Want to know WHY I love lists? Read Ten Reasons to Write Lists on my new blog The Psychologist Next Door. Then, tell me how lists make your life better.
This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat "5.) On a piece of paper write down something that makes you happy...take a photo of your paper and wa la...there's your post" and by my constant need to control the chaos!
My dear,
I fear I cannot love thee as I did.
In days past, I spent late nights in dark places. With strangers. And loud, pounding music.
We shared stories. We made memories. Our time was rich with experience.
I chased the unknown.
Unpredictable moments whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I delighted in delicious opportunities.
Spontaneity was the bad boy down the street, begging me to sneak out my window and meet him in the park. He offered excitement. I accepted it greedily, always wanting more.
Not so now.
I found another, truer love.
Routine is my boy next door. I’ve known him forever. He makes me feel safe.
I am comforted by his embrace.
I am energized by his steadfast presence.
He makes me feel alive. Creative. Ready for anything.
I love who I am when I’m with him.
My just-washed hair and casual clothes aren’t night-club material. They’re perfect for play.
It’s just me and my family and our routine. We move together in a familiar dance. My body knows every move by heart.
6 a.m. coffee
7 a.m. breakfast
8 a.m. blog post
9 a.m. preschool drop off
Time to write. The baby naps. I read. And write some more.
2 p.m. preschool pick up
Playing outside. Sorting the mail. Dinner on the stove. Baths and pajamas. Tooth-brushing, book reading, the final episode of Last Cake Standing. And then it is bedtime.
The baby rustles in her crib as the four-year-old burrows in next to me for the night. His dad is away on business. I promised he’d sleep in my mom bed. My head rests peacefully on the Pillow Pet he shared so generously. Her name, he says, is Fluffy.
I am in love with mundane, everyday details now. Spontaneity messes with my mojo. The confines of my usual routine are not confining. They’re thrilling.
And so for now, I bid you leave, my love. Find a young, fickle friend to entice.
I’ve got all the excitement I need right here.
At home.
---------------------------------------------------
This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's World Famous Writer's Workshop, by two long weeks of vacation and too much rum punch.
LOVE LETTER CLOSE-UP
© Gianna Stadelmyer | Dreamstime.com
Confession: In matters of love and life, I am a keeper of secrets.
Why? Because sharing my life means opening myself to criticism. And it means losing control. Driven to avoid anxiety, I cling to insider knowledge like a drowning person hugs a life preserver. Maybe you do the same thing.
In my journey through infertility, I was forced to let go my usual secret-keeping ways and reach out for help. I simply had no other choice.
Here’s how it happened.
In 2008, Leading Man and I started trying to conceive baby #2 in the usual happy, easy, fun way. But no luck. And continued efforts didn’t feel happy, easy or fun anymore.
We went through the evaluation process for admission to Walter Reed Army Medical Center’s infertility treatment program, and were accepted into the program in January 2009. Despite lots of doctor’s visits and tests, we didn’t share this with anyone. Living far from our families and friends, it was easier to keep secret than to share. And infertility – no matter what your diagnosis – feels intensely personal.
Despite the doctor’s recommendations that we should do IVF right away, we opted to try IUI first, hoping the less-invasive, less-expensive procedure would work for us. We planned to do three cycles, but after two unsuccessful cycles decided to stop wasting time and emotional energy. Both were in short supply.
We did our first (secret) cycle of IVF in May of 2009.
Those of you who have done IVF know how time consuming and emotionally exhausting the process can be. For those of you who don’t: Imagine 20 doctor’s visits in 35 days, all scheduled for 0500 at a clinic 45 minutes from your home. Raging hormones and constant feedback about follicle development and estrogen levels make you feel like a stranger in your own skin. The mixing of drugs and self-administered injections is otherworldly. I felt like a mad scientist doing research on myself. This is the stuff of Hollywood sci-fi thrillers and Scooby Doo. I had sharps containers in every bathroom, vials of drugs lined up like soldiers in my refrigerator. And no one knew.
The cycle didn’t go well. My body did not respond to the stimulation like the doctors expected. Egg retrieval resulted in only 5 mature eggs. Only 2 eggs fertilized. At every turn, there was more disappointing news.
On the day I went in for embryo transfer, the doctor informed us that only one embryo was of sufficient quality. We transferred it knowing the odds of conception were depressingly low.
Clinging to the tiny secret life inside me, I went home to rest. Leading Man went back to work at the Pentagon.
He called home that afternoon with the only news that could rip these secrets from my grip. He’d received short-notice orders of another one-year deployment to Afghanistan. He’d depart in two weeks.
I’ll never know if that cycle would have worked out if the enormity of his news hadn’t pulled me under the waves. I felt like a drowning woman, clinging to secrets, hoping to stay afloat. I was tossed by waves of hormones, sadness and despair.
Before we knew whether cycle one was successful, Leading Man prepared for the cycles I might do alone. Powers of Attorney were written. Vials of tiny swimmers were stored. Next time – if there was a next time – I’d jump into these waters alone.
In July of 2009, I started IVF again. Alone, but not alone.
You see, I simply could not do this process (0500 doctor’s appointments, restrictions on lifting, self-administered injections) without any help. I had a 2 year old to take care of, and he wasn’t allowed at the clinic. I had a more-than-full-time job with enormous responsibilities. I had no back up at work. My husband was deployed.
Keeping this secret was absolutely impossible. I needed an army of babysitters willing to work at 0430 in the morning. I needed overnight care for my son when I went for retrieval and transfer. I needed a chaperone willing to go to surgery with me. I cried at the thought of giving all the painful progesterone in oil injections in the same hip, but couldn’t imagine how I’d give them on the left side.
Plus, if it worked, I would have to explain how I got knocked up while my husband was 8,000 miles away! May as well get ahead of the curve, right?
So I asked for help.
I called friends and asked if they’d babysit. I asked a former nurse at work if she’d give my left-side injections. I asked a coworker to chaperone me for the retrieval and transfer appointments. Although we’d known each other only 7 months, I gave her a medical Power of Attorney. I had no choice but to entrust my secrets to others.
That cycle went much more smoothly than the first. I had more mature eggs, the fertilization rate was better, and there were three grade 1 embryos to transfer.
One of them grew. And grew. And grew.
She is now a happy, healthy 17-pound 11-month old punk. She has seven crooked teeth. She eats cheerios with gusto. She climbs the stairs like she’s been shot from a cannon. It’s no secret that she’s the apple of our eyes.
What I learned when I let go my infertile secrets was nothing short of life-changing.
I didn’t drown. Instead I was buoyed by sources of support I couldn’t fathom. The waves that threatened to pull me under calmed down. I floated above them, able to see them with greater detachment and wisdom. Safe at last.
This post inspired by brave travelers on the journey through the land of IF who are participating in IComLeavWe at Stirrup Queens. May your journey be better for sharing it. Post submitted to Wordful Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus and Parenting by Dummies and Pour Your Heart Out Wednesday at Things I Can't Say.
Leaders complain that they don't get feedback. Moms, not so much.
Before kids get the gift of gab, other mothers tell us how to do our job better. “If you don’t breastfeed, you’re flushing his health down the toilet.” “She’s probably overdue for a diaper change. I can't believe you're using disposables.” Shell at Things I Can't Say calls these judging others motherbitches. They're mean girls turned meaner mommies.
Family members and perfect strangers chime in. “She’s over-tired.” “You should have his speech evaluated.” “My kids never threw fits like that in public.”
Kids give their own feedback, too. I cried when my then three-year-old called me a bad mommy. I know he was responding to the boundaries I'd set, but it didn't matter. Criticism cuts me deeply.
I sometimes ignore feedback. But more often, I overreact.
I lose all sense of proportion.
Leading Man can make some innocuous comment and I act like I’ve been attacked by my worst enemy. I snap angrily. Or I dissolve into tears and adjourn to a self-hosted pity-party.
I don’t respond well to criticism. At all.
But I can sure dish it out.
A high-school boyfriend once quipped that I probably corrected his love letters with a big fat red pen. I didn’t. At least not literally.
Metaphorically? Probably so.
Critical thinking is my strong suit. My brain spots errors with lightning speed and extraordinary accuracy. I automatically see what is wrong, even if it's a tiny flaw in an otherwise perfect specimen.
I have to work very, very hard to see what’s right.
I used to answer that favorite question of job-interviewers everywhere – “What’s your biggest weakness?” – by saying "I tend to say 'yes' too much and get over-committed." This is totally true. And it *is* a weakness.
But this week I came to the conclusion that my biggest weakness is that I can dish out criticism but I can’t take it.
They say confession is good for the soul, but admitting that doesn’t feel good. It isn’t liberating or cathartic.
I want to build people up, not tear people down. Especially my husband and kids.
My critical nature means I'll have to work extra hard to make sure I tell them what they do right. I have to be conscious about searching for strengths. Otherwise, I'll give them unfairly negative feedback.
Knowing this makes me sad, but it also gives me hope, because I know where I need to improve. Self-knowledge helps good leaders get better.
What do you know about yourself? Link up below to join the conversation and share some comment love. We could all use some supportive feedback, right?
When I was a teenager, my Aunt Kathy had a t-shirt that read “Every Mother is a Working Mother.” I didn’t think much about its meaning back then, but lately I think about it a lot.
Here's what I think it means.
1) ECONOMICALLY, every mother is a working mother means mothers' work has economic value.
How much economic value? I don’t know.
In 2008, Salary.com calculated moms’ worth and arrived at 117K per year.
Another website I found lets me calculate my mom paycheck by entering the number of kids I have and how many hours I spend on common mom tasks (laundry, carpool, cooking, nursing, psychologist, household management). Let’s just say my paycheck was a lot less impressive than salary.com suggested.
Economists can argue. My kids think mom work is priceless. That's why they cling to my leg and won't let their dad strap them in to their carseats.
2) SOCIALLY, every mother is a working mother means “can’t we all just get along?” Pretty please?
The so-called mommy wars aren’t good for anyone. Not working moms. Not stay-at-home moms. Not work-from-home moms.
Not long after Little Man was born, my mom brought me a newspaper query written by the friend of a new mom. She asked what moms DO all day. Carolyn Hax of the Washington Post wrote a fantastic reply.
All moms – whether they work for wages or not – give constant attention, vigilance, teaching, and compassion. We put our kids’ needs first. We commit to motherhood 24/7.
Moms who work outside the home can't put kids out of mind all day. That’s impossible.
Moms who stay home seldom get a break to think grown-up thoughts. That's reality.
There's no need to argue about who has it worse. However you do it, motherhood is hard work. Gratifying, yes. But difficult. Martha B says it's the toughest job we’ll ever love (no disrespect to the Peace Corps).
Bottom line: Moms should support each other. Our kids will ensure our egos don’t get too big.
3) PSYCHOLOGICALLY, every mother is a working mother means moms who leave the workforce to raise kids should not feel diminished. We do not become less when we give up the keys to the corner office.
When we equate titles with status, we trap ourselves. The transition to stay-at-home motherhood feels like a loss. A loss we cannot share.
We tell everyone we’re lucky to be able to stay home with our kids.
AND WE ARE.
We don’t mention the fact that we feel isolated and unproductive, that we miss feeling smart and sophisticated.
We wake up one day and can’t remember who we were before we had kids. It doesn't help that our pre-baby jeans don't fit quite the same.
We find great joy but lose ourselves.
When we’re up to our eyeballs in laundry, we can’t see how “mom work” is meaningful. How it expands us. How it makes us more of who we are, and I'm not referring to residual baby weight.
Every mother is a working mother. Sometimes we need to be reminded of our own worth. That’s my standpoint.
What’s yours? Share your thoughts and link up below.
I get a little needy when the weather changes. Something *new* would be nice.
A bright, striped top. A straw handbag with room for big sun glasses, a book (or two!), three juice boxes and a bag of cheerios. White capri pants. Well, white capri pants might be going one step too far, but you know what I mean.
Upon reflection, the must-have items below will bring Leading Mama maximum joy for no money at all. And (bonus!) they won't make my butt look big, like white capri pants would.
1. A keen eye to see the first daring purple crocus as it peeks out of hiding
2. An encouraging voice to say “yes, you can jump in that puddle” and the forethought to bring a change of clothes and a towel
3. A dedicated, dirt-lovin' garden helper to dig, plant, water and weed with me
4. A beautiful, tiny bowl for the stemless flowers said garden helper picks just for me
5. A twelve-step program to treat workaholic perfectionists with comorbid blog addiction
6. A drawer for my watch, so I won’t be tempted to cut playtime short and “get a little more work done”
7. A giving spirit to clear-out clutter and donate it to the Thift Shop
8. A sunny outlook to match the weather
9. A permission slip from myself: “Heidi has my permission to go on Spring Break vacation in body, mind, and spirit”
10. The courage to keep telling the truth and the faith that others crave smart, honest dialog, too
There are two things to aim at in life: first, to get what you want; and, after that, to enjoy it. Only the wisest of mankind achieve the second.
-Logan Pearsall Smith
Join me for Sunday Standpoint this week. The theme is "Every Mother is a Working Mother."
Post inspired by:
Time management gurus would freak out if they saw how I operate. I don't collect empty pizza boxes or tchochkes, but I'm surrounded by so many to-dos and wanna-learns I could star in a special episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive. I'd call it "the overachiever edition." Maybe I should pitch this idea to Oprah.
Here's my dirty little secret to getting it all done.
I let creative impulses, have-to's, want-to's and deadlines determine what I do and when I do it.
Leading Man calls it "just-in-time excellence."
If the ideas are swimming in my head, I capture them on paper. I save files and add details as they come to me. When article is due, I write it. If Little Man is out of socks (again!), I do laundry. If the baby has a hacking cough -- right now she sounds like a 2-pack-a-day smoker -- I take her to the clinic. If I feel like Thai Chicken with Basil for dinner, I get busy in the kitchen. If I don't want to cook, I defrost and reheat.
When someone offers snuggle time, I drop everything and I "nuggle." I *do* have priorities, you know.
The old schedule that housewives perfected over a hundred years and embroidered on millions of flour-sack dish towels just wouldn't fly around here.
Monday: Wash Day
Tuesday: Ironing Day
Wednesday: Sewing Day
Thursday: Market Day
Friday: Cleaning Day
Saturday: Baking Day
Sunday: Day of Rest
Spreading tasks over time would certainly make my life more manageable. But it doesn't fit with my personality. I love the pressure of a deadline. The thrill of keeping too many balls in the air is something I miss if my to-do list grows shorter than my arm. I get itchy to take on new tasks.
But -- even if it looks like I am in way over my head most days -- I manage to maintain a sense of balance in the longer term.
Right now I am working hard. I am overcommitted. I am struggling to stop myself from taking on more. And I am loving every minute of it.
I'm also anticipating a delicious change of pace when we go on a two-week vacation this spring. (Where? Turks and Caicos, thank you very much for asking. Super scuba, gorgeous lush tropical happiness, sandcastle making and shell-collecting. Mmmm. I can almost feel the sun on my face.)
For Leading Mama, balance is relative.
I know I can have it all, just not all at the same time.
This post inspired by a prompt from
I frequently get thanked for things I didn’t do. That’s because I take on projects that are way too big for one little mama to do all by herself. Like collecting, packaging and distributing cookies to more than 2,000 service members at holiday time. Don’t get me wrong, I love, love, love to bake. But 12,000 cookies? 10 days from now? Forget about it.
Photo by Tim Lewis shared via WikimediaCommons
I’m something of a yes-mama. I simply can’t say “no” when I’m asked to take on an enormous project. I’m a project junkie. But I know I can’t be a do-it-myself project junkie. That would be ludicrous. And it isn't necessary!
People love to help with meaningful projects, so reaching out gives others the opportunity to do good. They'll also bring skills, talents and resources that Leading Mama just doesn’t have. Sometimes more is more. So I say “bring it.”
Crowd-sourcing is a relatively new concept in business. It amounts to getting people to build products without payment for their labor, and it flies in the face of years of pay-for-performance management. Community leaders have been doing something similar for hundreds or thousands of years. Think barnraising technology for the modern world.
I call it community-sourcing: harnessing the energies of community networks and everyday people to accomplish a shared pro-social goal.
Community-sourcing could help you collect coats for inner city kids or items for the school’s silent auction. It could be used to build affordable housing or clean up and refurbish a dilapidated baseball field. You could community-source a website or blog and get rich content from hundreds of contributors in the virtual community. If you're a ScaryMommy fan, you know what I mean. She has an eight-week waiting list for guest contributors to the Scary Mommy Society and the content is outstanding.
Done right, community-sourcing not only gets the job done. It gets the job done faster, smarter, and better. It builds community. And – if you have a tendency to take projects way too big for one person – it just might save you from yourself.
How could community-sourcing help you with an upcoming project? And what's stopping you from using it?
In this week’s Prosperous Writer E-zine, Christina Katz relates her experiences at the recent Associated Writers and Writing Programs Conference in Washington, DC. She asked the participants in a social networking session whether they see themselves or their writing as a business. The result? Only 20% of the attendees raised their hands. She was shocked.
I am a freelance writer. Writing is my business. And if I had been in Christina’s audience, I would have raised my hand. But I understand why so few people did.
Claiming an identity as a business person is scary.
Doing it in public is even scarier.
Here’s why:
1) Claiming an identity is a commitment. It demands action.
You cannot say you are a writer if you don’t write. And no matter how good a writer – or cook, coach, crafter, singer, stylist, designer, or widget-maker – you are, you cannot say you are in business unless you market and (hopefully) sell your work.
2) Selling your work feels a lot like selling yourself. Especially for artists, and especially for women.
Putting a price on your work makes a statement about the value of your ideas, your time, and your creations. And negotiating the value of your work can be off-putting, not to mention downright frightening. Why? We don’t want to confront our own assessment of our value and we don’t want to open ourselves up to scrutiny. As long as your work is a hobby, you don’t have to find out what it, and, by extension, you, are worth. Safety first, right?
3) Business has a certain connotation. It is cold and detached. Impersonal. It can be ruthless. Business is dirty and corrupt.
I know these are stereotypes, but these qualities spring to mind without warning when we think about business, and there’s the rub. Claiming we are in business means getting past all that emotional baggage. We want to believe we are thoughtful, creative, and socially aware. These traits are hard to reconcile with our knee-jerk beliefs about business.
4) Businesses pay workers for performance, and motivate increases in production by offering larger and larger incentives. Daniel Pink, author of Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us
Unfortunately, lots of studies in psychology show that paying people to do tasks they find inherently meaningful and intrinsically motivating is apt to backfire. Athletes paid top dollar for their performance fall out of love with the game. Kids paid to color pictures stop coloring because coloring isn’t fun anymore. Writers worry that being paid to write will mean they no longer find it gratifying, energizing, and expressive. We don’t want money to mess with our mojo. We – incorrectly, I think – equate selling our work with selling out.
5) Being in business ups the ante. As long as we don’t claim we’re worth too much, no one will call us out. We can dabble, bumble, and fail at a hobby. The stakes are low. Giving ourselves permission to dabble, bumble and (possibly) fail at our work takes a lot more courage. But risk-taking is vital to any enterprise, including writing.
I am proud to say I am a freelance writer. I recognize my work has value and ask others to recognize it, too. That doesn’t make what I do less gratifying, less energizing, or less noble.
I am an enterprising mama. As Merriam-Webster defines it, that means I am marked by an independent energetic spirit and a readiness to act. My enterprise is writing. It is difficult, complicated, and risky. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
How about you? What's your enterprise? Be bold and claim it. I double-dog dare you.
