a little less douchey monday

It was a day like many. A good strong start thanks to STG making breakie. A packed-work schedule. A couple hours spent A) thinking bulimia's not that bad a way to go after stepping on the scale for the first time in 2 months and B) dreading spending more months working off the weight I've already lost but for some reason re-found. It was a day that started strong but was faltering. 

And then this happened: 

If you aren't on Twitter, you don't care. If you are on twitter and aren't a girl or a celebrity watcher or into funny funny YouTube series or didn't watch TV in the 90's or now, you don't care. If you are me, you are all those things. And you squealed REALLY LOUDLY IN YOUR HEAD when you saw the notification. 

Tim Daly - sensible big-brother pilot on Wings. Heartthrob doctor. Internet sensation. Less douche Dad - retweeted something I said. Granted, I said it about him, his son and their YouTube series, but still. He liked it enough to retweet it. 

It's a funny thing, and yes, I truly am just that shallow. All of a sudden, my rapid weight gain is no big thing. A (very hot) complete stranger, whose TV shows I just happen to really enjoy, clicked a button on Twitter, and suddenly ... better day. 

I still have 47 pounds to lose (39 to re-lose - sneaky bastards); I still have a mountain of work to do and some major deadlines to face. I still have a long list of things to get done in a home I just want to go home and collapse in and enjoy. 

But who cares - Tim Daly retweeted me. And that makes this whole day just 'A little less douche.' 

PS - Watch Tim and his son Sam on 'The Daly Show' on YouTube - I promise you will laugh! 

a pox on perfection

Perfection, it occurs to me, is the silent murdered of happiness. And I'm guessing I'm not the first to experience that. If you saw my life, you probably wouldn't think I strive much for perfection - my hair is frequently long past its cut-date. I'm perpetually 10-30 pounds overweight. I often have wrinkled and/or spotted clothes on (they could be freshly laundered, and I'd still manage to get something on them by the time I get to work). Try as I might, my home is never quite clean. And as for the stuff that really matters - my relationships - well, honestly, it's probably a good thing I have other things to distract me from how imperfect I am in relation to the people I really love. 

I had a little (okay, not that little) melt-down last night. And for the life of me, I couldn't REALLY articulate what it was about. I was tired. Am tired. And behind with work. Unpacking in our fabulous new home seems to be taking forever, though in reality we've only been there 9 days. I was making dinner & doing laundry & dreading working more in the evening and the weight of the spare room full of boxes was weighing on me, and I was texting with BB2 trying to support him and BLAMMO. Sniffles turned to tears. Weeping turned to snot-covered everything. Poor STG was left wondering whether to hold me or leave me alone. He wisely did some of each. 

It doesn't happen that often, contrary to popular belief. I'm actually a fairly tough cookie. But every once in  a while the weight of my expectations shatters me - lots of expectation I have of other people, although those are merely feathers compared to the Sisyphean expectations I have of myself. It's never reality that gets me - it's always looking for what I think I should be/do/have rather than celebrating how rich my life is and acknowledging myself. 

It's maddening, in both senses of the word. The truth is though, I've always thought there was some beauty in brokenness: in decay and the rebirth it inevitably leads to, or in the way fractured glass reflects and refracts the light. I've often thought it'd make a good photography project, if I was talented enough with a camera. Alas, another imperfection. 

For now my wearing away and refinement shows in my life instead of in pixels. And I hope that the end result of the process is similar - that I'm being refined rather than worn down. That the editor in me will recognize that sometimes what you remove makes the rest that much more beautiful. 

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oh mother-hood

Mother's Day is coming - it's inescapable. I've learned in the past to try to ignore it, but last week BB1 asked if he could take me out for dinner this Sunday, so this year at least I can acknowledge the day. I am honoured that he asked. 

Yes, they're cousins -  born 20 years apart

Every TV ad. Every radio conversation. Every other blog post I read seems to be about mothering/Mother's Day right now. They sing our praises, extol our supposed selfless-ness, encourage the purchasing of jewelry and spa treatments to repay us. Mostly they make me aware of how much I am NOT that mom in the ad. But I am a mom, and as content with that as I am with my other flawed identities. 

I began a comment this morning on 'Diary of a Mad Woman's post 'On Being an OLD Mom', but quickly realised that the comment was morphing into a post of its own. This post. I could go on and on about what it's been like for me being a 'young' mom - or a mom at all - but the job isn't over, so the story has no end.  

I was 20 when I got married, 22 when we welcomed BB1 into the world, and 42 when he and his brother left home simultaneously. For 12 of those years, it was just the 3 of us. We had the best of times, and the worst of times, and my daily prayer is that those two extremes balanced out. 

My first-born sister was 44 when she had her one and only - the light of his parents' and (now properly grandparent aged) grandparents' eyes, not to mention a complete joy to his mostly adult cousins and rested-enough-to-enjoy him aunts.

What I've observed and experienced is, being a mom is hard and delightful and the most confidence building and confidence shaking experience a woman can have. That was true when I was 22 and taking BB1 home from the hospital. It was true when I was 30 and the youngest mom in our middle-class middle-school. It's true of my high-achieving executive sister who I've only ever see really question herself at the thought of doing motherhood 'wrong.'

My sons are adults and I still spend sleepless nights worrying about if I'm doing enough. Or too much. Or the wrong thing entirely. We all do our best, and that best varies from day to day. We all learn as we go. We all stand - and sometimes cry - on the shoulders of those who've come before. We all light the way for those who will come after. And we all fight to be acknowledged for that job and still retain some sense of ourselves separate from the 'Mom' identity. 

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