PERFECT IMPERFECTIONS

I like the pictures taken while trying to get a good one. Don't know what it is, but I like it. Maybe it's the complete candidness of it all, or maybe it's that they reflect a more realistic shot of life. Life is blurry at times, we can all be a little cranky at points, we're so busy or preoccupied we don't know which way to look, sometimes we feel like we're going crazy, and damn if the whole family doesn't get hangry every once in a while. Oh, and I often want to cut my husband's beard off. That one could be totally unrelated to all this, just keeping it real.

I could go on and on about life behind the perfect pic, "the perfect imperfections" as John Legend would say.  But I think it can be summed up by a part from one of my favorite documentaries Cutie and the Boxer, when the painter Ushio Shinohara declares, "This is so hard ... and it's so fantastic."  

Yes, Ushio, it is.

(note: watch Cutie and the Boxer)

AN ODE TO A SWEET SEASON

sun rise
sleepy eyes
a momma sighs

tiring.
love.
what time is it?

park feen
making a scene
look, it's ice cream

challenging.
love.
what time is it?

bath time
on your behind
throw me a line

exhausting.
love.
what time is it?

sweet sleep
best kind of beat
i am complete

breathtaking.
love.
time, be easy.

LIFE IS TOO SHORT FOR BAD UNDERWEAR

Luke in his shorty shorts because all the good ones are dirty. Actually, it's a cute illustration from this book

.

Does anyone else wait till the absolute last minute to do laundry? When your house looks like the dirty clothes monster had a few too many and went around each room of your house throwing up? When your husband gives you the stink eye because he doesn't have any clean gym shorts, which you know is really bad because you own a gym and 98% of the dude's wardrobe consists of gym shorts? Or when your 18 month old toddler is walking around in high waters because the only thing clean is a pair of six month old baby pants that you're referring to as capris?

No? Me neither.

No, no, I actually wait until it gets so bad I am forced to wear the uncomfortable underwear. Please tell me I'm not alone on this one, folks? I have these underwear that just don't fit right. I push them to the back of the underwear drawer. Not good enough to be stage center, but the backups' backup. They're my "break in case of emergency" underwear I guess you could say.

This happened the other day. The laundry was piling up, Luke's eyes were twitching, and Des was straight up wading ... and I was forced to wear the "bad underwear". Oh, the agony. I spent all day in these underwear, ticked at myself for allowing it to get to this point. And then this crazy thought came to me - Why even keep these underwear when they're just not working for me?

And so I threw those puppies out. Just like that. Not at that exact moment, I was at a kid's birthday party. But when I got home I was like, "see ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!" (Honestly, I put them inside a few little plastic grocery bags tied tightly and then inside a small box and then inside the big trash bag because dear Lord if some animal got a hold of that trash bag and my underwear were all over the yard I would just die.)

I say all this to say, I think we can often fall back on things, or fail to change things that aren't working, because of one reason or another. Maybe it's because that's just how it's always been done. Or, that's how I was raised. Or my marriage needs help but going to a counselor might seem like I'm a failure. Or my dream is too big, I could never do it, so I'll just sit in this cubicle ... uncomfortable and ticked at myself ... all day ... everyday.

Come on people. Think about it, and figure out the next steps towards working out of your discomfort. Throw away the bad underwear (for an overly-simple example: get rid of Nutella if trying to lose a few pounds). Buy more comfy underwear (example: join a gym). Or do laundry everyday so this doesn't happen (example: eat right and be active).

Just don't get stuck wearing the bad underwear another day. Life's too short for bad underwear.

A BROKEN FLIP FLOP - MY MESSY BEAUTIFUL

It was a sunny day, I was basking in the day-after-my-birthday glow, and indulging in a pedicure courtesy of my sweet mom. Pedicure went great. It was relaxing, and my toes looked brand new, if you can say that about toes. I was feeling good. I picked up my 18 month old son, Desmond, from my mom's, and we headed off to go grocery shopping at Walmart. I was still wearing my bright pink temporary flip flops because when you get a pedicure like once a year, you do. not. want. to. mess. it. up. Plus, I kinda enjoy the reckless abandon that is a throw-away pair of shoes. What can I say, I'm wild and crazy.

Desmond and I get into Walmart and grab a shopping cart. I put him in the front and off we go. We start filling the cart with stuff. Then, there it is, in the middle of the grocery store, a small basketball shooting game, the kind you'd see at an arcade. Little mini basketballs just waiting for us. A March madness promotion it seems.

The scene of the flip flop massacre.

Desmond asks to play (note, he says "ball, mommie, ball), so we play. I'm getting all Kevin Durant on this game, Desmond fouls a couple times, balls are rolling across the store, and when I turn ninja quick to grab an escapee ball ... my right flip flop breaks. The middle thingy that goes between the toes (technical term) completely snaps off.

Are you kidding me? Game over.

I inspect the flip flop further to see if I can rig it to make it through the grocery trip. No go. I have decisions. I have an entire cart of food, a toddler currently obsessing over mini basketballs, and a brand new sparkling pedicure.

Should I back track putting the groceries back up, and call it a day?*
Do I leave the cart in the middle of the store and run out to the car to grab my shoes?*
Would my cart still be here when I got back?*
Would people think I abandoned it?*
Would people grab groceries out of it?*
Should I tell someone?*
I finally decide the shoes would likely mess up my pedicure anyway so maybe I'll just make this work somehow.*
 (*first world problems)

I start scooting, Frankenstein-esque, around the store. Dragging one leg on the floor so as to keep the bottom flip flop foam between my sole and the floor. Nothing to see here folks, nothing to see. I find some satisfaction imagining how Mindy Kaling from The Mindy Project would handle this. I conclude she would talk someone into pushing her around in a cart as she finishes shopping. I like the idea, but decide as much as I love her, I'm no Mindy. In the end, the trip takes twice as long as it normally would, but it works. We make it through the check out line and out the sliding doors. And then it happens.

The most inopportune time for chivalry, in the Walmart parking lot. A man in a Jeep stops to let me through the cross walk. What a gentlemen. Only it's going to take me forever and he's going to be sitting there forever. What to do. What to do.

I wave him on. Dude, please go, really.

No, you, really. Polite wave.

He's not moving.

Things again start running through my head.

Do I point to my feet and make some weak sign language attempt to let him know I've got walking issues?
Do I simply refuse to move from my spot, avoiding eye contact?
Is there enough of a downward slope right here that I could jump on the back of the cart and just coast across?
Do I turn around and go back in the store, resanitize my cart handle maybe?

I'm getting nervous now. He's still waiting. Politely.

It's going to take me forever to walk/scoot myself across the cross walk. Dang yellow angled lines looking like a vast ocean I need to traverse. So what do I do in that moment?

I rip off the flip flops and I skedaddle Wilma Flintstone style at the most brisk pace one can when pushing a basket, trying the whole time not to imagine what I might be picking up along the way. And guess what? I can't explain the liberation I felt. At that moment I didn't care what Jeep guy thought of me, or who else was watching.

Yeah, that's right people, I am walking barefoot to my car! Hey, Hillary Clinton, let me have a run at that glass ceiling! Ok, I think that last part is probably taking it a bit far, but that was the feeling I had. Fearless, strong, who-gives-a-puck kinda stuff. Beyonce's "Grown Woman" song playing in my head - I'm a grown woman, I can do whatever I want.

When I  finally get into my car I start laughing, because honestly it was so ridiculous. And it was life! And that's how life can be sometimes. I think it's those little moments, those often ridiculous moments, good and bad, that make life go, that make life interesting. But for me, those things can often turn frustrating quick because they don't fit into the plan I have for my life ... or I care too much what people think ... or are you kidding me God, just give me a break already!

But here's the thing I'm starting to realize, life throws broken flip flops at us all the time - not literally flip flops of course - I'm talking losing jobs, broken relationships, money problems, etcetera. And we can freak out and leave the cart in the middle of the store or we can make it work, whatever it is. We can scoot ourselves around like frankenmommy at times, barely walking but still putting one foot in front of the other. We can get up 20 more times when the baby cries. We can sit down with our spouse, listen, and have the hard conversations. And we can also throw the flip flop off fearlessly. We can work on not caring so much what people think, and do what needs to be done. We can start that company, we can make that tough phone call, we can put our creations out into the world despite our fears.

Borrowing a mantra from Glennon Melton (with a slight word change), WE CAN DO TOUGH THINGS.

You can do tough things.

And trust me, I realize the whole broken flip flop saga is not a "tough thing" in the scheme of things, but you get what I'm saying.

We are capable of so much more than we think. You, beautiful person, are so much stronger, insightful and important than you give yourself credit. And I'm saying this for myself too, because I need this reminder something terrible. I'm fearful and worry about what others think far too often, but I try to remember that just like those flip flops at the nail place, life's flip flops are temporary, too. But something that's not changing? I'm a grown ass woman, and I can do tough things.

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

I WASHED HULK'S HANDS

I'll admit that when I found out I was pregnant, I was kinda hoping for a girl. And I'll also admit it was completely based on the most trivial reasons. For one, have you seen the girl clothes at Target and Old Navy? They're so cute I find myself envying six month old babies. For two, I zoomed way into the future and imagined my lonely old self working my rocking chair on my front porch with no visitor in sight, because I've heard what people say about sons. You know, something about how he's only a son until he takes a wife. Ugh, even thinking about that saying makes me sad.

Then I had that 16 week ultrasound. A boy. The doctor circled the little blurry indicator and printed me and Luke off a copy to take home. It changed everything.

Then that little boy came into my world and I was smitten. Done-zo. White flag waived. What's a girl?

And now, 16 months later, I'm surrounded by hot wheels, Tonka trucks, and a mini Bobcat ... the heavy machinery kind. A quick trip to Lowe's turns into an hour long lawn mower amusement park for Desi, and I find myself excited to point out garbage trucks. Garbage trucks!

Oh, and then there's the hulk hands.

Big, green, cotton-stuffed hulk hands. One hand has a sound box in it so that when you hit it against something it yells out one of the following three sayings. All, coincidentally, perfect for moms. (And scary as crap when you forget the hands are in the back seat of your car and you hit a bump.)

- "Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry."
- "Hulk smash!"
- and then just a loud and scary hulkish yell

In the last month, Desmond has finally built up the nerve to put them on. Now they're on often. His little arms weighted down, his toddler body swaying wildly from all the "smashing".

Just last week we were sharing some chicken nuggets with a little ketchup on the plate. Desmond decided that hulk hands were appropriate lunch apparel. Next thing I know the hulk hands tried to grasp a chicken nugget and dip it into the ketchup. It didn't happen, of course. Just smeared ketchup all over hulk's fist. I felt myself start to get hulkish inside, imagining everything he'd smash with ketchup before I could get the hands away from him. What the heck? Seriously, Desmond? Are you kidding me? Hulk smash!

Then I stopped and thought about it, laughed, and got up to wash the ketchup off the hulk hand. Did that really just happen? Never in my life did I imagine that scene playing out. But that's what's so great about life, the curveballs. The unexpected. The boy parts on an ultrasound screen. The sweet sound of a little boy calling me momma. All way better than anything I could dream up on my own.

I mean, I just washed hulk's hands.

DON'T FORGET TO WRITE

I think I've mentioned my love for books, right? Or as my husband would probably call it, "a problem". On days when the towers of books beside by bed are toppling over into toddler-tripping floor ruble, I might actually agree with him.

Just this past Saturday, Luke wanted to get out of the house. We got the boys ready and hopped into the car, he asks me where I want to go. Hmm ... I don't know ... used bookstore? His response, "So we can add to the stacks of books in our bedroom? And maybe start barricading ourselves in our house with books?" Well, no that's not exactly what I had planned. But now that you've mentioned it.

We ended up going to the Saturday flea market. And wouldn't you know, I found myself a book. Luke just smiled and shook his head. Hey, you can keep the girl from the used bookstore, but you can't keep the used books from the girl. I just find them. Or they find me.

In this case, I think the book was waiting for me. I mean seriously, it was a match made in flea market heaven. In a large building full of tables and tables of flea market doodads and vendors I see this one table with books sprawled across it, all different sizes and styles. Then I notice a simple piece of paper folded to stand up like a roof that states "books on this table $1". I get slightly excited just reading the sign. What cheaply priced treasures! Then I spot this book. Is it talking to me? I look from side to side, point at myself ... me? I mean, I have been wanting to write more often, and the reminder would be nice, and I do really like simple kitschy sketches, and I ... and I ... and I ... (flipping book over) ... author lives in Paris, writes for New York Herald Tribune as French contributor ... ooh la la, my dream. A writer living in Paris? I couldn't get that dollar out of my purse fast enough.

What's the point of this story? I have no idea. But I am writing.

THE SMALL THINGS

I can't believe it's 2014. I remember being little and thinking anything in the 2000's sounded really weird and futuristic. My grandpa, who turned 93 this month, said the same thing. I can only imagine it's even more weird to him. I think we're both slightly ticked about the lack of flying cars, but nevertheless, here we are ... 2014.

At my ripe old age I have already stopped doing New Year's Resolutions. At least, in the typical sense. I'm done writing my "things I am going, and not going, to do this year" list. Not that I've just decided to throw in the life towel this year, not at all. I'm actually just not feeling like riding the whole "resolution" wagon. I'm going a different route this year by working on the one thing I feel strongly about that I know will make waves in all areas of my life. It's pretty simple, really. Like silly simple. I'm just focusing on the small things. Which I've come to realize are actually the big things. The little things we do throughout the day become the bigger things. And that's how I'm looking at the New Year. I'm breaking you down, New Year.

My sweet husband got me a ukulele for Christmas. It was the perfect gift for several reasons. I've been wanting one, he wrote on it so it's extra special, and it makes me happy to call it "my uke from Luke." And to my delight, Desi seems to find it entertaining. I'm so thankful for his sweet smile when I pick it up to practice. There's nothing quite like it. His little innocent grin, like his momma's really playing something awesome when all I'm doing is learning how to strum. Talk about a supportive audience.

Another great thing, the uke is little enough to not get in the way, so I've been keeping it on my kitchen island where I won't forget about it. Although that trick doesn't work quite as well for the dishes.  Nonetheless, I've been practicing nearly every day sense I've gotten the ukulele. And I'm getting the hang of it, getting better day by day, and realizing that being obedient in the small things will create the outcomes I desire. Not exactly rocket science or breaking news, but this year I'm taking it all in and my small things are adding up, currently to the tune of "You are My Sunshine". Desi, this one's for you. And me.


"Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies."
- Mother Teresa