tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29106770225556181362024-02-19T09:04:12.021-08:00Sassy Mouth | Lindsey HenryThe trials, triumphs, and thoughts of burgeoning writer and stay-at-home mom. My skewed view on life, love, family, career, events, and my own personal experiences. Welcome to my snarky, sassy, opinionated-as-hell world.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-25425880513707125002014-08-12T16:58:00.000-07:002014-08-12T16:58:01.414-07:009 Things You Should Know About Invisible Diseases and the People Who Deal With Them
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whether it is lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, Crohn’s,
fibromyalgia, clinical depression, cancer, or any of the multiple conditions
that are riddled with invisible symptoms, these diseases are, in fact, very
real, and may be affecting someone you know, whether you see it or not. Like
air, germs, or a person’s soul, just because you can’t see these diseases,
doesn’t mean they aren’t there. These diseases with their invisible symptoms wreak
havoc from the inside out, thus leading to many misjudgments because the person
“doesn’t look sick”.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Appearances Can Be Deceiving<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just because someone doesn’t look sick, doesn’t
mean they aren’t. That mom you see at the park all the time, or the one who
always volunteers at her kids’ school; the guy in your office who is always playing
pranks and cracking jokes, or the one who coaches his son’s soccer team; the
woman who attends yoga class 4 times a week, or goes out with her girlfriends
every Friday night, all these people could have an underlying disease that you
don’t see and would never guess they would have. Just because a disease is
invisible, doesn’t mean it’s imaginary. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They Don’t Advertise<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When you do finally find out that the funny
guy in your office or the woman who never misses a girl’s night out has a
serious condition that you never knew about, don’t take it personally that they
didn’t tell you sooner, or that you had to find out John, in Marketing. Most
people with invisible diseases like to keep them that way – invisible. While
they wish their friends and co-workers would be more understanding of why they
seem to always catch every bug that goes around the office or school, or why they
sometimes cancel last minute, people with invisible diseases would much prefer
to keep the secret to themselves, rather than burden their friends and
co-workers with their personal problems.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t Judge, Just Understand<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just because the friend that you thought you
were close to chooses not to share their personal struggles with you, please
don’t judge them too harshly and just try to understand. This is a good rule
for everyone to follow, regardless of whether a person is sick or not. It seems
to be something of the societal norm to always opt for the negative conclusion
first and the compassionate one last. Just because someone cancels last minute,
is always “busy,” or has a lot of doctor’s appointments, it doesn’t mean they
are blowing you off or faking just to get out of something. Your friend may be
dealing with something that you are unaware of and it should be your first instinct
to give them the benefit of the doubt. If it becomes excessive, just be up
front and ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When in Doubt, Just Ask<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If your friend seems to be bailing a lot
lately, or the guy at your office is falling behind in his work because of all
the sick days he’s taken and doctor’s appointments he’s scheduled, don’t jump
to conclusions and assume the worst. Just ask. While most people with invisible
diseases don’t like to advertise their condition, if you approach them as a
friend and respectfully express your concern, they will most likely be grateful
to have one person to confide in and tell you what is going on. Granted, they
don’t want everyone to know, but they will be happy to have one person who will
understand and have their back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Please be Respectful of Their Privacy<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your friend has finally told you her secret. That
means she trusts you to be compassionate and offer support. It does not mean
she wants the whole office, gym, or all of Facebook knowing her personal
business. People with invisible diseases keep their secrets for many reasons.
One of the biggest ones is they fear that people will look at them and treat
them differently. They look healthy and normal on the outside, so people treat
them like everyone else, they don’t want that to change and have their friends
and co-workers avoiding them, or doubting the truth because “they don’t look
sick”. So, please respect your friend’s right to privacy and remember that you
wouldn’t want them to blab your secrets to everyone either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">6.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">No One’s Symptoms are the Same<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Many invisible diseases are multi-systemic,
which means they affect multiple systems in the body: heart, lungs, liver,
kidney, brain, etc. Even if you knew two people with the exact same disease,
their symptoms could widely vary. One may be tired and weak fairly often, experience
bouts of pain, and lose a lot of weight, while the other might have more energy,
not eat very much while gaining weight, and have memory lapses. It differs from
person to person and disease to disease. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">7.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Symptoms Can be Unpredictable<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now that you are aware of your
friend/co-worker’s condition, you begin to watch them for signs and symptoms
that, before, seemed innocuous. You notice that his steadily increasing weight
has not only ceased, it is dropping rapidly. This may sound like great news (I
mean, who doesn’t want to lose some extra weight so effortlessly), but you also
notice that he is more tired than usual and isn’t eating nearly enough food.
Perhaps, instead, he is significantly gaining weight. Maybe her hair starts
falling out, or it loses its luster; she become wan and pale, or red and
feverish. With invisible diseases like lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, depression,
cancer, and many more, symptoms can turn on a dime and change for no apparent
reason (even to the person who is experiencing them). The best thing you can do
is be there for them and offer them help in any way you can.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">8.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Excuses are Not Given Lightly<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You’ve been trying to get your friend to go
to the museum, or a concert, or out for dinner and a movie with you, but the
excuses start piling up. You begin to get irritated and that petty, negative corner
of your mind starts whispering that she is using her disease as an excuse to
blow you off. You are WAY off. People with debilitating diseases have a laundry
list of symptoms that prevent them from doing a lot of activities. It irritates
them way more than it irritates you. They hate not being able to go out and
enjoy the weekend, or spend time doing fun things with their family. They
become frustrated and angry with themselves and at their body for not
cooperating. They wish, more than anything, that they could go to that museum
with you, or just grab a quick drink after work, or even just manage to do some
household chores. They do not back out of these engagements lightly. Your
friend would much rather be out with you, than stuck at home in bed, or on the
couch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">9.</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t Try to Relate, Just Accept<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Many times even relatives can’t understand,
or relate to the overwhelming issues a person with an invisible disease faces.
Family members, who live with the effects of the disease on a daily basis, can
find it hard to cope. Some feel that if their spouse/parent/child tried a
little harder, or toughened up a bit, they would feel better. Though, that’s
not really what they are asking. They are asking that the person with the
disease try a little harder so the family members feel better. It’s difficult
for anyone to take care of and consistently be understanding of a person whose
disease is largely invisible. They usually have to take that person’s word for
it that they are in pain, or feeling exhausted, or having a terrible head or
stomach ache. Unless the person vomits, passes out, or has a fever, it’s
difficult to always take them at their word. Doubt creeps in that they are
wussing out, or using their symptoms as a crutch to avoid helping out. It
causes tension between both parties. Friends and family feel that they are
being taken advantage of, as they pick up most of the slack. The person with
the disease feels mistrusted and misunderstood, as well as feeling frustrated
with themselves that they aren’t able to relieve their family’s burden. If you
know someone with an invisible disease, don’t try to relate, don’t try to make
their symptoms make sense, just accept that they are telling the truth and
doing their best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Invisible diseases come in many forms, with
many variations. Some take years to diagnose, with numerous doctors’ visits,
countless tests, and more questions than answers. Many patients even doubt
their own symptoms in the beginning and sometimes question their own sanity,
reliability, and objectivity. Feeling those mystery symptoms come and go, wondering
if they were really as bad as they thought, watching people’s sympathy turn
into skepticism, having numerous doctors shrug their shoulders and say they
have no idea what’s wrong, counting out a myriad of hated little brightly
colored pills and supplements every day; each of these obstacles in themselves
can be daunting, but imagine facing it all while trying to keep your life as normal
as possible. It’s hard, isn’t it? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While you may not be able to relate, or even
imagine what someone is going through, the thing they need the most is understanding
and compassion. Understanding that says you will try to be supportive and not judgmental,
even if it is sometimes difficult, and compassion that says you will try your
best to listen and help them in any way you can. Whether it is an auto-immune
disease like lupus or rheumatoid arthritis, or a mental one like depression, or
carcinogenic like cancer, all people who suffer an invisible disease ultimately
need to know they are not alone in their fight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-17670125522147904872014-06-18T21:12:00.000-07:002014-06-18T21:39:42.078-07:00Realization Can Be a Real Bitch<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Self-realizations are like pimps, without warning they walk
up and slap you in the face as hard as they can. Because truly seeing yourself
for what and who you are can, at times, feel like you just got knocked on your
ass. You stand there dazed by the harsh light of introspection and think to
yourself<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, God, I’m a horrible person</i>.
We all experience moments like that, and I am no exception.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a smart, educated women with two beautiful, healthy
children and a successful and loving husband, I should be perfectly happy – right?
That’s where you’d be wrong. I was not happy. In fact, I was miserable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the past couple of years, I have had plenty of time for
introspection, too much. With my husband’s career rapidly on the rise, I have
had to uproot our family and our lives to move four times in three years. Two
of those moves were cross-country…in the same year. We moved from the West
Coast to the East Coast and back again. With each of those moves, I have had to
give up my current job and begin again in a new state. And when you move that
many times, unemployment stays with you like the houseguest that just won’t
leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While I am fiercely proud of my husband’s accomplishments,
the jealousy and resentment I felt fueled my sense of failure and crippled my
self-confidence. I sacrificed everything for him to get to where he is, my
career opportunities, my education, my dreams, all so he could achieve his
dreams. As my reward I got nothing but half-smoked pipe dreams and the littered
bits of barely started careers that reminded me of all the unfinished DIY
projects in people’s garages that seemed like great ideas to begin with, but
would never be finished.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My self-realization came in a flood. Thought after thought, emotion
after emotion these realizations washed over me. Like waves on the shore, as
one ebbed away, the next crashed over me. They kept coming on me until I was
drowning in them. I was miserable and lonely, but too self-conscious to want to
be around people. I resented my husband for the choices I made to support him.
I was jealous of his overwhelming success and horribly disappointed with my own
paltry accomplishments. I blamed him for damaging my employment prospects with
constant moves and specific limitations (like no evenings or weekends or travel,
or long commutes since he may have to fly out with little notice). I measured
my sense of self-worth with my employment status and realized that, though I love my
children, being a stay-at-home mom just wasn’t enough for me. Realizations can
be a real bitch, but then again, apparently so can I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Is that the sound of bitterness I hear? Hell yeah, that’s bitterness!
Bitterness, resentment, flattened self-esteem, all topped off with a steaming dollop
of self-loathing. Pretty, isn’t it? Self-realizations are never pretty. No one ever
wakes up one day and realize <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hey, I’m
kind of a wonderful person</i>. Instead, your realizations humble you with the
knowledge that you aren’t as nice, or as smart, or as great as you thought you
were. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, after all the shock and disappointment in myself
wore off, I began to realize that even though these realizations were a devastating
blow to my self-esteem, I actually came out better for it in the end. With my
newfound self-awareness I learned to modify my expectations and reevaluate what
I wanted from life and how I planned to go out and get it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I confided all my dirty little realizations to my husband.
Every. Last. One. Even though it nearly killed me to admit it all, my husband
accepted my bitter confessions with all the generosity and understanding of any
truly good and loving man. He didn’t judge or quibble about my feelings,
instead he reminded me that they were my thoughts and feelings and I had every
right to have them, but that perhaps I should cut myself some slack on the
whole self-loathing part. I readily took his advice and forgave myself for
feeling the way I did and for being human. Unburdening myself was cathartic and I am a better person for it. I am
more accepting of my shortcomings and am learning (slowly, oh so very slowly)
to be patient with my future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-53577820225696412872013-08-27T12:43:00.001-07:002013-08-27T12:43:45.303-07:00Sometimes Mom is a Four Letter Word | Mom's of the World, You Have Been Warned
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When I became a mother for the first time, my mother
gave me a book called “Motherhood is Not for Sissies.” After five years and two
kids, I definitely get the joke…that is, that there isn’t one. The only thing
that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> funny is that it’s true,
motherhood is not for sissies. Motherhood is a brutal battlefield and the kids
fight dirty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Being a mom these days is no easy job; even if it is
your only one, it is enough. With the never-ending parade of diapers, bottles,
snacks, toys, messes, and demands to contend with, being a mom is a baptism by
fire. As soon as you think you finally have this baby thing figured out and can
confidently change your child’s diaper while checking your email and updating
your Facebook status, the little darling (and by darling, I mean jerk) changes
all the rules and hurls toddlerhood right at your face. It’s a blindside and a
cheap shot to your confidence when that adorably cooing baby snatches the bowl
of pureed peas right out of your hand, chucks it on the floor…and the walls…and
the cabinetry, and shouts “NO!” At that very moment, you know that it’s game
on. The stakes are high, and your kids won’t pull any punches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As moms in this modern age, we are already at a
disadvantage. With the advance in technology, our kids get smarter faster, and
too quickly learn how to outwit their parents. That leaves us with two choices:
give in, or get creative. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Seasoned moms all know that giving in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">is not</b> an option. If you think your
kids are monsters now, just think of what little hellions they will become once
they realize that mom has been defeated. Take the hard line, and don’t flinch;
your kids will use every trick they possess to find the chink in your armor. Then
they will use their little superpowers for evil and exploit it and overthrow
your regime. As a battle hardened mom (and one who is highly in favor of
self-preservation), I adopt the same policy as that of our own government – the
United States of Mom does not negotiate with terrorists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In order to fully embody the “no negotiating with pint-sized
terrorists” policy, each mom has to fully commit. She needs to repeat her
mantra to herself on an almost hourly basis: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am the iron mom. I rule over my kids like a major general over his
troops. I don’t take lip, sass, arguing, bargaining, or mutiny. I am the queen
of manners, rules, and discipline. I will make their lives worse if they make
mine difficult and I will do it with style, creativity, and a lot of trickery</i>.
Because let’s face it, it’s Mom and Dad versus the kids, and a lot of the time
mom has to hold the battle lines solo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">If you are one of those moms who doesn’t mind being
overruled and overrun by your kids, or one that willingly and happily allows
her kids to consume every waking second of her very existence, then this book
is not for you. If you are the UberMom, the woman who lives for being a mom,
who eats, breathes and sleeps everything mom, then stop reading now and give
this book to that “other mom” in your play group, the one that you think needs
a lot of help because she doesn’t breastfeed her kid until at least age two, doesn’t
make her own baby food, doesn’t have an entire room in her house solely
dedicated to overly complicated kid crafts, and doesn’t even come close to meeting
your ridiculously and unobtainably high standards of Mom-dom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For the rest of you, the moms who don’t mind a
little high fructose corn syrup or processed cheese every now and then, or the
moms who think the Disney Junior channel and the Sprout network are absolute
life and sanity savers, or the ones who don’t have a near heart attack and
break out into hives because your three year old just picked up the fork he
dropped on the kitchen floor and stuck it back in his mouth, please read on,
enjoy, and know that you are not alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4InIlNHjCYBoYeXHDQR6tRFR08-td0VdXwaOUmqloYGTJyRYVVW9WOUnPrTWU6Q0Z-MiAZ2tAILXTYbX_UQD1x5rh7ciQLHwJdZ7kG3p_HvnpI4aqBVyoPgHdnf0bWL6S41BE_pimtE1O/s1600/20130315_191428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4InIlNHjCYBoYeXHDQR6tRFR08-td0VdXwaOUmqloYGTJyRYVVW9WOUnPrTWU6Q0Z-MiAZ2tAILXTYbX_UQD1x5rh7ciQLHwJdZ7kG3p_HvnpI4aqBVyoPgHdnf0bWL6S41BE_pimtE1O/s320/20130315_191428.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-1311474105331087802013-08-14T09:35:00.000-07:002013-08-14T09:35:37.594-07:00Can't Fight This Feeling...AnymoreOkay, okay. Get it over with and insert snarky 80's power ballad reference here. Are we good now? Good.<br />
<br />
As humans, we are all emotional creatures; we follow our gut instincts, choke back tears, fight down the ill-timed laugh or smile, and even make important decisions based on spine-tingling goosebumps or a clear case of the total heebie jeebies (yeah, I don't know if there is a right way to spell that, since spellcheck thinks I mean "hereby Jezebel." Fail). <br />
<br />
As women, we are even more predisposed to lead with our emotions. Not simply because women tend to have a closer and more personal relationship with their emotions, but also because it is more socially acceptable for us to follow those instincts (ie: women's intuition). For men, they simply dress-down the term and slap some manly scruff on it by dubbing it "following your gut." Personally, it sounds like they are lending a little too much credence to overactive intestinal issues. C'mon guys. Call a spade a spade and just admit that you are listening to your (eww, yuck, gross) feelings. Okay, you can breathe now. <br />
<br />
Whichever way you slice it, we all let our emotions guide us. Unfortunately, sometimes that leads to those same helpful emotions seizing the reigns and taking full control. After two years and three major moves, and numerous career restarts, I inevitably fell victim to the power of <em>my</em> emotional overlords: self-doubt and indifference. <br />
<br />
With my husband on the career fast-track, we were constantly packing and unpacking boxes. I should have bought stock in U-Haul, since our numerous moves probably single-handedly sustained the company through the recession. However, because of the relentless relocations, I had to quit jobs I hadn't even held for a year, and then subsequently spend another six to eight months trying to get a new one in our latest location (only to quit that one to move again). This not only took a serious toll on my resume (which should have just screamed "unreliable job hopper" to anyone who opened the file) but it also took a major toll on my confidence, self-esteem, and feelings of self worth. My seemingly never ending job search left me seriously doubting my own (completely awesome, by the way) skills set, but my usually extremely effective method of BSing my way into a job that normally would have gone to someone with more experience. Put quite bluntly, I was just used to getting what I wanted in the job search department. That is, until the recession hit. Curse you, recession. <br />
<br />
Post 2008 hit of the recession job hunts went more like this: 10 plus applications and resumes per week, 99.9% of which would garner absolute radio silence, about four calls per week from companies who will just about literally hire anyone with a pulse, zero of those jobs being ones that I would want to take unless I had a desire to hate my life even more than I already did (okay, a little dramatic, but essentially true), and the occasional call from a recruiter offering me a job with twice the workload and half the pay like it was the winning lottery ticket. <br />
<br />
With the constant rejection, or sometimes worse, the complete lack of response, my self-esteem and self-confidence took hit after hit. I began to doubt my abilities and my self worth as a wife, mother, and a person. Worse than that, as time wore on and the jobs kept passing me up, I began to fall into the trap of indifference. Not the type where I stopped feeling motivated to find a job, but the kind where I stopped caring about myself...and for myself. <br />
<br />
It started with sleeping later. I didn't have a job to get up and go to, so what did I care if I caught a few extra zzz's. Next came staying in my pajamas for the majority of the day, if not all day. If I got dressed at all, I would don a pair of yoga pants and a tee shirt. Essentially I became too lazy for real clothes. I stopped doing my hair or putting on makeup since no one would see me, and opted for the messy, sometimes three day old ponytail and bare face that not only looked pale and puffy, but decidedly more tired with each passing day. Sleeping and eating patterns changed since I stayed up later, but got up at the same time and my healthy eating habits I exceled at while I was working turned to indifferent picking at junky snack foods or skipping meals all together. My weight inched up and my health took a nosedive. I skipped pills that I needed to maintain my treatment of an auto-immune condition, I stopped taking vitamins, got less and less sleep, and watched my symptoms rebound from a relatively subdued and managed state to a full scale resurrection of my lupus. <br />
<br />
I was spiraling out of control. I was no longer my own person; my emotions had taken over and were ruling with absolute authority. I felt bereft and rudderless. I had no motivation to do anything but apply for jobs and get back to a regular routine that would automatically force my life back into the path of normalcy and control. <br />
<br />
For all my new found wisdom about my emotional state twisting my very personality, I did not come to this realization on my own. It took several long distance callouts from my mother that I was not taking care of myself and that looking after my own health and well-being should be on the top of my priority list. After several of these conversations, I began to look at my past behavior objectively, and a pattern emerged. Whenever I had to restart my career again and go through the arduous process of hardcore job hunting, my state of well-being slipped to the bottom of the priority list (if it even made the list at all). I found structure in the daily routine of work, travel, and home; it grounded me. Without it I felt lost. There was no routine, no reason to get up at a certain time, plan meals ahead of time, do my hair and makeup, be somewhere at a specific time, or go to bed at a regular time. Everything fell out of sync and my routine collapsed into a jumbled heap. <br />
<br />
I knew that things needed to change and I needed to take better care of myself...or really just care, period. It was the getting started part that was hanging me up. So I began with the simplest step I could think of...taking my medication on a regular schedule. So far, it's been a success (if a whole week of doing something I'm supposed to being doing anyway can be called a success). <br />
<br />
Everyone has that one thing that takes them from an organized, put together professional and reduces them to a listless, indecisive basket-case. For some it's stress or lack of sleep, for others it could be an overwhelming situation or a major life change. No matter who we are, there comes a point in our lives when we just lose all direction and can't figure out how to get it back. These overwhelming emotions begin to effect other aspects of our lives until they have moved in, made themselves comfortable, and refuse to budge. We all go there sometimes, but the key to getting back is knowing that things will get better and to keep looking forward.<br />
<br />
For now, everything is happening in baby steps. Finding the motivation to keep going and commit to a well structured, self-imposed schedule will prove to be a continual challenge. But I think I am up to it. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-51763332277179100042013-07-01T17:11:00.000-07:002013-07-01T17:11:36.168-07:00Living With Lupus<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being a full time mom is a difficult enough job as it is. My
job description boils down to project coordinator of laundry, dishes, and the
toilet brush (among other household implements); senior accountant of household
finances; gourmet chef (specialties include: spaghetti, chicken nuggets, &
fish sticks); nurse; and cowgirl (otherwise known as toddler wrangler). Adding
a full-time (paying) job to the mix make us less than sane people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As a writer and a stay-at-home mom, I know I’m as crazy as
they come, especially when my idea of finding some quiet work time includes
locking myself inside my walk-in closet and hunkering down behind a stack of
shoe boxes, praying the kids don’t find me. I willfully ignore the bangs,
crashes, and shrieks that echo through the house, knowing full well that the
mess will still be there after I finish my article (or at least start it). But
add an auto-immune disease into the mix and this ball game just became a
battlefield, Game of Thrones style. You fight for every inch of ground you
gain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lupus is not only a difficult disease to live with, it is
also a difficult one to diagnose. I was living with it for five years before I
finally received an answer, rather than just perplexed looks, shrugged
shoulders, and meaningless platitudes that all boiled down to “sucks to be
you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12pt; margin: 2.25pt 0in 7.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For those of you who
don’t know what Lupus is, I’ll give you the low down in layman’s terms. Lupus
is a disease that starts with your own immune system attacking you. It mistakes
healthy cells for stealthy intruders. Because of this skewed perception, your
immune system attacks various systems in your body. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12pt; margin: 2.25pt 0in 7.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For me, the scaly
skin rashes, super sunburns, circulation problems, and pesky hair loss are the
least of my problems. Though it would be nice to have the long, thick,
luxurious hair I used to have. (I chopped mine pixie style, just to hide how
thin it had become). Aside from lamenting the loss of my pretty hair, I have
bigger fish to fry. And that is just functioning on a daily basis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12pt; margin: 2.25pt 0in 7.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lupus not only
causes the minor inconveniences I mentioned above, this wholly unwelcome
houseguest lugs with it an entire collection of symptomatic luggage. Joint
inflammation and pain, muscle pain, debilitating fatigue, headaches, diminished
immunity, and a litany of other possible complications. Lucky me, I drew
hearts. That is, heart complications. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12pt; margin: 2.25pt 0in 7.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In one respect I did
get lucky. The type of heart problem I have is pretty much the one you want to
have…if you actually have to have a heart problem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12pt; margin: 2.25pt 0in 7.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not that you really
get a choice. If I had that option, I would politely say “no thank you” and
quickly run the other direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Focus, Lindsey. Okay, back to the point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Basically my complication boils down to my heart beats too
fast now, and throws in some extra off beats, just to keep things interesting.
If that wasn’t enough to be getting on with, several months ago I developed
pericarditis, which means the lining around my heart muscle gets inflamed and
irritated. Not particularly dangerous, but it can be pretty painful (if the
feeling of someone stabbing you repeatedly in the heart with an icepick can be
considered “pretty painful”).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So…yeah, simply functioning on a daily basis has presented
quite a challenge, especially being<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
work-at-home mom of two rambunctious preschoolers. But, after two and a half
years of trial-and-error treatments, hundreds of pills, and several scary ER
trips, I have become an expert at coping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The most important skills to acquire are acceptance and an
entirely new way of thinking. I know many people would consider acceptance as
just another way of throwing in the towel, but it’s not that at all. Accepting
that this disease will be your constant companion for life is an important step
to coping. Once you gain acceptance, you can begin to move on and decide how
you are going to live your new life. Herein begins the new way of thinking:
adjusting you stamina and expectations, swapping a high impact workout for a
low impact one, developing a close relationship with sunscreen, and learning
how to sleep like a teenager again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally comes the honest conversation with your kids. Tell
them enough to make them understand, but not so much that you scare the pants
off them (or prompts an overshare with every person that crosses their path).
All they really need to understand is that sometimes mom doesn’t feel good and
that in order to help her feel better, she needs her children to helpful and on
their best behavior. Though they may not always be the perfect little angels
you hope they will be, they will try their best to make things easier in their
own way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All in all it is an ongoing journey with plenty of bumps and
detours, but with a little help and a lot of patience even a busy mom can
manage to cope with this new (if unwelcome) adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-37426833453039079502013-07-01T14:17:00.000-07:002013-07-01T14:36:23.018-07:00Operation Vacation<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqs0YWBRAl8caIZ8uNATM6wcNZKCWzo3YwtMWWsBj44twITYPodboupDM75xrlJUPTphh-EEW7s1OCf4ZqnLx3WVRdAc76Patf0NrX2039sfjCX4k45UafNBXtsz6qMLvUyBeZFGGTuL_L/s720/Lake+House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqs0YWBRAl8caIZ8uNATM6wcNZKCWzo3YwtMWWsBj44twITYPodboupDM75xrlJUPTphh-EEW7s1OCf4ZqnLx3WVRdAc76Patf0NrX2039sfjCX4k45UafNBXtsz6qMLvUyBeZFGGTuL_L/s640/Lake+House.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Flip-flops…check (as I extract the lone one from under the
bed). Several changes of clothes (plus a few extra choices)…check. Sunscreen…where
the heck is the sunscreen. Dammit, over 3oz. Guess I won’t be taking that on
the plane, I think to myself as I chuck it into the reject pile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Packing yourself for a well
deserved vacation can be overwhelming at the best of times, but throw kids into
the mix and your sanity can unravel faster than a roll of toilet paper with a
three-year old at the other end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our family spends as much time as possible at the family
lake house in the Cascade Mountains during the summer, but ever since we moved
from Seattle to New York, our nearly every weekend trips have dwindled to one, big
ten-day trip. Managing a bicoastal trip involves a lot of packing and unpacking
and repacking. With a four-year old and a three-year old, preparations can
start to seem like a monumental task. For some reason, when it comes to those
adorable hard-side, 18 inch spinners decked out in Hello Kitty or Cars designs,
my kids would rather forgo the clothes and opt for their suitcases being stuffed
to bursting with cars, trains, dollies, and stuffies. I spend more time chasing
after the little suitcase absconders trailing infrequent heaps of previously
neatly folded outfits, than I actually spend packing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I guess by now, I should probably learn to fold and pack all
their clothes the night before we leave, but with last minute laundry loads,
injured stuffies and ripped blankies that need emergency surgery, and the all
important tasks of making sure the dishwasher is clean and all the garbage is
out of the house (too avoid full on olfactory assault upon our return), I have
no time left for stealthy nighttime packing subterfuge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Airline ticket app and kid friendly ebooks and games downloaded,
bags loaded, blankies and portable movie players packed in brightly colored
backpacks sporting my kids’ favorite Disney characters, and mom and Dad running
on about four hours of sleep, we plunge headlong into the melee of New York’s
JFK airport. As we make it through security (thankfully without any meltdowns
or pat-downs) we head to our departure gate, only to find that the previous
flight is delayed, so our flight is in limbo for the foreseeable future. Tired,
whiny kids in tow who, not only want us to carry all their stuff, but want us
to carry them as well, we grab some breakfast and take a load off while my
husband compulsively checks his JetBlue app for status updates. Forty-five
minutes before our scheduled takeoff time, the app tells us that our gate has
been changed to one on the opposite end of the terminal. Swell. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Schlepping our own carryon as well as the kids’ we start the
arduous trek to our new gate. All I can say is, thank goodness for early
boarding for travelers with small children. We jump the line and get settled on
the plane, snagging prime spots for our carryon in the overhead bins, and
immediately unpack stuffies and blankies to placate our increasingly grumpy
children. As soon as the seats around us begin to fill, my kids snap out of
their doldrums and fly to the other end of the spectrum…hyper. Groan. They
excitedly babble, to anyone who will listen, their plans for this trip and
begin their childish interrogation of their fellow passengers. I breathe a sigh
of relief and a silent prayer of thanks for the tolerance and kind indulgence
of the people seated around us and settle in for a mercifully uneventful
flight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Touchdown. We have arrived and I realize how stressed I am,
as I shrug the tension from my shoulders and actually begin to enjoy the true
beginning of our vacation. Camping, swimming, sun, family, and s’mores here we
come. Viva la family vacation!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-58581114354139912612013-06-24T09:14:00.003-07:002013-06-24T11:17:58.548-07:00Temper Tantrums<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRUybjKrkm7vRuGpm6sARKqSkKIWICUGb2SAnOqbZJjEUqyWlDtdG3y-aDuKFJWH4lUmk43mdmWUCmPEMNdgrNTUiIAWf2LJlRoCaAtUtdhVL-dp6Te2NDcq2-YrCd5Duqn2rPC3KDD7a/s1600/october2010-74.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRUybjKrkm7vRuGpm6sARKqSkKIWICUGb2SAnOqbZJjEUqyWlDtdG3y-aDuKFJWH4lUmk43mdmWUCmPEMNdgrNTUiIAWf2LJlRoCaAtUtdhVL-dp6Te2NDcq2-YrCd5Duqn2rPC3KDD7a/s400/october2010-74.jpg" width="267" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">There is nothing more frustrating, embarrassing – and yes –
amusing about witnessing the core meltdown of a toddler, especially if the
toddler in question belongs to you. However, as disheartening and emotionally
trying as a toddler tantrum can be, sometimes they’re not the only ones who
need to release stress by some good old-fashioned kicking and screaming. Even
moms succumb to their baser instincts and just let fly whatever frustrations, stresses,
or general craziness are upsetting their apple cart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As moms we hold
ourselves up to incredible standards to be the perfect motherly specimen (the
UberMom). We see the images of SuperMom on television, in movies, and in
commercials; we strive to live up to the images of June Cleaver, Heidi Klum,
and Martha Stewart all rolled into one. We push ourselves to be successful,
attractive, fashion forward, creative, and the mom who makes sack lunches,
heads up the PTA, creates fun and interesting art projects to fill the rainy
days, and lays lavish home-cooked meals on the table every night of the week.
No wonder the veneer begins to crack every now and again. We’ve packed so many
must haves into our personality that we are bursting at the seams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I am completely guilty of buying into the SuperMom image. I
have accumulated numerous infractions, violations, and downright felonies of
that SuperMom code of conduct. And yes – that includes temper tantrums. I have
lost my inner SuperMom more times than I wish to admit. When surrounded with
toilets overflowing with an entire roll of toilet paper, dry-erase crayon
pictures decorating the carpet (courtesy of my daughter), all of my clothes
& shoes cascading out of my closet and dresser, the dog marking the
furniture, the kids screaming bloody murder at each other over who gets to rip
the pages out of books or shred the resident holiday decorations and my sweet
little boy pulling handfuls of flour and sugar out of the canisters so he can
make it “snow”, I have been pushed so far to the edge that my inner self is
screaming at me (over my yelling) to just throw myself on the nearest available
surface and kick and scream and pound my fists, then get up and start flinging
things around the room with all my might, until I feel better. And that, ladies
and gentlemen, is a mom sized tantrum. Kids have nothing on mom when she’s
about to blow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The good thing about being an adult (and the bad) is that
you have the presence of mind to suppress the all-out rage and destruction
part. Dammit. The thing that I have learned through the numerous encounters
with my inner toddler is that that frustration and craving for a good
old-fashioned kick & scream is completely healthy and normal. We need that
release in one way or another. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">My way is to write about it. That is, if the kids leave me
alone long enough to fire up my laptop, let alone type actual words. However,
when time and toddlers are not so obliging, a quick trip upstairs to my bedroom
where I quickly lock the door and throw myself face first on to the bed to let
out one, good, throat rattling scream, usually suffices until a little quiet
time is actually attainable. When all else fails, a little wine can become
mom’s best friend. Don’t look at me that way, you know it’s true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRUybjKrkm7vRuGpm6sARKqSkKIWICUGb2SAnOqbZJjEUqyWlDtdG3y-aDuKFJWH4lUmk43mdmWUCmPEMNdgrNTUiIAWf2LJlRoCaAtUtdhVL-dp6Te2NDcq2-YrCd5Duqn2rPC3KDD7a/s1600/october2010-74.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">So for those of you moms (or dads) aspiring to SuperMom (or
SuperDad) status, failure is not only an option, it’s practically a job
requirement. No one is perfect, and trying to be the perfect parent only adds
to the pressure of simply trying to be a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i></b> parent. So give yourself a
break and accept that you’ll never be perfect, and that your kids actually
don’t want perfect. They just want you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-5685059831561480902013-06-23T17:26:00.002-07:002013-06-24T11:19:13.134-07:00The Real Imaginary WriterWriting, to me, has always been about the art of creation, the imagination, and sheer enjoyment of putting an idea or story down on paper and giving it life. It has been a tangible way for me to have ultimate control in a life that seems very out of control. I make a million small decisions in the stories that I write that completely dictate the outcome of the characters I create. Do I let them live, or kill them off? Do they fall in love, or fall short? Do they succeed, or do they fail? But writing has ever only been an enjoyable hobby. I have implacably refused to become a professional writer. I always believed that writing for a living would take the joy out of the art. However, I should, by now, know better than to use words like never or always. <br />
<br />
No matter how emphatic my high minded beliefs were, they would ultimately give way to the practicality of convenience and the necessity of ingenuity. As Plato wrote, "necessity is the mother of invention." Now necessity has driven me to put the tools that I was given to good and practical use. Being in the great city of New York, where opportunity abounds and stiff competition follows hard on its heels, has given me the rough awakening and, consequently, the determination I needed to simply close my eyes and jump straight into a writing career. With something of a diverse job history, writing has been my only constant. Thus, the Real Imaginary Writer was born.<br />
<br />
I chose the moniker Real Imaginary Writer, because writing has always been a hobby and a joy, so writing as a profession doesn't seem like a real job. I only half jokingly call it my real fake job. Where else can I get up in the morning, walk downstairs to my kitchen and make my tea, then go to work in my pajamas, where I make stuff up and write stories about whatever I want? No wonder this doesn't feel like a job for a grown-up. Even though I feel like I don't have a real job, at the same time I sincerely hope that that feeling never changes.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHhtpMMR2wdNJYZwsW2K-KR47UkfwZxaFcNqYUQV3VJG8pqcjjJDGc6wTH2LCPiM8bP6cX2CcWJQ8OaqmGLq3BXytbyAMQDgjMpM28WIFjJD6XugOyVSMG3iT33wUZYWNf-Mkt_EA_bho/s1600/Writer5_Once-1024x576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHhtpMMR2wdNJYZwsW2K-KR47UkfwZxaFcNqYUQV3VJG8pqcjjJDGc6wTH2LCPiM8bP6cX2CcWJQ8OaqmGLq3BXytbyAMQDgjMpM28WIFjJD6XugOyVSMG3iT33wUZYWNf-Mkt_EA_bho/s400/Writer5_Once-1024x576.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-56916107579132020852013-06-22T10:00:00.003-07:002013-06-22T10:00:51.483-07:00My Favorite Time of Day
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nighttime is my favorite time of day. Even though I am tired
from the strains of the day, I seem to come alive at night. My brain is filled
with places and people and stories that are scrambling to get out. They whirl
around my head like a brightly light ballroom swirling with gaily clad figures,
spinning and twisting to the time of the music. I guess that’s what makes me
the serial insomniac that I have been for many years now. I have more
creativity spinning around my brain during those few hours of attempts at
sleep, than I do in the whole of the preceding day. Sometimes the only cure for
that is putting pen to paper (so to speak) and getting the ideas out of my head
for good. I always seem to be more at peace when I write.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This, in itself, is an amazing concept, because I seem to
avoid writing more often than I give in to it. I write to get my mind off the
swirling of ideas, not, necessarily, to give voice to them. I have so many
ideas for books and stories stuffed in the attic of my mind, that I barely have
room for it all. Rather than purge the superfluous ideas, I hoard them. Like a
pirate hiding pilfered treasure, I store mine up for the seemingly inevitable
day that I will need them. I don’t use it, or spend it, I simply save it like a
scholarly Silas Marner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’m afraid. I believe it is as simple as that. I am afraid
that nothing I commit to paper will ever be as stunningly imaginative as it was
in my head. I fear throwing effort after foolishness, in indulging in the
fantasy that my book will be complete, published, and revered. I am loath to
spend large quantities of time on a project that may never extend farther than
my desktop printer. Yet, I am at peace when I write. Therein lies my
predicament.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-12919794160708573842013-06-22T09:59:00.001-07:002013-06-22T09:59:12.990-07:00Just Do It Already
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been writing a book for nearly ten years now and there
always seems to be something that prevents me from finishing it. I am not your
typical writer. I can’t just write for a specified length of time without
making any corrections. I make the corrections as they come up. I think that
tends to seriously slow my process. I also think the other, much stronger
aspect of my writing paralysis is the fear of success. I never wanted writing
to become my job. I loved it too much to have it change from a pure expression
of myself into something forced and unworthy. I didn’t want the pressure of
producing something to eclipse the work itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead I dreamed of my book in print, of being an author
full time, and of having a study/library where I would sit behind my large
mahogany writers desk, surrounded by walls of books, facing a window
overlooking a tranquil view of the ocean and produce my next masterpiece. A
nice dream, but hardly realistic…and a complete waste of time. Nevertheless, I
continued to daydream my life away and wish my book into successful existence,
paralyzed by procrastination and not really producing anything that forwarded
this lofty ambition. Oh sure, I dabbled. Writing a paragraph here, an outline
there, but nothing that really made much of a difference. More to the point, it
was just the opposite of that. My playacting at being a writer made me revise
and rewrite sections of completed work in an, as yet, unfinished story. My
story was barely started and already I was rewriting its history. I know now
that I would be much better served to complete an imperfect story, than to
continue to pick at parts better left alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So now I begin afresh, with a new outlook on my
writing adventure. I have found that writing is just like physical exercise, it
needs to be performed regularly to have any effect. Even if I don’t work on my
book every day, at least the act of writing on a regular basis, on any subject,
will put me on the path to becoming a much more effective and consistent
writer. This blog is a good way for me to exercise and express without the
pressure of production. Writing is a gift and a calling, if you don’t use the
tools and inspiration you are given, they abandon you and leave only regret in
their wake. For anyone who has ever wanted to write, but been too afraid to put
proverbial pen to paper, just do it. What have you got to lose? Learn from my
mistakes and don’t waste another day wishing your imagination into physical
creation. It doesn’t matter whether you are good or not, what matters is the
doing. Find a way to express yourself for you and no one else. Just close your
eyes, grit your teeth, and write.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2910677022555618136.post-28266960671476711772013-06-22T09:56:00.001-07:002013-06-22T09:56:06.326-07:00I write to be Myself
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I never really thought of myself as an interesting person.
Sure, I think interesting thoughts and like interesting things, but I'm not a
person with a particularly dynamic life. I've lived most of my life in the same
small town in Western Washington, never been out of the country (except for
Mexico on a church trip when I was 15) and have only visited about 7 states,
most of which don't even cross east of the Rockies. But here I am, a recent
resident of New York with no job, no friends, and little to do except
impatiently wait for my life to change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I always loved writing. It was a way for me to get out all
the things I wanted to say, but didn’t really know how to convey in so many
spoken words. More often than not, I would find myself tongue tied and stammering,
whenever I tried to speak my mind, or else, much worse, I would try desperately
to talk myself out of a corner I had only moments ago talked myself into.
However, writing allows me to be witty, charming or cutting without the added
pressure of performance anxiety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here
I am, a recent New York transplant who has nothing better to do besides writing
down anything and everything that comes to mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was born in Washington, lived there, went to college
there, met my husband and got married there, and had my kids there. My entire
family lives in Washington, as well as all of my husband’s family. So, leaving
all of that heritage, memories, and support system behind was not really a
choice; it was more like an anti-choice. My husband’s career path steered us
ruthlessly toward New York. There, was the only place that his career could go,
if not, it would just become stagnant and evanescent. There was no choice.
Either I go, or I damn his dreams. That is not a choice, it is an undeniable
force that mercilessly and unceremoniously dumps you onto a path, already
moving forward. Your only choice is to stand up and meet the horizon head up
and head on, or lie down and let the road drag you perpetually onward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’m not going to lie, there was, for a time, dark hours in
which I was willing to lie there as the path I was on, dragged me along. With
two small children and two rapidly growing Labrador puppies, plopped down in a
two bedroom corporate apartment, with unfamiliar and starkly impersonal rented
furniture, in strange city in which I knew no one, I was more than willing to
be swallowed up by a sense of desertion, fear, and of being completely
overwhelmed. I let it take me for a while; I succumbed to the bittersweet
embrace of wallowing in my own self-pity and bemoaning my present fate. For a
time it was soothing and comfortable to feel ill-used and at odds with the
world. Then it began to grow heavy and gnawing, like the cloying scent of the
air freshener that clings to its surrounding around the garbage chute in our
building. It was time to shed the dark veil of mourning I had donned in
lamentation of my current circumstances. I had to find an outlet for all the
hours of non-conversation and idleness I had stored up. I had to find a
purpose. Writing became my purpose. I now write just to express myself in
complete sentences that are not hobbled by the limited vocabulary mothers use
when conversing with small children all day. I write to fill my empty hours
with something productive and of my own creation. I write to find purpose and
conviction and freedom within myself. I write to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11820158825732640153noreply@blogger.com0