A Birthday Poem for Spawnling

To my one, my only,
My once roly-poly
The last little gremlin
To crawl out of my hole-y

Well actually my tummy,
And crawl you did not,
But those are semantics,
I hate those a lot.

Anyway, let's move away from your birth,
My tummy, its scars and its sizeable girth,
And focus on especially awesomely you,
And not just the day you were shiny and new

And, well, quite frankly, all covered in goo...

You're six years today,
My little Spawn wonder,
All full of fire and laughter and thunder,
All full of mischief and magical stories,
That are filled to the brim with heroic glories.

You are unique,
You are wild,
You are wise,
You have immense wit in that minuscule size

I honestly don't think our family would be
As happy without you,
Our boy number three.
There is no one else,
No way to replace,
That adorable,
Devilish,
Sweet little face

So thank you,
For sneaking your way through the gate,
And making me notice my cycle was late,
For surprising us all with a positive line,
And then with ten pounds just after month nine

You completed my world,
You wrapped it up tightly,
If my love was a light,
It would shine far too brightly

That light would annoy you,
You'd yell and get mad,
Then I'd yell to remind you that yelling is bad,
And then you'd be sorry and feel rather sad,
And draw me a picture,
And write me a letter,
Things would eventually start to get better...

Don't worry about it,
Let's just let it go,
Dysfunctional love has its place, too, you know.

Happy birthday to you,
My littlest one,
My six-year-old,
Beautiful,
Wonderful son.

How I'm (Begrudgingly) Making Peace With Anxiety

This is me screaming on a dock. I don't know why I'm screaming. Or why I'm bald. Anxiety will do that.

I have anxiety.

It used to be every day, but thankfully not since going gluten-free. Now, instead of being like an annoying roommate, my anxiety has become more of an abrasive neighbour; I don't deal with it every day, but enough that I wish putting up a really tall fence would help.

Anxiety found me yesterday, as I was chilling out in my new office (there will be an entire upcoming post dedicated to this glorious space). I was working and listening to music and tweeting and facebooking; a perfect day of aloneness.

I was not having a bad day.

I did not have more stress to contend with than usual.

I wasn't tired or hungry or upset.

But there it was, like a bad neighbour with leaf blower, interrupting my beautiful morning. I got that familiar ah, dammit! moment when I felt it creep up inside me, clawing its way through my body like it owns the place. I always know it's going to take up residence in my head and stomach. I know it's going to sit heavily on my chest, arms crossed and a smug look on its (invisible) face.  "Why now?" I asked aloud like a crazy woman. "This is SO unfair. I was having a great day!"

We all have a little bit of anxiety; it's a natural human motivator. It keeps us on our toes, helps us with productivity, warns us of danger. But when it's unwarranted, unwelcome and overwhelming, it becomes debilitating. Anxiety is a bitch. And not in that loving way I refer to my best friend ("Thanks for the coffee, you generous bitch.") or the mailman ("Where's my National Geographic, bitch?") It is a bitch in that bad way people mean it.

I usually try to fight it off. I tell myself to just get over it, already. I get angry about it. I try to control it. And when I can't, I mope about how awful it feels to be trapped inside my head like that.

But what I'm learning is that - for me - trying to fight anxiety is like trying to fight other things I'm powerless against, like income tax and mullets and jeggings. No matter what I do, there's always going to be a tax system, bad hair, and fashions I don't understand. And there is always going to be anxiety in my life because I am not a monk and I do not live on a mountain full of people with shaved heads (a blissfully mullet-free zone) who spend their days finding inner peace.

Believe me, I have a hard enough time finding my bra, let alone inner peace.

There are some things that have helped to keep the anxiety at bay most days: regular exercise, switching up half my coffee for the decaffeinated variety (yes, really), getting enough sleep, eating better, deep breathing - basically, all those things the experts tell you to do. They help, but they haven't eradicated the problem by any means.

Yesterday I decided to go all 1990's and honour my feelings. I got tired of fighting an inner war I clearly wasn't winning. I sat with the heavy feeling in my chest. I accepted that it was there instead of trying to deny it.

I get so angry with myself when I have a high anxiety day. But would I treat someone else that way? Would I tell them to get over it? No. I would be kind and understanding and cut them a bit of slack. I would tell them to take good care of themselves, remind them that they're wonderful, and that tomorrow is a new day.

So that's what I did.

I cut myself some slack.

I was kind and gentle.

I told myself I'm still a wonderful person, and that tomorrow is a new day.

And today really is a new day. Both factually and emotionally. Today is not nearly as bad as yesterday. The feeling in my chest is a little lighter, my tummy feels better, my head is happier.

Days like yesterday are going to happen no matter what. I can't control the biological forces behind anxiety, but I can choose not to beat myself up on those days. That's something I can control.

This pleases me greatly, as I am pretty controlling. Just ask my kids.

12 Things I'm Grateful For in 2012

Happy almost Canadian Thanksgiving!

I'm sure you're expecting the usual "I'm grateful for friends, family and renewable energy" type stuff, but that's so O Magazine. Obviously I'm grateful for those. I'm not an asshole.

... Although it was a little asshole-ish of me to use the term "asshole" in a gratitude list before Thanksgiving. Or for me to insinuate that you're insinuating I am one.

Anyway, let's stop questioning my word usage and move on, shall we?

12 Ways I'm Gobbling Up the Gratitude:

1. I'm grateful that, at 36, I have a pretty good grasp of who I am: my strengths (numerous), shortcomings (far more numerous), and amazing hair (if I use the right products). It takes a lot more to shake my confidence these days, and I don't need nearly as much approval as I used to even a couple of years ago.

2. I'm thankful to know when I'm lying to myself. Like just now. I was spewing forth falsehoods. I actually do still feast on your approval, but I like to pretend I don't because it makes me seem more confident. Please feel free to take pity on me and pile some love on my plate. Leave a comment, retweet or share a post, pull my hair, throw a shoe at me... anything. Just let me know I exist in your world, ok? It's lonely here, all by myself.

3. Grateful that therapists are heartily compensated via my spouse's insurance. Three guesses why this is a good thing.

4. I no longer equate "healthy" with "skinny." This was the best gift I could ever give myself other than Johnny Depp in a cake. Healthy comes in many different sizes. If I eat good food and exercise and get enough sleep, I'm probably pretty healthy. If that results in a smaller size, so be it. If not, I still feel fabulous. I still rock the skin I'm in. I still love myself immensely. Immensely.

5. I was really happy to find out this year that I am not, in fact, a narcissist. (See the end of gratitude point #4 for an example of why this was a concern.) According to the internet and one therapist I cornered while she was not doing therapy (and who is not my therapist and actually doesn't really know me at all), I'm probably just a little self-centered sometimes, and that's not always a bad thing. It's okay to be a kinda into me because I'm really great-- Oh, get this: but not greater than everyone else. There. See? Totally healthy. Not a narcissist.

6. Coffee does not contain any gluten. Enough said.

7. Every six months, Gutsy and Intrepid pick out new hearing aid moulds - the soft plastic part that goes in the ear. Gutsy always picks out really awesome colours; this time it was a neon blue. The boys are totally comfortable with their hearing loss. They don't try to hide it, and, in fact, are happy to educate anyone who asks. I'm grateful for confident kids. I'm always learning to be a better human through them.

8. When the dog threw up all over the carpet last week, I'm thankful Geekster found it and not me.

9. Speaking of my spouse, I'm grateful he hasn't taken Zoidberg Fred downstairs to his soon-to-be studio. In fact, the ungrateful (so unseasonal, right?) guy stuck him on top of a shelf in the living room "until the room is finished", where he is collecting dust as we speak. Never mind him, Fred. You're going to have your own chaise when Geekster moves out of my office; the type people buy for their overpriced poodles. And you can help me write screenplays. I'll carry you up to collect the Emmy and everything. We can fit you with a little lobster-sized tux. Seriously adorbs.

10. Kinda glad these chocolate-covered raisins are gluten-free too...

11. Grateful for this blog. It's done all sorts of awesome things for me in the last six-and-a-half years. Having this platform to rant, cry, commiserate, communicate, evaluate, and grow with has been life-changing. And I'm not even being dramatic right now. I'm reaching out, here folks. I'm trying to touch you. Oh, don't act like you don't like it.

12. Very grateful that, even though it's 2012, I only have to come up with twelve things to be thankful for and not, like, two-thousand-and-twelve. That's do-it-yourself lobotomy territory, right there.

Happy Thanksgiving, Canadians. And happy All-The-Stores-In-Your-Area-Will-Be-Open Day to everyone else.

Never Look a Gift Lobster in the Mouth

I don't buy my husband a lot of gifts. In fact, I would say I undergift because he's an environmentalist at heart who isn't a big fan of using precious oil barrels to make wasteful things in big Chinese factories. I also subscribe to this philosophy.

But when I discovered a singing lobster at a second hand store and two gay men convinced me to buy it, I did.

It's important to mention I was with two gay men, because shopping with them was a lot like shopping with the head cheerleaders - not that I ever did that. If there was a social ladder in high school, then I, along with the guy who publicly picked his nose, was the one holding the bottom of it so everyone else could position themselves on their respective rungs. But I'm not bitter or anything. 

Anyway, the point is that gay men in a group have magical powers of persuasion I can only imagine cheerleaders have when they take the less cool girl out to shop. They can make you buy amazing things you'd probably never buy alone, like a sequins skirt or hair extensions - or a singing lobster.

The Lobster was just sitting there on the table, looking super ugly. I'm actually pretty grossed out by seafood as a general rule. Anything with claws and little black eyes should never go in my mouth, or sit on a table in a thrift store. But it had a big red button and I like big red buttons (I'm banned from most missile silos). So I pressed it, and it did this:

I pressed it again and it played a different song. It only plays two which is kind of cheap, but moving its disgusting claws and flapping its grotesque little tail around was actually kind of... endearing.

"Maybe I should get this for Geekster..." I thought aloud.

"He would love that!" said my friend. 

"I don't know..." I waffled.

And then his friend, who suddenly appeared from behind a rack of clothing, heartily agreed. Looking back, this happenstance meeting probably wasn't so happenstance. I think my friend lit up the gay equivalent of the bat signal, alerting anyone nearby that he needed some help encouraging me to take this lobster home. And with a nod from two hilarious, well-dressed men, I brought that lobster home with a big grin on my face.

The crazy right-wingers keep talking about "The Gay Agenda" like it's some big scary thing that's going to tear apart the fabric of society. I never bought into that; I always thought they just wanted to live life with equal rights and without prejudice (how dare they?). But now I'm starting to think the agenda is to get straight people to buy secondhand singing seafood, which, despite the lovely aliteration, could actually destroy straight marriages everywhere. Observe:

I kept the lobster hidden for about three weeks. I was going to wait until Christmas to give it to Geekster. But then he started building a new office/music studio in the basement and I couldn't help myself. I excitedly brought the box down when he was putting up drywall.

"I got you somethiiiiing!" I squealed melodically. (Don't think you can squeal melodically? Ask me to demonstrate sometime and I'll prove it to you.)

Geekster turned to see the lobster in my hands. "You didn't," he said flatly.

"It sings!" I squealed again, unable to contain my excitement. I pressed the button.

The look on my husband's face was more of an "I am witnessing something truly horrific" shock than a "this is the best gift you've ever given me, my beautiful wife, and that really say something because you've given me so many wonderful things" shock.

"... It's for your new studio?" I attempted.

"You spent money on this?"

"Geekster, it's a singing lobster. I could have spent $50 and it would have been a bargain. But I paid $7.99 at the thrift store - not that I should be telling you that because it's a gift. An amazing gift."

"It's pretty special, that's for sure," he replied, sounding quite unsure.

I suddenly felt very defensive of my disgusting little friend. "Fine. I'll keep him in my office when you move out. His name will be Fred and he'll be my coworker. I'll put a desk where your desk used to be and give him his own little coffee cup and a phone extension."

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah. And I'll bounce all my ideas off of him, and we'll have our own little inside jokes that we'll talk about in the staff lunch room that you will not be privy to because you shunned him. There will also be a strict anti-seafood-bullying policy that Fred and I will expect you to adhere to when you come visit us."

"No. I'm going to name him Zoidberg, and he's going to stay with me."

I glared at him and put the lobster back down."Ok, fine. But I get visitation rights."

And that is how Geekster learned to love a lobster. I mean, not in a creepy way, but in a way that two gay men and I love a lobster. 

Ok, no. Shit, no. 

I need more coffee.

Why Caring What Others Think Sucks

I got pregnant with Intrepid at nineteen. I had only voted in a single federal election, and was just old enough to finally buy cigarettes legally when I had to quit in the hopes my fetus didn't sprout a carcinogenic third kidney. I replaced my daily caffeine fix with a prenatal vitamin big enough to swallow my face, and stoically said goodbye to a belly without stretch marks.

I did everything a responsible expecting woman in her twenties, thirties or forties would have done, and yet I felt judged. It only got worse after the baby came shooting out of my birth canal*- not because I was an inadequate parent, but because some people assumed I would be.

Young woman + baby = clueless 

Young woman + baby = careless 

Young woman + baby = throwing her life away

I knew I didn't like math for a reason.

At one point a "friend" told me my newborn baby was cute, but I had just ruined my life. Needless to say, she is no longer on my non-denominational holiday festivities greetings list.

Anyway, the point is that some people judged me, and, lacking the confidence that would eventually come with age, I jumped on board the Maven Hate Train.** I became my own harshest critic. I figured if I could just nip anything questionable in the bud before it was noticed by the outside world, I would avoid the social unpleasantries of being that mom. I tried extra hard to do everything right, from what outings we took to what crafts we did to what our bedtime routine was. I read every book, every parenting article, every professional opinion I could find on the still-blooming internet. I worked at it and streamlined it and perfected it - and completely exhausted myself.

As my fragile emotional state soon revealed, it's a slippery slope to care what other people think. One day you're just trying make sure your kid has clean clothes on before playgroup and the next you're posting pictures of the preschool curriculum you're implementing to get your child reading before kindergarten because he is clearly advanced, can't you see, and you're a really good mom despite the holes in his matching socks, ok, everybody? 

It all seems like such a long time ago. These days I'm firmly rooted in my thirties, have three kids and lots of people around who aren't of the point-and-glare variety. I'm not the worried young mom I used to be.

However...

Yesterday I went to the grocery store and bought the following items:

- 1 package of hot dogs
- 3 boxes of Kraft Dinner (or Mac n' Cheese for you Americans)
- 4 Snickers bars

Nope, not a single fresh or even remotely healthy item in my hot little hands. And for the first time in a very long time, I worried what people would think. Being the fat girl with a bushel of calorie-rich chemicals at the checkout brought back a truckload of insecurities. What would the skinny lady in front of me think as she unloaded her organic veggies? What was the man behind me with all the steel cut oats thinking right now? And I didn't even bring my own bags. Dammit. High fructose corn syrup packed for me in sea turtle-suffocating plastic? Impending social disaster, people. I was a displeased tweet just waiting to happen. I was certain my confident exterior was going to crumble any minute.

I'm pretty good at striking up conversations with complete strangers - and most of the time they don't even end with "please leave me alone." I wondered if I should casually mention I had bought nothing but greens and local fruit the day before. Maybe they'd like to know that I purchased so much fresh food I had used up all the reusable bags I always carry in the trunk of my hybrid. I could always use the very real excuse that getting up at 5:30 to hit the gym makes me forgetful by mid-afternoon. All valid, all true, and all nearly excusing the artery-bursting items being loaded into a crinkly bag of global warming.

I consciously decided not say a word. I chose to stand there and feel every bit of that embarrassment without excusing away what I was doing. The mortification eventually passed.

What makes this kind of awesome is that I didn't try to prove myself worthy of those purchases to anyone. I've come a long way.

I've realized that people are going to judge no matter what, and that is completely out of my control. If you're judging me and I'm not doing something totally reckless, like rolling my baby in cocaine***, it's likely because you're not too happy with you that day. If you can't see beyond the immediate situation - like the young mom with a tantruming toddler or the chubby chick who's buying hot dogs - and recognize that these are just snapshots of a much bigger picture, then that's your prerogative. Maybe you doubt your own choices and therefore need to defend them by looking down on those who make different ones. Maybe it's how you deal with a bad day, or a shitty boss, or your dying mom. Who am I to say? I don't know your story. I can't do anything about what you're thinking. And besides, it's not up to me to change how you see things, it's up to you.

I'll be the first to admit that I get judgmental sometimes too; usually when I make a face and send off a text when someone who could be perfectly gorgeous walks by wearing tasseled UGGs and an awful skirt (this might have happened yesterday). But these days I always ask myself why I'm reacting so strongly to someone else's decisions. It's a flag that I'm not in a good state of mind. In the end, it's energy better spent elsewhere.

People, we should never feel like we need to justify our choices to anyone. It doesn't mean our decisions are always the best, but they're ours and we will certainly make the best out of them.



*I like to pretend the baby came shooting out of my birth canal because it makes the decision to have two more children who also didn't shoot through my birth canal more justifiable.

**The Maven Hate Train is basically the complete opposite of the Maven Love Train, in that it serves store brand coffee, has no disco cars, and plays reruns of The Bachelor. It is, truly, Hell on wheels.

*** That was about the most reckless thing I could think of right now. I do not speak from personal experience. Please don't judge me. Or do, I guess. Whatever.

How Setting Things on Fire Makes Everything Better

"You want to do what with me?"

"A burning ritual," my friend Robyn said to me. "We burn things that are symbolic of what we need to let go of."

"And you've done this before?"

"Oh, yes," she replied with a smile. "It's great."

Hello, Criminal Minds? I found that pyro you couldn't catch that one time.

I never pegged Robyn for mentally unstable, but here it was. She's still lovely though, and does a great job of not letting her crazy show as much as mine does. I decided to take this new honesty as friendship growth. "So I prepare these things... and we set them on fire? And watch them burn?"

"Yes. We take turns. We smudge each other first, though," she explained.

Pervert. I hadn't realized she was into me like that. I knew there was an ulterior motive to all this hippy ceremony healing stuff.

But I figured letting someone smudge my pudge would be worth it if I could just unload some of the crap I've been carrying around lately. I've taken on a huge screenwriting project that is, while fun, terribly overwhelming at times. If I thought I was a decent writer before, I now feel like a clueless newbie who's trying to learn the craft at breakneck speeds. I know blogs and articles and facebooking and tweets. I have confidence in spades in those areas. Screenplays? Not so much. But I've taken it on and haven't lost it to the point of running backwards off a cliff in my undies yet, so I think I might be okay.

But the self-doubt, the insecurities, the annoying little voice telling me I'll never make it? All there every time I take on something new, and all things I'd be happy if my clearly disturbed friend could kill in a fire.

I got there late Saturday night carrying an envelope stuffed with a bunch of post-it notes - colour coordinated, of course, because I'm a Virgo and we do stupid shit like that. Purple for fears, pink for people, green for financial worries-- oh, and orange for perfectionism. A perfectly efficient system, if I do say so myself.

Robyn greeted me warmly and lead me outside. "Aaron's going to be joining us," she said of her husband.

Hold the phone. Now we're all smudging each other? A heads up on this kind of thing would have been nice. I might have had a courage shot of espresso first, or something.

Aaron was lighting the fire when we got outside, clearly being an enabler to his pyro wife - which is sad because it just shows how this sort of thing is a family illness. I nervously stood between them, clutching my envelope and wishing I had at least shaved first before the late night smudgefest.

Good news: I found out very quickly that 'smudging' just means waving some incense around someone to clear their aura or some such, and is not pagan slang for "let's lustfully lock viking horns under this full moon before we set shit on fire." This revelation lessened my performance anxiety quite a bit.

The smudging was over before I could say, "I kinda wish I had worn a more comfortable bra now." Robyn handed me a cup to drink from, which I was pretty sure at this point did not contain any roofies. We took turns talking about what we were letting go of and then watching it turn to ashes in the fire pit. As it turns out, letting go of things in a colour coordinated flash of light is surprisingly empowering.

I'm taking big leaps in my writing lately. That's scary. And I went from wrangling little gremlins all day to wrangling lines of dialogue all day. That's also scary. Big changes, big risks, big insecurities. But I burned them all on little post-it notes, so that's going to make everything better, right?

I slept like a baby that night - and the next night, too. I guess that answers my own question.

Mind you, I smudged two people at the same time, and that does tend to make one a little tired.

Why I Will Now Have to Sell my Home and Move to Nunavut

Here's a helpful tidbit for you:

If you have dry, eczema-prone hands like mine (thanks, stress), you should use one of those thick, pasty creams to protect them before running errands.

Slab a bunch on. Don't be shy about it. Just put that shit all over your hands, give it a minute to sink in, and then head out. Running errands is enough of a pain without actual pain to contend with, you know.

Go to the store. Go to the post office. Go get some groceries. Chat with everyone and smile wide, because you're a friendly sort.  Be polite, crack a few jokes, and when people look at you, just chalk it up to the positive energy emanating from your being.

Your hands will feel great throughout all of this, by the way, because that lavender cream has magical properties.

Oh, but before you head out, go look in the mirror.

Please go look in the mirror.

Because, at some point right after you put on the cream, you might have touched your hair and left a big, white glob of it dangling on a curl next to your cheek a la There's Something About Mary.

And if you don't check the mirror, you're not going to know about it until you get home. You might, at that point, be absolutely mortified and spend the rest of the day Google mapping your way to different grocery stores and post offices.

So, please, to avoid being the focus of a prayer circle at every church in town next Sunday, just look in the mirror.

Scratch one off the bucket list, because I finally managed to look like Cameron Diaz.

The Bad Stuff is Actually the Good Stuff (or something)

Today is Worldwide Suicide Prevention Day.

I don't feel suicidal, so that's awesome.

But maybe you do. Or maybe you're just crawling out from that dark place. Or maybe you're simply someone who feels down a lot of the time, or has a hard time handling stress.

(Welcome to the club on that last part, by the way. I'm the queen of Lousy Stress Management,  Supreme Ruler of Anxiety Island, and the former Duchess of Depression. With all those titles it's a wonder I have any time to blog. Or see my kids. Or look this incredible all the time.)

Depression sucks. It can take a perfectly happy human being and throw a raincloud over her faster than a Kardashian can say "divorce."

It's important to know that the chemical imbalances leading to depression are a very real foe. If you get stuck in that deep and slippery rut they carve into your brain, it can be next to impossible to climb out without the right kind of help. For some people, that help comes in the form of cognitive therapy; for others, medication. In my case, all those years ago, I needed both. That combination saved my life. I am here, alive and coffee-swigging, because the people in my world encouraged me to get help. Their encouragement and what felt like my last bit of strength are what allowed me to grow into the fabulous human being I am today.

Unless you think I suck, in which case it allowed me to grow into a much better human being than you see here. I just play it down so that nobody feels inferior. (I am not above using any amount of self-deprecation required to get you the help you need.)

There's one thing I learned in therapy that has stuck with me all these years: I am not a victim. 

Yes, Bad things have happened to me that are beyond my control. But how I choose to deal with those things is entirely up to me.

I remember the therapist (the most recent one in an impressively long line) taking out a sheet of paper and asking me to tell him a little about myself. I knew this part well. I did this with all the therapists. I scoffed and said he would need more than one sheet. He nodded and placed a second one on his clipboard, then asked me to continue.

When I was depressed, I saw everything as a negative. I believed the world had dealt me shitty cards throughout the years, and that I was well within my rights to be very bitter. Because of those circumstances, I was robbed of a "normal" life. Because of certain people, I was left feeling resentful or hurt or angry. Life was cruel to me, and I was just trying to deal with it the best I could. It was no wonder I was depressed, I explained. How could I not be?

The therapist looked at the two full sheets he had written on. He nodded, and agreed that life had given me some bad stuff. I felt vindicated.

Then the fucker grabbed the sheets, crumpled them up and threw them over his shoulder. He locked eyes with me. "Do you know what your problem is, Maven? You're a victim. Poor, poor Maven. Look at what the world has done to you. It's sooooo unfair. I'll admit that you haven't had an easy life, but you owe it to yourself and those you love to move past this."

I was dumbfounded; more so when he gave me my assignment for the week.

"I want you to go home and write 'I AM NOT A VICTIM' 1000 times in a notebook. Bring it back to me next session or don't come back at all. You can't move forward until you stop feeling sorry for yourself. This medication you're on isn't a long term solution. You need to change your thinking patterns."

I hated that guy all week. Me, dealing with a busy toddler while writing out I AM NOT A VICTIM over and over and over. Me, wondering why this guy couldn't just understand that things aren't always as easy for everyone as they are for him.

Me, who was, surprisingly, starting to feel a little better after the third anti-victim writing session...

I went back the following week with roughly one-thousand lines declaring my new state of mind. That bastard changed my life more than the drugs (although those helped tremendously for a few months until my brain wrapped itself around these new thought processes). I owe him so very much.

Here's the thing: Bad stuff happens to all of us. It's okay to feel horrible about it for a time. It's okay to hurt, to cry, to get angry. It's okay to grieve, to wish things could be different. Pain is a very real emotion, and it should be dealt with in a very real way. The people who stuff it down are the ones who eventually have breakdowns, and end up making clothing out of Fruit Loop boxes and talking to stop signs. We should definitely allow ourselves to feel the pain.

And then it's time to let it go.

I always know I'm moving past the hurt when I can find the positive in an otherwise awful situation. Most of the time, I've learned something important about the world or about myself. And, in every situation, I've grown as a person.

Growth doesn't take place during the easy times. We are stubborn souls who learn when we're neck-deep in angst and sadness. If we can claw our way out, we emerge wiser, stronger, more resilient creatures. It's not fun work, but it's important. Otherwise we'd end up those shallow people that seem to be drawn to reality television stardom.

The day I began to see my past as a gift was the day things started to get better. Yes, a gift. After all, check out who emerged out of that puddle of angst and whatever. Not half bad, am I right? These days - on those darkest of days - I try to hold on to the knowledge my past has taught me: Things will get better. They always do, no matter how bad it seems at the moment. I will heal from whatever this is, and I will come out of this a sexy bitch stronger person.

If you're feeling at your lowest and you need help, please get it. Talk to someone - anyone. Your life is waiting for you. There will be happy days, chocolate, lattes and unicorns ahead.

Okay, I might have made up that last one.

PS: There are some great exercises over at Tiny Buddha that you can start doing today. I want to print these up and put them on my wall, except that the kids will end up drawing on them and I won't be able to see them and I'll feel totally victimized until I remember that this is some kind of gift or something. That sounds like too much work.

An Open Letter to my Childless Friends

Dear Childless Person in My Life,

Believe it or not, there was a time when I was probably what you would consider "fun." Maybe even "cool." 

I had no responsibilities outside of work or school, no babysitters on the clock, no time-stealing Ankle Biters holding my interests ransom. 

And I had interests, by the way, in that galaxy far, far away. I liked punk music and sketching and videogames and cafes with artwork on the walls. I loved spontaneous road trips and all-night movie marathons and vintage clothing shops. I was great. 

Nay, I was amazing.

I was that girl who knew people, immensely enjoyed people, got out to see people.

And then I had kids.

Suddenly, I had traded videogames for Green Eggs and Ham, all-night movie marathons for all-night nursing marathons, and a great deal of my sketches ended up with Crayola marker stickmen all over them. (Not so washable on paper filled with hours of detailed penciling, by the way.) 

I did, occasionally, wear mom jeans and scrunchies. I have, on far more occasions, gone out without mascara - unless you count the stuff I didn't quite manage to entirely wash off my face from the day before. I gained a few pounds - okay, more than a few - and, without a bra, my boobs look like they had a threeway with a George Foreman Grill. 

Sometimes I look at you with envy. You, with your nicely styled hair and stretch mark-less tummy. You with your full social calendar and disposable income. You, with time to follow your interests with few interruptions.

You, with a life dedicated to you.

Sometimes I wonder how you look at me. Do you think I've thrown my life away to raise my kids? Do you think I'm boring? Do you think I could have been happier if I had simply put up a "NO SOLICITATION" sign in my uterus?

It's okay if you do. Sometimes I wonder those things too. Parenting has definitely changed me.

But here's the thing: It's supposed to. If becoming a mother hadn't moved the earth beneath my feet, if it hadn't caused such a profound emotional shift, that would be a problem. 

That would be like climbing Mount Everest and declaring it a nice little hike. 

It would mean I am taking the biggest, most challenging journey of my life and not growing from it. That's righteously messed up, yo. Anyone who says having kids shouldn't change you lacks serious perspective on the matter. And anyone who says parenting didn't change them is a liar or a sociopath or on some really great medication.

Has this journey consumed me? At times, yes. You can't be awake for the better part of three days with a teething child and not become a bit obsessive. You can't watch the person you now love more than anyone else in the world take their first steps and not announce it to the masses. 

I may have overshared about potty usage (theirs, not mine) and thought a scribble meant I was raising the next Picasso (I wasn't), but that's only because everything one's offspring does is amazing. Or hilarious. Or terrifying. Or enraging. It's always one of those things. There's no grey area with your own kids, and that means emotions are always running high. I hope you'll forgive me for talking about them more than we'd both like me to. It makes it seem like I don't care about anything else, that raising children is all I do.

It could appear that I'm stepping backwards in my personal development at times, but I promise you that's not the case. Believe it or not, mom jeans and scrunchies can actually signify growth. Okay, maybe not in the style department, but, in a roundabout way, in the confidence department. Mothering, despite the overwhelming body changes, has empowered me. It means that, if I really have to, I'll go out to the store in what I'd wear to the gym. I used to be too self-conscious to do that. These days, I don't care what anyone else thinks of me, I just care that my kids need snacks for their lunchboxes tomorrow. Unconditional love trumps eyeliner, period. That's cool, right? Totally punk rock of me. 

Know what else is cool? Asking me to go do things with you. I may not always be able to say yes - and even if I do, I may not always be able to stay out as late as I used to - but I will appreciate the invitation more than you could ever imagine. I don't take girls nights and dinner parties and movies for granted anymore. They're not an everyday occurrence and often take great pains to plan for, so you'd better believe I'll love every second of them. 

See, moms need to go out and socialize beyond park dates and playgroups, because it's a reminder that we're something beyond, well, moms. We need to do things for ourselves. We need to know it's okay to have a life outside our families without any guilt or worry. We need balance. And you, more than anyone, can inadvertently be the one to help us strike that balance.

The most important thing to know about me is this: I'm not just a parent, but parenting has changed me. That's okay. Most of that change is good, it's just sometimes buried under stress, exhaustion, and bad clothing choices (all of which are improving with time). 

I'm still cool in my own way. I'm still amazingly great underneath the bad hair days and occasional 9 p.m. bedtime. I hope this open letter helps bridge any gap we might have. We're both women climbing Everest, we just took different trails. But that doesn't mean we can't meet at a base camp for some coffee (and oxygen) now and then. 

You do, however, have permission to burn any scrunchies you find and stage an immediate intervention*.

Fondly,

That Mom You Know

*Said intervention should likely include my loved ones. And cake. And firemen.