Tomorrow my husband and I are flying to Chicago to attend a conference. (I'll probably blog from there - stay tuned!!!) My gracious (and fabulous) mother in law has flown in from Maine to watch our kiddos for the week. Grown up talk, sleep and ::gasp:: make-up/high heeled shoes!!
Truth: I'm looking forward to it so. much.
Truth: I miss my kids already.
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Courage and my 4 year old
(Mandatory yet unrelated update: we think I have Adrenal Fatigue Syndrome. Boo Hiss. Might be more on that in a future post. Maybe not though. We'll see.;-) )
Every summer and family vacation...well, any chance we can get...our family gets in the water. We also feel that "real" swimming is a valuable gift to give to our children, not to mention a HUGE safety issue. Elasia is old enough (turning 5 in a few weeks) and we found a class that was 8 sessions long with an opening down on 14th street at a very nice YMCA and took the jump financially.
I watched from the nearby giant window. The whole class lined up by the side of the pool. It was then I realized that the odds were stacked against Elasia being able to get through this class with out a royal "freak out".
1. Everyone was older than her.
2. Everyone had taken swim classes together last season at this same YMCA and knew each other. Elasia didn't know any of them and this was the first time she stepped foot in this building.
2. She was the only girl.
3. The kind lady she thought was the instructor went into the office. A man she didn't know jumped in the pool and motioned for the children to get into the pool one at a time.
I saw her legs tremble. I saw her wring her hands. She looked up, bottom lip trembling, to where she knew I was watching, looking for some kind of reassurance from me. I waved, gave her a thumbs up and a smile. (Truth: it took EVERYTHING in me to not crash through that glass, run across the pool deck and scoop my little girl in my arms and tell her we'll wait 'til next year.) I had to steel myself and see what she would choose.
And then it happened. She took a deep breath, knees still knocking, wrinkled her little nose with determination and willed her body to sit at the edge of the pool. Every other kid slid right into the pool, as if they had the process memorized. They held on to the side of the pool and started kicking.
With the other moms and their "been there, done that" expressions, I knew I couldn't really just scream with joy right there. But I really could've flown to the moon and back!! I had just watched one of the most courageous people I've ever known make a really brave choice!!! I know my little girl. I know what situations are difficult for her, and those same situations might not even be an issue for her little sister - or even anyone else.
Because of things we couldn't have known or foreseen, this swim class was set up to be one of the single most difficult things for Elasia specifically. And she was brave. She chose to look her fear, her discomfort, her insecurity...all of it in the face...and she chose to go through with it.
Now, would it have been okay if she had a melt down at the side of the pool, crumpled up in sobs and I had to sit with her in the lounge until she calmed down. Yes. (because she IS only 4, people.) I would've been set back a large chunk of change, as the classes are non-refundable, but I wouldn't set my daughter up for unnecessary torture. And of course, I wouldn't have shamed her. I would have been disappointed, but I'd have understood. I know life is going to present so many more of these same moments. I honestly would have been okay with "no way, Mommy" on this one.
But she chose to be brave. And her little determined, tear-streaked face is etched in my memory as a permanent book mark...a reminder.... for me to make similar choices.
When I'm tired and frustrated and it is easier to scream, yell and demean my children - I must choose to be brave, and be their hero. To lay down my own emotions to help them through the tricky paths of childhood.
When I'm intimidated by potential for failure, I've got to choose to be brave and take risks.
Every summer and family vacation...well, any chance we can get...our family gets in the water. We also feel that "real" swimming is a valuable gift to give to our children, not to mention a HUGE safety issue. Elasia is old enough (turning 5 in a few weeks) and we found a class that was 8 sessions long with an opening down on 14th street at a very nice YMCA and took the jump financially.
And that's how Elasia began swim classes.
This was her first time taking "real" classes. She qualified for the class where I don't have to get in the pool with her (which was wonderful, because what would I have done with my little monkey a.k.a. Zaqarah? I'm sure the YMCA staff would've had to call 911 within the first 10 minutes of class because she had managed to slip away and gotten herself stuck on the roof. I'm sure of it.) Elasia is very cautious by nature, and has never been in a pool with out us. I was pretty apprehensive leaving my little scrawny green bean alone with a handful of kids and 1 instructor.
I watched from the nearby giant window. The whole class lined up by the side of the pool. It was then I realized that the odds were stacked against Elasia being able to get through this class with out a royal "freak out".
1. Everyone was older than her.
2. Everyone had taken swim classes together last season at this same YMCA and knew each other. Elasia didn't know any of them and this was the first time she stepped foot in this building.
2. She was the only girl.
3. The kind lady she thought was the instructor went into the office. A man she didn't know jumped in the pool and motioned for the children to get into the pool one at a time.
I saw her legs tremble. I saw her wring her hands. She looked up, bottom lip trembling, to where she knew I was watching, looking for some kind of reassurance from me. I waved, gave her a thumbs up and a smile. (Truth: it took EVERYTHING in me to not crash through that glass, run across the pool deck and scoop my little girl in my arms and tell her we'll wait 'til next year.) I had to steel myself and see what she would choose.
And then it happened. She took a deep breath, knees still knocking, wrinkled her little nose with determination and willed her body to sit at the edge of the pool. Every other kid slid right into the pool, as if they had the process memorized. They held on to the side of the pool and started kicking.
I watched her wipe a tear that had snuck out of her eyes and down her cheek. Her nose still wrinkled in resolve, she looked up again and smiled at me. (smiled?! I still can't believe it.)
She tentatively slid into the pool and held on to the side and....... began her kicking.
With the other moms and their "been there, done that" expressions, I knew I couldn't really just scream with joy right there. But I really could've flown to the moon and back!! I had just watched one of the most courageous people I've ever known make a really brave choice!!! I know my little girl. I know what situations are difficult for her, and those same situations might not even be an issue for her little sister - or even anyone else.
Because of things we couldn't have known or foreseen, this swim class was set up to be one of the single most difficult things for Elasia specifically. And she was brave. She chose to look her fear, her discomfort, her insecurity...all of it in the face...and she chose to go through with it.
Now, would it have been okay if she had a melt down at the side of the pool, crumpled up in sobs and I had to sit with her in the lounge until she calmed down. Yes. (because she IS only 4, people.) I would've been set back a large chunk of change, as the classes are non-refundable, but I wouldn't set my daughter up for unnecessary torture. And of course, I wouldn't have shamed her. I would have been disappointed, but I'd have understood. I know life is going to present so many more of these same moments. I honestly would have been okay with "no way, Mommy" on this one.
But she chose to be brave. And her little determined, tear-streaked face is etched in my memory as a permanent book mark...a reminder.... for me to make similar choices.
When I'm tired and frustrated and it is easier to scream, yell and demean my children - I must choose to be brave, and be their hero. To lay down my own emotions to help them through the tricky paths of childhood.
When I'm intimidated by potential for failure, I've got to choose to be brave and take risks.
When I'm afraid of the consequences that my choices may have on the relationships I hold so dear, I need to be brave, to choose honesty and transparency - to live with integrity, as this is the only way to true intimacy.
I learn so much from my precious Elasia Hope. From her sensitivity to others feelings, her care for the overlooked, her quick wit and intelligence...my list could be a mile long. (And she's only turning 5!) But what I needed and what I've learned from her these past few weeks going to swim class is:
It's possible to choose courage, even if you don't "feel" it. (and if you cry when your scared, it's okay.)
Under Construction?
It's been just over 3 months since...I lost my ability to think clearly.
Okay, I'm being a little dramatic (hey, being Puerto Rican gives me some license, right?)... But something is going on in me that I haven't quite figured out yet. It could be as simple as stress-induced fatigue, or as complicated as - well, I don't know what. That's the thing - not knowing what's wrong with me is driving me a little batty. (There are still a few more doctors' appointments to be had)
Whatever it is, it's leaving me tired for at least half the day, forgetful (more than your average mommy brain), nauseous (at times) and unable to process life without help. It's vague and hard to articulate. And leaves me feeling "bad" most nights.
So that's were I've been. I have so much in my brain I want to get out - so many ideas that would make great "blog entries", so much that I NEED to express because God made me a writer and dang it, sometimes I HAVE to just write....But they're stuck in a gridlock-type traffic jam in my tired mind.
We'll see if I can get the traffic to clear up - it may even be therapeutic for me in this whole "what's going on in my body?" season. 'Til then, let's just say that this blog and my life are Under Construction.
Sending so much love from the Big Apple,
Evita
Whatever it is, it's leaving me tired for at least half the day, forgetful (more than your average mommy brain), nauseous (at times) and unable to process life without help. It's vague and hard to articulate. And leaves me feeling "bad" most nights.
So that's were I've been. I have so much in my brain I want to get out - so many ideas that would make great "blog entries", so much that I NEED to express because God made me a writer and dang it, sometimes I HAVE to just write....But they're stuck in a gridlock-type traffic jam in my tired mind.
We'll see if I can get the traffic to clear up - it may even be therapeutic for me in this whole "what's going on in my body?" season. 'Til then, let's just say that this blog and my life are Under Construction.
Sending so much love from the Big Apple,
Evita
MMs: On being that "one mom".
I've always known her.
She was always someone else's mom...until recently.
She had an amazing "top secret" recipe for chocolate cookies, lasagna, cocktails....you name it. With her preschoolers, she knew over 100 fun things to do with a paper plate, coffee filter, and toilet paper roll. She "distracted" instead of getting frustrated. She actually deeply enjoyed her children and didn't have to give herself pep talks that she had made the right decision. (to stay at home, to go back to work, whatever it was...)
She had consistently shaved legs.
She always had a batch of homemade play-dough on hand when her kids were antsy. She only uses agave nectar as a sweetner.
She stopped being someone else's mom about 4 years ago. That's when I had Elasia. And this "person" that I had subconciously created in my mind - that had actually robbed me of hours that could have been spent being grateful for my own PERFECT-for-me mother - then morphed into "that ONE mom".
When Elasia was born, I didn't realize it at the time, but I had postpartum depression. So that ONE mom was the one who could get out of her PJs before lunch time. She never broke down in uncontrollable sobs when her newborn woke up "early" from a nap. Her house may not have been perfect, but at least she could get the laundry done before her husband would have to wash a pair of underwear in the sink out of desperation. She lived in a constant state of "I was MADE for Motherhood - this is GREAT!" She made me sick and envious at the same time. She gave me great ideas every once in a while, but mostly she just made me feel smaller and smaller and.....smaller....until I had almost lost who I was.
After the birth of my second child, I still felt "behind" in life, but I didn't feel like that dark cloud was going to swallow me alive every day. I started to watch my newborn and my 17 month old interact so beautifully - birds seemed to chirp, the sun shone brightly and I could breathe.
Fast forward 3-4 years. I woke up one morning and realized I had nothing on the agenda! I decided to pack the girls up and spontaneously drive to Connecticut with a friend of mine. We had a PERFECT day getting our "suburban" fix: going to a mall and eating in a food court. My kids loved it. We drove back into Manhattan that evening and I had a crockpot of wonderful dinner waiting for us.
After dinner, the girls and I snuggled and read books before bed time and for some miraculous reason they didn't protest as I left the room. I felt content. And then it hit me: I WAS that ONE mom!!!!
!!!!!
This should have made me feel accomplished, almost victorious, like some life long enemy had been defeated. But instead, I felt hollow. Why? Because I KNEW me. If I really "was" that ONE mom, then I was an incredible dissapointment. Not everyday was that perfect, in fact, they were an exception.
Call it "mommy guilt", "unhealthy comparisons" or whatever pop-psychology term that fits, here's what I started to learn that night:
On one side of the coin: That ONE mom must die.
She doesn't deserve to exist in our minds robbing us of the precious time we have in this life with our loved ones. When that ONE mom is haunting me in my mind, I am blind to see how priceless the moments are that I have with my kids. Always thinking of what I can't do/haven't done, I don't appreciate what IS actually happening that is oh-so-very good.
On the other side of the coin: I am that ONE mom!
The idea that someone else is a better mother than I am is toxic. It has to end in my mind. I was, in fact, created to do this. And these babies, who WERE pieced together and formed in MY womb, were literally and figurately made for ME. In order to appreciate who we are as mothers we've got to KNOW who we uniquely are as a person.
Who I am:
I am not always a "nice" person, but I can be pretty darn funny. I'm not always the most organized person, but I can make people feel loved and at home in my little apartment. I'm not the best "think-ahead" planner, but I'm laid back enough to enjoy spontaneity. I love to dissect philosophy and laugh A LOT. I love stories. I'm really bad at "seeing" messes that my husband knows exists before he even walks through the door. I can come across as bossy when I'm actually just excited about helping out. I'm really bad at keeping in touch with extended family and friends, but I'm fiercely loyal.....
This person - Evita - is who my children need. On one hand, they don't NEED that ONE mom to raise them. On the other hand, I AM that ONE mom in their lives. Elasia and I love people together. Qara and I make people laugh together. We are a family team. And I was hand picked to play my unique part.
Honestly, this is a daily fight for me. I don't want my time wasted in useless comparison or feeling inferior. I still haven't figured out how to balance being a housekeeper, mom, and wife along with all the other roles I play.
And yes, I may have a killer (and top secret) lasagna recipe and YES we have picnics in our living room and make crafts with all kinds of things. But that's not because I'm striving to be someone I'm not. It's because that's who I am.
That ONE mom.
She was always someone else's mom...until recently.
She had an amazing "top secret" recipe for chocolate cookies, lasagna, cocktails....you name it. With her preschoolers, she knew over 100 fun things to do with a paper plate, coffee filter, and toilet paper roll. She "distracted" instead of getting frustrated. She actually deeply enjoyed her children and didn't have to give herself pep talks that she had made the right decision. (to stay at home, to go back to work, whatever it was...)
She always had a batch of homemade play-dough on hand when her kids were antsy. She only uses agave nectar as a sweetner.
She stopped being someone else's mom about 4 years ago. That's when I had Elasia. And this "person" that I had subconciously created in my mind - that had actually robbed me of hours that could have been spent being grateful for my own PERFECT-for-me mother - then morphed into "that ONE mom".
When Elasia was born, I didn't realize it at the time, but I had postpartum depression. So that ONE mom was the one who could get out of her PJs before lunch time. She never broke down in uncontrollable sobs when her newborn woke up "early" from a nap. Her house may not have been perfect, but at least she could get the laundry done before her husband would have to wash a pair of underwear in the sink out of desperation. She lived in a constant state of "I was MADE for Motherhood - this is GREAT!" She made me sick and envious at the same time. She gave me great ideas every once in a while, but mostly she just made me feel smaller and smaller and.....smaller....until I had almost lost who I was.
After the birth of my second child, I still felt "behind" in life, but I didn't feel like that dark cloud was going to swallow me alive every day. I started to watch my newborn and my 17 month old interact so beautifully - birds seemed to chirp, the sun shone brightly and I could breathe.
Fast forward 3-4 years. I woke up one morning and realized I had nothing on the agenda! I decided to pack the girls up and spontaneously drive to Connecticut with a friend of mine. We had a PERFECT day getting our "suburban" fix: going to a mall and eating in a food court. My kids loved it. We drove back into Manhattan that evening and I had a crockpot of wonderful dinner waiting for us.
After dinner, the girls and I snuggled and read books before bed time and for some miraculous reason they didn't protest as I left the room. I felt content. And then it hit me: I WAS that ONE mom!!!!
!!!!!
This should have made me feel accomplished, almost victorious, like some life long enemy had been defeated. But instead, I felt hollow. Why? Because I KNEW me. If I really "was" that ONE mom, then I was an incredible dissapointment. Not everyday was that perfect, in fact, they were an exception.
Call it "mommy guilt", "unhealthy comparisons" or whatever pop-psychology term that fits, here's what I started to learn that night:
On one side of the coin: That ONE mom must die.
She doesn't deserve to exist in our minds robbing us of the precious time we have in this life with our loved ones. When that ONE mom is haunting me in my mind, I am blind to see how priceless the moments are that I have with my kids. Always thinking of what I can't do/haven't done, I don't appreciate what IS actually happening that is oh-so-very good.
On the other side of the coin: I am that ONE mom!
The idea that someone else is a better mother than I am is toxic. It has to end in my mind. I was, in fact, created to do this. And these babies, who WERE pieced together and formed in MY womb, were literally and figurately made for ME. In order to appreciate who we are as mothers we've got to KNOW who we uniquely are as a person.
I am not always a "nice" person, but I can be pretty darn funny. I'm not always the most organized person, but I can make people feel loved and at home in my little apartment. I'm not the best "think-ahead" planner, but I'm laid back enough to enjoy spontaneity. I love to dissect philosophy and laugh A LOT. I love stories. I'm really bad at "seeing" messes that my husband knows exists before he even walks through the door. I can come across as bossy when I'm actually just excited about helping out. I'm really bad at keeping in touch with extended family and friends, but I'm fiercely loyal.....
This person - Evita - is who my children need. On one hand, they don't NEED that ONE mom to raise them. On the other hand, I AM that ONE mom in their lives. Elasia and I love people together. Qara and I make people laugh together. We are a family team. And I was hand picked to play my unique part.
And yes, I may have a killer (and top secret) lasagna recipe and YES we have picnics in our living room and make crafts with all kinds of things. But that's not because I'm striving to be someone I'm not. It's because that's who I am.
That ONE mom.
What IS it about a hug...?
This little interaction just happened this morning -
Elasia (my 4 yr old DD): Mom, you're the comfiest mommy.
Me: (trying to be absolutely secure and love my chub...) Thanks, baby - but you can't stay laying on my lap too much longer - I've got to go to the bathroom.
Elasia: Ok. Just keeping hugging me until I say stop.
Me: Ok (hugging her tightly for ... a while...)
Elasia: Ok, stop. (she happily runs off)
I come from a very affectionate family. A very LOUD and affectionate family. :-) It definitely WASN'T "Leave it to Beaver" (like my husband's family) but I did grow up being able to cuddle with my parents on Saturday mornings. I was able to stand in the kitchen getting sandwiched between the two of them in great big hugs.
Then there were those awkward teenage years when no one biologically related to me was allowed to touch me without getting MUCH attitude. Phew - glad I made it out of that stage alive.
Now-a-days, my husband usually knows that one of the ways I communicate is through physical touch. Some days are so busy that when he walks through the door at the end of a long work day, he's usually walking into another pile of "to do's" and responsibilities as a pastor. We'll zoom through dinner and he'll help me put themonkeys children to bed. It'll be going on 9:00 PM and then he'll see it. The "look".
Okay - I'm a Puerto Rican woman. I have MANY "looks". But he knows this one. It sort of like a distant, hard to focus on what's in front of me, feeling scattered look.
It may/may not be accompanied by a pouting lip. (because I'm not about to portray myself publicly as that silly)
And he'll walk up to me, maybe give me a kiss, but more importantly give me a big hug.
Disturbing Reality: 1 in 4 girls in the U.S. are sexually abused before the age of 18, so that increases the chances that it's going to be difficult to read a friendly post on human affection for a chunk of ladies that might be reading this. I understand. Trust me, I understand.
But I crave...no NEED...physical touch to thrive. It's a basic necessity of the human race. There are orphanages in Eastern Europe where the lack of human touch is causing real health problems in children from poor vision to low muscle tone and even things more serious.
I may not know all the science behind it (although - I CAN google it. Mothers all over the world thank you, Eric Schmidt - ha ha), but I do know there are times when my toddlers seem just NUTS - and I'm sure they are not hungry or tired - something magical happens when I simply hug them.
A hug. No strings attached. No ulterior motive. It can be such a breath of fresh air at the right time. Sometimes we've got to shake the "junior-high" awkwardness that may still linger in our demeanor and offer a hug to someone in our lives that might need it. Or simply receive one.
Please don't misread me. I'm not "touchy". I just appreciate healthy touch. I was NEVER one of those girls who let people "play with my hair" in the dorms, and so help me - I will still not sit on anyone's lap - man or woman. I have friends like that. I'm not like that. My friends know this.
I know I've got some great and challenging years ahead of me. I'm assuming that my very affectionate children are going to go through those "don't touch me" teenage years. My husband will not always know through his super-human husbanding skills the precise moment I need a hug. But I'm in charge of me. I want to be more liberal with my hugs, and allow myself to receive them more frequently.
Enjoy the video.
Elasia (my 4 yr old DD): Mom, you're the comfiest mommy.
Me: (trying to be absolutely secure and love my chub...) Thanks, baby - but you can't stay laying on my lap too much longer - I've got to go to the bathroom.
Elasia: Ok. Just keeping hugging me until I say stop.
Me: Ok (hugging her tightly for ... a while...)
Elasia: Ok, stop. (she happily runs off)
I come from a very affectionate family. A very LOUD and affectionate family. :-) It definitely WASN'T "Leave it to Beaver" (like my husband's family) but I did grow up being able to cuddle with my parents on Saturday mornings. I was able to stand in the kitchen getting sandwiched between the two of them in great big hugs.
Now-a-days, my husband usually knows that one of the ways I communicate is through physical touch. Some days are so busy that when he walks through the door at the end of a long work day, he's usually walking into another pile of "to do's" and responsibilities as a pastor. We'll zoom through dinner and he'll help me put the
Okay - I'm a Puerto Rican woman. I have MANY "looks". But he knows this one. It sort of like a distant, hard to focus on what's in front of me, feeling scattered look.
It may/may not be accompanied by a pouting lip. (because I'm not about to portray myself publicly as that silly)
And he'll walk up to me, maybe give me a kiss, but more importantly give me a big hug.
Disturbing Reality: 1 in 4 girls in the U.S. are sexually abused before the age of 18, so that increases the chances that it's going to be difficult to read a friendly post on human affection for a chunk of ladies that might be reading this. I understand. Trust me, I understand.
But I crave...no NEED...physical touch to thrive. It's a basic necessity of the human race. There are orphanages in Eastern Europe where the lack of human touch is causing real health problems in children from poor vision to low muscle tone and even things more serious.
I may not know all the science behind it (although - I CAN google it. Mothers all over the world thank you, Eric Schmidt - ha ha), but I do know there are times when my toddlers seem just NUTS - and I'm sure they are not hungry or tired - something magical happens when I simply hug them.
A hug. No strings attached. No ulterior motive. It can be such a breath of fresh air at the right time. Sometimes we've got to shake the "junior-high" awkwardness that may still linger in our demeanor and offer a hug to someone in our lives that might need it. Or simply receive one.
Please don't misread me. I'm not "touchy". I just appreciate healthy touch. I was NEVER one of those girls who let people "play with my hair" in the dorms, and so help me - I will still not sit on anyone's lap - man or woman. I have friends like that. I'm not like that. My friends know this.
I know I've got some great and challenging years ahead of me. I'm assuming that my very affectionate children are going to go through those "don't touch me" teenage years. My husband will not always know through his super-human husbanding skills the precise moment I need a hug. But I'm in charge of me. I want to be more liberal with my hugs, and allow myself to receive them more frequently.
Enjoy the video.
Rihanna and How Evita Got Her Groove back (well..."is getting" it back)
Truth: 5 years into marriage and two kids later – my body has done some…well…let’s call it “shifting”.
My identity has also done some “shifting”. The latter is actually the part that’s been the hardest to live with. Honestly, I don’t mind the extra jiggle in my middle on most days. Whether he’s lying or not, Adam (my DH) says my stretch marks are sexy. (I choose to believe him.)
No one told me that being a world changer also meant I was an over-achiever. (Well, to “their” credit, if they did tell me, I wasn’t listening because I was too busy changing the world.) Or that I set unrealistic goals for myself and always take the blame if things don’t come out as planned. I read instruction manuals, I follow directions and I expect perfect results from my compliance. I am never (okay “usually”…if there’s been a death or something) late. So here’s the formula for the perfect storm: Me +marriage +motherhood = identity crisis.
Why? Because there are no “measurables” with children. (Although, I was rather proud when each child made it to their first birthday alive.) And I understand this is over-simplifying, but stick with me here. There are no feedback meetings with your manager as you try to fuse your life together with another human being, and life doesn’t stop to let you catch your breath. I looked for that Excel spreadsheet of “critical success factors” to tell me I was right on track, but could never seem to find it. Maybe it was hiding in the same place as the remote, or my cell phone/house keys EVERY time I’d HAVE to leave the house, or that blasted “other” sock…
In essence, I lost my “groove”. Simple tasks seemed like summiting Everest, or at least K2, and things that I was able to do in my sleep now took all of my already taxed concentration. (“Shh…baby, don’t talk to Mommy, I’m trying to remember where I put my phone.” “What, Adam? Sorry I wasn’t listening….I’m sure I put that remote somewhere…what? Something’s burning in the kitchen?!?!”)
So what does this have to do with Rihanna – the fabulous singer? Fast forward to about a month ago. I decided to join a gym. (Actually joining is a WHOLE other story – remind me to tell you someday soon ;-) ) They advertised a weekly class called Dancenergy and the description was…and I quote: Energetic, choreographed dance routines drawn from several dance styles including jazz, ballet, Latin, modern and hip-hop. I thought, “I’ll do it. It’ll be fun, and I’m a class taking person.”
REALITY: It was a hip-hop dance class for advanced dancers (read: Julliard, people!) and I MUST have been the only person over 21 yrs old with more than 2% body fat (ha!) in attendance. Really?! I took my place in the very baaaccckkk of the dance space, away from the mirrors and behind one of the best dancers, and stretched like I knew what I was doing (…I used to…I could seriously dance at one point in my life…but I also used to know how to leave my house in matching/coordinating clothes…) I willed my brain to pay attention as the instructor rattled off incoherent 8-counts of choreography to Rihanna’s song “Rude Boy”. [Sidenote for anyone who can’t get past the “offensive” subject of what this song is about: Look, we’re all adults here. (if not, I’m telling your mom – get off the computer RIGHT NOW.) Adam’s not a Rude Boy. And obviously he “can get it up”…we have two kids. The song is BRILLIANT to dance to. ]
After three weeks of hour-long classes and living in a perpetual state of soreness, my body never quite did what it was supposed to on the right count. Try as hard as I did – I never could make the moves that crisp or the lines that fluid and beautiful. But it was hysterical. It was fun. It was a great workout. And it was the catalyst for an epiphany. What I saw in the mirror as I was trying my darndest to do the “hoochie swirl” and the “hip hop choo-choo” was an unfamiliar picture. I’m not used to seeing myself so … out of sync. The girl who was always on the right “count” in life was off at least by 3-4 in this dance. (especially during the verses!! Sheesh.)
My identity has also done some “shifting”. The latter is actually the part that’s been the hardest to live with. Honestly, I don’t mind the extra jiggle in my middle on most days. Whether he’s lying or not, Adam (my DH) says my stretch marks are sexy. (I choose to believe him.)
No one told me that being a world changer also meant I was an over-achiever. (Well, to “their” credit, if they did tell me, I wasn’t listening because I was too busy changing the world.) Or that I set unrealistic goals for myself and always take the blame if things don’t come out as planned. I read instruction manuals, I follow directions and I expect perfect results from my compliance. I am never (okay “usually”…if there’s been a death or something) late. So here’s the formula for the perfect storm: Me +marriage +motherhood = identity crisis.
Why? Because there are no “measurables” with children. (Although, I was rather proud when each child made it to their first birthday alive.) And I understand this is over-simplifying, but stick with me here. There are no feedback meetings with your manager as you try to fuse your life together with another human being, and life doesn’t stop to let you catch your breath. I looked for that Excel spreadsheet of “critical success factors” to tell me I was right on track, but could never seem to find it. Maybe it was hiding in the same place as the remote, or my cell phone/house keys EVERY time I’d HAVE to leave the house, or that blasted “other” sock…
In essence, I lost my “groove”. Simple tasks seemed like summiting Everest, or at least K2, and things that I was able to do in my sleep now took all of my already taxed concentration. (“Shh…baby, don’t talk to Mommy, I’m trying to remember where I put my phone.” “What, Adam? Sorry I wasn’t listening….I’m sure I put that remote somewhere…what? Something’s burning in the kitchen?!?!”)
So what does this have to do with Rihanna – the fabulous singer? Fast forward to about a month ago. I decided to join a gym. (Actually joining is a WHOLE other story – remind me to tell you someday soon ;-) ) They advertised a weekly class called Dancenergy and the description was…and I quote: Energetic, choreographed dance routines drawn from several dance styles including jazz, ballet, Latin, modern and hip-hop. I thought, “I’ll do it. It’ll be fun, and I’m a class taking person.”
REALITY: It was a hip-hop dance class for advanced dancers (read: Julliard, people!) and I MUST have been the only person over 21 yrs old with more than 2% body fat (ha!) in attendance. Really?! I took my place in the very baaaccckkk of the dance space, away from the mirrors and behind one of the best dancers, and stretched like I knew what I was doing (…I used to…I could seriously dance at one point in my life…but I also used to know how to leave my house in matching/coordinating clothes…) I willed my brain to pay attention as the instructor rattled off incoherent 8-counts of choreography to Rihanna’s song “Rude Boy”. [Sidenote for anyone who can’t get past the “offensive” subject of what this song is about: Look, we’re all adults here. (if not, I’m telling your mom – get off the computer RIGHT NOW.) Adam’s not a Rude Boy. And obviously he “can get it up”…we have two kids. The song is BRILLIANT to dance to. ]
After three weeks of hour-long classes and living in a perpetual state of soreness, my body never quite did what it was supposed to on the right count. Try as hard as I did – I never could make the moves that crisp or the lines that fluid and beautiful. But it was hysterical. It was fun. It was a great workout. And it was the catalyst for an epiphany. What I saw in the mirror as I was trying my darndest to do the “hoochie swirl” and the “hip hop choo-choo” was an unfamiliar picture. I’m not used to seeing myself so … out of sync. The girl who was always on the right “count” in life was off at least by 3-4 in this dance. (especially during the verses!! Sheesh.)But I enjoyed it. And I wanted to do it EVERY week! Perfection didn’t matter, my heart rate was elevated, calories were burned and I made a new friend or two in the process. (aaannnddd I learned some new ways to shake my groove-thang.)
As I walked home from the gym that first night, literally laughing at how funny that whole scene was, my mind wandered back to the laundry piling up in my closet. The dishes undone. The unbathed babies with dreadlocked hair developing, the filing that will probably never get done. Maybe I was tired, or feeling indulgent and enjoying the random dose self-pity, but I let my mind wander even farther. I thought of the books I wanted to read, but would probably never get to, the things I wanted to study, but don’t have time for, the friendships I want to deepen, but can’t seem to work it out in our schedules….and on and on and on. And then that internal voice – as clear and sharp as lightening whispered, “Enjoy the dance, Evita. Change your frame of reference. Look around at all that is out of sync and instead of blaming yourself for not being a Juilliard dancer, just enjoy the workout.” As simple as that, I had a fresh breath of hope again.
Truth: Do I remember to “enjoy the dance” every day now? Nope. I wish. But I have a new picture, a sticky-note reminder in my heart to look at when everything around me seems sub-par (read:depressing)…relax, enjoy the process and don’t forget to shake your booty while you’re doing it.
