What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions. Never have been. I've tried making them before, but I've never stuck with them. So during the first week of this year, I found myself frustrated, hanging out at the gym, waiting for those who do believe in resolutions to get off the elliptical and get the heck outta the way of us gym rats who actually believe that exercise is something you do all the time, not just in January.

Anyhoo, while waiting to claim my rightful place amongst the cardio equipment, I was watching a TV that scrolls information about gym events. I noticed an ad for a Beginner's Yoga workshop starting the next week. It was a series of eight classes that would teach about the basics of yoga and prepare students to take a proper yoga class. Before I had time to think, I was signing up for the series. "You will resolve to be a beginner yoga student," my brain said.

But my brain was lying a bit. You see, two years ago at this time, I was a die-hard yoga student. I was teaching kid's yoga classes regularly, and substitute teaching for adult classes. I was at the studio almost every day. And I loved it. I was in a great place, both mentally and physically.

But then we moved. And my yoga somehow didn't make the move with me. I tried, I really did. But I let a bunch of circumstances get the best of me. Financial circumstances meant I had to get a "real" job, one that paid more than teaching yoga. And I had trouble finding classes at convenient times and convenient locations -- there's not much to choose from here in Little Rock. But I think the main thing that pulled me away from yoga when I moved here was my sorrow. Whenever I went to a new class, I was sad. Sad about the studio I left behind. Sad that I wasn't practicing next to my dear friends and fellow yogis who I'd grown so close to that I knew exactly how they moved and how their breath flowed. Sad that I didn't fit in.

So what was once my life became an at-home practice, which became an every-once-in-a-while-when-I-had-time thing, which became nonexistent. I mourned my loss, I grieved, and then I tried to get on with my life.

But life hasn't been all that great. I've not been grounded. I've not been balanced. I've been distracted and depressed. I've not been eating well, and I've gained weight. I've lost sight of the physical path that often intersects my spiritual path. I was bottoming out, but I threw up my hands and said "Nope, I won't do this. I know how to fix this. I know what works for me. Yoga does. I will begin, again."

So I took that beginner's series. Everything was new. I had a new teacher, Susan, who's a beautiful person and a great guide. I had new classmates, who were funny and patient and who blew me away with their desire to try something scary and to learn and grow from the experience. I was in a new space, but it felt good to me. I treated myself to a couple of new tops to wear. I even renewed my subscriptions to Yoga Journal and a couple of other magazines.

(The only thing I haven't done new is get a new mat. I need one. My mat is old and a bit funky. It's beat up and worn in places, in the spots where I've done numerous face plants while trying to master crane pose and other arm balances. What can I say -- I tend to fall head first into my challenges. But I can't bring myself to get a new one, because Jesus is in my mat, I'm sure of it. Whenever I'm on my mat, I hear him talking to me. That's where he talks the loudest and the most. Or perhaps that's just where I'm the quietest, where I can best hear his voice. Either way, it would be really cool if he'd also make his face appear in the pattern on my mat. That way I could sell it on eBay for lots of money.)

So there I was, a brand new, shiny, happy, centered, balanced, yogafied Amy. But I'm still not doing yoga regularly. There still aren't any classes at a convenient time. I still let work and personal commitments get in the way. And I've realized that a home practice just doesn't cut it for me. I need companionship and a good instructor and people who will support and challenge me.

But I will not move away from yoga so easily this time. I crave it. I need it. Yoga is my refuge. It is my church, my education, my friends and family and my lover. It cannot replace those things, but rather, those things cannot be well without it. Most importantly, I want to teach again, to share yoga with others.

So I'll probably be talking a lot about yoga in this space. I hope you don't mind. It's just that I have big plans for yoga. Fingers crossed it has big plans for me.

Happy B-Day!

You've got to check out this precious bee-themed birthday party at little b.

I covet this pinata!

I Always Say I Want Some Alone Time, But I Didn't Mean Like This

So it's the Saturday night before Valentine's Day, and many people are enjoying a night out with the one they love. Not me. I'm sitting at home feeling sorry for myself.

My husband lost not one, but TWO managers who worked for him this week. He oversees a 24-hour-a-day operation, and he has to have managers covering all 24 of those hours. So guess who's going to be picking up the slack? Him, of course. But the thing is, I don't think he really minds. He's always loved work. Too much so, in fact. There have been plenty of times in the past I've asked him to be home more, and if he obliged, I always felt he did so reluctantly. And yes, I take that personally. I'll definitely be more understanding this time, but in my mind, I'm the one who's going to be punished for this.

Essentially, I'm now a single mom. Nick won't be awake when I get up and get the boys ready and we head out each morning. And he'll still be at work when we go to sleep each night. He says he'll take one day off each week, but I'll believe it when I see it. Yep, I'll be running the house and raising the kids on my own, but without the benefits of having one less person to clean up behind, one less person's laundry to do. There's no joint custody arrangement where I get a weekend to myself when the kids go stay with their dad.

I know I sound bitter, but I'm just angry right now. It's still a bit raw, and this situation is going to take some getting used to. I'm angry that I'll have no help with the kids. I'm angry because I know it will probably be a long time before Nick can find suitable new employees and train them properly. I'm angry because he and I will be like the proverbial two ships passing in the night, and our marriage doesn't need that right now (really, whose does?). I'm angry because I know the boys will miss him terribly. I'm angry that I'm going to have to cancel plans here and there because he normally watches the kids for me, and I can't afford a babysitter. And I'm angry because I just feel helpless.

I know, I know, I sound like a brat. I know I'll adapt. I'll get through this. Lots of people have it way worse. No need to lecture me -- I get it. I just needed to vent. Thanks for letting me do so.

And yes, I know I just wrote a blog post about how rotten my life is (see my last post). I clicked the link already! How awesome is it that after you donate, the confirmation screen has a picture of a bee on it that's very similar to mine?

The REAL Mommy War

I had the privilege of spending a little time this past week with Jimmy Wayne. Jimmy is a country singer who started the Meet Me Halfway campaign on January 1. What's it all about? Well, he's walking halfway across the country -- from Nashville to Phoenix -- to raise awareness about the issues surrounding homeless kids and teens who are about to age out of the foster care system. These kids are shoved into adulthood completely unprepared. They often have little education, few life skills and even fewer job skills. They've been abused, neglected and discarded all their lives, and then they're thrust into a very tough world with no safety net and no support.

photo of Jimmy Wayne, by Tom Stanford/The Tennessean

Jimmy knows about these kids' lives, and wants to help them, because he was once just like them. He lived in abusive homes. He was in and out of the system. He was even homeless. I won't go into the details of his stories -- some of them are public, and anyone who can use a search engine can find out more. If you'd really like to know more about his background, in his own words, and also hear stories about his journey since he set off on his walk, I'd encourage you to visit his Ustream channel. He's been broadcasting live from the road and archiving his videos there. Start at the beginning and watch all the way through.

Fair warning -- you will need tissues. Like, a go-to-Costco-and-buy-in-bulk amount of tissues. His stories are graphic, uncomfortable and heart-wrenching. His conversations with the kids he meets, as they discuss their fears and apprehensions and histories, will make you want to scoop up your own children and squeeze them to bits. My favorite part is when he gets on his soapbox and becomes a real advocate for these kids, asking the tough questions that they often can't.

But I think what gets to me the most is when he talks about his mom. I can't relate to much of his life, but I can definitely relate to being a mother. Let's face it -- most of the problems he encountered when he was young, and a lot of the problems that troubled kids everywhere are dealing with, are brought on by mothers. And the relationship Jimmy had with his mother, though on the mend, was certainly broken for many years.

Women are always so concerned about preserving and perfecting relationships. I am no different. I have learned, though, that relationship failures are inevitable. I've failed my friends. I've failed my parents. I've failed my husband. I've failed bosses. Some of those failures have been tougher than others, but I (not always my relationships, but me, personally) have managed to survive them all.

But the one relationship failure I don't think I could handle would be failing my children. I don't think I could leave them alone for days on end. I don't think I'd ever fail to feed them. I don't think I could put them in a home with a man who's abusive and toxic. I don't think I could ever run away from them. I just don't think I could be that mom and fail my children.

But notice I said "think." Honestly, I'm not secure enough to say "I could never." I've desperately wanted to run away before. I've put my needs ahead of my boys' needs a thousand times. I've felt completely alone, terribly depressed, and utterly unwilling to care for my children for another second. Every day, I'm holding on by a (sometimes tenuous and slippery) thread.

You see, I think being a mother is like being a soldier. Raising children means going out onto the battlefield every day and engaging in hand-to-hand combat. Us moms are fighting so many enemies -- our partners, our lack of a partner, the media, our jobs, our joblessness, our expectations, our pasts and our personal demons. We're all waging this war every day, and unfortunately, some of us are losing.

Some are losing because they don't have the necessary equipment. They don't have a safe place to retreat to at the end of a long day in the trenches. They don't have food and basic supplies. They don't have the education and skills it takes to understand the logistics of the war. They are easy to identify, and, quite frankly, they're easy to help, if we just pool our resources and time. Most of us have a little extra we can share.

But some are losing because they don't have any support. They got cut off from the rest of the troops, left alone to fend for themselves. Or maybe they're right in the thick of things, right in front of us, but we don't see them. Instead, we stumble off the battlefield at night, and fall into base camp, where our support troops have a warm meal waiting for us and a tent already pitched. We find a bit of comfort and begin to bandage our wounds. We may take a moment to send an email to loved ones. But war is ugly, and soon enough the trauma of that day's battle begins to worm it's way to the front of our minds. We react by lashing out. We lash out at our fellow warriors for not breast feeding enough, or for breast feeding too much. We snicker about those who stay at home and raise their kids, and trash the ones who don't. We make fun of the uniform some of the others wear, or criticize how their bodies look. We question who's looking after their kids while they're away.

While we're so busy cutting others down, we fail, or perhaps choose not, to see those horribly wounded women who will not make it through the night. They will not survive this war. And when they break, they will leave behind their children.

They'll leave behind sons like Zack, a kid who went to a high school where I worked. His mom tried to commit suicide just after his 17th birthday, during his senior year. Other faculty and I fought for months to literally "hide" him from the authorities so that he wouldn't get lost in the system at such a crucial time in his life. During those days, he started painting to express himself, and he never stopped. Now he shows in galleries out west.

They'll leave behind sons like Joseph, whose family kicked him out at a fairly young age because he had severe Tourette's Syndrome. He often survived by raiding the trash outside local restaurants, until he one day convinced a kind restaurant owner that even a kid who seemed to have little control over his flailing arms could be a chef. It seemed the only time his hands were steady was when he was holding a knife, and he eventually became a damn fine Garde Manger at the fancy hotel where I worked.

And they'll leave behind sons like Jimmy Wayne.

They'll leave behind kids who will struggle, but who can do so much. Kids who, given the right resources, can succeed, despite having dealt with failure all their lives. Sure, you can say their moms failed them by not being strong enough, not asking for help, not fighting just a little bit harder. But we, by not acknowledging their mothers' struggles, have most certainly failed them, too.

So let's start paying a little more attention to our fellow soldiers, OK? And in the meantime, I challenge you to start helping these left-behind children right now. I challenge you to donate to Jimmy's MMH Foundation. Every time you write a blog post about how rotten your life is, click that link. Every time you comment on someone's blog about some hot-button motherhood issue, click that link. Every time you're sitting around with some other moms, gossiping about how so-and-so raises her children, click that link.

We may not be able to put ourselves in these kids' or these women's shoes. We may not be able to walk across the country. But we can start fighting smarter, and we can do a better job of supporting struggling soldiers. This battle's too important for us to leave anyone behind, ladies. Children's lives are at stake.

P.S. If you've got Jordin Sparks' Battlefield as your new ear worm after reading this, there's only one cure. Yep, you got it. Click that link.

There Is Lightning In Me Still

A gal I know shared this poem last week, and I can't get enough of it. It's by Charles Rafferty.

When I was in school, I used to crave those assignments where you had to memorize a poem or a passage or a Shakespearean soliloquy. The memorization forced me to inhabit the work, to become intertwined with the words, to dive in and climb, dripping, out of the author's pool of language. It was always a meaningful experience for me.

I want to memorize this poem.

AGAINST HESITATION

If you stare at it long enough
the mountain becomes unclimbable.
Tally it up. How much time have you spent
waiting for the soup to cool?
Icicles hang from January gutters
only as long as they can. Fingers pause
above piano keys for the chord
that will not form. Slam them down
I say. Make music of what you can.
Some people stop at the wrong corner
and waste a dozen years hoping
for directions. I can’t be them.
Tell every girl I’ve ever known
I’m coming to break her door down,
that my teeth will clench
the simple flower I only knew
not to give . . . Ah, how long did I stand
beneath the eaves believing the storm
would stop? It never did.
And there is lightning in me still.

Quick Update on the House

Upon the advice of my lawyer (I just love saying that), we did not pay our rent on the first of the month.

Yep, we had to get a lawyer. There was no way around it. There are just too many parties involved in this mess, and we have to have someone looking out for our interests. And our interests are pretty simple: We don't want to be kicked out on short notice, and we don't want to lose our deposit.

But yeah, he told us not to pay her another penny, so I'm not. And that feels so bad. I've never not intentionally paid for the roof over my head. But that's just it -- I've been paying her for the roof over my head, and she hasn't been doing the same, so deal's off. She broke the contract, not me. He's actually trying to work out a deal now where we pay our rent to the lender, maybe even with an option to keep renting from the lender after they buy the house at auction in March (presuming they will, because from what I understand, it's usually always the bank who buys the house).

So there it is. We're waiting to hear from the lender, and I've referred all calls from my landlord to my lawyer (sounds so powerful, right?) and we've got to find a new place to live, perhaps as early as March 23. Y'all please pray that we find a great new place. In the meantime, I'll be using the money I've saved by not paying this month's rent on moving boxes.

And We'll Have Fun Fun Fun

Last night, for about the 927th time in as many days, I was told that I'm no fun. That I don't know how to relax, let loose, and have a good time. I've heard that from my friends who've known me my entire life, from complete strangers, from my husband, from my mother. And they're all right.

I don't what know what it is that makes me be un-fun. What makes anyone be a stick in the mud? Fear of embarrassing yourself. Familial or peer disapproval. Fear that whatever you find fun can actually be harmful to yourself or others. Memories of consequences or regrets brought to you at night by the Ghost of Too-Much-Fun Past. Lack of funding for fun-ness. Or not even truly knowing what you find fun. For me, it's probably a combination of all that.

I will say that for some reason, hearing that comment last night really pushed a button with me. I don't know why. It didn't make me throw seriousness out the window and decide to live it up. In fact, it pushed me in the opposite direction. My tension and self-consciousness became so palpable that anyone next to me surely felt their presence.

But what can I do to become more fun? There are plenty of things you can do to become more serious. You can return to school. You can get your first "real" job. You can do time. You can start wearing all black, smoke Gauloises and read too much Sylvia Plath (bad example -- that sounds like lots of fun). And you can usually get lots of support if you choose to get your act together. But what if you choose to loose it? Is there a way to train yourself to have fun? How can you get those around you to accept the new you, the one who's going to lighten up, even if it means changing some dynamics? Is there a School of Fun somewhere that teaches these things?

If so, please sign me up. I need to get loose. I need a redo. I need my button un-pushed.