Mothers Empowered

Recently, I shared that I went for a biopsy. I thought I was the first person in my circle to go. That is, until one of my best friends asked me what kind I was getting and then described the procedure performed on her. I didn’t even know there was more than one kind. She talked so matter of factly about it that it didn’t occur to me to wonder why she hadn’t mentioned it before. I learned today that my fave lunch and shopping buddy has to go for further testing because the lump they found in her breast is not cancerous now, but could turn out to be so later. We went for our mammograms together.
I have three other friends who are in the process of getting divorces. One because her husband, an avid athlete, refused to shower before sex, ever. He thought that made the act more spontaneous and romantic. It, along with most things about him, made her nauseas. The second friend is getting divorced because she found out that her husband had been cheating on her since before they were married and everybody knew. The third one is getting divorced because her husband cheated on her with a man, or with other men and nobody knew.
Valentine’s Day began with my film director friend sending-what else?-film of the “allegedly” high end peanut butter truffles she received from her husband, complete with his awkwardly stuttered, utterly ridiculous “defense”. Allegedly because while he insisted the chocolates were boutique expensive, he had neglected to remove the sticker clearly identifying them as A&P merchandise marked at $4.47. Wince. I sent her an email detailing my 2009 and 2010 V-Day experiences. Last year, at approximately 5:58 p.m., I was asked to lend my Valentine $5. A scant few minutes later I received a bouquet of flowers which looked suspiciously like the ones sold in front of the neighborhood hospital. THIS year, though, I received a dozen red and white roses (I don’t like red OR white roses) sprayed with glitter. Exactly. That email went viral through her network prompting others to share their Cupid mishaps as well. One of her friends received a gushing thank you call from her husband, who raved about the hot naughty basket she sent to his job: She hadn’t. Her other friend related the story of how she and her husband had their couple’s counseling appointment scheduled for that day. He stormed out mid-session and she spent the evening staring into the mirror, wondering where he had gone and trying to figure out who the fat, frumpy, unhappy woman was staring back at her from the mirror.
At a recent ME workshop, one Power Mama told a roomful of strangers that her mother was mean and controlling, another said that her mother was cold and distant and yet another related how she struggled against not becoming the judgmental woman both her mother and grandmother continued to be. At that same workshop, a member of the ME team surprised us all when she broke down crying because she realized how angry she had been and still was about too many things to list here.
The point of it all is that as women we have got to begin to share our stories-with one another, with our friends, sisters, the partners and spouses who love us, with our children. WE have to share them with each other. We can get so caught up in feeling ashamed or being embarrassed, we don’t give thought to feeling healed or being free. My ME moment came when I realized that what happens to me does not define me nor can it contain the all of me. My story, then, is a series of ME moments which provide room for GASP (Growth, Attitude Switch, Progression) and space for shift to happen. My story can only be told by me. Yours can only be told by you and hers by her. But it is in the sharing of our stories where our mothers can be forgiven and our daughters can be made of better stuff than we.
What’s your story?
*(Note- I began this post on Saturday March 1st. My dear friend Kimberly Allers posed the same question on MochaManual.com today when she shared the story of her grandmother, Nana Helen, who transitioned yesterday (something about those Nanas!). I tried reading her love letter to her Nana but it got me to thinking about mine and how six years later, there’s so much of my story I want to tell her because I understand so much of hers now. So share your story here to be posted (info@mothersempowered.org) , or on mochamanual.com and help to begin the healing.

Yesterday, I had a core biopsy done on my right breast because there was something on my sonogram. I have to get a mammogram AND an ultrasound because I have dense breasts. If you’ve never had a mammogram, the best way to describe it is the way my good friend mama mogul Kimberly Allers of mochamanual.com does. She says it’s like standing in front of the refrigerator, placing one of your breasts between the door and the fridge itself, and then slamming the door. It is exactly like that. No matter how gentle the technician is. My theory is the pain is necessary so you get over having said technician maneuvering your breasts. This is not about whether or not you’re used to having a woman squeeze and pull on your breasts-no judgments! It’s not even about how spectacular they are. This is about someone doing their job to get the clearest picture they can. Truth be told, Pamela Anderson and I look just about the same squeezed between the plates. Just about. Thank goodness the gentle technician I had was good at doing her job because I would rather she saw something that may be something than not see anything. The other thing I’m thankful for is that I have insurance coverage so I don’t have to choose between a medical exam and feeding my family.

I’m hugely grateful that my gynecologist is pretty damned amazing. The best. Naturally, she referred me to the best. HE is exactly who you want to be in an exam room with when your find your girls may be in a bit of a pickle. He was jovial, affable, and exuded an experienced confidence. And, yes, good looking in that rugged-cool-old-guy kind of way, like Robert Redford. I was insta-fan when he pronounced my name correctly, which rarely happens. He asked me if I was named after Motown Diva Dionne Warrick. I told him that my mom did name me after her favorite singer and how glad I was that my dad lost the argument because Aretha was his. He conducted the exam and scheduled me for the procedure. I was frazzled, fried and freaked out despite his assurances that he probably wouldn’t find anything. I spent the next week and a half going over all of my worst case scenarios. I thought that not being here for my three children was the absolute worst. ME Moment!! The absolute worst thing that could happen was the realization that I had not spent enough time putting work into my dream. I’m 43 and feel like I’m just getting up to speed. I believe that my best lies just ahead. To consider losing the opportunity to write my book, have dinner with Oprah, dance to a Stevie Wonder song with the love of my life in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower on a spring night and run my first 5K was unthinkable. To finally get IT and be close to seeing IT changed into something else was the absolute worst. The exam itself was uncomfortable but not unbearable and given the worst, it’s one of the best tools in the fight to keep women alive. Thankfully, it was just a cyst.

I am not trying to trivialize anyone’s experience. I shared a waiting room with women from all walks of life and the room was filled with their hope, joy, and fears. From my grandmother I learned how to make light of my darkest moments. This moment has shown me the power of dream work and how we have to make it as much a part of our days as waking, eating, loving. I’m off to begin drafting my book’s outline, planning the Marcus Samuelsson menu for me and O, narrowing my playlist down to my fave five Wonder tunes and putting my daughter’s sparkly pink laces in my running shoes.

Are you dreaming?

Mothers Empowered on Momtourage. Because no mom can do it alone.
http://www.momtourage.com/mom-up-against-violence

As much as the tragedy in Tucson is about the dangers of extremism, vitriolic political rhetoric, homegrown terrorism, and media outlets challenged by the notion of unbiased, accurate, objective and informed news, it is also about the plague of violence in this country; specifically, gun violence.

This is not about amending the second amendment; lay back down, Charlton Heston. This is about:We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

This is about a congressional member doing her part to form a more perfect union by bringing the government to the people at their local supermarket. This is about justice for and the loss of domestic tranquility by a third grader, a community outreach worker and an elderly church leader. This is about the notion that common defense should be prescribed by those who shout the loudest (and sound the stupidest), and by those who have turned the word welfare into a privilege abused by those who they say are not the people. This is about liberty being for all and our collective legacy as a nation. Not the one we wished we had by whitewashing classic literature or by not reading aloud the three-fifths compromise in the constitution to present a blemish-free America, but the story of a nation that when confronted with its worst rises to the challenge of making it better.

This is about mothers having to Mom Up and say enough. Enough. We have been given the greatest responsibility on the planet—the care of life. And no matter our journey to motherhood, here we all are. From Tucson to Toledo, New York City to New Orleans, Daytona to Denver we all want our children to be happy, healthy and safe. And where Sarah Palin and I have about as much in common as The Queen of England and Snookie from The Jersey Shore, with her being a hockey mom and me being a football mom, even Sarah, in all her maverick magnificence, agrees that moms stand in the gap: “I’m just one of many moms who’ll say an extra prayer each night for our sons and daughters going into harm’s way,” she said, when discussing her son’s deployment to Iraq during her speech in the 2008 vice presidential debate. Sadly, though, for too many mothers just the very act of their children leaving the house is going into harm’s way.

Enough.

We, as a community of mothers, have to begin to dialogue with each other on the presence of violence in our children’s lives and its resulting impact, so that we can begin to shape a much needed national discussion. As a community, we have to examine our own desensitization to what has become commonplace. Finally, we have to collectively hold those we vote into office accountable for the culture of fear that has become so pervasive that gun stores across the country saw their inventory sold out in the immediate wake of the incident in Tuscon. Whether through prayer, petition or organized protest—which is the first amendment- now is the time for moms to stand up together and say enough. Now is the time to Mom Up.

Are you Mom enough?

For two months, three weeks and one day, I have become extremely adept at creating very “legitimate” reasons for why it was okay to put me at the bottom of my To Do list: School, dance, football, Daylight Savings. Because I was busy. Very busy. Extremely busy. Way too busy to put in dream work, body work or soul work. Much too busy to breathe life into plan, or goal, or thought. I would think about getting something started, and then think about how to get it going but it all came back as me being too busy to get anything. And whenever one of my friends would call me on it and they called me on it plenty because I have amazing friends, or even when I would call my own self on it, I created the best excuse of all; perfect. I was waiting for things to be perfect. I waited for the perfect time to post. I waited for the perfect time to respond to emails, to make phone calls. I became perfect at waiting on perfect. People make perfection seem so hard to accomplish. Pish posh. Like that, I had mastered the art and was executing perfection at levels not previously seen in the pursuit of perfect. And what followed is sheer perfection. I remained perfectly rooted to October 9th. I gained back a near perfect ten of the almost twenty pounds I had spent all summer losing. Deadlines and timetables were perfectly ignored; connections and contacts were perfectly (and conveniently) dismissed. I mean, it was all so perfect. I did not have to show up for me, or ME, until it was perfect to do so. And now here I am, two months, three weeks and one day later a product of perfection procrastination. And it’s now perfectly clear that the end goal should not have been waiting for perfection but working towards perfection. The operative word being working. As in action. As in doing. As in the very conscious act of performing a task. Because there can be no perfection without performance and there can be no performance without the work.
So for 2011, let us all resolve to make no resolutions save one: Put the work in. I’m beginning today, right now with this. And I’ll be looking to you to help hold me accountable. And I fully expect for you to do the same. I want you to think about where you need to put the work in and then tell me about it so I can help hold you accountable. Post your comments right here or email me, info@mothersempowered.org. No excuses.

Get Your Family Health & Wellness Questions Answered, Live by a Pediatrician!

It’s the beginning of the school year. And there’s jittery excitement in the air for both kids and parents. A new year brings new challenges. There’s also a return to the familiar, the sense of routine. The morning dash for cell phones, unsigned permission slips. The lunch lady who has been the lunch lady since man acquired the ability to walk upright. The small talk in the lobby of the school or in the coffee shop next to the school.

Small talk. Most try to avoid it at all costs because having small talk usually involves talking to people we would prefer not to, not so much. It’s the egomaniacal PTA president who lends as much weight to placement of the muffin platter as President Obama does in establishing this next round of Middle East peace talks. It’s the relative stranger at the playground who divulges in all reality show detail how she hasn’t been able to achieve orgasm since her husband’s “operation”-her finger quotes.

It is inane and senseless. Exactly why are we discussing how much this cuppa Joe costs since we are drinking fair trade, organically grown, indingenous people owned java? (WE are, right?) My friend Julie hates it. She is about vibing with a person- being able to pick up on their positivity. It’s all about intimacy, she says. And not that “Desperate Kardashian Plus 8” kind, either. For her, as with most of us, conversation is about connection. It’s about being able to delight in the common and it’s about the discovery of the unique. It’s about compassion for life’s fragility and appreciation for climbing out of the valley. It’s about conveying optimism in the wake of divorce, expressing enthusiasm about opportunites in a sluggish economy, sharing sympathy over an ailing parent.

Small talk is the exact opposite. It’s about how big the talker wants the listener to think he or she is. It’s about how much they have, how fast it is, how much it costs. It’s about competition, it’s about conflict, it’s about constriction. It’s about “ME” and not about “you” unless you are about “ME”, too. It’s about getting US to believe the hype. It’s about their attempts to convince themselves through us that they are bigger than they actually are. It’s about that fool of a wanna-be preacher in Florida who thinks the Christian way to honor the memory of those who lost their lives on September 11, 2001 is to burn the holy guide of the Islamic faith. (And that is exactly the right amount of energy to lend to any fool.)

Really, though, it’s about the pithiness of ‘like a dull knife/that just ain’t cuttin’ from that wise and sagacious song prophet James Brown on “Talkin’ Loud and Sayin’ Nothing”-short on lyric, but long on message. It’s about realizing that small talk comes from small people with small notions and limited vision. It’s the realization that the big idea is to fill yourself with things that will cause you to expand, to develop, to shift, to grow beyond where you are now.

Yes, less is more. And we are learning to do more with less. Less of what we don’t need and can’t use-like a dull knife.

Yesterday was my goddaughter’s birthday. She turned that age of magic-13! An official teenager. When I asked her what she wanted, what special thing I could get her to commemorate the occasion, she, in that typical way of teenagers, kind of pooh-poohed the whole thing by saying that the day felt like any other day and that she couldn’t think of anything special. But she didn’t ruin it for me. I have been thinking for a few months about THE gift, THE present of all presents because I want to mark this moment. Not for a godmother of the year award but because I want her to celebrate this time, this moment, that hasn’t come before, and won’t come again.

That is part of what makes the present so special; now is happening now. It hasn’t happened then and it won’t happen later. It’s happening now. To get locked into yesterday or last week, to fret about tomorrow or brood over next month means missing now. It means that if the past has all of your energy, or if the future has all of your attention, you have no present. You’re stuck in the woulda/coulda/shoulda, or spinning in the loop of mayhaps/maybes/mights. Consider Lisa and Eric, a couple I know. They have been together for eight years, have two beautiful children; each is successful in their professional pursuits. They’ve shared some concerns about the quality of their relationship. Lisa admits to a great deal of uncertainty about their collective future. Eric is bent on re-capturing the special moments they had before. Neither one of them is lending focus to now. And now has them at a crossroads, common to most relationships. Choosing between Here and There means focusing on now. Who are we now? Where are we now? What are we going to do now? And if they decide that trying to answer all of those questions is too much for them to do right now, they can decide what they can do. And do that now.

The present may not always feel good or be comfortable. The past can be. That’s why we do our best to remember those good times. Or change the story each time we tell it. You know how you cringe when you think about when you did you-know-what with you-know-who you-know-where? Right. THAT story becomes the one you love to tell at cocktail parties and it begins with meeting Eddie Murphy in the club (back when you were both “cool” enough to be hanging out in clubs) and ends with a free bottle of champagne. What the future holds, the future knows. The thinkers among us plan, prepare and plant seeds. The fools live on wishes of a dollar and a dream, and fall apart when they reap what they’ve sown. The wise knows the seed hasn’t any idea of what plant it will be, but trusts that the seed will follow its natural process and enjoys the wonder of it all. (And plants extra seeds for the locusts and the floods.)

That’s the joy of being present in the present. Being able to appreciate the twists and turns life brings, knowing that who you are now is enough for where you are now to be able to enjoy the wonder of it all. Now.

The “You Are Here” sign found in most buildings and on mall directories can either be a comforting reassurance, as in I am on the blue level, clearly indicated by the bright, bold HERE and the Off Saks outlet, where I would like to be, is on the red level THERE. Comforting and reassuring. Some days, the “You Are Here” can only be construed as mildly annoying. As in, I am standing at the elevator pushing its buttons with about 40 pounds of thrust, late and later by the second, hence the mildly annoyed feeling I experience as I read that I am HERE instead of THERE where I should have been x minutes ago.
Many of us walk with our own personal “You Are Here” maps which tell people exactly where we are, who we are, and how we’re feeling about the who and the where if they but stop, look, listen. I hold fast to the notion that the greater majority of us strive to be in a better place most days. To get there we sip our herbal teas, light our soy candles, eat our locally grown sustainable food, exercise, enjoy the company of positive people, floss, and sleep 8-10 hours a night. Or some variation of all of the above (I hold fast). We try to give the best that we can as much as we can. So on any given day our HERE is in a place of peace, acceptance, compassion, kindness, wisdom, wonder and joy. When we are HERE we love it and it shows. We encourage others to be HERE with us whenever possible by making room, saving seats, holding spots, and by advertising HERE as the place to be-like a Hamptons hot spot: Everybody who’s anybody wants to be HERE.
Then there are those “You Are Not Here But There” maps. THERE is not HERE. THERE is where we were before we got HERE and THERE is where we try not to be and where we don’t want you to go either, as in ‘Don’t make me go THERE!’ or ‘Why are you going THERE?’THERE is not the place to be. THERE is turmoil, judgment, indifference, meanness, ignorance, contempt and misery. And you know when somebody is THERE. It’s all over their face, it’s in their speech, and you can smell it on their breath. THERE feels small and tight and all kinds of wrong. It strangles, it chokes, it makes you mad, makes your skin crawl, makes you want to hurl, makes you want to holler. It makes you criticize everyone and everything; the way a person is dressed, their choice of lover or the dessert they brought to a social gathering (cookies ARE dessert, especially if they cost $5 a pound and you eat them after dinner). Being THERE makes you call yourself all kinds of names, hold yourself to unrealistic standards and create dysfunctional relationships with malfunction-all folk. You don’t see the spectacularly flawed you, the imperfectly perfect you. You can’t because THERE distorts loving truth and authentic power into gossiped rumors and supercharged id. No one in their right-full mind wants to be THERE.
Honest reflection can help us determine who we are, where we are, where we need to be and who we need to be when we arrive. Honest evaluation can help shorten the distance from HERE to THERE, or widen the span between THERE and HERE. Our goal should be to spend as much of our time as possible HERE. And when we find ourselves going THERE as we sometimes will because we are spectacularly flawed and imperfectly perfect, we need to make that a day trip, as in ‘My bad, I was tripping’ or ‘Dude, you really tripped out’. THERE can be a programming glitch but not a system-wide error.
Getting HERE is all of the battle. Being HERE makes the journey worth the while because the amenities are-literally-out of this world. And the view from HERE is pretty darned good, too.

In the “Family Circle” comic strip (I think it’s still around) found in newspapers (are those still around?), there was a recurring character named “Not Me”. Not’s primary function was to serve as the go-to scapegoat for the children in the family circle. How convenient. Vase knocked over, waters and flowers on the floor? Who done it? Not Me. Seven cookies missing from the freshly baked, just out of the oven dozen? The culprit? Not Me. Imagine the ease of having an at-the-ready culprit for life’s mishaps. Missed the deadline for submitting a book proposal to an editor your best friend’s mother’s friend hooked you up with? Who missed it? Not Me. Took money from your 401k to loan to your cousin to help her repay your other cousin for the loan he took out for her and thought you were going to get it back? Who took and who thought? Not Me. Met a man twelve years ago who cheated on you while you were dating, while you were engaged and you married him anyway? Ah, yes. Not you.

You have, however, taken the credit for catching that accounting error which saved your team from having to go to tribal council. You “reluctantly” received kudos-in the front of the church, no less-for being the one to suggest the old storage room be turned into a “nursing station” complete with live video feed for breastfeeding mothers. And you singlehandedly saved the harvest festival at your kids’ school by calling your cousin, the habitually broke, up and coming makeup artist to replace the face painter who pulled a no-show the day of. The wonderful thing about growing is you have to own all your stuff. The awful thing about growing is you have to own all your stuff. The good, the bad, the smart, the probably-shouldn’t-have-done-that. The stuff that makes you smile and blush. The stuff that makes you wince and cringe. And grimace.

Last Sunday, my girlfriend called to ask if I could watch her children because the babysitter was sick and her estranged husband was acting more estranged than usual and refused to watch them. The prior Thursday she called to tell me that it had been three weeks since she had received any support payment from him. And because they share a joint account, she could see where he had incurred an overdraft charge for a Domino’s pizza order. This is the same man who refuses to talk divorce because he wants his family; he is also the same man who refused to go see a marriage counselor before he became the man who refused to talk divorce. Both times she was strangled with anger and barely coherent. Both times, she devised six million ways for him to die; all he had to do was choose one. Both times, I told her to breathe, document and sing praises that she was able to see clearly enough to have an estranged husband. Many, many times she laments having married him, not leaving sooner, not running faster in the other direction. Most of the time, she remembers to be grateful for their union on four specific occasions. On Tuesday, I received a call from her which began with a shriek only dogs could hear and ended with “I love Governor Patterson!!”: On that day, New York became a no fault divorce state.

Owning your stuff, all of it, is a signal that you are in control of you. Not Not Me, but you. You take the credit, you get the blame. Your triumphs, your mistakes, your successes, your problems. They belong to you. Because at some point, there has to come a day when what happened to you is not who you are. Your father’s drug addiction, your being molested, your miscarriage, your partner’s violent behavior, a friend’s betrayal does not contain the whole of you. We are all bits and pieces of what we take away from what has happened to us. The greater part of who we are comes from how we chose to respond to what happens to us. We can be dis-abled and respond with defeat, with despair, with murky thought and cluttered meaningless phrases. Or, we can respond with ability, with empowerment, with grace, with clarity and purpose. Our responses may not always be correct, but they can be from a place of informed positive intention and authenticity.

A place where there is no place for Not Me.

Companies which market diet products make a bazillion dollars. They promise you can shake it, drink one, take two, skip three and look like Kate or Beyonce. Give us five, they say, we’ll take off twenty. And we do. We shake, drink, take, skip, give and then get taken. Funny how we’re always surprised when we get taken. Or indignant.
The same can be said for beauty products which promise a three fish and five loaves miracle with just a jar of cream and a tube of serum. We look to have wrinkles and crinkles erased, pores the size of potholes shrunk to pinholes, jello jiggly thighs rock hard and Kardashi-asses (I have no earthly clue who is who and hope to never find out). So we slather, lather, laser, taser, pump, and, when all else fails, buy all manners of things which bump something in some desired direction. This industry rakes in ten gazillion.
We devote a great deal of effort and energy to our exterior. And we should. We need to lavish love and attention on the temple. We need to care for it, see that’s it well maintained, presentable and admirable. That’s not vanity, that’s veracity. The temple should be pleasing, it should reflect the beauty of the inside. This takes good food, exercise, rest, knowing which cuts enhance and which colors flatter. How to make it work and what not to wear. This takes time. Calls for consistency, truth-telling and hearing, restraint and discipline. Yes, sometimes, it calls for slathering on serums and taking two but not as the cure-all panacea. But. And yet.
How many times when faced with challenge, choice or change, do we opt for the road often travelled? The path of least resistance? Whatever it takes to get it done quickly, painlessly, effortlessly? This could be at work, with a vampire friend, or in a toxic relationship. We go to a hate-my-job and siphon off 40 (sometimes more) torturous hours from our finite lives doing something which does not touch any pleasant part of our id with people who were put on earth to maim and cripple our egos. We respond to calls, texts, emails and confirm Facebook requests from beings. We. Wished. Would. Cease. Existing.
My friend deleted her soon-to-be wasband (shamelessly borrowed from Mocha Manual maven Kimberly Allers) from her Friends List. Not five minutes later, he called incredulous and crushed that she had done so. This would be the same dude who ignored every DEF CON 10 call, text, and email, and bat signal from her telling him their child was sick and asking if he would be so kind as to meet her at the emergency room. He showed up, at their home, in time to awaken the baby who had just fallen asleep after a four hour stint in pediatrics for a nasty stomach flu. And when she re-friended him she said she did it for the sake of the child. I pointed out that not only could her child not read, said child probably did not have a Facebook account and would not, therefore, be familiar with the facts of the heinous de-friending. After batting her very pretty lashes-half/vanity, half-veracity-she surmised that I was probably right.
We remain rooted in relationships which have ceased growing into anything which resembles healthy, affirming, positive, sustainable love. We feel choked, dwarfed and bereft of light. We convince ourselves that the crying, the cringing, the mistrust, the dislike, the hoping they’re gone before we come in is going to go the way of the cellulite, the wrinkles and the belly fat. Slather, lather. Poof!
We are not designed to work that way. Effort in requires equal effort out. Effort on requires equal effort off. Stick-to-it-ness. Measurement. Inches lost, gained and lost again. Re-thinking. Re-framing. Re-imagining. Shifting. Giving up self-less for self-full. Giving up that which speaks more to vanity than veracity. Giving up does not mean giving in or giving out. It does mean letting go. It does mean powering on. Facing it, feeling it, owning it, releasing it and giving it up. It means freedom. It means more. Giving up requires more of you and acquires more for you. You will have to do more. Think more. Know more. Be more.
Dare to dream about what your life looks like after giving up.