Mommy, Why Can’t We Be Who We Want To Be?

“You can be anything you want to be!” We tell our children. We’re liars. And I just got called out on that lie… by my 5-year-old.

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Driving back from figure skating lessons, minivan smelling of stale snack crumbs and indescribable child funk, my 5-year old middle child sat in his car seat stroking the fluffy aqua mane on his rainbow unicorn bike helmet cradled in his spindly lap. He wished for this helmet, a replacement for his old toddler-size fireman-printed helmet, and happily sported it immediately after opening it on his birthday morning just the week before. Rainbows, unicorns, mermaids, princesses, fairies… those are his jam. Firemen, though cool, carry no spark for him.

“Do you want to keep doing figure skating?” I ask him, knowing the new class session sign-up starts soon. “Uh-huh.” He replied with that distant hint of unsaid words. “What’s up? Do you still like it?” I asked him. “No, I do,” he answered, “but I want to do ballet too.” “OK,” I respond, wondering how I’d fit yet another extracurricular into our packed schedule and tight budget, “that could actually help your ice skating, just like your sister’s yoga practice helps her Tae Kwon Do.” He smiled.

“I want to be in the ‘Nutcracker’!” He exclaimed. I tell him that one of the benefits of being a boy ballet dancer is that there are fewer boys than girls who do ballet, so there’s less competition for male parts. “When you try out,” I said, “you’re way more likely to get the part of the Nutcracker than a girl dancer would be to get the part of Clara.” He sighed like a deflating hot air balloon. I glanced in the rearview mirror. He. Was. Gutted.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. He looked up teary-eyed, “I don’t WANT to be the Nutcracker.” That’s when I realized the problem. He didn’t just want to do ballet, he wanted to wear the tutus and the pointe shoes and the pink. He wanted to be Clara, the Sugarplum Fairy, anyone but a dull, masculine Nutcracker. Crap.

“Well, when you try out for parts you dance in front of judges and they tell you what part you’ll play, if any. You don’t really have a say,” I told him, his wide blue eyes looking at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “They usually have the boys play boy parts and girls play girl parts,” I explained. He sighed.

Then, in exasperated disappointment, he unknowingly shot a verbal bullet: “But, Mommy, why can’t we be who we want to be?” Gut punch. Knife stab-and-turn right there. Ugh! I’m done. Can I tap out? Please? Can someone else handle this conversation, ’cause the only thing getting me through it is that we’re doing this in the car and not face-to-face.

Mama tears welled hot in my eyes and stung as I sniffed and shook them into submission. “I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s not fair. It’s just kind of how the world is right now. Maybe it’ll get better in time.” And that’s all I could promise him. A “maybe”, “in time.” How f’ing lame is that?!

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Can a mother’s love fix a broken heart? Can a father’s support mend a wounded spirit? Can a big sister’s protection shield from bullies? Can a little brother’s admiration eradicate the closet? Can family acceptance ward against self-loathing, self-harm… or worse? Can a few supportive friends enable you to except you as you?

I don’t know. But it’s all we’ve got in this world that won’t let us be who we want to be. Yet.

Mama Tears, Mama Fears: New School Year, New Chapter

It’s that time of year again. Teachers’ classrooms are freshly invigorated with unfamiliar students and crisp bulletinboard decor. Students sport squeaky new shoes and summer tans. Parents sigh a breath of relief, having survived the final days of summer and seek solace in the reprieve from child-wrangling or piecemeal childcare arrangements of summer. Except for me.

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From pool bag to school shoes

I’m the one feeling like the odd duck; the unicorn parent who is not excited for school to begin. At all. Instead of rejoicing my additional freedom and pumpkin spice everything, I’m mourning the end of my favorite season of long days spent outside in the sunshine, soaking in my kids, the sand, the sea, the memories. I know full well my children were equal parts adorable and asshole, but I don’t care. I’m self-loathing, wishing days of togetherness with my demanding darlings instead of hours of respite.

I’m lamenting the return to school year rush and the rigid routine I feel forced, not innately inclined, to institute. I shudder at the coming winter, as if a character from “Game of Thrones.” looking ahead towards an invasion of the zombie-like icy White Walkers: WINTER IS COMING! 

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School days are here

Mostly, though, I’m crying for a closing chapter I desperately wish to pry open. I shed tears recollecting where we used to be, who my children were (even just at summer’s beginning), how fast it all has progressed. I smile recalling memories of exhaustion and cuteness, milestones and regressions, overcome worries and hard-won lessons. I am warmed by gratitude for having been granted this life experience of motherhood, for being willing and able to accept the ass-kick of corporate lay-offs to shove me from cubicle to stay-at-home mom life. I feel a mixture of unsettling uncertainty and hopeful optimism knowing that we are all progressing — as individuals and as a family — towards our future selves.

I know we were where we needed to be, we are where we’re supposed to be, and we’re going where we’re intended. I’m still scared. Still sad. Still hopeful. Still reflective. Still uncertain.

Just as I am optimistic yet unclear as to who my children will be, what their futures will look like, I am similarly hopefully and anxiously unknowing of my own path ahead. Who will I be when I grow up?

Who do I WANT to be?

A mom. I want to be a mom. “You will always be a mom”, people say. But I fear the unknown. The unfamiliarity of mothering older children, teens, adults. I fear not being needed. Not being wanted. Those days will come, as they should (if I’ve done my job right), for raising independent, resilient children is my goal. But I hope they don’t come too soon.

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With my youngest entering preschool, this is my first time having all of my children in school. Grocery trips alone, a walk through Target or DSW or Homegoods unencumbered by tantrumers or snack requests? A quiet morning spent however I choose, whether on a walk, flowing through yoga, sipping coffee with friends, folding laundry, or sitting on my ass in a quiet house? What an unfamiliar circumstance!

I am in for a whole new chapter. More freedom. More time. More ability to uncover who I want to be as opposed to simply who they need me to be. Am I ready for the answer?

Better Than Therapy Yin Yoga: Boho Beautiful

I don’t know about you, but I’ve got stuff to let go. I woke up yesterday morning tired and tense, just aching for 15 more minutes to snooze. But something within me told me to get up and do my yoga. I knew I’d be grateful for my persistence, despite what my inner sloth said.

5:45am, I padded downstairs, brewed my green tea, and set out kids’ breakfasts. All the while, an internal negative churn brewed unmistakably beneath the surface positivity. The best way I can describe it is digestive upset — bubbling, squeaking, cramping, and impending doom — but of my emotions instead of my gut. I couldn’t pinpoint the precise cause though.

So, I headed outside to do my yoga. I unfurled my yoga mat on the deck and scrolled through my favorite yoga YouTube Channel, Boho Beautiful. For months I have been doing Boho Beautiful yoga and yoga workout videos at least twice a day (they range from 5-30 minutes in length, which is perfect for a busy mom with an ever-changing list of demands) to help me feel not just healthy and strong, but centered.

I scrolled through the videos in search of an appropriate selection for my morning practice. I clicked on the Boho Beautiful Yin Yoga video.

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The practice started as any other. Juliana, the instructor, coached me through breathing and reminded me to use this practice to release any negative manifestations. Any people, situations, or memories bringing me down were to be recalled, acknowledged, and released. Fair enough!

I figured I’d be feeling mom guilt or stress from eventual career uncertainty. Nope.

I folded myself into pigeon pose and just as Juliana cued me to pay attention to any emotions or thoughts that presented and to allow myself to experience and release them, I began crying. Ugly crying — snot pouring, shoulders pulsing, fat tears dripping into puddles on my yoga mat — as I laid in pigeon pose. A mental slideshow of my eldest’s first year flipped through at a rapid, heart-wrenching pace. This child we’d dreamed of, struggled for, thought we’d never have, then thought we’d lose just as soon as she’d arrived, was speeding through her beautiful childhood faster than I could capture memories.

My ultimate dream for my life had been fulfilled. What a precious blessing! But what now? To peak so young is a catch-22. Why can’t I slow down time??

I breathed out the negativity coursing through my glutes and thighs. I breathed in positivity.

Juliana instructed a position change. A back-lying quad stretch. As abruptly as the tearful siege began, it ended. I was calm, peaceful, positive. When we returned to the opposite leg pigeon pose, the tears returned. Juliana coached me through the emotional onslaught, knowingly providing acknowledgement and release direction.

Then we switched poses and Juliana told viewers to think about what makes us happy and grateful. A series of mental images from family beach trips, outings, and day-to-day mental snapshots poured through my mind. I was inundated with love and gratitude for my children and husband. The rush of positivity filled my inner fibers where the negativity once festered. I released.

I still felt raw throughout the day, but self-aware. Centered. Knowing with certainty why I was emotionally off kilter strengthened me. It allowed me to be kinder to myself because I understood myself.

The yoga was better than therapy.

 

This was in no way a sponsored blog post. I purely and simply wanted to share something positive I have encountered to help me lead a healthier, happier, more balanced life. In addition to the YouTube channel, Boho Beautiful has a webpage, blog, Facebook account, and Instagram feed. Visit and follow along if you desire.

Too Much Growing

That’s it! I’m losing it. My eldest just graduated kindergarten the day before yesterday, my middle son is moving from a toddler bed to a full size bed today, and my baby has to have his crib mattress moved down because he pulls to standing. Too much growing!!!

Change is wonderful; it’s a necessary  (though often scary) part of life. However, the rate at which my children are developing, maturing, and stretching before me is unnerving.

I am their mother. I want them to grow and learn and flourish. I want them to create their own lives and flower into their own identities. I treasure their achievements, take heart that their failings will aid them later on, and look forward to seeing who they each become. Still, every step they take toward their eventual selves is a step into the big world — a world from which I cannot protect them, a world I cannot control — and a step away from me.

I dreamt of being a mom, pined when I thought it would not happen, and celebrated when each new life folded into my own. I treasure my children. I cherish these early years of long days, broken nights, and bountiful memories. These are my years with my children. These are the prime mothering years.

I can heal the boo-boos. I can right the wrongs. I can make the world a safer, smaller place. I can see what they see. They tell me what’s in their hearts. They share their worries and have no secrets. These times are fleeting. I see it slipping through my fingers… and I cry.

I cry because the selfish part of me wants them to stay little forever. Because I want them to be with me, near me, needing me. But they cannot. They should not. I am raising them and loving them so that they grow strong and beautifully. That is why I do what I do. In my heart, I know that.

But I don’t want to let go.