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Learn From Me: Go Easy on Yourself

by BethAugust 19, 2016June 19, 2019Family / Health / mommy blogs

My first and probably most important words do not come from me. See, recently I watched the documentary, “Amy,” about the life of Amy Winehouse. I loved it. It was sad and of course I loved how the filmmaker captured her vulnerability. It was fascinating to see video of her before hair extensions, stylists and insane paparazzi. She was flawed (like many of us are). And even with extravagant vacations, fancy eyebrow tweezing and tons of money Amy remained broken. Like the rest of us, she was trying to get along in this crazy world. The world knows about her insane relationship with alcohol and drugs. Come on, she was filmed smoking crack and filmed incoherent while trying to perform. I am sure she struggled with depression (obviously and I, again, like so many, do too). She died very young and honestly, there is a part of me that wonders if her death is what she needed to find relief.

Near the end of the documentary Amy Winehouse had an opportunity to sing with Tony Bennett. Mr. Bennett had handpicked artists to sing with him for his “Duets” album. Amy was one of them. I loved how they sang together. I love how beautiful she sounded and how transparent her nerves were. I loved what Mr. Bennett said: “The very best artists always get the most nervous.” It kind of makes sense.

After Amy Winehouse died, Tony Bennett was interviewed about her death. Picture this. Tony Bennett was walking down the street wearing his smoky-tinted-glasses. In his slightly incoherent-jazzy-voice way he said the following:

“Life is about learning to live.”

Kyle and Eli, Sugarhouse Park, August, 2006 — Kyle and Eli, Sugarhouse Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, August, 2006

Eli Sugarhouse Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, August, 2016. Running the Highland Cross Country Invitational.

Kyle and Eli, Sugarhouse Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, August, 2006

Kyle, Sugarhouse Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, August, 2016. Running the highland Cross Country Invitational. — Kyle, Sugarhouse Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, August, 2016. Running the Highland Cross Country Invitational.

Exactly!

As Dave and I walked down a new street the other night, I told him what Tony Bennett said.

“It is profound. It is true.” I added, “And it is about learning to forgive ourselves and those around us.”

People. Life really does go by in the blink of an eye. Opportunities will pass if you are not in the space to grab them. Do not beat yourself up. Move forward and find something else. Mostly, do not be afraid to stand in what you want or what you believe. Remember, you cannot control every aspect of your environment. It is simply not possible. I promise when you mean it least you will upset people most. It is just how the universe operates. PLEASE do not let the possibility that you may hurt someone’s feelings keep you from doing what is best for you. Get your shit together, let go and forgive. The end.

Kyle, Eli, and I, Park City, Utah, July, 2006

…Ok. So maybe there is a little more.

Exactly ten years ago I was a semi-well known blogger. Upon reflection, blogging (writing for an audience) is one of my great joys. At the time I struggled owning this. Can I blame the fact that I never have felt deserving of my space? Sure. Can I adjust a childhood memory to validate my doubt? Of course I can. Did I step aside so my brother and sister could have the special art classes and be in the high school musicals (without me invading their space)? Yes. I did that too. When I was asked to step aside, my child brain said,

“Beth, you are not worthy.”

As a result, when push comes to shove, when say a college art professor challenges me about “my gift,” I will always freak out. And I will most definitely step aside. Why? It is simple. I cannot believe someone is actually telling me I am good enough. I could never see that people believed in me. I never let the words penetrate, “Beth, you are talented.” Talent was for my brother and my sister. I am certain my parents did not mean for me view life this way. It is just how kids see things. It is how I saw things. I get it. I have also made the same missteps with my own boys.

When it came to my blog, CrazyUs.com, I was also filled with self-doubt and freaked out. I could not comprehend that I deserved a space. I know. It sounds silly. Silly or not. I told you that I was good at self-sabotage. I am an expert at aligning myself with doubters, dieters and critical people. I rationalize warning signs and ignore red flags. So when I had a readership of 20,0000 – 30,000 unique visitors a day, I could not comprehend how awesome my web traffic was. In that early stage of blogging, I had no idea how well I was doing. In fairness, I do not think most of us did. Nevertheless, CrazyUs.com became my thing. It was not a job. It was my passion. It was my therapy, my touchstone and my way to connect. I wrote every day and my words came from my mouth. I did not lie. I did not adjust my stories. My words were my reality. And because I did not know how to believe in myself, I really had no idea about the possibility staring me in the face.

As the words posted each day, I gained notice. I was recognized as Beth from CrazyUs all over the place. It was totally weird and also very cool. I was stopped at airports, the grocery store and church. I was sought out for what I had to say and it felt really nice. Soon I was branching out. I wrote a piece for a magazine and was considering other writing opportunities and sponsorships. When it was suggested I write a book, I actually considered the possibility.

Bottom line is this: I could not see what was in front of me. In spite of all of the opportunity and notice, I had no idea how completely special this moment was. Instead, I doubted and chose to listen to other voices.

Ultimately, instead of cutting myself slack for not being the perfect human, I let my life spin out. I freaked out. I shut my blog down. I ignored a very special and gifted opportunity. I ignored my voice. I ran away from the healing I was offering through my own experience. Then I moved away.

Since August 2006, blogs blew up. Meryl Streep was in a movie that paralleled the life of a food blogger. Female bloggers were traveling to Africa and kicking it with Michelle Obama. Every blogger found ways to make money, to get free stuff and to give that free stuff away. The closest I came to reengaging was a job offer I received in 2009. I was asked to participate with the development of a now very successful blog conference. I declined.

In the end, I quit blogging for various reasons. I quit as an attempt to spare my mom her continually hurt feelings. I also told myself I was quitting in an attempt to save friendships. Ten years is a great training ground. Because my mom is my mom, and we are tied by our love and DNA, we healed, let go and forgave. (I hope) my mom sees I need to do what I need to do. I see that it is completely unfair to expect her no-strings blessings. The friends I broke up with over blogging, well, that was a fascinating experience. It took me a very long time to process that if it was not blogging, something else would have unsettled these people. It also took me slightly less time to see that I do not have the power to fix a friendship or fix a person. Yes. I am human. I still struggle with concept that some relationships will never reconcile. I still hope that my dad and I will high five each other one day. Dreams are fulfilled in Lifetime movies. My dreams are being filled by living my life. As such, I honestly believe we can find a way to healing. [Again] Yes, I will always struggle with the concept that we each see the world through our own lens. Meaning, people will see me the way they choose and there is absolutely nothing I can do to change their perspective.

Interestingly enough in ten years, the pendulum also balanced itself. There are still blogs, but not the crazy explosion. Instead there are the Influencers. What I chose was healing over fame and success. I do not think I am noble. And because I was afraid, I missed my own comet. I have had to forgive myself several times over. Nevertheless, since I stepped away from blogging in August, 2006, my life as a blogger has never ever been the same.

I only wish that ten year ago that I had a supportive voices in my head like the ones I have now. I wish I had a Tony-Bennett voice (yes, all jazzy-voiced and all) on repeat saying:

“Hey Beth. Go easy on yourself. Life, well, life is about learning to live.”

Us, Park City, Utah, August, 2006 — Words imbedded into the foundation of our house, Park City, Utah, August, 2006

Will Black Lives Matter Next Week?

by BethJuly 11, 2016August 18, 2017Family / Health / My Three Cents

Recently it was #humantrafficking in response to sexual violence and literal human trafficking. Then it was it was #Orlando and everyone became #LGBT strong. Of course then everyone had a gay friend! Now, after the horrific and unjust deaths of two black men, and some crazy dude going on an anti-cop rampage, it is about black people because #blacklivesmatter. What I realize is that in my safe (white) neighborhood (including my Facebook community), it is easy to say #blacklivesmatter. It is easy to jump into a cause. See, sex-traffickers, gay people, and black people are not directly interfering with our very white world. And in our very white world, how will black lives actually always matter instead of becoming this week’s convenient and self-glorifying upper-middle-class-white-person #CauseOfTheWeek?

Sure, among the better-intentioned of my peers, black lives, really all lives, are not a cause. To my well-intentioned peers all lives sincerely matter today, tomorrow and forever. For the rest of us, I think we need to face our own reality. What about when no one is looking, will black lives matter then? Will a black life matter when, say, a loud and out-of-control homeless man, a man who happens to be black, approaches your very white child?

Here it is. I am no expert on humanity. I have no degrees in psychology, sociology, or even biology. I am not paid clergy. I am not gay. I am not Muslim. I am not a person of color.

Makeda, Eli, Kyle & Dima, Mound, Minnesota, November, 2006

I am white.

In fact, I am a woman who lives around a lot of other LuluLemon-wearing, upper middle class white people. The demographic of my neighborhood consists almost entirely of well-educated white folk: lawyers, MBA graduates, high-tech VP’s, dentists, doctors and University of Utah professors. Here in the Country Club neighborhood (yes, that is literally the name of my neighborhood), we do not often see people who look different than us. Because I also live in a high-density white, Mormon, upper middle class area, different and shocking around here is akin to seeing the occasional inactive (fallen), and also white, Mormon out in public, holding a Starbucks cup filled with actual coffee. If we are really lucky, we may see a tattoo or a tasteful nose piercing. As such, I am certain platforms like my Facebook feed, my local retailers, and my sons’ school community are all reflections of my white, upper middle class world.

The best I can offer is my very limited perspective. My family and I travel often and throughout the world. We make a point to walk and learn a community. We seek out neighborhood grocery stores and love to talk to the locals. We love to see a world different than our own. I also grew up lower middle class, often on the brink of teetering out of the middle class. I knew what it was like to have no food in the fridge, to have the electricity shut off, have my father out of work, and to not have enough money to buy the clothes I needed to fit in socially. I began working when I was eleven, babysitting full time during the summers. I needed to babysit so I could afford the “right” clothes and have spending money. I continued working all throughout high school.

Now I am a wife and a mother. I do not work. Moments ago my two sons left to hang out with their friends. Eli is going longboarding. He and his friends will be looking for Pokemon. Kyle is going to a birthday party. He will spend the afternoon hanging out and swimming. Kyle and Eli do not have summer jobs. In fact, they do not need summer jobs. We want them to focus their efforts on getting good grades and participating in extracurricular activities. Next year Kyle will have a summer internship, followed by Eli two years later. Of course these internships are so they can bolster their college applications. Kyle leaves later this week for a Student Body Officer camp. After that, he will go to an ACT Prep Camp and a Peer Court Camp.

Marianne and her kids, Shady Oak Lake, Minnetonka, MN

Eli and Dima, Shady Oak Lake, Minnetonka, MN

All of this to say that I am deeply concerned that hashtag black lives matter does not really touch my world. Instead, among people in my demographic, at best #blacklivesmatter really is the self-congratulatory cause of the week. At worst, it’s something to be annoyed or even outraged by. Further, I am worried that the following and very serious issue will be completely missed: we live in a world where people are separate and NOT EQUAL.

Somewhere we have been taught to fear those who are different than we are. And because we have been taught to fear difference, I think we struggle to see anyone different equally? It is a fact. Black people look different than white people. Orthodox Muslims dress differently than we do and homeless people often look shabby enough that we cannot recognize them at a distance. How can we see black people equally when we simply cannot? How can we have compassion when one black man decides to kill five police officers? How can we see people equally when we assume the veiled and robed lady is a terrorist — or at least knows one? How can we all matter when one of our presidential contenders is all about the divide, suggesting we ban all the Muslims and have the Mexicans build a wall *(directly from his website, by the way) between them and us? Ok. Let me simplify and bring it closer to my own neighborhood. How can black lives matter when even the sight of a white homeless person makes you fear for your child’s life?

Complicating the matter, I wonder, how can #blacklivesmatter, or even any life matter, when we live in a country that was founded on the basis of separating itself from another? Consequently, we separate to differentiate, feel safe and feel comfortable. We surround ourselves with sameness — even black people do that. Nevertheless, when it comes to the fundamental American concept of equality, there is mostly lip service. People of color consistently get the extremely short end of the stick – no question. Beyond hashtag, how can we live in and maintain a world where we we are treated equally?

Marianne and I, Shady Oak Lake, Minnetonka, MN

I was born and raised in Minnesota right outside of Minneapolis. As a result, I must admit that the Philando Castile murder caught my attention more than Alton Sterling’s did two days prior. Falcon Heights, Minnesota, the place of Philando Castile’s murder, is also a predominantly white (*73.3%), middle class urban neighborhood situated next to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul campus. I imagine it is similar to where I live now. A few days ago my best friend Marianne called me. She currently lives in Minnesota. She has four children. Three are biracial (dad from Africa and white Marianne). She recently gained custody of her fourth, a gorgeous African-American teenage girl. Marianne called as she was driving through Falcon Heights. She called just to tell me how “eerie” and “white” Falcon Heights is.

“I cannot believe what happened here.” She said and then paused. “It’s so quiet.”

Then right before I went to sleep last night Dave shared what he had just been reading:

“Beth.” He said and continued, “Did you know that Philando Castile had been pulled over fifty-two times for minor infractions before he was shot on the fifty-third?”

“Are you serious?” I asked and then kept asking.

My eyes widened and I contemplated how it would be to be pulled over by the police fifty-three times. I thought of the already-prepared statement I would have in my head. As I imagined the police officer approaching, I would want to get it all out there,

“Look officer. I am a good person. I am with my family. Now I am going to reach for my license and registration….”

I imagined Philando saying those same things. I felt physically ill. That is when I lost it. I kept saying.

“How can we change? Can we change?”

The other day I walked into my local Walmart. Right behind me was a well-dressed, clean cut, suburban-looking, middle-aged African American woman. She was wearing a purse-styled backpack. Walking next to her was her adorable tween daughter. The adorable tween gave me a sweet smile, and held the door for me, as we walked in. Right behind us was a Walmart security guard. I did not notice him until I saw him frantically running up to the woman. I assumed he was going to say something helpful such as,

“Ma’am I noticed you left your car door open.”

Nope. Here is what he said,

“Ma’am you cannot take that in here.”

I was completely confused.

“What in here?” I thought.

I come to find that the security guard would not allow her to take her not-large backpack purse into the store. I wanted to say something, but feared I would make it worse for her. I watched the security guard walk her over to a little area all-the-while explaining how “here at Walmart it’s against the rules to wear a backpack into the store.” She was filled with grace and pleasantly placed her backpack into a locker.

Ok. The Walmart security guard was not telling the whole truth. If I had a dollar for every time I have been wearing my very backpack-y-looking and not all all purse-like backpack and walked right past that very same security guard into that very same Walmart, I could buy you lunch. I have never been asked to place my bright green nylon backpack in a locker — ever. (ok. once Dave was after I wrote this post.)

I have driven my Volvo SUV in cities and suburbs all over this country, in nice neighborhoods like Beverly Hills, Potomac, Palo Alto, and oue Country Club neighborhood , and also South Central LA, Oakland, Southeast DC, and west Salt Lake. Never once have I been pulled over for a broken tail light (though I’ve had one) or an expired registration (though I’ve had one — now once) or any other trivial infraction. I asked Dave and he said he’s been pulled over for a registration, but was let off with a warning.

In America, white soccer moms in Volvos don’t get pulled over by cops in Beverly Hills, and they don’t get pulled over in South Central. Black men like Philando Castile get pulled over 53 times for driving in nice white neighborhoods. According to from article in NPR, Black folks in not-so-nice neighborhoods like Ferguson Missouri have it just as bad or worse: the 21,135 people who live there were issued 32,975 arrest warrants for nonviolent offenses, mostly driving violations, in a single year.

Yes, I realize that I’m such a Volvo-driving soccer mom that I just cited an NPR story. Case closed.

–This piece was written by David and Beth Adams

Please Fix Me

by BethJuly 7, 2016July 7, 2016Archives / Family / Health109 Comments

Originally posted on July 7, 2006 at 9:57 PM.

Wednesday, July 5, 2006, there we were. It was beautiful, sunny and warm.

Dave took the day off and we were driving East on I-80. I turned on our CD player and instead of listening to Kyle’s Magic Treehouse CD, I randomly switched to something else. Immediately I recognized that it was one of the CDs that has been in the car for at least six months. You see, between NPR and children’s CD books, it is hard to fit in the occasional Mommy-Mixed-CD. And out of the speakers I heard Coldplay’s Chris Martin sing,

“When you try your best but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
could it be worse?”

I could not stop them. Through heaving sobs, I shook my fist in the air and yelled,

Damn You, Chris Martin! Damn you Coldplay!

Just the night before, I mean, just hours before, Dave and I were talking about how much we enjoy sex when I am pregnant. Dave joked about how much better the love-making would be as my belly grew. We felt close and I was finally letting myself be excited about this little baby. As Dave touched the tiny beginnings of my pregnant belly, we decided that we were probably having a boy . . .

I sat in the passenger seat choking. I could not breathe. Snot covered my face.

“Lights will guide you home
and ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.”

I thought my head was going to explode. For the past two days I have remained the strong mother and stoic MidWesterner that I am supposed to be. Then the blindside: a silly, love song’s profound words completely knock me off center.

Right now it is happening now. I am sniffing away the wet, tear drips that cover my face. I know I cannot hide anymore. (I have been hiding since Wednesday.)

Zeke's Pink Gerber Daisy, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006 — Zeke’s Pink Gerber Daisy, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006

Another blindside happened earlier. I saw something sitting on our back doorstep. It was a bouquet of flowers. My friend left them after she received Dave’s phone message. She knew that I could not speak, so she left the flowers in a safe place for me to find. When I found them, my tears found me. I needed those flowers. And I needed (still need) the phone calls. I needed the chocolate wheat-free, dairy-free cookies. I needed the tea. I needed those beautiful pink nutmeg-smelling irises. I needed the gentle phone call warning me that they were coming and that I didn’t have to come to the door if I didn’t want to. I needed the card hidden in our secret mailbox. I needed my sister’s email and my other sisters’ caring words. I needed little Zeke’s pink Gerber Daisy. I needed the hugs. I needed my friend Marianne, who was visiting from Minneapolis to grab me and say,

“I know you can’t talk right now, but Beth, I love you.”

I needed my kind doctor to choke up and lower his head as he, Dave, and I viewed my ultrasound. I needed Dave to quietly hold my hand. I am sure I will continue to need while I struggle through this. But honestly, I don’t know how to say,

“I need you.” I usually don’t need.

I was about to take Marianne and her two beautiful children, Makeda and Dima to the airport as I stood at the back of our car fighting with her double stroller. In a flash, all the angry pain I was holding in came crashing out. And then I really began to fight with that stupid, gigantic, awkward, idiotic, four-wheeled, piece of shit (a child’s stroller).

Marianne physically grabbed a hold of me, encouraged me to stop long enough so she could say,

“Beth, I am here to help. I know you want to do it all by yourself, but you can’t. I understand. I do the same thing.”

I needed to hear that. I needed her to stop me.

Easy E, The Gateway, Salt Lake City, Utah, July 2006

I know you know where this is going. I have to say it anyway. See, Wednesday I was headed for my ultrasound. Before leaving for my appointment, all the calm I had felt this past month was washed away when Eli completely freaked out while I attempted to get him into his car seat.

[screaming] “MOM! I CAN’T GET INTO THE CAR! KYLE’S POPSICLE IS BIGGER THAN MINE!”

“What? You can’t be serious? Eli, those Popsicles are precisely measured by a machine. They are ALL the same size. Now stop it and get in the car!”

Of course I was nervous about being late. I needed to drop the boys off at the park first where My mom was waiting to watch them.

[crying] “Mom, I can’t buckle my seat belt.”

“Eli, just do it! Please. We are going to be late.”

Immediately I felt bad for yelling. I felt bad for letting my nerves take over.

“Eli, I am sorry. I love you.”

“Mommy, I love you too.”

I think Eli knew. I think he knew something was wrong.

Now at the appointment things seemed weird. Instead of waiting the usual forty-five minutes, my doctor was on time. He, not a nurse, whisked us back. I stepped away to empty my bladder, undressed from the waist down and hopped on the table. Quickly he inserted the ultra-sound device. It didn’t take seconds, or even a breath. Immediately I knew. So did my doctor. Desperately he fiddled with the device trying to see if somehow he had done something wrong. He hadn’t. We both saw it: There was no baby, just an empty egg sac. In the last few days my body had absorbed the baby. Sick! And why the hell did I ever have to see an embryo and a heartbeat? Seriously, why?

Instantly I was positive and pragmatic. I sat up on the hospital bed and assured both Dave and the doctor that everything would be ok. Then I reassured. My doctor lowered his head. I watched him intently. He was so quiet and still. He was honoring our moment. He knew our journey well. He knew that this wasn’t just a miscarriage. He knew about our years of trying, years of doctors, treatments, x-rays, blood tests, I.U.I, laparoscopies, hysteroscopys, and huge disappointments. Then I stopped reassuring. I breathed in his wise silence. Kindly, he raised his head and said.

Beth, if you don’t let yourself grieve, you will not heal.

Those simple words broke through and the tears began sneaking out. I tried to hold them back. I urgently tried to force them back in. I needed to be alone. I felt humiliated.

Dave and I spent the next few hours alone while my wonderful mom entertained my boys, Marianne, and her children.

“What will I tell people? Just yesterday I was telling people how safe I thought I was because I had made it to my twelfth week. I can’t . . .”

See, my body still thought there was a little baby growing inside. It did not want to let go either. And there I was dealing with my miscarriage at home. I do not handle anesthesia very well so my doctor opted to give me pills to start the process. Though the embryo was gone, all of the tissue that supports the embryo’s growth remained. My body did not want to let go.

It was time. We put the kids to bed. Next we went over our back-up plan of what we should do in case there were complications and I needed to be rushed to the hospital. Then Dave helped me with the little pills. I had to insert six of them vaginally. It was supposed to happen fast. We started watching the movie, Must Love Dogs, because that was what was on. As the movie ended, I felt the cramping and we decided we would try to sleep.

As I lay there, I felt just like I did when I went into labor with Kyle. This time, instead of having a big belly, I was small and completely alone — no doctors, no nurses, no excited well-wishers, just stillness. In our dark room, I was tense. My fists were clenched and I felt the contractions. They hurt so much more than I had anticipated. They progressed, as any labor should. The process went on for hours. That is when I realized there was a problem. Because I was so tense, nothing was happening. I knew that nothing was happening because I was not letting go. Dave was now sleeping. Alone, I talked myself through what needed to happen. I unclenched my hands. I let my body relax and finally let myself feel this sad, sad heartache. I said good-bye to this new little part of me, and then I lay there until I could not handle the pain any longer. I ran to the bathroom. As I sat on the toilet, I felt a huge gush of blood. I felt the passing of a large mass. Then I heard a loud thud as the mass dropped into the already very bloody toilet bowl. I stood up and turned toward the toilet bowl. I saw enough without turning on the light. I knew if the room was any brighter that I would have to face my reality. I had faced enough. I repeated the process of running to the bathroom for hours until I could not bear the intense contractions any longer. Then I literally passed out.

Today at the doctor’s office I had another ultrasound. He wanted to make sure all pieces were gone, and they were. We talked about my options. We decided that I would continue seeing him and that I would also see a miscarriage specialist. We even made an appointment with the other specialist, who will be squeezing me into his schedule. I was actually feeling hopeful. And then Dave and I went to dinner. As I watched the parents with their babies and thought about what I lost, I realized that this is just not going to be that easy to get over. I am still barely letting myself touch the devastation. I mean, come on, I have not even been able to tell most of my friends and family about this. Dave and my mom have been speaking for me. And if you are finding out now, it is not a slight. I just don’t know how to say it in person. What do you say?

I feel all of it. I like shit.I feel lucky and grateful. I feel blessed to be alive. I am also devastated.I know many women cannot have children of their own. I am very aware that I have two beautiful boys. I am grateful for friends, friends who keep calling me, even when I cannot talk. I am grateful because as alone as I feel, I know I am not. I am grateful for those who have approached me even when I am not approachable. While simultaneously being filled with love, it also sucks. When people actually reach me with their kind words, I am reminded of what I have lost. When I actually feel their love, I cannot escape the pain. And right now, the pain is almost too much.

I want to run away, but really, where would I go?

Tagged : Infertility / Miscarriage

Alone, Lost and Really, Super Tired

by BethMay 26, 2016May 31, 2016Family / Health / Travel / Travel Tips

Me and Easy E, Acadia National Park, June, 2009

I am certain if I had time to take a nap, the alone and lost feelings would go away.

Consequently, when I am super duper tired, every emotion seems super duper intense. Do you ever feel this way? Crazed because you have not had enough sleep? It is awful. My thoughts are weak. My self-control is hard to access.

It does not have to be this way. I had a plan and the plan fell apart. I am too tired to put the pieces back together.

I know that if I do not have our family packed and ready to go, Dave will blow a gasket. I am talking about a real gasket, and it will explode right out of his head. Ew!

We are going on a backpacking trip. I am exhausted. I am terrified. Dave is asleep. I need a nap.

Easy E Shelbourne Museum, Vermont, 2009 — Easy E. Shelburne Museum, Vermont, 2009

It was approximately 8:22 AM — two minutes later than usual. Eli’s school starts at 8:50 AM and he likes to be early. I had just sent Dave an angry email, followed by a “PS” email. My bedhead was screaming from the headrest as my oversized, grey and yellow-striped pajama bottoms Eli gave me for Christmas a few years back touched the car floor. There we sat, angry and frustrated. I saw his big middle school through the window. I insisted he stay.

“I need you to change your tone before you go.” I said.

I knew he was annoyed. I watched as he watched all of his friends pass by. He took a medium-sized breath and said he was sorry. Then he opened the door. I grabbed his hand for our usual hand squeeze, which we call a hand hug. Instead, he flopped his lifeless hand into mine.

“Really?” I said and followed with, “I need a hand hug.”

His hand clamped approximately 3 millimeters more. He said he was sorry again. As I looked into his angry eyes, I knew he was sorry. I grabbed his hand, squeezed it hard, and said,

“I love you, Eli.”

He opened the door and was gone.

I thought, “Oh Eli, I am sorry I was such a bitch this morning. I could be better, even when you are not. It is my job to model. I am the parent. I failed. I hope that somewhere in there was a lesson (for both of us). I know you get it. I know you get me. Thank you for that. Eli, you are awesome. Your heart is big. I love you!”

We leave this afternoon. Because I was working so hard yesterday to get us out the door on time today, my mother-in-law was convinced we were leaving today — at 4AM. What?

“Why would you think that?” I thought. “I need to be prepared.” I kept thinking. Then I did say,

“Do you know your son? He will lose it if we are not ready to go.”

She gave me a knowing glance and then I literally (yes, for real) thought,

“I wonder if she is thinking what I am thinking?”

I was thinking about Darryl, Dave’s Dad. I was thinking about the time he decided to take a shower while the rest of us waited in the car. It was June on a hot Maryland day. Dave and I were about to get married. Dave’s dad took a shower and decided he needed a snack.

Truth is, I do believe Dave’s family struggles with the space-time-continuum. Plans, letting others now there are changes in plans, being on time, and mostly, getting out of the house before most us are coming home, are all struggles. As such, Darryl’s shower on was as normal as the setting sun.

Dave fights this behavior in himself constantly. I am always impressed with his ability to get out the door on time. He is really good at it. I see him struggle to keep plans in order, and watch while he tries new ways to manage his time. Nevertheless, Dave’s scars run deep. I have paid the price for his displaced frustration. It is my job. I love my husband. He helps me heal. I want to do the same.

As such, when we travel, Dave loses it when we are not ready to go. I feel Dave’s anxiety profoundly (and probably irrationally). I literally lose my mind (and a lot of sleep) trying to manage (help him trust that I will not let him down). And folks, that is why I was busting my ass yesterday when all I wanted was a nap.

Last night I seriously considered packing a few things and checking myself into a hotel. I didn’t. Instead I grabbed two pillows, walked downstairs and turned on the television. I tried to lull myself to sleep with the sounds of a season finale. All I could hear were the very loud voices of my husband and his mom. Not a problem. She is visiting. They were laughing. I heard “frogs” and “Kyle.” And before Dave could finish his sentence, I knew what he was talking about the time we stayed with my friend, Alana, and her family in Hardwick, Vermont. Kyle and Eli didn’t want to leave. It was 2009. We traveled to Maine’s Acadia National Park. We traveled all over the North East. The friends we visited at Lake George in upstate New York are now divorced. In Burlington, Vermont Dave threatened to fly home — alone. I can still see him now. He was standing in front of that Courtyard by Marriott hotel declaring his frustration. I told him to get over it.

“We are in this together.” I exclaimed.

He stayed, and later that night it was my mom who told me that Michael Jackson was dead. I loved that trip. I love fighting for us.

I am tired.

Dave is asleep.

So is his mom.

“We are in this together.”

Those are the words I am thinking of today.

Thank God I can write. Thank God it took writing to remind me how good things really are. Eli and Kyle are awesome and Dave is now awake and downstairs getting things packed. Thank God I chose to write today. When I write, I re-set. I cannot forget this space. It is mine. And if I don’t take my space, I will lose myself. I will stop fighting. And if I stop fighting, I stop.

Kyle Lake George, NY — Kyle. Lake George, NY

Easy E Lake George, NY, 2009 — Easy E. Lake George, NY, 2009

Courtyard by Marriott Hotel, Burlington, Vermont

Me, Dave and Easy E, The Staten Island Ferry, New York, New York, 2009 (we made it past Burlington, Vermont — woot)!

Travel Reason #7: Travel Gets Me Out of My Head

by BethMarch 29, 2016May 2, 2016Family / Health / Travel

Walking from Fira to Oia, Santorini, Greece.

I do not think anyone who knows me would be shocked if I were to tell them (or you, for that matter), that I can get a little cloudy and consumed with the world around me. In truth, I am not afraid of the dark. I have written many a dark post, and am all about processing pain. I come by my lifelong “living in my head” journey honestly. Yes, I was that shy, angsty high school girl who wrote macabre stuff like a poem about seeing a picture of a dead Marilyn Monroe. It went something like this:

Marilyn Monroe.

I saw her dead.

Her face was purple and caved in.

She wasn’t beautiful.

My grandpa lay,

Alone,

In his coffin relaxed.

With a smile on his face.

And even further back there was the time I was invited to a family friend’s for a sleepover. At one point in the evening my friend was having some sort of meltdown. I remember his mom sending him to his room. Then she understandably left me to deal with him. After about thirty minutes of sitting alone on their living room couch my thoughts got the best of me. I wanted to go home! Breathlessly, I asked the mother to call my mom. She did. When my mom arrived they both agreed,

“We left her alone too long. She thinks too much.”

I do. I do think too much. I always have. And if there is any question, by what I mean by thinking too much, I am referring to all the behaviors that come along with living in your head: fear, insecurity, criticism, doubt, depression, worthlessness, reality imbalance, and so on.

Safely back in my mom’s care and with some distance, I took a breath and realized that everything was ok. As a result of this realization, I was actually disappointed that I did not stay. I told my mom how I was feeling and that is when my mom and I worked on a plan. How could I avoid thinking too much in the future? We both realized that I need to feel safe. And for me to feel safe, my environment needs to be uplifting, filling my head with positive thoughts.

Pyrgos, Greece, twenty minute drive from Ancient Olympia, Greece. Perspective. — Pyrgos, Greece, twenty minute drive from Ancient Olympia, Greece. Piles of trash sat along miles of road. Perspective.

This morning my thoughts went to a Facebook post that my friend Cam made. First, I wondered if he had been reading my mind. (He described feeling dark and in his head.) Second, I realized he made a most excellent observation:

“It’s said that we’re the average of the five people we spend the most time with. I like to think that average is weighted favorably by the scores of souls I interact with online.”

I would like to add to Cam’s conclusion by saying,

“I think my average is weighted not only by my online connections, but by the people I meet all over the world.”

Connections are why I love travel. Let me explain.

You know (because I just told you) that I tend to live in my head. I also allow my environment to weigh me down. Here is an example. A few years back I had a friend who was eager to lose weight. (She was also someone I spent a lot of time with, which relates to Cam’s conclusion). Often she walked around chomping on a bag a carrots and celery. She went from a size 12 to a size 2 in what seemed a matter of seconds. Weight, food, and body image were our constant conversation topics. Soon I noticed that all I was thinking about was my weight and my body image. Instead of losing weight, I am certain I gained. Instead of being ok with myself, I felt worthless and fat (of course). It was not her fault. That being said, how I felt around her was a red flag. Because I get into my head and am heavily influenced by my environment, I knew that I needed to create an uplifting space. Uplifting space is definitely a space I still struggle to exist in.

Walk from Fira to Oia, Santorini, Greece

Travel gives me a break from that everyday struggle. The connections I make along the way stretch my perspective. Consequently, a stretched perspective and a break from my day to day influences are excellent tools for fighting my crazy head demons.

Breakfast our first morning in Santorini, Greece

Our first day in Santorini was cold and wet. The Airbnb we were staying at was connected to a local hotel, The Blue Dolphin. We were told that breakfast would be at the hotel, which was about a ten minute walk or a five minute drive. Because it was cold and rainy we opted to drive. We parked our car and walked several stairs down and then up to the breakfast patio. I was crabby and disappointed when I realized we would be eating breakfast outside. I noticed a woman with funky red-dyed hair, which was pulled back and mostly hiding under this woman’s hood. The sun was peeking through the clouds and the rain stopped. She and another woman directed Dave, the boys and I to our table. As soon as we sat down, the wind blew stronger and it began to drizzle. The view was spectacular and all I could think was,

“Can’t they find us somewhere to eat inside?”

They didn’t. Instead Ada and this woman cheerfully brought us breakfast. A few minutes later her boss came to greet us. It seemed he was scolding her in Greek (of course).

“Do you want to eat inside?” He asked and continued, “We can make you a room?”

We were almost done. The wind had calmed down.

“No. We are ok.” We responded.

Then Ada said,

“We will make you a room tomorrow.”

Over the next few days I got to know Ada. Her English is very good. My Greek is non-existent. I learned that the woman with her is her sister. They work together at the hotel. After they finish at the Blue Dolphin they head over to work at another hotel. At the end of our stay we needed to wash some clothes. When we couldn’t find a local coin operated laundry, I asked Ada. She offered to do our laundry at the hotel. Of course there was a fee and of course that is ok. Usually they insist that the guests give them twenty-four hours notice. They squeezed our laundry in. She was happy to use my “Free and Clear” laundry detergent and double checked to make sure I was ok with fabric softener.

“Nope. That stuff makes me itch.”

Ada is cheerful and hardworking, so is her sister. Wearing her big curly, dyed-red hair down is how I remember her. That is how it was when I came to pick up our clothes. She took such care to fold everything and placed our clothes in new bags. As I we parted she gave me a hug and then said,

“You are nice!”

In lovely Santorini, Greece, my world expanded. My environment uplifted. The dark, raining clouds parted. Instead of living in my head, I was looking at the stunning caldera and islands dotting the horizon, crazy white painted architecture, and worrying (in a good way) about how we were going to wash our dirty socks and underwear.

Our last full day in Greece at the Temple of Zeus, Athens

And with my perspective shifted and my environment lifted I was able to come home feeling happy. Sunday morning Kyle and I found ourselves driving down an industrial section of Salt Lake City. I looked around at a place I normally ignore, feel depressed in or want to through quickly. It is actually a place I considered (yes, past tense) run down. After traveling through Greece, and seeing the results of that country’s current economic hardships, I stretched again. Greece is actually beautiful and my world at home is pretty awesome. My town is clean, well kept and vibrant. Ultimately, because traveling forces me out of my dark head, I can return and realize the truth: my world is bright.

Two grocery stores in Kalamata, Greece reminded me that I am human

by BethMarch 19, 2016March 30, 2016Family / Health / mommy blogs / Travel

Me, Mystras, Greece — Me Today. Mystras, Greece

Let’s be clear. I am awkward, semi-confident, overly analytical, underachieving, and overly tired. At home and abroad, I will not be able to offer you a proud parenting moment or a fancy yoga pose — (of course I would do Upward Facing Dog. It sounds cool and a bit self-involved). In real life my only yoga move is me shimmying into my yoga pants. Well, not really yoga pants. More travel pants by a well known and popular yoga pant maker. I own two pair of LuluLemon pants. One is black and the other is grey. They are three years old (at least), are my go-to travel pant, and I have been wearing the grey ones for the past three days. (I wore the black ones for five last week). As I type, I can see that the right thigh section of my grey pant leg is stained with something. I think it is lotion from this morning.

Why I mention yoga, and the lack thereof, is that I would like to offer me. And in the spirit of my current travel, I can say that my life is not a Greek tragedy or drama. I am not a victim. My life does not suck. Mostly, I am human. I have good days and I have bad moments. I am flawed. I am not glamorous. Right now I have a terrible case of allergic dermatitis. It started on my ankles and moved up my calves. The itching is driving me insane and is intent on ruining our trip. Consequently, I am existing in a slight haze due to a steady stream of little pink Benadryl tablets and cortisone cream. Earlier Eli was annoyed with me. I have no idea why. His response,

“Mom, do your ankles itch?”
“I wasn’t thinking about them until you asked. You asked to bug me, didn’t you?”
He smirks, “Yep.”

As far as me the human goes, I am not a size zero. I do not have big or even, even-sized boobs. I do not wake before the boys for say spinning class or a twelve mile run. I have wrinkles, bags under my eyes and a gap in my teeth.

As far as world-travel goes, I am horrible with new languages. For instance, the French often look completely glazed over (and dumbfounded) when I try to speak their language, always refusing to answer me, despite the fact that I studied French for several years. Then those same awesome French people look around, wait, and act like,

“Were you talking to me?”
If I am lucky they speak to me in English.

I also get scared when I travel. This time my fear crept in at the Greek grocery stores. Oddly, the Santorini tourist grocery stores were fine. It’s the everyday-Greek grocery. They are completely freaking me out. Each time I walk into a Greek Carrefour grocery store, for instance, I panic. I am not kidding. As I walk through the minimally filled produce section of seemingly rationed out orange, bananas, and bags off white rice tied with red ribbons, I feel like I have stepped back into my elementary school lessons about the Soviet Union. In the back of my head I hear Sting singing, “Believe me when I say to you, I hope the Russians love their children too…” The Berlin wall still stands, and food is not the snack-y, interesting wonderment of say the Chocodile or Gummy Smurf candy of today. Instead, all items at the Greek Carrefour are bleak, plainly labeled and utilitarian. Aisles upon aisles are covered in the same brands. We actually saw an entire aisle filled simply with canned milk. There is canned milk in all sizes for kids, babies and adults. Tonight, Dave and the boys wanted to stop at the Carrefour for the one treat they knew was there – this kind of caramel custard that we always buy in Europe. We stopped, parked the car and my heart began to pound. Dave was halfway into the store when I realized Kyle was still in the car. I looked at Dave and urged,

“Please wait. I need you to wait.”

He waited. Kyle protested and took extra long tying his shoes. I could hear Dave’s foot tap along with my racing heart.

Eventually, Kyle got whatever he needed out of the trunk. I grabbed the last vestige of the life I knew out of my pocket (three gummy bears). I plopped them into my mouth and chomped them right up. Ceremoniously I put the gummy bear wrapper into the trashcan outside. I looked at the door and we walked in.

As Dave and the boys gleefully examined the grocery store, my throat tightened, my vision narrowed, and I felt the cans of uniformly canned grocery store product closing in on me. I couldn’t shake it.

The same thing happened yesterday at the Carrefour down the way. Ask Dave. In fact we chose this Carrefour because Dave thought it might be “less Soviet.” As we stood in the even larger Carrefour yesterday, Dave cheerfully tried to engage me.

“Look Beth, The mayonnaise is by Heinz and the ketchup is by Hellmann’s. It’s a parallel universe. I have to take a picture.”

He did and promptly posted it to Facebook.
All I could say was, “Dude, hurry.”

Today I was prepared. I would ignore my freaky anxiety-based-grocery-store claustrophobia. Nope. As soon as I stepped in, it grabbed me from behind. It was a crazy drink the boys wanted.

“Dad, Dad. It’s called Gr8 Cola. We have to get it!”

I wanted to forget the Gr8 Cola. I wanted to run. All I could see where the green cans of cola next to the Gr8 Cola. While I was transfixed on the regular cola in the plain green cans, Dave happily responded,

“Of course! You always have to try the crazy interesting drinks!”
Instead of encouraging the adventure (like I always do — I actually love foreign grocery stores), I followed with,
“Can’t you hurry? Seriously. Hurry.”

Dave (figuratively) swatted me away. Then I was like,

“dude, remember my anxiety is crazy today.”

He gave me a hug right there in the desolate grocery store as I tried to catch my breath. Seconds later Eli was all,

“Dad, it’s chocolate milk in a can. Please. Kyle is getting a can of regular milk. Can I get Chocolate milk in a can?”

I wish it were the fact that my son wanted canned chocolate milk that made me do it. It wasn’t. It was my strange fear that made me say what I said next:

“Eli, you don’t need that.”

And it was then when I realized I was acting a little crazy. I took another swig of air, backpedaled, swallowed hard, and encouraged him to get that “awesome can of chocolate milk.”

He did. We paid for our food and we all made it out alive.

Ok. I told you that story because that is what happened. Of course, I wish I could be different. I wish all my travel stories were filled with inspirational tales about my compassionate spouse, my responsible children, myself and our perfect family. Alas, we are not a veneer. We are human! I am not perfect. Dave is not perfect. My children are not perfect. I suffer from random, unexpected bouts of anxiety (like, ahem, the Carrefour experience). Jet lag is something I will never concur or understand. I am always afraid to fly. Ask Dave and the kids. Their hands are bruised from me squeezing them. Every single time we travel, I freak out about something. I have nightmares about losing the boys in a crowded city. I always think we are going to lose our passports. Sure, I have reason. We do lose (leave) things. Today, the nice guy at the little restaurant high up in the mountains ran out to give us Dave’s credit card (not the first time this has happened, by the way). The kid’s favorite (not really) is when we were flying to Italy last year. Over the airplane loudspeaker the flight attendant announced,

“has anyone lost a woman’s size medium greenish-brown colored coat?”

The announcement was immediately interrupted by the collective eye rolls and followed with their in unison, firm, whisper-yells,

“um, Mom. That’s your coat. Who else has a greenish-brown size medium jacket? [insert smug shoulder shrug here] come on, greenish-brown?”

They were correct. I left my (greenish-brown) jacket at the gate. And yes, Dave and I are in some sort of weird competition to see who can lose the most outerwear on vacation. I think Dave is winning. Further, when it comes to my travel expertise, I must tell you that yes, Dave and I fight (a lot) when we travel. I make hotel reservations for the wrong day (which I just did and it cannot be fixed). We point fingers. We misunderstand. We think we are compromising when we aren’t. We miss flights. But most of all, we actually LOVE to travel and LOVE traveling as a family. It’s not super dramatic. It is life. We are not victims and no one is out to make our life suck. Stuff just happens. Grocery stores just freak some people out.
We are thrifty, frugal, shop at grocery stores on the road (most I enjoy), and travel the most affordable way possible. Basically, what I am trying to say is that if a crazy person such as myself can travel all the time, so can you. Or better, if a crazy person like me can follow her dreams (in spite of weird grocery store anxiety and such), so can you.

Ultimately, my point is this (and maybe this should have been at the beginning where a thesis goes): I think a lot about the world and the images that are put out there. I know I often feel like I cannot compete. I am not fit enough. I do not fit in enough. I am awkward. I nervous cry, or better, I announce that I am going to cry and then I don’t. I am so not cool. I am not a Foodie. I am “real” [wink wink] allergic to wheat and I love food. I am a lot A.D.D. and am interested in everything (of course). Basically, I do not fit into a box. Consequently, I wonder if there is a way to fight the cleverly crafted, magazine-styled, Facebook-induced, craft-blog enabled veneer? Is there a way to follow your dreams, feel worthwhile and still be you? I think so. How I am trying to make it so is by presenting myself as I am. If I am lucky, maybe someone else out there can see that real humans follow their dreams too.

— Because dudes, there is enough to go around — always!

SIDEBAR:

We drove over the mountains to Mystras, Greece. We highly, highly recommend visiting.

CrazyUS.com

Category: Health