“Look at that, isn’t that silly?  Boys don’t belong at tea parties,” she grinned at the child and he nodded, albeit slowly.

It wasn’t a big deal, wasn’t out of the ordinary in any startling way… except that maybe it should have been. 

I instantly thought about my childhood and how my mother always told me I could be whatever I wanted to be.  I thought that probably, that mother holding that book said the same to her little girls, pointing out doctors and lawyers and baseball players and saying that her little girl, her precious daughter could grow up to be any and everything she’s ever wanted to be.  And that’s true.  It’s good and right and important that our daughters know they can be whoever and whatever they want to be.

But what about our sons?

Who is making sure that we do the same for them? Who is standing up for all our little boys who want to play with a baby doll or pour tea for their imaginary friends?  Who is saying “of course” when they ask to be ballet dancers or nurses or teachers?  Who tells them that they can wear a head band with a bow if they want to, or pink galoshes, or try on their mother’s make up? 

Because if it is right and good and true to tell our daughters they can play sports and climb trees and wear ball caps, then why is it not similarly true for our sons to paint their toe nails, bake cakes, and wear tiaras? 

My son loves to play rough and tumble.  He loves to run full speed through the yard pretending to be a super hero and sometimes, that super hero is Captain Hammer. But sometimes? Sometimes that hero is Weather Girl.  And I do not point out any distinction between the two.  Because to him, they are both awesome Backyardigan superheroes.  They are not boy vs. girl, man vs. woman, proper pretend play vs. oh-my-god-he-called-himself-a-girl-and-now-hes-going-to-be-mocked-forever.  He’s not even three.  If he wants to wear pink tutus and a tiara and pretend to be a princess, then great! If he wants to put on cleats and a ball cap and pretend to be Babe Ruth? Equally great.

Someone needs to stand up for our boys… for our sons… to teach them that they, too, can be anything and anyone they want to be. 

It is not just our daughters who need to believe in magic or the improbable.  Our sons need to know that it is okay for them to be anything they want to be.  And if we can’t do that? If we are so blinded by our own gender stereotypes that we can’t open our eyes to the fact that children are all just children?  They all want to pretend and play and dream bigger than anything we could ever imagine.   They all want to be loved for precisely and exactly the person they are at the minute they are that person.  And if we can’t do that, even if it means buying the pink tiara for our Sams and Johns and Marks?

Well then… maybe we’re not as advanced as a society as we think we are.

This trip was no different.

J and I set out on Thursday night, driving up to just north of Atlanta to see my brother and cut the trip into portions to best serve my herniated disc.  We spent the night in a lovely Courtyard Marriott in Vinings and then had breakfast with my bro at the Silver Skillet in Atlanta on Friday morning before heading out.

The real fun began when we arrived in Charlotte.

Friday night, J and I had dinner with my friend Jen’s husband and sweet daughter and then hit up the hotel for a late bedtime of 9 pm.  After J was sound asleep I realized that I had left all of my tampons down in the hotel parking lot… some five floors below.  What to do, what to do.

I thought briefly about running down to the parking lot and leaving J sleeping in the bed but I ruled that out for two reasons… one, my kid is too young to be left alone, even asleep (I kept thinking about that kid in Aruba or wherever who was taken from the hotel room); and two, I was too lazy to put on a bra and TRUST me, these things need containment if in public.  For a few moments, I just stood in the room and mentally spun in circles.  Have I mentioned I’m a hypochondriac? All I kept thinking was Toxic Shock Syndrome.  I could literally feel the toxicity creeping through my veins and I just knew if I didn’t do something fast, I was going to flat out die from some sort of blood poisoning. (Thanks, Google.)  Rather than planning my classy, yet tender funeral,  I did the only thing I could think of…

I put on one of my kid’s diapers.

Yep. You read that right.  I opened up a pull-up and put that sucker in my undies.  Like the giant hospital-grade maxi pads they give you after birth.  

Step One of Single Parent Toddler Travel: wear a mother effing diaper to bed.

My parents came to help with J and had the adjoining room in the hotel so we propped the doors open between the two rooms and let J flit between both while I got dressed for the shower.  Once I was fully made-up and ready, I pulled all of J and I’s things out of our room and into my parents’ because we’d be sleeping in that room for Saturday night.  I swung the adjoining door closed without a second thought.

Until housekeeping knocked.

It seems I had forgotten to move the little safety lock… you know, the one that you can only put on from INSIDE the room? The one that flips closed across the door and prevents anyone from just waltzing in, even if they have  key?   The one that is necessary to keep a toddler inside a hotel room because he knows how to open doors?

Yeah.  That one.

Step Two: lock housekeeping out of a hotel room.

The shower itself was a rousing success.  I got to see four of my favorite women on the planet, two of whom are pregnant, and got to spend time with four of my favorite mini-people on the planet… their kids. 

If  you know me at all, you know that I am NOT artsy-fartsy.  I do not do crafts, I do not Pinterest for any reason other than to gawk in awe at what other people can do, and I do NOT fancy myself to be any type of culinary genius.  I say this because I did something pretty sweet for this shower…. I made chocolate covered, cherry blossom decorated oreos… on sticks.  As shower favors.  This could only be described as so freaking epic that my interior design shower honoree thought they were store bought and upon finding out that I made them, shock was apparent in her disbelieving “YOU made these??”   I’ve pretty much been aching to share them since I made them but had to wait…

Yum.

The Golden Girls make cute babies.

Upon my arrival home, my scale told me I gained four pounds this weekend and my bank account screams that I spent too much money.

J threw his dinner on the floor and refused to go quietly to bed. He bruised my leg, my lip, and my ego at every turn, running away when I needed him to lie still, twirling out of mywrench like the whirling dervish of toddlerdom that he always is.

But even with all of that… It’s still the best job I’ve ever had.

Happy Mother’s Day!!

I was raised in a Southern Baptist church where Vacation Bible School meant memorizing Bible verses for candy and “revival” meant a new minister for a while… A new voice to stir the soul.

I was taught to say yes ma’am and yes sir, to respect my elders, to be courteous to my neighbors.  I studied the teachings of Jesus and learned all the words to The Lords Prayer.

I have been a Christian all of my life.

All too often, these days, Christianity is portrayed as an angry mass of bible-wielding people, ready to throw the proverbial book at anyone who challenges, or questions, or disturbs the sleeping catechism that is the heart… Invitation only, Jesus bound with no room for error.  I’ve grown increasingly quiet about my faith, about what I believe… who I believe in, because the stigma in this country is that if you are a Christian, you hate.

But that is not my religion… that is not what I believe.

I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe in God, MY Father and Jesus, his son.  I believe that Jesus came to breathe new life, to breathe new love into the old rules… the old ways.  I believe that Jesus came… to love.  To teach us to love.  To show us the real and true and inescapable truth of what it means to love.

I believe in the sweet, soft lisp of a children’s choir singing Away in the Manger at Christmas time, with their parents’ eyes glistening proudly across a candle-lit sanctuary.

I believe in the tear-stained and fervent prayers of a mother at the end of her rope who feels, without understanding, that her words are heard and treasured.

I believe in a God who holds his arms out to even the greatest of sinners and says “come home, just as you are.”

I believe in a Christianity that teaches to love thy neighbor, to embrace the faults and flaws of ourselves and our enemies.  I believe in a God who is the way, the truth, and the light… not one who is the fist, the sword, and the sneer. My God is all-forgiving, all-encompassing, all-embracing.  He looks out on the landscape of our lives, of our world, with the sweet, albeit often disapproving smile of a loving father… one who knows that what He has created, what He has birthed can be nothing more nor less than imperfectly perfect.

I believe in the power of prayer.

I believe in the power of one heart, one soul, one hand… reaching out in friendship, not in condemnation.

I believe in my God, my Christianity, my heart and soul and Earth shattering, mind numbing, heart aching love for my fellow man and woman and child.

I do not believe in a religion that divides, that separates or condemns.  I do not believe in a God who loathes or hates or casts out a soul in need, in angst, or in love.  I do not believe in a God who categorizes hearts and souls into neatly packaged, stylized, cookie-cutter replicas of the perfect wife, the perfect husband, or the perfect child.

I believe in a God who loves… unconditionally, unequivocally, uncontrollably… anyone who raises their hearts, their eyes, and their souls to his soft embrace.

That is MY Christianity.

And I am taking it back.

Ever.

There is no other job in the world that comes with these perks. No other job where your boss asks you out of the blue, with a tilted head, if you like lions and if green ones are your favorite.  When I told J that we would see his Gabby and Pop on Saturday, he nodded and then added “And their helicopter. I’m going to play with Gabby’s helicopter.”

I can assure you that my parents do NOT have a helicopter.

The imagination of a toddler is a powerful thing.

There’s an area of Pampas grass in the front of my house and when we pass it on our daily walk, J says “Shhh, Mommy.  Be really quiet.  The elephant is sleeping.” Because apparently there’s an elephant living there, in that broad circle of grass.  He sings to the moon, he asks asks questions about everything, he believes anything I tell him.

Being the mother to a toddler is a perfect and powerful thing.

When we are out on an adventure and he starts to get tired, his hand always finds it’s way into mine, his head always tilts in to rest against my leg.  When he is excited, he runs ahead… but always looks for me just over his shoulder.  Nothing is perfect or exciting until he gauges my reaction… “Look at this Mommy!” he will yell, then wait for me to say “WOW” before he nods and says “That’s cool.”  If I say “No” he stops and wonders for a moment before trying again… testing, always testing his limits.

Being the mother of a toddler is a trying and tenuous thing.

One moment he is sweet, the next sour.  He can hug and kick all in one motion, scream and smile with only the slightest pause between.  He finds my expensive make up and dumps it in the toilet or down the sink drain.  He opens the refrigerator and takes out everything he can reach then says “But I didn’t!” when I say he shouldn’t have done that.  There are time outs and “No, sir’s” and “Absolutely nots” until the words seem to bleed down my chin and puddle meaninglessly at my feet.  There are so many words… for both of us.

He lisps… running certain “r’s” and ”l’s” into “w’s” and though I used to say a lisping child was annoying… that was before.  He corrects himself sometimes and my heart shatters and rebuilds, knowing that one day his words will be perfect… one day his wrinkled nose and unruly curls will be tamed and contained. 

I am exhausted and exhilarated every day.  I am constantly amazed by his capacity to love, his sense of direction, his unabashed joy for life.  Being a mother to a toddler reminds me every day that I should throw my arms wide and breathe in what is good and right and fun in this world and shut my eyes against the dark, as he does.

“But I want the light on,” he will say, every night as I switch off his lamp.  Though I assure him, every day, that there is nothing to be scared of in the dark, I also turn his light back on.  Because being the mother of a toddler means always wanting your child to bask in nothing but the sweet airy lilt of light. Because being the mother of a toddler means anything is possible.  It means everything is possible.   

Even monsters in the closet.

Even fairies in the moonlight. 

So I leave the soft light glowing and tiptoe away, sneaking in again to watch the rise and fall of sleep as it courses over him.  And even though he tries my patience, tries on my shoes, tries to drive me absolutely bat shit crazy every waking moment… I wouldn’t change one single thing.

Because being the mother of a toddler is the most fun I’ve ever had.

I haven’t been this excited about something since law school graduation… y’all, tomorrow morning when my puppy yelps to go out? I JUST HAVE TO OPEN THE DOOR!!  This is post-worthy on so many occasions, not the least of which is that every morning for the past four mornings, I have had to change clothes at least twice due to Riley jumping at me while I drank my coffee.  Coffee burns are not fun.  Neither are soaking wet work clothes and a burned, unhappy puppy.

I’ve wanted a fenced-in back yard since we bought the house in March of 2008.  We got a quote to do it in 2009 when I was pregnant with J, but we just didn’t have the money to pay for it.  So when J and I moved back to Macon, it was on my list of things to do if/when I had the money. 

And then I knocked down my neighbor’s fence.

And getting a fence became a necessity to keep up neighborhood morale.  I mean, seriously, how long can I sheepishly grin and shrug when my neighbor glances at the split in half lattice work flanking her house?  So yesterday, a company came and gave me a reasonable quote and then said the magic words… “If you sign here, we can do it tomorrow.”

Signed.

Sealed.

And tonight, I will celebrate by letting my dogs out in the back yard while I enjoy pizza and a glass of wine with my little boy.  We will eat at the table without a dog begging and without a puppy trying to climb into J’s lap.  We will finish our dinner without two  dogs fighting each other under our feet.   And then, for our final act, we will snuggle on the sofa without J whining “NOOOOOOOO, Riley’s BITING me” every time the puppy comes near.

I.

Can.

Not.

Wait.

Because, ultimately? It’s those little things that can make all the difference.

What are the little things that make YOUR life easier?

The sky was overcast, cloaked in gray but the moon stood out stark and yellow above the trees.  It had never looked so beautiful.

“I will have to show J when he wakes up,” I thought to myself, mesmerized.  I knew he would love it.

We made our way back inside, I fed the dogs and made coffee.  Around 6:00, J was up and I turned on Little Einsteins for him to watch as I made breakfast and got dressed.  At 6:20 I took the dogs out again and remembered the moon.

“I’ll just straighten my hair then I’ll bring him out to look,” I told myself, re-entering my world of “morning routine.”

I got ready for work, putting on my make up and straightening my hair, then pulled out clothes for J to wear.  I got him dressed and fed and poured a second cup of coffee.  By the time I sank down on the sofa to join him for morning television, it was 7:00.

With a start, I remembered the moon and slipped outside to see if it was still beautiful.

It was not.

The sun was high enough in the sky, the clouds thick enough, that it was no longer brilliantly orange in the sky.  It was a shadow of its former glory and my heart sank.  What had I done with that time I meant to share with my child?  What had I done with the morning I intended to welcome with his sweet hand in mine?  What was so important that it put the moon on hold?

As I stepped back into the bustle of my morning, the spring in my step was gone, the twinkle in my eye… faded. Time was slipping away, minute by minute, hour by hour.  My son was growing up, myself growing old.  I was losing the moments of magic in the monotony of mundane.  I missed a chance to bask in the moonlight with my child for the chore of basting my face with foundation.

I slowly made my way back to the sofa and slid next to J, the warmth of his toddler frame snug against me.  I leaned down and kissed the top of his curls, closing my eyes to the tidal wave of lost moments, lost time, lost memories never made.  And I swore to him then and there, silently still against the curve of his ear, that I would never miss another chance.  

I will never put aside the moon, never “just a minute” a butterfly, never “hold on” a bird’s nest or a crawling bug or a rainbow.  There is always time for make up and hair straighteners and cups of coffee.  There will always be time for wiping down counters and vacuuming up dog hair.

But the chance for chasing rainbows, howling at the moon, and witnessing miracles?  That chance is now.  Childhood is now.

And it is so fleeting that it can disappear in just an hour of morning sun.

Just like the brilliant, beautiful, burned in my memory moon.

I remember calling and calling when it was finally over, wondering what went wrong and how to fix it… isn’t that the way with first heartbreaks? No matter what age?  Looking back, I shudder when I think about how lost I was for the better part of six months following our split.  He was my first love, my first “real” boyfriend, my first hopelessly horrific heartache.  I still can’t listen to “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt without shuddering a little with the memories.

Approximately four years later, I suffered through my second, barely making it off the sofa to eat or drink, barely doing anything other than crying.  I remember my friends forcing me to come to their apartment and they sat at their kitchen table and whispered in hushed tones while I tried to muffle my sobs.  I couldn’t move without crying.  I couldn’t breathe without crying.  Every tiny part of me cried out, wondering why he didn’t love me, wondering why I was so alone.  But I had asked for the heartache.  I had put myself out there when normally I wouldn’t, and the tears were bittersweet and heavy on my heart.

Photo Courtesy of the talented: http://sarah-wade.blogspot.com/2008/11/mended-heart.html

Seven years later, I had my third… a smoother, easier break in so many ways.  Divorce is a horrible, horrible thing, but somehow it didn’t shatter me quite as much.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m older and wiser or just that deep down I knew our marriage was little more than a sham from six months in.  Yes, ultimately, I think that’s what it was.  My heart break happened in May of 2008, the year after we got married, the weeks and months of sorrow and regret… and again in March of 2010.  By the time the end rolled around, I no longer really thought of my husband as one of the great loves of my life.

Isn’t that sad?

Or is it…

Because who I do consider to be the greatest love of of my life, the person who patched together my piece meal heart, sprung from that not-so-great love I had for my husband.  The greatest love of my life grew slowly, changing me… changing my marriage… changing what I expected for myself and from my husband.

Without J, I would have remained softly content, waiting in the wings for a husband who didn’t want me, didn’t want the life I wanted, didn’t need the things I needed.  Without J, my eyes would have stayed downcast, slowly nodding… slowly fading… slowly becoming someone I never should have been…. not even for a moment.  With J, I knew he deserved more… knew he deserved to see a healthy relationship, a healthy marriage.  With J, I knew I deserved more… I deserved love, I deserved a man who would support and love me, who would treasure me the way I deserved to be treasured.

So in all the best ways, my son and my divorce created a world where I can be myself… where I can be happy.  Without both, without either, I would not be here today.  I would be a shell of a woman.  I would be a frightened stone of a girl, wondering when the next verbal blow would rain down, wondering when he’d remind me just how terrible I was in every way.

My first heartbreak taught me to let go.

My second heartbreak taught me to try.

My third heartbreak taught me to mend.

And now I am whole.  Scarred but together, chipped but complete.  I believe that I am a better person, a better woman, and a better mother because of the heartbreaks I have weathered.  I believe that I am a stronger soul, a braver heart, and a fuller conscience because of the tears I have shed.

And above all else, I am thankful for the person I am.  I am thankful for the heartbreaks that lead me to her, that helped to create her, that shaped and molded her into the woman who types this post.  I am not perfect.  I am flawed and curved where I should be straight.  I am bent and off-kilter but I am me.

I am stronger.

And I am happy.

In 1967, the Lovings, who had already been convicted and sentenced to one year in prison or an immediate departure from the state of Virginia, had their case ruled on by the United States Supreme Court. In that unanimous decision, the court stated:

“Marriage is one of the basic civil rights of man, fundamental to our very existence and survival… to deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the … classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive the State’s citizens of liberty without due process of law.  The Fourteenth Amendment requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious … discrimination.”

The elipses contained in that quote were put in place of the word “racial” because I do not believe that decision was pigeon-holed to be solely important to citizens of different colors.  Instead, the decision by the United States Supreme Court was made based on the Fourteenth Amendment… an Amendment that does not deal with race, but with citizenship.  The Fourteenth Amendment requires that no state deprive any citizen of life, liberty, or property without due process of the law and the United States Supreme Court held that depriving citizens from marriage fell squarely under the Fourteenth Amendment.

Read that quote from the Court again.

Instead of “racial” put in the words “sexual orientation.”

In the 1950s, law makers were terrified of the burgeoning rights of the African American population.  They wanted to keep them tucked away, separate… different.  Law makers, especially in the south (and yes, then the South reached all the way up to Virginia), thought that by passing these laws, they could keep things “pure.” They could do God’s work by making sure that African American’s didn’t “soil” the white race by marrying into it.

Fast forward sixty years and here we are again.  Only rather than the African American population being pigeon-holed into second class citizenship it is the homosexual population.

Answer me this… why do we care?

Why is it so important to limit the rights of another group of people?

Are their rights bothering you?

Are they hurting you physically with their decision to dedicate their lives to another human being? To grow old with someone? To share memories and stories and love?

What is it about marriage… be it interracial or homosexual… that bothers people so very much?

Maybe you can tell me, North Carolina, because I don’t understand it.  The Supreme Court of the United States has declared marriage a “basic civil right.”  Basic, defined as “fundamental,” which means, among other things that the United States Supreme Court believes that marriage is an ESSENTIAL part of being a citizen.  Essential.  Part of what makes a person a citizen of this country.

So who are you, North Carolina law makers, to decide that there are men and women who don’t qualify for your club of citizenship?

Amendment One is not being proposed to ban same-sex marriage… that is already illegal in North Carolina.  Instead, Amendment One is being proposed to add that ban to the state constitution… to have the constitution of the state read that marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union valid or recognized in the state. The only one.

No civil unions.

No domestic partnerships.

No rights for anyone who loves different than you.

The Lovings were forced to leave the state they called home because they loved differently than the state thought they should.  In 2007, Mildred Loving looked out on a political landscape very different from the one facing her and her deceased husband in the 1950s.  She loved her husband for the rest of her life, raising children and enjoying grandchildren even after his death.  And as she surveyed this political landscape she offered one small opinion:

“Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Richard and our love, our right to marry, and how much it meant to me to have that freedom to marry the person precious to me, even if others thought he was the “wrong kind of person” for me to marry.  I believe all Americans, no matter their race, no matter their sex, no matter their sexual orientation, should have that same freedom to marry.”  

Not that it should matter, but I am a Christian.  The fact is, I love Jesus with all my heart, but I don’t feel it is my job to legislate my beliefs on anyone else.  Although, with that in mind,  I honestly believe that Jesus would be first on the picket line, telling the government, telling North Carolina to “love.”  Telling them to love their neighbor as themselves.  Telling them to cast the first stone only if they are without sin.  I believe Jesus would reach out his hand to the men and women who are scared of what this means for the children they’ve already adopted, the houses they own, the lives they live… and he would stand with them.

Because it is the right thing to do.

Because no one should be reduced to second-class citizenship.

Not in this country. 

Not anymore.

I gained so much weight that I matched the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life, except for pregnancy.  I didn’t fit in my clothes, I was embarrassed by my body.  I hated everything about what I saw in the mirror.

But lately, I’ve been really happy.  I mean, REALLY happy.  Probably the happiest I’ve been since law school… no, definitely the happiest I’ve been since law school.  It’s like my marriage was a stone around my neck, weighing me down with all my expectations of myself and all my husband’s expectations of me.  Now that I’ve pulled that off, I am me again… and me is not happy with my sagging midsection.

So little by little, over the past few weeks, I’ve been working in work outs wherever I can.  I do sidebends that I saw in a Britney Spears spot on exercise (DON’T YOU JUDGE ME! SHE HAS GREAT ABS!) while I wait for the dogs to pee in the mornings.  J and I take a long walk with the dogs in the afternoons.  We do jumping jacks and semi-yoga on the patio after dinner and I *try* to do sit ups and push ups after he’s in bed.

It’s not much.

It’s not a lot.

But it’s making all the difference.

I’m drinking more water, I’m eating better foods, I’m dropping the sorrow weight of my marriage and divorce and literally shedding the memory of the past five years every day.

Since leaving my husband last year, I have now lost twenty pounds.

And y’all, it feels GOOD.  No, it feels GREAT.  I feel like me again. I feel happy and content with my life, my body, and … ME! I even, for the first time in what seems like forever, came to work without any foundation on my face… on purpose.

But I’ve got another ten pounds I’d like to lose, so I’m asking the rest of you… how do you work in your work outs when there’s no gym and no one to watch your kid?  What little things can I add in to push me towards my goal weight?  Because I’m going to the beach in July and I’d really like to feel good about putting on a bathing suit!!!!!