Being Present Today: This Moment is All I Have

Tags

Balance, being present, carpe diem, motherhood, Parenting

I’m a woman who tries to cram too much into her days, and my family suffers for it. As My Guy prepared dinner last night and the Little Butt clamored for my attention, I typed furiously, answering emails, wrapping up invitations I’d promised clients, replying to the constant barrage of texts, and trying to complete “just one more” project after another.

In the midst of my frenzy, My Guy asked me to look something up on YouTube and I put him off for “just a second.” I still don’t know what he wanted to show me. The Little Butt came running into the kitchen to say, “Hi, Mom!” and give me a squeeze and I barely acknowledged him. I’d have time soon enough.

After everyone was in bed and as I laid my head down on the pillow, it struck me how little I’d actually seen my son yesterday. True, I’d been with him from sunup to sundown, but had I truly been present? Hardly.

I’ve got time, I told myself. He’s only two. I’ve got 16 more years to be present.

Then it hit me. With an attitude like that, I’d allowed countless moments during the first 11% of his time in our home slip by. And who’s to say I’ll actually be blessed to have a child that lives a normal life and reaches maturity?

All I have is this exact moment.

During the first months of our marriage, I freaked out about lots of little things. (I still do, but that’s fodder for another post.) At one point, My Guy sat me down and said, “We are in the first five minutes of our marriage. Relax. We will work these things out.”

That is great advice for a worrier, but sometimes as a doer I focus on the remaining “hours” we have together and take time with My Guy for granted. How many moments with him have I lost because of my focus on a project or because I chose to enter the comatose state of a couch potato?

Life is a flower, a sunset, a concert—if I don’t catch it in the moment, that moment is lost forever. Nothing living remains the same.

I truly don’t know how to turn my driven self into someone who is present, but today I’m going to look into the faces of my boys and cherish the fact that I have these moments. Then tomorrow I will do it again, and again, until it becomes who I am. I will fail and at times I will be the half-present wife and mom on the laptop, but I will brush the distractions from my eyes and begin again.

Today I will be present.

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From Whining About Conception Problems to Morning Sickness: a Cosmic Joke?

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morning sickness

Yup, that’s right. Baby number two is cooking. There really is something to the whole throwing-in-the-towel-only-to-see-God-take-over concept.

While I fully intended to provide an informative review of Jamberry Nail Wraps this week, semi-continual nausea and migraines are kicking my butt and laying me on the couch. So I am literally laying on the couch, typing this on my phone while my man entertains the Little Butt outside. The silence is unimaginably sweet.

I have found some slight improvement in the last few days with tips from this blog post addressing morning sickness. Then yesterday my baby sis mentioned using peppermint essential oil to treat headaches. Excedrin it is not, but sometimes ya gotta go with safe and creative.

If you know a friend who is suffering from morning sickness, please direct her to the above post. I think her remedies are helping.

Thoughts on Infertility: When A+B Doesn’t Equal C

Tags

babies, Infertility, pregnancy

In recent months I’ve thought a lot about infertility. Having given birth to a son, I know that we are not technically infertile, but by this stage in my married life I expected to have two children and be thinking about a third. I’m no spring chicken. Throw in the fact that my parents were “diagnosed” with secondary infertility after having me, one can imagine my concern. They, however, went on to parent seven additional children.

An average family photo (plus one brother-in-law and BFF/second sister thrown into the mix).

My fabulous family of origin could be one of the main reasons a delayed second pregnancy has proven so painful for me. Who knows?

More couples suffer from infertility than one might think, often because infertiles or those trying to conceive (TTC) are in so much pain they prefer not to discuss it. When the all-too-common questions of “When do you plan to start a family?” or, in my case, “When will you have your next child? Don’t wait too long!” are asked, it’s often difficult to find a gracious answer. Reading Lizzy’s post from last week reminded me of the need to be gracious, as I’ve been tempted at times to hurt the questioner for unintentionally hurting me.

Please take the time to read Lizzy’s post, “The Dreaded Question (with Illustrations from Harry Potter).” If you haven’t experienced infertility yourself, this might be especially helpful. If you have, I hope it encourages you as it did me.

Just another Mommy Monday: a Morning with a Toddler

Tags

motherhood, parenting a toddler, toddlers

Thursday through Sunday last week I’d been fighting a virus, and the last two of those days I rotated between my bed and the couch. Sunday morning I gated the family room doorway, turned on Curious George, and curled up on the sofa, praying the Little Butt wouldn’t climb the TV stand or do anything else too emulative of that little monkey he so dearly loves while I slept. The reminder of the day his daddy maintained order while I continued to veg.

Somewhere during Sunday night my fever finally broke, and between the bedsores taking over my hip area and the layer of grime taking over my kitchen floor (no reflection on My Guy—he cleaned up more thoroughly than me each night), I knew Monday would be different.

After downing two cups of coffee—my first since Friday, I might add—practicing yoga (with the occasional need to remove a child from under a pose), and enjoying a yogurt cup with Little Butt, we both got in gear and hunkered down to work. After setting him up at the sink with as little glassware at hand as possible and clear, repeated instructions not to touch the coffee pot, I went into my bedroom and began scouring the house from back to front.

Timeout number one commenced by 8:45. I walked into the kitchen to find the coffee pot full of water and a pile of grounds in the sink. He knows better. Off to the bedroom he went, where he and Silky Bear had ten minutes to sit in the crib and think about obeying. While I’m sure the vacuum cleaner blocked out some of the outcry, he did quite well. No tears ensued, and upon release he happily put all his friends back into bed where they belong.

Side note: It amazes me how children punish themselves in an effort to punish their parents. My feelings weren’t hurt to find the entire inhabitants of the Hundred Acre Wood on the floor, and that left Little Butt with no friends to commiserate.

As water play was now out of the question, I set Little Butt up in his room, dusting and playing in his tent. Before anyone thinks I’m expecting too much of a toddler, please note: he loves to clean. Not that he really accomplishes anything. But he tries.

Ten more minutes pass, during which I whip the family room into shape, vacuuming up the sad remains of handfuls of goldfish. I walk into the kitchen to put the vacuum away, only to find the Little Butt trying to screw the lid on a Ziplock container full of 30 ounces of water—water from the cooler he is not allowed to touch.

Timeout number two commences; this time Silky Bear, Pooh Bear, and all his friends survive the exile.

By this time the kitchen and bathroom floors have been washed, and Mommy is dripping sweat. Little Butt sees the chalkboard on his tall dresser and asks to play, Mommy agrees and gates the door in order to grab a quick shower. All goes well, and only one piece of chalk is smashed on the newly swept floor. I wonder once more why I even vacuum that room.

After cleaning up the messy room, it’s time for play-doh. Ten minutes later as we are cleaning up from this adventure, Little Butt decides to fill one of his yellow play-doh cups with—you guessed it—water from the cooler.

Timeout number three commences.

It is now 10:30 a.m.

And that, my friend, is Monday morning at my house. I’m considering serving myself Irish coffee as a mid-morning treat. Stay tuned.

I Don’t Know Your Story: Why Not to Make Snap Judgments

Tags

accepting others, not judging, Peggy Horner, Premier Designs Jewelry

Last week at my company’s national convention, I had the privilege of hearing our President’s wife share her story. Peggy Horner is one of those women we all envy just a little, and if you’re like me, she intimidates you, too. Somewhere in her 50s (I’m guessing here!), she is petite, polished, and poised. Her smile is perfect and perfectly warm. Her tailored clothes are stylish and work as a perfect backdrop to her entire person and, of course, our jewelry.

In a nutshell, to my eyes Peggy Horner is everything I am not.

As I walked past Peggy in the Ft. Worth Convention Center Wednesday afternoon, I glanced at her in amazement. While I had spent the better part of a day traveling by both air and train and fully looked it, she was perfectly coiffed and taking part in a warm conversation.

Every hair in place.

Perfect posture.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Sometime either Wednesday or Thursday I made the remark that every Texas woman must go to finishing school. Where else do you come up with such poise and confidence? Suddenly I regretted my east coast heritage.

But when Peggy spoke Friday evening, she was that painfully honest woman we all want to have for a friend. It had taken her over six years to summon the courage to share her story, because when she looked out into the crowd of Premier Jewelers, she perceived only confidence while she felt insecurity. Peggy’s story included elements of abandonment at a young age, hurtful personal compulsions, and much loss. She shared how in her forties out of necessity she entered the workforce with no experience and filled with fear. The Horner family chose to invest in her and mentor her, both in her career and her personal life. And, of course, our President Tim Horner fell in love with and married her.

Hearing Peggy’s story hit me hard and keeps coming to mind. It’s not so much the exact events of her life; it’s the fact that I never have any right to judge another person. I do not know your story. And even if you share it, I’ll never know the exact impact each piece of the puzzle has made.

Most of our judgments stem from our insecurities. And our insecurities stem from where we have not embraced our own stories. Rather than shake my head in irritation at that outrageously annoying woman or envying the perfect ones, I need to take a step back and address the broken parts of myself. And if I get the chance, I should listen to their stories and share mine. Our honesty will make us safer, more gracious, more understanding women.

Eharmony, Match, Mingle, and More: What’s Your Experience?

Tags

dating, eharmony, match.com, mingle, online dating

After several recent conversations with single friends about online dating, I had hoped to write a post on this subject. Then I went and slammed my index finger in a door and can hardly type. (Backspace is getting a workout today!) So while I gather more info, I want to hear your thoughts.

Comment, message, text, or email away what you love, hate, or question about online dating and I’ll give it a shot for next week when I’m less handicapped.

Can We Cut the Cattiness, Girlfriends?

Tags

catty behavior, female tendencies, friendship, insecurities

A few weeks ago I bumped into my friend Tara in the post office. A change of plans for the morning left her headed to the gym with a perfectly made up face and pretty nice hair (although she swears she didn’t do anything besides dry it—the sign of a truly great cut, my friends). In a text a few minutes later, I jokingly stated, “You look WAY too hot to go to the gym. Every woman there will hate you.”

My statement was pretty much true, but I must ask—why are we like this?

Then last week my cousin Lisa shared this article on Facebook, and it made me wonder for the umpteenth time—why do we women make life so difficult for each other?

Now, perhaps I wonder more than most because I grew up in a relatively sheltered setting, having been homeschooled for about ten of those 13 fundamental years. My three sisters and I did not treat each other cattily. My mom was not catty. But as I would soon find out, cattiness has no age limitations.

That said, as an adult I see that no matter what one’s background, there is something inherently female (note I didn’t say feminine) that makes cattiness a trait specific to our gender. We are called the B word. On some level, we are expected to gossip, backbite, sneer at, and throw members of our sex under the bus.

But why?

As I read and pondered that article, I decided that the root could be nothing more or less than our insecurities. We feel threatened, so we seek to hurt before someone else can hurt us. Or we mock because we know we can’t compete. Or we ignore because of a fear of personal failure.

Seriously? Enough already. We need each other. And we need to respect one another. Your choices may be different than mine, and you may look way better while working out than I do (yes, Tara, that would be you), but does that really require me to demean you and thereby degrade myself?

God knows I do my share of judging, whether in my head or aloud to my husband, poor man. But it needs to stop. I need to give others the benefit of the doubt, and to believe that they are doing the best they know to do.

Rather than judge, I need to befriend.

Rather than let my insecurities dictate my responses, I need to be transparent.

When all of us become transparent, we’ll finally see that we all want the same things anyway. We might go about our lives differently, but deep down we are all the same. And that’s worth embracing and celebrating.

Truly Romantic

Tags

femininity, Jewelry, necklaces, rings

So…what makes up the romantic fashionista? And why, exactly, do we use that word: romantic?

Well, if you’d like a five-second history lesson, it stems from the romantic period  (roughly 1825-1875) when aesthetic beauty was highly prized and artwork needed to be emotionally expressive. Much of the more widely enjoyed “classical” music stems from this period, with composers like Chopin, Verdi, Mendelsohn, and even some of Beethoven’s later works, falling into this category. Feeling, feeling, feeling.

If you’re a romantic fashion personality, many (or all) of the following have a prominent place in your wardrobe:
*Ruffles or bows
*Lace
*Feminine/flowing lines
*Floral prints
*A preference for dresses
*Abundant accessories: jewelry, scarves, hats, perhaps some gloves

Pink Ice ring

Do you lean towards necklaces and/or rings? That’s a sign that you’re both a romantic and sentimental—in a good way. Just because some of you out there completely embrace your feminity, it doesn’t mean you’re any less powerful than the rest of us. Some of the truest romantics I know have dealt with some pretty tough stuff in the past. You feel things deeply, and when the time is right and it will benefit someone else, you’re willing to share your story.

Hopeful necklace

Speaking of romance, didn’t my guy do a great job selecting perfect anniversary roses?

The Body in My Trunk

Tags

Fashion

I keep a body in my trunk. Her name is Audrey.

From neck to hip, she is perfect—an ideal hourglass figure. She never had a head to lose, and her “legs” consist of a silver pole that ends in three wooden feet.

Audrey came into my life in February of 2007, just a few weeks after I entered the world of jewelry sales. I found her on Ebay and eagerly awaited her arrival. She’s been my faithful assistant at shows ever since. At times, I’ve loaned her to other jewelers or set her aside for a replacement, but after her perfect form I can’t handle the one-dimensional personality of the others.

For years Audrey wore only a black body suit. It bothered some of my customers, but how does one justify clothes shopping for a mannequin? I’d much rather spend the money on my own wardrobe. However, this problem was solved over two years ago when a tall and slender hostess donated the dress that Audrey now wears. It, like her skin, is black. I don’t see how it makes much difference, but women appreciate knowing she’s fully clothed.

Audrey has suffered multiple injuries. In former days, I would lean on her shoulders while discussing different aspects of the fashion world. She could only handle three years of this behavior before one of her feet snapped during a show. My husband kindly screwed it back into place. And if I remember correctly, the glue he found there was left over from an even earlier repair at my dad’s hand.

Since then Audrey has suffered multiple leg injuries in automobile accidents—mostly the result of my slamming the trunk on her when she wiggled out of place. When will she ever learn?

Audrey has served me well, but there is one truth she has pointed out most glaringly:

We women are never satisfied with our bodies.

Most everyone I share fashion with comments on Audrey’s perfect form and wishes that she, too, could look like that.

Firm, perfect C cups.

No bra-line chub or love handles.

A flat, toned stomach.

Hips that don’t spill over the waistline of our jeans.

Audrey is hard and perfect…and empty.

I speak of Audrey as if she is a friend, but she has never made my life richer. She’s never enjoyed a drink or a decadent dessert with me, laughing over the outrageous caloric intake. She knows my secrets but she refuses to share her own.

Think about those you love most, those you’ve chosen and grown closest to over the years. Don’t their imperfections make them more approachable? More relatable? Don’t the asymmetrical parts of our lives make us more perfectly well-rounded, even while we view them as imperfections?

~Four of my best friends. Three happen to be sisters.~

Don’t we all just want to sit down and hear our best friend’s story and know that she will listen and empathize when we share our own?

At the bottom of it all, don’t we just want a friend who is real?

Bulges and struggles and blemishes and joys and all, we are women. Not some soulless body in the trunk.