My Old Friend, The Trail

Yesterday morning, I finally woke up to those beautiful Colorado blue skies that I know and love so much. It had been a long time comin. Having grown up in Michigan, I am no weather wimp, but the grey, stormy clouds and winter weather into the far reaches of May had finally pushed me into that ole blah feeling. You know, that kind where all of the problems in life get bigger than they really are, when 5 minutes of boredom feels like a life-sentence, and any whining or fighting from the kids may cause an explosion that rivals dynamite. But yesterday I woke up squinting at 5:30am because the bright blue sky and giant yellow sun were filling my bedroom with Colorado.

But when I dropped the boys off at VBS and sighed the sigh of a few hours of freedom, my lazy brain kept saying, “Flop down on the couch and rest. Stay home and get some cleaning done. Eat something you don’t want to share with the kids.”

Because that’s what I usually wind up doing when I get some time at home without the kids. I shovel my face full of junk and watch funny shows on TV to avoid my actual human feelings. I start cleaning, but remember that my kids will rob me of that feeling of accomplishment 45 seconds after they walk into the house, so I just give up and leave the mess. And the lie I tell myself about this laziness is that it will refuel me. Vegging out will lift my mood and clear my head. But the truth is quite the opposite. Vegging out kills my motivation. Eating garbage food makes me want to eat more garbage food. Taking a nap makes me incapable of getting a good night’s sleep, and fuels the exhaustion cycle I whine about.

I knew that yesterday, deep down. I knew a quiet morning of watching TV and eating chocolate would just make me more sad, especially since the storm clouds were supposed to roll back in by 5pm, and I’d berate myself for missing out on this first real Colorado Summer Day of the year.

So I took a quick trip to Boulder where I could hike for almost 2 hours before I had to pick up my kids. And the trail greeted me the way it always does: like an old friend who will never betray me. It never fails, this hiking thing. Every time I step on a trail, it’s like being wrapped up in the arms of my longest, most trusted friend. She tells me the truth. “You’ve gained a few pounds, eh?” But never with judgement. Never with shame. Just with an invitation to spend more time together. “Hang out with me more often,” she says, “and your weight and your worries will shrink.”

My friend rewards the hard work of my body with peace, quiet, babbling brooks, phenomenal views, a sense of adventure,  and wonder at God’s creation. And I feel refueled. I feel able to face the hard things. I feel energized and less annoyed at all of the things that didn’t quite turn out the way I wanted them to.

And I am more capable of handling the things that just hours ago seemed insurmountable… and would still be insurmountable had I flopped down on the couch and eaten cookies.

Sometimes self-care requires a kick in the ass, and a lot of self-care is actual hard work of saying no to things that are hard to say no to, and saying yes to things that are more difficult but also more rewarding.

My self-care involves a lot of time in nature and in the mountains. I guess it’s just the way I was made. I don’t know how you were made or what you need to refuel you, but I’m willing to bet that flopping down on the couch and neglecting life’s responsibilities doesn’t really do the trick.

What’s that thing you used to do that greets you like an old friend every time you come back to it?

Painting? Crafting? Working? Pottery? Skiing? The beach? Yoga? Basketball? Theatre? Ballet? Writing?

Whatever it is that you left because your family needed you, that thing that fills you up is still there. It is still your friend, and it will greet you with open arms.

Friend, when I am too exhausted to do that thing I love, it’s usually because I haven’t taken the time to do that thing I love. Because when I do that thing I love, I can tolerate the difficult kid things. I can dive into the chores without loathing them. I can stay patient in the face of chaos. I can be strong when life gets hard.

Go be you in whatever 5 minutes you can find, friend. You won’t regret it.

How a 5 Year-Old's Honest Opinion Of My Messy House Changed My Perspective

Photo by Senjuti Kundu on Unsplash

You know those days when you have to be out the door at a certain time in the morning and you washed and dried the laundry the night before, but you were working on that thing that had to be done for the next morning and the laundry was left in a pile on your couch? That morning when the preschooler’s pants are scratchy, and he can’t find socks while you are trying to get breakfast cleaned up, but you’re running out of time, and you can’t be late because the rest of the entire day has been jam-packed in perfectly harmonious detail?

Well, today was one of those days. And after dropping off the pre-schooler, and doing the important thing I couldn’t be late for, I was supposed to meet my precious friend for a picnic at the playground, and we weren’t supposed to be in my house.

We weren’t supposed to be in my house with the laundry in the living room and the jelly solidified and sticky on the counter. We weren’t supposed to be in my house with the games my children were inventing all over the floor of the front room and the library books scattered all over the table and the chair.

But, you guys. I live in Colorado, and the wind was blowing trampolines across highways that day. And my house was only a mile away. So the picnic on the playground turned into lunch at my house.

I always get embarrassed to invite people into my messy home where we live like this. But my dear friend who came to my house that day has literally seen me completely naked… at 42 weeks pregnant. That’s right. She helped me bring my youngest son into the world because nothing was working, and I didn’t trust my doctor, and my husband doesn’t have lady parts, and I trusted her to tell me what to do. So she showed up and told me to open my vagina like a flower. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t know how to open a flower like a flower, so opening my vagina gently like a flower was just not in the cards that day. So she told my lady doctor to break my water and give me an epidural.

My friend is very smart, because my sweet baby was born about 45 minutes later.

But I digress. On THIS day, this windy day, my friend walked in with her 5 year-old twin girls one minute after I arrived from that thing I had to do. And her girls stood wide-eyed, looking around at the piles of books and the games and toys. They saw the chalkboard they could reach in the front room, and one of the girls smiled the best kind of knowing smile and said, “Oh. You live in a fun kind of house!”

It was clear to her that my house said, “You can touch things. You can play with things. You can read books and cuddle in that chair. You can be comfortable here. You are welcome to be yourself here, child.”

And that’s just what I wanted it to say! But my perfectionist-people-pleaser tendencies thought that my house could only tell people they were welcome here when the counters were clean, the laundry was put away, and the books and toys were shelved and organized. To a 5 year-old, though, a mess means FUN!

And that’s how God sends us into the world. He sends us into the world stark nekkid and covered in goo. We are messes when we’re born. We flail around for years trying to obey our parents, only to decide as teens that those parents don’t know anything. Only to have children of our own and realize that they might’ve been right about an awful lot. We are disastrous blobs of epic failure, who don’t understand the perspective of a 5 year-old who says something along the lines of, “Look at all of these things I get to try!”

If there’s one thing I’m learning as I get older, it’s that vulnerable and exposed is kind of my jam. Vulnerable and exposed is the way to connection and belonging, at least according to Brene Brown… and that girl knows some things. You guys, people who embrace their mess are FUN. People who embrace their messes live in a fun kind of world where failure is just a step towards their dreams. People who are openly messy are brave and inspiring… and yes… fun.

Friends, I might fit in better if I cover up all of the vulnerable places other people could attack, but fitting in and being truly accepted are two very different things. And if given the choice (we are) I choose being truly accepted over fitting-in every time.

Tales from I-70. Peeing in the Woods.

Photo by Ignat Kushanrev on Unsplash

Sit back and relax, friends, and allow me to regale you with a tale you are glad did not happen to you.

Yesterday morning, I woke early, as usual, to make the coffee, pack the lunches, and do the things. I planned on skiing, so I was able to forgo a shower and style my hair like Willie Nelson (2 braids and a headband-- It is functional on a CO Mountain. Stop judging me.) Because of said hairstyle, I had enough time to have a second cup of coffee. This was the day’s first mistake.

You see, there is but one road to most of the Colorado ski resorts, I70. If you’ve been watching the news, you know that the mountains are getting pounded with snow (YAY freshies for skiing) and there have been several avalanches crossing this beloved stretch of highway in the last week or so.

My friends and I figured that the worst had come and gone with I70 seeing 3 avalanches over the weekend, and Tuesday would be a great day for some sunshine and serious pow.  Well, dear ones, we made it up to Georgetown before we were at a dead stop.

There were signs telling us that Avalanche mitigation was causing 20-30 minute delays… Friends, if you know I70, you know this is pretty normal… not necessarily on a Tuesday, but… whatevs. If you like to ski, you deal with traffic. Anywho, there we were, three friends chatting away with kidneys functioning properly, filtering all of the morning beverages through the system and into the bladder…. Every second that ticked by was another drop dripping into my bladder… drip, drip, drip...

I couldn’t concentrate on the conversation I was having with my friend. I couldn’t finish my sentences. I couldn’t think about anything except how badly I had to pee. Friends, I have had 3 children come out of my lady parts, and I have Kegeled… but I was gonna burst, and I am no stranger to doing a squat pee in the woods.

We were at a dead stop, friends. Cars for miles and miles and miles. And you know darn well that they had nothing better to do than to watch for anything exciting happening. Well, by golly, I guess my need to pee outweighed my pride, because those trees looked soooo inviting. The more my friend talked, the more the trees beckoned… “Come here, child, let us semi-cover you while you relieve your aching bladder and everyone watches because we just can’t cover you that well.”

Knowing we had barely moved in over an hour, and we would barely move in who knows how long, I did it. I held my head high and I ran into the 2-foot deep snow in my boots and ski pants. I went as far back into the woods as I could hold it, pulled down my layers and felt sweet, sweet relief. I, of course, aimed my chubby white heiney away from the road so all that anyone could see would be a lady squatting in the woods, but as I squatted for an epic “A League of Their Own” length of time, I noticed a white truck that wasn’t creeping forward with the other cars. In the front seat of that white truck, I saw a phone pointed in my direction. And it stayed fixed on me as I helplessly continued to let the urine flow.

“Oh my God,” I thought, “there is a video of me peeing on the internet right now. I am going to be a viral pee-er. I hate cell phones.”

And I continued to pee and pee and pee and pee in the woods. On the side of the highway. “Aren’t you done yet?” I asked my lady parts, “Can we finish up here? We have an audience!” But my lady parts just continued with the business of urine removal for what seemed like a hundred years until I could confidently cover my oversized keister once again, and I scampered back to the car where my friends were waiting.

But… that wasn’t the most embarrassing part. The most embarrassing part was the fact that the white truck from Kentucky kept inching next to us then behind us then next to us then behind us for a very long time to come… but at least I could breathe while I hyperventilated from embarrassment.

So, dear hearts, if you happen to see a lady peeing on the interwebs, don’t laugh too hard at her. She was desperate. And friends? Within 5 minutes of my pee-tastic adventure through the woods, we must’ve seen 10 guys hop out of their cars to pee. (They didn’t re-open the road until 5pm, and this was at 10am, so those woods saw some peeing.) No brave ladies like me, and I am sure no one recorded those men peeing in the woods. Which is just totally sexist, by the way, Mr. Guy in the White Truck from Kentucky.

Because, Mr. Guy in the White Truck from Kentucky, my Grandma always told me a girl could do anything a boy could do… including peeing in the woods.  And she was right.

Dear Moms of Littles; It Gets Different... Maybe Better...

Photo by Bruno Nascimento on Unsplash

It seems as though I’ve spent the last eleven years of motherhood yearning for my children to leave me alone and play quietly somewhere else for a little while so I could get something done. I’ve ached for a minute alone. I’ve begged and negotiated. I’ve bribed and cajoled. I’ve given them more screen time than the recommended amount just to get a little cleaning, a little writing, a little phone call, a little time alone... And I’m here to tell you that those days end.

I know. I didn’t believe it myself when it started happening.

But there comes a time when the amount of time spent wiping the things lessens. You guys, my kids just go play quietly in the basement for hours now. Sure, there is the occasional shouting match or injury, but they’ve been down there for the past 2 hours now playing “Marble Football” and other games they invented with a hundred tiny drawings and headbands and dice and other things I don’t understand.

And I have time to fold clothes, do dishes, write. But I don’t.

Mostly I feel lost, and I don’t have the words to write like I want to.  My motivation for folding socks is not as existent as you might think it would be.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE that my children aren’t attached to me constantly. I love that when they’re thirsty, they just get a cup and get themselves some water. I love that they wipe their own butts and noses (mostly), tie their own shoes, pack their own lunches, and pick out their own clothes.

I am just not yet used to this space that says, “You have some time now to do those things that used to get interrupted constantly. Go ahead. Live out your dreams. Be a writer. Finish that project. Go poop or shower alone, for heaven’s sake.”

But when I begin to do those things, my mind cuts me off at every turn, saying, “You know you don’t have time to take care of that before they come upstairs/get home from school.” But I DO. I do have time. I just spent so many years giving up on my ability to accomplish all the things that I got used to telling myself I didn’t.

The most difficult thing, though, is all of a sudden, I have to shift my brain from “Can you physically disconnect your hand from me for 5 minutes?” to “How do I connect with this eye-rolling child who thinks I’m overprotective if I ask him one question?” It’s a whole different parenting challenge, my friend.

Please do not be fooled. I am not a “You’re going to miss them being little someday” person. I am not your mother-in-law. Nor am I that old lady in the grocery store telling you how these are the best days of your life. I don’t have a crystal ball, and I will not presume to know how you will feel about the days of life with little children. And I honestly don’t miss the baby/toddler stage one bit.

I just simply want to say, "Heads-up, Mama. There’s this weird stage that you’re dying for right now. It’ll get here… maybe a few months from now, and maybe a few years, but it’s coming. And when it gets here, it might be amazing, but it’s okay if you feel lost for a while. If you feel lost, you’re not alone. If you flounder around for a while getting used to your own skin again, that’s okay. If you miss your kids being little, that’s cool. Grieve it. If you’re looking forward to the next phase because pimples, puberty, drama, and hormones are your jam, that’s awesome. But just know that after you wipe up all of the poop, there’s going to be a new weird stage of life with kids, and it’s normal for it to be hard… even if you LOVE this stage like I do. You’ve got a sisterhood of moms out there going through it with you, and we’re cheering for you."

Godspeed, Dear Mama, whatever stage you’re in.