I'm Over It

They say it takes as long to get out as it does to get in. Nine months to add the pregnancy weight, nine more to lose it.  It’s a round-trip theory.

It turns out the same logic applies to clearing your mind of a bad work experience. I started this blog around the time I was leaving a job that was a terrible fit, and I was miserable. I held that job for just over a year, and last week marked my one-year walking-out-the-door anniversary. I just re-read my posts from a year ago, and wow, what a difference a year makes. I thought I felt better right away. In hindsight I see that I felt both liberated and terrified. But I still had a lot of healing to do. 

How do I know? Here are a few changes since last year:

almost good as new...I think I'll add legs

• I’ve let the stuff into the house.  There’s a shipping crate that I saved, because I thought it was a nice box that I would repurpose some day. And then I brought it home and wouldn’t let it past the back door. This week I brought it in, painted and upholstered it, and voila - the playroom has a new storage stool. Peeling off the shipping label with my museum address was like ripping off a Bandaid. Underneath, the wound is healed and the box is good as new.

• Today I can read about the place I worked without emotion. Articles in the newspaper, online or on television used to paralyze me with anger. I’d read into every word or comment, digging for hidden meaning.  There have been a few articles lately, which I skimmed and moved on. I’m just not that interested anymore, and I haven’t got the time for hidden meanings.

• The dreams have stopped. I used to have work-related dreams every few days. I’d wake up stressed and still tired.  And just the other day I realized I can’t recall the last time this happened. They slowed, and then they stopped.

• I wore the dress. This one is especially ridiculous. Ilene Beckerman's book (and Nora Ephron's play) Love, Loss and What I Wore links life events and wardrobe, and in a stupid, superstitious way so do I. There’s a black dress hanging in my closet that was my go-to dress for much of this year. Forgiving fit, wrinkle-free, layers well, easy to pack…in a year marked by low professional self-confidence, this dress was as good as it got for me. Just seeing it hanging in the closet reminded me of a year of increasingly unpleasant encounters. Oddly, I didn’t get rid of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to wear it. Until last week. I met an old friend and new client, and needed a dress that would look good after a long drive. I put it on without a second thought, wore it all day and…wow, I still like that dress! It’s back in circulation.

• And the anniversary passed with no fanfare.  Amelia and I are in the midst of Camp Mommy – a month of together time in between summer camp and the start of school. I know what day it is because we’re trying to fill them, but August 3^rd came and went and it was only at bedtime that I saw the date and thought oh yeah, it’s been a year.  Interesting.

A few days ago I ran into a former colleague who told me nothing has changed. Same oppressive, stifling air. Same people running in the same circles. Same culture of secrets and games.  The conversation reminded me of reuniting with a bad boyfriend only to remember on the first date exactly why it ended in the first place. Because nothing has changed. 

But I’ve changed, and finally I’m over it.

Want more Mess? Drop by A Crafty Mess at Charlotte Parent, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy. 

She Lost It

The tooth. She really lost it. It’s been over a week, and still no sign.

In my last post, I wrote about how that thing was hanging on by a thread. How we were waiting for it to fall out with both anticipation (Amelia) and dread (me). But when it happened, nobody noticed.  Maybe because I was distracted by another sign that Amelia is growing up right under our noses. 

Amelia and our dog Bentley have an affectionate relationship. We call Bentley the President of Kissing because if he isn’t sleeping he’s probably kissing somebody, usually Amelia.  So there they were kissing and laughing and snuggling on the living room floor, and all of a sudden Amelia says:

“Mommy, Bentley is kissing me in French!”

WHAT THE HELL???? 

What are they learning at big kid camp? It’s bad enough that she’s learned the words to Taylor Swift songs (and thankfully still prefers My Little Pony) but she’s also heard of French kissing? From WHO??

So of course, I stammered something about Bentley being a French poodle and tried not to make this a big deal. But in my head it was disturbing enough to distract me from Operation Tooth Watch until at least an hour later, when Amelia just didn’t look quite the same.  I asked her to open her mouth and there it was – or wasn’t – the tooth was GONE.  Not even Amelia had noticed it falling out. 

Gone.

And so we searched. All over the house and yard. No tooth. Amelia was devastated because she wanted to see the bottom of the tooth. Sentimental me of course wanted to save that sucker in a little box with the lock of hair from her first haircut.  Yes, I have that. Don’t judge. And of course, we had to turn something over to the Tooth Fairy.

So Amelia wrote the Tooth Fairy a sweet letter of explanation. And the tooth fairy forgave her in a return letter and delivered some good loot and very authentic fairy dust, which proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that she was indeed in the room, dropping dust from her wings as she hovered above the tooth fairy pillow. So all’s well that ends well, and Amelia still believes. 

But what of the tooth? Yeah, Bentley probably swallowed it while they were making out. 

Please let’s talk about fairy dust again.

Want more Mess? Check out A Crafty Mess over at Charlotte Parent, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy...or better yet, leave a comment here. I'll respond, I promise. Or maybe the Tooth Fairy will.

Hanging On

Toothy treasure

This morning I made a very significant transaction at the bank. I withdrew 10 one-dollar coins. That should hold us for a while. 

Because as I understand it, a dollar coin is the going rate for lost teeth.  This tooth fairy's got the goods.

But this mama isn’t ready for any of it.

A lot has changed in the last month.  Amelia graduated from preschool. She started “big kid camp,” which she loves. She rocked her ballet recital. She can carry the dog without (my) fear of (him) falling. And just yesterday she announced that she'll be taking showers instead of baths, and she will not be needing my help. 

There were a few tears at the graduation, but otherwise I think I kept it in perspective. Proud mommy, a million photos, visiting grandparents, celebratory lunches and hovering outside the bathroom door notwithstanding.

The next milestone is one I don’t know how I will handle. It’s that damn tooth, just barely hanging on, wagging around and taunting me every time Amelia opens her mouth. She’s so proud of it, so excited. She’s expecting that when it falls out, she’ll be able to do all kinds of tricks, like stick a straw through the space and drink milk with her mouth closed. Look out, she might sell tickets at camp.

I’m expecting that when that tooth falls out, a big one will replace it. An adult tooth. My baby’s whole face will change. She’ll have a big kid smile. She’ll chew her wedding cake with this incoming tooth. It will still be with her when she’s an old woman. She didn’t even grow her first tooth – coincidentally, the one about to leap - until she was more than a year old, so they’re still white and so cute and barely used. All they’ve ever chewed is pasta and cheese, let’s keep them a little longer!

I know it’s crazy, she’s growing and she’s excited and she should be and I’m proud of her. So I’m going through the motions. I made a tooth fairy pillow with a little pocket, so the tooth fairy can retrieve it, conveniently hanging on her bedpost, without waking the slumbering (ha!) Amelia. I smile when she wiggles it. I make up stories about the tooth fairy and her house full of teeth. I tell her about losing my own teeth. And today I went to the bank. The tooth fairy appears ready.

But I’m hanging on more tightly than the tooth.

Want more Mess? Check out my blog over at Charlotte Parent Magazine, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy!

Go Fry an Egg!

A few weeks ago, I heard Lenore Skenazy speak. If you don’t know who Lenore Skenazy is, search Google for “world’s worst mom” and you’ll learn all about the New York City woman who let her 8-year-old son ride the subway home from Macy’s all by himself. He asked to do it, they studied a map, and practiced the route. On the big day, they said goodbye in the handbag department and he went on his way with a subway pass. He made it home, couldn’t have been more proud of himself, and she never looked back. Until her blog post about this little rite of passage went viral and she became the World’s Worst Mom, exposing her son to all kinds of stranger dangers, germs, and death by giant subway rats. When the dust settled, she wrote a book called Free Range Kids and has become a national superhero of courage to banquet rooms of moms like me who are terrified to let our kids out of our sight.

So last week, when Amelia asked to make her own egg, I thought about Lenore Skenazy. 

What’s the worst that could happen? It’s an egg in our kitchen, not a Manhattan subway. So I gave her an egg and a bowl, and clearly I’ve made her terrified of breaking an egg, because she tapped it about a dozen times so gently it barely made a sound, let alone crack.  She finally whacked it harder, and surprise! Fingers in the eggshell.  Salmonella?  No, I told myself… let her keep going.  She proudly and carefully separated the shell and slid the yolk into the bowl.  Phew!  She did it right. Actually, she did it exactly as she’s seen me do it about a million times.  Hmmm.  
 

number 6 is Amelia's - ready to cook?

But back to the salmonella…go wash your hands twice, with soap. 

Only we weren’t finished. She also wanted to drop the egg into the pan and watch it sizzle. OK. We positioned a stepstool in front of the stove, and I placed a pan on the burner to heat. She climbed up, duly warned about NOT TOUCHING ANYTHING.  Raw eggs were no longer the biggest danger in the room, now we had EXTREME HEAT and I didn’t want to mention the potential for PAINFUL BURNS.  From about 2 feet away, she poured the egg from the bowl into the pan and got a satisfying sizzle. And that was it. She wasn’t interested in watching it cook, flipping it (thank God!) or anything else. She was off to play until it was safely on a plate on the table. 

Well, that wasn’t so bad. 

Before I had a kid, I read an article about having difficult conversations with children. It said to answer only what the child is really asking – so “where do babies come from?” for a preschooler is probably a pretty direct answer, without all the discussion a teenager (doesn’t) want.  Tell the truth, and be ready for her to change the subject.  Crack an egg, then go get the My Little Ponies.  Amelia’s growing up, sure, but this 5-year-old still has the attention span of, well, a 5-year-old.

She’s asking to do the things she’s ready to do, and I’m glad. Because coming up are a bunch of things that I’m not ready for her to do, so we’d better ease in. Things like ride a school bus by herself to kindergarten. Buy (and choose!) her own lunch. Go on playdates without me. Well, maybe that last one is OK.

So for now, when there is an egg to be cracked, Amelia is in charge. She hasn’t dropped one yet.

Thank you, Lenore.  You’re not the world’s worst mom. In fact, you're a lot like my own mom. Thanks, mom. And Happy Mother's Day!

Want more Mess? Check out A Crafty Mess over at Charlotte Parent, or visit me at my Etsy store, Made by Mommy!  Or better yet, leave a comment here - I'd love to hear from you, and I promise to write back!

Some of Everything

Can working mothers have it all?
 

I’m writing this from our living room couch, while Amelia watches My Little Pony before bed. The dog is snoozing at my feet, dishes are in the dishwasher and the laundry is mostly folded. Jeff is across the room, reading. It’s kind of a postcard of suburban domestic bliss. But maybe I’m supposed to be in Pittsburgh. 

Today is the second day of the Association of Children’s Museums’ annual 3-day conference. I’ve attended this conference almost every year since 1995. It changes locations each year, and I’ve been going so long that I remember the last time it was in Pittsburgh. It’s a professional development and networking event, and since I’m officially a freelancer again, networking is key. It’s also an annual gathering of old friends and colleagues, an opportunity to stay up too late in the hotel bar talking about exhibits with a bunch of people who love them the way I do, without spouses checking their watches. Last year at this conference, I was at a career turning point and the solid advice, unwaivering support and valuable perspective of my ACM friends gave me the confidence to make a change I desperately needed. Last year I was a mess, and this year I’m better. I was looking forward to going to this year’s conference to say thank you, check in, and pay it forward.

But last night was New Parents’ Open House at the school where Amelia will start kindergarten. And my decision to freelance full time was all about priorities. 

A few months ago, I saw a job posting that sounded great. I inquired about it, and it sounded even more interesting. I was definitely qualified, and strongly encouraged to apply. But I kept hesitating. Finally, my husband ran out of patience. Look, he said, I can’t keep having this debate. I will support you either way, but do you or don’t you want to meet the school bus?

Wow. That’s easy. I do want to meet the school bus. It’s what I’ve always wanted. But I also love my career and we sure do spend my paycheck. So I looked around. I have two interesting, challenging, rewarding freelance projects that will keep me busy through the summer. I have two more pending for the fall. There’s no reason to think there won’t be more after that. So at least for now, freelance work is a viable option with a lot of perks. Not only can I have the joy of meeting the school bus, but the fact that Amelia is ON a bus at 3pm means she doesn’t have to go to after school care. If I can earn a living and also avoid 11-hour days for my 5-year-old, well, any other option just seems selfish.

Have I found the elusive work-life balance that mothers everywhere dream of? If so, it’s still not perfect. There are choices and tradeoffs, because doing both means you can’t give everything to either one. Working for myself means the time management decisions are mine, and there isn’t time “reserved” by an employer. I can watch ballet class, but I will be up very late writing. If I go to parents’ night, I’m also deciding not to go to the ACM conference. 

But here’s the thing – there will be another conference next year. In fact, missing a year is a great incentive to call some of my ACM friends and catch up one-on-one in the coming weeks. Those relationships are intact, and networking can still happen. But Amelia won’t be starting a new school next year, and I’ll never have a rising kindergartener again. I’ve missed enough milestones already, and now that time management is up to me, I've chosen to meet the school bus.  

So I think you can have it all, you just can’t have all of it. Tonight, I see from the photos on Facebook that I’m missing a great time in Pittsburgh. But this year I belong here, on this couch, with my family.  I’ll see you next year, I promise!

Want more Mess? Check out A Crafty Mess over at Charlotte Parent, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy.

Testing the Limits

My daughter is probably crying. Or she will be soon. What’s wrong, you wonder? Nothing at all.

Amelia’s never been much of a crier – a talker, yes. She argues relentlessly about issues she believes in.  Like whether or not princesses go to the potty, and the nuanced distinctions between ponies, flying horses, and unicorns.  She argues with remarkable logic, reason, and WORDS.  Not crying.

But suddenly, something has changed.  If her favorite dress is in the washing machine she gets all choked up.  Macaroni and cheese in the shape of shells instead of spirals is a crisis. Or if we insist that she stop singing in bed and JUST GO TO SLEEP at 10:30pm, here come the waterworks. I feel like this lady, who photographs her toddler in all stages of meritless meltdown.

But Amelia isn’t a toddler and I’m not taking pictures. I mentioned this new crying habit to some mommy friends the other day, and they all nodded in sympathy. The same thing is happening with their 5-year-olds. Amelia is testing me, and she might be winning. She’s wondering just how far I will bend the rules in order to stop or avoid the tantrum. Guess who is wearing sparkly party shoes instead of sneakers today to her tennis class? Call me lazy, blame the dentist appointment we were already late for, but I just wasn’t up for the fight this morning.  It’s not like she’s Serena Williams.

And I kind of understand. I’m testing limits too, wondering how far I can push before there are consequences. You might remember that in January, I started a 6-week Biggest Loser weight loss challenge. At the end of 6 weeks, I’d lost 17 pounds and won a hat.  A few weeks later I was down 23 pounds…and I went to a Bar Mitzvah and ate some cake.  Guess what? It didn’t matter. I still lost weight that week. So I had some ice cream. And I still lost weight. It felt like I ran a red light and didn’t get caught. 

And now, after nearly 2 solid weeks of “tasting” chocolate, pizza, frozen yogurt, and anything else I’ve wanted, I’m afraid to get on the scale. How much exercise will it take to hide bad kitchen behavior? How bad is the damage? I know what I need to do, and I know I’m not doing it. I found the limit, and I might have to cry.  Or pick myself up, tie my running shoes, and get back to the gym. I wondered how far I could push, and now I know. 

So Amelia, grab a tissue. Next week you’re wearing tennis shoes to tennis class.

Want more Mess? Check out A Crafty Mess over at Charlotte Parent, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy. 

Home at Last?

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. 

We’re Jewish, so Easter doesn’t generally involve looking for eggs in the garden, or church, or much of anything really. This year it coincides with the end of Passover, so we’ll be unceremoniously dining on the broken sheets of matzoh left at the bottom of the box.

But Easter Sunday has a special meaning for us. Eight years ago, we first saw Charlotte, North Carolina on Easter Sunday. Jeff and I were newlyweds from Boston, and we used all our frequent flyer miles to come here, chasing a job. I’d been following the development of ImaginOn: The Joe & Joan Martin Center for over a year, and had finally landed a job interview. A phone interview. I knew I’d never be hired if I didn’t show up in person, so we flew south, uninvited.  And a few weeks later, we drove south, with a U-Haul-It.

So fast forward eight years, and here we are. We’ve added a kid and a dog. And a house. And more stuff than we’d ever want to schlep in a U-Haul-It again.  And the job? It was even better than I’d imagined and completely worthy of the chase, but if you’ve been following this blog you know I’ve made a few career changes since.

Coincidentally, I’m working on a consulting project in Boston, which brings me north every few weeks, usually with just enough time outside of meetings to have dinner with old friends. Who all want to know when we are coming back “home.”

Good question. Where is home, anyway?

Is it where you start, where your extended family lives, where people knew your grandmother and remember you as a kid?

Or is it where you go, where your new family plants roots and grows, where your children are born and everyone knows who you’ve become?

For the first seven years, we had an easy answer to this. Home is where our jobs are, so we have to stay in Charlotte. But at the moment, we’re both portable. We just like it here.

So for now, can we stay home? 

Want more Mess? Check out A Crafty Mess over at Charlotte Parent, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy.