Thanks to Papi

Dinnertime at my house last night:

Food was set on table.
Girls bowed their heads and said grace.
As they do each night, Eva says "And, thank you Mama for dinner."

"And, thanks to Papi."

Papi. 

"Eva, do you see Papi around here somewhere?  Was that him in here the last hour making your dinner?"

"No, but he makes all the money.  You don't do anything."





He's been gone ten months.  For the year before that, he was almost never here.  Before leaving, he couldn't tell you how old they were, what school they went to, a single one of their friends names, or really any detail of them as human beings.  He's never bathed them, taken care of them when they were sick, jumped up and down for joy at their accomplishments, had a conference with a teacher, made them a sandwich, felt their breath on his neck as they slept.  Not even once has he sat down to console them when they cried, seen their eyes light up at a new experience, held tiny hands as they learned to walk, sat and listened to them put together their first sentences, argued over which hairbow matches better, stalked the playground making sure they were adjusting to the new school year, broken out in a silly dance to make them smile, confronted the parent of a child who was bullying them, sat still as they "style" his hair, woken up to the feel of one of them reaching out for consoling from a nightmare .  In their entire lives, he has missed every single opportunity to marvel in their frustratingly beautiful growth.

But he gets all the credit.  Because he is Superpapi.  In the last few months, he has decided to step up.  Only, he's stepping on his terms.  No homework or chores or discipline.  He takes them swimming and to the movies and out to eat.  There are no bedtimes or bathtimes or quiet times.  Every other weekend, unless he has something else to do, it's all playtimes.  And, to three little girls, that makes him great.  To the mama who can't afford to keep up, it makes him...well... it would be inappropriate to use that kind of language.

I am glad he's learning a little bit about my children.  Really, I am.  Girls need a father and he's becoming one.  I am happy for the girls.

And, everyone says they'll see one day which parent was there all the time.  One day they'll understand which of us sacrificed everything for them.  One day I might get to be Supermama.

Until then, though, I'm just the witch that brushes teeth and enforces rules.  You know, the one who doesn't do anything.



"You're right, Eva.  You should call and thank your Papi too.  Now eat your food before it gets cold."

New

In the past few months, it's become pretty obvious that I need to be more social.  I need to meet new people.  I need to interact with more grown ups.  Really, I need to be more open to the possibilities that await outside my front door.

The problem with this?  I don't like people.  Or, I don't like large groups of people.  Or I don't like new people. 

No, I don't like me around new people.  I don't like those first few interactions with people I've just met.  I don't like the awkwardness of new.

Unfortunately, meeting new people is the name of the game lately.  In the past couple of months, I've been forced to step out of my comfort zone and speak to complete strangers.  I have been advised, by people who want to see me get happy, that I have to open myself up to the new.  And, apparently the new isn't just going to show up at my front door drawn in by the smell of fresh baked cupcakes.

So, I've been going out.  And, it's become quite apparent that one needs a wider circle than the people one meets at the bar.  Very, very apparent.

My solution?  I joined a gym.  Thanks to a generous family member, I now get to work out in a really nice gym a few times a week.

The problem?  There are people at the gym.  Lots of people.

Prior to this new endeavor, I have always worked out alone.  I mostly run.  Because running can be done alone, with an I-Pod, early in the morning, with limited witnesses.  Have I mentioned how much I prefer to be alone when exercising?

Of course, there are the random creepers who seem to have missed the Leave Me Alone Memo.

Thanks, buddy, but I don't need a spotter.  And, the fourth time you pass by me in your car qualifies you as a stalker.  So, unless you're going to get out and hand me a cup of water, keep driving.

And, yes, sir.  You've caught on to the secret of wooing a woman.  Because every woman is totally turned on by the guy driving by, hanging out his window, shouting "encouragement" as she's running.  What a gentleman you are.

To my surprise, on my very first trip to the gym, I met three new people.  And, apparently they didn't notice when I cringed the moment they stepped onto the machines next to mine.  Or they didn't care.  Either way, they were nice and didn't seem to notice that I was interviewing them for pool boy jobs.

We'll see how this whole "Be a grown up and talk to people... they aren't going to bite" thing goes.  If it doesn't work out, I'll just go back to opening the windows and hoping strangers will be drawn to the sweet smell of new mixed with the warm cookies.

Not a good day

Today was not a good day.  Neither was yesterday.  Really, I've got a streak going on right now that I would very much like to end.

They happen sometimes.  The long stretches of time when I just can't dig myself out of the hole.  When everything is falling apart.  The days when I wish I had never gotten out of bed.  Those days are hard, but they pass in relative ease.

Then there are the darker times.  The times when the light just doesn't penetrate.  And, if you don't know what real depression feels like, you don't get it.  If you've never hurt so bad that you felt nothing, you don't get it.  If you've never been swallowed by the silence, you just don't get it.  And, I am so happy for you.  I don't want you to get it.

I don't want you to know how it feels to have a hole torn in the fabric of your being.

I don't want you to know how it feels to be broken in ways that will never heal.

I don't want you to be able to understand me.

I only want you to stop treating me like I'm being ridiculous.  You don't need to tell me about all the reasons I have to be thankful.  I know them all.  I named them.  You don't need to remind me that others have it worse - I know they do.  There are so many stronger people in the world who have so much larger problems than I do.  And, they handle it all every day.  I know.

Most days, I'm able to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Most days, I can fake my way through like I haven't a care in the world.  Like I love being the one making people laugh.  Like I live with weightless shoulders and a light spirit.  Most days, I can be whatever you want me to be.

But not today.  Today, just let me lay here for a minute.  I'll get myself up and back to life in a minute.  I just need a minute to wallow in all the feelings that knocked me down.

You're not supposed to understand.  I'm so glad you don't understand. 

You're not supposed to think you can fix me.  I'm telling you that you cannot fix me.

You're not supposed to judge.  I'm asking you not to judge.

You don't have to wait.  I'm giving you permission not to wait.

Because I don't know how long it'll be before I can pretend I am ok again.  I only know it isn't going to be today.

Today I am broken like a promise.  Today I am broken open like a dam.  Today I am broken.

From I to Z

Hey, I have this incredibly stupid idea and I need someone to talk me out of it.

That sounds fun, let's do it together!

 

Hey, you remember that dumb stuff we did when we were too young to know how stupid we'd look?

Yes!  I'll be right there! I just need to change my shoes.

 

Hey, I need you to come be my filter before I say something I'm going to regret.

Say it loud, but with a smile!

 

Hey, I was thinking...

That's a great plan!  I'll drive!

No matter what ridiculously silly thing we do, we are laughing our behinds off until long after it's over.  And, if you overheard our conversations you would think we were teenagers trapped in grown women's minds.

Whatever crazy thought runs through my mind, she's already been there waiting a few minutes for me to catch up. I don't have to worry about confessing the most embarrassing "crimes" to her because she has either already done it or thinks it sounds like a fine way to spend an afternoon.

We have the benefit of age and experience to know that we shouldn't be doing such things.  But we also have the benefit of knowing exactly who we are, so we don't care what the bystanders think.

I know that if I really want to be talked out of something, I shouldn't run it past her.  Because, with one word, she'll have me diving off the cliff face first with a smile.  Or changing my name to match the standard set by the "perfect" woman.  Or walking right up to a person I just met and saying the first thing that comes into my mind. 

She is the perfect person to make me laugh when I've spent days lingering on all the reasons I have to cry.  And, she is the person I would walk through fire for if that's what it took to remind her of how incredible she is.

Yes, our long walks on Sundays might include unnecessary stops to tie shoes and cups filled with a special lemonade blend.  And, yes, our Saturday nights might be filled with situations we will take to our graves.  And, yes, we may have spent a Tuesday evening, or several, blatantly flirting with people we weren't really attracted to.  But we were laughing the whole time.  And, I really need that.

Hey, you know what we look like, right?

Classy ladies?!

Pinkies out and all.

Always,

Sari

The day I proved I've still got it, after it was shown that I might not

Today turned into an unofficial sports day at our house. Basketball, soccer and track were our featured events. And I whooped up in all arenas, except for those two times.

First up basketball in the driveway. Showdown at mid morning. Me versus various farm animals. First, I won at PIG. I should've gone out on top though because Eva quickly beat us with SHEEP (why not a sheep?). Then, the history of driveway basketball shootouts was marred by a dark cloud. An anomaly of epic proportions. A never-before-seen feat that will be carved in the lore of our family annals. Sofia beat us at HORSE. Sofia. Refuses to go outside without a book Sofia. Gets a cramp walking up the stairs Sofia. Turning a page is the most physical activity she will ever voluntarily do Sofia. Now, in our very strong defense, she did it by making five of the same shots. Nevertheless, she beat Eva and I fair and remarkably square. Then she did a robust victory dance. And got a cramp. Thus ending her illustrious basketball career.

Next up was soccer, I shot. I scored. I blocked. I awed and amazed. I went in to make lunch.

Finally, while Maya was at soccer practice, I got the bright idea to race Eva down the length of her own soccer field. I whole heartedly expected her to finally prove to be too much for me. She's really fast. All power and no brakes fast. I was confident this would be the first time she would beat me. I almost looked forward to it. As we lined up on the base line, I prepared my pass the baton speech in my head. As she counted down, I readied myself for her gloating (she is my daughter, after all). A funny thing happened at the opposite baseline, though. I crossed it first. Not by much, but I beat her. Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh! The crowd went wild - in my head. Want to race back? Oh yes, she did (she is no quitter!). Again, I was sure she would do it this time. She was so close in the first round. Annnnddd we were off again.... Annnnnddddd, I whooped her. Again. Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! The glory was mine. Ever gracious in victory, I only reminded her about twelve times in the walk back to Maya's field that I beat her TWO TIMES.

And, what do ya know? Sofia decided she wanted to race me. Her logic? I was probably too tired from the first two rounds, so she had a chance.
Nope.
Smoked her. She ate my dust. She "broke her leg" on the second round after getting her infamous cramp just walking over to the field. She, as I say, went down. Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!

Unofficial "Mama still has it in Sports" Day is complete. No trophies are necessary. No ribbons or medals. Just the infinite gloating and rubbing in faces shall suffice.

And, I won't be defending my title again for a minute.

On a completely unrelated note, what's the official retirement age for injured race horses? Anyone got a gun, I think I smell glue?

Dear Sofia,

Twelve.

Twelve years old.

My first born child is another year older today.  Wow.

Living with my preteen is challenging.  The eye rolling, foot stomping, shoulder slumping, arguing, whining, complaining, comparing, and the sighing (oh, the sighing) is a lot to deal with every day.  When they're two, you can count to ten before taking a deep breath and moving on.  A few years later, you have to count to a hundred,
take a deep breath,
picture rainbows and bunnies,
take a swig straight from the bottle of mama's special juice,
walk outside,
ask the first person you see to remove all the sharp objects from your house,
write a quick confession on the back of a cupcake recipe,
and then maybe you can move on.

But loving my preteen is easy.  The straight A's, the gentle side, the goofy laugh, the bearable clarinet playing, the beautiful eyes, and the impressive personality are a gift.  Sofia is the first person I ever knew I could stick it out with.  I know she and I have only begun the battle that most mothers and daughters have to endure.  We have a long way to go before the seas even out and we no longer want to toss each other overboard.  But one day, many many many many temper tantrums from now (hers and mine), she and I are going to laugh about the years we spent fighting to get back to each other. 

So, my gorgeous girl, Happy Birthday.  And, in case I forget to mention it every day until the next one, I am so proud to have you as a daughter.  I couldn't have asked for a better challenge, though maybe one that starts after my second cup of coffee...

Always,

Mama

Out of my control.

I'm so thankful to know who I am and what I'm capable of. I'm glad I know what is in my control and what has no business in my hands. I can say I know exactly what I have a say in and I'm sure of everything that I am only a bystander to.

Because people will constantly try to tell me who I am. It's never been right. Not once.
People tell me all the time that I could be doing more/less/better than what I'm killing myself doing already. If you've got such a clear vision, I think you should just do it for me.
People have the strangest ideas of what and who I can control. Seriously, I can only control myself about 57% of the time, so why do you think I am controlling others? People I don't even talk to anymore?
People want to involve me in things I would rather not even know exists. I'll just stay over here in my lane, thanks. But if you really want my advice, here you go... Stay in your lane too.

I'm not who you think I am. Really, there are probably only three or four people who know the real Sarah.  Everyone else gets the version I have approved for public consumption. Yikes! Those of you who know her, can you imagine what the real her must be like? You're welcome for keeping that particular animal under lock and key.
Most days, I'm capable of producing adequate food, adequate child rearing, and adequate entertainment for those within earshot. That's it. You want more, turn on Bravo! and grab some wine.
I do my best to control my mouth, my body, and my children's behavior. Anything more than that is beyond my capabilities. And trust me, if I could control a man, you'd see a lot less of me in public. But when you did catch a glimpse, I'd definitely be smiling more.
I don't insert myself in anyone else's happiness, drama, life, relationship, business, privacy or bedroom behavior. Mostly due to my low threshold for bullshit and my weak stomach.

So, the next time anyone feels the need to place more on my manly shoulders than I'm already carrying, please be prepared to have it shoved into the only area you seem so happy to rest upon.  Because that I am most certainly capable of.

I just spent ten minutes trying to decide if I should put on makeup to go pick up my girls from school.
Seriously.
I've been working today, so it's a ponytail, sweats, and no makeup day. AKA Every single day before our life upheaval. AKA Old Sarah. AKA Scaring small children and grown men alike.
And, I just spent ten minutes deciding if I wanted to go out in public like this. To walk the sidewalks around the school like this. To show my face, as it were, like this.
Why was I worried about it today? Why did I think I should pull myself together a little?
Maya.
I didn't want to embarrass Maya.
My five year old.
Seriously.
Eva doesn't care what I look like.
Sofia barely looks at me at all anymore, so she wouldn't notice anyway.
But my prima fashionista has an opinion on everything. And, under her scrutiny, my current appearance would be a definite don't.
She might not give me a tackling hug when she comes out the door. She might not hold my hand when we walk to the car. She might slap on some dark shades and a trench coat to protect her rep.
But I didn't put on the makeup. I didn't succumb to the much-shorter-than-peer pressure. That's right. I took my fully moisturized but not a drop concealed face up to the schools to gather my girls.
I am mama, hear me roar.
Except now I wish I had put on the damn makeup. Now I sit outside waiting for the bell to ring, and I wish I didn't have to disappoint my sparkly kid.
With my face.
Seriously.