Resolving to be Awesome

It's time once again to revel in my neuroses.

As long time readers know, I don't do New Year's resolutions. I set a series of achievable goals, and I work towards them. Or, I don't. But either way, I stop at the end of every day and rather than cross it off my calendar, I check all the boxes of things I wanted to do and accomplished from my list.

I start every year by cutting out about 370 tiny square lists, and yes, every night I mark whether or not I did the things I wanted to do. And then I tally them up, and see whether or not I succeeded in meeting my goals.

This year was a bit of a surprise. Some things, I thought I rocked. Some? I thought I tanked way worse than I thought had. So here's how it actually broke down.

It's on sale for $.99 until Monday!!!

Goal: Write daily
Target: 365
I didn't do so great. In fact, I did one worse than last year- I only wrote 292 days out of 365. I'm cutting myself a bit of slack on this- I did a lot of traveling in 2014, so that would be a problem for my writing routine. And while I might not have written every day... I did publish quite a bit. I own three lovely anthologies with work in them. I got an agent to represent my memoir! But the thing is, I know I can always at least scribble out a haiku about having no time to write... so I have no excuse. This year- 365 or bust.


Goal: Eat at least two meals
Target: 365
I'm going to call this one an unequivocal win. I managed to eat at least two meals during 358 days of 2014! In fact, it became so much my routine... I'm actually eating right now. That's right, I've finally gotten the hang of freezing leftovers and then moving them to the fridge the day before I know I'll have a hard time figuring out what to feed myself. Right now? Borscht. And I love borscht, even if the beets didn't particularly care for being frozen. It's become so much habit, it's completely come off my 2015 goals. I have actually succeeded in modifying my own behavior! Go me!


Goal: Maintained minimum hygiene
Target: 365

You'd think this would be easy. All I have to do is brush my teeth OR wash my face OR take a damn shower. But then, you probably never had a house full of toddlers and preschoolers if you think this is always easy. I'm happy to say I improved on last year's abysmal number... but sadly, only by three. I only managed to brush my teeth at a bare minimum 284 times last year. And actually, last year was an improvement over the year before. So I'm going to give myself a little break, and actually lower the number for 2015. I know, gross, right? But let's be honest. There are sick days, there are camping/travel days, there are times when I already know I won't have ACCESS to running water or a toothbrush or anything... so I'm knocking a whopping fifteen days off this goal. My goal for 2015: maintain my hygiene at least 350 days out of the year. Just splash some goddamn water on my face, almost every day of the year. At 284 times in 2014, I run no risk of overstepping this goal. But baby steps, right?

Picking apples!

Goal: Went outside
Target: 312

Hahahahahahah no.

Even though I intentionally gave myself one day a week to not even step onto the balcony, I did even worse on this than bathing- which is probably good. There was a lot of correlation between days I didn't brush my teeth and days I didn't leave the house- so you're welcome, world. I'm also cutting myself some slack. There were days last year that the school canceled for, I quote, "Life threateningly cold temperatures." No way in Frozen Over Hell am I making myself leave the house under those conditions. So I'm also dropping my standards here. I left the house 273 days last year. That's kind of depressingly low, but five days better than 2013, so... win? This year, I'm lowering the standard again. I'm going to give myself one day a week to be a shut in, and one day a month to just be antisocial. So, an even 300 for next year.

Goal: Sang
Target: 365
This is kind of depressing, but I did SO BADLY.
It actually kind of breaks my heart to say this, but in the month of October, I only sang during three days. Three days in an entire month that I didn't sing a single song.

I'm in shock. I love to sing. This goal has been a huge wake up call for me. I am vowing, not only to sing, but to resume what used to be my routine of doing vocal warmups in the shower. So when I'm showering (more frequently this year!) I'll be singing. Even warmup ditties. "See the swimmers swimming in the deep blue see," and whatnot.

That said, I also get that I do get sick. And when I get sick, I lose my voice. Pretty much every time. So I'm giving myself a little leeway here, too. One day off a week from singing, just in case the voice box needs a rest. So new goal- 312. Which is almost twice what I actually accomplished- my abysmal 176.

...I'm so ashamed.


Goal: Had alone time
Target: 260
I assumed it wouldn't be possible on weekends at the start of the year. but you know what?

296 bitches!!!!!!!

This one became so important to me I actually managed the behavior modification to make it part of my daily routine, too. So it comes off the list! I have officially learned to give myself "me time!" GO ME!

Thanks to all who sponsored me in the RAINN 5K!

Goal: Exercised
Target: 156
I didn't do too badly, honestly. I hit 137, up from last year's 123. That said, I don't feel like I got a solid two weeks of exercising in at ANY point last year, and I know the bulk of my most vigorous cardio came from dancing my ass off at every wedding people were dumb enough to invite me to. So while I don't feel exactly BAD about it, the goal stays. 156. If I improve as much this year as I did last, that should be an achievable goal.


Goal: Observe the Sabbath with the kids
Target: 35
Last year, I decided my goal of lighting Shabbat candles with the girls every Friday night was unrealistic, so I lowered the goal to 35. I figured, that more than accounted for date nights where I wasn't home, for days where we were traveling and in hotels or somebody else's home, and I should be able to nail it. I even felt like we did a pretty good job this year- all the kids know all the prayers, and they get totally thrilled whenever I remind them it's Shabbat.

I bombed. Oh, how I bombed. 22. A whole seven weeks worse than last year. This year I will do better. This year I will do better. The goal stands.

Goal: Read a book for pleasure
Target: 12
I was so embarrassed last year- I only managed to read nine- nine- books for pleasure in the year 2013. So I was determined to beat my previous goal of a book a month.

Finishing up "The Glass Castle" with a sleeping toddler

You ready for this?

I read 34 books in 2014. Take that, slacker brain!!!! I've decided that since, first of all, I loved reading as a part of my routing SO much, and second of all I often lost count of how many books I'd finished over a weekend (such nice weekends!), I'm going to go ahead and up my goal. This year? 36. Three books a month. Yes, graphic novels still count. (So get crackin' Kirkman!). But some extra fun? Now that the girls and I are reading chapter books together, I'm going to get to revisit a bunch of childhood favorites, and they DEFINITELY count. Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking, Little House in the Big Woods... these are all on the next few months' reading list. And that doesn't even count the dozen or so books I've got lined up on my kindle for after they're asleep. Should be a good year for books. :)


Goal: Finished a project
Target: 12
And how many projects did I finish this year?
Forty fucking one.
Take that, slacker hands!!!! In 2013, I felt amazing for finishing a whopping 13 projects. This year though, I finally got over some creative blocks, and I had a BLAST making things. Art, cakes, cards... and yes, I definitely counted the lavender honey roast duck I made for Thanksgiving as a project. I'm a vegetarian and let me tell you, that thing was pretty.

So I'm not going to push myself to do more next year- I'm just going to push myself to keep up. The goal for 2015- 36. Three projects a month. And yes, home improvement projects count. So when I repaint the trim in the living room, that is DEFINITELY a check mark for the day!



And that's how I did in 2014. I'm adding a new one, since I can't stand living in the kind of chaos my house has devolved into.

Goal: House cleaner when I go to bed than when I wake up
Target: 156
Three days a week. I think I can handle that. I hope I can handle that.




...but you know what? Something else has been seriously lacking in my goals. These have all been small, reasonable things. Something I can do and expect myself to do. But I haven't been giving myself enough credit. I have gotten better and better of expecting more of myself, not the bare minimum.

On facebook, I phrased it- "I resolve to be awesome!" But I don't do resolutions. I do achievable goals. So now here I am, adding another goal.

Opening up LTYM Chicago

Goal: Accomplish Something Amazing
Target: 4
One a season. Because you know what? I accomplished some really amazing things in 2014, and now I can't help but expect myself to meet that new standard.

I became a professional speaker- on behalf of RAINN and about sex positive parenting. I was a BlogHer VOTY. I stood on stage for Listen To Your Mother. I got an agent for my memoir. I was published in three anthologies. Those are serious accomplishments. And I deserve to expect them from myself.

So today, I'm already checking one off my list for 2015. Because this? This is my 700th blog post on Becoming SuperMommy.

Seven hundred posts.

That is no mean feat. That is hours and hours and hours and hours, months, years, of pouring my heart and soul into the internets and actually learning from it. Gaining the love and support and friendship of amazing people all over the world. Becoming a better person. Becoming a better writer. Becoming a better friend.

...Becoming SuperMommy.

I'm still not there yet. I am by no means SuperMommy, really. But I'm giving myself a little credit. I'm giving myself the benefit of the doubt. I am patting myself on the back and saying, "You know what? You kind of rock."

So all of you should pat yourself on the backs, too, because you're amazing. Without you, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have a stack of anthologies with my name in them, I wouldn't have a finished memoir and an agent representing it, I wouldn't have a list of appearances and interviews... all of that was your doing, and I am unfathomably grateful.


Here's to 2015, lovely readers! Here's to you!

I love you all.

My Two Biggest Favorite Miniature People

My birthday girls

I can't believe it, but my twins have been five years old for a whole twenty one days.

And because I'm a mother, and this blog is not only a place for me to talk about sex positive parenting or cancer or feminism or crafting or holidays... I'm going to tell you about the children who made me a mother, and the incredible people they've become since the five years and twenty one days ago, when they made me into the woman I am now.

DD blowing out her candles

DD is maybe the sweetest, kindest child I've ever known. She's so intensely loving and helpful with her little sister, and she's so ridiculously obedient. A dozen times a day, I find myself barking quick orders, like, "Wash your hands," or "Put on your shoes," or "Please put your dishes in the sink."

She answers quietly, without pause and without bitterness or frustrations. "Yes, mommy." And every time it makes me feel guilty. Like I've somehow cowed her and intimidated her, because as an adult I would never accept authority like that. But she is so eager to please. She is so determined to earn praise. She seems to ascribe to the philosophy, "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar," and oozes honey with every gorgeous smile.

At five years old, her favorite color is Fuchsia, like Fancy Nancy. Her favorite princess is Rapunzel. Her favorite movie is Despicable Me. And her favorite pony is Rainbow Dash. She loves to dance, and wants to play the guitar.

During the year she was four, she drew me a picture every day at school. It was usually of her, sometimes of me, and sometimes of both of us together. On every picture she wrote, "I love you mommy, love DD." This year she and SI are in separate classrooms, and while once in a great while I get a picture, most days she puts tremendous effort into making cards to give SI at the end of the day.

I wonder about taking her to a modeling agency. She is so profoundly beautiful, and so photogenic, and adores being dressed up for pictures. She would be a wonderful model, and I ask myself why I don't just go for it. But I also fear what that sort of appearance based attention might do, in the long run, and how it would feel for her and her twin to excel so strongly at such different things in such a noticeable way. And as much as I want her to have fun and find success, I want even more for her to grow up without resentment and regret in her relationship with her sisters.

DD has the patience of a saint. Yes, she's still five, so she does get cranky and impatient. But 99% of the time... she has the most patience of anyone in the house. When the children spent five hours working on a single project, it was DD who rallied the troops, kept herself and her sisters focused, and completed her box without help. During nap time, for three hours every day, she lays in nearly perfect quiet in her bed. RH sleeps, usually SI sleeps... but DD quietly plays in her bed, having silent conversations with her dolls and her ponies, flipping through picture books and listening to the quiet of the house, until SI or RH wake up and she rises with them.

She has exponentially more patience than me, and she is quicker to forgive. She reminds me so much of M in these ways that I feel beneath the task of raising her.

She is thoughtful, and remarkable, and I adore her.

SI blowing out her candles

SI is so smart it scares me. Truly. I was a smart kid, and I come from a long line of very smart people. I know smart when I see it. I know genius when I see it. And I don't know that I've ever seen anything quite like SI.

My father was a child prodigy, and it made much of his childhood miserable. So he made a point when his children were born NOT to push us into academia. Not to push us into intellectual freakishness. Part of me resents him for that, what might I have accomplished if I'd been pushed to my potential? The part of me that fears for SI understands so deeply- I don't want to hurt her by causing a rift between her and her peers, and especially her twin sister.

SI came up to me on Sunday night with a nonfiction book about bats. It's a third grade educational book, filled with photographs but also dry information.

She stood in the hallway and read it to me. I watched her, at first amazed at her ability to collect sight reading words so quickly, at the vast number of words she knows not phonetically, but on sight. Only then I saw her stumble and sound them out. She was really reading. And the only word she truly struggled with (mind you, reading aloud at a conversational pace), was "weight."

I gave her the word and she paused, confused. I saw in her eyes she thought I said "wait," and the word made no sense. But she reread the sentence, and understood. Not "wait," "weight." Then she read me the rest of the book.

Before she ran down the hall, I called out to her. "How many kinds of bats are there in the United States?"
"About thirty four!"
"And where is the United States?"
"Silly mommy! We're IN the United States!"

And then she got into her pajamas and used three quarters of a tube of toothpaste to brush her teeth.

She is so funny. She loves bad jokes. She laughs from her belly so hard it makes the walls shake. She gives the gentlest, softest, most confident hugs I've ever had. While DD wraps her arms around you as though she would squeeze the love right out, SI places her arms until they're just resting against you, and lets them lie, breathing softly and smiling her special little smile.

I worry about her. I worry what will happen when she's in real school. When the teachers are trying to get students to learn words like "cat," "farm," and "bunny." SI stumbles over words like "neighborhood" and "mischievous." But only once. She only ever seems to stumble once.

She is manipulative, sneaky, and strong willed. She won't accept no for an answer, and will go behind my back if she knows it's the answer she'll get. She panics over little things like her shoe's velcro being too loose. Her favorite color is gold, and she doesn't really have a favorite princess. But her favorite pony is Rarity.

She's five years old, and she's incredible.



Now- prepare for the birthday party photo spam.

The girls chose a Butterfly theme for their party.

The children got to make their own butterfly wings to take home. This did not go EXACTLY according to plan.

Grandma and I made butterfly cookies. This was my first experiment with Royal Icing, and I think it went well!

RH thought she was sneaky, eating all the cookies she wanted.

We served hot "butterfly noodles" (farfalle) with either cheese sauce, marinara, or pesto. So everyone got a warm lunch.

Instead of a cake, we made three kinds of mini cupcakes and arranged them into a butterfly. They're chocolate, strawberry
(with vanilla flavored orange icing), and a gluten free vanilla. So all the kids could hopefully have some cake.

Last of all, the piñata. SI went first.

DD followed. There was much thwacking. The pull strings didn't work, so we had to beat the butterfly to death.
You know, birthday party stuff!

As much fun as all the children had, the most fun was of course had by DD, SI, and RH. Who are continuing to enjoy their birthday nearly a month past its end.

I can't believe I've been a mommy for more than five years.

It's been an amazing half a decade. It's been an amazing life. I'm so happy and stunned and proud- I feel lucky every day, no matter how difficult it may be, that I get to be their mommy.

The Best I Have to Offer

My favorite small humans

Tomorrow is M's birthday. We're going on a date, and that means tonight we're having a little family party.

The girls planned it.

That is why we're having a strawberry cake with chocolate ice cream, and the cake will be decorated with pictures of the whole family standing under a rainbow.

Yes, I'll post pictures.

That's why I'm still unshowered and my house is a mess. Because the priority right now is birthday.

Wrapping presents. Baking cake. Mixing frosting. Making ice cream.

And yes, picking flowers. And making a giant freaking mess.

I always feel bad about the way my home looks. Always. Because my home is always a disaster zone. Take the dining room right now- there are dress ups under the easel, there's laundry on the rack that's been dry and ready to hang up for three days. There's a mountain of coloring books and picture books under the toy table. The dining room table still has breakfast dishes, and craft supplies, and random crap all over it. My desk is a an organizational nightmare. There are random trucks and clown shoes and neck pillows scattered on the floor. There's dryer sheets and bean bags and a puppy in a baby carrier just hanging around underfoot.

That's just one room. And barely the tip of the iceberg.

That laundry has been there since Thursday.

I tried to clean it last weekend, so that a professional housecleaner could come to my home and do the deep cleaning.

She deemed it uncleanable and gave me my money back.

I am constantly embarrassed by my home. I go to other family's homes and I see their floors. Their carpets, and I see their spotless countertops, and their little rows of matching shoes... and I feel ashamed and incompetent.

That's how I feel most days.

But there's one person in this world who always makes me feel better about my home.

I've never seen her home. I've never seen her family. But she's in my home twice a week, every week, and she knows when I make some pathetic excuse about how busy we've been, it's nonsense. This is just how we live.

And that person is RH's physical therapist.

You might recall RH started physical therapy about a year and a half ago to help her compensate for a possible spinal cord tether. Since then, two times a week, this woman comes into my home and plays with my children. She takes all three of them to the yard so I can take a shower. She plays games with them, and she compliments them.

And before she goes, she compliments me.

I am not the best parent in the world. Despite what my husband and kids say, I know I'm not. I know there are parents out there who make more nutritious meals for their kids, every day, from scratch, and at least once a week my kids have veggie corn dogs or fake chicken nuggets courtesy of Morningstar Farms, smothered in ketchup that's 99% corn syrup.

I know there are parents out there who keep their homes clean. Like, REALY clean. Who have EVER wiped down the baseboards. Who go through the house putting away toys once the kids are in bed. Who never leave dishes "to soak" in the kitchen sink overnight.

I know there are parents out there who are more engaged than me. Who spend all day homeschooling, or unschooling, or going on adventures. Who ration out screen time carefully. Not like me, who uses Disney Princess movies that I despise as a nearly daily opportunity to brush my teeth without being interrupted.

I know there are parents who get out of bed before the kid so they can get in an uninterrupted workout routine, whereas I stay under my covers until the very last moment it's humanly possible.

I know I'm not the best mom out there.

This is one of DD's "collections." You can find them in drawers, corners, baskets,
and hats all over the house. Only the flowers don't look so good anymore.

I know that today I've already threatened my kid with a spanking for screaming and crying and ignoring me when I tried to talk to her about headbutting her sister so hard in the face that it gave her a nosebleed. I know that today I ignored the fact that my toddler was wearing "princess shoes" before "princess shoe time" because it was the first time all day she's stopped yelling about anything and everything, even though our downstairs neighbors have more than reached their limits when it comes to the constant noise of three small children above them. I know that I've got a pee soaked cloth diaper draped over the edge of a diaper pail with no bag in it because I'm not going to risk waking a sleeping toddler just in the name of sanitation.

I know I'm dirty, and exhausted, and I smell like days old migraine sweats and somebody else's piss, and in a few minutes I'll take the world's fastest shower so I can finish baking a fresh-from-scratch strawberry birthday cake and write "Happy Birthday Daddy" on it.

But an hour and a half ago, when RH's physical therapist left my home, she stopped to talk to me as she does every Monday and Wednesday.

"RH is doing so well," she says.

"And SI and DD are so smart and so polite," she says.

"And they're so good with her. They're such good big sisters," she says.

"I don't know how you do it. You must do a lot of reading," she says. "Your girls are so sweet. I'm so impressed with how you deal with the temper tantrums. All the talk about choices and talking them through what they did. I tell my sister how good you are with that kind of stuff."

And I am flabbergasted that she says these things. I cannot imagine that she could mean them. This sweet woman, with two kids of her own- also four and two. She thinks I'm doing something right.

This is the woman who, one particularly rough day, SI greeted by announcing, "Mommy THREW DD onto the floor!" Which isn't what happened, but it had JUST happened. And I was sitting on the floor, hugging DD and telling her I'm sorry she fell when I yanked her out of her seat, but she needed to use TWO HANDS when she grabbed for a full cup of milk and I needed her to move instead of freezing so I could get to it before all the mess all over the dining room was soaked in milk. And while I panicked that now a state child welfare worker was going to have to report me for potentially abusing my child, she looked at me and said, "Would you like me to take the kids outside so you can have breakfast with a little quiet?"

I'm a mom who snaps more than I'd like to. I get angry, and I get frustrated, and I'm constantly outnumbered. Outnumbered by three kids who are all going through growth spurts and won't eat cheddar cheese if they know there's gouda in the house, and hate mangoes until all they want to eat is mangoes, and trash every room the moment I've finished making it livable again, and no matter what I do I can't keep up with them.

But I'm lucky. Because twice a week, another mom who's constantly outnumbered and exhausted and can't keep up with her kids either comes into my home and tells me I'm doing a good job.

Part of me hopes RH needs twice weekly physical therapy for the rest of her childhood, so I'll always have that twice weekly moment of reassurance.

Part of me feels intensely guilty for my gratitude that this woman has no choice but to come and relieve me for an hour twice a week of the constant attention of my own kids.

My little chaos machines

Today we're baking a cake, from scratch, and I can do that. I can do these fun things, and take pictures, and laugh, and have a great time with my kids.

I can help them wrap presents and I can enjoy this time with them, and I can make a gourmet freakin' dinner for M's birthday- grilled tuna steak with tequila salsa for him, quinoa garlic patties for the rest of us, a spinach strawberry salad for us salad eating adults, and curry roasted cauliflower for everyone. I can acknowledge I'll be cleaning up those dishes for another three days. I can acknowledge that while the cake cools, the children will be trashing the living room.

I know it's coming.

I know what my life looks like, and what it looks like is chaos. These are my priorities.

And although I'm ashamed, constantly, of the results of those priorities when it comes to my shabby house, my monstrous dust bunnies, my perpetually nearly-not-dying house plants and the random used bandaid that turns up in the middle of the floor, I'm not ashamed of my choices.

I'm happy with them, because they are the choices that make me happy. Rather than force myself to feel the constant frustration of my children's enthusiastic mess, I just let them live in it.

Rather than feel the constant exhaustion of not looking beautiful enough, I put my hair in a ponytail and settle for an Ariel assisted tooth-brushing.

Rather than argue with an obstinate two year old that she's making an invisible neighbor miserable, I accept the tongue lashing I'll get in ten minutes on the phone.

Facts are facts. The fact is that my house is a disaster.

But my life isn't.

And even when it feels like it is, because people can see my disastrous home and therefore must have access to my disastrous life... the physical therapist smiles and tells me my kids are great, and I must be doing something really right.

Today is our celebration of M's birthday. Fresh fish, a pink cake, chocolate ice cream, home-made wrapping paper covered in his daughters' drawings.

He deserves it.

I deserve it.

And my children deserve the best of what I can give them.

I can't give them a spotless home. I just can't. But I can give them the best of my love. I can give them the majority of my attention and affection. I can give them hugs and kisses, and songs, and stories, and green eggs and purple oatmeal, and teach them to squeeze lemon onto sliced strawberries.

I can let them make a mess.

For me, I think that's the best I can do. Because my life is messy, and they're a part of it.

And I think they know what a big part they are.

Losing a Friend You Can Always Find

Ten years ago, I met this girl.

I have to admit, at first I had some reservations about her. I knew her through our mutual friend, her roommate, and she was a bit... odd.

At barely 18, she had left home and moved across the country to where her boyfriend lived. A boyfriend she'd never met in person, but had known online for several years. A boyfriend I only met twice in seven years.

She was a vegan self-made expert on feminism and human sexuality, and although her quiet snark could cut, she was sweet and conscientious to a fault.

We became friends. Close friends. I helped her get a job with me, working eldercare. She made herself incredibly unpopular with management of the senior center building when she brought to light the sexual abuses undocumented women were experiencing at the hands of the people they were caring for.

She was always looking out for other people.

I liked her a lot. Truth be told, I loved her. She was one of my closest friends. She stood up in my wedding. She helped me move furniture. She modeled for me when I painted.

She was a good friend.

I probably wasn't so good a friend. I went through a lot in those years. I needed a lot. And maybe, I didn't realize that she needed more from me. She was such a giver, she made it easy to ask favors, to ask for help.

She helped me when M and I moved in together. She helped me when he was going through chemo. She helped me get ready for the wedding. She helped me move again, when I was six months pregnant with twins.

And then one day, I called her. I'd seen on facebook that she and the long time boyfriend were engaged, and I wanted to offer my congratulations. She didn't want to talk to me. She was angry at me. I'm still not really sure about what, but she had a list.

The strange thing was, most of the things on her list? They weren't real. She told me I'd never liked her fiancé, who I'd only met twice (once at my wedding). She accused me of stealing a DVD, which I promptly bought and had shipped to her. She told me she hated the portrait I'd painted of her.

I sat on my bed and listened to her list my faults and my transgressions, and I apologized. I couldn't think what else to do. And when I asked what I could do, she told me I could never contact her again.

I agreed, and she glibly told me goodbye, and hung up.

It took me a few months to do everything she wanted me to do. To unfriend her on facebook, and take her off my google chat list.

It sucked. Every second of it sucked. Because she was my friend, and I loved her, and I was heartbroken that when it seemed she was so happy and life was going so well for her, what she wanted most from me was to leave her alone. Forever.

I've kept my word, for the most part. I haven't contacted her. But when her new husband sent me a friend request, I took it. And although it's been four years now, I can't help myself. I check in on her.

You see, people are easy to find now. Particularly when you have mutual friends. A quick googling, a run through photos on somebody else's wall, a few unflattering minutes searching...

You can kind of stalk anyone you want to. And you shouldn't.

But it's hard. It's hard when I see her name published somewhere, and know her career is going well, it's hard to know I can't send her a note telling her I'm happy for her, and I'm unaccountably proud, and I'm glad she's doing exactly what she knew she wanted to do when she was eighteen.

Social media is amazing. With social media we can keep up instantly with the news. with our celebrity icons, with television shows we like, with bands we follow, with the teams we root for. Thanks to social media, I can find out nearly instantly when my friends have babies, or get new jobs, break up, or have a really awesome meal at a restaurant I want to try.

But it also makes us, all of us, accessible in a way we never have been before. Anybody can probably find me, if they try hard enough. Just as I can always find somebody I knew once upon a time, but lost touch with, somehow.

I miss her, and being able to see her whenever I want, from a distance, makes it linger. Makes it impossible for me to just pull the plug and unfriend her husband (who I have never disliked), and tell myself to stop looking for her articles.

But I keep hoping one day she'll miss me, too. And one day she'll check and see how I'm doing, and maybe just click "like" on just one thing, just once.

Because she was a good friend, and I miss her.

I've been thinking about it a lot lately, as the release date of the new HerStories book about the end of female friendships approaches. I have a piece in the book, but it's not about this friend. This ex. Because whenever I think about the idea that our friendship is really over, that it's really done and everything that could be said has passed... it still hurts.

Four years later, it hurts. And I still wish I could call her up to let her know how glad I am that she's happy. How glad I am she was my friend. How no matter what has happened, I'll still always be there for her. If she ever wanted me to be.



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"My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Leaving and Losing Friends" comes out next month. You can pre-order below



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Baring Our Souls All Over Again

Photo credits to Balee Images

I bet all of you were wondering how in the hell I kept myself from harassing each and every one of you all day on Wednesday to keep myself distracted from our hospital drama.

Well, wonder no more.

I can't tell you how incredibly, unfathomably grateful I am that the same morning I headed off to the hospital to spend six hours in tortuous emotional limbo, Listen To Your Mother released this season's videos.

Not only was it incredibly gratifying to see how calm and collected I mostly looked, or even how flattering the dress I AGONIZED over looked, but it was a tremendous comfort to spend the morning reliving that day.

The women in my Listen To Your Mother cast are remarkable and wonderful. It's been a joy staying connected with them, sharing their happiness and celebrating their triumphs. As I said then, a cast is a family. And watching the women I loved baring their souls all over again... it was a little like a family reunion.

But it wasn't just our cast's videos that went live on Wednesday. And it's not just the Listen To Your Mother Chicago performers I've come to know and love. My blogging friends in Boston, New York, Austin, Richmond- in dozens of cities across the country- were there to distract me and cheer me as well.

Some of them I watched over and over again as I sat around in hospital waiting rooms. And as crazy as it might sound, I spent my anxious day laughing and grinning at strangers, barely restraining myself from tugging my laptop over, pulling out my headphones, and saying, "You really have to watch this with me! It's WONDERFUL!"

And now you too can enjoy the experience of having me at a dinner party, droning endlessly about childhood stories you have little to no interest in hearing. Looking fabulous and put together in a way I never do in real life.



And you can also watch the remarkable videos from my castmates, and my friends, and the incredible Listen To Your Mother community.

Here are a few of my very favorites, so far.

All my love, lovely readers. And enjoy.

My Other Ex

I am beyond honored to be able to tell you all, the editors at HerStories have selected a story of mine to include in the upcoming anthology- My Other Ex: Women's True Stories of Leaving and Losing Friends.

It's a collection of stories about what happens to women's friendships. About the fizzling out, or the fights, or the simply drifting away. How universal the experience is, and yet how deeply personal, and how much more wounding it can be when you "break up" with a friend than with a significant other.

My contribution is a deeply personal story, and I am so glad to have the opportunity to share it with you. Books are now available for preorder, either in my sidebar to the right, underneath the image below, or simply by clicking this link.

The other contributors are incredible women and writers, and I cannot believe I have been given the opportunity to share this experience with them.

All the best-
L




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A Non-Stop Lovefest - Highlights from Blog U

Me with Science of Parenthood, From Meredith to Mommy, Urban Moo Cow,  Momopolize, Not So Super Mom,
Pickles Ink, My Dishwasher's Possessed, Ava Chin, Mommy Needs a Martini, and Her Royal Thighness, among others!

This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to attend Blog U- a Blog Con in Baltimore. The whole two days were a nonstop lovefest, sharing hugs and selfies and stories and laughter and tears with nearly all my favorite women of the internet.

They're real people! Not just avatars and cartoons and logos! And not only are they actual human beings, and awesome ones at that, but getting to know them has completely changed my internet experience. Now, when I go around reading blogs... I hear them in the voices of the brilliant people behind the keyboard.

And that is pretty freakin' sweet.

For me, there were a few moments that stand out more than any other.

1. Hearing some of my favorite bloggers read some of their best work at the impromptu post-cocktail party open mic.

Sharing our best

This was, in a word, amazing. Sitting back drunkenly with thirty of your new friends, sharing your work and your words, all of that is incredible. But seeing people you've admired from a distance for years speak their own words in their own voices? AMAZING. AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING.

I'm sure you remember last year when I bugged you a million times to vote for me for Blogger Idol, and you read all the posts and got to know a couple really incredible bloggers? Well, one of those in the top three with me was Real Life Parenting. And you know what? That lady is a class act. And utterly hilarious.

This lady is hilarious.

Seeing her read was truly a thrill.

It was such a great way to start the con. Every time I met somebody, a lightbulb clicked on over my head. "You read about your son pooping in the car! It was so funny!" "Your bit about the pumpkin crap... brilliant!"

And the thrill of the occasional person coming up to me and saying, "Was that true? Is M okay now?" was also kind of awesome.

It's hard not to be instant friends with somebody when you already love each other's writing.


2. Getting inappropriately drunk and dancing like a maniac with some of the funniest ladies on the internet.

Who's that drunken blogger in the stripes? Oh... wait...

Seriously, Pickles Ink and Something Clever 2.0 are lunatics on the dance floor, and I love it. I conga-ed like an oncoming train wreck, one hand flailing a camera around, and managed not to concuss anyone. Jenn and I did the Thriller dance, because why the hell not? And Karyn and I shared an entirely awkward moment that may or may not have been intimately related to the Spice Girls. Because that's what happens when children of the nineties drink half a dozen margaritas and put a million pounds of product in their hair.


3. The way strangers on the internet can come together to help other strangers.

The Blog U faculty- they are a fun loving bunch.

I'm not just talking about putting together an entire conference, for strangers, for free. Because that is astounding to say the least. I'm not just talking about two dozen women from across the country working tirelessly from a distance to create a spectacular, immersive experience for hundreds of other women (and one very brave dude). I'm talking about everybody, all the time.

I'm also not just talking about the half a dozen women who happily opened their doors to share AquaNet with me. Because no 80's prom is complete without it.

The day before Blog U started, one of the local commuters had to cancel her plans. So in the course of a day, she and I transferred her ticket to Old School/New School Mom. Some other bloggers helped me get her a bus ticket, and some of her friends back home- writers as well and contributors to her Stigma Fighters project, helped her find childcare so she could come to the conference.

Once there, people helped her with last minute things- including a bed to sleep in after the prom, and a ride back to the bus station in the morning. That lady deserved a break, and now she's better prepared to help Stigma Fighters thrive as an NFP. And that?

Old School/New School Mom, me, and my spectacular roomie- Woof Tweet Waah

That makes me cry happy, happy, happy tears.




...there was one other thing. A little thing. I can't help but get a little glow every time I think about it.

During the keynote panel about writing for others, HuffPo Parents put up examples on the big screen of what to do- what notes to aim for, what subjects to address- in order to get a successful post.

What's that on the big screen?

Do you see what her example is over there?

Who is that attractive blogger?

Yes! It's me!

I would say I didn't learn anything, because OBVIOUSLY I've got this whole thing figured out... but that's a lie. I learned tons. I learned so much, and I'm taking it all and putting it to good use.

Look out, world, I'm coming to take you by the horns.

I'm a Blog U graduate, hear me roar!

More Than A Stage

Listen To Your Mother Chicago's "Oscar Selfie"
...one of two photos in this post not taken by Balee Images

Last year, because of your incredible support, I was able to go to BlogHer. And it was amazing. I met so many people, learned so many things, and grew as a writer, a blogger, and a person. (Is that an exaggeration? I don't think so.) But one of the most profound experiences for me was the open mic, a Listen To Your Mother production.

I'd heard about it. There was no way I wouldn't have heard about it. Motherhood? Storytelling? Live shows? You can bet people linked me to it over and over again. But I didn't really understand what was so amazing about it until I heard Ann Imig speak at the Voices of the Year. She's the genius behind Listen To Your Mother, and holy cow, that lady has passion. And humor. And grace. And to say that somebody has grace when they're advising you to find your inner luchador, well, that's something.

I knew she was the brain behind Listen To Your Mother, and I wanted so badly to tell her how amazing it was that she'd not only conceived but built something that had gone so completely viral. It's one thing to write a blog post that a million see across the world. It's another thing to create a movement of storytelling and sisterhood.

The LTYM Chicago producers with Ann Imig after the show

But I had no idea how to say that. And so, before the open mic Listen To Your Mother production at BlogHer, I had one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. I bumped into Ann Imig, said hello, and then stared, gape mouthed, smiling awkwardly, trying to find any kind of words to say, "You're amazing, and right now you're my hero, and I want to tell you all about my life and I want to be best friends and please don't think I'm crazy." And she smiled a bit uncomfortably, and walked away. I stood there, embarrassed and awkward enough to think I could shout something witty after her and make her want to have a drink with me and talk motherhood and storytelling. And maybe she could tell I wanted to do that, so she turned around. And I was still standing there, gaping after her like a lumbering monster from a cheezy horror movie.

It was mortifying.

But then came the open mic. And I stood up in front of the women who I'd come to love through their writing, and I read to them. And they applauded, and thanked me, and hugged me, and now we're best friends forever.

Me reading at the Listen To Your Mother BlogHer open mic
Yes- this is the other photo Balee Images didn't take

Something like that.

And I swore to myself that next time I would audition for Listen To Your Mother. Maybe because I'd humiliated myself in front of Ann. Maybe because standing on stage is cathartic and moving and beautiful. Maybe because just jumping into an open mic isn't the same as getting to know and love a cast.

Whatever the reason, I started trolling the Listen To Your Mother website. I trolled it. I stalked it, and the minute the call for auditions was out, I was on it.

I auditioned the hell out of my piece.

And I got into the show.

I thought, Next time I bump into Ann Imig, I won't humiliate myself!

I went through weekly panic attacks about what to wear, what to eat, whether or not to cut my hair (I didn't), my shoes, my undergarments, and a giant forehead stress pimple that appeared a month before the show and never went away.

Second rehearsal- yeah, that's a giant stress pimple on my forehead

Then our producers decided that I was going to go first, and everything got a little bit more frightening. Whatever I wore was the first thing the audience would see! Whatever I said would be the first thing the audience would hear!

If I screwed up, I told myself, I would ruin the show for the rest of the cast. And the last thing on earth I wanted was to do anything to hurt those women.

There is nothing like being part of a cast. You're a family, even if only temporarily. You care about each other, you care about each other's families, you care about each other's success and happiness. You want everyone to do their best, not just on stage, but everywhere. And you want to help. Sharing a stage in a cast is different from sharing the stage in an open mic. Open mics are every man for himself, self promotion and flights of fancy. A cast though- a cast is more. It's a commitment.

I love these ladies

It's a commitment to work your ass off on your piece, even if you're far away during rehearsals- like Kari.

It's showing up to rehearsal at 36 weeks pregnant, or with a two week old infant fresh out of the NICU, or performing on stage, alone, at a month postpartum... like Andrea.

It's sharing life news about the growth and maturity of your children with your cast mates before the show and knowing it will bring them to tears, like Meggan.

Meggan telling us her amazing news before the show

But Listen To Your Mother isn't just a single cast. Being part of the Listen To Your Mother family is being part of a much bigger whole. It's casts in 31 other cities who you share a bond with, it's learning that you are more connected to other people through this thing, this welcoming, warm, and enormous thing, than you ever knew. Many of our Chicago cast members went to other cities to see their shows, and many other cities' cast members came to our show.

One of those visitors was Rebekah from Milwaukee, who I worked with as a VISTA a decade ago on the south side of Chicago, hauling recycling through the worst parts of Chicago's housing projects just as the city began dismantling them. Back in 2003 she'd meet me beneath underpasses and ride the truck with me through Cabrini Green at six thirty in the morning. She's a mom now, too, and a Listen To Your Mother alumnus. And now those are more bonds that we share.

Getting ready for the show

So no, it wasn't just about getting on stage and speaking to more than five hundred people about what it means to lose yourself in motherhood. It wasn't just striding from the wings into a glaring spotlight in a bright red dress and zebra print shoes and commanding the attention of more than five hundred strangers (and some very good friends). It was about becoming a link in the chain of women and men who have joined together to give voice to the joys and struggles and absurdities and tragedies of motherhood.

Becoming friends at the first rehearsal

The moments that stand out to me aren't at all about standing on the stage. The memories I'll cherish are sitting backstage and singing "On My Own" with Andrea to quell our nerves.

Giving Crystal a gift card to a sex toy store after the first rehearsal, because yeah, I'm just that kind of socially inappropriate.

Watching Hyacinth start to break down during the second rehearsal, and knowing that I was going to cry before it happened because it happened every single time I even thought about her Snow Bear.

Our second rehearsal already felt like a reunion

Sharing Pittsburgh love with Kim as we drove a ridiculous three blocks to a restaurant where we didn't have a reservation for a party of sixteen.

Watching Keeley nurse her infant during the first rehearsal and, as she entirely understands, both being grateful it wasn't me and kind of wishing it was.

Driving to the show with Julie and sharing our anxiety, laughing and comforting each other.

Melissa's glowing pride for my inclusion in this year's BlogHer Voices of the Year.

But maybe, just maybe, the moment that will forever stick in my mind will be the few seconds after the show when all the alumnus of Listen To Your Mother in the audience came onto the stage and we all posed for a photo together.

It's an honor to share the stage with these people

One of those alumni was none other than Ann Imig. She came straight up to me, and she told me she loved my piece. And as I blathered and thanked her, she gave me an off kilter smile.

"I remember you! I met you at BlogHer last summer, didn't I? At the Listen To Your Mother open mic?"

My stomach fluttered and my cheeks burned as I remembered staring after her with my mouth agape.

And once again, I found myself totally at a loss for what to say.

So thanks, Ann, for giving me a voice and a stage.

Thank you all

Thank you, my cast and family, for the memories and the fun and the joy.

Thank you to my friends and family who supported me through the whole of this wild and crazy experience, who I know are waiting with bated breath for that youtube channel to light up with hundreds of stories from hundreds of women as 32 shows are made available for any and all to see.

Thank you to Aunt Genocide, and Nancy, for driving all the way to Chicago from Ann Arbor, just to sit in the audience and support me as I talk about the same things you hear me talk about constantly anyway.

I love you so much.

Thank you, everyone.

Thank you for everything.