Motherhood Uncensored

Swim, baby, swim.

I did what I usually do when my kids do something silly: I snapped a quick video and popped it in a text message to my dear friend, a small consolation for raising my kids away from someone I consider to be my sister. 

Their aunt. 

I giggled at her response, but was then looked up from my phone to see a look of surprise on my daughter's face. 

"Did you just send that video to someone?" she asked. 

And then it hit me that she's almost nine, not nine months, sometimes a surprisingly hard distinction not due to her immaturity (quite the contrary, actually) but in my own mind, that still sees a baby, my baby, smiling back and me.

Her big adult-toothy grin snaps me out of it. 

I'm apologetic. Profusely. I promise her to never do it again, to ask her permission. 

She is well aware, perhaps more acutely than I'd wish, of how other see her and how she sees herself, which is both a blessing and a curse.

The mirror is no longer a source of entertainment, but rather a maginfying glass of self-proclaimed flaws, based on pretty princess pictures and Barbie dolls with nary a crooked adult tooth or oddly-placed freckle. 

And being silly is no longer cute, or cool, says the magazines and television shows where skirts magically shrink and girls are suddenly googly and giggly and exist solely to interact with the opposite sex. 

We corral them off, our girls and boys, whether we know it or not, and send them down their own rivers. And it takes a lot of strength and courage for a little person to swim upstream. 

As much as we praise "just-so" and "well-behaved" the greatest thinkers and doers and makers were hardly that. They were freckled and silly and swimming upstream, sometimes exhausted. Sometimes with people telling them to turn around. Or give up already. 

The greatest beauties never looked like a Barbie doll, one step above starvation. They had moles and belly fat and an actual ass, at least before we all decided that was ugly and gross. 

We're auto-tuning and photoshopping the magic right out of our lives. 

In the end, it is her story to tell, to share or not to share, her freckles to hide or wear proudly.

And my job to respect that and protect it, adamantly. Respect given, permission granted. Or not. The stories I've told of her from the beginning will be the last, at least here, anyway, 

But I will be there for her, holding placards, and screaming "swim!"

Swim, baby. Swim. 

When life gives you nasty vampires, make them hula vampires.

As a stage performer, musician, dancer, and a public speaker, you can probably guess how many times I've heard the "just visualize the audience in their underwear" tidbit. Because imagining people in their boxers and granny panties is supposed to be so hilarious that you'll somehow forget that you're on stage and need to remember a whole shit ton of lines and musical notes. 

Yeah, never quite worked for me. 

But now that I have two anxious children, and a therapist on retainer (or so it seems), I've been learning all sorts of strategies to deal with anxiety that I'd never heard before, probably because I've never actually seen a therapist for anxiety.

Just crazy parents. 

I'm aware that humor works as a coping mechanism because as I say to myself on an almost regular basis, as I wipe marker off the walls and listen to yet another round of berating comments from my 2-year old for providing her with necessities to keep her alive, if I wasn't able to laugh about it, I'd cry. 

Truth be told, sometimes, er, a lot of times I do cry, but mostly, or especially when I talk to my dear friend who can make even my dad dying hilarious, well I laugh. And it's not so bad anymore. And yes, I realize sounds like a Julie Andrews song, but whatever it works. 

It's helped my son deal with his fear of tornadoes and bad dreams, in which I turned a killer bee into a silly goofball bee who got his butt stuck in one of our kitchen chairs and buzzed his way right out the door vowing never to return. 

{Shut-up, it was the best I could do at 2am} 

And it's a technique that my daughter is using too, for now to deal with the admittedly spooky Jane and Aro from Twilight by turning them into... Hula Dancers.

{Yes, I'm allowing her to read Twilight}

I'm not quite sure I can turn my own demons, who aren't as concrete as Jane, Aro, or that stupid-ass bee, into cartoon characters or straw-skirt wearing butt shakers, but I can certainly try.

Visualizing them as who rather than what:

My physical insecurity as an ugly bitch with frizzy hair and a flat ass who's just jealous;

My fear of failure as an old man with yellow teeth, knobbly knees, and long overgrown toenails who's projecting his own regret onto me; 

My belief that I'm not good enough as a grumpy old troll who's a reflection of every person who's made me feel that way;

All dressed in hula skirts shaking their ass on stage while a half-naked muscular Asian man plays the ukelele. 

It's a lot easier to see their utter ridiculousness. And to tell them to shut-the-fuck-up. 

Payback's a bitch

I still remember the day I got my very first report card in the first grade and my teacher called them out last name first. 

"CHASE, KRISTEN" she yelled. 

"CHASE KRISTEN!!!" some idiot in the back of the room screamed, and thus began a new game at recess. 

I was devastated with my horrible last name for about a week until the kids figured out another game to play and the silly game played at my expense was yesterday's new. 

Turns out Quinlan is getting her own fair share of giggles at the expense of her unique name, as she shared with me the other day as I was opening a box of spoils to add to her pretzel tin collection. 

"LOOK AT THESE AMAZING MUGS!" I screeched, hold the pretzel handle and showcasing the beer can shaped ceramic mugs with her name printed in shiny gold letters, ala 1975. 

Quinlan barely smiled, which was completely uncharacteristic of her. 

"I told the kids in my class that I was named after a pretzel company and some of the boys laughed at me" she sighed, which actually made me laugh out loud.

Not the empathic response I was going for. But seriously, the stuff kids find funny. I mean, pretzels? At least save the giggles for kids named after vaginal creams or something, guys. 

Pretzels are awesome. And tasty! 

So I told her my own sordid tale, which seemed to lighten the mood, and then reminded her that people laugh when they're uncomfortable or can't seem to find the words or actual emotion they want to express. 

"One day, when you're selling those tins for thousands of dollars, you can laugh at how ridiculous they were," I said, rolling the ceramic mugs back up in bubble wrap. 

Then I asked her who it was, exactly, and after she told me, I did what every parent would probably do in the same situation: 

I showed her a photo I have of him wearing a very lovely pair of Tory Burch flats. 

Yeah, who's laughing now, bitches? 

Turning anxiety into awesome. Or where I star in the next episode of Hoarders.

When you walk around with your ankles shackled by anxiety on a regular basis, your mind can get trapped on a merry-go-round of crazy thoughts. But every now and then I can them, like the persistent one in which I convince myself that I'm going to die young, and turn it into a brilliant idea. 

Now the skin mole check, or whatever that unsexy exam where they mark all your freckles and moles on a paper and then scrape a few off with a razor is called, wasn't necessarily brilliant, but it was a smart idea. And phew, all clear. 

And there is the circus money I've started to stash away, which is really smart, or possibly brilliant if they all decide to major in art history or something.

Yes, so I was inspired by a Matt Damon movie. Shut up. 

No, the actual brilliant idea came about when I saw these pretty "Q" hoop earrings on Etsy when Quinlan was a baby. And I thought since she had such a unique letter, that it might be cool to collect jewelry with it and give them all to her when she was older and wanted to change her name because it was so weird.

KIDS. 

This then turned into a collection of initial necklaces and other fun trinkets for all the girls which I stuff on a regular basis into our fireproof box. 

But then THEN the real brilliance happened thanks to the lovely Courtney who posted a link and photo to a tin can on my Facebook Wall, which generally speaking I HATE when people post things on my wall but it was a can with Quinlan on it. 

No, not her face but her name, because apparently a long time ago there was a Quinlan pretzel company in Pennsylvania and so of course I had to buy the really expensive tin can, which led to a search for other such tin cans, which led to an obsession with finding ALL THE QUINLAN TIN CANS THAT EVER EXISTED, as well as old bar trays, and most recently, weird mugs with pretzel handles. 

This is all I could fit in the photo.

At the time, Drew was really into fire trucks, which he promptly grew out of the second I put a unbelievably challenging fire engine decal on his wall and purchased a whole gaggle of old fire truck toys, particularly old Fisher Price ones, all of which sit gathering dust on his shelf. 

Remember those?  

And while Margot was a bit of challenge, I did a little research and found out that her name means "pearl" so, duh, vintage pearl purses!, stashed haphazardly in a box that sits on a shelf in her closet. 

 

"These are my special purses, right Mama?" she says. 

So far, Bridget is racking up quite a collection of octopus jewelry, which, funny coincidence *I* have a pretty extensive and rapidly growing collection of octupus jewelry (ahem). Poor fourth kid. 

Of course, there's the stories I write here, that they can chuckle at and laugh over, which I might force them to do every year on my birthday, even after I'm gone, while pounding on tin cans, playing with fire trucks, and wearing pearl purses and octopus jewelry. 

Or they can sell everything I bought and go on a fabulous trip somewhere. 

And then at least I can say that all this stupid anxiety was worth it. 

If you're curious: I don't spend tons of hours or money doing this, really. I just search every now and then on Etsy, set a budget that I refuse to go over, then tuck everything away in a safe spot so they can't get into them and toss the $25 vintage fire truck off the 2nd floor deck.

All you need is love

The earliest memory I have of my dad is him choking me up against a wall at a train station. The last time I saw him, he slapped me across the face. 

His memory barely survives anymore, but still haunts me, when I tell the crazy story once every few years to an inquiring mind, or when my mother reminds me how I'm just like him when I clean out her house, the fire in her words fueled by her own childhood and domestic abuse, along with grief for a dead child. 

You can't escape a family like that without damage to your soul, the wounds deepened by devout Christianity that explained it all away as "God's will" then healed and bandaged by therapy, introspection, and Bible burning. 

I got married, divorced, then married again, and four kids later it's a veritable mess in my chest, the hormones and lack of sleep opening my scars, the unresolved issues of my mother, my husband, and me infecting scabbed over cuts. 

And then you sit, in a therapy session for your oldest daughter grasping tissues in your fist sobbing about how you tried so hard to make it different for her, and yet, even though it is different, very very different, she's still got a part of me in her. 

And I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe it wasn't all them after all. And all the time all those fingers I pointed at the crazy father and the complacent mother are turned right back around at me. 

I tried so hard to be different, to be involved and interested, loving and kind, caring and honest, every single thing my parents weren't and still, she feels anxious and pressured to be perfect, just like me.

I won't ever know for sure of course, but I'd like to think that because she's sitting and crying in a therapist's office and not hiding in her closet like me, sobbing and wishing to disappear, that it's not the same. 

Screw that I know, I KNOW it's not the same. 

Fuck you, dysfunction. Fuck you, shame.  

I believe that whatever THIS is right now, which is small and anxiety-related by the way, is containable. I'm standing here with guaze and tape and anticeptic cream, like I wish someone, anyone, had done for me.

My mom didn't call my kids on their birthdays, or at Christmas, even though gifts were sent, in both directions. She's mad at me for the words I wrote to her, the ones that made it clear that I could not carry the burden of her fucked up childhood and marriage. The ones where I told her to get help. 

I didn't even think about it until my husband reminded me because I've grown used to living without parents. 

When my daughter freaks out, when she screams "I'm terrible" when I remind her for the fourth time to set the table in a raised voice, I tell her that our relationship will have its ups and downs, as I move my hand in a wave motion, like a roller coaster. She'll mess up sometimes, and so will I, and that is what makes life so wonderful.

"But my love" I told her, holding up my other hand, "will always be there." 

I will always think she is amazing and awesome. I will always look at her and see joy and light, even though I know it might not feel that way between us at the time. And I will never EVER let the damage my own father and mother caused me to ever change that. 

There will be demons. But they just don't stand a chance here.

I can't wrap her up in a bubble and stick earplugs in her ears. I can't hide her eyes from the outside world. 

But I'm arming her now, with the strongest weapons I can find, the ones I only wish my parents had given to me: love, the kind that is full of wisdom and awareness, empathy and understanding, acceptance and compassion.

True love. 

The older I get, the more I believe that it's really all you need.