You Are Not Allowed To Kidnap Lin-Manuel Miranda*

*Not actually a kidnapper. Promise.

Do you remember being a kid and being IN LOVE with Michael Jackson or Prince or NKOTB or Mark Wahlberg or Kurt Cobain or Dylan McKay or Brandon Walsh or Justin Timberlake or whatever other beautiful face you tore out of your Teen Beat magazine and taped to your mirror? I'm talking legit obsession here. These were the men (or women) you were going to have 1-4 kids and own a Mansion/Apartment/Shack/House with one day. (You remember MASH, right???)

The funny thing is, this never really happened to me. I didn't watch Saved by the Bell or Melrose Place or MTV like 99.3% of my peers, so most things pop culture flew right over my head. I did go to a New Kids on the Block concert, and I dutifully chose my favorite "Kid," (Joey McIntyre, obv). I was "Team Brandon" all the way (brooding bad boys aren't my style), even though I'd never actually watched 90210. Kind of like how my son memorized the entire plot-line of Star Wars two years before he'd even seen it. Faking the currency of cool.

Honestly, I just wasn't that into it. I think the closest I came to "fangirl" status was over sports stars. I had panoramic posters of Michael Jordan and Jerry Rice and Joe Montana plastering my walls. My girlfriends and I played football and basketball at lunch and fought mercilessly over who would get to be which player from the Bulls (I was BJ Armstrong, my BFF always got to be Michael Jordan - she was much, much better than me ;)), the Niners (my Montana to her Rice), or the Sacramento Kings (Spud Webb/Mitch Richmond, Peja/Webber). And of course, growing up in Sac, I'll always hold a special place in my heart for KJ, and forgive him his trespasses with the Phoenix Suns.

So yeah. I wasn't big on the teen heartthrobs... at least not in the typical sense. That is until I was 35 years old. Let me set the scene: September 2015. I was scheduled to do a presentation at the local high school on Constitution Day. On the way there, I heard a story on the radio about Hamilton. I could barely contain my excitement. I'd seen In the Heights years ago, and knew Lin had talent. But this - Broadway + Hip Hop + The Constitution? This is the holy trifecta in my book. I proceeded to geek out to a bunch of apathetic high school kids: "Like, ohmigod, you guys! A rap-musical about the founding fathers!!! How super awesome is that?! Class field trip to NYC?! Anyone? Anyone?" For some reason, the students' reactions were less than enthusiastic.

Surprisingly, it kind of fell off my radar for a while after that. I wanted to see the show at some point, but I hadn't yet fallen down the Hamilton rabbit hole. I tried to get tickets when we went to New York in February, but they were outrageously expensive so we saw The Book of Mormon instead. BUT THEN. I bought the cast album. That was four months ago. I don't think I've gone a single day without listening to it since.

When I first drank the Kool-Aid, I tried to get Daddy Mack on board. I showed him a couple of YouTube videos but he didn't seem to get the appeal. He actually said, a la Larry David, "Do white people just pretend to love it because it stars black people and they want to seem progressive and PC?" Um, no. Duh.

ANYWAY. I fell. Hook, line, and sinker. I was HELPLESS. (I briefly entertained the notion of writing an entire blog post in Hamilton quotes, but that seemed hard and a smidge more stalkery than I intended.)

Despite his skepticism, DM recognized that my feelings for Hamilton were not to be dismissed. I'm not sure if it was because Hamilton was playing every time he came home and every time he got into my car, or because I said "I HAVE to find a way to go to this show" about three times a day, but he picked up on these subtle clues. I was bonafide bonkers for Hamilton, and he decided to do something about it.

I cried. He laughed. I said, "I can't believe you did this!" He replied, "Are you kidding? You've literally never wanted anything more in your life. Of course I did." Swoon. Best of husbands, best of humans, right there. <3

So we went. Across the country. With kids in tow. For 96 hours. If it takes 6,000 miles and an unmentionable amount of dollars to see Hamilton, it will have been worth it.

(Also, the kids were angels and the patron saint of traveling with small children was smiling down upon us when seats were assigned. Thank you, Jebus. Thank you, too, to my wonderful in-laws and also my adorable niece who provided free childcare and entertainment while DM and I escaped to NY for the night!)

First order of business: What to wear? Before we left DM said, "Is it cool if I just wear jeans and a shirt to the show?" (As we both did to Book of Mormon a few months prior.) I said, "That's fine. You can wear whatever you want. But just so you know, I am going to be the most dressed up person there. Gotta bring my A-game, baby!" He rolled his eyes and warned, "You are not allowed to kidnap Lin-Manuel Miranda!" I replied, "Of course not! His wife seems amazing. I mean, a lawyer AND a scientist? How could I compete with that?! Maybe just... a sister wife?" ;) I admit I refer to Lin as "my boyfriend" on occasion, but honestly, I'm not that picky. I'd happily enter a plural marriage with Leslie, Daveed, or Pippa or Renee for that matter (and yes, we're on a first-name basis).

Laughin' at my sister cuz she wants to form a harem.
I'm just sayin' if you really loved me, you would share 'im.

So. I bought a dress. Which, by the way, nearly killed me. Literally. It's really long and has a bunch of different panels in the skirt and there's no way to pick them all up simultaneously. I quickly gave up trying to be sexy and graceful about it and started desperately grasping all the pieces in my sweaty paws, like when you try to carry a pile of laundry upstairs and you leave a trail of socks and underwear in your wake. Add strappy heels and steep carpeted stairs and it was basically a slinky red death trap. It was like trying to walk with a rabid octopus wrapped around my legs. I tripped at least seventeen times. The last time a complete stranger actually caught me in his arms and prevented me from tumbling down the stairs to my paralysis and/or mortification. Thanks, man!

Let me have my Kardashian moment, please.
This picture actually kind of freaks me out a little. I'm getting an Inception vibe.

Alluring, yet provides ample space for my "I had a baby four years ago-bump," aka burrito belly (or, in this case, pizza-by-the-slice belly). Two essential requirements of any good dress, in my opinion.

For some reason, I thought maybe once I actually saw the show, after listening to the soundtrack non-stop for months, that would sort of provide some closure for my obsession. The bookend, if you will. Uh, NOPE! It has only intensified my infatuation. I am halfway scheming to get back again before July 9th. I actually just entered a contest to win tickets and a meet-n-greet. I WILL NEVER BE SATISFIED!

Kinda like this.

I was discussing this with a friend (my MJ ;)) and we were saying - Yes, it's amazing, but, WHY soooo goooooood? I wish I could put my finger on it. Is it the insanely good music? The ridiculous turntable stage and brain-busting choreography? The on-point casting? The picture perfect costumes? Seeing 8 Mile-style rap-battles on Broadway? Yes, it's all of that, but that's not all.

It's not just Lin, either. I mean, the fact that he wrote the thing BOGGLES MY MIND. It physically hurts my grey matter when I try to wrap my mind around him writing biting, historically accurate raps about the founding fathers. Still, I saw In the Heights. It was good, and I love me some Usnavi. But it wasn't "Listen to the cast recording on repeat for 120 days"-good. It wasn't "Sell your first-born-child for tickets"-good. It wasn't "HOLY HELL I think I'm suffering from an acute myocardial infarction"-good. You know?

It actually felt like I was experiencing a minor medical emergency. Not like, "Call 911" or anything. More like the "Lie down, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning." I'm getting heart palpitations just thinking about it. It was basically a two-hour and forty-minute asthma attack. I was sweaty and fainty and I white-knuckled whatever of DM's body parts were within arms-reach. I was holding on for dear life. We had good seats, but I literally couldn't see straight because my eye-cups runneth over the entire time. I shouldn't have been surprised. I can't even not-cry listening to the "Stay Alive" redux for the 243rd time in the quiet of my own car. I didn't stand a chance "in the room where it happens." It felt like my synapses were firing in double-time. Like I was about to overload my motherboard. It was a wild ride that I didn't ever want to end.

It just... took my breath away. And by that I mean, I think I literally forgot to breath for the first 3 minutes and 56 seconds. And I'm not the only one who felt that way. The whole place was electric. Incendiary. A packed house of kindling waiting to be set aflame. "Ladies and gentlemen, you could've been anywhere in the world tonight, but you're here with us in New York City!" It was like church, or a wedding, or any other place it's not weird to hold hands and share tissues with strangers. We were collectively mesmerized. "How lucky we are to be alive right now!"

By the way, I was nervous that DM wasn't going to love it. I figured he'd like it well enough, but he'd mostly humoring me. I was disabused of that notion halfway through the intro song, when he leaned over and whispered, "I can already tell, this guy's going to be my favorite." Gotta love Aaron Burr. #BroMance #ManCrush. DM fell half in love with Eliza, too (who wouldn't). Three minutes in and he was a bona fide fan.

From the first line, it felt like someone cracked open my rib cage, grabbed hold of my heart in their big meaty fist, and never let go. Sweet Jesus. My six-year-old buddy Miss V went to the show last month and reportedly said "I'm so excited I can't control my body!" I know EXACTLY how she feels. I had an almost overpowering physical urge to stand up and start fist-pumping at various times throughout the show. It felt like my heart was going to spontaneously combust. It didn't, thankfully :) That energy and emotion leaked through my eye-holes instead. But I sniffed and snuffled in good company.

Then, I wanted to cry because it was over!

As soon as the lights came up, DM said, "Lets come back and see it again tomorrow!" Luckily (for our credit scores), there wasn't a show Monday.

Oh yeah, also, I was interviewed about Hamilton for a Japanese television show. LOL.

I was going to make DM stand in the Stage Door line with me, but I had to pee SO BAD (I held it the whole time! The line for the ladies was INSANE at intermission and there was zero percent chance I was missing one second of the show. I'd just as soon pee in my Hamilton sippy cup. Anyway, by the time we got outside it was utter mayhem. Fuhgeddaboutit. (Though I found out after the fact that Lin did Stage Door and I have major FOMO.)

I've daydreamed about what I would have said to them, though. Conducting entire imaginary conversations in the shower with people I will never meet has, heretofore, been solely my husband's gig. But things change, apparently. Honestly people, I don't even know myself anymore! I don't usually get star-struck. Celebrities don't excite me, as such. If I was sitting next to Beyonce and Jay-Z at a restaurant I'd be like, "Neato." Actually, I might ask to move to another table because God forbid Jay-Z accidentally looked in my general direction, I wouldn't want Bey to skin me alive and wear me as a bodysuit.

On the other hand, if I encountered any cast member from Hamilton, I'd probably melt into a wheezing puddle on the sidewalk. But this is what I would like to think I would have said:

To Leslie Odom Jr. (Aaron Burr): How many times a day do people walk up to you and say, "Are you Aaron Burr, sir?" Also? Will you be my husband's boyfriend? ;) (Is there a way to say that without sounding creepy?) Seriously though, SO GOOD dude. I've heard Lin say he thought about playing Burr instead of Hamilton. I can't imagine. I'm so glad you followed your heart to this part. You were made for it!

To Daveed Diggs (Lafayette/Jefferson): You were my fave! Purple velvet suits you. Also, I love "Small Things to a Giant!" A rap referencing Edgar Allen Poe and Beavis & Butthead? Who'd'a thunk?

To Phillipa Soo (Eliza Hamilton): You are the glue. There wouldn't be a show without you. Swoon.

To Chris Jackson (George Washington): You should totally audition for the role of the 45th president of the United States! Central casting is presently fucking that shit up!

To Renee Elise Goldsberry (Angelica Schuyler): Can we do a Choose Your Own Adventure version where you get the guy???

To Okieriete Onaodawan (Hercules Mulligan/Madison): Can we be friends? And make a music video together where you rap all DMX-style and we walk down the street in slo-mo? Cool, thanks!

To Lin-Manuel Miranda (The One and Only Alexander Hamilton): Who am I kidding. I'd definitely say something like "I carried a watermelon," or "Uhhhhhh.... *Starts ugly crying and babbling incoherently.*" Oh am I talking too much? Sometimes I get overexcited, run off at the mouth... Well, now, if I ever run into him, I can say "HI! I wrote a blog post about kidnapping you and/or becoming one of your sister wives!" That's sure to go over well :)

Anywho. I can't explain how or why Hamilton grabs you and has its way with you and leaves you saying, "Thank you, Sir! May I have another?!" But it's "a thing." It's not a moment, it's a movement.

The Bible says "Nor will they say 'Here it is!' or 'There it is!' for the Kingdom of God is within you." And I think that's kind of what's going on in Hamilton, too. It feels like, somehow, this super famous, twitter-trending, cultural phenomenon has something to do with you. Yes, YOU. Like, it's tapping into this shared history or some past life. "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together." The Beatles, I Am The Walrus. Or, if you prefer, Snoop Dogg: "He is I, and I am him, slim with the tilted brim... What's my motherfuckin' name?" ALEXANDER HAMILTON! (See what I did there??? ;))

I hope you'll forgive me the biblical reference. I'm probably being a tiny bit dramatic, but it really was like a religious experience. For me at least. (Or, so I've heard, anyway. Not ever having had an actual religious experience firsthand ;))

The moral of the story is, I left my heart in Richard Rogers Theatre. (And I don't even care that they spell it the asshat way.)

Mkay. I'm gonna go write the next Great American Novel now! Byeeeeee!

It's all happening!

"Slummin' in the city in my fancy heels." #TheSchuylerSisters. #Werk

Just in case you missed me squeeing on the interwebs...

Didn't actually sing out loud (I don't think?), thank God. But the girls next to me did, quietly and reverently, so it probably would've been okay ;) 

Also, my friend does this. The $10 Founding Father. It's nice to know I'm not the only one with an unhealthy Hamilton obsession! <3

Becky With the Good Hair

Spoiler Alert: This post has nothing to do with Beyonce.

Have you guys heard of this app called "Bitmoji" where you basically create an avatar of yourself and then there are tons of funny little cartoons of "you" doing and saying funny things? When a couple of my friends started using it I was like, "I don't get it." (To echo my brother, "Where are you getting those? And why? ;)) But I finally came around and it is weirdly addictive.

Aaaanyway. I basically had an existential crisis over Bitmoji. You have to choose all the elements of your person (dude I don't know what shape my face and eyes are?!?), and I didn't know what to do. The hair part in particular really stressed me out. If I could choose any type of hair in real life, I would 100% choose gloriously smooth tresses with volume and body that looked great straight out of the shower or swimming pool. But Pantene-commercial hair was not in the cards for me. I have curly hair. Well, flat on top, wavy-ish in places, curly-ish in places, with a generous patina of frizz throughout. I've spent 30 years and who knows how many thousands of dollars trying to fight what God gave me, brushing and blow drying and flat-ironing and Brazilian-formaldehyding it into sleek, smooth straightness. There were a couple years there where I used to straighten it every single day. There was a decade I never went anywhere of import without a perfectly straight hair. (This may stem from a comment I once received about being "brave" for showing up to an interview without a blowout.) I feel prettier with straight hair. I feel like my best self with straight hair. Unfortunately, I do not, in fact, have straight hair.

My hair. Sorry about the weird orange. It was pretty hot pink once, around the last time I could show my toes in public. 

This friction between the hair I have and the hair I wish I had was never really an issue before kids. Or at least, it wouldn't have caused me an irrational amount of mental anguish in the Bitmoji app. I think if Bitmoji had existed 6 years ago, I would have picked the pretty straight hair for my avatar and called it a day, in the same way that I refuse to give myself ugly forehead wrinkles and crows feet even though I have them in real life. I mean, it's an avatar, it's not a police sketch, you know?

Also, not helpful that the "curly hair" options are kinda whack. Is there really no middle ground between Pantene hair and 70's black lady afro?

I think my mom actually had this exact hair except shorter ~ 1983

But I digress.

The thing is, I don't see my curls as an essential part of my identity. I see them about the same as I view bad skin or a hairy bikini line - a problem to be conquered/whipped/bleached/waxed into submission. It's kind of like how one good friend had brown hair growing up, but has been blonde for half her life now. I still think of her as having brown hair because that is the... I don't know, "Profile Photo" I have in my mind. But she fully sees herself as blonde. Another friend of mine was actually blonde when she little (allegedly), but has had light brown hair ever since I met her (at age 18). Yet she refuses to accept any version of reality where she is anything but blonde. She still holds a grudge against her husband because when they first met (15 years ago), he went home and told his buddy he'd met this hot girl with light brown hair. [Cry-laughing emoji.]

As I think I've said before, having a daughter with curly hair has really brought my curl-baggage into stark relief. My daughter has THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CURLS. And she loves them. She doesn't want anyone to cut her hair EVER because she's afraid the curls will fall out. (Also won't go to sleep at night because she's afraid of her teeth falling out, ever.) Anyway, obviously as a mother and a feminist, I want her to love herself and her hair and embrace her curls etc etc etc. But also, like, those curls are HER. They are part and parcel of her identity. I honestly cannot even imagine her without them. I feel like she would not be her without those curls. And I will NEVER EVER EVER forgive myself if one tiny little speck of my curl contempt rubs off on her.

Colby Jean the Wainbow Unicown Qween

Now I wonder if that's how my parents (namely, my mom) felt about my curls. My mom had a similar complicated relationship with her own curls, but always loved my hair. My curls did not rival Miss Colby Jean's, but they were pretty just the same. My grandpa always said I had the most beautiful hair he'd ever seen, and was heartbroken when I chopped it off in fourth grade. (You'd have to have known my gruff, stern grandfather to appreciate the surprising nature of the sentiment.) When I came to school missing ten inches of golden, sun-kissed waves, some of the moms gasped and said, "Did your mom cry???" (For the record, no, she didn't. She wasn't crazy about the idea of me getting a serious haircut, but she seemed relatively unfazed.) At the time I thought those moms were nuts, but now I know exactly what they meant. I'm not super emotional or nostalgic. I don't tear up at preschool "graduations" or Mother's Day singalongs, or when we ditch our kids for a weekend in New York. But I think I might legitimately shed a tear if/when Colby chops those curls.

Mini Mack circa 1982

All of this has pushed me to try to love my own curls, for her sake. And I'm doing my best, I really am. I rarely straighten my hair anymore. Not just because it takes an extra 20 minutes I don't have, but because I want to be a positive role model for my little curly girl. I frequently go out in public with curly hair, which is a big step for me. I've used myself as a human guinea pig for all of the "love your curls" lines of hair products, and found some things that sort-of, kind-of work. But I have to say, at the end of the day, it's not a love affair. I still wish I had straight hair. It's more like an arranged marriage, where you are resigned to your fate, and you decide to work together because life is easier that way, and maybe eventually you realize that, even if it isn't TRUE LURVE, you do love each other, or at least, like and respect each other a great deal.

So. That's where I'm at. In an arranged marriage with my curls. And I can work with that.

Lut us keep on keepin' on with the business of doing the best we can with what we have. Let us endeavor to be happy, healthy human beings so we can raise happy, healthy human beings. Let us pass on the minimum amount of mental baggage we can possibly manage.

My compromise position (I'm sure you were dying to know).

Ps, sorry (not sorry) this is not a poignant, soul-searching piece. I feel like it's been a blogger-coaster this last while. It was like, MIA, then angry ranty lady (whooo boy do I mean ANGRY), then another hiatus, then I was kinda digging deep for a minute there, talkin' 'bout jesus and mommy issues and whatnot, and now I'm writing about hairs. And that's about all I can muster at this juncture. May or may not write up a play-by-play after I see HAMILTON next weekend (once I stop hyperventilating). Might not. "It's a mystewy," as Colby would say.

Some extra credit reading:

i'm a follicle failure: miss teen ussr. "In the Hair Bible, my style is 'fire alarm.' Or 'let a drunk kid play with her hair.'"

Also if you have never seen Chris Rock's documentary "Good Hair," you should check it out. Good stuff.

Until next time. Whenever that may be :)

True Hollywood Story: My Mom

Colby was only two when my old dog Blue passed away, but she still misses that dog something fierce, and often tells complete strangers out of the blue, "My dog is dead." She approaches the untimely death of my mother with the same sensitivity and care.

Colby: I love this necklace.
Me: Me too.
Colby: Don't ever give it away. Until you die. Then give it to me. (This is a common theme lately.)
Me: Okayyyyyy.
Colby: But I don't want you to die anytime soon.
Me: That's good. I won't.
Colby: But your mom is dead.
Me: Yes she is.
Colby: But she died in a terribow pwane cwash so dat's why she got dead before you.
Me: This is true.
Colby: When are we going to go on a aiwpwane again?
Me: ...

Much is made of The Motherless Mothers on Mother's Day, but I never really know what to say.

I remember the feeling of my mom. I remember a million scenes and snippets. But it's kind of like catching snowflakes. Only a tiny fraction of them land in your hand, and the ones you do catch melt away before you can get a really good look.

My mom loved to read. She loved to sleep. She loved hiking and camping and backpacking and rock climbing. She ran marathons. She loved sunbathing. She loved to cook and bake and entertain. She got terrible migraines. She loved dogs. She did not like cats. She did not like wearing clothes (but loved buying them). She had little patience for stupidity, small talk, whining, bad manners, bad grammar, disrespect, disingenuous-ness, clutter, or clatter. She didn't have much patience at all, actually. She loved flowers, and taught me you didn't need someone else to buy them for you. She loved music. She was big on soundtracks: Dirty Dancing, Stand By Me. She loved Prince and Madonna. She loved musicals - Cats and Phantom were her favorites. Is this love genetic? Or was it tattooed on my soul from a young age? Is this why I physically cannot listen to a good musical [ahem, Hamilton] without crying and feeling like someone is ripping my heart out from behind my rib cage? She had one actual lullaby she sang to all three of us as children, but her go-to's were The Animals (House of the Rising Sun), Harry Chapin (Dance Band on the Titanic), Lynryd Skynrd (Simple Man). Also Amazing Grace. You know, light, sweet little ditties ;)

My mom had great legs. She had terrible haircuts. She was quick to laugh but brooked no bullshit. She was independent and unapologetic. She loved margaritas and anything spicy. Did I tell you about the time she made it onto The Wall of Flame at David's Thai in Auburn? The first time she went there, she tried to order 10/10 spicy and they would only give her a 5 and it was so hot she could barely eat it. In law school, I interned about half a mile away so I started to go there a few times a week, building up my tolerance. I finally got up to 9.5/10, and said to the waitress, "Yay! I'm so close to getting on the Wall of Flame!" She replied, "Oh, honey, no. We just put 1 through 10 on the menu. The Wall of Flame is about a 25." Alrighty then! Anyway, the point is, she had intestines of steel!

I always saw my mom as hip and fun. I never went through a stage where I was mortified to be seen with her. She really was "a cool mom." Or maybe I was just a dork. But I basically idolized the woman. I wanted to wear matching outfits with her until I was in sixth grade when she told me I was probably getting a little too old for that.

I've written a tribute or two to my mom here, the most popular of which is Mama Mama Misses HER Mama. In my continuing efforts to be "Green," I reduce, reuse and recycle the hell out of that post. Mother's Day, the anniversary of their death, the second Sunday after the full moon. It kind of felt like that's all there was to say about that.

But a while back, a good family friend made me think twice about my memories and my lasting impressions of my mom. Admittedly, my "Mom" post is sugary sweet and written through the rosiest of rear-views. She herself would have quailed at the preciousness of it. Saccharine was not her style.

After that I was committed to writing a "realer" post about my mom. Why? I don't know. To reflect the good, the bad, and the ugly, I guess? (This reminds me of a quote from Almost Famous. Russell Hammond: Just make us look cool, man. William Miller: I will quote you warmly and accurately.) But I kept coming up empty. The best I could do was ask "What is a memory, anyway?" At the end of the day, my mom was a lot of things to a lot of people, as we all are.

Every time I talk about her I kind of feel like I'm filling out one of those Mother's Day questionnaires the kids do now, like, what's your mom's favorite color, favorite food, favorite thing to do, etc. And I can't help but think I'm probably as wrong about her as my kids are about me. (Seriously, kids. My favorite food is tofu? Do you even know me at all? By the way, tofu is the favorite food of nobody, ever, in the history of the world.)

The thing is, it's essentially impossible for me to view her objectively. Not just because she was my mom, and because she's been gone now half my life, but because I see so much of her in myself, and you can never see yourself straight-on. And also, yeah, she was my mom. It didn't often occur to me that she had a preexisting identity in addition to "Mom." However, if my memories of my mother are a house, having my own children was like unlocking a door to a part of the house I never knew existed. It's a whole new wing, and as I progress down the winding path of parenthood, I just keep entering new rooms and going down different hallways and it is a never-ending journey of getting to know her. Or getting to wonder about her, anyway.

It's also hard for me to "get real" about my mom because, while she wasn't perfect, she was pretty much perfect to me. One of my best friends lost her mom a year ago and it's hard because they had this complicated relationship, and the circumstances of her departure were less than ideal, and it's just an all-around shitty situation. It breaks my heart because I know that my friend and her mom were both doing the best they could and giving everything they had to give. But to have the guilt and the second-guessing and the "what ifs" and "if onlys" haunting you, on top of the flaming psychic trash-pile that is losing a parent? That is rough, man. I would not wish that on my worst enemy, and it is hard to see someone you love struggling with that and knowing there is nothing you can say or do to ease the pain.

I consider myself #blessed that I had such a good relationship with my mom, and that she didn't die leaving unresolved issues and unanswered questions behind. I didn't resent her, I wanted to be her. With her shoulder-padded power suits and her matching pumps and clutches and her statement earrings, with her BMW and her speeding tickets and her pilot's license, with her attitude and her irreverence, with her wit and her intellect, with her California girl style and her Midwest roots... She was, and remains, the gold standard (to me).

Maybe it would have been different if she had lived longer. If we'd gotten into arguments about paying for college and law school, about wedding invitations and child rearing and why they're never around to watch their grand kids for free. But honestly, if you can make it through your teen years relatively unscathed, how much worse could it be?

Despite being my personal Platonic ideal of Mom, she was not particularly "nice." She was thoughtful and generous. She was a good person and a good mother and a good partner and a good daughter and a good sister and a good friend. But she liked who she liked, and if she didn't like you, she didn't even try to fake it. She didn't go out of her way to befriend neighbors or the other moms at school. She was who she was and she didn't take pains to comply with anyone else's expectations.

I'm not judging. I'm not that nice either. I often laugh at the fact that my two best friends are probably the most likable people on the planet, whereas I could most aptly be characterized as snarky and awkward. Or maybe just plain bitchy, depending on who you're asking. Funny, now that I think about it, her two best friends are also among the more likable souls on the planet as well. (I actually used to be a lot nicer. I don't know what happened. Like a cheap wine, I guess. I get more vinegary with age ;))

Her love was fierce and strong, but she wasn't especially doting or demonstrative. Daddy Mack recently called me "zero tolerance" and "kind of harsh," particularly with respect to our kids (and my siblings,) and I think I get that from her. It's not that I don't have feelings, or big love, but I am basically allergic to drama and theatrics and, perhaps most importantly, the level of noise it entails. I think my mom had a noise thing too. At least, I inherited her "Chew with your goddamn mouth closed before I start to gag" death-stare. Also, I greatly dislike having to ask people to do things, on average, 537 times.

Which begs the question(s).

Mom. Inquiring minds want to know. How did you get us to listen to you??? Like, the first time? Seriously. I don't get it. I remember when I was older, you rarely said no, so when you did, I didn't argue. But I also know that I ate vegetable crudite as a "treat," and had wheat germ pancakes and pita bread sandwiches and wasn't allowed things like KoolAid or Lucky Charms or even Honey Nut Cheerios like the "cool kids." I know we didn't have a TV and we had to entertain ourselves. I know we did our own homework and school projects. I know you didn't brush my teeth or my hair or wipe my ass when I was in grade school. I packed my own lunch and did my own laundry by the time I was ten, so I KNOW there were some rules and regulations in place. You didn't hit and you didn't yell. (Sure, you raised your voice, and when we called you on it you replied, "This isn't yelling. If you want yelling, I can show you yelling!" You didn't morph into a shrill, nagging pygmy shrew. I remember you told me that when your parents told you no, you saw that as the opening salvo to negotiations, and you swore that would never be you. But what I need to know now is HOW, sage master of child rearing??? This is coming from someone who was recently accused by her husband as being a dictator trying to run a totalitarian regime.

ALSO, HOW DID YOU RAISE KIDS BEFORE THE INTERNET?

How did you have babies without an epidural?

Tell me about breastfeeding. Lord knows my personal journey was a roller coaster.

How did you get us to daycare at 7am? And yourself to work on time. With clothes on and everything?

How did you feed us real food every single day???

Did the sound of us crying and fighting make you want to stab yourself in the eardrums?

Did you ever want to spank us? Okay, that's a stupid question, I know the answer to that. I guess the question is, why didn't you?

Why did you explain the birds and the bees to me when I was 3 years old? (Or, in this case, "the wenis and the china.") I can't bring myself to do it yet. So far I've gotten by with a lot of hand-waving, improper anatomical references, and a vague allusion to mystical wizardry of some sort.

Why did you divorce dad? Wait. Back up. Why did you marry dad? Wait, back up even farther, why did you marry that one dude when you were 18? When/why/how did you get divorced? When did you come to California, and with whom? What was going through your mind when Dad knocked you up? Why did you marry him? (I actually did ask you this, once. Your response: Have you ever seen a picture of him with his shirt off circa 1979? Hubba hubba! ;))

Then, why did you divorce him? What was the straw that broke the camel's back? How did you manage that scary decision with two little kids and an uncertain future in front of you? Was it because you sorta kinda already knew where (and with whom) you were going to land?

Did you ever think about moving back to Michigan?

I remember a fight you had with Stepdad. He wanted a child. His own. You thought you were done making babies. Obviously you made the right call, but how did you get there?

And speaking of fights with Stepdad, I literally remember two. I mean, you guys argued about silly things plenty, but I only remember two actual fights. Were there more that we weren't privy to? How do you fight in a house full of kids?

More importantly, how do you make up?! I don't understand when and where you're supposed to have sex once your kids are old enough to know what's going on!

Did Stepdad snore? If yes, did you have to fight the urge to smother him with a pillow?

HOW DID YOU KEEP UP WITH LAUNDRY ALL THE TIME??? (Oh! Wait! See paragraph 73, above, re: us doing our own laundry by the time we were 10. I have this perception of our house always being clean and the dishes and laundry being (mostly) done, but last year I saw a picture and in the background was a couch stacked with folded laundry and it made me SO HAPPY! I was like, OMG, Mom! You too??? :))

Did you ever feel like you just couldn't do it a single second more?

Did you ever feel legitimate concern that you might be losing your ever loving mind?

Why did you send us to private elementary school? But then encourage public high school? This particular issue is weighing on me now as we navigate that process with our own kids. It feels like the decisions we make now will forever alter their course in life. It's scary as hell.

I was kind of a douche in high school. I remember Stepdad saying as much, and you telling him to cut me some slack. For someone who didn't put up with a lot of bullshit, you really tapped into a deep reservoir of patience, indulgence, and grace for those few years. I would love to hear your take.

I have one kid that I kind of just "get." She is basically a miniature me. That understanding and identification makes the day to day interactions easier and more intuitive. This is not to say she's not an asshole. She totally is. Big brother is, by all accounts, a more pleasant child (at least presently). My love for him is no less strong or pure, but I sometimes feel like I am trying to communicate that love in a different language. Did this happen to you? How do you navigate these different relationships while still conveying the fact that you love them both so much you feel like you might die?

On the nights you worked late, did you come watch us sleep before you went to bed?

Did you cry when we weren't watching? Over 18 years, I only saw you cry a few times. Once when you thought you and Stepdad were going to break up. Once when you had (another) fight with little sister and she called Dad to come get her (again). And once when your grandpa died. Oh yeah and that time you were rushed to the hospital for an ectopic pregnancy, but that was different, and scary.

I do kind of remember this period where you were in a "funk." I guess I was so self-absorbed, and depression was such a nebulous and unknown concept to me, it barely even registered. How did you work through? And continue to handle your life? Did you act stronger than you felt? Is it our job to appear strong to our children? Or to be real? Or some combination of the two?

You really seemed to maintain your identity as something other than "Mom" even after you had three kids. This was probably my only conscious complaint as a teen, actually. That you weren't very Mom-y." (You even asked me not to call you "Mommy" when I was little because the word was "too cute.") Our homecoming dances always coincided with your birthday, and while other parents had us over to pin on corsages and boutonnieres and take eleventy billion pictures, you were out drinking margaritas with your friends. Did you feel guilty at all? If not, did it ever occur to you that you "should?" If yes, what pep talk did you give yourself to get over it?

Same goes for "working mom" guilt? This is probably my biggest psychological stumbling block. Could you help me sand it down?

What would you have told me about motherhood if you knew you weren't going to be here to tell me yourself?

Phew, okay! I could probably write a whole book, but this oughtta do it for today!

Do you (not the ghost of my mother but people who are reading this with their actual eyeballs) still have your moms around? What would you ask her if you knew she wasn't going to be around tomorrow to tell you? Think about it.

Gee, this is a super uplifting post: You better have a deep heart to heart with your mom about the meaning of life because she might die tomorrow. Whee! Happy Mother's Day!

You still here? ;) I'll end on a note of gratitude.

Mom. Thank you for instilling in me a love of music and mischief and spicy things. For leaving a cook book full of delicious dishes for me to ruin, as well as the recipe for Wet Woodys and the perfect margarita. For teaching me how to travel without looking like a tourist. For (attempting to) weed out my whineyness and wimpyness. For demonstrating integrity and strength of character while letting us know we all have chinks in our chain. For loving the Stepdadders and bringing them into our lives. For showing me true love is an actual thing, and it looks different than depicted by Disney. For working with Dad at making divorce not suck (for us). For giving me the two best siblings a big sister could ever ask to boss around. For bestowing upon me a sense of adventure and a love and awe of nature. For showing me that respect is earned not given. That strangers who call you sweetie, sugar, or say "You'd be a lot prettier if you'd just smile" can suck it. That you don't have to be "nice," but you shouldn't be a dick, either. That good manners, good grammar, eye contact, and a killer pair of heels will take you far. That being tall and smart and strong are things to be proud of. Thank you for being a kick-ass, independent woman who got shit done, so that I grew up knowing I could be one, too. Thank you.

Okay. You guys. Is this even written in English? I have been on this crazy diet for two weeks and I am so hungry I think my body is starting to digest my brain for fuel. I honestly feel like I'm drunk/high/hungover all at the same time even though I am none of those things. Like the thoughts in my brain are hardening in cement. My apologies if I just had verbal diarrhea all over you, but really, what could be more fitting for Mother's Day?! ;)

Little Miss Sh*t for Brains

This is not the first time I've had dog shit in my purse. (See also, The Shit Show, Part I, Deux, and Tres). Probably won't be the last, either, if I'm being honest with myself.

Sometimes I allow my mind to visit this pretty little imaginary place where my morning goes smoothly and everyone gets to their final destinations in a timely manner and I make it through the day without having to come into contact with anyone else’s literal or figurative shit. Inevitably something comes crashing down on this sweet little pipe dream. For example, a tree.

Or, as was the case this day, actual shit.

The night before was basically consistent with what I’ve come to expect from life. DM and I were exhausted so we went to bed early so we could get a full night’s sleep for once in our lives. Hahaha. Hilarious, right? Naturally, we were awoken at 2am by the unmistakable sound of a dog about to barf. Now, little Nacho is kind of a puker so I wasn’t too worried at first. But around the 8th time we started to get concerned.

DM informs me that the dogs had actually eaten a little bit of this scrubber sponge. Normally I would assume this was less of a big deal than the Advil she ate last month, or the grapes, legos, beads, ant bait, rocks, shoes, pencils, markers, bouncy balls, and sharp sticks she and her big sister Feta have consumed in their short lives, but the repeated retching didn’t seem right. (Also, we were on high alert because for the first 12 hours after “The Advil Incident,” we (idiotically) thought, "Eh, I’m sure she’ll be fine, it was just a couple, and she pukes on the regular so it’s probably not that big a deal." Turns out it is a very big, very expensive deal.)

Is there a CPS for dogs? Please don’t call them. I swear we take mostly great care of our animals. I already read plenty of scolding comments on the internet about how you have to be EXTREMELY CAREFUL and NEVER EVER LET THEM OUT OF YOUR SIGHT FOR EVEN ONE TINY SECOND. Unfortunately, I cannot even maintain that standard of oversight for my human children, so… sorry dogs. Plus Nacho is a super sneaky little honey badger who steals things from the kids when we aren’t looking and secrets them away in the corner of the yard to consume at her leisure. She’s like a furry hoarding magpie.

Anyway, my helpful husband took Nacho to the vet at 3am. They gave her all manner of medicines, including what appears to have been a laxative. Told us to keep a close eye on her so I planned to bring her to the office with me. She’s pretty chill so no big deal.

We get a couple hours more sleep. Woke up and started my morning with a familiar refrain: “What is that smell?!?” I wasn’t able to place it. There weren’t any obvious piles of poop or vomit that I could see. We go about our harried routine. As we’re headed out the door I scoop up the little dog and suddenly discover the source of the smell. The poor thing had shat herself and her furry backside was covered in poop soup. One shitty sitz bath, one butt-trim, and two wardrobe changes (for me) later, I not-so-stealthily sneak her into the office with me. As it turns out, this was ill-advised. 

First of all, what do you do when you have to pee while you're in the middle of a covert office dog operation? In the past, I just held it all day because I was afraid she'd bark and out me. This time I was worried about barking AND pooping/puking. But, conveniently, I had a UTI, so holding it was not an option. So the first time, I brought her in the bathroom with me. If you have never peed with a dog on your lap, well, you have not really lived. The second time I devised a temporary dog tote :)

Someone came into my office and said it smelled like wet dog. Which made sense because there was a wet dog in it. But eau de wet dog is infinitely preferable to the smell of projectile liquid dog doo, which was part two of my sickly-office-dog-adventure. I quickly spirited her back to my car and home again, leaving a foul trail of poop particles in our wake. (Have I talked about poop particles before? It's a pet subject of mine. One of my cousins just had her PhD thesis about "the semantic maps that tile the human cerebral cortex" published on the cover of Nature magazine. Me? I like to write infrequent potty-mouthed blogs on poop and preschool. Must be a genetic thing. ;))

Anyway. We thought Nacho was better but then there was more puking and bloody projectile poop two days later, so back to the vet. Then back to the vet again with a fecal sample, hence the purse-o-shit. Wheeee! This dog has seriously been to the vet 8 times in the past 2 months. When we left this time, they said, "Nacho, here's the deal, we don't want to see you back here for AT LEAST 7 days!" She is the most expensive free dog EVER. A friend suggested we let evolution take over at this point, but Colby loves that dog more than anything on earth and would be devastated. Also, she's really cute when not covered in poop. (The dog. Also the kid.)

Then Tuesday The Boy had to go under for dental surgery, so, naturally, the girl woke up at 3am with the barfs, arms outstretched with two generous handfuls of puke. Jesus loves me.

At least the dentist gave us some new toothbrushes. I think this will really help Colby gain some closure after I threw away her old toothbrush the other day, which she wanted to keep "for decoration" (obviously). (I'll have you know I actually fished it out of the kids' bathroom garbage can which is a category 5 biohazard zone. But, of course, it was already RUINED.)

Sometimes I get super annoyed that I get passed over for promotions at work and then I'm like, oh, yeah, I've had to call into work three times in the past ten days covered in bodily fluids that are not mine. (And then I think, No. Fuck that. I bust my ass, early in the morning, late at night, on the weekend, whatever I need to do to get shit done, WHILE COVERED IN PUKE AND/OR EXCREMENT! Beat that, single childless 27 year old male associate! But more on that another day ;))

Incidentally, this isn't my first experience with bleeding Pomeranian buttholes. My "avatar" of Jack and Blue in diapers was from a charming little adventure where my husband was out partying overnight ON OUR ANNIVERSARY (with my blessing, an old friend was in town). But seriously, every time he leaves, shit hits the fan. In this case, literally. On this occasion, he fed the dog a cooked pork bone before he left, which basically splintered in her digestive tract and had the effect on the back end that you would imagine. Thank goodness my BFF Claire was able to come sit with sleeping baby while I took Blue to the emergency vet. Good times, good times.

So yeah. Then, last night, just to keep things interesting, Nacho tried to eat a printer cartridge. Thank the good lord she only ended up with blue paws and not colorful and explosive diarrhea. 

NEVER A DULL MOMENT, FAM. 

you're the worst mom EVER, I love you

Some days I wake up and it feels like Monday, even when it isn't. But some days I wake up and think, "Today is a new day!" This feeling usually dissipates around the 73rd time I tell the children to brush their ever loving teeth, but that glimmer of hope, or possibly it's just insanity (doing the same thing, expecting different results) - it feels nice.

Same thing with evenings. Sometimes, after a rough day, I drive home dreading the drudgery of dinner and bath and bedtime before it even begins. It's like a really maddening and mundane version of Groundhog Day. But sometimes I walk in the door and I feel refreshed and energized. I think, "It's only 3 hours. I got this. How bad can it be?" (LOLOL.)

The point is, 82% of the time, even when I start with the best intentions, an hour in I'm pretty much ready to impale myself on any vaguely sharp object within a ten foot radius.

[15 minutes later]
*Darth Vader Voice*
GET IN THE GODFORSAKEN CAR OR I WILL PERSONALLY ESCORT YOU TO THE DARK SIDE!
Credit: @lurkathomemom

It's nice having a helpful partner, and I thank my non-denominational god-substitute basically every day that I am so lucky in that respect. Usually, for whatever reason, when one of us is at the end of their rope, the other has enough reserves in their tank to step in and take over in order to prevent imminent injury to life, limb, and sanity. Hats off to anyone who does this solo and doesn't lose their goddamn mind. I salute you.

This parenting gig is really freakin' hard, no matter which way you slice it. There's not enough grace, patience, hands, or hours in the day to do this job the way we imagined doing it in our minds, before we actually had kids. I don't know about you guys, but some days, it sucks the life right outta me. By the end of the night I feel like a tattered, drool-soaked chew toy that my dogs divested of its stuffing.

Then I think about where that life-blood is being siphoned off to - it's raising humans! And I feel a little bit better. Then I get back down to the actual nitty-gritty-shitty of raising said humans and I feel worse again. A friend posted a link the other day - Parenting Advice: Don't Kill Them. The author writes, "I JUST WANT TO LOVE YOU WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO DESTROY ME?!" The struggle is real.

A good friend of mine who doesn't have kids sometimes says, "I just don't understand why SO MANY PEOPLE do it?! Like, almost everyone! It seems kind of awful! Why do you people keep doing this to yourselves, on purpose?!" As I say, it's the biggest mistake you will never regret. :)

DM and I frequently stress about all the ways we're falling short as parents. He and I had different upbringings, experiences, and expectations. But we're generally in agreement on what an "ideal" lifestyle would look like for our family, and we're not quite there yet.

DM's dad worked long hours as a doctor while his mom stayed home and took care of the kids. He had a plethora of cousins and aunties. He was picked up after school every day, and though she certainly had her hands full, his mom was around to make sure the kids were fed and homework was done. But as first generation immigrants and "new money" in an old money world, there were certain cultural and community cues that went under the radar, e.g. playing on the "right" sports teams, going to the best sleepaway camps, wearing the "cool" clothes, etc. It's funny, the things that leave scars so many years later.

My mom and dad were divorced, my mom remarried(ish), and all three of my parents worked full time. Us kids were in daycare from 6am to 6pm daily, and attended terrible summer camps until I was 12 and they decided I was old enough to stay home with my little brother and sister. (And by "stay home" I mean I actually held summer school for my siblings. I made them journal and do homework and everything. LOL. Sorry guys.) This one camp (that billed itself as an equestrian camp but didn't have any horses?) basically used the older kids (including me) as free labor to take care of the younger kids. W.T.F. My parents were never around to be room parents or chaperone field trips or help us with our homework or build leprechaun traps or come to cross-country meets or soccer games. However they did manage to feed us home-cooked meals every night, and didn't have a TV to use as a babysitter, which kind of boggles my mind. Gold medals all around!

The life DM and I are giving our children, for better or for worse, is more like my childhood than his. Poor Colby and Jack are usually the last ones to get picked up every day. I'm currently wrangling the unruly beast that is the YMCA Summer Camp Matrix (it's a thing) because what in the hell else are you supposed to do for those ten weeks between June and August?

Seriously, what is going on here? Nobody told me I'd need advanced degrees in engineering and mathematics to plan my kids' summer schedules.

The rational side of me knows that I had a similar upbringing and I turned out pretty alright. Yeah, I hated summer camps and after school care. I wished my parents could have attended my games and class parties and field trips. But I never felt like "someone else was raising me," and I never, ever doubted their love. When my brain's in charge, I think to myself, my kids are pretty damn lucky and they are going to be just fine.

But when my heart's calling the shots, I feel like a dick. I spend five or six waking hours a day with my kids, max. And 73% of it is telling them to hurry the hell up. Yes, as I've said before, I would love to be super chill Zen mom, turning each argument into a teaching moment, stopping to smell the roses along the way. And I do what I can when I can. But there are only so many hours in the day. We can barely get the kids to school and ourselves to work on time in the mornings, and on the flip side, every single evening is a grind: rushing to pick them up on time, dinner (like an eating contest, except the slowest one "wins"), bath, show, stories, and the "royal coronation jubilee" that is bedtime. We have been spared much homework thus far and THANK GOD because I honestly have no clue how in the world we're going to fit that into the mix.

I'm so wrung out from this groundhog day grind that it takes some serious (mental and physical) acrobatics to be the best mom I can be, to gird my loins for the endless stream of BS from the fruit of my loins. I know that when I have the energy and the wherewithal to use "positive reinforcement" and "redirection" and "love languages," when I wake up an hour earlier so I have time to prevent breakfast and tooth-brushing battles from becoming flat-out wars, when I pack lunches and backpacks the night before instead of frantically running around the morning of, everyone ends up happier. But the chasm between knowing this, and doing this, is deep and wide. Sometimes, I'm able to make the leap. Sometimes, I'm not.

More than anything, I am blown away by the fact that most people go through these exact same machinations, or worse, day in, day out, and the entire population isn't just walking around sobbing or stabbing people with scissors or sleeping under their desks every single day.

And don't get me wrong. I want to work. I sort of cherish arriving on Monday mornings. Settling into my comfy chair in my quiet office to drink an entire cup of hot coffee uninterupted is a little like heaven. And DM and I both are pretty freakin' lucky on the work schedule front, for lawyers, anyway. Still, I'd like to work less. Or, get paid more, so I could afford to give someone else money to raise my kids (and cook and clean) for me ;)

I'm well aware these are #firstworld problems. See, e.g., The Scale of Suck. A blogger friend of mine put it really well in a great recent post: "In the Colosseum of troubles, I know that I face lions that some people pray for..." Understood. But still. Lions are scary.

I don't really have a point, I don't think. Just a little insight into the conflicted ramblings in my jumbly brain: "You're a pretty good mom, give yourself a break! You're blowing it, pull your shit together! Work harder, get promoted, make more money, so you can go more places and do more things! Work less, (find someone to pay your bills?) do less things, BE THERE more! You survived, they're going to be just fine! I hope you're saving for therapy, they're going to need it! They're such good kids, we must be doing something right! OMG, we broke them, where did we go wrong?!?"

The other day we were running late (okay we're running late every day, but this day we were running extra late). Jack said "What will happen if you're late for work?" I replied, "Well, if I'm late too many times I would probably lose my job." Colby said "I wish you WOULD lose your job. That way we could all stay home together all the time." Knife. in. the. heart. I said, "Well if I didn't have a job then we couldn't afford to have a home to stay home in!" She said, "Would we have no house? Or just a littow house?" I responded, "A little house, probably. Or maybe an apartment." Colby: "Could we still have a pool?" Me: "Definitely no pool." Colby: "Okay then maybe you can keep your job." ;) Thanks for the cosign, kid.

Anyway, as I imagine my mom would say, "You're overthinking this just a little." What I try to remind myself, at the end of the day, is that I'm doing the best that I can, I'm giving everything I have to give, and that has to be enough. That IS enough.

The other morning, Colby was possessed by the devil. She refused to dress herself or let herself be dressed or allow anyone to speak or breathe. She started screaming like a bloody banshee and pinwheeling her arms and legs and then melted into an angry puddle of preschooler on the floor. Again, maybe if we'd had the time and the energy to calmly reason with this vicious imp, we could have solved things more amicably. And/or called in an exorcist. But in real life, DM and I both had meetings, attendance mandatory, and we needed to GTFO of there. So we basically had to tag-team the child and dress her spastic noodly limbs against her will. This was maybe the maddest she's ever been. But not sixty seconds later she latches on to me like a koala, looks up at me with her big round brown eyes, and says, "Mama, I need a snuggle."

Same thing happens with Jack all the time. He is SO sensitive and emotional, depending on which way the wind blows, the littlest things can turn into World War III. I actually got "I HATE YOU!" for the first time the other day. It was jarring and heartbreaking and a tiny bit funny, too. But in the midst of that fury, I ask "Do you think you need a hug?" And his answer is, always, "Yeah, maybe." <3

Anyway, whatever else we're building here, the foundation is love. (Well, love, glitter glue, and goldfish crumbs.) And one thing I can be proud of is that my children know it and feel it too. (The love and the crumbs.)

OMG you guys. I am literally incapable of writing a short blog post. This was just supposed to be a "quick" one. Whoops. The other night I was complaining to DM that the book I was reading was "aggressively wordy" and he said "Sounds like it's right up your alley." ;)