Feet on the Floor

Back at the beginning of the fall, in anticipation of my undoubtedly imminent seasonal depression, I tried out a new antidepressant drug.  The medication that I used last year was just so-so and carried with it some unwanted side effects, so I started out with a very low dose of the new drug.  By the end of the first day I felt like I was wired on caffeine.  Toward the end of the second day I had developed a pounding headache which was exacerbated by the drug induced insomnia.  Clearly this new drug was not the miracle I was hoping for.  I returned the mostly unused bottle to the pharmacy for disposal and made up my mind that we all just needed to move to Colorado where life, I  imagine, must be perfect.

Colorado was not a realistic quick fix, so I took a few deep breaths and decided not to panic.  I was not ready to let go of the deep contentment that had settled over me during the summer months.  I continually meditated on a favorite quote by Albert Camus: "In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."  I was determined to make this quote true for me.

Today is December 13, 2013.  We are approaching the Winter Solstice.  Temperatures have been in the single digits all week, skies have been gray, and snow has been sporadically falling.  I am almost superstitiously hesitant to announce that I am drug-free and doing really well.  Of course I am not through the winter yet, but I am cautiously optimistic that I am on to something.

Here are the main changes I have made so far this season which seem to be yielding very positive results for me:

1.     Supplements: Daily I am taking high doses of Vitamin D and DHA Fish Oil along with a regular multivitamin.  Both of these are available over the counter in your local pharmacy.  I also regularly take Melatonin in the evening before bed.  Fewer hours of daylight mean that I often don't feel tired at the of the day.  The melatonin (a naturally occurring hormone produced in our bodies which helps to control sleep cycles) allows me to feel drowsy and get to sleep so that I can wake up dark and early feeling somewhat rested.

2.     Feet on the Floor: I wake up at about the same time every morning, and I put my feet on the floor.  I usually wake up at about 6:30 am so that I can see my eleven-year-old before she heads off to the snake pit called middle school.  It is dark as pitch at 6:30 am during the non-summer months up here in Michigan, but I do it every week day.  Since it is so dark, and the roads are often slippery, and I am a slightly over-protective mother with a completely overactive imagination, I also walk my kid down the street to the bus stop every morning.  I bundle up and tromp through the ice and snow with her.  I make pleasant conversation and harass her about the fact that she really should be wearing a heavy coat when it’s 4 degrees outside.  When the bus comes, I wave to the bus driver and walk back home with Jack Frost nipping at my nose.

3.     I do not go back to bed.  This is a rule that I have made for myself, and it has made such a huge difference.  My mother always said that when you crawl back in bed in the morning, you force yourself to complete the worst part of your day (dragging your sorry behind out of bed) twice.  That finally makes sense to me.  I think it would be difficult to get settled back into bed after my arctic jaunt to the bus stop and back anyway, but I have simply decided that that is not allowed (unless I have the flu or something, which could totally happen since I have not achieved superhero status yet).  Staying on my feet ensures that I will not hate myself later in the day for having not accomplished the things on my “to do” list.  (Now don’t go and get all philosophical on me.  I know that my worth as a person is not tied to what I accomplish, but when winter depression has me in its grip, my self-esteem plummets even lower on days when I have been inactive and unproductive.)

4.     Light therapy:  I continue to use the new light box that I purchased last year.  I try to use it as soon after I awake as possible.  This means that it is usually still dark outside when I’m using mine.  I have my lamp mounted above the computer so I can sit and browse stupid websites or poke around on i-tunes or write lesson plans (see #5) while getting my daily dose of light therapy pretty effortlessly.

5.     I got a job!  In addition to what I consider my primary job: being a loving mama and home manager, I said “yes” to a part time job opportunity at my church working with elementary aged kids and music (two of my most favorite things).  This gives me a sense of purpose (even more of a sense of purpose than I had doing everyone’s laundry and dishes- go figure!).  It is also a weekly challenge and opportunity to flex my creative muscles.  Being creative makes me happy!  Getting paid to be creative makes me feel honored and appreciated.  Whoo-hoo!

 

6.   I exercise!  Self explanatory?  I have found group exercise classes that I really enjoy, and I attend Zumba and Barre classes about three times a week.  There is fun music and a party atmosphere in Zumba, and the Barre classes make me feel stronger, leaner, and more flexible.  Studies have consistently shown that regular exercise can be as effective as prescription strength anti-depressants for individuals who suffer with mild to moderate cases of depression.  I am making exercise a priority this year.

7.    I read books.  I have read several books about seasonal depression that have been helpful to me.  Understanding that I am not alone and that I am not crazy has made a real difference.  Two books that I would wholeheartedly recommend are: Winter Blues: Everything You Need to Know to Beat Seasonal Affective Disorder by Norman E. Rosenthal, MD and Spontaneous Happiness: A New Path to Emotional Well-Being by Andrew Weil, MD.  Both of these offer real tangible advice about digging yourself out of a bad winter funk.                                                                     

If you are suffering from seasonal depression or any other kind of depression or mental illness, prescription medications may be necessary for you. I consider myself very lucky in that I have the summer time to remember and reestablish what my "happy normal" feels like. Once you have descended into the pit of depression, you may not even realize just how low you are. You may not even remember what a "happy normal" day feels like. When lethargy and hopelessness become the norm, drugs may be needed to help you hoist yourself up to the next level.  I am not dismissing the benefit of drugs for some, but I am so happy to not be using them myself right now.  Now I know that if I have a weird day, it's me and not a drug side effect.  I also feel more empowered and responsible, and that is really working for me at this time.

I hope to report in February and March that all is still well.  Not all of my days are great.  Of course they are not, but I am feeling on top of things at the moment.  Getting back into the routine after the Christmas holidays always presents a colossal challenge for me.  When the crazy Carsons come to visit, their late night, low brow, raucous behavior throws my fragile circadian rhythms for a loop, but my determination is strong. FEET ON THE FLOOR!

Stay happy, my friends.  And if you're not happy, be honest, and do not be afraid to ask for help.

Love,
Meredith

                                                                                    

Birthday Bake Off!

Last night I was invited to help out with a "Birthday Bake Off" party hosted by my friend Allison for her daughter's twelfth birthday.  She claims she was inspired by a home baking challenge we had here at our house the night before school started.  (You can read about our Sweet Genius Baking Challenge HERE.)  But 'inspiring' is about the only thing for which I can take credit.  She hosted a glorious party in our church's big kitchen where eleven girls and one excited boy created twelve unique and beautiful cakes.  I teamed up with my nine-year-old daughter Sophia to create this simple and wonderful "Trip Down Lemon Lane" cake.

 Allison created a fanciful and gratifying birthday party that her daughter Natalie will never forget.  All twelve kids got to take home a one-of-a-kind cake made by themselves to share with their families.  "Brilliant!" I declare.

Last night's fun has sent the cogs and wheels in my head a-turning.  My favorite, up-for-anything, smack-talking, competitive brother-in-law is coming to town for Christmas in nine weeks.  Yes, I just counted, and I think I am about to throw down the gauntlet.  It may be high time for some sort of Christmas Baking Smackdown.

So...stay tuned.

Glinda the Good Witch Can Kiss My Grits

I have been once again whipped up into the vortex that is middle school.  The first time around I was a sixth grader myself.  I remember that I was completely panicked and self-conscious about how I looked but too tired to wake up early enough to ensure that I had brushed my hair and dressed myself in matching clothes each morning.  I was completely overwhelmed with the busyness of my new schedule at Jamestown Middle School.   I was dumbstruck by the school lessons about atoms and molecules, communism and the Holocaust, and I was dazzled by the vast assortment of different kids whose approval I so desired.

I spent the entirety of my sixth grade year simultaneously feeling both confused and excited; lost and found; idiotic and brilliant.  I experimented with fashion, with friends, with study habits, and with personal identities.  It was exhausting.

Meredith, age 11
Rocking the Swatch watch, of course

Finally, after many years, I found myself, and I subsequently blocked out all of that adolescent awkwardness (that bled into early adulthood).  I grew up, got a job, got married, had kids, and read lots of books.  I made more friends and learned to love myself most of the time.  I occasionally looked back and affectionately remembered my goofy and adorable middle school self, but I happily repressed the memories of the real heart breaks and desperation of that transitional time.

From the moment my oldest daughter put her foot on board the bus that would take her off to middle school, all of those memories came flooding back.  Oh dear Lord, please don’t make me sit here helplessly and watch as she re-lives all of the same adolescent angst that I suffered through.  Can’t I just tell her about all of those painful lessons I already learned and let her skip them all?

Of course you know that this is not possible.  Just like that bitch Glinda from the Wizard of Oz assured us, she HAS to learn it all for herself.  And what is a mama to do except listen with rapt attention as her long legged girl sits on the floor and pours her heart out about the day’s dramas.  Of course I cannot keep up.  Today’s best friends are tomorrow’s heart breakers, and this week’s crisis will be, in hindsight, completely trivial by next week.  But I’m in there, y’all, making all of the appropriate comments like, “No, she didn’t!?” and, “I'm so sorry, sweetheart.  I know that really hurt your feelings.”

And as I stare, with my brow unconsciously furrowed, at this young lady, it is so much like gazing into a foggy mirror, that I feel a little bit sick.  “You are better than all of this middle school nonsense!”  I want to scream.  “None of this will matter in ten years!” I yearn to declare.  And, "Remember when you were eight, and you were full of confidence and conviction and healthy self-love?" my heart cries out.


Lovely Pre-Middle School Emma

I know that one day she will remember just like I eventually did.  Until then I will continue my deep breathing exercises, and I will keep whispering Stuart Smalley-esque affirmations into her ear as she sleeps at night:

"Dear girl, you ARE good enough, smart enough, and doggone it, it doesn't matter if everyone likes you.  You are amazing and unique, and your opinions matter.  Keep being yourself even if another kid rolls her eyes.  Keep being kind even though other kids can be cruel.  It really will get easier and better, but this world needs strong, passionate, caring, and smart girls like you, so fear not and rock on with your awesome self!"

 
A huge thank you to all of the adults who encourage my kids regularly.  It totally takes a village to safely and sanely navigate middle school.  Now could one of you whisper some parenting affirmations in my ear a little later?

Thanks.
Love,
Meredith

Sweet Genius Baking Challenge

The night before school started I decided we needed one last creative hurrah at our house before the drudgery of homework and the dread of early morning alarm clocks set in.  Over the summer my two oldest girls and I had become obsessed with the show Sweet Genius on the Food Network.  This show is hosted by the creepy, quirky, and wonderful Chef Ron Ben-Israel.  The premise of the show: accomplished cake/sugar/candy artists are presented with strange mandatory ingredients (like caviar or fruit roll-ups) that must be used in the creation of a dessert that fits into a particular category such as candy, chocolate, or cake.  Contestants are also supplied with an "inspiration" (like disco or puppies) that must be represented in their final, delicious product.

On September 2, 2013 we had a Sweet Genius inspired competition in our kitchen.  My kids, who are novice bakers, were allowed to use recipes as references.  They didn't have a strict time limit, and I gave them each a unique mandatory ingredient.  The category of dessert that they were to create was CAKE.


Chef Sophia's mandatory ingredient: condensed tomato soup

Chef Emma's mandatory ingredient: the humble zucchini

Both girls were given the same inspeeration for their creations: Hagrid, keeper of the keys, from JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.


A representation of Hagrid is seen here posed next to our cat Clementine who was terribly impressed by all of this.

There was an immediate flurry of activity in the kitchen.  My inner-control freak bit her tongue and sat on her hands.  This was a truly excellent exercise for me, and by the end of it all, I was shocked by how much my kids were able to do with very little help from me.  (I have an extremely difficult time keeping my hands and opinions to myself in the kitchen.)

Emma created a zucchini cake with ginger and topped it off with an amazing cooked caramel penuche icing. 

Sophia stirred tomato soup and raisins into a spice cake batter, then concocted a rustic cinnamon butter cream that captured the essence of Hagrid rather perfectly.

And then the most awful thing happened.  My girls wanted someone to judge whose cake was the best.  It was a competition after all.  It felt like a bit of a Sophie's Choice, and I couldn't do it.  In the end my husband and a friend who was visiting made the impossible call.  Our Sophia was NO Sweet Genius.  Chef Emma's creation decorated with beastly creatures and creepy crawlies which would have undoubtedly met with the approval of Hagrid himself took the cake.

At the end of the day everyone felt like a winner.  It isn't every day that a kid gets to repeatedly sample two different kinds of cake in order to form an opinion on which one is the most reminiscent of Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest.  I think we may be on to something!



Middle School

I sent this beautiful person off to middle school for the first time this week.

She wasn't wearing the war paint when I hustled her onto the wrong bus at 7 am.  She was dressed in a pair of orange shorts and a t-shirt, an outfit she hadn't agonized over very much, by the looks of it.  She was nonchalant and relaxed, but as I watched the wrong bus carry her away into the darkness of the early morning, my insides seized up unexpectedly and I had the unnerving desire to chase after the bus screaming, "Come back, sweet girl!!"  What the hell happened?

The overwhelming sense of worry that overtook me that morning was completely unexpected.  After realizing that the number on the bus that my daughter was riding was NOT the number of the bus she was supposed to be riding, I hurried home and called our public school transportation office.  The rather bored secretary confirmed that Emma would arrive at her own school after the high school kids on board were dropped off at their school.

That settled, I fed my fourth grader and sent her out to catch her bus, then made breakfast for a gleeful three year old, who couldn't believe how fabulous it felt to have her mama all to herself again.  Still butterflies gnawed away at my stomach lining every time I thought about my eleven year old trying to find her classes, open her locker, and contend with the girls she always described as "popular" punctuated with air quotes and an annoyed roll of the eyes.  "Dear Lord," I prayed, "Please don't let anyone crush my baby's delicate feelings today!"

Of course you know that I cannot and should not protect her from the "mean girls" and the occasional jerky teacher, but, oh y'all, I want to SO badly! 

I was waiting for her the minute she got off the bus and have never been so happy to hear her recount every minor detail of her day.  She did fine, everybody!  I know.  You weren't worried a bit.

And now, having survived the first week, my heart rate has slowed a little.  Letting go really blows, friends. 

Love,
Meredith

Poetry Makes This Mama's Heart Sing

Last week my oldest daughter attended a poetry camp.  She was pretty private about all of the camp happenings during the course of the week and mentioned very nonchalantly on Wednesday that there would be a poetry reading on Friday.  "How exciting!" I thought.  I knew that I'd love to go and hear my girl recite a poem or two that she'd scratched out during the week, so I arrived with average expectations and left with puffy eyes and a bursting heart.

I think that Emma Carson is a little bit special, and here are a couple of her poems for your enjoyment.  Hearing them read by my girl with cool confidence and captivating expression was almost more than this mama could handle.

An Inspiration

My dad is Christmas pancakes in August. My dad is a ghost-buster on Halloween. My dad brings you a rose at school on your birthday. My dad is unexpected. My dad knows everything but doesn’t boast. My dad is a teaser. My dad is heart-fully sorry that he teased you. My dad will build you a two-story play house from scratch if you help him. My dad will let you watch movies that maybe you’re not quite old enough to see. My dad will ride the wildest rollercoasters with you, as long as they don’t spin. My dad is clever and witty, but doesn’t go overboard. My dad never forgets to tell you, ‘good job’. My dad is not a picky eater; he just doesn’t like raw tomatoes or fish. My dad never gets full, and I’m still trying to figure out if I mean that literally or not. My dad can fit a whole cupcake in his mouth. My dad understands when you’ve had enough. My dad likes the house clean. My dad will buy you that big chocolate shake you’ve been craving. My dad will buy a big chocolate shake for himself too. My dad has a way of knowing every trick and every code. My dad is the black sheep in a herd of white ones. My dad is someone you can’t help wanting to be like. My Dad, an inspiration.

 

A Journey through the Woods

The sun beats down like fire crippling your already blistered skin.

Shade.

You need shade. 

All the leaves are either brown and burned or so spread apart that it’d be impossible for them to block any sun.

You look ahead to find about five trees standing considerably close, their leaves overlapping, forming shade.

Your hot and heavy white trainers pound the ground; each step you take leaves a huge dent in the earth.

Your head is now beating, sweat is trickling from your forehead all the way to your neck.

 One more slamming clunk and you’re sprawled across the ground, under shade.

 Sweet and perfect shade.

But even under the shade the dirt is shriveled and dehydrated.

You lay under the leaf shelter wondering what nature has in store for you as your heart gradually slows to a beat that doesn’t jerk the life out of you.

But now you have a new problem.  Water.  

Nowhere in sight.

You’re so far away from home that you can’t even see the backyard.

Your throat is so dry that it’s impossible to keep your whole tongue wet, so you gave up trying.

 The only sign of liquid is your forehead, drenched with sweat and completely scorched that you can almost feel the skin slowly peeling off.

The nagging thought of merely giving up and going home to a nice, cool, relaxing bath taunts you, but you keep on going.

Each step seems to say, “You do not belong here. Go home to your water that comes for granted. You won’t find any here, we’ll make sure of that.”

After about ten more minutes of slow, hot, sticky walking you’re in no luck, and out of the shade.

The sun’s gotten even more aggressive and your heart has started beating so fast that you feel like it’s about to come tumbling out.

Then you see it.

 A pond, well a puddle rather.

 Gasping you find yourself speechless, but you don’t need words, you just run.

When you reach it you begin you drink the water by cupping your hands, but suddenly cupping your hands isn’t fast enough.

So, you bend down on your hands and knees and start slurping up the water like a dog.

 Even though the water is sizzling as if it’s been in a kettle, you gulp it down like your life depended on it.

 Feeling satisfied and extremely tired you head back home, but adventure is still in your blood; it even seems to linger in the air.

So as you soak yourself in a cool and relaxing bath, you can’t help smiling as you feel fresh blossoms of curiosity sprouting inside you, spreading like weeds, because that can only mean one thing, another adventure.

Do you see what she did there?  Oh, do it again, Emma!

Love from,

Your biggest fan,

Mom

 

Everything is Better in the Summertime

Summer was a bit late to arrive this year.  When I last sat down to write, there was a bit of panic coursing through my fingers as they tapped on the keyboard.  I was suffocating under a blanket of doubt.  Would summer ever properly arrive?  I felt that I urgently needed to leave the country and possibly leave the state of Michigan permanently.  I didn't know if I could cope for one more day without the warm sun on my face.

Shortly after I wrote about escaping back to Great Britain (a foolish retreat location for a sun seeker), summer finally did arrive, and ever since I have been happily drowning in it.  I cannot begin to describe how much better everything is during the warm, sunny, summer months for me.  I am still myself.  I do not suddenly have organized drawers or find myself cheerfully putting away fresh smelling stacks of folded laundry early each morning.   I am still an introvert who feels more than a bit grumbly and frayed after a long day of listening to three very chatty children who are all home on summer vacation.

The difference in the summertime is that I am not depressed.  I am not wracked with guilt over the fact that I'd like to stay in bed all day.  I am relaxed, more energized, and happy.  On lazy days (because what could be more fabulous than a lazy, summer day?), I do not berate myself over the fact that I didn't get enough accomplished.  Instead I sigh contentedly and admire my tan lines.  Oh Summer, please say you'll never leave!

My creativity also experiences a re-birth of sorts in the summer months.  I derive great joy from planning events and activities for my family and friends.  I do my best to store up inspiration for the cold months, and even though I can see it so clearly in my mind's eye today, while the summer sun charges my dendrites and synapses, I never do seem to pull off super fun, themed celebrations in the dead of winter.


Like, Oh My Gosh!  This is totally NOT what I look like in February, which is completely BOGUS!

So while it lasts, I will continue to enjoy my favorite season.  And when it's over, I will try to be gentler with myself, and I will not give up on finding new coping strategies to help me combat the paralyzing cold-weather despair that envelopes me.

And that brings me back to my original point.  Last night I finally concluded that I should save my great overseas jaunt for a "rainy day" since I know for a fact that those days are coming.  Here and now I am oh so happy and content in Michigan, but in several months, I will be climbing the walls again, and it will be lovely to have a trip to the British countryside as a treat to look forward to.  In fact regularly scheduled treats and getaways are a big part of my survival strategy for next winter (plus the usual light therapy, diet and exercise, and possibly prescription drugs).

So British friends, my feelings for you haven't changed a bit.  I'm still planning a journey, but just a bit later on.  Honestly I don't know how you've manage to cope all this time without me.  Order me a pint and ploughman's and I'll be along before you know it...

 

...and stay happy!

 

Torn Between Two Loves

I can remember the exact moment it hit me.  I was sitting on the rubbery play surface at our local outdoor playground on an unusually warm and sunny British afternoon.  My young children were playing some sort of imaginative game that required them to gather pebbles, dandelions, and blades of grass which they spun furiously in the gravity bowl while they chattered back and forth in high pitched voices with elfin British accents.  The sky was blue and a jolly red post box stood in my line of sight as I gazed across Llantrisant Road.  On the opposite side of the street, there were vibrant, verdant hills dotted with sheep and sluggish, grazing cattle.

Right then the notion hit me like a stepped upon pitch fork hits a stooge between the eyes.  We would eventually move back to the USA, and, when we did, I would feel homesickness for Great Britain in the same way that I yearned for my American home while living abroad.  I would forever be torn between two places.  Maybe I even said aloud, “Oh, crap!” 

If I did, I was undoubtedly chastised by one of my children: “Mummy, that is not a nice word to say.”

“I’m sorry, Poppet,” I probably replied, “You’re right.  How about: ‘Oh, what a spot of bother!’?”

I had adapted to life in Great Britain.  I had learned to drive on the opposite side of the road, learned how to order all sorts of essential nonsense from the Argos catalog, and had completely learned how to navigate around my local Tesco, white knuckling the trolley at Christmastime as I tore through the crowded aisles grabbing cold bottles of “champers”, a box of Celebrations chocolates, and a dozen mince pies.  I had become a tea drinker, a biscuit eater, and a wash pegger.  My children had enrolled in nursery school and had become endeared to their lovely British “aunties” at school who exposed them to playing Conkers, baking jam tarts, and stomping fearlessly through puddles whilst wearing Wellington boots.

 

I had figured it out.  I no longer struggled with culture shock, but I still yearned for many of the comforts of home like nice peanut butter and proper tumble dryers.  I frequently grouched about things that I missed like the ease of car travel and parking, the (possibly insincere) friendliness of strangers in public, and, did I mention good quality peanut butter?

But right there, in that moment, something changed.  It was almost as though I had glimpsed my future self, the self who would miss the hell out of Great Britain.  And I started living in the moment and appreciating the quirky British-ness of everyday life.  Of course I still grouched about the weather (a favorite British pastime), the traffic, and the substandard customer service provided by British Telecom, but something had changed.  Suddenly I was one of “them.”  I allowed myself to melt more deeply into the culture that surrounded me.  British vocabulary became part of my vernacular.  I got hooked on British television shows and became hopelessly attached to BBC Radio1 DJs and celebrity chefs. (Nigella Lawson, please take me on holiday with you!)  I started to bristle even more than usual anytime I heard other Americans bad mouthing British people or customs or cuisine.

I took a walk on the pavement in my Mid-Michigan neighborhood this past weekend. As I walked I was  alone and not, of course, with my best British gal pal Sonia.  I walked past fancy brick houses instead of the Taff River, and my wonderfully eccentric friend Joanna was not tromping along next to me, pointing out the brilliant blue kingfisher bird that she seemed to spot every time she joined us on our morning walks along the Taff Trail.  I felt like my seemingly-flawless, small town community was closing in on me, like I was gasping for bigger breaths with every step I took.  And then I realized it.

It has been three years since I left the UK!  I left with eyes full of tears and a lump in my throat.  Our family, our cat, and our multitudinous suitcases were piled into a giant, people-carrier taxi; our friends Michael and Sonia, and our neighbors Kelly and Geraint stood in our bricked cul-de-sac and waved goodbye.  I didn’t really allow myself to take in just how awful it all was that we were leaving that once foreign place that had become so very familiar.  We had a hell of a long journey ahead of us, and I chose to focus on that instead.  Then I focused on unpacking and acclimating to our new community.

 

It only took three years for me to figure out that I want to go back.  I really want to go back.  Three years has been more than enough time for me to forget about all of the everyday annoyances and to completely romanticize everything else.  I want to re-visit castle ruins and to have tea and cake in an impossibly old building while it pisses down with rain outside.  I want to go down the pub for a curry and a pint.  I want to see the newest pornographic food advert that Marks and Spencer is showing on the telly. (Please tell me it involves gravy splashing obscenely over a Yorkshire pudding!)  I want to breathe in the British air and look out across the rolling green hills and simply take it all in again.

 

I came home from my walk all fired up.  I was ready to lay out a very organized and persuasive argument to my husband detailing why we should purchase five round trip tickets to London this summer and spend a nice bit of time reintroducing our children to the Welsh countryside, dry British humour, and public railways.  I was all ready to have a proper strop related to this topic, but it was completely unnecessary.  George immediately agreed and seemed shocked that it had taken me so long to feel such a strong pull back to the Old Country.  (Honestly I do believe that the thought of an overseas flight and the resulting jet lag with my little pistol of a three year old has been the only thing holding me back for so long.)

So… fair warning to my old mates: I really hope to be headed your way sometime soon.  I am fully expecting someone to hire out the village hall and hold a twmpath in my honour.  It’s Brains I want, you know.  Alright, Loves?

See you soon, silly sausages!

Advice for the Happy Couple

I just returned from the Glorious South.  I did not realize how much I missed it there until I was, after the longest Michigan winter ever, re-immersed in its sunshine and flip flops and sweet tea.  Down South little girls wear floral dresses and have names like Lisa Marie and Tori Rae.  Their mamas have perfect pink toenails, carry Vera Bradley bags, and say things like, “Come on, Mary Martin, nobody has time for this hissy fit today.”

Ladies lunch outdoors and smile pleasantly at my three year old who is dancing around the restaurant patio whilst hopped up on chocolate milk and cheesecake.  They notice the concerned expression on my face and say, “Honey, don’t you worry a thing about her!  She is just precious.”

And I reply, “Oh!  I just love your accent!  I used to live down here but now I’m up in Michigan, and…” my voice trails off.

They exchange mutual “bless her heart” glances and look back at me with eyes full of sympathy.  Then they say, obviously, “Well, you should come back!  We’d love to have you here!”

Sigh.

The real reason I was down South was to attend my step sister’s wedding, which was a lovely affair. A weekend witnessing all sorts of preparations, googly-eyed glances, and “I do’s” causes me to reflect on the kind of advice I might offer a couple of gorgeous newlyweds.

We had to call it an early night at the actual wedding.  After several episodes of growling and angry eyebrow wrinkling, manic barefoot cavorting on the dance floor, and finally the announcement that, “I got a little too excited and peed in my pants,” we decided it was time to take my three year old back to the hotel.  (You were certain I was describing my husband, George’s wedding behavior, weren’t you?)

So sadly I missed the inevitable point in the evening when somebody’s perfectly well-intended cousin who’d had a few too many mint juleps, seized the microphone from DJ Scribble Scrabble to offer his words of marital advice.  “Marriage is HARD WORK,” he’d say while looking wide-eyed at his red-faced, lovely wife of thirty years. “I mean, it’s REAL hard work, but it’s worth it.  And if your marriage is even half as awesome as mine has been, you are in for one heck of a ride, right, Sweetie?”  

I imagine her smiling tensely and mouthing silently, “Okay.  That’s enough.”  But of course he'd continue on reciting platitudes and clichéd words of encouragement.  Things  would really start to get awkward when he crumpled at the knees and began crooning Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game.  Finally when he hit the achingly high chorus, “No, I-I-I-I-I Don’t Wanna Fall in Love…” DJ Scribble Scrabble would have the prudence to crank up the music and drown out his painful crooning with Will Smith’s Get Jiggy With It played at full volume.  No, I wasn’t there, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it went down.

I figure twelve years of marriage, three babies, a couple of overseas moves, and everything in between has taught me a thing or two about wedded bliss and the occasional moments of wedded woe.  So here is my attempt at a little more helpful and less humiliating advice:

1.      Find out what makes your partner feel loved, and do more of that.  You can even take the goofy quiz that is here:  5 Love Languages Profile  (It really isn't goofy at all, but I call it such because I think I am way too cool for quizzes.)  I am still waiting for my friend Marilyn Sue to make me a cross-stitched throw pillow for my bed that says, "Have you hugged your husband today?" because sometimes I forget that it is really that easy to make him feel loved. 

2.      Find out what YOU love and do plenty of that.  If you are not feeling filled-up with things that satisfy you and make your life meaningful, you will feel resentful when your partner pursues his or her passions…even if you are the kindest, most self-sacrificing person in the world. 

3.      Know that you cannot and should not be your partner's everything.  This is called co-dependence and is rawther unhealthy.  You both should have other interests and other friends.  A night out with friends may be just what your extroverted partner needs after a tough week.  A quiet night in the guest bedroom with a book or a journal may be what an introvert needs in order to re-charge.  Don't take it personally.

4.      It isn't particularly fun, but sort out the division of labor at your house, and then appreciate the crap that he/she does that you don't want to do.  I've changed a lot of diapers, been grocery shopping thousands of times, organized our kids' schedules, and cooked a bazillion meals for us.  When I start feeling like a frazzled domestic diva, I remember all of the things that he does like: taxes, bookkeeping, home repairs, pest disposal (eek!), assembling anything that comes with instructions, yard maintenance, opening jars with really stuck lids, computer repairs, his laundry, and calling for take out (an introvert's dreaded task).  Just thinking about all of those things makes me love him just a little bit more.

5.      If you find yourself fighting fiercely about the way that she loads the dishwasher or the fact that he STILL drinks out of the milk carton, know that you are not really upset about either of those things and refer back to #1.

6.      Do go to bed angry.  Sometimes a good night’s sleep is really the best thing for an argument.  It almost always looks better in the morning through well-rested eyes.

7.      Shut the door when you poop.  A little mystery is a good thing.  Keep learning about each other, but know where to draw the line.

8.      Make time to do nothing together.  My favorite thing to do with my husband is still "nothing."  When we are doing nothing, all sorts of wonderful things happen: I remember how ridiculously funny I find him, we end up talking about things that we didn't even realize were bothering us, and we do other important stuff that my children don't like to think about.

9.      Be vulnerable with your partner.  Being married doesn't mean you get to stop putting yourself out there.  You grow together by continuing to take risks and by talking about the stuff that scares the crap out of you.  Be a safe place for your partner to talk about scary, vulnerable things.

10.  Love doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry.  Keep saying "I'm sorry" every time you act like a jerk.  And forgive your partner's jerky behavior too.  Neither of you are a super fun picnic in the park all of the time.

BONUS #11. Talk about what you believe about parenting before you get yourself knocked up.  Talk about the good and bad parts of your own childhoods.  Talk about things that are important to you when it comes to raising your future imaginary kids.  Then be prepared to throw all of that out and take it day by day when babies come with their own personalities and agendas and issues...or if they do not come at all.

 

I love offering unsolicited advice, and, of course, you love reading it.  So, you're welcome.

 

Advice of this sort is likely wasted on newlyweds.  Never could I, as a newlywed, have imagined a day when I might forget to hug my husband or that I'd find it almost impossible to tell him what was going through my clouded mind after I'd boarded the postpartum bus to Crazy Town.  But I also couldn't have imagined how much more I'd love him twelve years later.  When we said those words, "For richer or for poorer; in sickness and in health, " we meant the hell out of them, but we hadn't lived them yet.

 

Now we have.  And we continue to do so.  And it is wonderful and exciting and sometimes scary and frustrating.  So newlyweds, I wish you a beautiful journey.  I wish you continued growth and love during good times and bad.  And I hope you never stop laughing or finding joy in the little things.   I also hope you invite your embarrassing cousin to every future imaginary event to which I am invited.  That guy is awesome.

 

"Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place." -- Zora Neale Hurston