Cock-a-doodle-do

Last Thursday morning at around 6am, I sat in the quiet house, in the darkness of pre-dawn, sipping coffee at my kitchen table. I was still very sleepy, but happy to have a few moments of quiet before beginning another long day. After a mere three minutes, I hear "Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!" The house is otherwise quiet. I get up, tiptoe to the bottom of the stairs, thinking that maybe I was just hearing things, and again I hear "Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!" Then I hear little feet scurrying down the hall, opening a door and saying it again. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and wait for them to walk down the hallway and greet me from the top. They are whispering, and when they get to the top of the stairs, I see messy hair, sleepy eyes, both of them holding their stuffed animals, and warm smiles on their faces.

Paige says, "Tony woke me up." But she is smiling.

I say, "I know, I heard him, I thought a rooster got caught in the attic!"

They both laugh, and make their way down the stairs. I pull each of them into one arm each and hold them to my chest.

"Good morning babies." Paige snuggles her nose into my neck and says "Good morning Mommy!" Tony pulls back from me and says, "Cock-a-doodle-do! Arf!" (Apparently, he is unable to choose between careers now.) Every time I think about him waking us up with a "Cock-a-doodle-do", I smile. He's such a funny little boy, and they both know how to make each other laugh so well.

The other story that made me smile occurred on St. Patrick's Day - they were both dressed in green, not head-to-toe leprechaun like, but green. We had been talking about St. Patrick's day for some time, and the teacher's at school made a huge deal out of it. So I asked Paige before school if she wanted corned beef or ham and potatoes to celebrate the holiday. She said, "You know mommy, I thought about it, and well, I know we should have meat and potatoes, but I really want Rigatoni." Enough said, we had rigatoni and meatballs - the best Irish meal I've ever tasted.

There are so many more cute stories I jot down so I won't forget them, but it seems like I have been allowing my "bad" weeks to interfere with this, and that is the true reason why I just want it to be over. That, and because I am just sick of hearing my whining voice go over the injustices, the facts, the "guess what happened now?", the anger... it's tiring, and boring, and it requires too much of my time. I just want to sleep off the imbalance and wake up refreshed. Hopefully, to the tune of "Cock-a-doodle-do."

To All the Women in My Life

There are some conversations that men will never, ever, ever get - not if their life depended on it, not if their fortune and fame was staked on it.

I am currently in three book clubs - one of which is on hold due to baby production. The other two are exactly the same, but with different people. We drink an inordinate amount of wine and we talk about nonsensical things that actually make sense to us. For example, we talked about the positives of having our friends and family (i.e. well, they know) drink pineapple juice; and how pineapple juice and how it is applied, can actually clear up any facial skin irritations a woman might have. We talked about, oh damn, the pineapple juice conversation just takes the cake!

Shoes... and clothes... and exfoliation... and acrylic nails... and pedicures... a woman's world, all bound up in a discussion at book club!

Women, united in a small room sharing drinks and conversation. That is the key to success in life. You can have a wonderful marriage, beautiful kids, an unbelievable job... but what good is it if you have no one to bitch about it to, or better yet, show your deepest gratitude for it.

I've had conversations with women about religion, cooking, shoes, nails, clothes, vibrators, lavender, chocolate, cheating spouses, writing, happiness, sadness and songs. And I've laughed! Oh how I've laughed! Women rock. Men, well yeah, they're pretty cool too. But women? I love all the women in my life so much - pineapple juice, exfoliation masks and all!

Happy Birthday to Me!

I received a birthday card today from both of my parents. Here it is:

Ten Things to Keep In Mind

1. Trust your instincts. If it doesn't feel right, it probably isn't... fun, tempting... maybe, but not right.

2. Remember your manners. It doesn't cost you anything, but it speaks volumes about who you are. Having class starts with this.

3. Never let possessions "own" you. It's just stuff! The most valuable things in life - friends, respect, love, knowledge - don't cost money...

4. Nurture your friendships. The investment you make in true friends will pay huge dividends all your life - remember, you can't make an old friend.

5. Keep your hands clean. This is meant both literally and figuratively... it will save you lots of regrets later...

6. Believe in yourself. You happen to be the only you in existence, and you're also the only person in the world who can truly hold you back in life... think about it.

7. Be grateful. Don't waste all your todays in anticipation of some grand tomorrow. Now is all we've got. Live in it!

8. Treat others the way you wanted be treated. Just because you're smarter or richer or prettier than someone else doesn't mean you're better. It just means you've been more blessed.

9. Always keep playing. Who says adults have to give up toys? Keep the little kid inside you alive... it keeps your imagination primed. Silly is good.

10. No matter what, you will always be loved. You don't have to test this one... Just carry it around in your back pocket, and know that, no matter what, you can always come home.

There is no wonder here. I am who I am because I have parents like I do.

What Do You Want to be When You Grow Up?

It is March! My birthday month, and today is the start of my birthday week! I will be changing my profile soon, rolling the 5 in 35 over to a 6. Ah... on the heavy side of my thirties. My birthday has me thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. I realize that I am already a successful attorney and isn't that what we mean when we ask people what they want to be when they grow up? Over the years, I have struggled to free the essence of Carrie, and I think, when I grow up, I want to be that girl... free from insecurities, free from the cages of others words or deeds, free from the struggles of second-guessing who I am and I want to wake up each morning thankful for the love and respect I feel for myself. It doesn't seem like it would be that difficult a thing to do, yet, it might be the hardest thing in the world.

I'd also like to be a wonderful friend, an appreciative daughter, a fantastic sister, a hard-working philanthropist, a novelist, a spiritual director and the best mother to my kids that I possibly can be. And one day, I might even want to take another stab at being a loving wife.

I asked Paige what she wanted to be when she grew up and she said, "I want to be a Doctor." (Okay, that's awesome!) I said, "You have to go to school for a long time, you know that, right?" And she rolled her eyes and said, "I have."

When I asked Tony the same question, he answered without a split second's hesitation: "A dog."

Is that not the perfect answer? After I stopped giggling, I started re-thinking my aspirations.

Is Ego Driving Your Bus?

An understanding of pride and ego has been a copious notion over the past few months. I have sought wisdom on the subject and as a result I was given a lesson in humility. Yet, I am writing a blog that basically spells out my life and gives one a much deeper understanding of my psyche. Is it ego that is driving my bus with regard to this blog? Perhaps, it is. I cannot apologize for this because it is the best thing I have done in my life. And honestly, it's not the debilitating pride that is pushing me to write - it's self-pride, and the wisdom of knowing that I am who I am, perfectly imperfect, a product of God's hands, I suppose.

I am willing to bet that the demise of most marriages, the hatred of most jobs, the insecurities of our bodies, the disassociation of our dreams and real lives, and the little voice that we hear on a daily basis that feeds us information that is so not who we are or want to be, are sitting uncomfortably on a bus, struggling for more (or less) room, staring at the back of a bald-headed bus driver and this bus driver is ego.

How many women have had a night out to look forward to and spent hours changing outfits five, six, seven times because the extra ten, fifteen, twenty pounds they've put on in the past few years makes them think they aren't all that? After the seventh outfit, they stand in their bra and underwear staring at the pants thrown across the bed, the dresses hanging on the door knobs, the shoes, shirts, sweaters in various piles around their room, and then opt for the first outfit they picked out an hour earlier. Unfortunately, the pulling, pushing, removing, buttoning, and zipping has messed up their hair and make-up and made them a half hour late, and when they finally arrive at their destination, they have to take a shot of tequila right off the bat because getting dressed for that rare occasion out has stressed them out! Ego has driven them around the block and back, and done donuts over their self-esteem, and for what? Dammit women, love yourselves, and forget about what you're wearing. Beauty comes from within. Say it with me! Beauty comes from within!

Every one knows what it is like to start a new job. The first week is exhausting, isn't it? There are so many variables to learn, and so many personalities to understand. Ego drives the bus like a drunken idiot. The new employee wants so much to impress, and to know everything, and when it doesn't come instantly, ego drives over his head, backs up and does it again. Relax... it's just a job. It's just a job. Putting the career in its proper place on that long list of priorities is the only way to get the bus driver to stop driving like a drunken idiot, so that you can actually enjoy your job.

Ego drives the lousiest when marriage is involved because although there are only two passengers, the bus is filled to the rooftop emergency exit with the past, present, and future of both of them. And their personalities are usually so entwined (did I say entwined? I meant knotted) that the ball of string tethering them together has no beginning and no end. Somewhere inside that ball is humility and compassion, and the marriages that are successful (did I say successful? I meant work), are those that leave that thread hanging loose. They don't allow the bus driver the opportunity to stop in the middle of their destination, put the bus in park, and climb into the backseat to start tying nautical knots on the those thick and thin pieces, those sick and healthy pieces, those better and worse strings until the knots get so big that the bus tips over and the passengers fall across the pavement with skin boo-boos and broken hearts, and broken spirits, and desperate notions, creating a heavier past, an illusioned present and a burdensome future. Always keep a thread hanging loose, hold onto it (and your lover's hand) and look through the bus window with your eyes on the horizon. It probably helps to keep the alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling and fears away from the driver because a lousy driver makes for a lousy marriage. And the bigger the driver, the tighter the knot, the greater the heartbreak.

That's just my opinion on ego and pride, but what do I know? I'm just trying to pass the time on this bus.

Working Mommmmmyyyyy!

I bought a half gallon of pineapple-orange juice yesterday. It was a special treat for the kids as they are usually stuck with water or milk at home. Although every once in a while I'll let them have a sip of my pop ("soda" for all you southerners -meatheads), and of course, they get juice boxes in their lunches at school, and occasionally they'll inadvertently slug down a sip of beer thinking it's pop but will spit it out, spewing, "That's beer! Yuck!" (They haven't yet realized the unbelievable healing effects of beer although I've noticed if I have too many I always get symptoms of the flu). Yet, I've digressed.

I picked them up from school, went over the usual, "What was your favorite part of the day" question with them. (My daughter's was "playing kickball" with her brother; my son's was "right now, Mommy." Awww... Mine was the moment they discover I've come into their classroom to get them. They yell "Mommmmmyyyyy!" and run toward me with their arms spread wide. We hug for a few seconds, exchange kisses and then proceed to the truck outside. The truck is only fifteen feet from the door, but it takes a good twenty minutes to get to it). And again, I digress.

I settle them at the kitchen table with crayons and note paper, or a puzzle, or a toy train set, or a dump truck as big as the table, or something else (like a bucket full of water that they've somehow snuck into the house from God knows where), and pour a glass of the pineapple-orange juice for them to drink while I get dinner ready.

"Yum. Delicious!"

I knew it.

We eat dinner. It is yum! Delicious! My son eats well past the time it takes a normal human being to eat. He eats, and eats, and eats, surpassing the amount I've eaten by about seven tablespoons (although 3 of them have gone from his spoon, to his lap, to the floor, to the dogs). When we get done, I clear the dishes, leaving them to "run around" until the dishwasher is full and the stove and table are wiped.

Okay. It took me thirty seconds to run outside to the front to get the recycle bin, walk through my mudroom to the back porch and put the bin on the deck. When I walked in the door, the remainder of the half gallon of (yum! delicious!) pineapple-orange juice is either on top of the dogs food (as the dogs are standing over it wondering why the hell the milk I usually pour over their dinner tastes like crap) and the rest of it is on the floor, a puddle in front of the stove, the sink and the refrigerator, with little feet marks all around it. (Mind you, I had given the kids a bath before dinner because it would save me time while dinner cooked in the oven. Oh, it was an Italian sausage, green and red pepper, potato and onion stew-like meal that tasted amazing!).

Anyway, my son's socks were soaked with pineapple-orange juice and when I came into the house and screamed, "No! Get out of my kitchen! What'd you do?" he proceeded to run away and onto the hardwood floors of the living room, crying. (Big baby!) "Ugh!" That was all I said after that, honest! He came back into the kitchen, crying and screaming over and over, "Mommy, I'm gonna tell on you!" He was so damn cute, but I needed to let him know that the pineapple-orange juice didn't grown on trees (well, technically, I guess it does) and that it's not okay to pour it all over the dog's food and the kitchen floor. I am saying this as I mop up the mess.

But he wouldn't listen! He just kept saying, "I'm gonna tell on you! I'm gonna tell on you!" So I asked, "Who are you gonna tell?" and with the meanest face he could muster he said, "Mommy!" And I said, "Well, I'm gonna tell Tony on you!"

It took a few seconds, but he got it.

He started giggling, and ran toward me with his arms wide open. We hugged and I stripped him of his pajamas and put him back in the bathtub.

That was my evening after a full day of work yesterday. So worth it!

My Best Friend Fergie?

My best friend Bruce hasn't spoken to me in awhile. I am not quite sure why that is. Is it because he hasn't quite gotten to the point where he can write a song about my shrinking bra size? Is it because he's never lost weight and known that a smaller butt means a bigger pair of jeans? Lately, the only song that has been going through my mind is the song "Fergalicious - I'm fergalicious, my body stay vicious, I be up in the gym just workin' on my fitness, he's my witness, I put the boys on rock, rock and they go runnin' down the block just to watch what I got." That has been the deep, meaningful mantra going through my head in the past couple days. Do you think I'm tired?

I am exhausted. Divorce is a full time job. Raising children is a full time job. My full time job is a full time job. It's amazing. All the little things, like my little boobs, like the little hairs growing above my lip, like the myriad of gray on the crown and within the part of my hair, and the smell of my skin after a night of nightmares... all these things are being noticed now. It's like walking down a long tunnel with nothing to see but darkness and then stepping into a room with mirrors and nothing to see but what I have physically become in the past few weeks. I looked into the mirror today and thought, "Oh my, that poor woman looks so worn down." And then I smiled because although I might be tired, I am still standing up straight, shoulders are back and I am looking into very strong eyes. My brown eyes reflect more than color in that mirror - there is depth there. I may look tired physically, but behind those eyes is a hive full of worker-bees... God, family, friends, and yes, perseverance standing up on tippy toes to allow for a glimpse of its forehead in the picture. And I realize that I am not alone. My gray hairs are gray, yes, but they can be shellacked and become shiny. My small frame is thin, yes, but that allows me to eat all the chocolate and double cheeseburgers I want for a while. And sad eyes, well, they never lie.

I'm happy, I'm doin' fine. Sad eyes never lie. Because sad eyes never lie... one day that something in the air that feels a little unkind, will someday slip my mind. And my gray hair, my shrinking chest and my exhausted eyes won't matter in the long run because essentially, I am Fergalicious.