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.

Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice

The is how every episode of The Powerpuff Girls begins.

I'm a huge fan of the show. When it came out, I was already "too old" for cartoons, but thanks to shows like South Park, cartoons were edgier, more interesting, and frankly you could get away with watching them as still see yourself as cool.

I loved the Powerpuff Girls. And I love being able to share them with my kids. Yes, they fall prey to a few of the classic problems that programming for (mostly) little girls share- no mom, for one thing- but the show is so up front with its blatantly feminist agenda, how could I help myself?

In one of my favorite episodes, "Members Only," the girls try to join the Association of World Super Men, and are told, "Shouldn't you be home, learning to be mommies?"

And then when a big, bad, macho jerk form outer space shows up and starts beating up the Super Men, the girls save the day.

I love that. And when I discovered the Powerpuff Girls were available on Netflix? Let's just say it didn't take long for my girls to get WAY more obsessed than I ever was.

So when we started talking Halloween costumes, they made up their mind pretty quick.

And thus, the Powerpuff Girls were born!

These were, without a doubt, some of the easiest costumes I've ever made in my life. I assumed it would be cold on Halloween, this is the midwest after all, so I made them out of microfleece. I added sleeves, because COLD HALLOWEEN is a thing, and I hot glued the eyes to ridiculously cheap sunglasses. I bought a pack of kids sunglasses party favors for a buck, and popped out the lenses. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy!

All that was left was a few accessories. A giant bow and barrette for Blossom (DD), a cheap "flapper" wig for Buttercup (SI), and pigtails for Bubbles (RH).

"So if you're the powerpuff girls, what should Mommy and Daddy be?" I asked.

"Daddy NEEDS to be Professor Utonium!" They said.

Easily done. A lab coat and a bottle of Chemical X later...

"So what about Mommy?"

At first, the girls wanted me to be Mojo Jojo. This made perfect sense to me, as he's kind of THE iconic Powerpuff Girls villain. But no, RH's favorite episode features a villain so sinister, so evil, so scary, so horribly vile that even the utterance of his name strikes fear into the hearts of men. He's known only as HIM, so that's what the kids asked for.

So... who is HIM?

Huffington Post put this best once upon a time, but I'll give you a brief explanation.

HIM is a gender queer devil character in a Santa suit, lobster claws, and kinky boots, who possesses a variety of superpowers and probably could destroy the Powerpuff Girls if he really wanted to.

When the girls asked me to dress up as this particular character, I hesitated. What WOULD the neighbors think? I'm built more like a short, hairy ape, so Mojo Jojo, while being a more complicated costume, certainly had a lot of appeal. But the girls insisted. So...

Without a doubt, that is the most makeup I've ever worn in my life. And I used to perform onstage on a regular basis. At first I was afraid that if I did the makeup, RH would freak out when she saw me. So I made sure to do all the makeup- from the black spray-on hair dye to the ridiculous eyebrows, with an audience.

They were less than helpful.

But I didn't stop there with my costuming insanity. Oh no! I was determined to out-do the Justice League this year. I only home someday I stop doing that to myself. One of these days the kids will want a costume that is just plain beyond me. But since they made it so easy this year, I used Aunt Genocide's suggestion for the trick or treat bags, and kind of one-upped by costume game.

Sugar

Spice

and Everything Nice

I'm really looking forward to using those bags for regular old grocery shopping as the years go by.

Despite having warm, snuggly costumes (and TWO pairs of stockings each, plus undershirts, plus boots instead of their Mary Janes...), the weather was more than the Powerpuff Girls could handle. Half an hour into our trick or treating, it began to hail.

And hail.

And HAIL.

And the wind got so bad we were all being pelted horizontally by nearly white-out hail the size of raisins. All across our neighborhood, trees were uprooted, electrical lines fell, and trick or treaters headed for shelter.

My poor kids, they'd never seen hail before. Let alone been stuck outside in the nastiest, windiest downpouring of the stuff I'd ever seen. They huddled under the cloak I'd worn instead of a coat (I thought it was more HIM's style), and we shuffled to an underpass to wait for M- um,  the Professor, to bring us the car.

Fortunately, the candy was plentiful and survived the ordeal. With bellies full of pizza and the promise they could keep on their costumes as nightgowns (yay fleece!), the children dubbed it the Best Halloween Ever.

So from my family to yours, Happy Halloween!

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.

To the Parents Who Bought My Daughters Birthday Presents, and All Givers of Gifts to Children

My children worked on these mosaic boxes for SEVEN HOURS. Five hours in one sitting.

Thank you.

Last year, when I sent home invitation to SI and DD's birthday party, I was careful to include a not that NOBODY was under any obligation to bring my children gifts. Yet, everybody brought one anyway. So this year I included no such note, and the massive heap of presents my children received was genuinely alarming.

We're urban people. We know how limited space is, and how difficult birthdays and holidays can be for this reason. So as my daughters set to opening their mountain of generous gifts, I held my breath and hoped for the best.

The best is what my children got, and this is why:

Their presents contained almost no toys.

I don't know who started the fad of giving activities as a gift, but whoever did it... thank you as well.

So proud of their finished boxes

In the week since they had their party, my children have each spent approximately seven hours putting together their mosaic fairy jewelry boxes, four hours decorating new dolls, and more hours than I can count with their sticker books and box of watercolor pencils.

Of course this is something I want to do. Of course I relish the opportunity to actually accomplish household tasks. To vacuum the couch, and put away laundry, and do dishes, and start the crock pot...

And yes, write.

All of these things are normally impossible when my children are home, say, for a five day weekend encompassing Sukkot and a Monday where M absentmindedly took my car keys to work in his pocket.

My children are happily playing, but also learning, and taking pride in their accomplishments. They now have jewelry boxes they made themselves, to fill with their many little treasures. They now have dolls they've designed and named themselves, to have adventures with.

These gifts are helping teach my children independence, because they don't have all the same crafts to do. This afternoon DD is making stained "glass" hangings while SI is making a pillow.

These gifts are helping teach them to share, as they give extra parts and stickers and colored pencils to their baby sister, so she can join in the fun.

And yes, I recognize that these are still toys, and the yes, I'll have to find space somehow for the results of all this crafting. But they are also so much more.

They are experiences and memories, and the gift of pride and dedication and motivation.

These are gifts to my children not just for their fifth birthday, but for their lives.

So thank you, thank you to the dozens of parents who chose to get my children tasks instead of toys.

Thank you to all of you.

And to any of you parents out there, struggling with ideas for what to get strange children from your kid's class.. please. Do the other mom a favor. Give them an activity.

Please make this a trend that sticks.

 And as we enter the holiday gift season, please. Remember this. Remember that giving a child an opportunity to make something for themselves is greater than a simple object. It gives that object meaning- pride, and hard work.

And most importantly, it gives a tired parent somewhere a chance to drink a hot cup of tea or empty the dryer in peace.

The Routines of Bravery

On Monday, M and I went in for his regularly scheduled MRI and checkup with his neurooncology team.

In many ways, it was as routine as these visits can ever be. We talked more with M's doctor about her pregnancy than we did about M's condition. It's hard to explain, but sometimes you can't keep yourself from becoming friends in situations to like these. While we might not see M's medical team for dinners or playdates, we look forward to catching up on our lives together, to bumping into M's RN at synagogue, to squealing in delight at the not at all surprising news of new babies. We warned her, when she became M's doctor, she would get pregnant. We just have that effect on our physicians.

In many ways, it was anything but routine. Routine is what you do every day. It's dragging yourself out of bed to make breakfast and lunch and go to work or drive kids to school. It's brushing your teeth, and dodging calls from telemarketers and GOP surveys. It's rolling your eyes every time a bit of spam gets into your inbox after you've flagged it three times. It's that beautiful moment when you lay down on the bed and all at once your whole body tells you how hard it's worked today, and how incredibly amazingly blissfully pleasant it is to be horizontal.

It should never be routine to sit biting your nails for hours in the early morning while someone you love is getting sophisticated images taken of tumors that you can't help but worry are growing. Yet letting it become routine is a comfort. Telling yourself that one scan is no different than the dozens that came before makes the anxiety easier to bear. Telling yourself that you can adjust to anything, that anything can become normal and surviveable and commonplace is a necessity for existing beyond a trauma. Like astrocytoma.

This is life. And it is dreadful. And it is terrifying.
And it is so beautiful and wondrous and magnificent that every day we accept the terrors that come with continuing to live, regardless of what they may be.

For me, this week, the terror of "what if" was eclipsed by the other daily miseries I'd piled upon myself. My children brought home their own little nightmare, or rather hundreds of them, in the form of lice. Mice moved into my house. Our dishwasher broke. Our planned number of houseguests doubled as all air traffic in the area was downed. My doctor switched my medication to something that turned me into a comatose zombie. I planned and executed my twins' fifth birthday party. And for a swathe of it I parented solo while M took a much needed vacation with friends. And somewhere in there, I gave myself a little gift. The total hyperextension of my emotional energy. I could not find it in myself to worry until I was sitting in the waiting room, filling out the routine pre-MRI paperwork.

For me, this week, the beauty was watching my five year daughters exchange gifts they'd chosen for each other. It was watching as they let their two year old sister help them open their presents. It was five hours free to re-rearrange my kitchen from the affections of weeks of houseguests. It was hugs from little humans so sweet I didn't even care they might infect me with their pestilence. It was my mother-in-law beaming with motherly pride when she saw my first book, and my mother swapping apples with her grandchildren at the orchard, and the way M's belly presses against my back just right when he snuggles against me in bed, supporting my spine and warming me to my bones, and feeling his dimple in the air when he smiles in the dark.

These are not easy things to put to words. And nowhere is it harder to find a way than in the neurooncology ward.

I know how dreadful it is to be there. I know especially how dreadful it is to be new there. I remember our first visits so vividly, the fear and determination and guilt. The aura of hopelessness that surrounds some people, and the desire to simply look away- to not be contaminated.

When our visits began to feel routine, a woman named Shaneesha made them feel joyous. She knew us by name, she delighted in the growth of M's hair, in asking me about wedding planning, then honeymoon photos, and then pregnancy news. She was a patient services representative, and I looked forward to seeing her, to wasting the time of people in line behind us as I told her how ultrasounds had gone, or what we would do in New Zealand. Her last week at that job, we brought the twins in for the first time. She leapt over her desk, squealing with delight, and ran to them, and hugged them.

She made that terrifying place a home. And when she left, I decided I would try to do the same for another family just embarking on their brain cancer story.

Whenever we're at the cancer center, I talk loudly. I joke. I laugh. I talk to people, and smile.

So on Monday M and I made a minor scene, laughing and joking and smiling in the waiting room after hours of anxiety and MRIs, surrounded by quiet, fearful faces, and oxygen tanks on dollies, and colorful scarves and stubbly new hair. And when it was done we took the elevator down again from the top floor.

We shared the elevator with two people. A mother, steering a wheelchair in which her teenaged daughter sat.

Her daughter was bald, with a mostly healed scar running across her scalp. I'd guess as much as three months had passed since her surgery.

I recognized the swelling in her face, she was taking steroids, which meant she was probably starting radiation. Her eyebrows told me her chemotherapy was probably oral, as M's had been. Her bald head the result of the surgery and the radiation, rather than an IV.

The girl sat in her chair with dark, intelligent eyes forward. She did not look as M and I laughed our way onto the elevator. With M's hat on, with his head a full four feet above hers, she would never have seen the scar on his head that so closely matched hers.

She did not look at me, but I knew the look in her eyes. Directionless anger, mingled with hopeless fear, and the fear of hope.

Her mother smiled cautiously, and I knew her as well. Determinedly optimistic. Keeping a brave face. Brave out of necessity. Terrified, and helpless, with nothing to offer but love and support as she walked through this new world.

The girl clutched a cane covered in fluorescent patterns, and I remembered M's own cane. How much he hated it, but how as a man he could accept a cane as an accessory- we talked about getting him one with a carved snake or lion's head for a handle. For a teenaged girl, it's a much more difficult affectation, and I was impressed with her creativity.

"Is that washi tape?" I asked.
"Yes!" her mother said. She beamed at me. "We're going to change it, though. She says it's too bright for fall."
The girl rolled her eyes, and I saw the human inside her, the constantly embarrassed teenaged girl. I smiled at the mother.
"Totally. Are you thinking about something more Halloween-y? Skulls and crossbones or something?"
I hoped maybe the girl would smirk. I thought skulls were delightfully subversive.

Her mother gave me a look that broke my heart. It wasn't admonition, or humor, or solidarity. It was gratitude.

The elevator doors opened, and more people came in. People who weren't traveling through the world of neurooncology. Our conversation ceased.

Seven years, three months, and six days ago

But I stared at the girl, and her mother. I wanted so badly to speak, to say, "I know what you're going through," even if I don't.

"This is my husband," I wanted to say. "He was diagnosed with a stage four glioblastoma seven years ago."

I knew the other passengers, the ones from lower floors, they would be mortified. But I didn't want to embarrass the teenaged girl. Not in that way.

"He was diagnosed when he was 24," I wanted to say. "We'd been engaged for less than a day."

"I know how terrifying it is be young and have cancer."

"You're not defined by this, unless you want to be. And either is fine, so long as you make the most of the life you have. It can still be filled with happiness."

"We have three children now. Our twins just turned five. They're five years old, and we didn't conceive them until after a year of chemotherapy was over."

"It's going to be okay."

But I couldn't say any of those things.

I wanted to give the mother my card, link her to my blog, hope she would stumble on a post about M's cancer and feel a little more hope. Show her how unfathomably normal brain cancer can become. How the brave face is a comfortable part of the routine, and she's already halfway there.

I wanted to touch the girl. Just lay my hand on her shoulder. I know how people must avoid her gaze. Wheelchair bound, bald, and doomed, she must feel a pariah.

I do not know that girl's story, but I know by now she knows the language of brain cancer and its treatment. I know phrases like "GBM" and "clinical trials" are part of her vocabulary.

I wanted to tell her how many people, older, sicker people, live for years with late stage malignancies in their brains. How easy it is to find them on the internet, if you can get over your fear of the other stories you might find as well.

I wanted to tell her life is brutal and cold and cruel, and it is unfathomably beautiful, and generous, and good. And that's not a contradiction, it's a fact. And once you accept that in addition to the terror and the grief and the bitter unfairness of it, there is still so much to take away. So much to revel in. Especially when you know how fleeting and ephemeral it is in every aspect.

Instead I walked to the car.

M sighed and squeezed my hand. "I wanted to take off my hat," he said.

That was all.

But that brief sentence said so much more. It said, "I know how hard it is for you to see people you might be able to reach and help, in some other set of circumstances, and know it's probably best to do nothing. I know how much that girl got to you, how you felt for her and pitied her and and didn't pity her, and how complicated all those feelings are. I know how much you wanted to tell her mom it would be okay, and that being brave is so, so important, and that her daughter knows it and loves her and will never find the words to say how much it means to her that the people taking care of her stay so strong. And I feel it too."

That's why I fell in love so hard with that big, goofy, brilliant man. Because he knows me, and he shares the parts of me that make me feel the most human. And in his frequent moments of compassion and tenderness, I am humbled that he loves me.

I watched my husband wrestle with the emotions of empathy for a stranger, and loved him more. I knew the more I loved him, the more I needed our trips to stay routine. And I knew he understood they could not be forever. And my heart broke for him, a man living under a question mark. And his bravery only made me love him more. And so on.

I know that someday, one of our routine trips to the neurooncology suite of the cancer center, to the gleaming top floor, won't be smiles and hugs, pregnancy news and baby photos, loud jokes and silent solidarity.

One day, someday, probably, one of our routine trips is going to end in an elevator going down, and we won't have jokes to share. We will have hopeless fear, and directionless anger, and I will keep my back straight and smile casually and speak as though I don't feel them, because I will be the one being brave. I will be the one being strong, offering my unfailing support, again.

I will have to make different choices than seven years ago, when I had the luxury of blind faith that all would work out for us, the young, the romantic, the immortal.

Seven years, three months, and two days is a long time to live under a weight that turns the cancer clinic into a routine.

It's the span of my adulthood.
It's the blink of an eye.

I'm planning to bring M's doctor a baby gift when we next return, early this time, to ensure we see her before the baby arrives. The sort of hand crafted gift I give my dear friends. The dear friends who have seen you through the hardest times and always greet you with a smile, as though the hard times will never come again. But they will. We all know they will.

I will never be ready.

I am always ready.

I live in simultaneous hope and fear of the day I know exactly what to say to make a scared teenaged girl smile.

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.

The Truth About Sex After Kids

People like to joke that once you have kids, you stop having sex.

Obviously this isn't true, or there would be no such thing as younger siblings or vasectomy parties. (Yes, I contemplated throwing my husband a party to commemorate his vasectomy. I am certain this is actually a thing people do, and I'm not just a lunatic. There are menses parties, for god's sake!) I sometimes think this is a myth created by people who just don't want to imagine that their parents actually had sex for pleasure on a regular basis.

Movies like "Date Night" perpetuate this myth, with such hilarious scenes as the mouthguard incident, or the look of shock on Tina Fey's face when her friend says she's getting divorced in part because she and her husband were only having sex two or three times a week. And yeah, I laughed my ass off, because I'd recently had twins and my husband and I were living in shifts in order to take care of two sets of dirty diapers and whatnot 24 hours a day, and yeah, we weren't having sex every night. But judging all of parenthood by the first six weeks is like judging all baseball teams by the Cubs, or judging all of "Up" by the first ten minutes.

So I'm going to set the record straight.

Sex is a minefield at first. First off, there's the awkwardness factor of attempting to move in concert with another person in such a way that both of you can avoid making strange and humiliating noises (and not just with your mouths) and trying to look sexy while you do it. Then there's the goodie-bag of body issues most of us go into sexual relationships with, making things just that much harder by necessitating a completely dark or poorly lit sex environment. On top of that, there's shame based indoctrination, that tells men they're never big enough and they don't "last long enough," and tells women they should be capable of half a dozen orgasms pretty much all on their own with no help, or that they're not really supposed to like sex to begin with, depending on their cultural backgrounds.

Basically, until you get comfortable with your partner, sex is kind of... awful.

That's not to say it doesn't still feel great. Because let's be honest, most of the time it does. But parts of it are embarrassing and confusing and involve lots of talks about what it all means, and whether you're having enough of it, and you avoid the conversations that might actually make it better.

After kids? Forget all of that. Sex is completely different. Why?

Because you have completely lost all sense of shame or embarrassment towards your body and what it does. The fears you used to have about whether or not he'll stop liking you if he notices your fat stomach are replaced by the knowledge that this person has watched you screaming in pain while you carried multiple human beings around inside of you, with random parts swelling up and growing hair no human should grow and with that wild hormonal glint in your eyes that threatens actual physical violence, and you know what? They still love you!

So fuck it!

Once the realization that your partner loves your body and what it does, regardless of what you think of it, really hits?

The sex is incomparably better. You can simply ask for what you like. You can explore your fetishes and kinks and preferences, even the ones that previously embarrassed you, because nothing embarrasses you anymore. Not when you've both sat staring at each other at the crack of dawn, covered in the same infant's vomit and feces. Not when you've had more conversations than you care to count about the kids' diarrhea and whether or not the shits you're both experiencing indicate a virus, something psychosomatic, or yet another side effect of prolonged fatigue. Not when you've been responsible for popping each others' back pimples, harping on each other to get to the gym, and sitting on the couch after the children are FINALLY asleep, each eating your own entire pint of Ben and Jerry's. Once you hit that point, the sex is epic.

And that makes people feel icky. To know that their birth heralded in a new and exciting era in boning for their parents is beyond uncomfortable.

So stop making it about them already, and make it about you.

All that said, there are still some deep truths when it comes to the levels of exhaustion a couple with children experiences come the end of the day. There is nothing quite like going to bed utterly exhausted and already covered in four people's fluids to make you NOT want to be covered in another variety.

There are levels of bone weary tired that only appear when a kid woke you up at three in the morning the night before because they had a hangnail, and then another woke you up at dawn because you promised they could have scrambled eggs for breakfast. SCRAMBLED EGGS. It's not like you need an extra hour to prepare them, for God's sake! Followed by a whole day of wrangling into carseats, evacuating from car seats, pushing around loaded strollers while doling out snacks and keeping tabs on space cadet kids who forget to follow you in the middle of a park because they thought they heard a dog somewhere.

That kind of exhaustion comes only with having children or providing instructions to astronauts in a busted space ship for what to do to keep their air breathable until they can make their descent back through Earth's atmosphere.

So when it comes to post child sex, there are really two varieties, and for your reading pleasure I will sum them up to you with the following entirely theoretical definitely not real certainly not from me and M conversations:


"Hey, remember that thing you did the other night that made me see God while I was orgasming? Can you do that again, only this time can I be blindfolded and can you use some ice?"
"Sure! Only you have to promise that tomorrow you'll do that other thing. Twice. And I want you to wear that thing we got on Valentine's Day while you do it the second time."
"Do we have to wait until tomorrow? Can we do it now?"
"Yes please!"


"I'm so horny. But I'm soooooooo tiiiiiiiired."
"If you decide you're more horny than tired, I can rally."
"You can rally? Okay... these pajama pants have a hole in the crotch. How about I just lie here and you make this happen through the hole in my pants, and we call it a night?"
"I'm not doing that."
"Probably for the best. That would make the laundry extra gross."
"snooooore"



So the truth is that it's inconsistent. Like almost everything in life. But it's not the sad, exhausted, infrequent joke it's made out to be.

Which is why vasectomy parties should totally be a thing.

Go get your freak on, people with kids. You have more than earned it.

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.