R is for Routine

There are a lot of people who benefit from routines in their lives. Among those people are those with mental illness, and preschoolers. Since our family has both, naturally we have routines that cover our whole day, week, and month.

OK, Mom, I hear you laughing all the way from Ohio.

I said we had routines. I didn't say we followed them.

I've been a flybaby with Flylady for seven or eight years. Her routines have changed my life. Or at least the way I look at things. But I still strongly resist sticking to it. Why do I avoid something that is so helpful?

I think a lot of it has to do with my perfectionism. If I can't do the entire routine perfectly, I don't do any of it. Holy Not-The-Point, Batman.

But some of it is because- newsflash- I try to do too much. I over-schedule myself and over-commit myself. And the best routine on earth couldn't account for all of that activity.

I have been trying very very hard lately to learn Nancy Reagan's Just Say No philosophy on life. I may not have peers offering me drugs, but I have things offered that are just as toxic. Even fun things that seem like they'd be helpful are hurting me when they make my life so full of activity that there's no time to do laundry.

Since my Lent commitment to finish "Hope Springs" by Easter (which I totally did! Yay for me!) I've been starting my mornings with a cup of coffee and my laptop. Writing first thing in the morning seems to set me up for the rest of the day. Aha! A clue!

So. I hear-by commit, publicly, to stick to the routine. To write first thing in the morning. To Just Say No. (There is no slick way of saying that last part without splitting the infinitive.)

We'll see how this goes.

Q is for Quiet

...which I don't get very often.

I don't even have a lot to say about this one. But I need quiet. And I don't get it very often.

I am a music teacher and the Mom of a preschooler. There is almost always noise in my life. I can block it out to some extent (a skill developed during my career) but then I find myself slightly removed from the world. "Did you hear that?" (song, siren, person screaming...) a friend will ask.

"Huh?" I answer.

So I usually tough it out and let the noise in.

But if you ever want to give me a gift, it would be a few hours of total quiet.

P is for "Progress, not Perfection"

I am a perfectionist.

In fact, I sat for a moment thinking through the title of this blog. Because it said P is for Progress, not Perfection.

But P is for both Progress AND Perfection. Which is not what I was trying to say.

I'm irritated that I'm a few days behind. I almost wanted to chuck the whole idea of blogging through the alphabet.

I'm irritated that my apartment is such a mess.

I'm irritated that my nails have polish that's left over from a manicure three weeks ago.

This has been a life-long problem. And when I say problem, I mean paralyzing one. (Problem and paralyzing both start with P, which I didn't do on Purpose. But it makes me happy.)

When I was in high school and we got an assignment for any sort of long term-project, once of two things would happen. I would be struck with genius immediately as the teacher was talking, work on it deligentlty, and turn in something the teacher would use for years as an example (much to the annoyance of my little sister.) OR- I wouldn't have any ideas immediately, I'd put it off until the last second, half-ass something, and squeak by with a C. A+ or C. Those were my grades.

I almost missed a few football games as a cheerleader in high school because I couldn't get my pony tail perfectly straight.

If I can't clean the entire apartment and have it be spotless, I'm likely to do nothing.

I don't do mediocre. Because I can't. Like, can't. At least, I couldn't...

This is not a humble brag. This is a description of my illness.

Ten years ago this week I was sitting at home crying. Yes, the whole week.

We're not really sure when it happened, but it started slowly on the evening of my birthday. I started to feel incredibly anxious. Then I started to look for the source of my anxiety. Finding none, I tried to make things up. Then, I started to cry.

When I had been crying for two days with no external source of distress, my awesome husband Ryan finally said what we'd both been thinking for years. "Sweetheart, I really think you have depression."

He took me to the Cleveland Clinic that Monday morning. I was dressed adorably. Because that's what I do. I was diagnosed with severe depression. As we chatted, I acknowledged that I showed symptoms as early as seven years old. But because I was smart and strong and came from a loving family, I was able to push through. But it was time for me to stop pushing and get some help.

For the next two months I only worked two or three days a week. I went to therapy twice a week and we found the right medication for me.

Ten years later, it is still the right medication for me. I've been to three different therapists long-term. And I feel better. It turns out, my perfectionism was a very common part of depression. Looking at things as all or nothing.

I am posting this blog today, even though it's several days late. That is progress.

I am taking my daughter to the zoo today, even though we didn't fix her ponytails last night and they are a mess. That is progress.

I am cleaning the apartment in baby steps. The living room still looks terrible. But other areas are getting visibly better, and I can see where it will all be clean eventually. (Thank you, Flylady!) That is progress.

Last Monday I had a really rough day. I was exhausted and Lily wasn't helping the situation. I finally called Ryan in tears, asking him to come home early. He did. And I took an hour or so to rest in the quiet. And then I came back and joined the family. That is progress.

It's been ten years. And I'll never be cured. I'll never be perfect. (It pains me to type that.) But I am much better. And that is progress.

O is for Older

Yesterday was my birthday. I know, I know, your card must have gotten lost in the mail. It's alright. I had plenty of celebrations- an amazing dinner on Friday night, a sing-along party on Saturday (don't hate.) and another dinner last night. I got a birthday song from Lily and gorgeous prints of some pictures she took and all is right with the world.

But here's the thing about having a birthday. Yes, it means you get lots of posts on your facebook wall. And you get presents and you get to eat cupcakes and not feel bad. But it also means you get older.

Of course we're always getting older. I'm getting older as I write this. And you're getting older as your read. But the number changes.

And I wish I could find some significance to this.

But I can't.

Yesterday I turned 38. And I would love it if this provided any sort of information other than the fact that I have been alive for 38 years. I wish I could find some identity in this number. But there is none.

I am friends with a lot of people in their twenties. A lot of things in our lives are similar.And I'm friends with people in their thirties. And a lot of things in our lives are similar. And I'm friends with people in their forties. And, well, you get the idea.

I'm fairly accomplished for my age. And I look younger than I really am. (Not a humble brag. Or any kind of brag. Just a fact. Good genes.) And I'm teeny tiny, so people perceive me as younger. (Which makes me laugh. Because Estelle Getty was teeny tiny too.) But I've always been sort of an old soul. Last week I was at a dinner party at the Ritz-Carlton. And yesterday I was chatting on the phone about boys with my 22-year-old girlfriend. I'm a Mom. But I'm also a daughter.

So it looks like I'll have to look elsewhere to find my identity. Because the number 38 just doesn't have much to say to me.

Next year, though. I make no promises concerning my healthy approach to my birthday.

N is for Nia Vardalos

...and what I learned from reading her book!

The other night I saw someone mention a book on facebook- "Instant Mom" by Nia Vardalos. (of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" fame) It's about her experience with adoption. So clearly it caught my attention. I had every intention of reading it. You know. Someday.

The very next morning I had an email from someone at HuffPost Live asking me to participate in a forum about the book where we could chat with Nia and ask her some questions.

Um.... yes please?

Always the good student, I purchased the book and plopped down in Lily's reading corner. About 24 hours later I emerged, laughing and crying and feeling like I had made a new friend.

Here's my review: if you're interested in adoption or infertility or family or friends or comedy, you should read this book. (Also consider the fact that I read a whole book- A WHOLE BOOK! in 24 hours. And I have a preschooler. The "whole book" part isn't unusual for me as a person. Not at all. I'm nerdy and a fast reader. It's unusual for me to make it a priority, though, at this exhausting point in my life.)

I got to be a part of the forum (which you can watch here!) and it was lovely to chat with Nia. I'm pretty sure if we were neighbors we would be friends. 

Instead of a review, (because seriously. Who am I?) I want to share a few lessons I learned from reading this book. In no particular order. But all kinda related.

1. My memoir is probably important. Nia discusses in her book the fact that she hates talking about her infertility. And don't we all? No one wants to remember that time. It's dark and yucky. I mentioned it in my post about infertility. But the fact that Nia and I both admit we don't like to talk about it reminds me. I have to keep talking about it. I don't want it to be The Forgotten Pain. And if all of us close that door once we're through it, there's no one to offer support to people on the other side. I want women currently going through it to know that I understand. That they're not alone. So. Good thoughts for me  that we find an agent, K?

2. Celebrities are people. This is probably obvious enough. But really. They have the same life situations that we have. The same struggles, the same celebrations. Just with a better wardrobe.

3. Be. Aggressive. B.E. Aggressive. But not too aggressive. Nia talks in her book about how she got her first job at Second City. She was aggressive. She reached out to people. And she treated celebrities like people. And HuffPost Host Nancy got in touch with Nia via twitter. If I'm going to make this whole Get Published thing happen, I'm going to have to be aggressive. (Remind me of that when I wuss out or when I'm crying in my martini over the 300th rejection.)

M is for Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?

All I wanted to do was be a Mommy. For years.

Even now, if I had to choose titles, this is the one that would win.

However.

There are times when I cannot hear the word Mommy one more time.

My own Mom used to tell us that she was going to change her name, and she wouldn't answer until we guessed correctly. We thought that was hilarious. But I get it now.

Today was one of those days when I wanted to change my name. I had several things come up that were demanding my attention. Lily was also demanding my attention. And the more stressed out I got, the more she called my name.

Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?

I tried to answer her every time. But I was working on things with a deadline that required thought. And I was getting fatigued.

By about mid-day I was beyond fatigued. I could hardly keep my eyes open. I couldn't think straight. I could hardly keep it together. I cancelled our plans to go to the zoo. Not as punishment- she hadn't done anything to warrant that. But because I didn't have it in me. I couldn't pay any more attention to anything or anyone.

I came out of the bathroom in yoga pants and a tshirt.

"Mommy? We're not going to the zoo?"

I explained that we were not. That I was very, very sorry. But I just didn't feel well.

"Can I watch my new doggie movie?"

I couldn't believe my big girl was taking it so well. I told her that of course we would watch her new doggie movie. (Lady and the Tramp, in case you were wondering.)

"Mommy? I've been thinking about it. And.... maybe I want to go to the zoo."

I couldn't even answer her. I just looked at her blankly. I knew I had to be the grown-up. But I didn't have another "Mommy?" in me.

Then she laughed. "Oops. I said I wrong word! That's OK. I meant maybe I want to go to the mall. When Daddy gets home."

And I laughed too.

Today was not a good Mommy day for me. (More on that tomorrow) Which is probably why this post is so disjointed. Even now, Lily is demanding my attention. And I am having trouble finding the patience. I don't know why the doggie is eating breakfast. Because it's morning and he's hungry?

But I'm focusing on the fact that my little girl has a sense of humor about herself. She can realize she used a wrong word. That the wrong word will make Mommy and crazy, and she better change it to what she meant to say.

And even though I want to scream "STOP SAYING MOMMY! STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS!" I'm focusing on the fact that Mommy is the best title I've ever had.

L is for, well.... L

Lily is learning to read.

OK, I don't mean she's sitting down with Dr. Seuss and reading a brand new book aloud. (Sight reading? What's it called for words? Man. How far into music education am I that I only know what it's called when it's notes.)

But she's learning the words and letters mean something.

And it. Is. So. Cool.

Today we were at Target and she saw a book that said "zoo." We had a mini party in the aisle at this recognition.

She thinks every word that starts with "L" says Lily. Unless it really says Lily. Then she KNOWS it says Lily.

But it's also exhausting. She wants to know what every sign means. Every. Sign.

I love reading. I love writing. I love words. And 95% of the time I love sharing reading and writing words with Lily. I love taking the time when we're reading to explain words and letters and sounding things out. But sometimes I feel too tired. That's what it says because that's what it says.

At least, that's what I say in my head.

But in reality, I tell her what it says. I do my best to explain. Because teaching a child to read (well, introducing her to it, anyway.) is something I waited a very long time to do. And I intend to make the most of every opportunity.