It occurred to me today as I let my youngest child leave the house with terribly mismatched clothing and hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in days, that I have definitely changed. First-time parent me made sure that the eldest child was dressed to impress everywhere we went. Spit up on that onesie? Change into a fresh, new one! Jelly on your shirt? We’ll have to go home and get a new outfit! I’m not sure I recognize that version of myself anymore. And, if my youngest daughter’s foray out into the world looking like a street urchin straight from the pages of Oliver Twist is any indication, this version of myself may no longer exist.

Have I given up or have I gotten smarter?

This is the question I was asking myself this morning. Do I just not care what my kids look like? Am I ambivalent to their appearance? The answer is a resounding NO. I care, I do. I’m big on collared shirts when appropriate; making sure clothes match and are wrinkle free. I’m not an animal and I haven’t lost all sense of propriety. I have, however, realized that not every occasion calls for a dress code. This revelation must have happened over time. I have no real memory of the shift, but here I am—and it’s awesome.

Look, we all start out in this parenting game with preconceived notions of how it will be and what it will look like. Then, we actually have a child and realize within about seven minutes that we had NO idea. None. The ideas and images that we created in our minds of what parenting would be like are so far from reality; they’re comical. But, most of us still hold on to them for a good, long while. We still try to ensure our parenting and our children resemble those fictional ideas in our minds. And, when the inevitably don’t, we beat ourselves up about it. We wonder why we can’t seem to live up to our fictional expectations? The answer: change your expectations.

Lower The Bar

I’m here to tell you that lowering your standards is sometimes the most wonderfully liberating thing you can do for yourself. Like all good things, it should probably be done in moderation, but the results are life-changing. My guideline for lowering the bar is the ten-year question—“will this matter in ten years?” You can adjust the time frame to whatever works for you, but you get it. If my child’s asparagus costume for the school play is purchased and not handmade—will this matter in ten years? Nope! Click away and praise Amazon! What if I miss my son’s soccer game to meet up with a friend I haven’t seen in months—will this matter in ten years? Heck no, that child probably won’t even remembered he played soccer in ten years. You see where this is going. It’s all about perspective. I love perspective, but it’s usually only available after the fact, so fast forward, look back and think about how much this REALLY matters.

The truth is very few things matter. Is your child loved? Safe? Growing and developing? I think you’re winning life if you answered yes to all of these questions. It doesn’t matter if they are the smartest kid in their class; if they’re the star of the hockey team. That stuff is great and should be celebrated, but it doesn’t MATTER. It also says nothing about you as a parent.

This is the hard part for a lot of us. We assume our children, their appearance and accomplishments are a reflection of us. This isn’t true. I know we’ve all been sold this bill of goods, but it’s false and it’s making us all too hard on ourselves and our kids. Are you responsible for guiding your children, giving them a moral compass and providing them with boundaries? Absolutely. Are your responsible for ensuring that they excel at sports, academics and extracurricular activities? Nope. Not all kids are going to be good at sports or school or playing the piano. It’s a numbers game, people and not every child is talented at everything. They’re not supposed to be. If they were all so awesome at everything, how would they set themselves apart? How would they or, the world, know where their true talents lie? Repeat after me: My child will not be good at everything and that’s how it’s supposed to be!

So, lower your bar. I’m not saying you promote some crazy bacchanalia where there are no rules, unlimited video games and no expectations. But, before you make yourself crazy, ask yourself if the source of your insanity really matters? Here’s a hint: most of it doesn’t matter. So, let them rock their mismatched, sometimes (gasp) dirty clothes. Skip baths to finish watching a movie together. And, if you’re like me and you find yourself out in public with a child that looks like they just rolled out of bed, embrace it–bed hair, don’t care!

Everyone needs something to look forward to in life. And, I don’t mean the regular stuff, like retirement, seeing your children grow into fully formed humans, etc. That stuff is all well and good, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about something that will happen in the near (like 12-18months) future. Something, that when you think of it or talk about it you can’t even keep the smile from gracing your face. Something, that makes YOU happy; that is purely and selfishly all about you.

I’ll go first. In approximately 52 hours (but who’s counting?), I will embark on my annual girls’ weekend. This consists of being reunited with eight of my dearest friends from college for a 72-hour period. It is MAGIC. There is no other way to describe the feeling of being with these girls. It is an amazing time when we come from all over the country, leaving behind countless children, spouses, pets and responsibilities to just be with each other.

You see, that’s part of the beauty of this trip. We do NOTHING. We do nothing but be ourselves and be with each other. Sure, we’ll go out to eat, drink too much, go shopping, maybe see some local sights. But, what we are truly doing is soaking up the beauty of being with each other. We are swimming in true love and acceptance. We are basking in the glory of focusing only on ourselves, each other and this rare opportunity to hear all of the funny/crazy/heartbreaking stories of the past year. Thanks to our pal technology, we communicate constantly; so we know what’s going on in each other’s lives. But, this weekend is our big chance. Our chance to give hugs, hold hands, laugh until we cry—in person.

We plan our trip out a year in advance. Then, we get to look forward to it—FOR A YEAR. It’s never a good time for any of us to pick up and leave. Every one of us has to make this a priority. We have to commit when there are a million and one reasons why we shouldn’t. Some, or all of us, are missing important work meetings, life events or child milestones.  We all have wonderful spouses and support systems who get it. They get that this weekend is our thing. It’s our thing we look forward to, it’s our thing we get excited about months/weeks/days before it even happens. The anticipation is half of the fun.

There will be numerous texts this week about what we’re packing, the weather conditions, what kind of groceries we’re ordering and who is bringing hairdryers. These are important things. These are the little tiny details that get us all excited about sitting in a room together in our pajamas, drinking too much wine and eating too many carbs. We will all be running full speed until we get on the airplane or in the car to leave. But, once we reach that destination, we are only about each other. This is the magic. In our lives that are filled with wondrous, drama-filled, action-packed days—this is our chance to stop and breathe. Our chance to remember that we are women first.

Before we were somebody’s partner, mother, or boss; we were women and we were friends. When life’s big decisions consisted of what we would wear to go out on a Thursday night; we were friends. When we were barely formed and, let’s be honest, not even close to being adults; we were friends. We were friends who knew each other. Knew, and still know, all of the little things about each other that make us who we are. Silly things like, who hates orange, who is the most likely to get up on a stage and sing, who loves to “share” food, who talks too much (ahem), and who we can count on to make us laugh when they begin talking to strangers in a bar. Now, thanks to life and time, we know all of the big things too. We know the kind of women we really are. We know where we’ve had success and where we’ve struggled. We know how each of us handles illness, loss and grief. We know the make up of each other. We know each other’s hearts.

The hearts haven’t changed. The hearts are the same as they were in those eighteen year-old girls that met so long ago. This weekend, and what we get to look forward to, is getting to visit that special piece of our heart. The piece that makes us who we are. The piece that started forming long ago, that we’re always grateful for, but don’t necessarily take the time to acknowledge. That piece of our heart that makes us the kind of daughter/mother/partner/boss that we’re proud of. We get to take a time out and be with people that make us remember what we’re made of—this is the magic.

Maybe you don’t have a weekend? Perhaps you don’t have this network of old friends? I get it. This is a real blessing and one I’m not foolish enough to believe is possible for everyone. We are all managing families, relationships, careers and aging parents. We very rarely have the luxury of moments that belong just to us; of spaces where we can just sit and be. But, for yourself, your sanity and your heart–find something that you can look forward to. Maybe you take an art class once a month? Or schedule an adult dinner with your best girlfriend? Perhaps you go and see a movie that you’re interested in all by yourself? Schedule a minute or two that allows you to connect to the pieces of your heart. Then, look forward to it. Think about—think about what you’ll wear, how you’ll get there, what it will feel like once you are in the middle of it. Allow that anticipation to get you excited and nervous and happy. Know that making yourself a priority, even for an hour, a day, a weekend—is really important. Find something to look forward to; I promise you won’t be disappointed.

Why is no so hard for everyone? No one likes to be told “no.” No one likes to say “no” to someone else. No is getting a really bad wrap. Maybe it starts early on, I can say with certainty that a “no” issued to a small child can instantaneously reduce them to tears, or better, a tiny full-bodied rage. Tell a ‘tween “no” and you could get a more subtle sigh, an eye roll or a general look of disdain. Say no to a well-meaning mommy friend and you may get a look of shock or outrage. You get my point, no one likes no.

But, sometimes, a lot of the time, actually no is necessary. No, you cannot eat Sweedish Fish for breakfast, no you may not punch your brother in the back, no you cannot stay on your device for all of your waking hours, no I don’t have forty extra hours in my week to dedicate to the school’s box top campaign—these are NO’s. These no’s are necessary. Some of them are necessary for safety and some for sanity. Whatever the reason, you need to be able to say no and own it.

Most of us don’t have a big problem when it comes to saying no to our children. This is usually because after your child begins moving around most of your “no’s” are to prevent them from bodily harm. Once they begin speaking, the requests become so frequent and outlandish, your no’s are almost a comedic reflex. So, saying no to little people becomes a normal part of your day. You feel no guilt, most of the time you don’t even think about before it comes out of your mouth—it’s a default, like breathing in and out.

It gets more complicated when the small people start really utilizing their little brains and begin formulating strong arguments and launching emotional campaigns. You are subjected to 2-3 minute diatribes about why they NEED a new Paw Patrol figure/another cookie/their own phone. I’ve been subjected to Power Point presentations that outlined the need for more video game time. The no here is harder, because you admire their approach. They’ve sometimes outlined a very thoughtful, clear and concise case. You’re proud of how they’ve articulated themselves. You don’t want to crush their dreams, but—yeah, NO!

Then, we have the teen/’tween no. This gets tricky. Sometimes you’re not sure of your no. Is what they’re asking really OK? Should you be letting them spread their wings some more? You have to start giving them some freedoms, but where? Do you let them have a phone? Ride in a car with their friends? Go to someone’s house you don’t know? Most of this is unchartered territory and you have no idea what you’re doing. You have to rely on your instinct and maybe some of your friends that have older kids and have been to this party. You’re going to have to hold your no sometimes, even when it gives you that weird squishy feeling in your stomach, because you have to let them grow up. You have to let them make mistakes and bad choices and pray that they learn something from them. If they don’t grow up; don’t have their own experiences, they could end up strange and isolated and living with you when they’re 43—and that’s a big NO!

The top of the no pyramid, in my opinion, is the peer no. This can be the toughest one. This is the no to your friend/co-worker/family member. This is the one that you sometimes feel badly about—so badly that you forget to say “no.” You know, when you want to say no to the mom who’s asked you to drive her kid to practice no less than 436 times. You don’t really mind, but at some point, you feel like she may be taking advantage—like when the coach thinks her child is actually yours. The co-worker who consistently presents you with deliverables at 4:30 p.m. on Friday probably deserves a “no,” but how often do you deliver it? The sister that always graciously “lets” you host every holiday, because she’s a giver like that—she may sometimes need a “no.” but, I’m willing to bet she doesn’t get it all that often.

This isn’t a matter of being a push over. Some of the toughest, most self-assured women I know have this problem. It’s not that they don’t know their minds, it’s not even that they’re afraid that people won’t like them. It’s that they feel that their no has to be justified. That justification is sometimes way too much work. It’s easier to take the kid to practice than to bring up to his mom that reciprocity might be a nice idea. It’s easier to stay late on Friday and finish your presentation than it is to confront your co-worker about their constant procrastination. And, it’s way easier to host Thanksgiving for 25 people than to delve into the depths of your sister’s issues with you that she has apparently been cataloging since you were both in diapers. Sometimes it’s easier to not say “no”.

Sometimes, the easy road is the best way. As you get older, you hopefully realize that some things don’t truly matter. They’re not worth wasting your energy. But, be careful my friends. For every NO you swallow, you are giving up something of yourself. Time, money, feelings—you sacrafice something for every “no” you don’t deliver. And, that’s not OK.

You don’t worry about justifying your no to the toddler. You’ve never once explained to your ‘tween all the reasons why they can’t have an $1,200 phone when they’re eleven years-old. So, why do you have to explain your no to anyone else? The answer is: you DON’T. You don’t have to have a reason and we all need to stop making them up.

You don’t need a previous engagement to decline an invitation. You don’t need to invent an excuse to decline volunteering for the school carnival. You’re allowed to have boundaries—and that’s exactly what a NO is—it’s a boundary. It’s a boundary for your child’s safety, your moral values, your time—it’s a boundary and it’s necessary.

Think of the alternative. A life with no boundaries seems like a scary place to be. Everyone’s boundaries are different, it’s not our place to judge where anyone else draws their line in the sand. It is our place to respect it and expect the same respect in return.

So, friends, embrace your inner mommy and just say NO! Say no when you mean it. Allow yourself to give in and re-consider your no, when necessary—you can change your mind; there are no final answers. Know that your NO is valid and doesn’t need an explanation. Anyone who thinks otherwise…they’re a NO!

I’ve just returned from an adult vacation—I know, poor me. I’m not complaining. I am profoundly grateful for the opportunity to travel alone with my person. I realize that this is not a luxury that everyone has, so I very gratefully and very intentionally, soaked all of it up. It was a magical time.

Now, it is time to pay the proverbial piper—let the re-entry commence. I remember when my girlfriend first shared the term “re-entry” I laughed so hard, I cried. I thought it was the most eloquent way to describe the process of returning to your regular life after vacation. You are truly re-entering into a completely different atmosphere. You’ve been in rarefied air and must now return to your earthly duties. I’ve never actually been on a spacecraft, but I have to imagine re-entry is turbulent, so that’s spot-on, as well. You’ve seen a magical place, had an otherworldly experience and now you’re thrust back in to—your normal existence.

I’m not knocking normal existence. My normal is existence is, on the whole, fabulous. I love what I do, I love the people I’m surrounded by and I am a happy gal. But…vacation me, she’s the stuff dreams are made of. Vacation me has no schedule unless it’s to see something beautiful or be on time for a fabulous dinner that someone else prepares, serves and cleans up. Vacation me is responsible to no one, except my traveling partner and he’s good fun, so no real responsibility there. Vacation me wakes when she’s done sleeping, leisurely dresses for any or NONE of the activities she has planned. Maybe she’s strolling through a city or she may be parked on a beach chair—the world is her oyster. Vacation me also has cocktails at every meal because she drives no where and has NOTHING to do—prosecco at 9:00 a.m.?–Don’t mind if I do! Wine with lunch? –Of course! If it makes me sleepy, I’ll just TAKE A NAP! There are no rules for vacation me.

Vacation me is carefree, sleeps soundly, checks in with her people daily and thinks of them fondly. She remembers all of the cute things they did and said thus far in their young lives. She conveniently forgets their constant bickering/messiness/forgetfulness/smart mouths. Their absence has truly made her heart grow fonder. She muses about all of the joy they’ll bring her upon her return, when they behave like new children and never cause her a second of aggravation. Vacation me is an amazing mother and she’s doing a great job.

But, like all good things, vacation me must come to an end. She must return to her loving, well-behaved children and perfectly organized life and resume adulting. So, vacation me begins re-entry.

The initial re-entry is just what she was hoping for. She’s met with sweet, smiling faces that have missed their beloved mother and are so excited she’s returned. This euphoric feeling lasts for approximately two and a half minutes. At around the two minute mark the small people realize that the source of food/answers/clean clothing/conflict resolution has returned and it is ON! Cue the turbulence.

There is generally a report by each child that involves the misdeeds of siblings along with an enumerated list of all of the things that I forgot to do/leave/provide for them while I was away. Then, we move directly into the list of items that they think they need immediately for their very survival. There are so many people talking to me at once. There are no more wonderful people bringing me drinks—it’s all too much!

I try to allow myself time in the re-entry process to reacclimate, but these people are not having it. One or all of them is physically following me around, I can’t seem to shake them no matter how hard I try. So, I breathe deeply and allow myself to remember that they’re amazing and I’ve missed them—that works for about 30 seconds. They’re relentless. They’re requesting outrageous things from me like meals, signatures on school forms, answers to birthday party invitations—my brain is not ready. I am walking around in a daze trying to remember why I’ve returned to this madness.

I loose them for a blessed minute and hide in the bathroom. Here, I am able to take a breath and remember that muscle memory is a real thing and that surely I’ll be able to do this again. I give myself a fantastic pep talk and go out to face my doom—I mean children. I insist on receiving them one at a time, because my brain is just not ready for all of them at once. I have an audience with each of them, start making a list and promptly put everyone to bed—myself included.

The next morning is the real joy. It brings with it the first full day of real life. I’m honestly quite impressed with myself. The fact that I do this on a daily basis is nothing short of miraculous. The amount of things I’m forced to do before 8:00 a.m. and without prosecco is astounding. I manage to get everyone to their places of learning and begin to sift through the rubble.

The problem with re-entry is that it’s so abrupt. You are not gently eased back into all of the things. Also, no one took care of any of the things while you were away, so you essentially have all of things, plus a back-log of things—it’s a lot of things. Add to that equation that your brain is still in vacation mode, and it’s enough to make your head hurt.

Do not be concerned if you find yourself deep in the throws of re-entry for a while. Depending on the length or your absence, it takes several days or weeks to alleviate this pain. You may experience additional symptoms like extreme fatigue, anger or general malaise—this is all totally normal. Eventually, that muscle memory will kick in. You’ll get back in your groove and not even remember the vacation version of yourself. You’ll start operating on all cylinders and be able to listen to and answer more than one child at a time, you’ll have an updated calendar and know what you’re making for dinner. You’ll be back and it will all have been worth it.

Because, vacation you and me; she’s worth it. She’s so much fun. She sees and does the coolest things. She takes time for herself. So, you and I will continue to power through the brutality that is re-entry. We will amaze ourselves each time we return to our regular life. And, we will not judge ourselves too harshly if we still want to drink prosecco in the morning.

I knew this day was coming, but I find myself unprepared. Intellectually, I suppose I’m surprised it hasn’t already happened, but emotionally, you may have well just sucker punched me. My child is hurt and upset and I can’t fix it.

I can’t fix it and I know exactly how he feels. I can’t fix it and I want to cry for his little ten year-old self and for my little ten year-old self because I know how he feels. I can’t fix it and it’s a terrible feeling. I know this is a normal part of growing up, a setback that his brain will probably file away and not think about for a long time, if ever again. But, what if it isn’t? What if he just got an emotional scar? What can I do?

The answer to my unfortunate question on all fronts is –NOTHING. Sure, I can counsel him through the experience and help him cope, hopefully, minimizing the impact or turning into a valuable lesson, but, I can’t DO anything.

Hello, vulnerability, we meet again. It’s never nice to see you, but I find this encounter especially unpleasant because you’ve involved my child–low blow, even for you. I think I’ve found a whole new level to this misery. It’s one thing to put yourself out there, here I am Universe, I’m open, vulnerable—let the magic/terror begin. But, to have to trust “the process” and “do the work” when it comes to my offspring—why don’t I just give him some knives to juggle? Or drop him off at the park at night alone, next to a creepy white van with no windows? I’m sure it will all work out.

My best friend had children several years before I did. I vividly remember sitting with her and her toddler one day and asking her what it was like—having a child, being a mother? I still remember what she said, “It’s like having a piece of your heart walking around on earth.” As a writer, I appreciated the mental picture she painted, but I didn’t get it. Not because I’m obtuse or lack empathy, but because there are some things that are unable to be understood without experiencing them. What does Paris smell like? How does it feel to loose someone you love? Have your heart broken? For lots of these things, you can read about it, hear about it, but to truly understand it–you kinda have to be there.

Being a parent is one of those things. You have to look into a weepy little person’s face that is soley your responsibility and looks to you for answers, comfort and emotional security and know that you have no answer and maybe you can try to provide some comfort, but other than that—you got nothin’. You are left completely exposed as a fraud because your little person thinks you have all of the solutions –but this is it, the first chink in your armor. Maybe it’s not today, but the day is fast approaching when they know—they don’t think, they KNOW, that you can’t fix everything. And, that, my friends, stinks because it means they’re growing up. And, yes, that’s not a bad thing and sort of the point of this whole parental experiment, but when it’s looking you in the face—how many bottles of wine does that wine fridge hold?

So there’s that on top of the fact that your child is hurting. Whether it’s because they didn’t get that part in the school play, got cut from the team, or some other kid—who’s parents are clearly terrible and not trying to improve themselves in any way. Not that I’m judging, because I’m off the judgement—thanks, Gabby Bernstein—progress, not perfection, don’t judge me—my child is hurting and I can’t make it stop. Because, they’re bigger now, their little minds are forming into wonderful spaces that write prose that impress you and paint pictures that look like legit art. They’re bigger and everyone says it, and it’s a stupid cliché, but little kids little problems; big kids, big problems—and let’s be honest people, clichés are clichés for a reason—they’re freaking true most of the time!

And, while this “problem” is probably not truly defined as such—no one is sick or in danger, but no matter how trivial it is, it comes with all the feels. Their feels, their tiny little onesie-wearing– because that’s always how I’ll see them—feels. I want to swaddle them and sway them and shush them, even though they are almost as tall as me. That’s the thing when you mother someone, it’s constantly changing and everything is a moving target, but at the same time, it all comes down to that baseline instinct “you are mine and I am to take care of you.”

When my first son was an infant, my uncle became gravely ill. My grandmother flew down and rushed to his bedside. I remember sitting in his hospital room with the two of them and watching her. She would wipe his brow and clean his mouth, she’d brush his hair back from his eyes. I remember sitting there and having the most profound epiphany. All of my life these two people had existed as my uncle and my grandmother, independently. In that moment I realized that I was watching a mother and her child. That she was tending to him exactly like I was tending to my infant son. He was a grown man and there was no difference. And, I got it.

This love is so enormous, so overwhelming that it sometimes feels like too much–too much responsibility, too much pressure, too much hurt. It is the ultimate experiment in vulnerability. Your whole heart is walking around out there. You have to let them be hurt and fix themselves. You have to allow them the space to figure things out on their own, when you know the right answer. Because, at the end of this journey, you have to let them go. You let them go and pray. Pray you’ve filled them with enough love, laughter, morals, goodness. Pray that the world takes it easy on them and that the big things come at them in waves and not all at once. And, pray that that fridge may never run out of wine.

A few years ago the term “tiger mom” became a part of our vernacular, thanks to Amy Chua and her best-selling memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom. The book detailed Chua’s traditional Chinese parenting philosophy. Whether right or wrong, Wikipedia now defines a tiger mom as, “a term which refers to the process of strict or demanding parents who push and pressure their kids to be successful academically by attaining high levels of scholastic and academic achievement, using authoritarian parenting methods regarded as typical of childrearing.”

Now, I don’t consider myself to be a tiger mom or necessarily subscribe to the philosophy, but I also try not to judge other people’s parenting styles. I feel like anyone who wants to give you their advice on parenting you should immediately discount, because if you think you that you’ve got parenting all figured out you’re either delusional or mentally disturbed. No one knows how to do this, we are each as clueless as the mom/dad sitting next to us on the bleachers screaming for our ten year-old to “hit it like you mean it”—whatever that means. Youth sports is the quickest way for normal adults to loose their sanity, but that’s a topic for another day.

So, I’m not judging tiger parenting philosophically. I’m more interested in a specific phylum of tiger mom and that is: the undercover tiger mom. You know who I’m talking about it’s the parent who is obviously pushing their child and calling the shots but acts as if their little angel is just a miraculous prodigy. The parent who stands by the MIT worthy science project that was in no way thought of or created by a second grade child but claims “she just did it all on her own, I didn’t even help her.” The mom who beams at the honor roll assembly because her little Johnny is just “naturally gifted.” Meanwhile, little Johnny spends at least 8 hours a week at Kumon working on his “natural” gifts.

I’m not hating on you, tiger moms, but do everyone a favor and own it. The true tiger mom is not embarrassed by her philosophy or her parenting; she wears it like a badge of honor. You undercover tiger moms need to take note. Because you’re causing all of the rest of us non-tigers to really question whether we want to hang out with you. I don’t give a flip if your child is a cello virtuoso, I actually find that dedication amazing. I mean, I have a hard time committing to the “no drinking during the week” rule, so clearly, dedication is not second nature to me. I think you do you and your child a disservice by discounting all of the work it takes to excel at something—anything. If your child puts in all of that work/practice shouldn’t they be acknowledged for it? You’re the one driving/paying/arranging all of these lessons/practice/tutoring, don’t you deserve some parenting props as well?

The truth of the matter is, that tiger parenting may be amazing for you and your kids, good for you, go on with your bad self. Just because I choose not to adopt the same philosophy doesn’t mean I don’t respect yours. So, why act like it’s “no extra work” or “just happens naturally?” Because now all of the non-tiger kids and parents just feel dumb. Little Suzie had “no help” on her science project and created a perfect environment to grow and culture bacteria while, non-tiger Jimmy has taken on the scientific gold of determining which floor cleaner is most effective. And, believe me, I don’t believe everyone should get an A or a trophy just for trying. I believe if Suzie spent 2 weeks in the dark growing bacteria she deserves and should be proud of her accomplishment. So why not celebrate the extra work?

It’s like the friend we all have that makes the best cookies/margaritas/champagne cocktail (I choose my friends carefully), but will never divulge the recipe. Why? If something is good, why not share? Scarcity is a real thing, people, but, for areas of drought or famine, not accomplishments. There are plenty of A’s to go around. There is plenty of success for everyone. My achievement does not negate yours. You know why? Because, success does not look the same for everyone. What I consider to be a successful day may involve doing little to nothing while watching bad TV without guilt and consuming far too many carbs, I’m not saying it’s for everyone—you do you!

But, be honest. Pretending like your are something that you’re not whether it be rich, smart, a good dancer has never been and will never be cool. And, the truth of the matter is, it’s got to be exhausting. It’s also is incredibly ineffective. Here’s a clue undercover tiger: EVERYONE KNOWS! Everyone knows you’re taking all of the extra steps and doing all of the extra things. Here’s the other newsflash: NO ONE CARES!

Life is not a competition—if you don’t believe that, well then I apologize you wasted the time it took you to get to this point in the article. That also doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be competitive. There is no one that hates to loose more than me. I have never “let” my kids win a game because I think that is stupid. Life is tough and sometimes you’re the winner of the game and sometimes the loser—both lessons are equally valuable. There is always a time for healthy competition athletically, academically, professionally– we should be teaching all of our kids that the real competition is with yourself. What does the next best version of you like? Is it mastering that piece of music? Is it achieving that high test score? Is it showing up to school everyday with your belt on? There are levels, people. The point is tiger, non-tiger—whatever your philosophy—be comfortable with it, celebrate it—grow your bacteria! I’ll be over here with my margarita and bad TV.

How Writing Down Goals Actually Helped Me Feel Accomplished

I am a list writer. I love a list. I love everything about a list. I love making it, it’s like my brain takes a deep breath, kicks it shoes off and sits back in its favorite chair. And, crossing things off the list? Don’t get me started, I don’t think I have adequate words—it’s like nirvana. If I manage to play my cards right here on earth, I imagine my days in the afterlife will be spent in Heaven just crossing off lists. The depth of pleasure and satisfaction it gives me is absurd.

So, while a to-do list is my jam, I am very hesitant to write down long-term goals. I’ve ready tons of articles and books that emphasize the importance of this step. I get there is something to it. There was a study done at Dominican University that actually proved that people that wrote down their goals had a significantly higher chance of realizing them. So, why the hesitation?

I think, for me, like a lot of us, it goes back to good old failure. Or, if we drill even further down, it’s straight up fear. If I write down what I want to accomplish, I’m going “on the record” it’s out there, in the Universe and now I have to answer to it. I either achieve it or I don’t. I succeed or I fail. It’s personal vulnerability at it’s best. I’m not a fan of vulnerability.

All The Feels–UGH!

Vulnerability and I have such a love/hate relationship—we break-up at least once a week, but somehow we always end up back together. I try to avoid it, I’ll even start dating other people like judgement or self-doubt, but vulnerability always weasels its way back in, it’s a creeper. Most likely because all roads lead back to it, it’s like the annoying mom at school that always wants you to sign up to volunteer for something—you can only avoid her for so long, until one day you just have to smile and sign up.

So, I did. I signed up. I made a list of goals. I read at least 345 articles on goal setting, because, you know—procrastination. Also because, if I am going to write down these goals I want them to be spectacular, like the best goals that have ever been, because Type A, perfectionist—really batting a thousand thus far in goal setting. After my “research” I tried to make them “SMART” Specific, Measurable, Acheivable, Realistic and Timely—the list maker in me LOVES an acronym! But, they didn’t all meet this criteria.

It gets confusing. One of my goals was to “improve my yoga practice”—ok, that meets like none of the SMART guidelines. But, I completely rationalized this because when I put specifics on something like that—“I want to practice at least four times a week” or “I want to get into a tripod headstand” I find that actually negates some of the beauty of the yoga. Also, I’m supposed to be gentle with myself and getting mad at myself for not getting to practice yoga seems both counterintuitive and just plain dumb. So, I gave myself some grace on the goals and made them specific but not so much that I felt like they were strangling me—see how I outsmarted vulnerability there? Winning.

I womaned up enough to write down the goals just after the New Year, because, I’m clearly a giant cliché. You guys, it took me a minute, it was not easy, I definitely had all the feels putting pen to paper. (Yes, I wrote them down in my planner because I am a hundred years old and still use pens and a paper planner—don’t judge!) After that little exercise was over, I felt very relieved and also like I was on top of my self-development game. I did the thing that scared me, I’m facing fear in the face –go me! Then I promptly ignored them and never looked back at them for two months. Now, during this two month period I was aware they were there. I carefully avoided the front portion of my planner where they lived because I’m a multifaceted person who is self-evolved and practices avoidance—it’s a gift.

Well, here, dear reader, is where the surprise comes in. On the last day of February, when I was actually feeling a bit lost and floundering—“What am I doing with my life?” “What do I want to be when I grow up?” “Do these kids have any coping skills?” “Why can’t I mange to take the 486 bags of donations I have to the charity drop-off?’ for some reason unbeknownst to me (thanks Universe!) I turned to the page of goals. I’m sure I was looking for more fuel for my pity fire, but that’s not what happened. Guess what? I had accomplished or was on the brink of accomplishing quite a few! Trust me, no one was more surprised than me. I am still surprised. I really can’t explain it.

Some of the goals were closely related to some of the BS worries that kept playing on repeat in my head. When I looked back and realized that I was actually making progress I felt a runner’s high (ok, I don’t personally know what that feels like, but I have an imagination and empathy—so, work with me). It was like looking at some of my fears and anxieties and telling them “suck it fears and anxieties! I’m not even half as afraid of you as I was because, I’m dominating you—like you’re my cabana boy and I need another mojito—make it quick, dominating you.” (I would like to go on record to say that I will always judge people for the way they treat anyone in a service industry, so be nice to cabana boys, that was just a colorful simile to prove a point.) But, truthfully, looking at that list didn’t make me feel badly about myself, it made me feel empowered. It gave me perspective.

Perspective is a wonderful and often elusive thing that I battle with on a daily basis:

Me: I’m supposed to bring in cupcakes for the Valentine’s party at school. I’ll have to make them from scratch, buy the silicone baking forms shaped like hearts, offer two colors so that no gender is offended and we promote gender equality/neutrality—look up the politically correct term there, don’t want to offend any first graders, get sprinkles, also sugar, look for cute cupcake wrappers—they must have those. This will ensure my child knows I love and care for them.

Perspective: Child does not care if cupcakes are black, blue, made on the side of the road with rancid ingredients, child just wants to eat a cupcake. Also, child does not associate said cupcake with love or caring, only a sugar high. Also, apply all previous statements to other first graders.

Often times, while in the midst of something perspective is your savior. It literally pulls you out of your funk/crazy/panic mode/downward spiral. In this case, looking back at the goals I had written down provided me with the bigger picture. Had I achieved them all? Hell to the no. I hadn’t even thought about some of them since writing them down (but, that was kind of a good reminder too). I wasn’t able to cross them off the list or say goal achieved (I imagine when that happens it will be in the voice of James Earl Jones inside my head—I feel like it deserves some fanfare in my inner monologue)—but, I was able to acknowledge that I have been doing the things. As my pal Dory says, “just keep swimming.” I have been swimming and maybe some days it’s been in a hurricane with riptides, but I’ve been showing up. Maybe I haven’t made it as far as I’d like, but I’ve made progress and that, my friends, is something! So, thanks, perspective and SMART goals for all the pushes toward the water. I will keep swimming.

The hardest thing about this parenting gig, in my opinion, is it’s longevity. It literally never ends. You can be 99 years-old and you’re still someone’s mother. I’m not quite there yet, but, I doubt you stop worrying about them or thinking about what they’re doing. My mother still wants me to call her when my plane lands. There’s a part of you out there roaming the planet.

So, the question I find myself facing is how do you persist throughout all of the phases of parenting? There are tons of books on babies. The infant stage is certainly terrifying in its own special way, but I find the stages that follow are far more horrific. And, no one talks about those except for my favorite adage, “little children, little problems; big children, big problems.” Super. Very comforting, imagine it in that movie trailer announcer’s voice and it’s like you’re getting ready to watch a horror film.

Little Kids Are Fun And Easy

Elementary school starts off sweet, but then you’re faced with a minefield of bullying, social issues, learning styles. I feel like it used to be you went to Kindergarten, you colored, you learned to read in first grade, maybe you learned cursive in third grade? It seems far more complicated now. Now, we have the great fortune to identify that kids don’t all have the same learning style. We can pinpoint issues like ADHD, dyslexia, processing disorders and the like with relatively simple testing. The problem is after you figure out how your child is different you have to send them back into an environment that is exactly the same.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not blaming the system. There are now so many alternatives in education and schools are doing more and more to accommodate kids that have an alternative learning style. But, overall, if you want to be a successful student, in the traditional sense, you have to stay inside the box, for the most part. So, this puts the onus on the parent to try to teach your child how to figure out how their little mind works and, then, how it can go around the boxes, while still ticking them. Sounds easy.

You also get to navigate all of the social challenges that start to arise, because apparently Mean Girls is now being revived in elementary school. This causes you to perform as an armchair psychologist while wondering why other peoples’ kids are such jerks, but never revealing that to your sweet child. You instruct to “take the high road,” “just ignore them” or my all time favorite, “tell your teacher”–because really at some point you just don’t know what to say and you’re hoping maybe the professionals might help you out. And, remember, we’re still in elementary school—we haven’t even seen the joys of puberty yet!

Then, we have the extra-curricular component whereby every child by the ripe old age of 8 needs to be fully committed and exceptional at something—baseball, violin, baton-twirling. You can’t just “try” something because it looks like fun, you have to have a private coach, practice 9 days a week, try out for travel baton-twirling, because nothing is just for fun—everything has a purpose. I mean, come on, you’re 8! Time to grow up and take responsibility for your choices.

And, if you have the great fortune of having more than one child, you can multiply all of these issues by said number of children. PLEASE NOTE: none of your children will have the same issues, because that would make some of your former parenting experience relevant and useful—and that NEVER happens.

It’s A LONG And Winding Road

So, thus far, we’re only in elementary school and I’m thinking how in the ever-loving love are we possibly going to be able to do this for the next 10+ years? I can hardly make it until Friday every week and I’ve started a summer count down in February. And, I’m trying to be present and not miss out on all the good stuff, but, people, this is HARD.

I mean it’s hard like at least once a day I find myself with genuine sad feelings about something that I’ve said or done parenting. Hard, like I really have no idea if I’m making the right choices or doing the right things for these people that I’m raising. Hard, like there is always of a wave of unease in my house because someone is having an issue of some kind. It’s hard and my question is: How do we keep doing it?

We are doing all of this with out any real instruction. All of us have no idea, let’s be honest. It’s like we’re all hurling through the Universe praying that we’re doing the right things and these kids turn out to be productive members of society—that’s all I’m looking for. I don’t need a Nobel prize winner or a rocket scientist. My end game is a kind, contributing member of society, who does not live with me.

So, we close our eyes, cross our fingers, and we guess. We base decisions off what we loved that our parents did for us. We change things because some of the things our parents did we think are just plain stupid. But, here’s the thing—they didn’t now what they were doing either!

We can’t just give up, right? Someone once told me that everyone stops parenting at some point. We all start off all-in, fully engaged and slowly we all step back, some of us too soon, others not soon enough. But how do we know? Especially now, when the world we live in matures our kids at a much faster rate. Your twelve year-old can probably utilize technology much better than you can and has been adept at something like baton-twirling for at least four years, so they are practically an adult. And, they think so too, so it’s easy to let up, to let them navigate on their own.

But where’s the balance? How do you know when to let up or put on the full court press? How do you know when to step in and save your child or let them fail? Because all of these kids need a lot more failure, to realize that it is, in fact, not the end of the world when something doesn’t work out. To have the divine gift of hindsight and perspective that only experience can bring you.

So, maybe that’s the answer for all of us parents too? Maybe we have to just keep closing our eyes, crossing our fingers and making the next right decision based on what we feel. And, pray to sweet baby Jesus that we get it right more times than we get it wrong. Because, we will get it wrong—it’s inevitable. But, maybe if we apply the 80/20 rule and the good stuff falls in the first category, these kids will be ok? They’ll get an education, have meaningful relationships, be a part of the world and not live with us. Eyes closed and fingers crossed.

Some Instruction Required

I’m within 48 hours of embarking on an annual girls weekend with all of my college girlfriends. It is easily one of my favorite weekends of the year. I’m very fortunate to be able to do this, I get that. I have reflected and feel a great deal of gratitude for this opportunity. But, the preparation required to leave this house and these animals has to be akin to the launching of a space shuttle—when space shuttles were still launched—darn it, now I feel old!

Back to leaving, which is glorious, and preparation, which is not. I will only be gone for one and a half school days and the rest is all weekend. The weekend I feel does not count, aside from getting to sports commitments and church, even I don’t care what these kids do on the weekend. But, we can’t screw up the school routine because I’ve been telling them all of this stuff is important and if you waver at all with these little people, they sense it. They’re like the scariest of predators in the wild waiting for your vulnerability to show so they can pounce and try to dominate you. I won’t go out like that. I refuse to let these little people win, but that means even when you’re on your annual drinking binge–I mean, girls trip–you’ve got to keep things running.

No One Does It Like You

Ain’t it the truth? I wish I knew why. I don’t consider myself to be even close to an exceptional mother. I think I’m fairly organized and intelligent, but I’m really nothing to write home about. So, the idea that I’m the most competent person running these people’s lives is scary, to say the least. This trip will involve the pre-making of dinners, lunches and snacks. It will include the selection and ironing of outfits that must be put out of reach until the appropriate time of wear. There will be copious lists and instructions for basically every person any of my three children come in contact with over the next 3 days.

Why is it so complicated?

Like every enigma the nuances are essential, yet hard to explain. For instance, if the four year old doesn’t have her item for sharing, she will go full tilt crazy, she will speak of nothing else for the next seven days. If you don’t remind the seven year old of his homework and stand over him like a warden he will simply not do it and be so thrilled that he cheated the system. The ten year old is fairly good and can even be of some assistance in locating items around the house, but he will inevitably not be able to locate an essential part of his soccer/school/church clothing because he is male and therefore lacks the ability to locate essential items five minutes prior to departing the house.

Let me also fully disclose that the caregivers that remain behind are extremely intelligent and competent people. My husband is a highly intelligent and capable person and truthfully does a great job, with a giant list of instructions—that he mostly ignores. My girlfriend calls it the manifesto. It is saved on my computer and updated anytime I leave the house overnight. There is a section for each child, for school, for extra curricular activities, carpools., you name it.

I’ve never attended a launch at NASA, but I feel like my manifesto would be competitive with any of their pre-flight documentation. And, I’m really not that particular. I’m not a crazy mom. I’m totally comfortable that my kids will be eating take out all weekend, drinking soda and going to bed too late.

I guess what it really boils down to is like any job, you can’t truly understand it until you do it for a while. I would not expect to go to your place of business and know how to send an email or even find a paper clip—are there still paper clips?—now I feel old, again!

So, in the scheme of things a little instruction is probably necessary for anyone taking off and leaving someone to take over their job for a few days. I should probably be easier on all of the wonderful people stepping up so I can take off. And really, let’s face it, as soon as I get on that plane I’m going to be pretending I’m 21 just like when I used to party with all of these girls I love so much. I’ll come back and put the pieces of my real life together next week, but this weekend I’ll party like a rock star—or better yet a mother of young children who doesn’t get out a lot—and those broads are CRAZY!!

Every time I think I’m doing a pretty decent job keeping myself and all of my people alive and free from harm, we get one. You know what I’m talking about—it’s either a national news story or a viral article that warns us that pretty much everything we ate last week may or may not have some deadly chemical/bacteria in it.

I’m glad to have the information. I’m thankful that someone is watching and asking the questions. I just wish they’d do it a little bit earlier, like before I fed whatever the offending food was to my entire family—FOR YEARS.

I get frustrated because I have actually spent a little bit of time trying to educate myself on how to eat healthfully. Thanks to our friend, the internet, most of us have a pretty good handle on what a healthy diet looks like. I’m not saying that we always follow it to the letter and don’t allow the occasional plate of chicken wings or slice of chocolate cake behind the velvet rope. The difference, for most of us, is when we do eat something not -so-healthy, it’s the exception, not the rule.

I know the rules. I’ve got it. I’m whole grain, leafy green, anti-oxidant-ing my way through this thing. I’m even imposing this on my children. Because, why would I go through all of the trouble of making you if I didn’t want you to be healthy? So, everyone, hostage or not, is on board. I spend time shopping for and cooking all of the “healthy” foods. I dedicate a lot of energy to very long conversations where I entice/suggest/demand that my little people eat said foods. I’m doing all the things. We have good nutrition, our gut health is on fire and our acidity levels are aligned. We’re not perfect, but, for the most part, we’re KILLING it!

Not So Fast

Until we’re not. Until we read the article or hear the story that tells us there’s been a “warning.” Our first instinct is denial. Surely, this is a food we’ve eliminated long ago. Clearly, we won’t be affected because we have the internet and we know things. We’ve gone to great lengths to ensure we are doing this right, so, it’s probably not going to bother us. We read on to find that all of the super healthy, organic, non-GMO, gluten free FILL IN THE BLANK is exactly what they’re talking about. Then, we make the ultimate mistake. We click on “the list.” “The list” details all of the offending foods. If the Universe is smiling on, you will scroll down that puppy and happily realize you consume none of these items. However, sooner or later, you’re number is up. You’ll scroll and realize that not only are you eating the offensive food, but it’s like one of your all time faves because ALL your kids like it. So now, you’re poising them. Super. Great. This is the exact opposite of what you meant to do!

This isn’t fair! We did the homework. We have to go to three stores on the regular to get all of the things. We pay double or triple the price because we’re trying not to poison our families with all of the stuff they told us was bad. What do we do now? I guess we could grow our own vegetables or raise our own chickens, but that’s just one step too far for me. I’d really love to be awesome home garden, composting, egg-gathering lady, but I’m not. I want all of those home-grown, chemical free things, but, I want to buy them—like in a store.

What Now?

Since, I’m clearly not going to take up farming, and I like to eat, I don’t have a lot of choices. I don’t have a good answer. I guess you and I will just have to keep on keeping on. We’ll have to continue to use our pal the internet to see what we should be eating, and curse it when it tells us that we’ve been duped. We’ll keep making the best decisions with the information that we have, and hope and pray that maybe one of these smart kids we’re raising will figure out a better way. If we use the law of averages, we’re probably all doing better than OK, so that should count for something. We’re probably getting it right most of the time. I will try to take solace in that. But, if there is a wine “warning” all bets are off.