Learning To Be A Hugger

“I don't do hugging. I don't like people touching me ever when there's no treat involved. It's too intimate and it bothers me.”
― Katja Millay

Hugging practice.

I am not a Hugger.

There, I said.  I 'fessed up.  But here's the tricky part:  I so desperately WANT to be a Hugger.  All the Huggers I know are terrific people.  They basically pull you into their very essence and transfer a little bit of love into the nonexistent space between your bodies.  I want to be like them.  I want to be warm and cozy and invite people into my personal space.

And, yet, I can't. 

I didn't grow up hugging.  I can't recall every really being hugged as a kid.  I mean, there were awkward, arm-patting, loose "hugs" when people you knew were leaving for a long time.  But there were no loving, squeezing, "ohmygoodnessIloveyousomuch" hugs.  My mother was never a hugger so I didn't get that "precious little girl" doting either.  And so, I didn't hug.  Hugging was weird to me.

My roommate in college was (and, frankly, still is) a Hugger.  She was confused by my standoffishness because she is one of those serious Huggers.  She respected my space for many years but has since told me on various occasions that she will violate my personal boundaries sometimes when circumstances require it.  And, secretly, I like it.  Shhh.

When my children were born, I was determined to make them Huggers and wrapped them up in hugs and squeezes as often as I could.  Making them feel cozy and loved was my number one priority.  I succeeded with one who hugs continually, firmly and with wild abandon.  The OTHER would prefer that you keep your distance, thankyouverymuch. #Fail.

With The Boyfriend, I am a terrific hugger.  I hug him all the time.  And HE is one of those good huggers.  He's a wrap-you-up kind of hugger.

With other people, I'm working hard on becoming a hugger.  There are so MANY people in this world that I absolutely LOVE.  I adore them.  I kind of think that standing awkwardly two arms lengths away while offering them a smile and a firm handshake is probably not conveying the message I want to communicate.  I want to say, "OH, how I LOVE you, you incredibly person who I am so blessed to be a part of."  Instead, I smile abashedly and shuffle my feet while mumbling something about the weather.

When I am face-to-face with an actual Hugger, I get a little giddy because I know that I have NO CHOICE but to be swept up in their warmth and delicious expression of human joy.  I wait for it and then, after a nanosecond of tension at the space invasion, I fight every instinct in my rigid body and allow my arms to wrap around them and...for the briefest of moments...I squeeze.

So now I practice.  I offer awkward hugs to a variety of people in a variety of circumstances.  I'm getting a little better.  My hugs are a little firmer.  My tension is less noticeable.  I'm working on it.

It's a goal.  I'm gonna be a Hugger.  Someday.  Somehow.  So, watch out.  Next time I see you, I may just wrap you up and squeeze you. 

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Going Home

“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.”
― James Baldwin

Be it ever so humble...

I have lived at 34 different addresses.  This means that 33 times in my life, I have packed up all my worldly possessions and moved them to a different location.  Apartments, houses, rooms.  There were times when my family moved in with grandparents. Once, between duty stations when my ex-husband was in the Navy, we shipped all of our stuff to the next location and I remained unfixed and transient, waiting for the next address.  There were many, many addresses. But none of them truly ever felt like...home.

Home.  I spent the vast majority of my life  attempting to understand what it was about this word...home...that made people want to go to it, miss it, return there or remain there. 

Tonight, I felt it.  Actually, I've been feeling it for a while now.  My address has been the same for almost 13 years...a record times 3+.  For many years, even though every single box was unpacked, this didn't quite feel like home either.  But something changed.

I changed.

I spent my life pursuing safety.  I escaped to safety as a child in the pages of books.  Somewhere else.  Anywhere else.  When I became an adult, I fled still to escape.  I escaped the feeling of being trapped by getting into my car and driving out into the world until I was so turned around I had to rely on maps to get me back.  I escaped my own unhappiness that I had created through a series of choices, wrong turns and wayward thoughts.  I escaped who I thought I was and who I felt myself turning into.

Until, one day,  I stopped.

I stayed.

I began to spend entire days...at home.  I would wake up and putter around the kitchen, making coffee.  I swept and cleaned, lovingly.  I watched Thing 1 and Thing 2 bouncing on the trampoline and found an unrecognized smile affixed to my face.  I began seeking reasons not to go but to stay.  And at the end of long work days, I looked forward to returning to my place of rest, of restoration.

I came home tonight and spent time digging in my garden, feeling the earth slip through my fingers while somehow binding me to it.  I unhurriedly put herbs and vegetables into the ground and sang while I dug my toes into the cold ground.  Thing 1 bounded out, leaped over the deck railing and ran over to where I sat happily planting.  I looked up at him, with the house looming over us in the growing darkness and I smiled.

Home.  I get it now.  And I know I'll take it with me when I go.

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Raising Teenagers: 5 Reasons Why I Like Teens More Than Toddlers

“She had been a teenager once, and she knew that, despite the apparent contradictions, a person's teenage years lasted well into their fifties.”
― Derek Landy

Thing 2 and Thing 1: Busch Gardens 2015

Recently, Things 1 and 2 accompanied me on our Annual Great Spring Break Amusement Park Adventure.  For the past 7 years, we have raced, spun, screamed and catapulted for a day or two at Carowinds, Busch Gardens, Kings Dominion and Six Flags Over Georgia.

It hasn't always been easy.

The first year, Thing 2 couldn't even ride the big rides (even though he desperately wanted to) and Thing 1 couldn't have cared less about the rides or the Great Adventure.  I have wheedled and pleaded and begged these children over the years to embrace the Great Adventure and understand the magic that happens on road trips.  They have steadfastly refused to participate in my reindeer games.  I have been irritated and tired and far more cranky than I should but I have steadfastly refused to give up this tradition I created out of thin air in desperation to give these two kids whose lives I managed to ruin by divorcing their dad (OK, so a few guilt issues there...) a few bright and happy memories of their Part-Time Life with Mom.

This year, it all came together.

Yes, there was eye-rolling.  And irritation.  And boredom.  And it was MAGIC.  I realized this year that my kids have finally become more like...well...me.  They are no longer the short people I can't fathom.  They are eye-level purveyors of wit, sarcasm and barbed zingers who eat when they're hungry, drink when they're thirsty and sleep when they're tired.  Practically adults.

I started thinking about WHY I seem to love them SO MUCH MORE now that they're big kids in adult clothing.

1. They don't need me as much.  I'm just not one of those people who need to be needed.  I prefer that you take care of your own business and leave me to mine.  Every now and again we can meet in the middle to discuss life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  Things 1 and 2 can take care of their own bodily functions.  They can fix a sandwich.  They don't ask me constant questions about why, who, where, what, when that I (mostly) patiently answered when they were toddlers.  
2.  They fight sarcasm with sarcasm.  Admittedly, I started using sarcasm well before these two were probably ready for it.  Sure, I TRIED the syrupy sweetness of parenting when they were younger.  (Fine, I didn't try terribly hard.)  But, as they grew taller, my sarcasm grew stronger.  Now, these two are teaching me a thing or two.  Their sarcasm seems somehow kinder than mine.  So, I'm learning a few gentle techniques to launch barbs and zingers into the crowd.  Thanks, Thing 1 and Thing 2. Grasshoppers, you are ready (sniff...so proud!).
3. They can entertain themselves.  At the end of a long day at the park, I showered and dove into bed with a novel.  We talked a bit but, for the most part, they were content to absorb themselves in their own pursuits so I could happily ignore them to unwrap a few chapters of the book I had been waiting to get back to all day.
4. They are introspective.  While Thing 2 shot ahead, Thing 1 and I were able to stroll leisurely together and talk about what's going on in his life.  I learned a lot in these few magical snippets of conversation.  He's introverted so, trust me, I take every opportunity to let him come to me.  I appreciate so much his point of view on things and his thoughtful consideration of things that I had no idea he was even aware of.   
5. I enjoy their company.  They have their own ideas.  They disagree with me on...well...a LOT of topics.  But I respect those disagreements.  These two are not an extension of me; rather, they are two completely separate and mysterious beings who I (somehow) was blessed with ushering into the world.

Don't get me wrong.  I have attempted to pause and breathe and enjoy every bit of this life I have been given with these two.  I made choices along the way to parent intentionally and to engage with them throughout every stage.  I managed the baby years.  I navigated the toddler years as best I could.  I plugged away during the childhood years.  But, these teenage years?  To me, they are simply awe-inspiring as I watch them take all those building blocks of life and put them together in a way that's entirely different from what I could have ever anticipated or imagined.  They're not who I thought they would be; they are so much more.

The days continue to be long and the years are so very, very short.

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Things I Think On Road Trips

“because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars...”
― Jack Kerouac

I do a lot of traveling alone.  Mostly, I travel for work but I also have been known to simply get into my car and drive.  North.  South.  It doesn't matter much to me as long as the road is my faithful companion.

The problem with traveling alone as an extrovert is that, well, there is no one to talk to.  I have been known to have long (and, I have to admit, absolutely fascinating) conversations with myself as I speed past highway signs, billboards, and annoying motorists driving slowly in the passing lane.  

As I drove along today, I made notes to myself (talking to that bastard Siri).  I wanted to be sure that I captured the true essence of a road trip alone.  I'm pretty sure after you read this, you'll want to go ahead and sign up for my next trip.  Don't be shy.

Welcome to my stream of consciousness.  (You're welcome.)

1.  Meghan Trainor is an ass-kicker. OK, so Meghan Trainer is a baby.  She was born after I was an adult and I totally want to be her.  I was listening to her song to her future husband.  She told him, "Hey listen, I work, too.  And I am not going to cook.  That's just not something I'm good at.  And I expect you to pull your weight in this relationship.  And here's what I deserve.  And you're just going to have to accept it.  But, hey, if you treat me right, I'm going to be a great wife.  And I'll make you happy.  But this is not a one-way street."  This from the same girl who brought booty back.  I am in awe.  Her self-confidence is enviable.

2.  It takes approximately three hours to go full-circle on the Fleetwood Mac station on Pandora.  I was listening to songs that apparently just hummed over and around my brain but whose lyrics never really stuck.  I hummed happily along and burst into loud vocals when the chorus hit.

3.  Speaking of lyrics, what in the hell do the lyrics to Elton John's Tiny Dancer mean?  "Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer.  Count the headlights on the highway.  Lay me down in sheets of linen.  You had a busy day today."  Was Elton high?  How is the Tiny Dancer holding him close if they're on the highway?  And do they have a bed in the back seat where the linens are kept?  And how did Tiny Dancer's day come into the picture?  Is the Tiny Dancer a mini-ballerina?  I just kept picturing a palm-sized angry chick in a pink tutu doing laundry.

4.  There may not be a single Starbucks between Concord, NC and Savannah, GA.  I looked.  Hard.  At one point, I asked Siri.  He responded,  "Listen, Princess, (side note: yes, I asked Siri to call me "Princess."  And, yes, Siri is a dude in my phone.) there is a Starbucks.  But you'd have to go north 29 miles."  Listen, even people who barely know me understand that coffee is actually the main component in my blood stream.  I NEED coffee like meth heads need...well...meth.  I had to settle for travel center Dunkin' Donuts coffee.  Starbucks people, are you listening?  Off-highway Starbucks locations are not optional.  They are a necessity.

5.  Travel centers are my dream.  I truly do want to be a female truck driver.  I think I would be a fabulous truck driver.  But I need a handle.  Do truckers even use CBs anymore?  I wonder if I could have a special horn as a truck driver.  I also think it would be fabulous to use the showers at the travel center.  I'm half tempted to use them even now and I'm NOT EVEN DIRTY.

6.  Driving drunk will cost you $10,000.  I learned that from a highway billboard.  Unfortunately, if you are drunk and reading that billboard, it's already too late for you.

7.  Which brings me to adult superstores.  I put this one on Facebook today.  Why are so many adult superstores advertised on billboards?  Are random people driving down the highway thinking, "You know, I could really use a blow-up doll, some handcuffs and some cherry flavored underwear. Oh, LOOK.  There's an adult superstore conveniently located just off the highway! Bonus!"

8.  Do people wash their cars on road trips?  I'll be honest:  I rarely wash a car.  Stella has been bathed maybe three...four times in the entire time I've owned her.  I believe the rain usually does the trick.  I mean, why on earth do we HAVE rain if not to serve as nature's car wash?  So, I saw a lot of cars from north of the Mason Dixon which were FILTHY. They'd obviously been through a lot of terrible weather and I felt sorry for them (though not as sorry as I feel for all the people who are still in the weather).  But, THEN, I saw this car from Nova Scotia.  You KNOW the weather is for crap there.  And yet...THAT car was spotless.  Did he stop at a car wash?  Was he like, "Hey, I think I'll stop for a sandwich and a car wash"?  If so, why is not in a hurry to get where he's going?  Is he sad to be going south?  Can he not wash his car at the end of the trip?

9. The farther south you go, the more you see billboards for communities for "active, older adults."  Listen, as far as I can tell, the real active older adults are those ones with the dirty cars north of the Mason Dixon.  Those buggers are out shoveling and trying to stay warm and alive.   That's where the billboards need to be.

10.  When did people start moving over to the other lane for stopped police vehicles?  When I was little, I don't remember anyone moving over to the left lane to give the police room.  Now, everyone is like, "Whoa!  We need to get over!  That car is stopped 15 feet over on the shoulder!"  I mean, it's polite.  But when did it start?  Was there some rulebook distributed that I'm not aware of?

And it went on.  And on.  And on.  For five hours.  I talked (out loud) and sang and even danced a little.  (To answer your question, it is not as easy to do the Cupid Shuffle while driving as it is to enact the Zumba moves to "You need a BAD GIRL to blow your mind...bang bang into the room...")  And I was sorry that I was all alone.   Because I obviously needed to share.

You're welcome.  Again.

And, hey, happy 2015.  Let's talk.  It's been too long, really.

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.

Moments of Grace

“It is the tenderness that breaks our hearts. The loveliness that leaves us stranded on the shore, watching the boats sail away. It is the sweetness that makes us want to reach out and touch the soft skin of another person. And it is the grace that comes to us, undeserving though we may be.”
― Robert Goolrick

I was up this morning before dawn, bustling around in my cozy kitchen, feeding the animals, making coffee and stirring up a batch of fresh chocolate chips cookies so that a little bit of mama love can go into the boys' lunches today.  As I watched the butter and sugar cream together in the Bright Red Kitchen Aid Artisan Stand Mixer, I found myself grinning.  I was just standing there, smiling like a fool, into the beginnings of my batter.   And then I began to pray a small, completely insufficient prayer of thanks while enumerating all the reasons I have to be joyful. And then I thought to myself, "Why not write all these down?  That way, in the inevitable moments of darkness, you can reach back to this list and remember why life is so beautiful."

Done.

Reasons to be Joyful

• Two sleeping boys upstairs are healthy, mostly happy, and, most important to me, safe.  They sleep peacefully every night without ever fearing.  They have lived their lives in love without shouting and violence. 
• The flowers on my kitchen table that represent the man who loves me in spite of the fact that I am often unlovable.  I am thankful that he can see past my grumpy mood swings, my inability to logically consider almost any question, my insistence on being unreasonably happy about holiday cups at Starbucks and my utter lack of concern over the filthiness of my home or car.   I am grateful that he always remembers and acts on the little things that make me happy.
• My furry creatures give me far more joy than many people find reasonable. 
• I am a different woman than I was 10 years ago, 5 years ago, even 6 months ago.  I am so thankful for the ability to change my mind, my thoughts, my life.
• I can stir chocolate chops into my cookie dough with a beautiful, smooth wooden spoon.  
• My limbs are all still working.  My knees are creaky and my body aches more than it probably should on a winter morning, but I am healthy.  
• I have electric lights to illuminate my pre-dawn hours.
• My heat is working and more than sufficient to keep us warm and safe from the coming winter.
• I have work that I enjoy and that pays me enough to do the things I need to do for my family and to have a little bit of fun every now and again.
• I live in an area where it's a little cold in the winter, a little hot in the summer and a whole lot of fabulous in the spring and fall.  
• I live in a country where I can benefit from education, where I have the freedom to speak my mind,  and where I can rest assured that, even though it will never be perfect, there will always be people striving to change lives for the better.
• I love, and am loved by, far more people than one person deserves to have.  I am grateful for the many people who weave in and out of my life, creating a bright tapestry of friendship and love to keep me believing that people, at their core, are usually kind, generous and loving.
• There will always be more reasons to be joyful.

The list went on and on, all the way down to things like really great water pressure, drawers that slide smoothly in and out, and the fruit on the beautiful handmade pottery platter (a little plug for Stephen Dean) on my kitchen table where the cat is currently nestled (I promise I will clean the table before we eat).

I know that your list of joyful things may be different...but I also know you have one.  I hope you can take a few moments today and appreciate those little things that make it all worth it.

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Total Mom Guilt

"Maybe there's more we all could have done, but we just have to let the guilt remind us to do better next time."   -Veronica Roth, Divergent

They have fun, right?

Before I left on this most recent business trip, my youngest said to me (jokingly, I hope), “If you leave baked goods for us, we’ll remember that you love us.”

I left for California early on Sunday morning, a time when many families are having breakfast and preparing for worship together.  My broken-homed kids were at their dad’s house.  The day before, I had spent in a whirlwind.  I cleaned my house, dropped bake sale items off at the high school, ran errands, took my visiting mother to breakfast, attempted to assemble a bookcase, baked two loves of pumpkin bread and Halloween cupcakes (complete with spider and gruesome hand toppers because deep down, I kind of believed what Thing 2 said about the baked goods) and volunteered at the band competition until 9:30 pm.  When I came home, I cleaned a little more, stuffed money into an envelope for my pet-sitter, started packing my bags and crossed a couple of last-minute work items off my list.  When I finally fell into bed, exhausted, at midnight, I set my alarm for 4 a.m. so I could get up and finish my packing before my early flight. 

I then set off across the country, worked in the airport and on the flight (on a Sunday, no less) and tried to remember what I had forgotten to leave for the window contractors who were coming to my house in my absence.   I raced from the airport directly to a trade show.  Then back to my hotel room to finish a presentation my boss needed for Monday morning.   I fell asleep sitting up in my hotel room with my laptop open after what amounted to a 16-hour workday.

I forgot to put money in my kids’ lunch account so I got an abbreviated text from my eldest.  “Put money on my lunch account.”  OK.  Done.  I tried to ignore the guilt for missing picking him up from band practice and my youngest son’s double and stolen home base at the baseball game.  Mondays are MY days, after all.  I should have been there.

It seems as if my life is often a series of  “I should have” or “I have to” or “I’m going to” or “I need to” phrases.  I spend much of my time feeling guilty for not working enough, not paying enough attention to my kids, not cleaning my house well enough, not weeding my garden, not cleaning my car, not taking my dogs on walks, not making the decision to put my poor elderly cat to sleep…the list goes on and on and on.

So I bake.  I clean.  I shuffle.  I run.  I cajole. I volunteer when I can.  I work hard to keep the guilt at bay.  And I do a little bit here and a little bit there but I never do anything really well. I often think that we women REALLY SHOWED THEM when we started working outside the home.  We managed to get the full time jobs outside the house while maintaining a full load in the house.  We juggle marriage (well, not me so much anymore), kids, jobs, household duties and extracurricular activities while lamenting (bragging?) to each other about how busy we are. 

I am overloaded with the stress.  I don’t even do half of what many of my friends do.  And still I am burdened by all the guilt above compounded by the fact that I am not giving my kids what they really need:  me.  Because what they need, when it comes down to it, isn’t baked goods.   What they need, more than anything, is their parents.

Meanwhile, I’m 30,00 feet over Memphis.  For now, the cupcakes will have to do the trick.   I am on my way, boys.  I am on my way.

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The Lunatic Baker (Or, Why I Woke Up at 2:30 A.M. To Bake a Pound Cake)

“The measuring and mixing always smoothed out her thinking processes - nothing was as calming as creaming butter - and when the kitchen was warm from the oven overheating and the smell of baking chocolate, she took final stock of where she'd been and where she was going. Everything was fine.”
― Jennifer Crusie

I received an unexpected gift yesterday.  It wasn't my birthday.  I hadn't done anything particularly deserving.  But when my Guy had me close my eyes and he opened up the back of his Man Station Wagon (it's a sport model), I had no idea that he had purchased a Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer.  For me.

The Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer has always been a dream of mine.  (I know, you're probably reading this thinking, "I've had a stand mixer for years.  Pfft.  No biggie.")  But it IS a biggie.  A VBD (Very Big Deal), if you will.  See, the Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer represents more than just a mixer for me.  It's my Someday tool.

I love to bake.  It calms me after a stressful day.  I love the way the house smells when I'm crafting up something yummy in the kitchen.  And olfactory memories are strong ones...I want my boys to remember growing up in a house that smells of cookies and cakes and...well...love.  For many, many years (19, to be exact), I have used the hand mixer my mother gave me as a wedding present.  I've loved that hand mixer.  It has seen me through stiff meringues, chunky chocolate chip cookies, thick butter cookies for my new cookie press and the beginning (and end) of my marriage.  It's been a great mixer.  It does the trick.  So much so that spending a Veritable Fortune for a Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer just never made sense.

So, I told myself this:  "Someday.  Someday you will buy yourself the Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer as a special present JUST FOR YOU.  Maybe it will be because you do something extraordinary like not forgetting to shut and lock the back door before bed.  Maybe it will be because you finally finished writing that book.  Maybe it will be because you're just SO DAMN AWESOME.  But, someday, you will buy that ridiculously extravagant Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer.   And you will BAKE."  

Someday hasn't arrived yet. I just have never been able to justify the expense.

But, yesterday, due to...I don't know what it was...maybe the cool fall weather?  I looked especially fetching last week with my runny nose?  Just because?...my Guy purchased the Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer.

I am going to have to remember to be extra special nice to that Guy because a) he loves me enough to buy me the RIGHT COLOR (red is really the only color that matters to me) b) he knows me enough to know that this gift would send me over the moon and c) he didn't even wait for a holiday.  [Disclaimer:  I get equally excited over the Atomic Fireballs he hands over in church on Sunday mornings, so he knows that he doesn't have to be Ridiculously Extravagant to win any affection from me.]

So, yesterday I rushed home, excited to use my Brand New Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer.

And life got in the way.  I was busy picking up kids, getting groceries, supervising homework, printing Thing 2's school project that, before I knew it, 10 p.m. had rolled around.  I was EXHAUSTED.  And a little cranky.  And I didn't want my Very First Baking Experience with my lovingly purchased Dream Machine to be rushed or stressful. 

I rested my hand carefully on top of the Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer and said, "I'm going to take a little nap.  But I'll be back."

So, I set my alarm for 2:30 a.m.  And, at 2:30 a.m., I woke up like I was 6 years old again and Christmas morning had arrived.  I raced downstairs and made a cup of coffee (hello, I still have SOME sanity left...I know what's important).  And then I carefully washed the parts of my new mixer.  And I read the operating instructions.  And I assembled the butter, the sugar, the eggs, the flour.  I juiced some lemons.  I installed the splash shield.  I finally figured out how to install the mixing paddle.

And I mixed.

I oohed and aahed over the blending.  I walked away from it while it creamed butter and sugar.  I listened to the whirring of the motor.

It was everything I dreamed it would be.

I'm sitting here now smelling deliciously baked lemony goodness.  And I know my boys are upstairs in their sleep smelling the good smell of love wafting from the kitchen.  I have my coffee and my dogs.  That Bright Red KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer is a part of the living dream.

Go out there and bake something today.

If you like my blog, share it.  Or Like my FB page to get updates.  Or make a comment below.  If you don't like it, well...just try not to hurt my feelings.  I'm sensitive.