A letter to my daughter on her first day of high school…

Dearest Ellie –

The day you were born changed my life.  I thought I knew love.  And then you came along.  At the exact moment I looked into your bright and benevolent eyes, every single thing about my life changed.  Forever.

We struggled to get you here.  I struggled carrying you.  It wasn’t an easy road.  But I wouldn’t change a thing.  In fact, it makes me appreciate you that much more.  Not a day goes by that I don’t look at you and think….I am one lucky mom.  You are my miracle baby and I thank my lucky stars every day that God put us together.

There will be many defining moments in your life.  Today is one of them.  I am filled with joy and reflection as you embark on the first page of the first chapter in this series of four years of high school.  I also can’t believe it.  When did we trade in mommy’s lipstick for mascara and concealer?  When did we evolve from Goodnight Moon to Harry Potter to Fahrenheit 451?  I will never stop looking at you in awe as you blossom into this amazingly beautiful young woman.

In the meantime, there are just a few things that I want you to know on this important day.

Now is the time to truly learn…about yourself, your friends and team mates, the cute boys that catch your eye, your teachers and coaches.  Sometimes you will feel stressed and down.  You will face peer pressure and may have difficulty concentrating.  There will be emotions, lots of them!, on a seemingly crazy train that fortunately has an emergency brake.  Pull on that when you need to.  And remember that there will be helping hands and loving words to get you through.  Friends to lean on, your parents, and your faith.  This is all part of growing up.  You don’t get to the top of the mountain without the climb.

Stay kind no matter the circumstances.  You are a giver, have a tendency to put others before yourself.  It’s okay to put yourself first sometimes too.  In fact, I strongly encourage it.  Follow your heart and your gut.  If it doesn’t feel right, it isn’t.  Stay away from drugs. Period.  And don’t rush to grow up.  Have fun.  Be confident.  Believe in yourself.  I believe in you.  Your dad believes in you.  Talk to us.  We are here for you every step of the way. Your future is brighter than you can possibly fathom.

My wish for you is that you experience this time in your life to the fullest.  I hope your teachers inspire you, challenge you, strike a match and spark a fire in you.  I hope you are elevated to your maximum potential.  And I hope you learn about more than academics and sports.  I hope you feel part of a very special team, and embrace the fact that life is beautiful and tragic and wonderful.

You’re starting high school.  This is a BIG DEAL.  Take that giant leap, Ellie.  Be brave.  Be wonderful you.  This is your time.

I’ll be on the sidelines cheering you on the entire time…..

Love,

Your biggest fan (a.k.a. Mom)

The Road to Healing

I can’t stop thinking about all the brave men and women who are walking down Cancer Road.  Whether it’s the discovery of a lump, that gut-wrenching phone call, a biopsy, surgery, last round of chemo or radiation, or final swallow of a hormone therapy pill.  How do each of us navigate through the healing process?  How do we rebound from something that has so profoundly changed the way we view ourselves and the world?

I realize I’m in the initial stretch of walking down this path toward healing, but it’s making me stop and think.  Reflect.  Absorb.  Try to wrap my head around the magnitude of what has transpired over the past four months.  It’s amazing how precious the gift of life is when you are faced with life-challenging medical issues.  My eyes are wide open.  I’m awake, more so now than ever.

From the moment I received my diagnosis on November 6, 2014, I chose not to delve too deeply into the worse case scenario prior to undergoing a bilateral mastectomy.  My mind wanted to go there, to the darkest corner of the room, but I dialed back that fleeting feeling of terror as much as I could.  Perhaps as a defense mechanism, as a means of enduring what was within my emotional tolerance at that time.  Instead, I took in enough limited knowledge to get through my own frightful journey.

You see, if I had exposed myself to everything under the sun, that meant the monster could climb in the window of my soul with ease, sit on the edge of my bed, ask for a cup of coffee and for a chance to take up additional real estate in my body.  Instead, I cracked the window open slightly, just enough to allow his looming eyes to peer inside…just enough to allow his hideous fingers to curl around the window frame of my beloved home.

Now that I’m on the other side of surgery, I’m completely immersed in other cancer survivor’s stories.  I can’t get enough of them.  YouTube videos, breast cancer and pink ribbon websites, clicking through countless photos of battle scars and dedication tattoos.  I’ve reached out to friends who are survivors, compared stories, texted questions about this and that.  Why do I feel like a baby during my recovery?  Is this normal to hurt so much?  Will cancer always dominate my psyche?

And then, I’d ask myself….At the end of every day, will you acknowledge the monster?  Or will you start to forget about him?  Objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are.  Will I always wonder, how close is he?

My hope is that in the coming weeks and years, my anxiety levels will diminish and eventually evaporate.  My hope is that new treatments, tailored therapies, and early detection continue to climb, and god-willing, there is a cure for cancer directly around the corner.  My hope is that others facing this horrible disease are also able to move from apprehension toward treatment to a sincere appreciation for the beautiful people who are leading them through the healing process.  From the medical teams who dedicate their lives to healing the sick, to the families, friends, and colleagues who encourage us every step of the way.  

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to recognize a cancer survivor’s road to healing takes a different kind of endurance.  It is a marathon for each of us.  Undoubtedly, there is a heightened, spiritual state of mind that is needed in overcoming cancer.  There is grace and positive thinking and perseverance required as we progress in our own way and in our own time toward the finish line.  

Whether you are a cancer survivor or not, we are all walking down this road of healing.  Let’s celebrate the days when we have the strength to sprint and breathe deeply on the days when we can only bring ourselves to walk.

Let’s also recognize that there will be days when we are unable to see the finish line.  We might sit down in the middle of the road and think we can’t continue.  On those days, let’s look to each other to offer that drink of water, that hand to lift us off the ground, and those words of encouragement to urge us further on our road to healing.

It’s not hard to ask for help.  People want to help.  Let’s let them.

And when we cross that finish line, let us not forget our brothers and sisters who are beginning their own walk down Cancer Road.  Let’s get ourselves back to the starting line and do what we can to guide them through.

Are you ready?  I know I am.

A letter to 2014…

Dear 2014,

You and me, we had a tough year.  It sucked, really.  Hakuna MaSucka!  We started off fine, with the usual New Year’s resolutions and aspirations, then shortly thereafter, began our trajectory down a slippery slope of goo.  Stinkin’ sludge, as a matter of fact.  We landed in a muddy pit of severe neck and back pain that worsened, and worsened, and left us incapacitated.  Down for the count!  Forget Ebola, people!, this was the real American Horror Story.  Suddenly, we found ourselves with no other option than to head straight into the operating room.  Um, did anyone else notice that this may not end well?  But, then again, who needs a neck anyway?  All we need is a good head on our shoulders.  And some good shampoo to go with it.

It has been seven months since we had two cervical discs removed; carefully replaced by dead Joe’s discs from Kentucky (Go Wildcats!…damn, I hate the Wildcats!).  We also freed up a few trapped nerves, removed some erroneous bone spurs and added a three-inch titanium plate with six screws.  Voila!  Good as new.  Welcome to the team of cervical spinal fusion Avengers.  Step over here and familiarize yourself with our fight manual.  I have a sneaky suspicion that you’re going to need a super hero plan of attack later in the year.

While we’re on this topic, let’s just admit that the hard neck brace was GOD AWFUL, a very stiff Joan Cusack drinking-out-of-a-water-fountain-and-drooling-all-over-herself awful.  The soft neck brace…well, that was kind of nice, in a weird, only a back injury survivor would understand kind of way.  And sleeping upright in that recliner for six weeks was like being trapped on an endless flight circling around the Bermuda triangle.   No one found Amelia Earhart and no one noticed us, with our sexy compression socks, multi-colored drinking straws, and endless bowls of soup…because what else can you eat when you have a baby porcupine lodged in your throat?  Thumbs up, SCARletta, and amen to isolated anonymity.  Oh, and let’s give some praise to the inventor of metal detectors.  My remains will be discoverable centuries from now, thanks to my badass new hardware.

And just when I started to feel normal again.  Ha!  You cracked that ridiculous, annoying laugh of yours.  2014, you had more, much more to send my way.  Suckatooey, Jennifer Juney!  The second round of news hit harder than the first.  A blow like none other.  A call that changed our lives forever, a call that no one wants to get.  EVER.  Damn you, 2014, year of suckage.  I remember snippets from that call…something about my mammogram results being abnormal.  Microcalcifications, additional diagnostic testing was needed, perhaps a biopsy.  I was being good, getting a routine mammogram during Breast Cancer Awareness month, for tatas’ sake!!  All I could think about was this news landing smack in the middle of my mother’s birthday.  I needed her now more than ever.  Damn it, why did she have to die so young?  I feel so alone.  Frightened and so very alone.  I’m on a plane that is going down too quickly, uncontrollably, like a bat out of hell.  Where are those stupid yellow, oxygen masks that drop down in the event of an emergency?  I can’t breathe.  I can’t think.  Why is this happening to me?

And then you sent me a messenger…..(thank you, by the way)

Hello, Jennifer.  This is your captain speaking.  I want you to listen to me very closely.  You don’t need the oxygen mask, you simply need to be still and listen.  I want you to trust me.  Wholeheartedly.  Completely.  Unconditionally.  From your head to your toes, with every miraculous fiber of your being.  Cast away your doubts.  Focus.  I need you to reach down deep and believe.  Hear the words I am saying and see the actions that I lay before you in guiding you on this journey.  We are headed toward some severe storms and in them we will encounter a terrifying stretch of turbulance called CANCER.  There is no way around these heavy storms.  The only way is through.  For your safety, please ensure your seat belt is securely fastened, your seat back is upright, and your tray table is stowed in the full upright position.

Now, look out your window.  Despair is the ominous funnel cloud to your right.  Hope is the shimmering, iridescent cloud to your left.  We will be traveling through both.  Now, look down the aisle and into the cockpit.  Notice that it is ME who is flying this plane.  Not you.  Trust Me, Jennifer.  You are the passenger, my dear, not the pilot.  You are no longer in control.  Please let go.  I need you to put your positive energy elsewhere.  I want you to lace up those pink boxing gloves, build up your strength, and let others love you and lift you.  You need them as much as they need you.  Let them carry you.  Now, look up, look down, look all around you.  Can you feel the warm glow?  That’s me wrapping my arms around you.  I am here.  I love you.  Trust Me.  It’s going to get really dark and awful and scary, but I will ensure that you have a safe landing.  I promise.  Trust Me.  

Last week, I had a double mastectomy with breast reconstruction surgery.  For those interested in the reconstruction process, please note that my new breasts did not arrive on the day of surgery.  They are sort of on a layaway program, so to speak, over the next few months.  Only one penny down was required!  My recovery, thus far, has been as good as I could have hoped.  Sure, I am in a lot of pain and exhausted, but mostly, I’m  heartbroken about the disfigurement and loss of maternal parts of my body that once nursed my daughter.  The parts that made me feel like a woman.  Feminine, soft, and beautiful.  They weren’t perfect anyway, but they were mine.  I know the heartache will ease with time, as will my pain level.  I’m putting one foot in front of the other toward healing.  And by God’s good grace, my final pathology report showed no invasive cancer and no lymph node involvement, so I am officially CANCER FREE as I type this letter to you. What a gift!  What a relief!  Actually, the very best gift I will likely ever receive.

I guess this is to be expected.  You and me, 2014.  Year after year, we enter into the next unknown.  I’d like to leave you with a few important insights that I gained on this challenging and rewarding journey with you.

1. God is good, always.  Trust Him.  I know I do.
2. Be. Awe. Some.  Be You.  And be a light for someone else.
3. Fight the good fight!, with grace, guts, and gratitude.
4. Tell yourself every day, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” – Psalm 139:14
5. Always remember, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.” – Mother Teresa.  I think we definitely belong to each other.

2014, you’ve made it a memorable year. The best and the worst, a bittersweet symphony of 365 unforgettably painful and joyful days. Here’s to traveling deep into the depths of the valley, only to rise up and land softly in a field of fragrant flowers, free from back pain and free from breast cancer. Here’s to passing the baton to 2015 and living our lives to the absolute fullest.  Year after Year.  

Lastly and most importantly….here’s to US and this amazingly beautisucky year,
Jennifer

***********************************************************

Dear Jennifer,

I think you are going to like me a gazillion times better than 2014.  After all, I’m the one who will be with you when you get your fabulous new boobs.

Hooray for cleavage!

Bodaciously yours,
2015

I am….

I am not a victim of breast cancer. I am a victor of breast cancer.
I am not dying. I am living.
I am not broken. I am bent.
I am not lost. My path is clear.
I am not in fear. I am loving and trusting.
I am not at odds with God. I am cradled in love by Him.
I am not weak or feeble. I am unyielding. A mighty oak!
My body is not six feet under. I stand tall, reach high, and dream big.
Cancer is not my identity thief. I know exactly who I am.
I am not weighted down. I am an illuminating sky lantern.
I am not alone. I am part of a philharmonic orchestra.
My wings are not clipped. I soar with the eagles.
I am not discarded. I am needed.
I am not living for tomorrow or yesterday. I am living for today.
I am not silent. I am a messenger.
My life story is not history. My life story is legendary.
I will not forget. I will remember.
I will not give up. This too shall pass.
My light is not burning low. My light sparkles brilliantly.

The Oak Tree

The Oak Tree
by Johnny Ray Ryder Jr

A mighty wind blew night and day
It stole the oak tree’s leaves away
Then snapped its boughs and pulled its bark
Until the oak was tired and stark

But still the oak tree held its ground
While other trees fell all around
The weary wind gave up and spoke.
How can you still be standing Oak?

The oak tree said, I know that you
Can break each branch of mine in two
Carry every leaf away
Shake my limbs, and make me sway

But I have roots stretched in the earth
Growing stronger since my birth
You’ll never touch them, for you see
They are the deepest part of me

Until today, I wasn’t sure
Of just how much I could endure
But now I’ve found, with thanks to you
I’m stronger than I ever knew

Can You Hear the Rain?

Night after night, I can’t sleep. The rain is pounding like mad on the roof. There is no place to take cover. Thunder bangs it’s mighty drum and lighting strikes, fists in fury. It’s dark and I’m scared. I fight back the tears. Surely, the dawn will come. Won’t it?

Several weeks ago I had a routine mammogram, found to be abnormal. An MRI. A biopsy. The wait of a lifetime. A diagnosis of breast cancer. Earliest stage, excellent prognosis. Did you say cancer? Aren’t I too young for this? Didn’t I just have major back surgery? How could this be my story? I’m only 42.

God, are you there? I can’t hear you over the thrashing rain.

I’m angry. I’m heartbroken. Inside I am cold and vulnerable. Can you hear the rain? I am shivering from the cold. What does this mean for Ellie? My beautiful Ellie. Will she dance barefoot in the rain?

I’ve consulted with Oncology surgeons, breast reconstruction surgeons. Their lips are moving but I can’t hear what they’re saying. My surgery is scheduled for December 23. A double mastectomy, one taken in order for me to survive, one taken by choice so that I can thrive. I will be released on Christmas morning. Cancer free by Christmas. What a gift!! Maybe God is holding my umbrella.

I know a thing or two about loss and grief. My parents died young. Perhaps I’m stronger than I think. I want to overcome the odds. I will stand my ground like a formidable tree. It’s the rain that nourishes the forest. Can you hear it? Drop. Drop. Drop. Cancer will not stand in my way for long. I’ve got plans. Dreams! A lifetime of jumping in puddles. God gave me a mission to see if I succeed. The rain is calling. I accept His challenge wholeheartedly.

Where the Rare Things Are

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I was an American expat, living in Australia, immersing myself in the cultural fluency of Vegemite sandwiches, Ugh Boots, and sips of flat white chardonnay.  I don’t know how many people get the opportunity to live abroad, but given the law of averages, my guess is that the numbers fall on the lesser than average tip of the sea.  It seems like it would be a rare experience, and now that I’m on the other side of it, I believe it was!  A four-leaf clover, a meteor shower, a buried pirate treasure.  I haven’t seen any of these things, but I have lived in a land far, far away.  And in looking back, the experience was like magical gold dust sprinkled in the wind.

Fast forward two years and I’m back home again in Indiana, working in corporate America, and doing my best to survive the grind while raising our teenage daughter.  I guess you could say I’m living a life not so uncommon from the next, but certainly doing my best to balance out the everyday highs and lows.  Since our return from overseas, our family has continued to travel, to lovely London, The Big Apple, Chi-Town, and the City of Angels.  Our family motto probably sounds something like this: “No matter how busy life gets, we will always make time to travel!”.  Much to my dismay, I’ve been out of touch with writing for a year.  A YEAR!  Pathetic.  Really, really a shame. I’ve missed writing, missed the blog reading community and the commentary.  So it’s time to return the pen to paper.  Or the key to the screen.  Whatever, my friends!! The hibernation period has ended.  I’m BACK!!

And speaking of backs, mine has recently seen Better Days.  Cue the Eddie Vedder tribute while I bring you up to speed.

Woman Down!

So it seems that turning forty-one has had a bit of a falling-off-the-cliff, plunging to your death effect on me. It started with the need for reading glasses (sans neck chain), then all hell broke loose after that.  Perhaps it was this old lady’s (failed) attempt at downhill snow skiing, my fortuitous dance moves over the years, or reaching back further, falling on my head during ambitious cheerleading stunts.  Ready, Set, Smack!  I’m still searching for the culprit who pulled the pin, but what started out as nothing more than a nuisance several months ago turned into a grenade exploding in my neck.  Call the Guards!, Release the Hounds!, Houston, We Have A Problem!, because this momma was going down.  And not in a cool, downtown Julie Brown kind of way.  We’re talking down, as in knocked out, not getting up without a miracle kind of down…for the count.  Turns out, after a gazillion medieval torture tests, I was diagnosed with…Ta Da!…a blown up neck…(translation: bulging, degenerative, herniated discs, bone spurs, pinched nerves, and spinal cord narrowing).  Did I mention a grenade?  Back to the law of averages, this became part of the rare human experience that was not so exciting.

Alas, after the final diagnosis and a spiraling effect of incomprehensible pain and suffering, I headed to the operating room.  Luckily, I had a brilliant, skilled and compassionate neurosurgeon, a guy who I will forever be grateful to for carrying me through the rain so I could stand in front of the rainbow again.  I also wouldn’t have made it through the harrowing tunnel without the unwavering support of my friends and family, especially my husband, who briefly earned the knickname Mr. Mom.  While I was out of commission, our daughter ate breadsticks for breakfast and learned how to do her own laundry, both of which turned out to be a good thing.

I’m Okay, You’re Okay

It’s been a 6 weeks since my new hardware was installed…a three-inch metal plate and six screws.  Let me tell you…surgery sucks.  Plain and simple.  Especially when your throat gets sliced open.  I won’t go into the gory details of the hazardous road to healing, but I will say that I’ve accepted my fate and the evidence of my fate, which happens to be a small scar on the front of my neck.  Strangely enough, I kind of like it.  It represents my own red badge of courage.  I just hope that the battles are over and the war is won.  I really don’t want to return to the horror of that dark and painful existence.  I’ve read the literature and listened to the potential negative effects that could happen down the road.  “Additional deterioration, possible surgical intervention at later stages in life”….. blah, blah, blah.  I’m choosing to bask in the glory that I cleared this major hurdle without residual pain, landing on my own two feet, with my toes wiggling.

I’m here, and here to stay, for whatever good in my life there is still to be made.

Okay?

Okay.

Better Days Ahead

While I was sitting in the waiting room at the neurosurgeon’s office for my post op appointment, I noticed two people in wheelchairs, one in a restrictive neck brace, and overheard another woman pleading at the check-in counter to see a doctor immediately because she had recently been diagnosed with a brain tumor.  I immediately sent my husband an S.O.S. text: “please come rescue me from this god awful place, I’m so grief-stricken seeing all these patients suffer”.  His response was, “those same patients were at the doctor’s office at each visit before your surgery….you just didn’t see them because you were in so much pain”.  I can’t forget that I am one of those patients too.  And I don’t know if I am a lucky one, but it sure feels like it.

So taking the road less traveled seems to be on the higher end of averages for me.  I’m okay with that.  Hidden in the dark forest are individual trees, with reflections of light and love and new beginnings.  With reading glasses in hand, it’s merely a matter of opening my eyes to see them.  How many people can say they can be found underground a million years from now by a metal detector?  As far as rare things go, it’s pretty cool actually.

 

Running with Gratitude

Last Saturday, my alarm went off at 5:30am.  This is not typical, nor appealing to me in the slightest.  Usually, Saturdays are my long-anticipated sleep-in days, my recovery after the chaotic hustle and bustle of the work week.  But this past Saturday was unique because there was a marathon relay in which I had committed myself.  Why? Why? Why? did I sign up for this?  It is not natural to squeeze your butt cheeks into spandex at the crack of dawn.  Why are there icicles hanging from the window outside my bedroom, in April?  Why don’t I own a pair of underwear that don’t ride up my spandex in the freezing butt ass crack of dawn? And why didn’t I buy bananas!?  I could have crawled back into bed, feigned a migraine, called to confess my agonies and apologies, but, then…how could I let my relay partners down?  So with one foot in front of the other, I grabbed my car keys and running gloves and headed out the door.

Did I mention that I detest the cold?  I know I live in Indiana! But it’s late April, it’s Springtime…warmer temperatures, flowers blooming, birds chirping…why can I see my breath as I’m yawning?  And why am I asking so many frigging questions this early in the morning! The temperature on my dashboard shows a little snowflake next to 32 degrees.  Thank you, thank you o wise one, inventor of heated seats.  I suppose the run today is worth it.  It is for a good cause after all.  A chance to accomplish something great, collectively as a team, comprised of beautiful women who also happen to be my dearest friends from childhood.  It’s a chance to be a part of a celebrated community event.  And it’s a chance to run for the victims of the bombings at the Boston Marathon…and for countless people, who for whatever reason, can’t run on this chilly Saturday morning.

Running, for me, is about mental stamina as much as it is about physical.  It’s about drawing on inner strength when your body is telling you it can’t move another step.  It’s a reminder of the gift of having a healthy body, aches and pains, muscles throbbing and all.  It’s about pushing through discomfort and doing that thing which you think you can not do.  Oh contraire mon ami, yes you can.  So who cares about the weather, who cares about the sleep deprivation, who cares about the bruised toenails.  When my friend handed me the pink baton, I cranked up my iPod and ran.

For many people, including me, running is inspirational.  At about 5 miles into my leg of the relay, I came upon an elderly man who was speed walking with his elderly friend.  They were both wearing white t-shirts with the following words written in black bold font, “I’ve run a marathon in all 50 states, twice!”.  Before passing them, I slowed down and tapped the taller gentleman on the shoulder.  “Well done”, I said, “that is truly impressive”.  He nodded and smiled and kindly replied, “thank you, dear”.  No sir, thank you.

This run was for my girlfriends, for teamwork, for the gift of good health, for those who can’t run for whatever reason, and for Boston.  Give it a try…running with gratitude can make all the difference.

Sole Sisters! Running for Boston!

Boston Strong

Ice, Ice Baby…too cold

Our view along the running course.

Thoughts on Being a Working Mom

I didn’t have the smoothest of pregnancies.  My suspension system was off, constantly moving up and down, absorbing the shocks of a ninety pound weight gain, rash all over my body in the last trimester, relentless puking and 36 hours of will- this-baby-ever-come-out labor.  I don’t recall anyone remarking at my “maternal glow”. Rather, they were more likely to say, “Wow, she must be carrying triplets! or Hey, it’s Octomom!!” Speaking of….where is Octomom now, anyway?  She’s probably hiding in a closet high on baked goods, because she has 14 children!  I’ve only got one child, who took me through the thrills and spills of an unforgettable pregnancy experience and who makes me feel like the luckiest person on earth to be her called her mom.

Ellie didn’t come into the world screaming.  She had a soft cry, quickly abated once she was swaddled and placed into my arms.  “Hello sweetheart, I am your mommy and this is your daddy,” were the first words that entered her perfect little ears.  She was alert, observant, beaming with light and love.  We chose her name for a number of reasons.  Ellie is a classic southern name (she was born in North Carolina), I had counseled a beautiful little girl named Ellie in my early 20s, and the name means “light”.  An easy pick really, even though I jotted down a few other girls names as back-up.  Avery, Delaney, Meredith….none of them fit quite like Ellie with our little bright-eyed blondie.

As her name suggests, Ellie is the light that lifts us to a new level of appreciation for love, for life, for god up above.  And on any given day, when the going gets tough, I head toward the light.  Just the other night, after a trying day of work, she propped herself on a couch cushion behind me and began braiding my hair. “So, Mom, who is your favorite Disney Character? What did you want to be when you grew up? If you could meet anyone, who would it be and why?”  The endearing heart of my little Ellie gives me a reason for being.  And blessed beyond words does not even come close to describing the illumination born from those few off-road bumps experienced during my pregnancy.

I stayed home with Ellie for her first 8 months of life.  It was a departure from the ordinary for sure, but I loved it.  I reluctantly returned to work, wracking my brain with other scenarios, deciding in the end, it was best.  I wanted to work, but struggled with guilt.  Was daycare best for Ellie?  Ask the shy kindergarten girl who read “Little Pea” to her classmates, laughing out loud because the main character, a young pea, didn’t like candy.  “Who doesn’t like candy?”, asked Ellie’s little friend afterwards.  I was there for that first public speaking moment, basking in pride and relief.  She did it!  I haven’t stunted her growth completely by working.

Being a working mom or a stay at home mom is a personal choice.  Over the years, and all too often, I see and hear people steadfast in their opinions on both sides of the fence.  How can she choose work over raising her own child?  Her husband makes good money, why does she have to work?  She must run a tight ship in order to balance it all.  I’ve been on the flip side as well, as a stay-at-home mom whilst living in Australia.  How lucky are you to be home all day eating bon bons and watching soap operas while your child is off to school.

If only that were the case…

I recognize that people are entitled to their opinions, otherwise, we would all be drones with no diversity or color of thought.  I guess being both a stay-at-home mom and a working mom have given me the gift of empathy, being able to step into another’s shoes and look at things with a different perspective.  It’s simple, really, and less complicated that way.

Ultimately, I’m a working mom because I choose to be.  Sometimes the stress is stifling, and sometimes the end product of a that stress is a feeling of accomplishment like none other.  Going to work every morning and kissing Ellie on the head before we part ways isn’t a spa day.  It’s more like a triathalon and I’m wearing a 20 pound wet suit. Each day begins with a morning plunge into icy water, breakfast prep, don’t forget your winter coat!, who’s picking up who after school, followed by an eight-hour bike ride of meetings and presentations, all topped off with a half-marathon of dinner, 2 hours of homework, bath and bedtime, and then maybe I’ll catch up on email that I couldn’t get to during the day.  And during the bike ride not only are you expected to pedal hard, you’ll also have to take phone calls from the school, the babysitter, the orthodontist, respond to birthday party invitations, take a quick side trip to grab supplies for an art project, order school lunches and a new pair of jeans and remember to return library books because it all needs to get done RIGHT NOW.  If I’m lucky, there’s some wine left over in the fridge.

And guess what….I wouldn’t change my crazy, chaotic, working mom schedule for anything in the world.  Except maybe to live on a deserted island in the south of France, sipping champagne and reading every fiction novel ever written behind my super chic Jackie O. sunglasses.  Or not….

Oh the Humanity!

Approximately one month ago, the world was supposed to end.  A Mayan prophecy predicted that a mysterious planet would collide with the Earth, reversing its rotation and sending all of its inhabitants into a bottomless black pit of despair.  Sure, this was also supposed to happen in 2003 and in the late 1980s when I was a high school student. My girlfriends and I attended prayer groups and sleepovers and tried to connect with the other side via Ouija board.  “Are we going to die?”, we would ask the enigmatic wooden plank.  And suddenly our hands were gliding over the word “YES”.  So we prayed to God (Save me and my BFFs!), wrote a few love letters, and sipped a few beers…what did it matter, the world was going to end! We’re all going to die, but don’t fear the beer!  Oh the Humanity!

Lately, I feel like the world is spinning out of control, with lies, by America’s finest role models.  Those that push themselves to do that which they think they can not do.  But they do do (yes, that too).  Seriously, what is up with all the lying athletes?  Tiger Woods (living a lie), Marion Jones (5 gold medal lie), Barry Bonds (zero World Series rings lie), and most recently Manti Te’o (still denying lying) and Lance Armstrong (give him a green jacket, he’s the Master of lies!).

I can’t believe it.  Was I the last person on God’s green Earth to hold out hope that Lance was innocent?  Just the victim of some senseless persecution?  The BEST are always being hunted, right?.  Haters gonna hate.  Surely those athletes can’t be that good without performance-enhancing drugs, the doubters would say.  I thought it was nothing more than an unwarranted conspiracy theory of a true champion in his sport.

Boy, was I wrong.

And of all people, it took America’s biggest talk show queen to pry it out of him.  Not the president of the worldwide cycling association or the leaders of cycling’s governing body.  It was flipping Sofia, straight out of The Color Purple, mumbling something about “You better not tell nobody but God.  It’ll kill yo mama.”  So what does Lance’s mama think now?  Oh the Humanity!!

I have to say….I loved Lance Armstrong.  The Livestrong foundation.  Our shared affection for Cheryl Crow.  And most importantly, because he got me through a very scary trip to the hospital, after I choked on a chicken bone.  Yes, Mama Cass, I said I choked on a chicken bone.  It all happened so quickly, rushing out the door for a trip to the lake!, scarfing down a quick lunch of KFC chicken wings, and GULP…..there was a small animal trapped in the chimney.

Breathe through your nose, Dr. Marrow instructed me, as I was lying on a gurney at the hospital, staring at an x-ray of a small, thin bone lodged in my throat.  Oh, the Humanity!!  He was muttering something about surgery, consulting with a specialist, a possible tracheotomy, which sent my husband into a certifiable tailspin.  A tracheotomy – WHAT!!  Throat Hole is NOT who I married!!! So after my husband left the room to ask for a second opinion, I decided to turn on the tv for some distraction.  Lo and behold, I found a soothing cycling race, where Lance Armstrong was leading the pack.  The speed, the agility, the bullet-shaped helmet, those ripped calf muscles, and suddenly…..the levee broke.  The bone dislodged and traveled like driftwood on a river down my throat.  Amen and Hallelujah!  My world isn’t going to end!! And my husband couldn’t have been happier.

So, thank you Lance.  You didn’t lie to me when I needed you most.  Well, actually you did, but I didn’t know it at the time.  It really didn’t matter anyway.  And I suppose after your redemption tour, there will be a book signing and a reality show, called Living with Lance, The Karaoke King.  I’m not planning to tune in…well, unless of course some unforeseeable medical ailment cripples me again.  Oh the Humanity!, I sure as hell hope not.