Saturday, November 30th is officially my 6 months sober date but I’m not superstitious about announcing it early because I have no doubt I’ll make it.
I plan to share my full testimony on my one-year anniversary but for now, I’ll say this:
I’ve been liberated.
Alcohol stole my time and health while fooling me into believing it was my deserving escape.
I don’t look back because it’s a place I never want to return to.
I frolic forward, free from its tight embrace, stronger and more sound-of-mind than ever.
If you’re reading this and on the fence, I just want to tell you, I’m here holding your hand if you need one.
But what if you can.
“But What if You Can?” is from the book, The Whatif Monster. He’s a character created by author Michelle Nelson-Schmidt whose empowering children’s books about overcoming fear have not only impacted my children’s lives, but mine, too. Check her out: https://www.facebook.com/MNScreative/
Lately, I’ve started to visualize my life as a river.
She’s a real beaut.
Surrounded by tall trees and mountains. She curves through forests, banked by shady trees; winding through cities, carrying on as rapids to more peaceful pastures.
My river began as a stream and has gained confidence and power along the way.
There have been moments when my river stalled. She was curious, exploring a side cove.
Sometimes, she got stuck in a whirlpool.
Round-and-round she went until she forgot not only where she came from but also where she was going.
Finally, a particularly dreadful downpour left her overflowing back to her main stream whereupon she realized, with great relief, that the whirlpool wasn’t her final destination.
The older I get, the more I learn just how important they are.
Setting them, adjusting as needed, and keeping them.
They are important for all relationships, personal and professional.
Marriage, friendships, coworkers and family.
I’ve come to realize I feel most out-of-control when I’ve either failed to set a boundary or neglected to enforce it.
And I had that come-to-Jesus moment just yesterday.
One of my daughter’s spiraling separation anxiety has left me feeling suffocated. Aside from school, she will go very few places without me present- the entire time. Which is why we end up hosting most of her friends at our house and why I stay for her after-school activities.
It’s not her fault. We are seeking multiple avenues of professional help. But it’s exhausting. I’m sure for her, too.
I birthed her and I will stand by her, through thick and thin. She will know that when things get tough, I am walking alongside her through the muck until she is strong enough to wave goodbye and walk alone.
But yesterday, I was upset that I was going to miss my husband’s volleyball tournament so that I could stay for my daughter’s weekly extracurricular. And in my frustration and resentment, I realized that her anxiety was now directly affecting MY life, MY marriage. I was failing to keep my boundary.
So, I explained- you can go to your extracurricular alone or you can miss it and come with me because today, I choose me. I choose my husband. I choose our marriage, which we’ve always stressed comes absolutely first in this family. Without the strength of that bond, the rest collapses.
He didn’t know I had changed plans and cracked a smile as we walked onto the beach.
Just typing this text exchange between me and my seventh grade daughter causes me to erupt into tears.
How are we here? Why?
Do I trust the email our school district sent, reassuring that they are aware and on top of the threat?
Or do I miss a day of work and pull my child from school?
My entire blog is about trusting the process and not living in fear of truth but when it comes to my child’s life, what then?
I can’t believe we have to have this conversation but if in danger, hide and cover your head.
I send her to school knowing that even if she survives her college graduation, she then has large concerts, grocery stores and churches to survive.
It never ends. The threat remains.
If you see someone injured apply a tourniquet above the wound- meaning tie a shoelace or a shirt above the area to stop the blood flow so that they don’t bleed out.
Ooo gross.
She and dozens of others visited the school counselor yesterday. Confused. Scared. Trying to discern whether they are overreacting or reacting appropriately. How is this ever appropriate?
It’s a stark reminder that life is precious, not to be taken for granted even on the most mundane, run-of-the-mill school days.
She’s single, doesn’t have children and lives alone in a great apartment in Brooklyn, NY.
I admit, sometimes I dream of switching places. To eat at restaurants frequently. To have a well-paid professional career. To do whatever I feel like doing during my free time without others dictating the limitations.
But my husband and I have been having conversations about the Buddhist principal: Want What You Have.
Instead of “I have to take the kids to gymnastics.” It’s, “I get to take the kids to gymnastics.” It’s a simple word change but it’s latent with meaning: I’m lucky enough to have children. My children are fortunate to have a body that can perform gymnastics. I can afford a car to drive them and so much more.
So the other night, after I cooked dinner and set it on the table to a critical crowd, “Ew! I hate chicken.” “Mom, if I eat that I’m going to choke.” Emmett looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, “But Lauren, you GET to cook them dinner.”
We both burst into a fit of laughter.
Because as grateful as we are for this life we’ve created together, as much as we do want what we have, we also recognize that it’s not always easy. It’s a constant juggling of his needs, my needs, their needs and our needs, as a family.
I allow myself to daydream of takeout, uninterrupted movies, and a wide-open schedule while simultaneously practicing mindfulness. Taking a moment to enjoy my surroundings- be it our front yard, the beach, or our rowdy kitchen table. I know these are “the days” and I GET to be their mom. I want what I have.
But I’m still going to visit Harper in New York and practice mindfulness there, too.
Was I the only one with tears streaming down my face while watching Inside Out 2 in the theater this morning?
I’m not sure but sitting next to my four daughters, this movie really hit home- particularly in reference to our 12 year-old.
Those who know me personally know how attentive I’ve always been of our daughters’ feelings. As a child who often felt misunderstood, I know how important it is for my girls’ feelings to be validated, seen and explored, instead of ignored.
Spoiler alert: the climax of the movie occurs when the emotion Joy realizes that she can no longer simply dismiss undesirable memories and power forward through main character Riley’s puberty ignorant of the arrival of new emotions anxiety, embarrassment, ennui and envy. The lesson that struck deep in my heart was that there was no turning back to the way things were before. Instead, Joy recognizes her need to include the new emotions in order for Riley to feel secure with her true self. It’s a hard pill to swallow- that we can’t just keep acting like everything is fine and BE fine. That when we try to fight anxiety with denial, it only grows. We must learn to live with, around and through it.
Watching my child struggle with growing up has broken my heart into tiny little pieces. I want to fix it for her; the embarrassment the rejection, the shame she feels. And like Joy, I can’t. I watch helplessly as she struggles, knowing that there’s no other way than through.
And yet, the overwhelming emotion I left that theater with was pure and true gratitude. As hard and ugly as witnessing Aurora’s journey to adulthood is, it’s also such an incredible privilege. I have been given a gift- this opportunity to empower and encourage my child. I walked away with more empathy than ever for my daughter and the desire to hug her as long as she would allow. Forever and ever. Inside out.
Aside from the 37 hour labor, 11 days past her due date, she really was almost too easy, as a baby. She was 16 months before she walked; instead, she happily sat on any surface and entertained herself with her surroundings- be that toys, people or pine straw.
I should’ve known.
It was 30 hours into labor when my midwife looked at me and announced:
“This is not your story to tell.”
Time stopped. My heart stopped. My tears flowed.
Aurora had two cords wrapped around her neck at birth, delaying her arrival for good reason.
My midwife looked me dead in my eyes to tell me when to push, when to pause and suddenly, urgently, when, with a roar, to give it my all.
From the beginning, my daughter and I have challenged one another.
Now, the tween years- the ones everyone before me has warned of.
I fruitlessly planned for Aurora’s birth.
I refuse to plan for these next days.
Instead, I meet her where she is, each day.
Just like her birth, it’s not easy.
It never was.
We cry, we argue, we admit our mistakes and we hug.
Anyone who has lost someone will tell you that grief is non-linear.
Some days you realize it’s been several hours since you thought of your loved one which then triggers a new wave of sadness, realizing how the passing time has shaped your grief.
Grief surprises my family at any point, all throughout any regular day.
Nights are the most challenging, when my daughters lie down to sleep and miss their bunny brother.
Walking into the living room to see the empty fireplace where he sat upon his throne is hardest for me. And the other morning before school, when I went to grab a glass bowl out of the cupboard and realized it was the one we used as his water dish. I openly wept.
I had to correct my husband, someone who has never owned a pet before, when he referenced the point in time when we would “get over” our loss of Oreo.
No.
That’s simply not how grief works.
You never, ever “get over” the loss.
Instead, I recently came across an article about grief as a ball in a box that contains a pain button. In the beginning, the ball is large and almost always triggers the pain but in time, the ball gets smaller, hitting that grief button less often. Still, the intensity of the pain of the loss never dulls. It’s as if it just happened, no matter how much time has passed.
When we first heard the shocking, tragic news, I encouraged my girls to grieve openly. Not to hide. Suppressing only prolongs. We wailed and howled. Each girl took turns collapsing into my arms; sometimes, I held all four at once. We were away from home and we were broken.
Others nearby thought a close human family member must have died. When they learned it was “just” our rabbit, they were relieved and had a hard time understanding the intensity and duration of our sadness.
“I’m sorry our grief makes you uncomfortable.” I quickly retorted.
But I will never apologize for the open expression of our sadness.
“You don’t get to tell me about “sad”.” -Taylor Swift “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?”
New Leaf Parenting 