The Triumphant Return of a Reluctant Redhead

I definitely just stared at this screen for 8 minutes before this sentence suddenly came to me. Not even sure where to begin.

I broke away from the Facebook (a term for FB that I will now use, as a lovable and slightly dorky "older person") for almost 5 months. I won't get into any details, as it isn't important to really dwell on the straw that broke that poor little camel's back, but let's just say one night I said "I'm done". I was done signing on to see things that angered me. Politically, spiritually, personally. The time had come to stop it; after all, I was choosing the anger, wasn't I? I was associating with things that upset me. I was putting my password in to log on. I was taking time from my day to get completely lost in negativity. I realized then that I was the only one who could stop it.

People asked me what happened. They wanted to hear a story of a blowout, or that I was hiding from people who were out to get me. They wanted drama and I didn't have any. It was so much bigger than a dramatic encounter with an internet troll, or someone that I had pissed off, or something really meaningless like that. It was a culmination of everything but, mostly, it started so long ago with the election. I'm not whining about the election here still, I'm simply stating what attributed to most of my rage on the internet. It was, and still is, all so silly. Not our lives, our freedoms, or our country's current situation, but the non-stop chatter from this, that, and the other one. I didn't recognize my news feed, nor did I know who my friends were anymore. Out in the "real world", yes, I had people that I could look in the eye and talk to. We could laugh and joke and have a good time. Those were the people I wanted, I NEEDED, to keep me sane. I could look straight at them and say that maybe we should talk about something else, or agree to disagree, and they would concur. Then we could go on drinking [way too much] wine and living in peace.

These little devices are so easy to hide behind. I got to the point where I decided that if someone wanted to say something to me, or air their grievances with me, that they could good-old-fashioned say it to my face. That expression sounds so rude and combative, but it doesn't have to be. I wanted to interact with the people I loved in a constructive way, and I think that I forgot that that should be a priority to me. I've debated, I've argued, I've explained, and I've disagreed with people. It happens and it always will. On the computer/phone/tablet/apple watch thingy, it was too easy to start changing my views of people that I knew I liked but could no longer identify with. Like I said, the chatter was loud.

I was too upset to keep myself composed sometimes. The country was upset, I was a part of that, and I didn't know what to do with it. Most of the world jumped on the internet and, when I got involved too, it hurt. Everyone lashed out at screens instead of sitting for conversations, myself included. We all spiraled, and no one knew how to stop the ride. I found out that pulling the emergency lever was my only chance.

I missed the good parts. I missed the funny things people would send me. I missed making fun of my family for loving animals in every post they made. Speaking of family, I also missed the other half that posted so much about Tom Brady that I had to send multiple eye-rolls their way every week. I missed my dark-humored friends sending me [non political] memes that probably made my mom cringe. I missed catching up with people I never got to see but missed dearly. I missed putting up my cuties' pics for all to see. Unfortunately, at that point in February, the bad outweighed the good content, and I fled the scene like the Facebook was on fire.

I can only hope that, after some time away, I can get back to what I loved about social media. It's not the selfies or the made-up political facts or the memes damning anyone who doesn't agree with exactly what you believe. It's not the people who troll groups and posts just to come down on someone with cruelty to get a rise. It's definitely not to have angry, ugly debates with people I don't know, or even worse, people I do know and care about. For me, I have to keep it light. I have to keep it about pictures of my kids, silly things my husband does, inane blogs about things that I care about, peppered with R-rated language for the [tiny] masses who read along. I love jokes and laughs and irony. If you're not IN my life, then I can safely bet that I don't really need to see what you ate for lunch or scroll through 34 selfies of your night out. No offense, of course, but it's just too much.

The internet is big, it's overwhelming, and I'm not sure our heads can really wrap around this enormous thing we call social media. It's an addictive drug that we are being handed for free. We forget about feelings, human beings, trees, smells of rain (which is what I can smell right now, sitting by this open window as I type). We disconnect, even though we get a little message saying we are "connecting".

If this sounds judgmental, it's not. If it sounds like there are people I don't like because of this Facebook sabbatical, there aren't. If it sounds like I think I'm more enlightened than you, well, shit, I could only wish to be that put-together. I'm going into this with a larger awareness of myself and a smaller friends list. Let's hope that's the winning combination.


Jeez, first day back and I've found that soapbox of mine. Just where I left it.

The Vasectomy Heard 'Round The World

Remember that time I was pregnant for a total of 20 months and had my stomach cut open twice to have two little ladies yanked out of me?

Not doing that again.

So there it is, Kevin and I have decided to stop at 2 beautiful, wonderful, messy, rambunctious, lovely girls. There are so many reasons why a couple might decide this, some they talk about and some they don't, but just know, we are very happy with what we have chosen. Very content. Very sure. Except for the 10 days we weren't.*

*more on that later.

From the title, you have probably figured out that my husband, "Kevin", has had a vasectomy. (I have changed my husband's name to a name that is easy to spell/remember/pronounce, that may or may not be his real name, to protect his identity. Please don't ask me to reveal his name to you, it is inappropriate and I don't appreciate that. Also, his privacy means everything to me.)

Kevin decided on his own that he wanted this done. How do I know this? Well, one night while lying in bed, I hear a small voice from the dark say, "I will get a vasectomy if you want me to." Will you now? "Ok", I say. And then I follow that up with, "HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS LONG? WHEN DID YOU DECIDE THIS? WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME THIS HALF ASLEEP!?" He then gently propped himself up on his pillow. He had some explaining to do and, from his wife's tone, this was probably gonna take a while. We talked it over and, really, it made perfect sense. Now, I was only aggravated that I hadn't thought of it first, though I think that a wife approaching her husband with, "Let's cut into your balls" is probably grounds for divorce. He saved me on that one. Kevin-1, Leah-0.

Now that it was out there and the gears were set in motion, he ran with it. He ran faster than any guy I've seen run pantsless toward a man with a scalpel. That's my guy: enthusiastic to the bitter end. (More on him losing his enthusiasm later). He made the consultation appointment on his own. Men shouldn't be left to their own devices to do certain things, and I guess this was one of them. He looked forever at a list of doctor's, called some offices, didn't approve of some, and then finally landed on the doctor that would sterilize him for good. And his name was doctor Killstein.

He chose a doctor with the word kill in his name and didn't bat a lash.

I stayed on birth control until I just couldn't anymore. I never noticed any side effects when I was on it from age 16-26, but now all of a sudden, I couldn't deal. Huge mood swings. Crying. Eating everything in sight. But what is a fertile girl who just doesn't have it in her to be pregnant again do?! Sure, there's things to protect from that but, who are we kidding? Do you remortgage your house to pay for the next 15 years of protection and just wait with bated breath for menopause? I had suffered through months of not being myself, and what prompted Kevin to even think the V-word was that I was unhappy. Which made him unhappy. Jesus, it made him wanna cut his manhood--we must have been unhappy indeed. I quit the stuff and he met the doctor and made his final appointment and then, there it was. It was happening.

Oh, shit, it was happening.

Let's talk about 20 days prior. We are good, we are ready to not have anymore kids. We talk it to death and we know this is right. I'm not sure what goes on in a guy's uterus, but in mine, there was sadness. Not sadness like, "I want another kid", but more like "I'm knowingly giving up the ability to bear another adorable, sweet, smushy little baby. Even though I don't want another adorable, sweet, smushy baby, I like having the option. But I don't, cause then I'm crazy on birth control. But, WHAT ABOUT THE NO BABIES". This is the madness that mostly I, but also a little of Kevin, had to live with. The Void, I called it. (I'm not coining this because I think I read it somewhere and it's awesome and I would never wanna steal someone elses's awesome). So I'm ok, I'm still good with no more kids. I'm old, I hated being pregnant the second time, I'm still battling weight, and my god when will I ever get my sanity back. Yes, two is good.

Right?

I think by now you can see that this was not an easy decision to commit to. It was easy to make, but not exactly to commit to. Trust me, there's a difference. 10 days out was messy. There was some liquor involved, a big football game (that clearly only affected one of us in such a way) and doubt. This type of doubt is the kind that can only be fueled by lots of red wine and jumping up and down at the TV during a touchdown (again, only one of us was doing that, but emotions were high all around). This leads us to realize we have T-minus 10 days til Vasectomy, prompting fear. Which immediately leads us to 10 days of random, unprotected sex that I will talk no further about. I know how many times we "rolled the dice" but I am a lady, in some circumstances. Welcome to that circumstance.

Fast forward to the day of. We are not thinking about the partially irresponsible things we did the 10 days preceeding, we are now just thinking of the V itself. There's some "prep work" to a vasectomy that I'd rather not discuss, but if anyone must know, you can private message me. (I can answer you in 6 words or less.) The procedure goes as follows (translated into my own words from the handout Kevin was given by the doctor at consultation): drop your husband off, wait 30 minutes beginning to end, pick your husband back up. That is what is expected to happen, however, expect the unexpected.

I dropped Kevin off in front of the office 5 minutes early, just like I would have if it were his first day of Kindergarten. As he was getting out I said, "I will go kill time lightly grocery shopping. Call me when you're done", as I would be 10 minutes away. He turned and flashed a nervous smile, not because of the impending procedure apparently because he said, "I forgot my phone". Of course he did. He probably would have left his penis at home, too, if it wasn't attached. So now I must gauge how much time this will actually take vs what we were told. Doctor's offices don't exactly excel at getting people in and out on time, as I'm aware. So I go and say, "I'll be back."

Much like the Terminator, there were also veins pulsing in my forehead.

I go to the store, rush through as much as one can with two children, and return about 30 minutes later. Now that there is no phone, I've had to guess when to come back. This means I can sit in the car watching the door for an indefinite amount of time listening to Thing 1 and Thing 2 argue in the backseat, in the dead of winter, or I can take the aforementioned children into the Urologist.

I love my life.

We get out and there is a slew of questions from Ren about "where are we and where is daddy and why are we here and is he ok and why is he at the doctor is he sick yeah then what hurts on him and can we eat and when are we leaving and can I play more when I get home and why are we here..." This, all before entering the office.

I get there and "check in", which is funny at a urologist's office for a girl. The female receptionist and I have a giggle. She knows just who I am here for, though, before I open my mouth because he is the last appointment of the day. Last snip. Last hurrah. Totally fitting for Killstein. She tells me I am right on time, to which I want to reply, "Oh, I'm an expert at this. Done it so many times", looking like a crazy black widow who sterilizes all her men. I thought the giggle we shared already was enough, though, so I just said, "Ok" and proceeded to sit. I heard Kevin, on the other side of the glass, doing some last checkout things. I was pleased with my timing as much as the receptionist.

Now Kevin, he didn't really give a shit, did he? He had to go and turn white and get tunnel vision and nearly pass out on the floor. I knew of none of this while it was happening because they whisked him back to his room so quickly. So, what was supposed to be a minute or two of waiting turned into 5, which was curious, but I was trying to be patient. For god's sake, he just sliced into his body for me! The next person I saw was a nurse with a small brown paper bag. She assured me all was fine, that he had just almost passed out. She seemed like she thought I would be more concerned than I was but, come on, I know this guy. He's not a weakling when it comes to blood and guts, but the aftermath of having just laid for a half hour getting his privates operated on by KILLstein and his hideous, old nurses (this is how I pictured each and every woman who saw my husband's penis that day), must have gotten the best of him. He over-thought it.

I was not worried about Kevin's well-being, per say, but I was worried about what was in that little brown bag. It looks like a pee cup, it stands like a pee cup, but that ain't no pee cup. That is a cup to check whether or not the procedure was a success, and he was instructed by yet another handout to return it, not empty, to the office in about a month. (Ok, it didn't give a time frame, it gave a number of...ugh, you know what, just private message me for more details.  No, wait...don't.)

Kevin finally emerged 10 minutes later, after a couple more reassuring "Don't worry, he's almost ready" comments from the nurse. What I was thinking was "I'M NOT WORRIED, I'M HUNGRY", but what I said was another smiley "Ok". He finally comes out, being escorted by a not-hideous nurse who must just be the escorting nurse and not the penis-seeing nurse (of course), and all I can muster is "Wow, you're really gray!". He half smiles, which is kind. She tells me he was worse before, and then I realize that if we keep with this conversation we're gonna lose him for sure this time. I stand, gather my tired tots and gray husband, and slink toward the exit.

I asked the poor thing 100 times on our 7 minute drive home if he was ok. He said yes 100 times. He moved slowly when we got home, and, wife of the year over here, I carried the kids and the groceries myself (wife of the year!). He sat on the couch, but not before going straight to the freezer for a bag of peas. He did not eat the peas. While high on pain meds, he passionately debated me on how we shouldn't eat said peas in the future. I said "Why in the hell not? They're covered in plastic." We went round and round and I just don't remember who won the argument. I can only say this: I'm pretty sure I whipped up a pretty good stir-fry a week later. Luckily, he's a lightweight when it comes to pill-popping, so he probably didn't even remember the debate (or realize what he was actually eating). Leah-1, Kevin-0

The days proceeding were filled with not lifting, covering his private area with both hands dramatically every time one of his children came within 3 feet of him (they're the perfect height for punching or head-butting him), and being waited on hand and foot. He kept everything in pretty good perspective, and I think that wonderful man even mentioned how my two c-sections had been so much worse, and how my recovery time and scar were not even comparable to his*.

And now the million dollar question: ARE YOU PREGNANT FROM YOUR 10 DAY STINT OF FEAR AND DOUBT?! No. But that's ok because, after taking 2 pregnancy tests when I wasn't sure if I was late or not, and thinking to myself OH GOD PLEASE BE NEGATIVE, I know we did the right thing. Things are still not in the clear yet (I don't wanna talk about the cup in the bag), but we will be responsible adults from here on out**.


*I could be remembering this wrong, as it may have been me that pointed out, after day 3 in recovery, that what I went through was way worse than this piddly little procedure. I'm still not really sure how this went down, but I [think I] was most likely the good guy.

**I'm steering clear of red wine.

~Leah

I'm Not Judging You (But I'm Judging You)

I love how we, as a whole, say this to people--when deep down we are guilty in some way of doing this.  Or am I really the only one?  Really?  Maybe I don't judge my family or friends--perhaps it's the girls I date, or don't, as it were.

Call it shallow.

I may openly support your "appreciation", as you'd call it, for Britney Spears but, internally, I'm sitting across from you trying to fathom how you could possibly call her a musician, let alone an artist. Chances are, we're not going on a second date.  The same could be said for you sitting opposite me. I once dated a girl who didn't just dislike country music, she loathed it.  Not to mention her very vocal opinions against metal music.  I chalked it up to her not being eclectic enough--judgement.

Please don't be offended if we are out to eat and you order a Bud Light, Budweiser, or Coors Light and I interject, asking if you would prefer a Poland Spring or Pellegrino. It's not that I'm cheap, but your palette is.  And I would rather pay for your true enjoyment of what you're asking for.  Maybe you like domestic water-tasting lagers--I won't judge, but there probably won't be a second date...because I'm judging.

If you can't relate to cinematic art such as Freeway, Swimming With Sharks or Kill Me Later, don't expect me to comprehend your excitement over Transformers, anything with 'Fast' or 'Furious' in the title, or--lord, help me--Titanic.  We may go on a second date because I'll over-analyze the fact that I'm being a bit too critical, or to appease my friends who want me to give you a second chance.  I'll try and listen to you explain how movies resonate differently with people.  While you're doing this, though, I'm no longer listening to your case.  I'm fixated on how Titanic can resonate on any level, especially from a carpentry standpoint.  Anyone knows they both could have fit on that bloody door.  It's not romantic or chivalrous; it's idiocy, to say the least.  No third date.

Maybe you don't this.  I really could be the only one.  Maybe I'm talking out my ass.  Maybe you're reading this and can't believe how judgmental I can be over someone's musical or film interests or beverage choices.  There will be no first or second dates for us, either.  You're judging me for judging them.

JenG

It Takes a Village

"It takes a village". We hear it all the time when referring to child-rearing. Mostly we hear it from people older than us, who have grown children, who feel our pain and know our struggles. We don't realize they know our struggles because they are not dwelling on the past--that is, still complaining about that time, 30 years ago, when their two-year-old took her dirty diaper off in her crib. Her really dirty diaper. We see them and we know they have grown children and, in our overtired and worn out brains, we assume the children were magical and rode unicorns to school and sang their parents' praises in beautiful octaves. They didn't cry or ask "why" constantly, and they ate so many vegetables it was like something from a fairy tale. And we assume all of this happened while they were being raised in this gorgeous daydream of a village our parents and their friends speak of.

Today, we don't have villages, per say. We have communities, sure, but in my experience they don't really help with children. They watch out for predators in our neighborhoods and plant trees for the future, but I can't use them when I want to go grocery shopping alone. We have online villages: ivillage, momvillage, dadvillage, blogvillage, ifeelyourpainvillage, but again, doesn't help when I'm stuck and have to go to work and don't have a physical human being to sit with my children and ensure they don's set anything on fire or choke on Legos. Some people's villages may be a close-knit group of friends, their parents and siblings, or neighbors they trust. Whatever your village looks like, it is probably your saving grace at times when you think your head will explode, scaring your children and leaving brain matter on the wall that you will inevitably have to clean up yourself.

I am lucky to have a village. Mine is lots of fun, quite extensive, and oh, so wonderful. I know people who don't have one, who suffer in silence alone. There are some friends who have a few people, but not many. There are people who have people but who do not call on the people they have because of the belief that they should be able to "do this themselves". Nuh-uh, honey. Were you not listening? It takes a G-D village!

When you have the village, use it. If you have one to call your own, embrace it as needed. Obviously, don't take advantage of it, villagers don't like it when you only call to say "I need help!". They may even wield fiery sticks and chant "get them!" while running after you, so just watch yourself there. Save it for your breaking point, your date night, that moment when you just need to browse the produce aisle alone. Emergencies are the best time to use the village because villagers appreciate that you need them and that they can help.

Part of the village is accepting the help wholeheartedly so, stop apologizing! For the love of god I will say it again, STOP SAYING I'M SORRY. I, too, have a hard time with this one, but it really is unnecessary. I realize we're just trying to show that we are aware that something wrong has gone down, it's a way of being polite, but don't overdo it.  I recently had a few instances where my friends and family with children just wouldn't stop APOLOGIZING for things their children did. And I don't mean, "I'm sorry my kid set your house on fire, forcing you to lose everything, including your family dog, and left you in ruins". (You had better apologize for that, dude.) But really? I'm sorry my kid made a mess with the toys, I'm sorry they ate your snacks, I'm sorry they peed on your floor because they are potty-training. I'm sorry they cried, I'm sorry they took a toy from your child, I'm sorry they pushed your child away and won't play. I'm sorry they're being shy, I'm sorry they didn't wanna hug you hello after not seeing you for months. I'm. Just. Sorry. I get this a lot with young moms I know and, just to be clear, my children are not made of gold and doing all that beautiful singing to me that I mentioned above. There is no reason to apologize.

 The "I'm sorry" incident that hurt my heart happened a month ago. A friend was in the middle of her spouse changing jobs, shifts were overlapping, they hadn't found a reputable daycare yet, and she needed help. She called to see if I, her VERY GOOD FRIEND, could watch her child a few days coming up. There was ample notice. This stay-at-home-mom friend does this for a living. This is, like, my job. If you called a plummer to fix a leak you wouldn't apologize when he said ok! She offered to pay (which I declined) and 2 of the three days it was for ONE HOUR. Yep, I said one. I agreed before any of the details were even given to me because I was free and, say it with me, IT TAKES A VILLAGE. The days following our conversation were filled with I'm Sorry's and Are You Sure's. Finally, she was able to figure a way around the whole situation and I never ended up watching her child at all. It was semi-convenient and okay for her that she switched plans, but I really hated that I thought she did it because she didn't want to inconvenience me. No matter how many times I said it was fine, great actually, I knew she didn't believe it. She worked her butt off to find alternate babysitting so that I wouldn't be put out. Do you know what I did? I still stayed home for all that time with my own kids. I was the plummer and I continued to fix a bunch of toilets, even though hers wasn't one of them.*

*I realize I just likened her child to a toilet. I do not in any way mean she is a toilet. She is a beautiful child and a lot cuter than a toilet indeed.
Also, I just realized that I probably did fix a toilet or two in those days. Toys don't go down easy.

If you have a village, a friend, family who loves your kids and wants to see them happy, take full advantage of making those kids happy. If that means asking for help, do it. If that means favors, go for it. What's the worst that could happen? They say no. I'm sure no one will take your kids or help out, the whole time letting the kid know how inconvenient it really is for them. They had things they wanted to do and now YOU, KID, are cramping their style. Take a yes at face value. Don't apologize for your darling kids sometimes being not-so-darling kids. Most of the time that you think your kids are awful, the person with you is thinking "God, I wish my damn kid was this good". Kids make messes, kids pee in places they shouldn't, they don't eat when told, they certainly don't share, and they cry and throw tantrums. If you have a village that accepts all that with a wink and a smile, but no sweat off their back, embrace it.

As a matter of fact, never let those people go.


~Leah

I Have A Vagina And Sometimes I Use It

Recently, Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts decided to cancel a performance of Eve Ensler's "The Vagina Monologues" on their campus, citing that, "The play is problematic because it is not inclusive of trans-women."

I'm disappointed by this decision, as I never saw this piece as discriminatory. I always viewed it as an eye-opener, to bring awareness to the physical and sexual violence that women may have encountered at some point in their life. The atrocities do happen. Ensler created a place where these stories could and would resonate, that one could relate to in some way; perhaps not feel isolated or ashamed, myself included. In 2008, I was in the middle of another chapter in my academic career. Ensler brought TVM to the Superdome for the 10th anniversary of V-day. Along with Ensler, Jennifer Beals, Jane Fonda, and so many others performed each piece for the crowd, including transgender activist and woman Calpernia Addams. It was truly a night to remember. I was in awe listening to the words. It wasn't until the cab ride back to campus that I could, unfortunately, truly relate to the works spoken on that stage. How ironic. Ensler herself spoke to TIME Magazine and said, "In the play, I never defined a woman as a person with a vagina."

By closing one door to try and open another, you lose sight of the purpose. I will always support and stand with a community that is overlooked or unheard. I will always try to help those that need it with a shoulder to cry on, an ear for listening, a hug when one feels weak, or a voice when one needs to be heard. I cannot understand one community trying to silence another. Ensler was merely trying to bring awareness to situations. There are some experiences I will never truly be able to relate to. I cannot ever truly relate to dilating my new vagina like a trans woman can, nor would a trans woman be able to understand the horror and embarrassment of finding out that that pool of blood in my bed was the result of my first menstruation. It is in these differences, however, that we can recognize our individuality and create more understanding of said individualities.

To separate ourselves even more from silence and oppression, which is what Ensler had set out not to do, only deepens the problem. We now further alienate ourselves from the community we are trying to align ourselves with. We must be careful that in seeking an allied front we are not creating a new enemy.


~JenG

Throwback Thursday: A Letter To My 20-Year-Old Self

Dear 20 year old Leah,

I'm writing to you because you have a lot going on right now and could probably use the advice. I know, I know, too little too late. But better late than never, I guess, even if you can't use any of what I will tell you.

All of this stuff swirling around in your head right now, the stuff that keeps you thinking that this will never end well and that you will never know where to turn? The stuff that makes you feel scared and worthless and like you're just never gonna be ok? I promise you that soon enough, but not soon by any means, you will be stable. Your thoughts will make sense, you will think of yourself over them (those people that seem to be the only reason you breathe), and you will be able to say "yes, no, maybe, I don't know" as much as you feel inclined. Your feelings right now, though the lowest they will ever get (I promise, it won't ever be worse), the darkest days you will see in your life (at least til 30, I can guarantee), you need them. I know, call me fucking crazy (oh yeah, you won't stop swearing either), but they are there for a reason. Even though they make you feel like you can't/won't/shouldn't go on, you can/will/should. You will see the lessons in a little while, but for now, just push through. Please.

You are hot right now. You may not be this hot again, well, ever, so live it up. Wear what you want, prance around and be confident. You are not confident, and you think your butt is big now, but you are mistaken. Shake your tiny ass on a table-top and have fun.

The ones you think are your real friends really are. Also, the ones you think are your real friends really aren't. It is going to be hard to figure this all out, but just go with it. Don't hurt people, give them a chance, and be there for everyone you can. They may look back and thank you someday. Some of the people that you thought were gone for good will be some of your best friends for life, so be careful and treat each person as if they were fragile glass. Don't break anyone.

Ahhhh, but then we come to the part where you DO break some of them. You are going to do this, though I swear you didn't mean to. Always do what you think is right, what you feel in your heart, but know that this is not always going to bring a positive result, no matter what you do or how hard you try. You yourself will also be broken, but please know you can and will pick up the pieces and go on. No? You don't believe me? Just wait. Those you have hurt will come back, and you will make good with those you are supposed to. You will be surprised who is still in or back in your life in 10 years.

As you do now, remember your family is most important. You are very dependent on them, but you will eventually stand independent of them, instead of being lost among them. You need them, but you need them in a way you don't even realize yet. You will lose some of them, and this will crush you. Be there for the rest, as it will heal you in the process.
And when you think that it is over and that they will never love you again, wait it out. They will. We will be waiting a long time to see the outcome of such events, but we will never let go.

The things you think are lame will be your favorite things, and you will be a dork. Embrace it. You have so much insecurity and shame, but someday it will be lifted like a heavy wet blanket. It will feel amazing.

Try and be more confident in what you do and decisions you make. This is worthless to tell you because you won't do this, but in a few years you will realize you are an ADULT (augh!) and that there are so many more things that are important than what you think now. What you see as an end all is really just a tiny drop in the bucket. Forgetable.

Save your money, don't make me work two jobs forever! You will make good money soon and have the time of your fucking life. I look back and wish you didn't spend so much, but you know what, I can't blame you. Even now I tell the stories of the crazy fun times you had and smile with my friends about it. Good job.

Keep yourself safe. Mentally, emotionally (though these will be the hardest) and physically. We are still kicking now, so you did an ok job of that. Your metabolism rules, but try and be healthy. If not, I'll try to right the wrong you did.

You are going to think your life is going to go one way, that you are set, that your future is in stone. And then, BAM!, it is all going to fall to pieces. This will be tragic and devastating every time (yes, I said every), but you will pick up what you can salvage and keep going. You will find better every time, but you'll never know til you're there. It's ok, you will watch this go on all around you and you will feel less alone and lost. Everyone will end up better for it in the end. They just have to.

Don't burn bridges, learn patience (and practice it often) and always be open to new things. Treat others with compassion always, and let go of anger. This will be the only way you can go through this life with ease. I do all of these things still, and someday 40 year old us will write us and laugh at just how much we didn't know, even today.

~Leah

The Bathroom Woosah

In the dictionary, Woosah is defined as the pronunciation of meditative breaths used to reduce anxiety with the intention of eliminating anger or frustration.

While laying in bed with a bout of insomnia, I came up with this new concept that I am going to incorporate into my daily life. This sounds crazy, yes, especially to me at 1:30 in the morning, but really, what do I have to lose? The idea of The Bathroom Woosah, or TBW as it will now be known, is to help me calm down and get back to the fun-loving, happy person I have always been (that is, up until two adorable ladies entered my world and turned it upside-down).  Anyone can do this, too, not just mothers who are ready to poke everyone’s (including her own) eyes out. Tough day at the office? Fight with your BFF? Pets just won’t stop ripping apart the house? Before you quit the job, murder your friend, or throw Fido in the street, give this a whirl.

I am thinking that this practice will do the one main thing that I need, which the definition describes, and that is CALM ME THE HELL DOWN. I find my blood boiling way more time than I’d like to admit during a normal day (if you can even define any of my days as “normal”). There’s the “toddler’s diarrhea”, the 3 year old who colored her face blue with a marker, the crying, the not-napping, the constant “I need/I want/I can’t/I have to” that go on day in and day out. Sometimes, they make me feel like a glorified maid and, other times, I think my brain will just eventually atrophy one of these days and my head will implode. More often than not, I find myself exploding at the stupidest, most inane incidences to ever happen to a mother; times where a lot of mothers could laugh and just give a wink and a nod to the TV cameras so we will all just laugh along with her.

This is not Lifetime. I do not get paid even a TV-actor’s wage. This is real life, and I yell.

I get steamed. I get upset. I stomp around and mutter things under my breath and let out big long “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”s and I just can’t believe my life! Yes, I act like a 3 year old.

More importantly, I let myself go there, to that angry, ugly, snappy place. I don’t have time to sit back and think about why I shouldn’t lecture for the 100^th time WE DON’T PUT OUR MILK CUP NEAR THE EDGE OF THE TABLE. Or why we have to put our shoes on RIGHTTHISVERYMOMENT. I don’t have time because I am a reactionary person. All humans are reactionary, sure, but some of us don’t take even a millisecond to check ourselves before we wreck ourselves. We yell now, think later. I always said to myself that I wouldn’t be that sort of parent, that I would appreciate the children that I was lucky enough and blessed enough to have, and that I would always be patient.

Boy, was that a joke.

What’s not a joke, though, is the fact that even though I am failing miserably at recognizing all of those things, they need to be recognized regardless. They have to be. I will miss out on the most important thing I will ever do with my life if I don’t stop and take the time to see that, you know what, it just might not be the end of the world. I will not, however, put unrealistic and unattainable goals on myself, i.e. weighing what I did in high school, meeting Oprah, or always being cool, calm and collected 24/7. If I do that, I will undoubtedly fail. Instead, I’d like to create a way that works for me to get myself back to reality, back in the moment, and back to a place where I don’t necessarily feel like a raging lunatic. I want to find a new normal for myself that I am comfortable with, happy with. This is where the aforementioned Bathroom Woosah comes in to play…

So here’s my brilliant, yet simple, plan for myself. I actually googled this made-up term to see if anyone else had stayed up in the middle of the night just to get this crazy idea down on paper like me.

No one did.

That leaves me to do the work and figure this out and, you know what, I’d be happy to oblige. TBW is easy: when you need a moment before (or, god-forbid, even right after) a total meltdown of sorts, you go to the bathroom and take the time you need to regroup.  Why the bathroom, you may ask? It’s usually pretty small, with few distractions. I know that if I were to try and go to my bedroom for this, I’d end up face down on my bed snoozing, or attempting to put the laundry away that has been in a basket for 3 days. That is NOT the point of TBW. Forget the playroom or any common areas, too messy/occupied with grimy kids and their toys. The kitchen is just asking for trouble, what with all the chores that are always screaming at us every time we walk into our kitchens. The lovely porch that we have has always been a favorite place of mine to go, shutting the front door behind me, to sit down and think. (That is until recently, when the girls got savvy enough and tall enough to stare at me out one of the 4 windows that looks onto the porch from our house. Their sadness is guilt-inducing and often burns a hole into the back of my skull.) No, this has to be a place with limited interruptions, not too many distractions, and ample space to sit and reflect—on the day, the moment, whatever you need at that time--to keep you from being the screaming banshee you are inclined to be lately. This will also force you to keep the bathroom relatively clean, so as not to waste TBW time straightening up in there.

 Here are some rules to TBW that must always be followed, lest ye fail and are back to square one:

1.       No phones. No tablets, computers, or any other electronic device that you could use to look up ridiculous things like what your first ex from high school had for lunch today. This time is to clear your mind, not fill it with crap/more things to worry about.

2.       You do this ALONE. That means that if you have to wait for your spouse to get home because your hellions might tear the house apart in the 90 seconds it takes you to calm down, then so be it. Wait it out all day if you have to. Just picture that beautiful alone time and, trust me, it will be worth it. If you are a one-bathroom family, try (I said try) to be courteous and ask if anyone must tinkle or poo before you go in there. You cannot say how long this will take, and you don’t want any surprise knocks urging you out before you’re ready. For a 2+ bathroom home, run in there as fast as your legs will take you.  If your kids don’t “allow” you to ever use this room alone, here’s a great time for your spouse to teach them about privacy. NOW GO.

3.       Be sure to tell your spouse that this isn’t a lady-like way of saying you have to poop, nor is it a way to sneak in alone and text/call/message a lover or mistress. You’re not necessarily trying to skirt any chores or responsibilities, or to make anything unfair to them. You are running away so that you can be a nicer person for the next however-many-hours your day will last. 

      

      Now that you have entered the bathroom, alone and unplugged, take this time to simply sit down and collect yourself. If you would rather stand, stand. Lean over the sink like Eminem in 8 mile. Take a quick pee while you loosen up. Slide your back down the wall until you land on your ass with a thud.  Curl up in the cold, empty bathtub if that’s the dramatic route you want to take. No matter what, get comfy.

      The second thing you must do is count to ten. Don’t do it in the voice of The Count, don’t rush through like you are counting fingers and toes for the 1000^th time this week. Close our eyes, listen to the breath, take it from deep down in your soul, and breeeeaaaattthhhhhe. Woosah. Afterward, if you feel inclined, brush your teeth, comb your hair, and/or wipe the makeup out from under your eyes. Or don’t. You’re not in there to prep for a runway walk when you reemerge, you are there to be able to reemerge happier.

      

     Once the breathing and maybe-self-care has calmed you slightly, before you step back out to the shitshow, start to say things to yourself that help you let the anger go. Things that would sound BATSHIT CRAZY if you were to say them in public. Things like “remember, they grow up so fast, try to resist the urge to kick them”, or “it’s ok if you went through an entire roll of toilet paper today just on snotty noses”, or “getting dressed every day in real clothes is overrated anyway”. Whatever means something to you, say it. You certainly don’t want to end up cold, angry, wrinkly, and/or gruff. You don’t want your kids or your spouse to have to think real hard about when the last time was that you were happy. I don’t want my husband to dread walking in the door to crying kids and a wife who yells “I’M DONE! YOU TAKE THEM! MY SHIFT IS OVER!” What I do want is for him to walk in and me give the ‘TBW look’ (which I will be working on as early as tomorrow—I’m thinking non-threatening meets all-business) and for him to let me Woosah and be done with it. I want to come out smiling, ready to talk about our crazy day at home, just 3 nearly-unemployed ladies making our way through the world. I don’t want him to think I’m running from dinner or another poopy diaper or from yet another tantrum. I want him to see this as me recharging so that I can go on—as a sane-sounding, sane-looking, sane-feeling individual—for the rest of the evening. I know I won’t have a problem convincing him that this is something I need--for 10 seconds, 2 minutes, 12 minutes, whatever. It is better than the alternative (Kevin, see aforementioned snarky wife blowup described above).

     

      If you need 1 TBW a day, good for you. That’s wonderful. You’re probably almost there, to absolute nirvana. If you need 15, well, good for you, you are working very hard on absolute nirvana. Anytime that you think you would benefit from TBW, do it*. (*disclaimer: probably not the best time to take a time out when someone is bleeding, the stove is boiling over, and/or the toddler is running toward the open front door. Be sure everyone is safe and sound before exiting the chaos of your life). Start with TBW and I think you will feel a lot better and more empowered to do even more tasks that make you happy! It can help you tackle any problem that may come your way! You will enjoy your babies even when you think you can’t. Kiss your spouse instead of throwing ‘you don’t even understand’ glares their way. Get back to who you used to be before your life was altered in such a dramatic way, to a time when you danced and laughed and smiled a lot. To a time when you and your spouse gave each other loving glances and surprise butt-pinches. 

      

      Don’t lose your true self to motherhood and just assume that this is the way it is now. Yes, you will get frustrated and lose your cool. If you are starting to feel like that is your “normal”, though, you probably want to just hunker down and try the crazy idea of TBW. And don’t forget, you can do this in restaurants, Chuck E. Cheese, at your in-laws house, or even in Target! They all have bathrooms! Legally, they have to!

     ~Leah

"Is This Your Real Job?"

I am asked this question all the time.

Now that I am a 34-year-old server and mother of two, strangers I wait on are thrown for a loop. Some of their questions include "Is this your real job? Do you work anywhere else? What do you do as a full time job? Are you in school?" That last one I always appreciate, yet secretly know that they don't really believe I'm in school. I mean, I've held up pretty well, but come on now. They just can't figure out my deal and don't know how to come out and say AREN'T YOU KIND OF OLD TO BE WORKING HERE?!

I, of course, try to be gracious, smile, and get them some extra rolls and dipping oil. That will shut them up for a while, trust me. I give them an abridged version of how I stay home with my kids, how lucky I am, how I used to manage and gave it up and blah blah fucking blah.

What I really want to say is, I had to give up my job because, well, someone had to, and at the time my husband was closer to a promotion than me, because of seniority. I want to tell them that sure, I'm really lucky to stay home with the girls. I love it, but I also hate it some days. I feel like it is my job, which it is in a way, but that means I never get to leave my job. Ever. Oh! except when I go to my second, paying job. To serve strangers. Go me.

This transition from independent working woman to stay-at-home-mom (SAHM as they like to call it in the "community") has been rougher than I ever expected or could ever explain. It's not like it was way back when, when every woman who popped out a child stayed with them, whether that meant they were still a housewife or they actually left a job they had. Either way, it was the norm. This feels outside of the norm for me, for my life. I sometimes think I will lose it when I have to clean the same toys in the same rooms for the umpteenth time today, for the umpteenth time in my life. In a word: MADDENING.

But this isn't about my mommy troubles. I mean, of course it is, but it's not.

There's my table, peering up at me with crumbs on their lips and seemingly innocent questions on their brains.  I politely tell them I love my girls, they are everything to me. And though I don't cook a good dinner, or a dinner at all some days, I have a lovely husband who will come pouring in the door, jump on those girls and I, and kiss us like he means it. I tell them I'm older than they think, and usually they are at least a couple years off guessing my age, in my favor, which is usually the best thing I've heard all day. I don't resent my position. I don't judge those who go to work day after day, or those who stay home, keep it cool, and don't bat a lash. I'm not them, I'm ok with that, but that is not something that comes easy. I'm still not all the way there, I'm sure.

Today, what I am, folks, is your server. I love the job a lot, I am finally really good at it, I'm earning money for my family, and it is a cake-walk compared to my job at home. I come here to get away, to feel like I'm doing something, even if you and everyone else looks at it like something a monkey could do. (Look, I've worked with some monkeys in my time and not everyone can do this job). I'm not gonna go into the pros and cons, ins and outs, or the good and bad of being a server. What I will say is that I do what I do because I have to, because I like to, and because this is what my path has led to at this point.

As much as I don't need to explain myself to anyone, I do it weekly, and with a smile.

I anticipate the question will be coming again soon from a clueless couple who have no idea what territory they are actually entering into. I should become that weird waitress that really over shares, then they would regret ever asking me at all.  I could ignite a change! Maybe they won't ask any woman ever again and then all will be right with the world!

Probably not.

I can't wait for the day I add "blogger" to my list of current jobs. "Mother? Server? Blogger? But what does she actually do??" The confusion on their faces, the gears turning in their brains, them frantically trying to think of something to say about that. Tripping over their words, trying to make me feel supported and understood, it could add a good 10 minutes more to their dining experience.

Or maybe I'll get off easy and they'll just choke on their damn dinner rolls.



~Leah

Welcome! Come in! Sit Down! Have some chocolate!

Way to go, Leah. Way to start off your Lady blog, with a little dose of delicious sexism. Typical woman, amiright? *eyeroll*

Welcome, everyone, to Lady Thoughts, a place where a group of great Ladies put down some thoughts, pose some questions, and hopefully rile you up a bit from time to time. Just to get something out of the way right off the bat, we will be referred to as the Ladies, with a capital "L", just like God, Jesus, and Oprah before us (aaaaand she's already mentioned Oprah, great...). Any questions? You? In the back, with your hand up and a cranky look on your face? No? Good, let's keep going.

I was feeling UNINSPIRED, a word I have now come to both love and hate in just 3 short days. I hate it because it's such an icky feeling to have. It encompasses way more than just boredom, confusion and unanswered questions about our lives. For me, it was this deep, dark feeling way down in my belly that stretched all the way up my long torso to my heart. I have many things, as do all of the Ladies here, to make me happy, mostly fulfilled, and satisfied with life. Health, just enough money, a great partner (in love and in crime) and two little beauties that I couldn't live without. There is so much more, too, that I have to be grateful for but, still, something is missing. All of the things I can list will never be able to make me 100% the person I am supposed to be. Here's where loving being uninspired comes in.

I reached out to some of my closest, smartest, and interesting friends. They are not the only smart and interesting women who are close to me in my life, but I felt safe and happy and all-around cozy asking each of them to help me write this blog. To my surprise, everyone was at least open to the idea of sharing essays for the page! I'm not sure how this will go, how many entries each will contribute, or how much I'll be able to pour onto these pages before I'm bored of my own thoughts. That being said, I can't wait to hear from all of them and take this journey of self-awareness, collaboration, and honest sharing with each one of them. I hope we can all participate, encourage, and inspire each other to do something that makes us happy. Writing is something that is only yours. No one writes for you, no one tells you what to write (at least in this case), and no one can take it away from you (except maybe your child/dog/spouse/live-in great-grandmother spilling milk on your computer. But then, JUST PICK UP A PEN). I'm excited to do this alone, by myself, for myself, and for each of my Ladies to do the same.

We would all like to thank anyone who takes a few minutes out of their busy schedules to read and comment on our stories. Even if we never make it into double-digits as far as a fan-base is concerned, we will keep going, keep writing, and keep eating that chocolate...

(Come on! I can't help it! I love chocolate!)

Keep it real,

Leah