Month: December 2020

It’s the Final Countdown

/ Cassie / Leave a comment

(If you sung that title in your head while reading it, we can be friends)

If you know me even a little bit, you know we are almost at my favorite holiday, New Year’s Eve. Really, what’s not to love? It’s literally a night where the very next day you get to start over. First page of a blank book, clean slate, whatever you want to call it, I love it. With the rip of a calendar page the whole world can begin again. We essentially get to go to bed one night and be reborn the next morning as we embark on a new year.

I’ve had this blog since 2013 which means this will be my 8th year of posting a New Year’s Eve post. Even if I hadn’t written for months, I always found it obligatory to document what was going to be my great baptism into a “new year” and a “new me”. Looking back sure didn’t disappoint in that assumption. Post after post of “this is all the crap that happened this year” and “next year is going to be the best ever. I’m going to make it my year.” Blah, Blah, Blah. I’m nothing if not consistent it seems.

2013 was the year I was going to “rest and reflect” after a mother’s day miscarriage, my dad dying, and major heartbreak. But…it was also the year I found running, which I wouldn’t have done had 2013 been all hearts and flowers. 2014 was the year of shedding all that 2013 had burdened me with. It was also the year that I became pregnant with Charlotte and ran (and walked) a half-marathon at almost 5 months pregnant. I look back at that girl sometimes, completely in awe of how much she was able to overcome and how she really stuck to all the goals that she set out to achieve.

Fast forward to 2017. The hard year. The worst year. The year with the least amount of blog posts. The year I had no desire to document or ever hear from again. But also…the year I left home for good. The year I got out of a very toxic and harmful marriage. The year I finally had a little courage. The year I was brave. 2018 and 2019 almost look like mirror images. These were the years I was going to stop quitting things. These were the years I was going to let my baggage go. These were the years that I was going to finally be that grown-up version of myself that I was supposed to become.

And for the most part, I did become that person. 2020 was no joke. I know this year was tough for a lot of people, and I definitely had my share of bitter moments. There were the two miscarriages in May and June. There was the small, though significant breakdown in January. There was the sadness of missing my friends due to Covid 19. But there was also so much wonderfulness that came out of 2020. I finally got divorced and won my custody battle. We took so many trips as a family. We adopted two wonderful puppies. Because of virtual schooling I got to spend so much time with my kids, which is exactly what I had spent the past two years fighting for. For the most part, it was a good year.

The time has come,’ the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —Of cabbages — and kings —And why the sea is boiling hot —And whether pigs have wings.’

The time has come.

For the first time I’m not going into a new year hoping to completely the slate clean and start all over. Do I have goals and plans for 2021? Absolutely. But that’s not this post. I am in a constant state of evolution. And this year is even more different as it’s also the year I turn 40 in a little under a month. Instead this is just going to be the year that I work. On my family, on my relationships, and mostly on myself. It feels like I FINALLY have the other parts of my life under control and now there are no more excuses. I’m allowed to try hard.  I’m allowed to be good at things. Hell, I’m allowed to be bad at things.  I’m allowed to love you too much and tell you about it.  I’m also allowed to tell you why you are hurting my feelings if you are.  I’m allowed to take a break from people who aren’t letting me be me and are constantly trying to put me down to make themselves feel better.  I’m allowed to be who I am, and if someone doesn’t like it, it’s their loss.

Most of all, I am allowed to shed all of the stuff from my past that is not working for me any more. Opinions, judgments, people, fears, assumptions. Boy, bye.

“Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.” I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Traditions

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I don’t know how long ago it started, but it all started with eggs and chocolate milk.

One Sunday, I decided to make a big Sunday breakfast. We had eggs, hash browns, bacon, fresh fruit, and chocolate milk. I remember letting Charlotte make the chocolate after she begged and begged, wincing inwardly as she painstakingly poured the milk into a mason jar before mixing in the chocolate. We all sat down to eat together at 9, two hours after we woke up, as we tend be rather slow and lazy on Sundays. They all ate every bite. And then asked for more. And then asked for it again the next weekend. So we did.

Thus, a new tradition was formed. We call it Sunday Breakfast and it is our favorite meal of the week.

I know this may seem like an insignificant event, but to us, especially to me, it was huge. When I left my marriage, I was so worried about the kids. Not so much Charlie, as she was only two, but the boys. They had been there for all the parts; the good, the bad, and the extremely terrible. I felt like I was treading an extremely fine line with our new family set-up. I wanted to start new traditions with them, traditions built out of love and new beginnings, while also making sure they didn’t think I forgot all of our past. Emotionally, I was a wreck almost all of the time.

But that changed with Sunday Breakfast. I could see now that blending the old with the new wasn’t as much a fine line as it was a balancing act. It was OK to incorporate new ideas and new traditions. After all we were a new family and had a newfound hope in finding our happiness in our “new way”. We now have bedtime traditions, summer vacation traditions, different holiday traditions, and even a new December beach week-end tradition. Each one we make together reminds me just how important these changes are.

It reminds me how much I had to fight in order to get to make new traditions in the first place. How much blood, sweat, and tears (so many tears) i shed in order to make this work. Really, that makes all these new traditions we are creating worth more than anything.

And in just a few days, we can enjoy it all over Sunday Breakfast.

The Home Sign

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Charlotte has this tradition. Ok, maybe it’s not really a tradition, but it’s something she always says and does. Whenever we drive a certain way on 695 we pass a big sign right before we reach our exit. I have passed this sign probably a million times in my life and I, for the life of me, can’t even tell you what it really says. I think it’s for a sofa store? Or maybe a gym? I don’t know. But Charlotte calls it “the home sign”.

Every single time we pass it she shouts out “Look! It’s the home sign! We’re almost home.” And sure enough, we are. None of us have ever really bothered to correct her on this. Obviously we know it doesn’t say Home on it. Even the more skeptical among us (cough, Oliver, cough) have even begun calling it that ourselves. It doesn’t matter what it says. We know what it means. We are almost home.

It’s so strange to think we have lived in this house for about three and a half years. It honestly feels like we have always been here; in this house, in this little neighborhood. The first three years of the separation were fight after fight with my ex. The biggest one always being that he refused to acknowledge that this home, the one I created from love after I left the one that was filled with so much hate and animosity, was the kid’s home. He would repeatedly tell me and the children, that this was not their home. They had one home, and it was the one that they lived in with him. Even after the courts granted me legal joint and physical custody, stating unequivocally that in the eyes of the law this was their house too, he still would repeat it. And even still, 10 months after we were finally divorced, 40 months after I left the most toxic relationship I had ever been in, even to this very day, he still says it.

For the longest time, it would cause me to fly into a blind rage. I would send long worded emails and text messages telling him to stop, telling him to accept what has happened, telling him that he was causing more harm to everyone than good. And then one day (way longer than it should have taken me) I just stopped. And it was all because of the home sign.

I finally realized I don’t care if that’s what he believes. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter that that is what the court system has dictated. What matters is that my little three believe it. And they do, wholeheartedly. Because we have a home sign. We know that this is home.

A few weeks ago I decided, against my better judgement, to let all the kids pile their stuff into Charlotte’s room for a sleepover. I knew it meant a late night and an early morning, but it was a holiday weekend and I had four glorious days off of work (and probably a glass or two of wine), so I said why not. But then a funny thing happened. No kids lasted at the sleepover. Every single one simply wanted to sleep in their own bed. I thought it odd at first and then it hit me. I had made them so comfortable here that wanted to be in their own spaces. They liked their spaces. They felt like home. And that’s because they are.

It’s funny. Joe and I are always house dreaming, looking for places with big yards (so I have can backyard chickens), enough bedrooms, and a driveway (for my RV of course), but as much fun as it is to look, I don’t know if I really want to move. I love this house. Sure it has it’s problems, but what house doesn’t? We have great neighbors, a fantastic neighborhood, playgrounds, food trucks, everything we could possibly want. And those aren’t even the biggest reasons to stay. The biggest reasons transcend all of that. This is where I found love. This is where I was able to be free. This is where my new story was able to begin. This is home.

The Kids are Alright

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Comparison is the thief of joy. It really is.

I know I’m guilty of the comparison trap, especially when it comes to my kids. I feel like I’m constantly measuring their accomplishments based on what other people post about their kids on social media. I know I need to stop, I do. But when I see that so-and-so’s kids could do XYZ at a certain age and mine couldn’t, I feel like a mama failure. Where did I drop the ball? I should have worked with them harder. I should have done more academically with them instead of letting them run around with boxes on their head screaming for the whole neighborhood to hear.

We spend so much time bragging sharing about our kids on social media, I feel like we miss the point sometime. Now don’t get me wrong, if you are proud of your kiddo and their accomplishments share away. I love reading them and cheering along with you. But I have to tell you, my favorite posts are the ones that tell it like it is. That show the struggles. That show the behind the scenes mess. Maybe it’s just me, but I love a good underdog story.

So, for those of you who are like me, who constantly feel inadequate and feel like you should be doing more, this is for you. This post is about my kids and how incredibly human they are. It’s for those mamas who are always feeling like they aren’t doing enough. Or they feel like they are failing. Or dropping the ball. Or a myriad of other things we are constantly telling ourselves to belittle the amount of amazing, life altering work we do.

Max couldn’t read by the end of kindergarten. At all.

Charlotte is 5 and still can’t write her name. We’re working on it. She gets a couple letters in order, but then messes up.

Oliver is the klutziest kid I have ever met. And as a teacher I have met A LOT of kids. He drops EVERYTHING. And falls ALL THE TIME.

Max still has a hard time with tying his shoes.

Charlotte still wets the bed at night.

Oliver is a cry baby. In a good way, but he is. He will dish out the attitude like a 17 year old and the minute you call him on it or give it back…big fat tears.

I don’t say these things to belittle my kids. Not at all. I just feel like so many times we tend to focus on the accomplishments of our kids and not the struggles that got them there. And I am a mama that sometimes needs to see that there was a struggle. I need the real life version. Basically, I need to know that I am not alone with my less than perfect life.

That boy who couldn’t read at 6? He’s in GT English now and reads 2-3 grade levels ahead.

That girl who still can’t write her name? She has the vocabulary and comprehension skills of a second grader.

My klutzy boy? He made the all star soccer team this year.

Their wins are there. They win at something every single day. But they struggle too. And I am 100 percent OK with that. They are all a mixture of a masterpiece and a mess. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.