Lucky Stars

I was scrolling through Pinterest trying to find happy.  You know...  Something inspirational or a photo that moved me or something that just made me feel a little happy.  


Click click click, scroll scroll and I find the following:


You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.


I'm never one to feel all smooshy over quotes, but it summarized all the mud in my head that I was sludging through that isn't even my mud.  I whine and complain about my busy life and juggling mom v. work v. wife v. charity v. yoga v. the dry cleaners v. grocery shopping v. the damn crib sheet I keep forgetting to take to Livi's school and on and on and on.


But, it's nothing. 


On Saturday I was the event chair for a Mother's Day Tea to benefit a charity I support.  I effectively juggled mom v. speaking points v. photographer v. whatever.  As I was sitting back and wondering how so-and-so managed to crash and why my seating chart was skewed our My Special Mom took the stage to be honored for being a non-traditional mother.  


Let me summarize:  She volunteered at our camp and fell in love with a group of foster siblings that were separated in the system and reunited just for the week.  On the last day of camp she was moved when the little girl announced during closing ceremonies that she wanted a forever home so badly, but worried that if she was adopted she'd never see her brothers again.  This lovely woman hiked down the mountain until she found cell coverage and announced to her husband that she'd found their children.  She told the tearful audience that she had to mourn the fact that she'd never bring a baby home from the hospital, but every single day her children made it clear that she made the right choice.


Dear baby Jesus.


Everyone seemed a little smaller compared to this woman and her family; the challenges they've faced, the adoption they're finalizing and the bonds they're forging.


I totally forgot about my seating chart.


For a little while.


Shortly after departing with a cranky twelve month old in tow, I felt my eyeballs craving caffeine.  I sighed as I put Livi down for a nap, shouted instructions to Trevor and ran out the door to pick up my gown for the second fundraiser of the day; St Judes Children's Research Hospital.  


We met Andy in the hallway as we entered the Four Seasons, where he shared that Briar, our close friend recently diagnosed with brain cancer, was already seated as the medication makes it difficult for her to stand and schmooze.  We ran around the silent auction, air kissed a few people and made our way to our table.  


Where I proceeded to cry for the rest of the night.


There was the video of the little kids, sad and full of poison.  After the first face I saw, stricken with misery, I pulled my phone out and used it as a pacifier while tears rolled down my face.


A few minutes in I got a text, "Hello."  It was from Andy.


I smiled and looked over, "This helps me keep from crying."


He nodded.


I looked up twice.  


Once to find Trevor crying as he saw a video of a little girl that looked an awful lot like our little Liv learning to walk as an IV stand was wheeled behind her down a long hallway.  Her face was familiar.  She was proud of herself, excited that she was hitting a milestone.


"I can't take this," I sniffled as I searched for a napkin.


Trevor looked down at me, "This is so much harder than last year."


The second time I looked up it was to find Andy sobbing in his napkin as a mother told the story of her son and how St. Judes took his eye to save his life.  He was there; three, adorable and with Chucks.  


I followed Andy into the hallway where he told me that the woman was in his head, telling he and Briar's story about their experience at Duke where Briar recently had her second brain resection.


Briar joined us shortly thereafter; quick and efficient tears all around, we got it together, Briar and I made our way to the restroom and Andy went back to the table to join Trevor.  


We all found each other shortly thereafter as Briar wasn't feeling well and Andy became concerned because we were gone for so long.  


If you ask Andy and Briar anything they will tell you that this is their new normal, they're not lying in a corner, they're living their lives.  They refuse to stay home and Briar, to her credit, refuses to accept the compliment shared at the table that she's an inspiration.  In her mind she is simply a woman who has cancer that is dealing with it in the way she knows how to - with sheer determination.


The one thing I forgot prior to that night was Andy; his sheer determination and how he squares his shoulders when Briar walks in the room, how he nods is head and handles cancer like a checklist.


Trevor and I drove home, took off our ridiculous costumes, pulled off stupid jewelry and crawled into our dumb California King bed with soft sheets.  


Three kids were likely in bed thanking their lucky stars that they were going to be able to grow up together in a loving family.

A husband and a wife were likely thanking their lucky stars for meeting three kids that were going to give them the gift of becoming parents.

Andy and Briar were likely thanking their lucky stars that they were contacted by Duke, the top neuro oncology team in the world, that they have each other, a support system and their shared faith in God.


And Trevor and I laid in bed, thanking our lucky stars we've been touched by all of these individuals, reminding us that we have stars to thank, a beautiful little miracle baby to raise and each other.

Lucky stars, indeed.

Go Big Or Go Home, Old Lady

Somewhere in between my 33rd birthday and yesterday I got old.  


My 33rd birthday was an event.  There were costume changes, three locations and an after party.  I wore false lashes, bared a lot of thigh and was a hot little tartlet, if I do say so myself.  I made a video, "How To Diva-fy Your Birthday in Three Simple Steps," and ended it with one line in pink font that symbolized everything I touched, "Go Big or Go Home, Girls."


Now?


I have mom hair, my crow's toe has become a foot and grown a twin and the newest barista at Starbucks calls me ma'am.  


This was all an accident and I'd like to find an 800 number to lodge a complaint, but sadly this is all my doing.  Well, that and something called time and growing up and a bunch of other BS that really annoys me since I was so unaffected by such dirty words just a short time ago. 


The hairstyle is supposed to be trendy and cute, but next to my slightly more mature and body-covering wardrobe it seems quick and maintenance-free.  Things a mom would say.  Things I said and now regret.  


I wear much less makeup.  At first I thought this was because my skin looked more beautiful after birthing my little rabbit, but I look at pictures and realize I'm not Hottie McHott anymore.  No, I'm Livi's mom who doesn't have time or energy to blend any shade of MAC, whether matte or glitter.


There are a list of other items I could share, but I'd rather not.  I just know that my back hurts, my knees pop when I sneak in and out of Livi's room and on occasion the sound of my foot cracking wakes her up. I am tired by 8 p.m. and the idea of dancing makes me cringe.  I look at the lines of twenty-somethings waiting to get into Haze when I walk by after an evening entertaining clients in the restaurant down the hall.  I sneer and wonder where "those kids" get the energy; the energy to get ready, stand in line for an hour in heels and dance until they fall on a boy who takes them home to sleep on his dirty sheets that smell like cheese sandwiches and sweat. 


Their kidneys must really hurt and if they don't, should I tell them about the bunion they'll grow in their mid-thirties?


I'm not even close to buying shoes from Naturalizer and am pretty proud of how I shed the baby weight.  I can rock a demure dress; short or long, to any event, don't get me wrong.


I just ask that said event ends around 8 these days.


Mamas tired.

Some Women Are Better Than You

What used to take an hour can now be accomplished in fifteen minutes.

Dressed, heeled and made up for an evening with the girls with a very small window?

Bring it.

I may have accidentally used concealer on my eyelids as opposed to actual eyeshadow because I was in such a mad dash, but Livi Rabbit was feeling clingy and I'd rather snuggle until dad can take over than ignore her fingers clawing at my knees while I tell her again and again, "But, mommy needs to get ready...."

I may have learned how to shower in two minutes flat and decided that no, lotion would take too long so a slather of oil in the shower would be faster.

I may have given up completely on perfect hair and instead selected a very versatile bob that is cutie whether sleek or slob.

Mags may have met me in the driveway, jumped into my car and complained as I drove like a bat out of hell to a restaurant around the corner, my Take Chargeness coming out as soon as we sat down.

"We are in a ridiculous hurry. What app can we get on the table the fastest?"

"Um, the hummus."

"Done. I'll take a glass of Malbec, she'll have the Sauvignon Blanc and the check when the food comes."

We met Amie at the front door of Las Vegas' new performing arts mecca, The Smith Center, thirty minutes later and shuffled in, glasses of wine in hand to see Women Fully Clothed, an ensemble comedy sketch show that I would not have appreciated prior to becoming a mother. While I ran my fingers over the width of my bottom lip to detect any pita bread crumbs and silently congratulated myself for remembering to shave earlier in the day, God, you are becoming so good at multi-tasking and planning ahead, I still hadn't turned my brain off.

It wasn't until one of the comediennes lifted her shirt in jest, showing her c-section scar and the shelf of belly flab above it, that I finally arrived at the show. One part of me wanted to say, "Dude, what is she thinking?", but the rest of me wanted to throw my fist in the air in solidarity.

They tore apart PTA's, mothers groups, white collar widows and the show could have ended with their homemade theatrical song, "Some Women Are Better Than You." It was the anthem I needed to hear and a reminder that some women will be better at it; losing weight, handling a colicky baby, steaming, pureeing and freezing organic food. That woman can make all the right decisions, their children well-behaved with perfectly filed fingernails and Baltic amber teething necklaces that miraculously work. They asked that woman to raise her hand and when she didn't one yelled, "Oh that's right. She's not here. She's at home having sex with her husband!"

Mags and I reminisced over our matching pregnancies and our girl's impending one year birthdays as we pulled away from Smith Center. Both agreed we're only now finally starting to feel like ourselves again, but that self is a totally different self than the selfish self I started with. This self realizes that I will never be That Woman put to song earlier in the evening. My house will never be immaculate and I do admit that between all the corporate made organic baby food I buy online is a french fry or two here and there. This self is proud of my new mama body and I feel sexier than I ever have before even if my stomach will never find perfection. I try my best to keep Livi's nails clipped, her nose free of boogs and the rest?

Well, my little girl is happy, so eff you Perfect Mom. I'm going to judge my success by the big fat slobbery smiles and the nights my little rabbit waves to her daddy, dismissing him, because it is mommy time.

By the stolen dinners with Mr. J where we laugh and talk, happier and more settled than before.

By the laughs over wine with the girls where I realize my life is richer and more accomplished than I could have imagined when we return to the restaurant that we sniper visited pre-show. We were able to sit back in our chairs, no more hurry and talk about our daughters, our lives and the moments in between. We snacked, sipped our wine and at the end?

We ordered cheesecake, something That Woman probably knows nothing about.

Briar Badass

Let me tell you about my friend.

I've used an alias for her in the past because she's bigger than life and during the day she's a professional. During the rest of her hours she's a badass. She climbs mountains, repels down caverns, challenges my husband to push up contests and is the hardest, toughest and most amazing mountain biker you've ever met. While I read a book and promise to meet up for dinner she's adding bruises to her shins and making Trevor cry when she beats him down a mountain.

Today she is lying in the ICU unit of a local hospital and it doesn't make sense.

Last week we sat around, glasses of wine in hand and I was jealous of her faith in a God I've long forgotten. Today she made me pray to Him. After apologizing for my tardiness and kvetching over whether He would be willing to have a chat, I asked Him to look after her, make her wake up, make her whole.

Last week we joked about her migraines, the tumor she was sure she had growing on her brain, her promise to sit down with Livi if Trevor and I are to pass at the same time and make sure our wishes are met, Livi well taken care of, a trust set up, a promise, her promise.

Tonight I held her hand, wishing she'd squeeze it, wishing she'd give us a sign she's in there somewhere and begged her to wake up because if she doesn't teach Livi how to be a badass woman, who will? I can teach her about shoes and makeup, but who will teach her to ice climb, ride a bike over rocks so boys weep in her dust?

Who, I ask?

My little friend Briar, who has tiny freckles dotting her wrist, hands soft when you expect them to be calloused from all of her badassness.

No one else.

She's sleeping in there somewhere and tomorrow the tumor she joked about, the one that turned out to be real, will be removed. She squeezed a hand tonight on request. Word on the street is she wiggled her toes after I was kicked out by a mean, rule-abiding nurse.

Word on the street is she is tougher than this thing in her that is unwelcome.

But, we already knew that.

As a girl afraid of God, I find it odd, but here I am asking you to please pray for my little friend with all the badass stories who is not supposed to be in the hospital. We are not supposed to be talking about the things we are talking about. Not yet.

Not yet.

She is supposed to be awake, cursing this stupid thing on her brain. After all, she asked her neurologist if she could still go on her rock climbing trip with Trevor and her husband, Andy, that was planned for later this month prior to the big, deep sleep that threw us all for a loop.

That's our Briar.

Wake up, sweet Briar. Get mad at this thing so we can all go back to normal and stop being big grown ups. We'll help you fight it and be there the whole time.

Promise.

Be honest.

I watched the Oscar's between cuddling my sick little rabbit, doing breathing treatments and counting down the minutes until I could give her Ibuprofen to help ease her pain. Watching your ten month old hit her own head and stare at you with wide eyes because the ear infection is making her miserable is heart wrenching. Once I got her to sleep it was time for the after parties, the coverage and I will admit that I even scoured people.com.

Next to me on the couch were both Self magazine and Glamour telling me how to be more beautiful, skinnier, healthier, happier, sexier, appear taller, pull off the new this-or-that.

It made me realize that a lot of energy is expended on things and the unattainable pretty. You know this pretty. It's the kind that as white as your teeth are, as flat as your stomach is, as great your pedicure in your new stilettos, it still isn't as pretty as that girl. That girl typically looks something like a Victoria's Secret model. I try to make myself feel better by imagining that she either has Chlamydia or webbed feet.

What is so-and-so wearing, who are they wearing and did they Tweet while they were getting ready so our information addled brains could feel part of their luxurious life? Is my dress perfect enough for "cocktail attire," and will my new Michael Kors be too over the top for X event? Is my velvet jacket too 2005? Can it pass for vintage yet? Can I pull off spray tans?

Ridiculous.

I'm guilty, don't get me wrong, but let's be honest. My favorite parts of the day are in Target while I coo at Livi in the basket and ask her if she needs more Boogie Wipes. I'm typically make up free, wearing ill-fitting jeans and my most comfy flip flops, praying that if I run into a client they will only notice the glow on my face put there by a tiny person with a lot of demands.

I love lying on the floor, face to face and making smacking sounds as we giggle.

I adore her attempt at "peekaboo," which sounds a lot like "pepebo" and includes a burp cloth she lifts in front of her tiny Dr. Seuss nose.

I prefer frozen yogurt on my shirt at all times, knowing it was deposited by a very happy, slobbery mouth as the bearer snuggled into my neck.

Can I tell you how much I love it when she waves at me as I lay her in her crib, having tucked her rabbit under her arm, said "night night," and kissed her fat cheeks?

It made me realize that rather than a post about shoes that were delivered via Fed Ex from Rue La La, I'd rather try something a little different.

What do you love?

Seriously. Please tell me.

I'll start.

I love my daughter so much that I sometime have to stop myself from gushing about her while at lunch with my coworkers. My love for her cannot be contained by my chest alone and requires willful restraint.

I love the thirty minutes we spend on my daughter's bedroom floor as a family at the end of the night after she's splashed in the tub, run amok, kissed her teddy bears and tried to share her paci with me.

I love that my husband has never smiled as much as he does now that he's a father. I really love that he admits that he loves our daughter more than me. I feel the same way, "I love you, but I love her in a way that makes me that I could become violent if I had to."

I love my girlfriends when they have no make up on and we're at our funniest, lightest, most free. I really love that I love them more now than I did when it was just selfish little me.

I love that feeling after you work out and things seem shinier.

I love feeling as though my life just started.

And no pair of shoes, no bag, no network coverage can touch it.

Please, tell me.

What do you love?

Be honest.

Bad Behavior

It was as I was cuddling my daughter, teetering over the tiny little hands and toes in my new BCBG suede platform pumps that I noticed a new little baby, big blue eyes and a very attractive ensemble.

"Who's this?"

The teacher smiled, "This is Hudson! She's new and so easy to care for...."

I felt my lips purse as we all know that Livi is definitely not "so easy to care for..." No, she is funny, adorable, super sweet and incredibly demanding. There is no grunting or pointing, only shrill screams to inform you if you're not feeding her fast enough, not putting her shoes on right or simply annoying her by your presence and inferior intelligence.

"She's adorable!"

"Oh yes, very stylish."

I turned to pull Livi's diaper bag from her peg and noticed Hudson's next to the Petunia Picklebottom I may have dropped a pretty penny on prior to my pumpkin's arrival. It was the one I referred to when I came home from picking Livi up from school after her first day, "Livi has all kinds of new friends. There's Liam and Eric and Natalie..."

He interrupted me, "But Livi's the smartest and most beautiful, right?"

He regularly interrupts most mentions of other children with, "Our daughter is simply the most beautiful child ever born. And the smartest. Got it?"

I nodded that yes, of course, she was the most beautiful because whenever I've said, "Well so-and-so is awfully cute," he then questions my loyalty to our offspring and can be heard telling on me, "Livi, your mom needs to have her eyes checked...." I smiled conspiratorially and only because I know it goads him on, "Not only is she the most beautiful, but she's also the best dressed and has the best diaper bag."

He laughed, "We're snobs. You know we have to stop talking like this in front of her soon."

"Very soon."

So, when I came home and told Mr. J about Livi's new friend, Hudson, and how cute she was... Well, let's just say there was a bit of loud conversation in which I admitted that yes, she was better dressed than Livi, may have whispered, "she even has a cooler diaper bag," and ended in the decree that I am never allowed to buy her clothes from Target and Livi would soon resume her title as Best Dressed.

I shared this funny little story with Raymond last week. About two sentences in he looked at me with great humor about his eyes.

"Merryhill in Summerlin?"

"Yes."

He looked like he was snacking on something righteous, "You do know who Hudson is, right? She's my friend's daughter. Remember? Two dads? Adopted her in March?"

"Ohmygod. We have no fucking chance."

"Her birthday is coming up and you know all of us are buying her outfits."

I groaned and I do believe he stood up as he yelled, "The gays win! Again!"

I immediately sent Mr. J an email, "Hudson is Raymond's friend's daughter. Olivia doesn't have the budget to out dress her. And Raymond says he wins. Again."

Mr. J typically is a bit of a stickler about how much I spend on clothes, but when I mentioned today that Livi is outgrowing her little skinny jeans he turned the car toward Baby Gap and marched straight to the sale rack. I found a few things that were not on sale and realizing I had one shot I called out, "This isn't on sale, but it would so out-do Hudson," as I held up a dress.

"We're getting it! Hudson's going down!"

I giggled as I pulled it from the rack.

And then turned around to see Hudson lounging in an adorable outfit with little gold shoes on tucked deeply in one of her daddy's arms.

Well shit.

I couldn't be sure whether I'd been caught, so smiled sweetly, "Is this Hudson?"

Daddy laughed, introduced us to his mother and mentioned we were the ones he was telling her about, the funny story Raymond told him and such. Mr. J seemed a little tight and quiet and I couldn't think of what to say next. We made small talk about milestones while we paid for our stash and headed toward our car. We turned the corner from Baby Gap, into Gap Kids and when the coast was clear we could clearly be seen speaking out of the sides of our mouths, unimpressed Liv in tow.

"We are so busted."

"I hope they didn't hear us."

"Even if they didn't we so got caught trying to upstage Hudson. We didn't even like slowly drip cool outfits on her. She so has the upper hand."

"I hope she likes us."

We both started laughing as I texted Raymond about our bad behavior.

Trevor smiled as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, "Seriously, we have to stop talking like this in front of her."

"I know, but it is so funny."

"Oh, and you can't do the flying monkey punch anymore. She's going to think you beat me."

"I know...."

We both sighed as we headed home.

This little girl... oh, how she makes a mess of us.

Happy Valentine's Day!