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.

The Truth

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I went to bed last night with the burning desire to go for a run in the morning. “I’m going to do it” I told myself. I will get up in the morning and go for a run before Joe has to leave. Visions of the “before time” when I would run miles and miles for fun and alone time danced in my head as I listened to the office and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was still determined. While I did linger in bed for a bit, I got up, got myself dressed found my headphones and set off. I was just going to start Couch to 5K back up, knowing that I was no where near where I had been. I started off with my five minute warm up walk and was feeling great. It was still dark out, and honestly, this is my favorite time to run, before the whole world wakes up. Suddenly the Couch to 5K shouted out “Let’s jog” and I was ready…

Until I absolutely wasn’t. My right knee hurt. My left foot hurt. my gait was all wrong. Everything was off. It was only a minute but it felt like an eternity. After the second or third time I decided to just walk for the rest of the 30 minutes.

Now, you may think this makes me a quitter. And up until last night around 10 pm. I would have one hundred percent agreed with you. But I was proud of myself. I stopped when something was painful (not uncomfortable, but actually painful) but I still finished out the exercise in some way instead of feeling intensely defeated and just heading home and throwing myself a pity party all day.

For the rest of my walk I forced myself to face some fast and hard truths about this situation. It has been MONTHS since I have run at all and YEARS since I have really run (as in not Couch to 5K with stops built in). The separation and divorce years were not good to me, both mentally and physically. If I am being completely honest, they broke me. It has literally taken me this long to try and attempt to put myself back together, and I’m not only to lie it is extremely hard. I feel like I lost all of myself, including the parts that I loved and I am just now feeling strong enough to try and get them back.

But it’s going to be an incredibly hard road. Just because you’ve done it once, doesn’t mean it’s easier the second time. I am almost the same weight as I was at my heaviest in 2013…a number I swore to myself I would never see again. When I really started running I was almost 40 pounds lighter than I am now. And when I was training for half marathons and marathons I was 60-70 pounds lighter. As much as I want to rush and skip steps just to try to be where I once was, I know this is not the answer. I need to take my time. I need to relearn the basics. I need to find the correct path, the one where it may be hard and treacherous, but I’ll come out stronger in the end.

I really feel that girl I once was is still in there, just waiting for the opportunity to come out and shine.

She is. I know she is. She’s just going to take a little while to do it. And that’s ok.

My Apologies

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The other day I was taking one of our new puppies for a walk around the neighborhood. Bella was a stray before she came to us and new people can sometimes seem like a threat. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to her likes and dislikes, but she always warms up after a few minutes. While we were walking we passed someone and she started barking. The first thing out of my mouth, of course, was “I’m sorry.” The very nice lady at me and said “No need to apologize. She’s a dog, that’s what they do.”

That’s when it dawned on me that I was apologizing FOR my dog acting like a dog. And then it also hit me that I do this A LOT in my life. I apologize for other people, or for myself, acting in ways that define our personalities. I apologize for Oliver being too “much” or too loud, or too energetic. I apologize for Max for his strange excitement and intensity. I apologize for Charlotte’s sass (well maybe I should apologize for that one).

I do the same thing with myself. I constantly apologize for facets of my personality that others might not deem important or enjoyable. My dark humor. My introvertedness. My love of sharing hilarious memes. My political views.

But this is where it stops. No more apologizing for being myself. No more apologizing for my people (and animals) living their best life and knowing who they are. We only get to do this once. We may as well have a little fun and surround ourselves with the people who love us just the way we are.

Having a moment

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Today was a day.

Wait. Hold on a second. It really wasn’t. For the most part, it was extremely uneventful. I’m just being extra.

For the most part today was extremely uneventful. We took the puppy for walks and outside time. I “danish parented” when I let Charlotte fill her empty sandbox with water and bubbles. I actually made three meals today instead of finding one to order out for. To be completely honest, I saved my delivery order for wine (cheers!). Everyone got along. No one made their way to time out. I felt like super mom for a moment.

And then…the witching hour (also known as it’s hot this afternoon so we’re all going to meltdown) happened upon us. We’re crate training our puppy so we went out for an hour just so he could get used to us leaving and coming back. I had the brilliant idea of letting the kids play Pokemon Go as we got milkshakes. Everything was fine.

Then something happened with Pokemon Go and Max had a melt down. Charlie was upset because I said she had to use a straw instead of a spoon in the car for her milkshake (mean mom award goes to me). I also bought fries for the kids to share and Charlotte was pissed because they all got an even amount and she didn’t get more than her brothers.

I’m in a mood, but holding it together to make dinner when we get home when the trifecta happens. All within two minutes the following happens: Oliver uses the hose to squirt Max in the face while Max is clearly screaming stop. Samson comes in from peeing outside to immediately pee inside. After I clean that up I go to check on Charlie outside as she is pouring soup into the grass all willy-nilly.

So I got more annoyed. And there may have been some yelling. And then cut to me cutting zucchini for my dinner (no grilled cheese for me) since I am now counting calories again sobbing uncontrollably. Everything annoyed me. Which in turn made me cry harder because I know it shouldn’t annoy me.

Ugh. I hate days like this. And the worst part is that I only get the kids for half time so I feel like I have now “wasted” time with them because I was in a mood.

So at 8:53 at night, when my children should be in bed, but clearly are getting some extra technology time due to mom guilt, I know I have two choices for the the rest of the night. I can continue in this mood and probably wake up like this tomorrow as well. Or I can focus on the moments that were good today: finding new books in the little free library, watching the kiddos run around with the neighbors during impromptu play time, and the lovely wine I have chilling in the kitchen for after bedtime.

Tomorrow is a new day. It will be better. The mama guilt won’t last forever. And I will remind myself constantly that I am only human.

Summer is Different This Year

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The past few summers have been a shit show. I mean, I’m sure there’s a better way to put it, but why sugar coat it. They were.

There’s the summer three years ago when I sat around every single day trying to find the courage to tell my husband that I was leaving. The amount of stress and exhaustion were enough to kill me…and I’m pretty sure they almost did.

There’s the summer two years ago where I was still scared of doing anything wrong. Anything at all that could make me somehow lose my kids. And the guilt of leaving was still so fresh that I constantly gave in to unhealthy behaviors simply to stay afloat.

Last summer was the worst. Going through the divorce and custody battle caused my anxiety to be at an all time high. I was nervous going anywhere even when I didn’t have the kids because something could go wrong. I couldn’t make one wrong decision or one single misstep because it could come back to bit me in the ass. I actually think I have slight PTSD from my custody/divorce battle. I actually had to turn my email notifications off my phone because hearing the ding reminded me of all the emails from my lawyer and I actually start to shut down.

This is the first summer where I finally feel free. Free to go on vacations with and without the kids. Free to make decisions without constantly worrying about what someone else might think or make an issue of. Free to mention Joe’s name without worrying about the repercussions.

It’s an amazing feeling, but you know what’s funny? It’s almost like a piece of me is missing now. I held on to all that worry, all that anxiety, all that anger for so long, that there is a void. What do I worry about now? What do I think about now? What should I do now?

Luckily, it’s still summer and for the first time in forever I can allow myself to find these answers. I can allow myself to figure out who I am or who I want to be. And most importantly I can actually allow myself to breathe.

Every day I’m struggling.

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I identified as a teacher, from the first time I set foot into a kindergarten classroom at Towson University in 2003. And now, I am planning on leaving my full time teaching job at the end of the year.

I identified as a mom, from Max’s first breath in 2009. I was there every single day, for every single moment. My kids have never even had a babysitter that wasn’t a relative. And now, while I am still a “full time” mom, I get to see my kids only 50% of the time.

I identified as a runner. But I was running from home. Running from an unhappy marriage. Running from all the daily pain and sorrow I felt. And now I enjoy home, and I cannot get up the motivation to run.

And for the past two and a half years I have identified as a fighter. I have fought for my children. For myself. For fairness and peace of mind. Every single minute of every single day. And now I don’t have to fight anymore.

At 39, I’m struggling to figure out not only who I am, but where I am going. I’m struggling to figure out my place. I’m struggling to figure out the old parts of me I need to keep and those I need to leave behind.

I didn’t expect this. I thought once everything was finalized, everything would magically fall into place. I didn’t think it would fall even further apart. 

I’m not quite sure who I am and what I am doing. Change is exciting. And change is scary. I’m simply hoping to keep moving forward with peace and grace while I figure it all out.

Exhausting.

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One kid upstairs, sick and asleep in his sisters bed so he can be alone, and with the windows open to make his fever more comfortable. Two kids deep into their 75th hour of technology today because I simply have no more energy to entertain or play.
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This is the same shirt that I had on last night, though I did manage to take a shower and wash my hair for the first time in 6 days (the hair, not the shower for all of you who are graced with my presence daily).
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Unscheduled rest day for my Barre Blend workout because I just could not today. I had a someone attached to me every single minute. Hopefully, I can catch up tomorrow. 
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My house is a disaster area. If you know me at all, you know I hate clutter and tend to be more of a minimalist because of this and I am pretty sure every damn thing we own is out on the floor or on a table. Mostly because I just let the unsick kids go feral today. This includes boxes that were meant for recycling that are now forts and my baby blanket that I received the day I was born pulled out and played with.
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I literally don’t know what load of laundry we are on for the day. It may be 6. Really. I don’t know. And there’s more. There’s always more.
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I am exhausted. I am very grateful for every single thing that has given me this life, but this season is hectic, crazy, tiring, and emotional. It’s marathon day after day with no rest in between. 
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But that’s ok. The house will be cleaned eventually. Kids will stop puking eventually. And I will get some sleep eventually. At least I hope so. Until then, there are filtered selfies to hide the bags under my eyes.

Stress Explosions and Mental Breakdowns

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It’s been a hot minute since I have written. I write like I tend to address everything in my life…with an all or nothing mentality. So you either get 15 posts from me in a week or none for months.

If you missed my post from last week, you saw that I finally got divorced. It took 896 days (not including the entire year I slept on the couch before actually leaving), thousands (and I mean many thousands) of dollars, and an entire beating to my mental health. That’s not to say that I don’t feel like a stronger person after going through this, I absolutely am. But the hyper focus of constantly fighting someone, fighting for someones, and having to be strategic and concentrated on every move made, every word uttered, every email sent, every dollar spent for two and a half years take its toll. And then to take all of that baggage and stress away, the amount of which was weighing on you every minute of every day for two and a half years, in less than two minutes, has genuine repercussions.

Do you watch Grey’s Anatomy? I used to, until yet another random sibling popped up from out of the blue and then I just couldn’t hang. I always think maybe I’ll try again. But I digress. Anyway, there’s this episode where a boy is fully encased in cement and they are trying to get him out. Long story short, they are about to remove the final piece of cement that has been weighing on his body when Dr. Bailey tells him that there’s a chance that when they remove the final piece of cement, the toxins that have been building up will rush to his heart, which will cause his heart to stop and he’ll stop breathing.

And that’s exactly what happened to me Saturday night.

Not really the not breathing part (aside from the panic attack) but rather the emotional breakdown that comes from having every anguishing problem and emotion that you have had to deal with for 2.5 years just suddenly cease to be a factor in your life.

Thursday after court I came home and chilled on the couch. I watched TV, relaxed, feeling good about myself. Feeling good about my outcome. Feeling good about the direction of my life for the first time in so many years. And then on Friday I noticed the overwhelming fatigue. I couldn’t stay awake. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay under the blankets and just sleep for a long time. I managed to drop the kids off to school, get to work, and come home and parent, but really it felt more like I was simply going through the motions, or playing a part in a play of someone I was supposed to be.

Saturday morning was much of the same, but by Saturday night I was not in a good place. I’ll spare you all the gory details, but panic attacks, throwing up, fighting with Joe, scary thoughts, all raced into me at one time and I just didn’t know what to do. I thought once the whole ordeal was over I would be happier right away. And I am, I really am. This was the right decision.

But I have never gone past the “no turn around zone” in any of my decisions. The finality and completeness engulfed me in a way that I wasn’t prepared for, because without this gigantic conflict looming over my head, day in and day out, what was I supposed to do with my time? What was I supposed to think about? I was so used to fighting that now I have no idea what I’m supposed to be fighting for…if I’m even supposed to be fighting at all.

On Sunday, my bearings slowly returned and today I feel a lot better. I spent so much time focusing on someones else that I know I neglected myself in the process. I no long have a person to blame for my anger. I no longer have a situation to blame for my emotions. I have no more scapegoats. I have no more reasons to make excuses. For the first time in a long time, I get to focus on me. And as much as I am excited about the process, it’s scary as hell at the same time.