Finding Mom

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The SOS text came across my phone Tuesday afternoon like the bat signal in a dark summer sky. It was on a text chain that, for all intents and purposes, has been one of my lifelines for the last year. We are a group of girlfriends and fellow moms who text constantly during our best moments and our worst, sharing everything from parenting advice, to recipes we’ve tried, to crazy things our kids have done, to support and encouragement on a tough day. And so on Tuesday when my phone buzzed the familiar tone, I looked immediately and saw a friend’s plea.
“I just can’t keep up with everything. I’m so overwhelmed. Please tell me I’m not alone.”
Quickly, the eight of us jumped in, those three speech bubble dots on our phone screens appearing in a melodic pattern one after another as we responded. 
“This week has been no joke. Is it Friday yet?”
That last one hit home for all of us: You are enough. Three simple words. Three simple words that are easily forgotten, taken for granted, or sabotaged by our inner critic who is trying to do it all, be it all, have to all, and give it all…all at the same time. I wish I could say that text chains like this were uncommon among my friends but in the reality of motherhood, it seems that we feel as though we’re floundering as often as we feel that we’re conquering. 
Over the last few days, I’ve thought a lot about that pressure we put on ourselves as moms and as women and realized that when it comes to motherhood, pressure is a collective experience. As new moms, we’re given endless, well-meaning and often unsolicited advice. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Don’t hold the baby too much. Don’t put the baby down too much. Enjoy every moment. And so on. Even before we have children, people ask WHEN we are going to have children. Let’s face it… the cycle of advice, pressure and opinions (both from external sources and even from within) starts before we’re even moms.
During the early days of quarantine last Spring, “self-care” was a big buzz word. It’s a common term in my professional life and Google has endless suggestions for what it could mean or look like. And yet, in the last twelve months, article after article has denounced the activities many moms have come to appreciate as that coveted self-care as not being “self-care” at all. Activities like grocery shopping alone. Going to Target alone. Taking a shower with the door closed. Articles claimed that these are just necessities in life and not actually self-care because, for example, showering is essential for hygiene and grocery shopping is essential to eating. (And if you’re questioning those examples, try telling the average suburban mom that Target isn’t essential.) 
Here’s the thing. Does a day at the spa being pampered sound more relaxing than hiding in my bathroom with a face mask on while I listen to yelling in the other room? Yes. Does time to myself without a “to do” list sound more rejuvenating than running errands alone while enjoying full control of the radio? Of course. But sometimes, those activities aren’t possible and so self-care has to fit in to the nooks and crannies of life until a more “acceptable” form of self-care can happen. And, for what it’s worth, I I LOVE grocery shopping alone because it’s an opportunity for me to discover foods I haven’t seen before, envision dinner ideas inspired by ingredients in the aisles, and picture myself somewhere between being a contestant on Top Chef and Supermarket Sweep. For me, it’s self-care, and also productive and effective… I’m nothing if not efficient at multi-tasking. 
So, this Mother’s Day, for the moms in your life, and all the moms in mine… hear this: Whether you get time alone to pee or a whole day to yourself, whether you define self-care as snuggling with your kids or curling up alone with a good book, or anything in between (Target included), don’t let other people’s opinions get in the way of you doing what’s best for you.
You are enough. You are not alone. You are doing great.
And, the next time you feel like you’re floundering, find a group of fellow moms and tell them. Let them lift you up. And then when the time comes, lift up the next one feeling that way. We’re all in this together. 
It really does take a village, not just to raise our kids, but to raise ourselves too. Happy Mother’s Day!
“Healthy separation.” I spent the better part of my decade-long career in residential summer camping touting the importance of a healthy separation for children and parents. When kids have a chance to exercise their muscle of independence, they learn their limits, their capabilities, and their resiliency. During phone calls with nervous parents, I’d often tell them that sending their child away to summer camp was as much a growing experience for them as it would be for their children and that being apart is a learned behavior that takes trust, practice, and reassurance that a reunion is inevitable.
As parents, we spend much of our time building that “independence muscle”. From the first time we leave our children with another family member or babysitter to the first time we leave them at daycare, school, a playdate, a sports practice, or camp, we lengthen the tether just a bit more. For years, ever time I left my kids with anyone else, I always told them “Mommy always comes back.” I said it through a tearful goodbye at my very first daycare drop off ten years ago and it stuck. I’ve said it countless times. The kids can parrot it back to me without thinking. If I ask them “what does mommy alway do?” they’ll shout “Come back!” 
But over the course of this last year, that tether of independence shortened significantly. From those first “stay at home” orders to transitioning to Zoom school to navigating a new normal, our kids have gotten used to being home (and with us and each other). Today, on day 381 since they last set foot in a classroom, our kids went back to school in person and I found myself excited for them (and us!) to have some distance while silently mourning the loss of the constant togetherness this year forced upon us in one of the most beautiful silver linings ever.
Today, on our first day of in person learning after a year at home, we put healthy separation on full blast. While my 4th grader all but ran ahead of us and my 2nd grader nearly skipped with excitement, my kindergartener’s grip on my hand got tighter and tighter as we rounded the final corner to campus. By all counts, it was not the way a first day should go. There was no classroom tour, no parent meet and mingle, no gentle goodbye and careful tiptoe away. Today, we ripped off that “healthy separation bandaid” like one that’s been stuck to your skin for too long and takes an extra hard tug to get off.
With no parents allowed on campus, our girls had to get themselves to class — that alone is a simple task, yet one we would typically never enable on a “normal” first day of elementary school. As we watched the three of them walk away, the kindergartener’s steps slowed and her quiet nerves became audible sobs (from across the parking lot, no less). With no parents allowed on campus, there was nothing we could do but watch and wave, lift an encouraging “thumbs up” and will her adrenaline and bravery to overtake her anxious anticipation. And with six feet of distance required at all times, there was little her teacher could do either except offer her encouraging words. 
As I cried on my husband’s shoulder, the power of this year of togetherness came full circle. There, from across the parking lot, we watched our daughters support their baby sister. We watched our fourth grader tell her it would be okay and show her where we were standing. We watched our second grader hug her sister, dig her stuffed animal out of her tote bag, and bend down with hands on her sister’s shoulders to give her an eye-to-eye pep talk. My own anxiety and heartbreak at not being able to comfort my daughter was quickly replaced by heartwarming pride that our girls had taken care of each other. 
We’ve told our three girls often and since they were very young that their sisters are their first friends and that we expect them to take care of one another. And today, they did just that. They exercised that healthy separation muscle, together. When I picked up my youngest from school, she came running across the grassy entrance and into my arms. The first words out of her mouth were “I had a hard time at first, but then I got used to it.” There it was — case in point — our reunion combined with her resiliency, capabilities, and independence. Healthy separation. 
Psst… I had to label this post “Finding a Healthy Separation 2.0” because I’d already used the healthy separation title once in a blog post seven years ago. After all, the more things change, the more they stay the same…
I almost skipped St. Patrick’s day this year. We’re not Irish and don’t have long-standing St. Patty’s day family traditions (aside from a green beer or two in my 20s). And after a year of quarantining at home I’m really. freaking. tired. Plus, I’ve always hated a holiday that has social traditions that give others Carte Blanche to pinch you based on what you are (or more accurately aren’t) wearing. No thank you.
While we’ve set a trap or two in our living room in the past, for the most part I’ve relied on school to give the kids the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They’d collaborate and devise traps with classmates, set them as the final bell of the school day rang and go to sleep that night with anxious anticipation to get back to school and check out what mischief the leprechaun had caused.
But on day 369 of being home, there was no classroom to check. No classmates to collaborate, and no final bell to ring. Every step of every day in the last year has been within the four walls of our house. In 2020, St. Patrick’s day was the beginning of this crazy year, or maybe more appropriately the end of “normal.” It was the first of many moments requiring a pivot, and of memories (and history) in the making. I vividly remember running to Safeway one last time last year in a panic to get Lucky Charms and any accompanying goodies I could find, acutely aware of the lingering cloud of fear all around us amid empty toilet paper shelves. I didn’t set foot in Safeway again until two weeks ago.
Just as I was about to put the nail in the coffin of leprechaun shenanigans this year, I heard my 10 year old reminding her younger sisters “we have to set a trap tonight to catch the leprechaun!” Even from the other room, I could hear the sparkle of magic and belief in her voice. And I just knew… the leprechaun had to make a visit again this year because for all my kids lost in the last 369 days of being home, there’s an equally long list of things they’ve gained, not the least of which is togetherness, resilience, and a little longer to hold onto that childhood innocence and belief.
Yesterday while they marveled at the note left by their leprechaun, the black pots (otherwise known as Target cereal bowls), and the shimmering gold necklaces with their first initial embedded on a gold medallion (thanks Amazon), I sat back and listened to their bubbling belief. “I can’t believe the leprechaun knows our names!” said my middle. “And how does he know to bring us lucky charms every year? We are so lucky!” said my oldest. “How do you know he’s a HE?” asked the youngest. And on they went, talking excitedly over breakfast.
I know our years (or maybe days) of their belief in childhood magic are numbered. So while we may not be Irish, and while I draw the line before the classic green toilet water and green footsteps across my floor, I realized that this year has given me countless blessings too, starting with remembering to slow down and infuse magic in our home whenever possible. And remembering that a bowl of Lucky Charms once a year goes a long way.
The shock is wearing off. Reality is setting in.
It’s safe to say we are all sailing in unchartered territory. Certainly in my lifetime. And my parents’ too. Life amid the coronavirus pandemic is different and dynamic, with nonstop information coming at us, and life as we know it changing by the minute. My Bay Area county (and 5 neighboring ones) is about to announce a shelter in place plan to limit our comings and goings, interactions and inevitable spread of this virus.
As I write this, and apparently temporarily resuscitate my mommy-blog that had completely fallen by the wayside, I’m listening to my three young daughters work on their first round of “homework” that I created in our new “homeschool”. To them, the STEAM lesson I planned is a small shift from their norm — instead of creating leprechaun traps in their classrooms and with their classmates, they’re forced to create it at home with their sisters as their new learning contemporaries. But to me, it’s just the beginning of my newest identity shift where I add “homeschool teacher” to the many hats I wear on a given day.
I’ve been in nonstop texting and Facebook threads with other moms, passing ideas of schedules, lessons, chore charts, and so on, back and forth, using our collective brainpower to collaborate in this era of ever-changing reality. The texts and the Facebook threads are our lifeline not only to collaboration, but to survival. Where once we could grab a glass of wine at our local Whole Foods, settle into each other’s couches for book club or to watch the Bachelor, or take the kids for an impromptu playdate at the park, we are now within the confines of our own homes. Collaboration, humor and discourse are our virtual escape.
It’s this blurred reality that reminds me that my job, first and foremost, is to protect my children and help them make sense of the world. How my husband and I respond to the pandemic — the words we choose, the way we speak to each other and to friends and family on the phone, the attitude we carry — will have a direct impact on our children for years to follow. Whereas my parents’ generation still recalls where they were when JFK was shot, and my peers and I share stories of 9/11 and the days and weeks that followed, our children will talk about this. The pandemic. The shelter in place. They’ll ask each other what their experience was like, how they felt, what they remember.
People we know will likely become diagnosed with coronavirus… assuming testing is possible. It’s inevitable. And from what I’m reading, things could get worse before they get better. We are on information overload and things seem to be changing by the day. And so, while I sit at my dining table making color-coded schedules, scouring the internet for lesson plans, bookmarking online yoga classes, and preparing science experiments to continue exercising my daughters’ brains and bodies, I realize that my responsibility is even more-so to help them come out of this on the other side with a grounded sense of reality (somewhere between hysteria and denial) and to instill in them resilience, compassion and a burning desire to do their part to make a difference.
So when I put on that “homeschool teacher” hat each morning, I’ll remind myself of the bigger picture, too, and give myself some leeway to learn alongside my kids, to make mistakes, to know that some days will go better than others, and strive to be a positive role model for them amid pandemic-life. No, I’m not formally trained to teach long division (nor do I really remember it!); I’m not versed in strategies to help them move through the designated reading levels their classes follow. I’m now their homeschool teacher and I’ll certainly do my best. But, the first hat I wear is their mom, and I’ll do everything in my power to teach them, protect them, shelter them, guide them, and love them through each day ahead.
Yes, we are in a new “homeschool” situation, which is coupled with a double “work from home” environment between myself and my husband. Yes, they’ll complete math and reading lessons daily, practice their piano, engage in PE, and work on the virtual projects coming at us from their teachers, but we’ll also bake, watch movies, play games, have dance parties, organize closets, snuggle, and laugh. We’ll draw pictures and mail them to nursing homes where residents aren’t allowed to have visitors. We’ll FaceTime with friends and family. We’ll write letters and mail them to friends. We’ll learn new skills and take on new responsibilities.
Because when we come out on the other side of this, I want my children to remember how it felt to be home, and to remember just how far the walls of our home and our hearts could stretch.
There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
Then try to push out the unimaginable.
– from “It’s Quiet Uptown” by Lin-Manuel Miranda ( Hamilton )
I’ve spent all day trying to find the right words, to take the feelings I’ve had since midday yesterday and turn them into coherent prose, angry expression or a well thought out blog. But the sinking feeling of “it happened again” has taken over and I can’t seem to find the words.
I’ll never forget the shock of Columbine – myself a high school junior and terrified and confused as to how something so awful could happen to my peers just a few states away. Then another and another until “school shooting” became a recognized phrase, and the numbers on the charts became statistics beyond measure. All senseless, all tragic. The stories of Sandy Hook still bring me to tears, and the terror in the live videos from Florida yesterday shook me to my core. Children. Children in a place of learning, a place where they formulate their hopes and dreams, envision their futures and spend their days traversing the innocence of childhood. Gone.
It took every fiber of my being to let go of the snuggles with my sweet girls last night and muster the strength to drop them off at school this morning. And when they got home, the strength returned in the form of a prolonged hug and a silent gratitude. Today they were safe.
Though I seem to have momentarily found these words, I’m simultaneously speechless and downright angry because this continued tragedy is truly unimaginable.
Inspiration comes in the places where we least expect it. Today it was at the corner of College and Claremont in Oakland, California and inspiration’s name was Rosie. I met Rosie while waiting for a crosswalk SIGN to change to the flashing WALK, and in the moment when we both stood on the same corner today and shared a cursory smile, she took out her earbuds and commented on my umbrella. “Look at those eyes,” she said. “It’s like they’re a clear view into the world, with the strength of women like we saw on the Golden Globes last night.”
Intrigued, I agreed and told her I’d never thought of my umbrella that way. As the sign changed to signal that it was safe to cross the street, Rosie and I starte
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