Forward

Before I’m ready to move forward, there’s something I need to say.

I don’t think anyone can truly understand what it’s been like to be a mother of young children over the past four years, unless you’ve lived it yourself. As a survivor of sexual assault, watching in horror as Trump was elected after bragging about sexual violence against women, was a cruel kind of torture. The reflection of his vote into office revealed too many Americans were complicit in his venomous hatred of people of color, women, immigrants, and members of the LBGTQIA+ community.

Shockingly, his comment about “grabbing women by the…” were only the very beginning of his treachery. Refusing to listen to doctors and scientists or actually leading our nation through the deadliest pandemic, has left this country reeling in tragedy. 

Trump delighted in the dissolution of our union; intentionally pitting sides against each other. He dehumanized minorities, immigrants, or any individual who refused to buy into his unrelenting bullshit. He ended his reign of terror by inciting violence and encouraging the insurrection at the Capitol. This was the ultimate betrayal to finalize a toxic, horrific time in our nation’s history. 

Trump pulled us so far apart, the “United” States felt like an idealistic idea of the past. 

The challenge of attempting to raise children during these 4 years has been witnessing grown men and women failing to act with morality. Children are looking to adults to provide: guidelines, boundaries, to be models of appropriate behavior. Our youth has witnessed more horror during these years, than I have during my 36-years on Earth. 

I need to write these words, because I need to state for the record that I disagree with absolutely everything Trump stood for. As a white woman of privilege, with family across the globe, it feels important to say that aloud. It seems superfluous to say that I believe racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia are wrong, but silent complicity got us here in the first place. 

I needed to write this.

And now, I need to let it go.

Not forgive and forget, that’s something else entirely, but I’m ready to heal. See, I don’t have the luxury of resentment or holding onto anger even if it’s justified—that’s the number one killer of alcoholics like me. I’ve been so tempted to retreat into darkness during this miserable time of suffering; but I’m determined to show my daughters the very nature of resilience. What it means to endure. As Glennon Doyle says, show them, “We can do hard things.”

Amanda Gorman the 22-year-old African-American Poet Laureate, made history as she recited her poem “The Hill We Climb” during this morning’s inauguration. I felt honored to hear her gift—the written word has always been my solution. Her message is as unifying as it is healing. Her poem didn’t tiptoe around the pain of our history, instead she bravely looked it right in the eyes; afterall, we must learn from our past or we are bound to repeat it.

 “Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished”.

The magic continued with a magnificent display of fortitude that took place when Senator Kamala Harris was sworn in as Madame Vice President. She represents the first of something that’s never been, at a time when Americans so desperately need to be reminded that endless potential for growth still exists within us.

What a beautiful display of progress. 

Now begins the rebuild: the rebuilding of our humanity.

It is difficult to begin to express my relief to have a President and Vice President in office who are capable of: integrity, honesty, and kindness. It feels like a long, slow exhale that’s been packed away in my lungs for almost half a decade. This morning I was finally able to tell my daughters, “Yes, goodness will always prevail.”

There is so much hope on the horizon.

Here’s to looking forward. 

Novel Pending

Last weekend thanks to my loving, supportive husband, I escaped to Half Moon Bay for a solo weekend of soul searching and life-altering decisions. I have decided that all roads have led me to write a novel. Women’s contemporary fiction to be more specific. If you’ve followed me, then you know, when I say I’m going to do something, I do it. I always put it out into the universe, so I’m held accountable and most importantly, because joy should be shared.

I have the story, the setting (Half Moon Bay), the ending, the characters, the plot twists, the bones, and 20k words I’m proud of. I have so much more to write (at least 70k+) and it will take time. I will be calling on my family and friends to edit, seeking peer groups for critiques, enrolling in workshops, and then finally securing a literary agent for publication.

I have found the thing that sets my soul on fire.

It won’t be easy to juggle this and all that it takes to be the mother of 3 young children— but I owe it to myself and my girls to pursue a dream that lights me up inside.

My social media will be quieter and my Wit and Spit Up posts on pause (except for more published piece— here are my latest on Scary Mommy, Filter Free Parents and BLUNTmoms).

This cannot continue to be the year of unrelenting tragedy, one after another. Something beautiful needs to come out of all this pain. And with that, novel pending...

A Purer Source

I no longer read the news. I’ve actually been banned from it--a direct order from my therapist. I got into a bad habit of waking up, scrolling through, and stopping to read whatever tragic event transpired while I was sleeping. I’d feel my anxiety kick in, along with the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. As it turns out, this is not a healthy way to begin the day, while caring for 3 small children.

We are already living out the repercussions of destructive leadership, I don’t need to invite it into my mind every morning. Instead, I let the sounds of my daughters dictate the direction of our day, aiding only to nudge them (and myself!) back towards gratitude when we fall off course.

These mornings I’m barefoot in the kitchen sipping on cold coffee, throwing puffs towards my toddler, locating my 4-year-old’s toothbrush, and calling out bribes to my 6-year-old to stay sitting at the computer. In all the AM kerfuffle, I still get to hear the news, it just comes from a much purer source—in the form of a 1st grade Zoom meeting.

Teacher: “Can someone share one thing in their house that’s blue? I see so many friends sitting nice and quietly. “Suzy”, hit unmute and tell us what you found.”

Suzy: No sound, because she’s still muted.

Teacher: “Suzy, press unmute.”

Suzy: Still no sound.

Teacher: “Try again, we cannot hear you.”

Suzy: (Dad comes over to assist. Suzy is holding a blue object--doesn’t acknowledge it.) 

“My Dad told me not to share this because it’s private. My mom got out of the shower and wasn’t wearing clothes.”

Teacher: “You’re right, that is private. Tell me about your blue item in your hand.”

Suzy: “I take bathes not showers.”

Teacher: “Last chance to tell us about your blue item.”

Suzy: “I usually don’t wear clothes, unless I take a bath with my brother, then I wear my bathing suit.”

The meeting goes on like this for 45-minutes. 15, 6 and 7-year-olds and their gloriously innocent oversharing. I marvel that their logic always follows a zig-zagging path, eventually and inevitably tracing back towards losing a tooth, showing us their dog, or that one time they swam at a hotel pool.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to hear, as a former teacher, one of the main perks were these pure nuggets of delight. I think I worried all they would have to share are the struggles from the pandemic, since that has literally been every adult conversation since March. But children would rather tell you about that one-time Grandpa farted in the car, than complain about wearing a mask. 

How unbelievably refreshing. 

As parents, it’s our job to cleanse the parts of our reality that are too toxic for our children. Just as I needed to filter out the negative noise in the news, I should take a page out of Suzy’s book, and go back to the simple joys of bath time.   

We show them the tough parts they can handle.

And they show us the very nature of resilience. 

We carry the weight, even though it’s too heavy. 

And they keep reminding us to laugh.  

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