For me, self-care looks like this:

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And then, on July 10th, my Dad died. I became the peanut butter in the sandwich generation, shifting immediately into caretaker mode for my mother who has her own health issues, and my freedom to think, write, act, and follow my own path took a backseat to all the things that had to be done, and to the people who needed me.

If you’ve ever taken one of those quizzes that identifies your personality type, mine is NOT caretaker. It’s not even close to caretaker. It’s not something that comes easily to me at all. However, it’s something I’ve been doing for 12 years since the birth of my first son with special needs, so I’ve adapted and learned to do what doesn’t come easily, but that doesn’t mean I like it.

And when life hands me something I don’t like, I get overwhelmed, and I shut down. I procrastinate. I don’t take care of myself. I ruminate. I obsess. I don’t sleep. I eat like crap. I get stuck in the downward spiral of my monkey mind, and I let negativity win.

I noticed myself making more impulse buys. I was binge eating again. I was dropping the ball, often. I didn’t follow through on commitments. I also felt like total crap. I got sick. My body wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy. And I’m still not happy.

I don’t always practice what I preach, and when a friend is stuck with something, I’ll often say, “You can be bitter, or you can be better.” Lately though, I’ve been bitter.

Now it’s time to be better.

And by better, I mean better to myself.

Why did I choose nourish as my word?

I sat with myself and thought of all the things I wanted to gain from this coming year. Words that emerged were: grounded, balance, self-care, success, rest, and choice.

I looked at those, and it was obvious that I needed to focus on bringing myself back to center, but I also launched a new business in 2017 that is thriving. And if I want that growth to continue, it will need more of my attention. What word could support that growth and success, but also support my self-care?

And that’s when I found nourish. Nourish fit all that I’m hoping to achieve in 2018.

I will nourish myself. I’ll nourish my body with healthier food choices, and more regular physical activity, and with more rest.

I will nourish my soul by exploring new spiritual practices and making time to meditate. My soul also longs to explore new places, and nourishing my wanderlust is important, so I will find ways to travel more.

I will also nourish my business. I’ll focus on opportunities, and when presented with them, I will ask the questions, “Does this nourish my business? Will this help me grow?” I’ll also nourish the team I’ve built with training and encouragement.

In addition, I need to nourish the relationships in my life. The time I spend with my children — is it meaningful? Does it nourish our relationship? My relationship with my husband has lacked intimacy, so I will look at ways I can nourish that need as well. And my friendships… I did a lot of taking from my friends in 2017. I needed them, and they were there for me. Now I will return that favor and nourish those relationships that mean the most to me.

When I break down all the ways I can add nourishment, it actually seems like a bit too much. Can I really add all of this to my life this year? But the truth is that even if each area is only improved in small way, I’ll be more satisfied with my life, and I will be happier. Nourishing the areas that have been neglected will only make me better, and life is too short to be bitter.

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Answer: In short, I’ve been the star of my own shit-show!

Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic, but the summer of 2017 definitely ranks in the bottom five summers of my life.

In July I lost my Dad. He was 64 years old and died of a massive heart-attack. As soon as I heard my mom say through tears over the phone that she had bad news, I knew what she was about to tell me. And in that moment, my universe shifted. It’s a long story, but the short version is that I became peanut butter. Yes, peanut butter. Have you heard of the sandwich generation? Well I’m now the sticky glob of peanut butter in the middle, stuck on one side raising my own young children, and now stuck to caring for my mother too.

And quite frankly, it sucks.

Supposedly there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’ve been stuck on anger for about three months. I’m pissed off. I’m mad at my dad for not taking better care of himself. I’m mad at him for assuming he would outlive my mom. And I’m really mad at him for leaving at a time when our relationship wasn’t as strong as it had been. And these three reasons are only the tip of the iceberg. Oh, and I’m not just mad at my dad… I’m kind of mad at everyone lately. So I’m super fun to be around! I won’t bore you with all of it, that’s what my therapist is for, but I’ve come to realize that I was holding on to a lot of resentment and anger long before he died, and his sudden death just brought all that to the surface.

I’m an only child, and my mom has a lot of medical issues of her own, so that has added to the ooey-gooey-ness of my new peanut butter life because there’s no jelly in this sandwich to help me. I know there are many reasons people only have one child, and my parents tried for more, but they were unsuccessful due to my mom’s medical problems. However, the past few months have reaffirmed my own decision to have three children because dealing with this stuff on your own sucks.

(Side note: I really need to find more synonyms for sucks.)

I had absolutely no idea how estates worked prior to this experience. While I’ve been to my fair share of funerals for family members, and friends’ family members, and even a few friends, my dad is the first person in my immediate circle to die. So this is the first time I have had to do the work. I became the executrix (a word that sounds a lot more fun than the actual job) of my dad’s estate, and started diving into the craziness of his finances, property, and other estate matters. The last time I had a crash-course like this was when my first son was born, and I had to suddenly become an expert in genetics, and all things medical and special needs, and this baptism by fire is almost as much fun as that one.

But what sucks most of all in the middle of all this overwhelming shit that I now have to deal with, is that I haven’t actually dealt with the most important thing. My dad is gone. Typing that makes me cry, but then I choke the tears back because I know I just don’t have time to be sad right now. And that fact itself makes me more sad and more mad.

About a month after we buried my dad, my oldest was scheduled for surgery – a lengthening procedure to extend the growing rods that correct his scoliosis. He has these every 6-9 months, and this was his 5th surgery for this condition, but 2 of the previous 4 resulted in post-op infections. So even though the procedure itself is pretty straightforward and only requires an overnight hospital stay for IV antibiotics, we always hold our breath a little until about two weeks after the surgery.

Two weeks and one day after surgery, he spiked a 104 degree fever, became lethargic, and developed a huge bulge of fluid under his incision. He was admitted that day, started IV antibiotics and was back in the OR the next day to clean out the infection. We spent a week at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, coming home the day before school started.

Thankfully this infection wasn’t like the last two — this was a different bacteria, just under the skin and not down in the hardware, so it was much easier to treat and didn’t require long-term IV antibiotics. In fact, he only need oral antibiotics for a month. So even though it was an unexpected setback, it could have been much worse.

In mid-September though, we took a break from everything, rented a house in North Carolina on the intercostal waterway, took the kids out of school for a few days, and got some much needed respite from reality. But unfortunately between the hospital stay and the vacation, I let things slide. The three weeks since returning home have been a blur, and while that blur included some awesomeness like a trip to attend the Type-A Parent blogger conference, things have continued to pile up, and I’m feeling even more overwhelmed by all the things on my figurative plate, and by the actual piles on my desk.

When I get overwhelmed, I shut down and can’t deal. I quit. I don’t go to bed when I should, and instead I scroll Facebook for hours exhausting myself by essentially doing nothing. Because I have no idea where to start. I look for easy fixes, and spend more time on those than the actual task would take. I also have no impulse control. (I’m looking at you, Amazon purchases, and you, entire batch of brownies I ate.) And when I’m overwhelmed, I don’t write.

So publishing this post is a big step for me. This post has been in my head and heart for a while now. I worried though… about talking about it. I worried what my mom would think when I talked about being angry with my dad, and how I’m feeling overwhelmed by caring for his estate and, by default, for her. We don’t talk about the hard things in our family. And maybe that is part of my problem. I don’t even know if she’ll read this, but in the end, I wrote this post for me, not her.

Grief is a funny thing. Even though people talk about stages, those stages don’t happen in sequence, and they never end. I’m trying to allow myself grace through this. To forgive myself for being angry, and show compassion for myself when I feel overwhelmed. It’s not easy, but I’m trying. And really, that’s all I can do.

The post The Craptastic Summer of 2017 appeared first on Like a Mother.

The good news is that I recognized it. Losing my badassness is a sign to me that I’m losing myself, and that my depression and the negative voices in my head are taking over and blocking the joy in my life. And when those negative voices take over, the strong and encouraging ones that keep me at my badass best, fall silent.

When I see the fog of depression lurking and itching to take over my life, I have two choices: I can let it, and sink into that dark and scary place I’ve been to before. Or I can tell it to fuck off and start taking the steps to find my badass self again. The decision isn’t always as simple as it should be. Sinking is easy, moving through the fog is a lot of work.

Thankfully, I made the decision to do the work.

The first step for me is admitting that I’m in the fog… again. The voice in my head likes to remind me what a fuck-up I am for letting myself get here… again. (Like seriously, why didn’t you recognize you were heading in this direction a few months ago when it would have been easier to fix?) But despite that, I admit it, to myself, that I am, in fact, here… again.

Then it’s on to the next step – telling that voice in my head to go fuck itself. I don’t owe you, or anyone, an explanation. Shit happens, and I’m here. Deal with it.

(Just rereading that last paragraph tells me that my inner badass is still in there. Damn I missed her!)

Dealing with it is step three, which means asking for help. And for me this means reaching out to my therapist. That’s right folks, I got to therapy! Right now I go every-other week because that’s what I need to do. Because let’s be honest, telling myself I’ll figure this out on my own is just another lie from the voice in my head. It sounds like a fine idea, and logically I know that if I ate cleaner, exercised more, got outside more, wrote more, meditated more, and spent more time with friends, then yes, I probably could find my way out of the fog. But when I’m in the fog, despite all the logical things I know I should and could do, I don’t do them. Period. That’s why I need my therapist.

But why not just talk to your friends, Lynne?

I have some awesome, amazing, non-judging, totally supportive, kick-ass friends. But sometimes, you need a professional who will listen, won’t judge, but will call you out on your bullshit, and give you a plan for shutting down the negative voices so you can awaken the sleeping badass – because she’s still in there, I promise.

And the good news is that my sleeping badass is finally waking up!

She is still a little groggy from her long nap. (She probably needs more coffee.) But now that she’s back, I’m trying to take better care of her and keep her safe. She’s working on great things!

The post Finding my badass when I just feel bad (or like an ass) appeared first on Like a Mother.

When I tell people about my annual trip, at least one random person asks, “Who’s taking care of your kids this weekend?” to which I reply, matter-of-factly, that my husband is at home with the kids.

Random person: “Oh, and he’s okay with that?”

Me: “Um, yeah, why wouldn’t he be? He is their father.”

Thanks to countless posts, we all should know by now not to call dad the babysitter. But I still get that comment. As other writers have chided, this implies that dad’s not capable of handling the children for a few days on his own. Insulting. But it also implies that I wouldn’t want him to.

Listen, I am totally okay with dad doing it all for a few days. And yes, I’m still okay even if he doesn’t do it like I would.

Look, I can admit that the first year after having my first child, I probably went a little overboard prepping my husband for the trip when I handed him four pages of instructions. But in my defense, our first child had unique medical needs, so instructions included things like a tube-feeding schedule. His mom also lived two miles away at the time, so I knew he had back-up close by if needed, and I’m pretty sure she was there most of the weekend.

Did I worry? A little. It was the first time I left my baby other than when I had to go home each night from the NICU. But after seven traumatic months of dealing with surgeries, and tube feedings, and hospital stays, and therapies, and all the other extras my firstborn came with, a weekend away was exactly what I needed. I was able to laugh and cry and release the stress of those seven months with three people who I know love me unconditionally. It gave me the strength to go back into the trenches and handle the challenges of my reality. I will be forever grateful for that weekend!

As the years have gone by, and life has moved us eight-hours away from my mother-in-law, my husband now spends the weekend home alone with his three children. My formerly four-page list of instructions is now a half-page of bullets with only the most pertinent information like the time the bus will drop the kids off on Friday and the pediatrician’s phone number.

Does my husband do everything like I do while I’m away? Nope. Are my kids happy and cared for? Yep. Will they get out of their pajamas Saturday or Sunday? Probably not. Do I care about that? Not at all.

My husband knew going into our marriage that this was part of the deal. Girls weekend was non-negotiable. He decided I was worth it, and committed not only to me as his wife, but also to me leaving every January for a three-day weekend. It was part of the vows. (Not really, but it should have been.)

So yes, my husband has the kids this weekend. Alone. And they will survive without me for a few days. And I’m totally cool with that.

The post How my kids survive while I’m away (Spoiler alert, they have a DAD!) appeared first on Like a Mother.

You’ve said it often, in many different ways. “Why can’t they just stay little?” You would lament as you saw your baby changing into a toddler… a preschooler… a kindergartener.

I swore I’d never use that phrase, because I know that if given the choice, you would not choose a child who didn’t grow up. I know because I have one.

I saw my first son grow slowly and develop even more slowly. Then pause, stop, and repeat, while never making more than subtle and calculated progress towards his milestones. And while we celebrate every single tiny accomplishment he makes, it sucks to see his peers growing-up as he should have knowing that he’s never going to be like them due to his developmental disabilities.

So when my daughter arrived, I cheerfully applauded as she hit those milestones. I celebrated her tenacity and spunk as she reached each new age and stage. I even proclaimed out loud how amazing it was to see her grow and develop and become the adult she would be one day.

And then her younger brother arrived, and I stuck to my oath again. This time I was more cognizant that this was very likely the last time I’d see a baby grow in my arms. I swore to myself again, and added that this time I would take it all in. Breathe in every moment as my last baby grew, and changed, and developed.

And I did, at first. I celebrated as he grew, but noted it all. I took more pictures, and tried hard to document on paper and in my mind all the things I loved about my baby, and then about my toddler, and now about my preschooler. So. Many. Things.

But now his sister is older, approaching tween status. She’s still spunky, but sassier now, with most of that sass directed at me. She doesn’t need me as much. She is strong willed, dramatic and oh-so-stubborn. All traits I remind myself will serve her well someday, but that currently try my patience in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Now instead of seeing the adult she will eventually become, I see the teenager I’ll meet first, and I’m a tiny bit terrified of what’s to come.

Meanwhile my baby boy will start Kindergarten this fall. He still looks at me with nothing but love in his eyes. He still wants hugs, kisses and snuggles and asks for them regularly. At bedtime, he offers me a “really better hug” before he lays down with his monkey and curls into a little ball to go to sleep. I want to pause, stop and repeat. I don’t want this to change.

So I apologize to you for judging. I get it now. I understand what you want to hold on to. It’s not the diapers, or the temper tantrums, or the lack of communication, or the constant attention that I still have to give to my oldest son, who is now 11-years-old but developmentally still at the level of a young preschooler. It’s the moments you know will never happen again as they are happening now. The moments that you will miss as your child grows into their own. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them growing up, or didn’t appreciate the changes that happened along the way, it’s that you know that someday soon the offers of a “really better hug” and unlimited snuggles will go away. And while you will have those memories that you’ve documented into the fibers of your being, you just hope for one more day to observe and take note.

Photo credit: Photography by Caitlin Domanico, co-author of Photographing Motherhood.

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I am excited to share that my word for 2017 is… freedom!

(Cue your best Mel Gibson impression here.)

No, I’m not planning a Scottish uprising, and I’m not planning an uprising in suburban Philadelphia either. But I am hoping to spark a little uprising in my thoughts and in my actions.

When the word freedom first appeared to me, I thought it might be too bold. Would people think my goal is to leave my family, runoff and become a gypsy? (That’s NOT my goal!) But then I realized that part of the freedom I’m looking to find is the freedom to have bold thoughts and to do bold things.

So what does freedom mean to me?

I did a quick Google search for a definition as soon as I realized freedom was my word for 2017. This is the first definition I got:

the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.

YES!!!

Did you read that? The POWER or RIGHT to ACT, SPEAK, or THINK as one WANTS without hindrance or restraint.

I seriously got chills.

I have spent many years in my life feeling stuck. Whether it was being stuck in my own head, or feeling trapped by societal norms and perceptions, I don’t feel like I’ve been living as my true and authentic self. In 2015, I started to make some powerful shifts. But those were sidetracked in 2016 when I let the voices in my head get the better of me again. To be honest, for the last six months, I’ve been a pretty miserable bitch. In 2017, it’s time to shift that power once again. It’s time for freedom.

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(Hey now, what did you think I was talking about?!)

Let’s get real here moms. For most of us, somewhere in our DNA, our family history, or our own fucked up stories in our heads about being perfect moms, we somehow got the message that good moms bake and prepare holiday feasts meant for kings from scratch.

For years I bought into this story – spending hours in the kitchen on Thanksgiving and baking for weeks before Christmas. But as I had more children, and life got crazier, I realized I wasn’t enjoying holidays any longer, so I started to take a few shortcuts. It began innocently enough, a few add-ons for Thanksgiving ordered from Whole Foods… but they were delicious, and so easy to prepare and serve! I was able to drink mimosas and watch the parade while the turkey roasted instead of peeling potatoes and chopping veggies. And I liked it!

This year, I found my new favorite holiday shortcut, HomeCooked, a local mom-owned business that is known for their pre-made meals that you simply cook at home. They offer a parent and child holiday cookie making workshop, so I registered Katie and me to participate. It was the best! There were five stations including three varieties of cookies, a fudge, and chocolate bark. The ingredients, measuring cups, mixing bowls, spatulas, mixer – all were provided! I didn’t have to shop or prep a thing. My daughter and I worked together and enjoyed the time because the stress of a long day in the kitchen was gone! We came home with bags of cookie dough, our finished fudge and bark, and smiles on our faces. Most importantly, our mother-daughter relationship was still intact. Pure awesomeness!

The next day we baked our cookies according to the directions provided, and I bagged them for storage in the freezer. Easy peasy.

But I needed more…

So I bought some of the premade dough from HomeCooked, and made these beautiful thumbprint cookies. Don’t they look pretty? I made those! I might not have mixed the dough myself, but I baked them, and in my book, that totally counts!

Honestly, I really do enjoy baking… when I have the time. I don’t enjoy baking when it’s expected, and there is a strict deadline to complete it along with all the shopping, wrapping, gifting, and the “oh-my-god I forgot to buy something for someone” shit on my plate, in addition to my normal work and that whole keeping my children alive thing.

Look, I don’t know who decided that the word mother was synonymous with the word martyr, but I’m calling bullshit. Being a good mom doesn’t mean you have to be Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart. Being a good mom means you are doing the best you can at any given moment, and if today that is a bag of Oreos that you’ll be leaving for Santa, so be it. I hear he likes them!

Footnote: My love for HomeCooked is pure and honest. They did not sponsor this post in any way. They just rock. If you are local to the Philly Western Suburbs, check them out in Paoli or online at homecooked.net.

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