income and survives on the kindness of others. I later learned that the young woman had been shuffled through the foster care system for 9 years before she was adopted--and those years took their toll on her. She leads a rough life, and I wonder about her future and her children's. She made me wish I had won the lottery so that I could build a family shelter, feed her children, send her to school, and try to make a difference other than giving what turned out to be useless legal advice. 

This young woman's story made me gasp, "I used to think I was kind of worldly. I'm not! Sunshine and rainbows follow me everywhere!" 

I was in a funk, and I wanted a movie that would match my mood. So, after years of avoidance, I turned on Shawshank. I put the iPad in the pantry and got to work. (I don't have the attention span for movies--I have to work while I watch--my pantry is amazing right now, by the way.). Somewhere between Andy getting busy living instead of getting busy dying and Red not giving a sh*t about his parole, I was hooked. 

Brooks died. It was to be expected. This was a heartbreaker of a film, right? 

Then, they found the hole in Andy's wall. I watched, waiting for the guards to run him down, or for Red to be tortured for information. 

Red got out. I sorted cake mixes with tears in my eyes, waiting for the inevitable farewell to Red. 

But wait? What's this? There's money under a rock? Please Red, get on the bus!

Still, I waited. Surely I hadn't avoided a sunshiney, feel good prison break movie for 20 years?! It's not possible. And then it was. There they were. Sun on their faces, and nothing but clear blue skies and ocean waves. (Caveat: it's not all sunshine and rainbows--there's some pretty serious business in that movie; my tender preteen mind is still reeling.). 

Sunshine, rainbows. They found me again, and after a rough day. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a pre-teen girl. I just haven't grown up enough to really appreciate fine literature and films. Most critically acclaimed movies go unwatched (except Frozen, because, you know, Gigi). After my Shawshank sunshine, I think I'm going to revisit my personal film philosophy; and, in the meantime, you can find me snuggled in bed late at night just waiting for the moment when Andy sees Red on that beach.