tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74583777396268229672024-03-05T12:49:14.718-08:00smotherhoodSometimes, I feel like a crazy woman. Mostly, I feel like a warrior! Sometimes, I feel like a failure. Mostly, I feel like a hero. Sometimes, I yell...ok,I yell a lot. Rarely I cry. Often, I laugh and laugh and laugh. I am a mom, always and forever!Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-70282446520126803732019-10-22T07:50:00.001-07:002020-02-04T07:51:14.847-08:00Dear Kids, smell the roses, eat ice cream, be grateful<div style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px !important; font-stretch: normal !important; line-height: 20px !important; margin-bottom: 12px !important; padding: 0px;">
I've always been a stop and smell the roses kind of girl. And while each of my lovely children is like a beautiful meadow of sweet-smelling flowers covered in rainbows and sunshine, I fear that I spend far too much time running frantically through a rain storm with my head down, huddling under an umbrella with four children in tow, insisting that they “HURRY UP!” because “WE’RE LATE!” (We are always late.)</div>
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The other day, after dinner, my kids and I decided to walk over to their grandmother’s house to see if she had any dessert for us. (Of course she did. It’s part of what makes her grand.) As we walked through the woods on our very own love-carved path, with the pretty summer sunset glistening through the trees, I thought about how lucky my kids are that they can literally walk over our driveway and through the woods, to grandmother’s house they go, for Grandma’s homemade peach cobbler. It was enchanting.</div>
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I took the opportunity to remind them (and myself) how very fortunate they (we) are. Their summer has been filled with art camps and cooking camps, swimming in our own backyard and every swimming hole in the county, frolicking with the neighborhood kids in our beautiful little neighborhood, chasing down the ice cream truck as it drives right down our street, eating ice cream every day (sometimes twice a day), playing with their cousins who come from as far as Russia to gather here on their grandfather’s beautiful apple farm, quad riding through the orchards and fishing in the ponds, eating fresh delicious strawberries, peaches, watermelon, and corn on the cob straight from Grandpa’s farm stand, visits to Grandma’s house just steps away, through the woods, whenever they need that one-of-a-kind grandma love (and dessert), and much, much more. What more could a kid ask for?</div>
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I have often described my own childhood as magical. But it took me a good 15 years of hindsight and reflection to truly appreciate its magic. When I started taking my kids to visit my late mother’s grave, in my very tiny hometown, I would always feel like my entire childhood passes before my eyes. In my nostalgia, I would take my children on a tour of my childhood. We stop at my favorite ice cream stand, drive by my old house, through my old neighborhood, stop at my old elementary school (which is a closed down, little red school house, the last of its kind), and play on its very run down playground. <br />
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Our favorite summer spot quickly became "the bridge". It was a sweet little swimming hole complete with rope swings and a very old little bridge, just the right height to throw my fearless babies off of just as i used to throw myself. They had a blast and it made me so happy to see them breathe some young life back into my old memories. It made me feel like I was the luckiest kid in the world. But I’m sure that even in all of those magical moments of my childhood, there were still plenty of those typical childish and ungrateful fits of “hey, that’s not fair” and “I’m bored” and endless amounts of “I want … I want … I want” no matter how much I already had. I’m sure that I took it all for granted, and I don’t want any of us to make the same mistake with my children’s childhood because it so very hectic.</div>
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Summertime can be very busy and stressful. Whomever coined the term “lazy days of summer” obviously didn’t have kids. And particularly when you are trying to ensure that your children have an unforgettable, magical, enchanting childhood, it can be downright exhausting. I am always so consumed with what I “have” to do, and so used to sacrificing what I want to do, that I forget to stop and relish in what I AM DOING. I am so hopeful that they will enjoy their childhood and not be in a hurry to grow up, and yet I spend so much time hustling them along and eagerly anticipating bedtime, that some if it is probably just a passing blur. I must remember to slow down and bask in the glorious glow of my children. I must encourage them to keep shining and lighting the way. I want them to pause because they are fascinated by a rock or a cloud, and I want to have the patience to follow their lead. What I want for my children, and myself, is for all of us to remember to stop and smell the roses, and taste the ice cream, and let it melt all over us.</div>
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As I reminded my children how lucky they are, and pleaded with them to appreciate the little things, my 8-year-old said, quite sincerely, that she is very thankful, while my 5-year-old confessed, quite honestly, that he will be more thankful when he gets a little older. I also promised myself that it wouldn’t take another 15 years of hindsight to appreciate the magic of their childhood and my motherhood.</div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-38367697102261511432019-10-22T07:39:00.003-07:002019-10-22T07:39:57.226-07:00post baby body to be edited<div class="entry" style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 22px; list-style: none;">
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The last time my girlfriends and I got together, we sat around talking (whining, with lots of wine) about our post-baby bodies. “This never used to jiggle, and these never used to sag, and those stretch marks were never here before, and where did these go, and will I ever be able to squeeze this into a size 6 again? And why are my feet still a whole size bigger two years after my last child?” I feel like a deflated balloon … in clown shoes.</div>
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Has your child ever pointed to your stretch marks and asked “what happened?” or grabbed your post-baby fat roll like it’s a handle used to be used get your undivided (and horrified) attention? Have you ever spent years doing sit-ups only to learn that that final layer of pudge covering anything resembling your long lost abs will NEVER go away, no matter what you do? Or maybe you have racked up thousands of miles jogging, chasing the memory of a smaller waist line, only to realize that your child-bearing hips will forever be “curvier” now? How many times have you tried on your skinniest skinny jeans from many years and a few children ago, only to prove to yourself, once again, that your thighs will NEVER be the same.</div>
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Sometimes I think that my children have kidnapped my 25-year-old body and are holding it for ransom. But what more could they possibly want from me? I have given them everything I’ve got, and then some: my heart, my undying and unconditional love, my patience, my sanity, my personal space, every fiber of my being. I just want my body back. They can have the rest of me, forever.</div>
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One would think that waiting on, I mean, caring for, four kids every waking moment of my life, without a moment to sit down and rarely a moment to eat, would melt the pounds away. And it only seems fair that my selfless acts of preparing delicious treats for my family, while torturously denying myself the indulgence would earn me my old thighs back.</div>
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I realize that parenthood is all about sacrifice. And I’m cool with that. I don’t really miss my social life, my alone time, my personal space, adult conversations, peace and quiet, going to the bathroom alone, hearing myself think, sitting down during meals, sitting down … ever, eating a hot meal, having enough room in my own bed, hearing someone call me anything other than mommy. Okay, I miss all of this. But I thrive on the dream of one day reclaiming all of these things … someday … a long, long time from now, when I have to re-fill my empty nest. But I have not yet come to grips with the fact that I will NEVER have my pre-baby body back.</div>
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I fear I may never stop yearning for her. Those pre-baby jeans will forever sit in my closet on my “maybe some day” shelf. And I will continue to confront and negotiate with my scale every day, hoping for a more comforting and recognizable number. After all, “You look great” just isn’t quite as flattering when followed by “for having four kids.”</div>
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Part of me is proud of my pregnancy/childbirth blemishes. Part of me wants nothing more than to embrace all of the changes in my body (since they are here to stay and all.) Part of me wishes to read my scars as road map of the journey I took while growing these children inside of me and enduring pains straight from the deepest depths hell just to finally meet them. And while a part of me knows I should cherish my newest imperfections as badges of maternal love, and hail my post-baby body as a sacred temple of motherhood, there is another part of me that would be happy having only the searing memory of the worst, most unforgettable pain and gut wrenching agony of natural childbirth to mark that beautiful journey.</div>
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I just want my body back.</div>
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How do you feel about your post-baby body? Go ahead, let it out! It will burn a few calories.</div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-61818242640434131532019-10-22T07:28:00.001-07:002019-10-22T07:28:43.593-07:00Mid Summer break...<div class="entry">
We are already halfway through summer vacation. Or: we are ONLY halfway through summer vacation, depending on your perspective. I’m usually a “glass half full” kind of girl, but, it’s going to be a long five weeks.<br />
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I didn’t need a calendar to tell me that I am in the thick of it. I can tell by my “Mommy?” overdose. I am being strangled by that one little word and suffocated by all of its demands. OK, that’s dramatic, but I am a bit overwhelmed, and it shows. Like when one of my children has pelted me with the 500,000th “Mommy” of the day, and I say, “WHAT?!” and it just keeps getting louder and louder until I gag and choke on my own frustrated screams. I swear, sometimes, they don’t even need anything. It’s like they’re just making sure I’m on standby. Or when they finally make me snap because they have been driving me CRAZY for days and then they look at me like I’m … CRAZY!<br />
Also indicative of the mid-summer break meltdown (BREAK? ha ha ha ha ha!), are all of the great blog posts from moms, confessing that they are … STRESSED. I really enjoy them. When I read a story about a mom who can’t leave her house with her children because disaster will inevitably ensue, or a mom who thinks she may have found a technique to make a child stop asking “why,” or a mom who feels like she lives in complete chaos all the time, I feel a lot better about myself. I breath a sigh of relief, and I chuckle because, I understand. I’ve been there. I feel for you. And I really appreciate your confession of not having it all under control, or your advice on how to control the chaos, or the whys. I thank you. And I would never judge you. I do however, judge those suspiciously perfect parents.<br />
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I recently posted on Facebook that I REALLY need September to get here. I need teachers to listen to my children’s NON-STOP chatter for a few hours and to answer their endless questions. I need a bus driver to take my children away from me for a bit. I need a schedule that justifies my putting our children to bed just as their father is getting a chance to enjoy them. I need to wake up to an alarm clock rather than waking up to “so, what fun thing are we doing today, Mommy?” because they know that my mental well-being depends on getting us out of this house to do something “fun.” (Which means hauling around four kids and a few large bags of necessities, buckling them in and out of car seats multiple times, ignoring pleas to stop at every fast food restaurant we pass, someone pooping in their diaper just seconds after we leave the house, one kid wanting the air conditioner on in the car and another one wanting the windows open, while my just-cleaned car is being trashed by beach sand and filthy children … FUN!)<br />
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But, it is very hard to get any sympathy from non-moms (not to mention the teachers who were cursing me for even saying “September.”) Non-mothers can’t imagine what it is that could make it THAT stressful. How do you explain the stress of being utterly selfless every waking moment of your life to a single man or woman with no kids? How can you whine about never having a moment to yourself or not even being able to hear yourself think most of time when you both know how blessed and fortunate you are to have these precious, space-invading, children? And it’s hard to explain because a “good mother” would never confess that she just needs her child to stop talking for a while or to just … go away … for a few minutes. It just sounds too horrible to say out loud no matter how much you might think it.<br />
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I’ve got the very best of intentions for motherhood. But it’s really hard not to doubt myself when I find myself so burned out in the middle of summer “vacation.” (I can’t even type that word with a straight face). And I know that there are women who homeschool their children and spend every single day with them. And I have seen all those other mothers getting teary-eyed and wondering “where has the time gone” when they speak of sending their precious babies off to kindergarten while I’m eagerly watching the seconds tick by on the countdown clock and anticipating tears of joy when that bus comes! And I have even heard another mother sound sincerely crushed that her children’s new school starts in August instead of September. They must love their children more than I love mine. No, they don’t. Maybe they don’t have four kids? Maybe they won’t still have a 1- and a 2-year-old at home when school starts, so they are worried that they will be lonely in September? I can imagine that when all four of my kids are in school, I will miss them terribly and feel a little lonely. But I am REALLY looking forward to missing them and feeling a little lonely once in a while.<br />
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So thank you, stressed mothers, for sharing your confessions of imperfect mothering. Thank you for being open and honest, and human. Thank you for reminding me that this motherhood thing is hard and all of my shortcomings are understandable. Thank you for reminding me that my children are perfectly normal crazy children, and I am their understandably crazy mother. You are the life support that is getting me through five more weeks.</div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-74700731971505715732019-10-22T07:19:00.000-07:002019-10-22T07:32:00.581-07:00What's the C-word?<div class="entry" style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 22px; list-style: none;">
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My 8-year-old has a crush on a boy band. Watching her get a little twinkle in her eye over everything One Direction makes me want to break out my New Kids on the Block cassette and stare at their full-size cardboard cutout. (Don’t judge me.) I totally get it. It’s so dreamy to pretend that these cute boys are as charming as they sound in their songs and that they would be the best boyfriend ever! Jordan Knight was my very first imaginary knight in shining armor, once upon a time.</div>
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But, the other day, she came home and presented me with this question:</div>
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“Mommy, one of my friends told me that one of the boys from One Direction swore at a group of his fans. He called them the c-word. What does that mean?”</div>
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At that moment, the mother in me was eager to ground that young boy and forbid him from being a pop star ever again. The proud, self-respecting, furious, speechless women in me wanted to throw something at him. And it wasn’t just that he has it coming for being so unacceptably rude and vulgar to a group of young, starry-eyed, adoring, and impressionable girls, but it was more so because my daughter asked me a question whose answer was too despicable to utter. Thanks a lot, you little [bleep].</div>
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I refused to answer the question. (I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to.) I told her that because she is a sweet, kind, young girl, she didn’t deserve to know that word. All she needs to know is that this boy is NOT cool (that’s as nicely as I could put it.)</div>
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She wasn’t happy that I was knocking one her boys off of his pedestal. But I wasn’t about to cut this kid any slack. I’m not one of those moms who is ultra-sensitive to the trampy attire of Miley Cyrus and the like. And I’m willing to face the tough Demi Lovato inspired “What is rehab?” question. I think these are some teachable moments for my daughter to learn about self respect and self control, and about being who are are, and not trying to be who someone else is. I think she gets it. (I pray she gets it.)</div>
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But I have no tolerance for THAT word. It’s a word that people use when they want to be as vile and disrespectful to a women as they can possibly be. It’s a word that they know is going to sting on a whole other level. It’s despicable and unacceptable. So while I won’t fill in the blanks for her, I will happily explain to her that when she does learn THAT word, she too, should not tolerate it. I will tell her that this boy doesn’t deserve her admiration, or the admiration of those fans whom he insulted (to say the least.) </div>
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She seems a little disappointed in the boy. But she tells me that he apologized (I’m sure he did, they always do), and looks at me like she would like to forgive him, but needs my approval. All I can do is imagine this conversation happening in seven or eight years, only this time we are talking about her actual boyfriend instead of her imaginary boyfriend.</div>
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It feels like a pivotal moment. I want to teach forgiveness, and I want her to NOT tolerate THAT word. I suggest that while she may still enjoy the music, that boy doesn’t deserve the bubble, the pedestal, an ounce of her admiration, or a moment of her time. Take him for what he’s worth; a catchy tune. But peg him for what he is, a little (bleep)!</div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-12789295804148677072019-10-22T07:11:00.001-07:002019-10-22T07:11:14.752-07:00Kindergarten <div class="navigation" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(229, 229, 229); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(229, 229, 229); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; list-style: none; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-top: 10px;">
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<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-size: 30px;">My Son Started Kindergarten, and I’m Not Sad at All!</span></div>
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And I don't feel feel bad about it, either</h2>
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<a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20121012083904/http://www.parentsociety.com/parenting/when-did-back-to-school-get-so-expensive/attachment/back-to-school-2/" rel="attachment wp-att-47922" style="color: #1c75bc; list-style: none;"></a>It’s back to school time! Not a moment too soon (and about three weeks too late.) And while so many of you are wondering “where has the summer gone?” I can tell you that it over-stayed its welcome at our house. But I survived summer vacation, and as a reward, I get to send another child off to kindergarten. That’s two down, and two to go. But who’s counting? (I am.)</div>
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While I feel somewhat obligated to pretend that I am sad and weepy to be sending another of my babies off on their own into the great big, unknown world of kindergarten, I am not. I have had mild bouts of guilt over it (very mild), induced by so many other sweet mothers who are heartbroken and find it “so hard” to send their child off to school and who will miss them terribly, or who can’t figure out where the time has gone or how their baby got so big. But after spending the summer completely smothered by my four lovely children, with a very few-and-far-between moment of peace and quiet or even a chance to sit down, that bus couldn’t get here fast enough. And it took everything I had not to allow my 2-year-old to follow his brother onto that bus as he insisted he was going to school too.</div>
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After sending the kids off this morning, with still not so much as a lump in my throat, I asked their father why I don’t feel the way those other moms feel when they send their babies to kindergarten. He said they feel that way because, “it’s obviously either their first kid, their last kid, or their only kid.” I think he’s right. I was chatting with one of these sad kindergarten moms who had sent her firstborn off this morning. Our other children were napping and she was saying that it was too quiet and she was feeling lonely during nap time. I was not lonely during nap time. I was blissful.</div>
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I often worry that I take some of this mothering stuff for granted because I am blessed with four children and the privilege of being a stay-at-home mom, with them, every day, all day. I have been in the baby and diaper phase for so long now that I haven’t even had a chance to wonder where my baby has gone. I was pregnant so much that by the time I hit my fourth pregnancy, the process had gone from a beautiful, miraculous, enjoyable blessing to a serious pain in the ass! I have been a stay-at-home mom for so long that I just can’t help jumping for joy when a few kids start school and won’t be staying at home with me every day. And I spend so much time (every waking moment) trying to fulfill all of their needs and plenty of their wants that I cannot imagine ever shedding a single tear at the idea of them not needing me anymore. (I’m sure that will change some day.)</div>
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And this morning, as I stood at the bus stop with my little boy, I wasn’t scared or nervous for him. I was excited for his new adventure. I wasn’t worrying about how he would possibly get through this big day without me. I was confident because I know he is ready, and he is going to be awesome. I wasn’t sad because he insisted that I could NOT go to school with him. I gave myself a pat on the back for raising such an independent boy. I wasn’t wondering where my little boy went. I was eager to see where this new adventure will take him. And as I gave him one last gentle nudge to stop sucking his thumb before he got on that bus, his dad gave me a gentle nudge to back off. He’s (still) just our little boy, no matter how big he gets.</div>
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I adore my kids. I live and breath for them and I would do anything and everything for them (and I do.) But it doesn’t break my heart to watch them grow up and be able to fend for themselves. It flatters me. I am not disappointed when they grow capable and independent. I’m proud. And the silence of nap time is not lonesome. It is soothing.</div>
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I am really enjoying the opportunity to get to know my two youngest loves a little better with some rare one-on-one time. And I have had some fascinating conversations with myself now that I can hear myself think from time to time. And I confess, I miss my kids. But I really, really, appreciate the opportunity to miss them, rather than having to lock myself in the bathroom just to get away from them for five minutes. I can’t wait to hear all about their day, and then send them off to do it all again tomorrow! Back to school is my new favorite time of year.</div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-75637731323246859252019-10-22T06:53:00.001-07:002020-02-04T08:02:38.908-08:00Have Kids. Trust me. <div class="text" style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Whenever I hear someone say that they don’t think they want to have kids, my heart breaks for them a little bit. I feel sad for them. It’s hard to convey to someone who is on the fence about it, that while it is the hardest, most challenging, selfless, sacrificing, and under-appreciated thing you could do with your life, there is nothing better. Nothing.<br />
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My 8-year-old daughter often tells me that she doesn’t think she wants to have kids. She is the oldest of my four beauties and is obviously aware that being “Mommy” is A LOT of work. We have had negotiations that go something like this:</div>
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Me: “I think I deserve some grandchildren after all my hard work, don’t you?”<br />
Daughter: “OK, maybe one kid.”<br />
Me: “How about four kids?”<br />
Daughter: “NO WAY! DO I LOOK CRAZY TO YOU?! I WOULD NEVER HAVE FOUR KIDS! THAT’S JUST CRAZY! NEVER!”<br />
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And there have been many long days when, after she has observed my tireless efforts and watched me collapse in exhaustion or heard me growl at the child who has just slapped me with the 3,274th juice request of the day, she gently reminds me that “It’s your fault for having four kids”, to which I muster up enough energy to emphatically respond; “What do mean ‘my fault’? I’m the luckiest mommy in the world! There is NOTHING else I would ever dream of doing. Nothing! This is the best!” I have told her many times, that each of their four natural childbirths were the most painful and torturous and wonderfully miraculous days of my life and I would do them all over again a hundred times just to have my children. I don’t know if she is convinced that I love my job, but I know that she knows that I love her.<br />
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I think that a lot of men, in particular, have a harder time convincing themselves that they are “ready” for fatherhood. Maybe it’s because they don’t have a uterus pulling on their heart strings in anticipation. I recall one night early in our relationship when the future father of my children and I were out with another couple and one of them asked us if we wanted to have kids. I responded quickly (just to be clear) “yes.” He responded, hesitantly (just to be unclear), “yeah … probably … I think.” He was, obviously, still in the process of convincing himself. The other night (nearly ten years and four kids later), I watched him watch as our two sons played together on the floor. He was in awe. And when he snapped out of it, he said, “I can't imagine what I ever thought i was going to do that would be better than this." Four kids and a beautiful life later, he is convinced.<br />
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It is certainly a daunting task, and I can understand those who worry about screwing it up. After all, we have all screwed up, a lot. We are only human, and it is inevitable that we will make mistakes as parents, and screw up our own innocent and helpless offspring who never even asked to be here. The other day, I was talking to a young women who isn’t sure she wants kids. She said she worries about being the kind of parent her father has been. She told me a story about how her father taught her how to break a priest’s nose if one were to ever attempt to touch her inappropriately, and then he would force her to go to confession and sit across from her priest, alone and terrified and plotting her attempts to bust his nose if he got out of line. As a child, she was scared and rightfully resentful that her father would leave her alone with a potentially dangerous man, and as an adult she is understandably faithless and uncertain about the parenting skills she runs the risk of inheriting. And her well-intentioned father was simply trying to cleanse his daughters soul and protect her innocence.<br />
The question is, how badly will we damage our children? Will our undying good intentions win out over our innate human imperfections? Will the obvious fact that I love and adore my children and that my world happily revolves around them, win out over the equally obvious fact that I am only human and sometimes, I get a bit tired and impatient and overwhelmed with trying to be the best mom that I can be? There are no guarantees, and it is scary.<br />
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But parenthood is extraordinary. Quite literally, there is nothing like it. You can’t even begin to understand how miraculous, challenging and life-changing it is until you have done it. You cannot prepare yourself for it and you could spend a lifetime waiting to be “ready” to do it.<br />
If you want to know what to expect, expect the unexpected. If you need to feel more prepared first, prepare to be knocked off your feet. It is the hardest job you will ever love.</div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-40137626888927204912019-10-22T06:29:00.000-07:002019-10-22T06:29:29.291-07:00Life Lessons from Little House on the Prairie<div class="text" style="clear: both; color: #333333; float: left; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin: 10px 0px; padding: 0px; width: 630px;">
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I often find myself longing for the days of “Little House on the Prairie.” I realize that would mean that a common cold could result in a near death experience, but it might just be worth it to hear my children respond to my every request with a polite “Yes, ma’am.” And I think I would be OK with getting up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows and gather eggs rather than having to pack up four kids and drive to the store just for those two must-have items.</div>
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I have been trying, for years, to get any of my four children to watch and appreciate this epic saga as I did. So far, just the other night, my oldest daughter came out of her room in tears telling me that she finally watched some “Little House” and “a sweet puppy died and it was really, really sad” and demanded to know WHY I would make her watch something so sad!</div>
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While I feel bad that her first viewing experience was a bit heartbreaking, I believe it would serve my children well to discover a time when children had nothing but the clothes on their back and the love of their Ma and Pa, and felt like the luckiest kids in the world. I would love for them to see Laura Ingall’s face light up at the sight of a only single shiny penny in her Christmas stocking.</div>
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I want them to see kids who worked hard, really hard, for the greater good of the whole family, and they never complained. I want them to admire kids who never thought of themselves, who asked for nothing, and who felt genuine remorse if they NEEDED a pair of shoes or a new pencil because they knew and appreciated how very hard their Pa worked for his money.</div>
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I would love for my children to witness how much these children enjoyed life without television and cell phones and computers and how they could blissfully entertain themselves for hours and make up hundreds of games with a ball or a stick and a buddy or two.</div>
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I want them to take note of the fact that their chores thus far consist of feeding their pets, folding laundry and emptying the dishwasher, and if they are not careful, they could be out plowing fields, (or something equally laborious.)</div>
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I need them to appreciate the fact that while I am chauffeuring four kids all over town, to various activities, children used to walk three miles just to go fishing with their pal.</div>
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I want them to count their blessings that they have never been punished with a belt.</div>
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I think that they could learn a lot about how to turn the other cheek to a persistent bully, and how to push her down a hill in a wheelchair when she crosses the line and has it coming.</div>
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I want them to see and learn that money does not buy happiness or good manners.</div>
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I want them to have faith, even when life is full of struggles and sacrifice.</div>
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I want them to believe in “love at first sight” and “’til death do us part,” even when things are not always so “happily ever after.”</div>
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I want them to be more thankful for their beautiful life, but to know that life is full of hard knocks: pets die, young girls go blind, little sisters fall down an abandoned well, crops get destroyed, kids get trapped in snow storms while walking three miles home from school. And I want them to remember all of this when they are whining about their “annoying brothers” barging into their room all the time, or because I didn’t get the “sparkly” pencil case for back-to-school, or how I make them take the bus to school instead of driving them.</div>
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And perhaps most importantly, I want them to appreciate the values of a society that genuinely cared about its own. I want them to observe and believe in a “love thy neighbor/help thy neighbor/do unto others” kind of world. The kind where people actually live that way, rather than just preaching about it, and demanding that everyone else live that way, and constantly arguing over exactly which way is actually “the Lord’s way.”</div>
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We could all learn a lot from the Ingalls family and the residents of Walnut Grove. They were not easy times, but they were simpler, more compassionate times when nothing was taken for granted. In the wise words of Charles “Pa” Ingalls, “How can you ever know true happiness if you never feel real sorrow?”</div>
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About the Author</h5>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-91869393578778169512019-10-22T06:11:00.002-07:002019-10-22T06:11:36.288-07:00Mothering Without my Mother<div style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px !important; font-stretch: normal !important; line-height: 20px !important; margin-bottom: 12px !important; padding: 0px;">
A few days ago, I was at the playground with my children, surrounded by three lovely grandmothers who were out with their grandchildren. My 5-year-old was on the swings. I was coaching my 2-year-old up a ladder, when suddenly I saw all of the grandmothers lunge and gasp in one direction: toward the swings. I turned around just in time to see my son stand up, dust himself off, and say “I’m okay, Mom.” And all I could think in that moment was how happy my late mother would be if she could be here to have a mild panic attack watching her daring grandson fling himself off the swings.</div>
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Today is the third anniversary of my mother’s death. April 6, at 5:56 a.m. I can’t remember the exact time that each of my children were born, because I was too enamored with my new baby in my arms to hear a stranger tell me what time it was, but I will never forget the moment when one of my mother’s best friends announced her time of death right after we watched her take her last breath.</div>
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I gave my mother her very first (and dare I say, favorite) grandchild four years before she died. My daughter, Madeline, changed my mother’s life. She had spent her entire life searching for happiness and struggling to meet unrealistic expectations, some that were self-inflicted, and some that others had scarred her with. She just wanted to be good enough, and never felt like she was. But when she became “Grandma,” she was perfect. In my daughter’s eyes, Grandma could do no wrong. And that was all that mattered to her.</div>
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All of the sudden, her once heavy-hearted spirit was light and laughing, and her sad and worried eyes were twinkling and dancing. She had finally found the person who had no expectations of her, the person who would never find fault in her, the person she made blissfully happy without even trying. My mother was the ultimate grandmother. In fact, “grand” was an understatement.</div>
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One of the hardest things about watching someone slip away slowly over months and months, is watching so many other things slowly slip away with them. For me, it was “Grandma.” I thought I might be okay without “Mom” (and maybe someday I will), but I was not ready to lose Grandma, and I certainly was not prepared for my daughter to lose her very first best friend. One day, I sat at her bedside in the hospital showing her pictures from our family vacation and she asked me who the pretty little girl was. It was her beloved granddaughter. I was crushed. Grandma was gone. Her brain tumor had erased her grandchildren.</div>
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I have four children now, two of whom my mother never met. I told her about No. 3 as she laid on her death bed, right after we were told she wouldn’t make it through the night. I’ll never know if she heard me, but she did make it through that night. And my youngest daughter, little Ginger, is my mother’s namesake. She is so glowingly happy to be alive and here with us that I am convinced she is the keeper of her grandmother’s soul.</div>
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There are still the occasional days when I need my mother. But there is not a single day that goes by when I don’t desperately need my children’s grandmother.</div>
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A grandmother’s love is magical and enchanting. It is filled with ice cream and candy and laughter and song. Grandma’s house is where our children go to escape from the word “no.” Grandma’s house is where the world revolves around little people. Grandma’s house is where a 2-year-old gets to be in charge.</div>
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Grandma was my saving grace. She would eagerly babysit her grandchildren, and pretend that she was doing me a favor, when we both know she considered it a gift. Grandma loved my children as much as I do (maybe more, if that’s even possible.) Grandma was the one to listen to me whine about how my children drove me crazy and laugh in my face because I had it coming. Pay-back is a … grandchild.</div>
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It seems to me that while our children take ten years off our lives with worry and aggravation, grandchildren give them back with joy and celebration. I am so very thankful that I was able to make my mother a grandmother before she died. I owed it to her. And while I didn’t think it was possible, I think it helped me redeem myself after my rocky teen years. But now that she’s gone, I can’t help feeling like we have all been cheated.</div>
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Living without my mother is hard. Mothering without her is heartwrenching.</div>
Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-37795950966413560412019-10-22T06:07:00.002-07:002019-10-22T06:07:53.330-07:00I Want a Guy..<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Madeline: I want a guy who is tall and really hot and has gorgeous eyes and beautiful hair and who has some money and works hard and provides for our family but also makes time for his family and who supports me and whatever I want to do and who really loves me and is a really good father to our children.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Me: yes. That's exactly what you deserve. And don't give up until you find that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This little declaration from my newly 13 year old daughter brought me some serious validation and peace of mind. I don’t know how, at 13 years old, my girl has more wisdom than some of us will die wanting. But I like to think I had something to do with it. In fact, I like to think that her father and I, and our sincere but failed efforts to live happily ever after, taught her everything to do and not do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She is determined to have a hard working man who makes her feel safe and cared for. Her father taught her that. He has an unmatchable work ethic and knows how to earn and take very good care of his family. His children want for nothing. I mean, they’re kids, so they always want something. But they have more than enough. They’re childhood will never be forgotten. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But that work ethic cost us at times. My dad once told me, when I called him in tears because I was so lonely because my boyrfriend was a workaholic, “you can’t fault him for working hard.” I’m not so sure that’s true. There is a fine line between admirable and heartbreaking when a person puts work first. Running a company may sound like a higher priority than pre-k graduations or t-ball games, but it’s not. Part of that unforgettable childhood my children are having will be those memories of dad not showing up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She wants to have a family, because family is everything. We’ve taught her that. But she doesn’t want to be single-handedly responsible for parenting. She will be a great mom who does anything for her kids, but she won’t be a stay at home mom who sacrifices EVERYTHING for the sake of her family. She has plans. Big plans. And she’s gonna have it all. But she has assured me that she believes that my staying home and raising our kids and putting myself last, always, made me happy, and was exactly what I wanted to be doing. She knows I consider myself lucky to have had that opportunity. She admires her dad for making it happen. But she also sees me now, trying to get back on my feet without the help of a hard working man to provide for me. She worries, and she is determined to never put herself in that position. I taught her that. I taught her to do what makes you happy, but to be self-sufficient, a lesson I learned the hard way. And it was worth it, to give her the confidence and wisdom to know better. </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-31536473109307173512019-10-22T05:58:00.003-07:002020-02-04T08:03:07.381-08:00Say I Love You<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Once when I was at my father’s parents house, I looked at my daughter and was so enamored with her that I grabbed her and smothered her with kisses and said “I love you so much.” My grandmother told me that she was so happy to hear me say that to my daughter. “Not all kids get to hear that, you know?” I didn’t know. How do parents resist that overwhelming urge smother their babies with love and adoration? And in that moment, I realized how differently my parents were raised. My father was raised by an adoring mother who knew the value of her words, and my mother was raised by a well intentioned, stern italian father who spoke more to criticize than to praise or adore. And it showed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My mother struggled with words like “proud” and “love”. Make no mistake, she mothered with pride and more love than I sometimes deserved, but saying those words out loud was usually more than she could muster. It was as if no one taught them to her. But she proved her undying love so certainly that it never even occurred to me to be miss the words. On the contrary, my father won’t let me off the phone without an “i love you” exchange, and a few moments of gushing praise about how proud he is of the mother I am. Yet I have only one vivid memory of my mother uttering such words. It’s vivid because it was so rare, not because she was on her death bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The last coherent thing my mother said to me was “I’m proud of the mother that you are to my grandchildren”. It wasn’t exactly on her death bed, but she was in bed as she had just lost the use of her legs to a brain tumor and I’m sure she knew that the rest of her body probably wasn’t far behind. She asked me to sit down and then said those very words, with a strength that, ironically enough, she didn’t have before her illness. Maybe she knew her brain wasn’t going to let her remember who she loves, or what makes her so happy and proud. Maybe her fading memory let her forget that she spent her lifetime struggling with the inner strength and self assurance to express her deepest thoughts without fear of shaming. Whatever the reason, she said those words with a confidence and sincerity that only a terminal brain tumor could finally grow. And those will forever be some of the most important words I have ever heard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It should be so easy to express our joys. Yet we often spit out the more hurtful and scarring words without any thought or hesitation, and then choke on the words that we’d all love to hear. Why do we hesitate to say the most beautiful things, the words that pull us closer, right by the heart strings? If my parents are any indication, it is all about the parenting (isn’t everything?). We have the power and responsibility to teach our children to love unabashedly. We have to give them the confidence to express themselves without the irrational fear that love hurts. We can’t burden them with a weakeness that has them grasping at a strength which can only be found on a deathbed. You love them. Tell them. Tell them often. Tell them to ensure that they will tell your grandbabies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The other day, my 5 year old caught me starting at him and said, “I know, I know, you love me.” Yes, I say it so much it’s almost annoying, and I mean it, wholeheartedly, every single time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Love out loud. It’s what the world needs now. </span></div>
Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-53539234706119771642019-09-17T09:01:00.000-07:002019-09-17T09:01:09.005-07:00<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve hear the tales of mom’s who lose themselves to motherhood. We sacrifice it all for the greater good of our family because we are mom and if mom doesn’t do it, who will. No one loves like Mom. Mom is Mom and there is no one like Mom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve thoroughly enjoyed these years of giving my absolute all to my all-too-often-thankless family who far too rarely ask me what I need. I sadistically enjoy pushing myself and striving to please people who are constantly reminding me what I’m NOT doing for them. Those genuine smiles and fleating moments of geniuine admiration and graciousness and gratefulness, when they just can’t help but admit that I’m actually the best person in their whole life, have always been enough to shake the lingering feeling that I am a huge dissapointment to them. But they are children. My children. And it is my job to shake that selfishness out of them. Children are selfish. Innately selfish. And it is a huge parental responsibility, for the sake of the greater good of all mankind, to teach them that selfishness is unacceptable. No, you simply may not walk this earth thinking that you are the most important thing on it. And while I can’t stress enough how difficult that is to explain to a toddler, or a 15 year old oldest child, or her three younger siblings (because when you have three siblings nothing in life is ever fair, EVER!), I never imagined I would be tolerating it from the man who was supposed to be in these parenting trenches with me. I never imagined that he would let me get so much deeper into those trenches, alone, and up against four kids. i didn’t stand a chance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So I lost a battle. I sacrificed myself and took one for the team. I took on a very big little army and I didn’t have the back up that I needed when those trenches got dark and deep. And I let my guard down, heading into enemy territory (parenthood) with a selfish partner. I needed someone who was going to follow me into the depths of hell when need be, and who would reach down and grab me and pull me up when it was painfully obvious that I was in over my head. I needed that. You can’t just hunker down and make yourself comfortable in the parenting trenches. Especially when you have four kids. Just because I manage to keep us all alive and get dinner on the table and rarely ask you to lift a finger doesn’t mean I’m winning the battle. There is a war going on, and that is not the level of solidarity and united front that wins wars. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But that’s what mom does. I was so blissfully enthralled in this parenting war and so madly in love with my four enemies (precious babies) that I failed to notice that my back up was…back…way, way back. Definitely out of reach and practically out of sight, unless it was his turn for my affection. But I charged through. I always charge through. Even now, after I have surrendered to one painfully lost battle, after I have armed my kids with some destructive resentment and bitterness to use against me, I continue to charge through. after my broken heart finally convinced me that I might be stronger on my own rather than weakened by the dissapointment of a life partner who didn’t love me with all his heart and who I couldn’t count on to be by my side if he simply didn’t want to, I let go, and charge through. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That’s what mom does. And it was worth it because if there is one thing my kids have learned, it’s that I would take a bullet for them, even from their own smoking guns. I’m mom, and you will put me through hell while I raise you to not be a selfish prick, and you will hate me and you will blame me and you will unleash all of your frustrations, whether significant or utterly ridiculous, my fault or yours, on me. It will all fall on me. Mom. Because only a mom can forgive you over and over again as you fail and grow and (god willing) learn to get over yourself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I feel like a lone soldier these days. Deeper in the trenches than I have ever braved before. But somehow I feel stronger just knowing that I’m on my own rather than looking behind me and always feeling dissapointed. </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-871679575899414062019-09-04T10:38:00.001-07:002019-09-04T13:19:56.834-07:00Milestone: Our first broken heart...<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">She sure did. My daughter fell hard in love. She held out for the real deal and she went all in for the very first time, and it was big. It changed her. She wore a giant smile and exuded a radiant happiness. Love. She had discovered love. She was in love. His happiness meant everything to her, and it can be very easy to lose yourself to that. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">It was a great first love, one that appeared worthy of my girl. He often recognized and gushed over all of the beautiful things about her, inside and out. They wore matching giant smiles. It was genuine and unabashed and I admired it. It reminded me that love is beautiful and happy and well worth the risks, and quite honestly, it healed that last seemingly loveless piece of my broken heart. It made me wholehearted again. And then it shattered my baby’s heart. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I was lucky to be wholehearted again, and to have healed my own shattered heart just in time to have the strength and wisdom to help her put her’s back together. I will never forget the tears and despair and pain and confusion in her eyes as she sat across from me, blindsided, trying to make sense of it all. I remember her asking me questions that she knew I couldn’t possibly have the answers to, even after 43 years of dealing with boys and love and heartache. She was in so much pain that she was pleading with the one person that she often seems to think doesn’t know anything, for any answer that would make it hurt a little less. How could love feel so good and then so very bad? And with all of my newly healed heart, I felt my own first devastated broken heart all over again. And while we both knew I didn’t have any answers for how someone who loved her could rip our heart out, I had the experience and wisdom and scars to know that we were both going to survive this, and persevere.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">My girl is, by nature (and nurture), strong and not easily rattled. She is calm, cool and collected. So as I watched her wallow and sink into sadness, rattled as hell, it shook me to my core. I cried many, many tears at the very thought of my girl’s tears and the shared sympathetic pain that inevitably comes from being forever connected to my babies by the heart strings. I knew what she was carrying was very heavy and nothing I could do could ease that. I knew that to her, it felt eternally hopeless and painful and insurmountable. But I knew better. I knew that not only would she heal and love again, but she will also have her heart broken again...and again and again. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">In true Madeline form, she’s bounced back nicely, seemingly well aware that it’s his loss. If we are very lucky, we learn some very important lessons from our first gut wrenching broken heart, and each one that will inevitably follow. Listening to my 15 year old reflect on her first love and loss with wisdom beyond her years and resilience and sincere honesty and genuine introspection, and when all is said and done, no regrets, gives me great comfort and hope that she will one day, even before her time, be nearly unbreakable. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I like to think that my children were all Inherently born with all of the lessons that I already learned for them the hard way, but love and loss is one of those things we all have to live and learn. </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-65185115806148881722019-04-02T09:43:00.002-07:002019-04-02T10:01:47.184-07:00Wholehearted<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue";"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"She never seemed shattered;</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To me, she was a breathtaking</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">mosaic of the battles she had </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue";">My heart is not shattered anymore. It is no doubt battered and bruised, but I am once again, wholehearted. I’ve let go of angry and bitter. I think sadness may always linger. And that’s ok. I no longer resent the fact that I gave so much of my time and heart and oozed love for someone who couldn’t do the same. I’m sad that our family had to pay so dearly for that. But I found a strength that I desperately needed to walk away from it, by digging deep to get my kids through it. And I have found a peace of mind and heart in hearing my once broken hearted babies assure me that they understand why I gave up on my relationship and still know, unequivocally, that I will never give up on them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’m not afraid of love. I remember it so fondly. It has quite literally barged into my life these last few years, when I most desperately needed to be remind that I was worthy of it, and when I most certainly could not reciprocate with my shattered, war weary heart, as wholeheartedly as I was genuinely built to do. I’ve learned some crushing lessons the hard way. One is how selfish it is to offer a genuinely passionate lover with the very best of intentions, who looks at you as though they see their home and future in your eyes, and feels lucky, genuinely lucky to have you, anything less than the very same in return. And another, is that I can love a man with all my healing heart, and still know when to look him in the eye and say “you’re just not the one”, because I was not built to be that selfish. We all deserve someone who is convinced we are the one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve had some great loves. Loves that have shaped my vision of love and made me feel worthy of my quest for genuinely happy ever after. Loves that have taught me that I deserve respect and loyalty and honesty and friendship and love. Loves that I will love forever, even if they taught me a few of those lessons the hard way. Loves I have loved enough to let go. And I’ve been reminded of and become very familiar with the kind of lover i am when i am fearless and wholehearted; selfless, nurturing, supportive, romantic and passionate as hell, and how lucky someone will be to have the whole hearted me again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And I have forgiven the man who once had this whole hearted and devoted love in the palm of his hands, nurturing him and his children with all her heart and soul, and shattered it because he couldn’t help but always wonder if he could do better. I’ve healed enough to know that he probably did love me quite a bit, but wasn’t about to (or able to) make himself vulnerable enough to do so as selflessly and unabashedly as i thrive on. I’ve grown enough to feel genuinely sad for him (for us) for that, and to know I can’t fix it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Love. I am not short on love. I have been swimming in love since the day I became a mother and I soak in that blissfulness. But my healed, whole heart has reminded me that I am a lover; a fiercely passionate lover. And it’s scars remind me that I’ve earned my high standards and great expectations and that </span>it takes courage to love fearlessly and with an insatiable passion,<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And it’s peaceful resilience has convinced me to be patient and that I can trust it, wholeheartedly, to know when it finds and feels “the one”.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-78467359935229981612019-02-26T09:46:00.001-08:002019-02-27T07:09:44.668-08:00A Decade Without Grandma<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Just before my mother lost the ability to communicate, she told me that she was proud of the mother I am; that I am a good mother. It was out of character for her to praise like that. She was more of constructive criticizer by nature, with a very loving, well intentioned heart. But I think she knew things were about to go very downhill, and she didn’t want to leave me without saying those words. And those words, from her, were gold. To this day, “You’re a good mother” is my most cherished compliment. Her words ring in my head often and have pealed me off the floor in some of my darkest parenting moments. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I have a horrific memory of one of my mother’s last days on her death bed. We had reached that hopeless point where we were left with no hope and could only pray for the peace and comfort of death for her. She was suffering but clinging to what little life she had left. She was fighting so hard for her every breath and her body was writhing in discomfort. I hugged her and cried and begged her to let go. I whispered in her ear, telling her it was ok to go. “Madeline is going to be ok. I promise.” Madeline was her beloved first grandchild/best friend/new found reason for living. And suddenly, she seemed to stop fighting quite so hard. She let her guard down and seemed to raise her white flag before dying in the wee hours of the next morning. It occured to me, in that gut wrenching moment, how badly my mother did not want to leave her grandchildren. I was pregnant with my third child when she died, and aside from how very much she cherished her grandbabies and deserved to soak up the utopia of grandparenthood for many, many years, and fought for that privelege, literally until her very last breath, I’m certain that a lot of that fight came from her concern for her poor daughter who was about to be in way over her head with three children. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This spring will mark 10 years since my mother died. I think I’ve cried at least a tear or two, every single day, since someone pointed that out to me a while back. 10 years without my safety net/lifeline, and all while taking the biggest leap and fighting the biggest battles of my life. A decade of motherhood without our grandma. I fantasize all the time, about having that other human on earth, who may have loved her grandchildren even more than I love them. And I resent that she’s gone. Her grandchildren brought her a pure joy that she had yearned for her entire life. I so enjoyed seeing that twinkling joy in her eyes. And I gave that to her. I owed her grandchilren, at the very least, and I delivered. I like to believe that I redeemed myself, just in the nick of time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So I cry because I resent that she’s gone and missing out on the blissful hell that is her grandchildren and the opportunity to pretend that they are all bliss and no hell, all while silently snickering about the well deserved hell we both know I’m enduring in motherhood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And I cry because I need help, from no one on this earth, more than my mother. I need that one person who’s footsteps I’m following through familly and motherhood; That one person who taught me everything she didn’t know either but we both learned along the way. That one person who knows my children are putting me through hell sometimes, and genuinely sympathizes, but kind of enjoys it and loves her grandchildren even more for it. I need her. Grandma is the only person on earth who will almost always move mountains to help in the deepest deaths of parenting hell. And this last decade of stay at home motherhood/housewife turned divorced single mother of 4 has had me at rock bottom (God willing). I need her. I need that person that will support my every whole hearted (often failed) effort, and my every blind, irrational decision, all while pointing out every mistake I have made or could be making along the way (none of which I asked for and millions of which I would never even have thought of). I need her. My kids always accuse me of telling them how beautiful they are or that they are good at everything they attempt because I'm their mother and I HAVE TO. I need that person. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The other day, my dad called to tell me that I am a good mother. He tells me two things often, “Your mother was a saint” and “You’ve mastered the art of parenting.” And on this day, I was a master of parenthood. And I cried, because just the night before, I was lectruing my boys about how I have dedicated my life to, and poured my heart into raising good, kind, positive children, and how much it hurts me when they absolutely cannot get along and respect each other despite all my efforts. I shamelessly told them that it makes me feel like a failure and that I didn’t think I deserved that. I could tell it tugged at their heart strings just a little bit, but not enough to actually conquer sibling rivalry. But here was my hero dad, to save the very next day, by spontaneously calling me to echo my mother's golden words; "You're a good mother". And while we both know that I am more the "Jack-of-all trades, master of none" type of mother, and I’m still entirely winging it every step of the way, we also both find comfort knowing that I’m following my mother’s footsteps (and I can feel heartbeat in every step). But I need her. And I’m guessing I’ll need her for decades to come. </span></div>
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A decade later, my mother’s precious Madeline is now 15. She is precisely the age I was when I started being a nightmare child to my poor mother. She is the product of every ounce of the blood sweat and tears that I have poured into motherhood, and she is a gem. She is the lovely young daughter my mother always dreamed of, and I hope my mother knows how much of an angelic hand she has had in that. </div>
Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-7122301128524518882018-11-05T09:59:00.001-08:002019-10-21T06:01:02.727-07:00Divorce is Hard...I Hope You Never Have to go Through it.<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">A while back, I was watching someone I love dearly go through a divorce. He was in pain and I blamed and judged his ex, who I also loved. I tried very hard not to judge, for a very long time, but one day she asked for my opinion, and I judged, harshly. I threw things at her that we both knew she already knew and probably regretted and had already beaten herself up about. And she responded with something like “Divorce is very hard. And I’ve tried really hard and done the best I could do through those darkest moments. I hope you never have to go through it.” I can’t even wrap my head around how much of an understatement that was. And then I beat myself up a little for kicking her while she was down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Years later, I went through my own divorce and darkest moments. And I let myself crumble a few times and made very painful mistakes, some that I will never forgive myself for. I was numb for a year, and breathless and dizzy and lost and angry and sad and trying to charge through all of that like a warrior, with my children in tow, determined to get us all through it, not just fairly unscathed, but better off because of it. It was an even bigger challenge than it sounds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I apologized to her, and told her how often her words rang in my head every time I tried to talk myself into forgiving myself for my darkest times and weakest moments. The ones that inevitably come from the devastating failure and heartbreak of shattering your perfect family and giving up on happily ever after. I felt sincerely terrible for adding insult to her injuries. She was graciously forgiving and grateful for my long overdue understanding. And so sorry that I was going through it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Divorce is very hard.” And for a very long time, it gets harder and harder. Giving up on my lover was hard as hell. Shattering my family was gut wrenching and life changing and often, seemingly unforgivable. It was by far, the greatest casualty of this war. Memories of our happy family still haunt me every single day. And in those dark moments of my post-divorce life, when our new family dynamic took my kids away from me for days at a time, and we missed each other terribly, I wallowed in failure and guilt and cold, heartless, bad decisions. When I wasn’t devastated, I was numb. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But I have some feeling coming back now. I’ve seen smiles return on my kids faces. I’ve heard most of them tell me that they understand now. I’ve listened to my oldest son vow to find a great love and treat her right so that he never loses her. I’ve watched in awe as my teenage daughter chose a first love who oozes genuinely good intentions for her and isn’t afraid to tell her. I watched my children watch and admire genuinely good men and learn the true meaning of selflessness and “love it or lose it”. And just like that, two years and many regrets later, it was not all in vain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve been dreaming about healing for years now. But I think I’m ready. I think I can muster up enough faith in my family’s strength and resilience to forgive myself for ever asking them to take on this fight in the first place. ( And I believe I can thank myself for that.) I think I’ve finally convinced them that when I said “trust me, we are all going to be ok” over and over and over again (with tears in my eyes), I meant it, and I was right. I know they know, that in my life, they are first and foremost. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It is very healing. It’s much easier to forgive myself knowing that there is a good chance my children will forgive me. It’s much easier to imagine letting another man love me knowing that my children believe that I deserve that. It’s much easier to imagine letting myself love, wholeheartedly again, knowing that my 4 little hearts are mending again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Divorce is hard. I hope you never have to go through it.” </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-89697019200561375562018-10-22T09:40:00.000-07:002018-10-23T06:33:01.931-07:00Butterflies...<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">We have our first real boyfriend. My oldest daughter, at the very same age that I was and who has never been one to settle, has met the first boy to put that look in her eye and smile on her face, which I recognize all too well. This is the real deal. This is the one who must have that extra something that she has been patiently holding out for since she decided she wanted a boyfriend, but not just any boyfriend. This is the one that could break her heart. This is the one that she will learn many hard lessons from. This is the one who I will be watching like a hawk, making sure he is worthy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We picked him up for our first date…I mean their first date. And as we got closer and closer to his house, we were both trying to talk each other out of our tummy aches (which, in the moment, my jaded heart hadn’t recognized as very special and exciting butterflies.). He was a sweet boy, with a lovely family and their adorable family dog. I couldn’t help thinking, when I met them all, how lucky they were to meet her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve put everything I have into raising her with enough confidence and patience to hold out for extra special and to be worthy of it and appreciative of it when she finds it. My girl has some sky high standards these days and I knew that boy must be extra special. (He better be. My girl is a gem.) It wasn’t lost on me, the way he looked at her, like he couldn’t believe his eyes. And the way he smiled and floated on air around her, just as I have been watching my giddy daughter float lately. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So far, she tells me a lot about him and them (like when they had the “are we boyfriend/girlfriend?” talk and she reminded him that he hadn’t asked her yet, but that he was welcome to ask her next time they saw each other in person. My Girl.) It’s not the usual “Whatever, it’s not important, don’t worry about it” (aka “none of your business mom”). It IS important. And it’s exciting and new and a start of a magical/horrific dating lifetime filled with heavenly highs and gut wrenching lows. It’s a new chapter for us. And I want to know EVERYTHING. I won’t know everything. But I want to. I want her to not be able to stop talking about him, and I want to hang on her every word. And in very grateful return, I will try not to gush and choke up everytime I see that twinkle in her eye (because I guess that’s lame), and I will try to keep my very wise opinions to myself…as much as I possibly can. Lines of communication can be very fragile at this age.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A few weeks after our first date… I mean their first date, they went to his Homecoming dance together. He bought three different ties just to make sure he had the perfect color to match her dress, which I thought was really adorable (and smart, because in all honesty, perfection is pretty much what I’m looking for, for my girl). We stood in his living room, with his family, and took pictures of our children, who were positivley glowing. Everytime I look at that picture, I am so thankful for that huge, genuinely happy smile on her face, and so impressed that his smile may be even bigger. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 14px;">I've learned to embrace the butterflies I get evertime I see them together. Now if I could just convince her to introduce him to her three precious little siblings. </span>Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-46877763146972270152018-10-21T10:23:00.000-07:002019-04-02T10:02:03.767-07:00Chapter- Unhappily Never After<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Chapter-unhappily never after</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He hugged me. We had barely spoken face to face in over two years, after our 14 year failed attempt at happily ever after, as I have tried desperatly to avoid eye contact with my unrequited love, and suddenly, he walked onto my porch and pulled me to him and hugged me. It was a surprisingly comfortable, familiar hug. It was a tight hug, with every fiber of his also battered heart, and his deep breath quivered a bit. And our war weary hearts beat strongly against each other. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I asked him what it was for. He let go and walked away without answering, in his truest style, and then stopped and looked back and said “just because”...with tears in his eyes. And in that moment, I think we both saw two people who had given it everything we could, and neither of which was enough for the other in the earth shattering end. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was shaken...to my core. It felt like I was facing a demon I had long given up on. The one who would NEVER come around and realize how lucky he was to have me. He is the only one in the world who has ever met that whole-hearted, unjaded, passionate woman. He is the only man who that woman ever gave her all. He broke that woman. And suddenly he was standing on my porch, hugging her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> It hurt. It brought to the surface, all the sadness that my anger had buried. And then It felt a bit healing. I cried off and on, for days, at the thought of it. The tears feel like a release of a tiny bit of that painful notion that he will never consider himself lucky to have been so loved by me, that he will never be sorry for taking me for granted or ever appreciate all that I poured into him and our family. Maybe there is hope that he will one day be very genuinely sorry for breaking me, or look back in awe of everything I gave. </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-13656577810156333482018-10-21T09:53:00.000-07:002018-10-21T09:53:47.073-07:003rd anniversary of all the kids in school...<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I just sent my crew off for their first day of school. Oddly, it did not give me the same euphoric feeling it ALWAYS has. I didn’t spend this summer on the verge of nervous breakdowns and yearning for the first day of school. And the summer went by in a flash rather than it’s usual eternity. Don’t get me wrong, it was rough. It was it’s typical mix of ice cream and swimming and frolicking and playing and laughing and fighting and bickering and tattling and bickering and fighting and tattling and laughing and bickering and fighting, and whining and the endless, relentlessly exhausting task of putting smiles on my precious, ungrateful children's faces, who, quite frankly were just as sick of me and each other as I was of all of them. But as usual, we made the best and most of it. And we survived. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It helps that they can all fend for themselves (far more than they would ever actually let on). They can get their own snacks and pour their own drinks. We can go anywhere now, without strollers. Everyone can buckle themselves into their car seats. We don’t need diaper bags and snacks and sippy cups. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Maybe it helped that I was down one kid most of the time (though I missed her like hell) as my teenager found herself a summer home this year and had a two month “sleepover” at a friends house, in an effort to be anywhere else but a house filled with her siblings (can’t say that I blamed her). Maybe it helps that my boys took every moment that I didn’t insist on entertaining them to entertain themselves with their video game obsession. It did get a bit worrisome at times, but I just had to keep reminding myself of the summer I spent trying to save Princess Peach. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’m sure it helps that I’m forced to share custody of my kids with their dad half the time. I never imagined that would happen, but it did, and in the interest of full disclosure, I needed it, whether I knew it or not. I remember one time, while I was really in the thick of stay at home motherhood, with toddlers and babies and diapers and he was working 9-5, telling someone “I just worry that he thinks he works harder than I do.” And he did. Deep down inside, we always both knew he did. And I think, deep down, underneath other far more painful reasons that I had to leave him, we both knew that I was never going to get the help I desperately needed with parenthood if I stayed. Shared custody was a necessary sacrifice. It takes the edge off, and I still struggle to cope with it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My growing, capable children and new found moments of silence and a very quiet house on this first day of school morning, have reminded me how lucky I was to be able to stay home with ever one of my children (and there are a lot of them) before sending them off to school. It was a genuine blessing and there was never ever a moment that I wanted to be doing something else with my life. One of my favorite things to do every morning when I have my coffee is check my Facebook memories where I have obsessivley document my journey through motherhood. And they never fail to remind me how much I have loved this job. Motherhood is my passion and even in the midst of my occasional nervous breakdowns, I didn’t take a single second of it for granted, I swear. Those years at home with my babies brought me an overwheling and exhausting joy, great enough to overshadow my unrequited love. He worked hard enough to afford me an invaluable opportunity of a lifetime, and I worked my ass off trying to be worthy of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s not lost on me. And on this third anniversary of having all four kids in school, and surviving a survival of the fittest type challenge, I can look back at those very long grueling days that I once believed would never ever end, and I would never survive, and pinch myself at the selective memories of that moment in time. </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-24232476355036206202018-04-06T07:59:00.002-07:002018-04-06T08:16:05.865-07:00If We Knew God’s Greater Plan...Recently, a friend presented me with a question; If we knew what God’s greater plan was, or why we are meant to endure such things, would that make it any easier? I have spent countless nights pleading to God, in an effort to change his plan for my mother, but I will never forget the moment my pleas changed from “please God, see my mother through this one more time” to “God, please take her and end this battle”.<br />
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My mother spent years of her life striving for perfection always trying to please everyone. She fought many a losing battle and I remember my father often telling her to “stop trying to save the world”. Life is full of letdowns when you have such good intentions.<br />
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She was a dedicated wife who’s only mistake was choosing a mate who had no interest in pretending to be perfect. He tried to teach her to focus on the good rather than dwell on the bad. But she was not ready for this liberating approach and perhaps resented the fact that it came so easily to him.<br />
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She was a dedicated teacher in the school district that recognized her special ability to handle the worst kids they could throw at her, only to have them turn their backs on her and accuse her of being too harsh on those kids. I often run into former students who tell me, with a residual look of fear in their eyes, that she was tough. So tough that they wish their kid had a teacher just like her!<br />
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And she was a dedicated mother who raised a son who seem to master the art of at least appearing to be perfect, and a daughter who spent her teen years resenting the very idea of such unrealistic expectations and often found pleasure in throwing her rebellious imperfections and her poor mother’s face.<br />
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Being a mother now myself, I have learned a lot about just how perfectly imperfect my mother was. It wasn’t perfection she was demanding from others, it was simply her want to see her loved ones, and even those rotten students, be the best people they could be. And she was always harder on herself than she was on anyone else when those people fell short. I have no doubt, for instance, that the lessons in tough love that she was forced to teach her idiot teenage daughter were far more hurtful for her than they were for that foolish young girl.<br />
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In the last leg of her time here on earth, she became a grandmother. Her never ending soul-searching journey to find herself seemed to stop dead in its tracks the moment she met her first grandchild. She was happy to simply be grandma and never seemed to struggle with that role as she did with all the others. Her need to please and appear perfect found the ideal outlet in her grandchildren. In my five-year-old daughter’s eyes, grandma could do no wrong. Madeline is all at once, the lucky one for getting to know her grandma so well, and the poor little girl who spent the last year waiting patiently to resume weekly sleepovers and camp outs by candlelight in the living room at grandma’s house. And while my heart breaks for the newest grand kids who have been cheated out of knowing their perfect grandma, I am devastated by the thought of my daughter losing her first best friend. I can only imagine the pleas my mother made to her God, begging him to let her watch her grandchildren grow up and to let her shine a bit longer in the starring role of her lifetime, just as I prayed that all of her grandchildren could get to know the capable woman I still conjure up in my dreams every night; the woman who’s world revolved around them, not her illness.<br />
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Just as her downward spiral began, she took a very uncharacteristic moment to sit me down and tell me that she is proud of the mother I am to her precious grandchildren. I believe she is thankful and respects me for breaking the cycle of demanding perfection. I mother with my heart and without regard to how it appears to others. She was grateful to me for giving her grandchildren the kind of peaceful, stress-free, fun filled childhood that every child should know and probably doesn’t give herself enough credit for giving her own children the same. And she was pleasantly surprised that despite my obvious flaws, my children, her grandchildren, are genuinely kind, caring, polite, headstrong, independent, and yes, perfectly imperfect.<br />
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It took a while, but my mother did learn to stop taking life so seriously. And perhaps a credit to her “pal Petey” and his odd sense of humor, she learned to laugh, even at herself. We all grew to appreciate my mother more as she grew to appreciate herself. We were thankful rather than burdened by Sunday dinners at mom’s house. We were amused rather than annoyed by her incessant curiosity. We even saught the nagging, motherly advice that we once resented because it was forced upon us. And my father, her ex-husband, never wastes an opportunity to tell us what a wonderful woman our mother was.<br />
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Her faith saw her through many hard times. And eventually she learned to stop judging her life through the critical eyes of others, and instead begin living and learning through the forgiving eyes and unconditional love of her God. We found great comfort in watching my mother’s faith remain so unwavering during this agonizing process. Who are we to question God while we watched in awe as her faith held up and she still insisted on going to church every week even though it involved the challenges of the wheelchair and the humbling inability to rise with the rest of the congregation to sing his praises and the need to be lifted in and out of the pews, and the special, doting attention from her loving and dedicated church family, which she once would have found terribly uncomfortable.<br />
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I respect the Lord’s path, and I genuinely trust him. I only ask that he respect us for learning the valuable lessons this type of tragedy is meant to teach us, and to take note that we did this a long time ago, even before we were forced to do so out of fear and that the cost of losing someone we love. And I pray that he shower her with all the praise and accolades her dedication to him surely warrants.<br />
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God bless you Mom. I am certain he will.Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-48592459400770078312018-03-27T10:06:00.000-07:002018-03-27T10:09:51.448-07:00Get Over It. I was told recently, that I really should be “over it already. It’s been two years, I mean really.” <br />
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I have no idea what the reasonable amount of time is to get over 15 years of unrequited love and endless failed attempts to be worthy and 14 years of losing myself completely in the blissful hell of child rearing and happy homemaking, with no one there to love me enough not to let me do that myself. But I do know that it is not two years. <br />
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Add to that, having to shatter my family/most prized possession, and the painful burden of bearing sole responsibility for all of their tears and frustrations, and feeling single handedly responsible for rebuilding us, with all our fractures, strong enough to bear the weight of my guilt and to take anything life throws at us.<br />
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Add to that, haunting memories of our perfect family and our happiest times, happy enough to shield me from all my sacrifices.<br />
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Add to that, losing a large group of loved ones I once called family.<br />
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Add to that, meeting a man or two who couldn’t seem to resist falling in love with me despite all my warnings that I’m hard to love now, and who believed that any man who let me get away when he had an even better, loyal, less broken version of me in the palm of his hand was a fool.<br />
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Add to that, knowing that I’m very hard to love now...<br />
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and suddenly it feels like a life sentence. <br />
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Happier, hopeful, healing, slightly less jaded and bitter? Yes.<br />
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Over it? Hell no.<br />
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<br />Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-70049270462613810512017-12-25T20:30:00.000-08:002017-12-26T05:48:40.617-08:00Meet me at the fair...<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Him: “Meet me at the fair” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Me: “That’s the name of one of my favorite episodes of Little house on the Prairie.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Him: “I love those books. My mom used to read them to me.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He had a way of saying and doing little things that felt like a tap on the shoulder from the universe, “Pay attention Kristin. Don’t miss the clues. Don’t let sincere words fall on bitter, deaf ears. Don’t let your jaded eyes be blind to genuinely thoughtful gestures. Don’t let your cold, resentful, brokejn heart be too frozen to skip a beat sometimes.” It was so much of what I had been missing and craving for years, even when I couldn’t quite put my finger on the void. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So we met up at the fair one evening. Up until then, we had only had a few dates, drinks together, endless, easy, thorough, heartfelt conversation, and some seriously passionate kisses whenever and wherever the mood struck. Kismet. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He found me waiting for Ginger, who was on a ride. He appeared with two tickets for the ferris wheel in hand; “If one of your friends would keep an eye on your kids for a minute later, I’d like to go for a ride with you.” Despite the best intentions, we never did make it on that ferris wheel, for reasons that I would perhaps thank the universe for later. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was a lovely evening. Easy and comfortable as always. And it was scary. I was starting to think that he was special, and I didn’t feel anywhere near ready for special. My plan: Keep him at a very safe distance. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He walked us out to my car at the end of the night. We all said goodbye to him. And as I turned to walk away, he said “Oh wait, here, this is for you. Trust me” and handed me a flash drive. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I went home, and for some reason (because I have four kids) I forgot about it. Then he sent me a goodnight text and urged me to plug in that flash drive. “It’s something you’ve been missing. Trust me.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So I plugged it in, and up on my computer screen, popped the titles of all of my long lost stories that I had been mouring the loss of for months. Stories I had written about motherhood as I know it, that I had poured my heart into and cherished. My very first published stories. They had disappeared from my limited scope of the world wide web and were seemingle being held captive in a cyber abyss locked in a treasure chest. And now, I had just laid eyes on my treasures, right at my fingertips. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It stunned me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like a little puzzle piece of my heart was put back in place and in the silence of my awe, I swear I could hear my heart pounding and it’s icy shell cracking. I cried. I cried because I had my stories back, and I cried because someone cared so much. Someone, who had only known the severely broken version of me, found me worthy of such a miracle. I cried because I knew if he had gotten me on that ferris wheel, and handed me this gem, I would have cried and cried and cried and my cover as cold and heartless and incapable of love may have been blown. I cried because he was, in fact, special, and I still wasn’t convinced that I was worthy of special just yet.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But that’s the beauty of special. Special is patient and strong and courageous. Special can see beauty in our flaws. Special wants to help carry our baggage. Special sees our battle scars as a badge of courage. Special admires our strength during our weakest moments and never lets us forget that it’s there. Special is not afraid of four kids and their broken mom. Special feels heroic while insisting that it is in fact you who has saved yourself. Special is all of the demands you throw out to the universe when you’re jaded and your standards go up because broken hearts teach cold, hard lessons, appearing when you’re certain the timing is wrong. Special is an understatement. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Him: “You just set the pace, and I’ll keep us moving in the right direction.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Universe: “He is special. You are worthy.” </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-47230374086331978132017-04-03T12:45:00.001-07:002018-01-30T08:16:02.812-08:00Survival Mode<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Today, I met with my accountant to have my taxes done. My hope was just to drop them and run, but he sat me down to get the basics of my financial situation. I sat there blindsidedly explaining that I have been a stay-at-home mom for 13 years, and that I am newly single after 14 years and trying to get back on my feet and care for my 4 kids, and that we were never married so basically since I gave up and walked away, I now have nothing but my 4 precious children to show for my wholeheartedly devoting every moment of my life to raising my kids. Nothing. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I broke, and left, and walked away from a very comfortable but love-lacking life, it was so necessary that I didn’t even care. The fact that I had finally come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t love me like I needed, the idea that I might one day find that love, the fact that I had my children, the fact that I had the pleasure of being home with them for over a decade while they were young and oh so precious, all of that was enough. I had been very blessed in many ways and it was priceless, but costs me a lot. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I have a new found happiness. It is liberating to let go of something I was holding on to with every fiber of my being but still never really had. And I try very hard to focus on that, the silver lining to some dark, dark clouds. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But every so often, I’m forced to stand right under those clouds and endure the storm for a moment, like it or not. Recently, I went to be interviewed for a job subbing at my childrens school. The very first thing my interviewer mentioned was that I, unfortunately, did not have much recent work experience. I was aware I would never be welcomed into the cold corporate world with my decade plus experience in full time child-rearing and housework, but to think that my devotion to children and the fact that I have four of them which is practically a classroom full, may not qualify for so much as working in a school hit me like a lightening bolt. But this is my reality now. In this society, devoting myself to being a good mother and psuedo-wife makes me incredibly blessed and fortunate and entirely unqualified for anything else. And the fact that I was ok not being worthy of marriage all those years leaves me entriley screwed. Lucky me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But I do feel lucky…and hopeful, and optimistic. And even though I explained my bleak financial reality to my accountant in the most positive and matter-of-fact and optimistic way, the storm clouds came as he looked at me and said “My dear, my heart breaks for you. And every inch of your body language tells me you are in survival mode.” And the thunder rolls…</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s important to look on the bright side. I am a hopeless optimist. But these reality checks are important sometimes. They serve as those little pushes I need to pick myself up and dust myself off. They remind me that I do not deserve to walk away from everything I put into my family and our life with nothing, and that if there is only one way to fight for what I’m really worth, I have to stop being afraid. They help me to dig deeper. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I am indeed in survival mode. I’m trying to dig myself out of some very deep holes I have dug for myself despite all my best intentions, and I am standing in storm after storm, but I can see the silver lining, and I will survive. </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-23387656846149009942017-02-16T09:54:00.000-08:002019-10-22T07:55:01.359-07:00One year later...<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One year later…</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve learned that failure is an option. That my best intentions do not guarantee a perfect outcome, and loving with all my heart and soul does not promise the same. I’ve learned that no love at all is better than unrequited love. I’ve learned that I’m very lovable and it’s his loss. I’m very lovable.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve learned that at my weakest, with a broken heart and shattered, defeated spirit, I can charge through the darkest battles with four kids in protective tow. I can hit rock bottom and bounce right back. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I've learned that when I'm hurt, I can be very stubborn when I should be courageous, but I tend to come around. </span></div>
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I’ve learned that fathers will never ever let their little girls down, and that the more you say “Dad, I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me” the more sleep Dad loses at night. </div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve learned that my children are resilient and strong and open minded and observant. I couldn’t explain why I shattered our perfect family a year ago, despite my agonizing, tearful attempts. But I think that now that I can’t be with them every moment, distracting them from some of the painfully obvious imperfections in our family, the more they understand why I walked away from the man I loved so hard for so long. I like to think all of my praying and pleading that my children would learn that I walked away from my relationship and not our family has paid off. They know why I’m not there. They know I’m here. I have always been here. I will always be here. I also like to think that we have all learned a few lessons in love; how to love and be loved. Love it or lose it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve learned that it is very difficult to get back on my feet after 12 years of raising kids and depending on a very strong, capable, hard working man. It’s also very terrifying. It’s also life changing and liberating. I have the power to hold out for a most powerful and satisfying yet insatiably passionate love. Somehow it makes me feel fearless. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’ve learned that I’m a lover. It’s what I do. I love people. I’m passionate about it. I pour my loving, generous soul into making my loved ones feel loved. And I don’t really ask for much in return. Raising kids is a thoroughly selfless and thankless job. But if there is one thing I know for absolute certain, it’s that my babies love and adore and appreciate me more than anyone else in the whole wide world. They can’t get enough of me. It’s smothering and sometimes I think it might kill me, but it’s my absolute favorite thing in the world. There is something far more tolerable and satisfying about the suffocating, ungrateful love and adoration of my children that seems more fixable than 14 years of unrequited love from the man I gave my all. I’m too lovable for unrequited love. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’ve learned that I am my own worst enemy when I am heartbroken, and that even at the age of 40, I can still make some devastating, heartless mistakes and hurt people I love most in the world. The kind of mistake that, when forgiven, reminds you that love is essential. Love is friendship. Love is all around. Love is forever. Love conquers all. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I've learned that we are all in need of forgiveness. To forgive, to be forgiven, to heal. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">And this year, the universe, in it’s infinite wisdom, taught me a lesson about forgiveness that unleashed a ripple effect among my loved ones that tore us down just to set us up to rebuild, stronger. i've learned to trust the universe.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’ve learned that there are some very angry people out there. People who will take your best intentions and weakest moment and use them to their advantage and your detrement. Just because. But…forgiveness. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’ve learned that some friendships are literally like life lines that get tattooed on our destiny for better or worse. Eternal friendship. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I've learned that Mr. Perfect is out there. That mutual passion is out there. That some men are not afraid of 4 kids. That I'm worthy of hearing "I love you" and seeing it in his eyes. That I'm not ready for Mr. Perfect yet. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I've learned that the most improbable, unexpected and nonsensical events can be dead on. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ve learned that some things are inevitable because the universe says so. And that the more I tell the universe that I’m’ not going to do something, the more it reminds me not to give up on love. The more I insist that my shattered heart is ice cold, the more the universe reminds me that I am a lover by nature. The more I resent never having heard “I love you” and swearing that I don’t want it anymore anyway, the more the universe hands it me and challenges me to know what to do with it now. I am lovable. I’m a lover. Love is inevitable for me…</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">someday. </span></div>
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Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-70570627133635093232017-01-13T09:15:00.002-08:002017-01-13T09:17:12.712-08:00Lessons (and Blessings) from the Pediatric Wing<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is a lot to be learned when you spend an unanticipated 5 days in the hospital with your 7 year old son with a broken arm, a bone infection, and the patience of…a 7 year old. It would be easy to feel sorry for ourselves. And while one of us did understandably pity himself, I found myself humbled by just how fortunate we really are. Even our most unfortunate circumstances can shed some positive perspective on the bigger picture. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As I sat (and sat and sat and sat) in that hospital room with my grumpy son, and endured his abuse as he barked orders at me and insisted I was falling short in every way and that it was all my fault that they wouldn’t let him go home, all while we both knew that there was no one else in the whole wide world he wanted by his side than his flawed and infinitley patient mommy, I was reminded, everywhere I looked, that things could be much, much worse. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It all began when our 16 year old roomate joined us. His father and sister dropped him off for a stomach issue. As I sat on the other side of our curtian divider, drowning in their stench of what could only be described as a chain smoking, filthy old kitty litter box, I listened to the nurses ask their millions of questions and made a few humbling discoveries right away; He and his barely older sister live alone together, mom is barely in the picture at all, and dad couldn’t get out there fast enough, and would “come back for him when they were ready to let him out”. Otherwise, this kid was on his own. And for the next three days, he laid there, alone, with what I can only imagine were his only constants in life, video games, and that stench, </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now, while a different kind of person may have thrown a fit about having to share a room with that odor and its attached sad reality, I couldn’t bear the thought of this boy being put in a room anymore empty and lonely than his life already appeared to be. So I sucked it up (while trying not to breath unless my life depended on it. It's as hard as it sounds). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I had high hopes that this smelly experiece could somehow serve as a teachable moment for my son. I knew it would be heartbreaking to watch his family NOT show up or even call day after day. But I thought it might help my cranky, meaner than usual, impossible to please son, realize how lucky he was. It didn’t. He was unphased, because he’s 7 and all. The misfortunes of our roomate did not overshadow the needles and medicines and procedures and inedible hospital food and unfortunate diagnosis that led to day after day of “sorry kid, you can’t leave yet.” I didn’t blame him for his lack of compassion. He was enduring a lot. And between the curtain seperating us from each other, the body’s ability to grow accustome to fowl odor, and the heartbreaking silence of our roomate’s loneliness, I suppose it was all too easy for my son to pretend he was the only poor kid in the room. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">By the 3 or 4th day of being a dedicated, doting, loving, failure of a mother in the ungrateful eyes of my son, and listening to his pity parties every few minutes, and his harsh critiques of my every unconditional-love filled move, I started shooting him some serious glaring, warning looks. I was hoping he would somehow hear my unspoken lecture shooting out of my eyes. Every time he asked to go home and was told no and responded with an “I hate my life!”, my teeth would clench and my eyes would fill with words I needed him to see, because screaming “why don’t you count your blessings that you’re not the little baby next door who just had brain surgery, or the newborn baby down the hall who hasn’t even gotten to go home yet because she’s too sick, or the kids who are so sick they can’t even get out of bed, or the kids who have been here for months, or the kid who’s parents don’t even care enough to visit or call!” would be insensitive to the children and parents who were living in that reality. As if they needed a reminder that they were worse off than us. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My son didn’t see a single word of my silent lecture screaming from my eyes. And a part of me started wishing and hoping that our lonely neighbor behind the curtain was growing tired of listening to my ungrateful boy not appreciate his mother and her unyielding efforts to meet his every want and need. I began wishifully thinking that he would suddenly snap and start spewing words of wisdom from behind that curtain like the great and powerful Wizard of the Pediatric Wing that went something like:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">"hey kid, do you know how lucky you are to have two parents who have been by your side every single second doing everything and anything they can for you?! If I were you I would stop being such an ungrateful little *******!” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But he remained as silent about my bratty kid as we did about his odor. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Aside from my sleepless first night on a broken, non-reclining recliner, and in spite of my understandaly miserable, thankless child, I tried not to complain too much. Because if there is one things to be learned in the pediatric wing of hospital, it is that, if you’re lucky, things could be much, much worse. We were lucky.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We’ve got a long road ahead of us. And I hate what my boy is going through this. But I hope that one day, he looks back and remembers the sick kids who were stuck there through no fault of their own, (and not because they chose to jump off the top of a playground), or the kids who were not even aware that there was a world beyond those hospital doors, or the boy who’s parents didn’t care enough to be there, and maybe even his own parents, who were there every second, and who would have taken his place in that hospital bed if they could have. I will never forget. Blessed.</span></div>
Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458377739626822967.post-17293939581400225472016-08-02T08:39:00.003-07:002019-10-22T07:59:36.750-07:00Dear Heartbroken Children (a therapeutic letter that I will never send)<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Dear kids, (I will never share this with my children because it's far too honest for innocent </span><span style="font-size: 11px;">victims</span><span style="font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> of their parents crashing and burning</span><span style="font-size: 11px;">. It's</span><span style="font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> really more about reminding myself (and forgiving myself) why i broke up my family. It's just...therapy)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m so sorry. I’m not sorry that my relationship failed, because I know I gave it my all. I’m not sorry that I left, because I know I had to. But I’m sorry that you have to endure the fallout from your parents mistakes. I’m sorry that I had to shatter your perfect world, the very world that I created for you. I’m sorry that I spent your entire lives striving to create an enviornment that is safe and happy and loving, only to have to make the hardest decision of my life to rattle all off that for a moment. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry that I’m asking you to try and understand things that there is no possible way you could understand. I don’t even understand a lot of this right now. I’m sorry that the best I can do right now is to ask you to trust me, all while you watch me flailing a little. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry that your father never wanted to marry me, and I’m sorry that I ever thought that was ok. I’m sorry for not sharing your last name even though you are my whole life. I’m sorry that all those years of bringing my babies into this world and devoting every waking moment to ensuring that you are thriving and happy, made me so blissfully blind to the possibility that he just didn’t love me the way I loved him. You shouldn’t have had to overcompensate for that, but thank you. I will forever be grateful to you for always being to key to my genuine happiness. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m sorry that I hung in there for so long, trying to endure the anger and intolerance and resentment and pretending that I could tolerate it. I wanted to shield you all from that as best I could.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I took a lot of those bullets for you (and will until the day I die) and it was only a matter of time before that battle knocked me down.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m tired and scarred, but i’m recovering, trust me. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry that I took myself for granted, so much so, that I it was ok if the man I loved and cherished and nurtured never told me that he loved me. I’m sorry for being so very patient and relentless in trying to earn that and ultimately convincing us all that I could go on doing that forever. That was a mistake, and it will never happen again. Trust me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry for suggesting that someone’s relentless selfishness can be tolerated and forgiven with the occasional grand gesture. It can’t, trust me.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry for your father’s disinterest and for all of the excuses I made for it. I’m sorry for ever going along with the idea that daddy’s work is more important than your pre-k graduations or concerts or any other brief shining moments in your childhood. I never once believed that, I just knew I couldn’t change it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m sorry that you’re scared for me.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m sorry that you worry about how I will survive without daddy.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m sorry if I taught you that I can’t take care of myself just because I have dedicated my life to taking care of all of you.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m going to be just fine.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We are all going to be just fine.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Trust me.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry that I hurt your father. I loved him and fought for him until the bitter end. I would have done anything for him, all while knowing I couldn’t really expect the same in return. That hurt me. Trust me. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry that we are all hurting now just because my pain got too unbearable to handle anymore. I would give anything to carry this burden on my own. I spent more than a decade trying to ensure that my family was nothing but happy, and trying to protect all of you from pain and heartache only to make you a casualty of my own broken heart. I never saw that coming, trust me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 0px;">We will all be ok. This moment is dark and uncertain and often </span><span style="font-size: 11px;">tearfully</span><span style="font-size: 11px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> blurry, but the future will be everything I ever dreamed of for you. Trust me. I will singlehandedly survive and care for myself and my children and you will be proud of me. Your father may learn not to take loved ones or fleeting moments for granted. I hope that you will all learn how important it is to love unabashedly and selflessly, and to never settle for less than you deserve and that it’s ok to walk away from anything less, even when it feels very, very not ok. And I know that we will all learn how resiliant we are when we come out of all this feeling as safe and loved and happy as we ever were. Trust me. </span></span></div>
Kristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15230109931284448060noreply@blogger.com8