Family Life Archives - Page 3 of 8

Honestly Ever After {Part One}

September 3, 2015 by Carrie 2 Comments

Friends, meet Kelli Martinelli. She is a bright, innovative soul who I asked to write a guest post for you. Kelli has a unique parenting and partnering style that defies social norms, and works for her family. Something that I love about Kelli is her willingness to put everything out there. She never pretends that things are perfect or easy, but there is an inspiring warmth in her tone and outlook. I’m excited to share this with you. While it is always easy to throw stones, especially when we don’t fully understand or agree, I encourage you to open your hearts and minds to Kelli’s story. She’s found a way to make her family and her life work and is brave enough to put it all out there. Honestly. Click here for Part Two and Part Three of her story.

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My daughter with her dad when she was 3, at the annual camping trip in California. This was the last year that I went.

A few years ago I read an article titled, “Why Divorce Is Good For Children.” I was married at the time. I hadn’t ever imagined myself as divorced. I was in it to win it! What the win it part was, I’m still not sure. My marriage was 10 years old and bore 2 bright-eyed, articulate children who flipped my world on its head and made me see life and relationships through a new lens. “Why Divorce Is Good For Children.” Was it? Is it? Or is it just all SEO headlines and stock photos brimming with smiling, lightly tanned models plus a sidebar of recommended articles with click-bait titles? It was a HuffPo article, so it could go either way …

I’m a child of divorce. In fact, my parents believed in divorce so strongly they divorced each other twice! When they got divorced the first time I admit I didn’t really know what was happening, and I don’t recall how it affected me. I went away to Girl Scout camp, my mom was a troop leader, and when we got back my dad was living with another woman. His girlfriend had finches. And they were really loud. It was the first time I ever hated a bird. When my folks got back together I thought it was a bad idea, and when they separated again, but this time for realsies, I was relieved. Not grief. Relief.

So here I was, in my early 30s, married, and finding myself digging in to an article on divorce. I read it several times through, and then bookmarked it. It was hitting a nerve that I didn’t realize was even there, and it stung. More than stung. It collapsed me. Scarcely unable to keep my head up after 6pm, struggling with making dinner or tending to my brood, nauseous, whispering that word to myself to see if I could even say it … “divorce”. I would read that article no less than 20 times over the course of the next year as I wrestled with the first real re-introduction to myself by way of marital detachment.

The morning that I woke up and felt an urge to lace up my shoes and run a few miles, I knew I was a changed woman. I don’t run. I am not a runner. Do not ask me to run any kind of k with you (unless there are tacos involved, and then … there’s a chance). But that morning my body told me to run, and then my heart started to wake up, and I was afraid, but my body was collaborating with my heart which were together in cahoots with my brain, and I was for once able to recognize and see beyond the fear. Running, for the brief time I was suckered in to it, helped steer me to clarity. There was openness in front of me. I needed a new place to set myself down and re-ground. I took a breath and leapt with these words to my then-husband (who I will refer to as Mr. Swayze, cause he’d like that), “I am unhappy,” I said. And the trepidation with which I said those words and the Bassett Hound grimace on my face told him this wasn’t just dissatisfaction with the living room furniture. This was life altering, and with those words, “I am unhappy” a new world opened up in front of us.

Mr. Swayze and I separated. I moved out. I handled the transition with gentle words, but rough hands, which is as sloppy and misleading as it sounds. Mr. Swayze was mad at me for the way in which I left. He had every right to be. I saw what I wanted in that new openness and then recklessly pursued it. But as the shitstorm swirled around me ~ and I truly apologize for that visual ~ I put out an intention that I vowed to fulfill: one day this divorce would show itself as being good for my children, and also good for me and good for their dad.

Mr. Swayze is now re-partnered to an incredible woman, and poof, now he’s a dad of 4! Which is great, cause my uterus wasn’t going to give him 2 more children, I enjoy sleeping on my stomach far too much to be pregnant again. And now my children have 2 older siblings who are smart and adventurous and respectful and fun, and how could that not be a wonderful thing? Divorce expanded their concept of family! I have another mom to work alongside of, to share in the kid-shuffling, the homework-managing and the Mr. Swayze corralling. Parenting is a helluva job! It’s like constantly making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, blindfolded, with one arm tied behind your back, while riding a roller coaster, in a hurricane.

Click here for Part Two.

Working While Toddling {A Parenting Fail}

August 27, 2015 by Carrie 2 Comments

2:55pm, Tuesday

I’m going to attempt something really ridiculous. Ready?

I will blog while my toddler is awake.

(I’m trying to get a head start at this while he is asleep, FYI.)

As every Work-From-Home-Parent [WFHM] knows, nap time is GOLDEN. All of the emails and texts you’ve been half-assedly (totally a word) responding to between buttering toast, playing dress up, unsnapping stuck legos, refilling water, putting toys back together, being a human racetrack and jungle gym? They get finished. You get to do the real work, too. Like feed yourself. Maybe take a shower. Type an entire sentence without your two year-old turning off your computer in one stealth move.

It’s like two hours of industrious, work-like-a-maniac Heaven.

But what if your kid doesn’t sleep? What if your kid can only sleep on you? What if your kid decides to boycott nap time when you have a deadline or an important conference call? What then?

You let them watch TV. Lots and lots of TV. Except, what if your kid doesn’t like TV? I know what you’re thinking, “What kid doesn’t like TV?!”.

My kid….just woke up.

3:12pm

Where was I? Nap time is golden. Right. This whole work from home thing, unless your kid is napping, is HARD. I don’t know how you parents who work as accountants and speak in numbers ever get a complete thought out. I use words, and words are what everyone else uses. But you use numbers.

(Snack break. And I had to find his favorite matchbox car.)

(Where did that plastic bag come from? Nope, he definitely can’t have it.)

(Wrong snack. He wanted a rice cake, not mango. Duh.)

(Needs activity. Giving him his new National Geographic Kids magazine.)

3:31pm

Of course, parenting in general is challenging unless your kid is asleep. That’s the best thing ever. Do you know how productive I am during his sleep hours? I feel like I have my brain back.

(Good God, WHERE DID HE FIND A BOTTLE OF WINE? It is still sealed shut with the foil intact. At least he knows to bring it to mommy…?)

3:37

(Neighbor just got here. We are “working” together. Kind of. After a quick social media update for our websites.)

3:44

(Neighbor is now getting sidetracked, taking care of toddler and giving him attention. This is a great plan. I can get my work done!)

(And now my son has has officially abandoned the neighbor, and piled all of his stuffed animals on me.)

3:49

Am I still even writing? Because I have NO IDEA what the frick I was saying to you. Clearly it wasn’t that important, otherwise I would be able to pick right back up where I left off.

Words? Numbers? Algebra? What?

(And now I smell poop. Damnit.)

(Diaper check did not reveal poop, but there was too much pee to let it go. Then I had to let him climb me like a playground for a minute.)

(He’s “all done” with the rice cakes. Now we’re moving on to a super nutritious snack of tortilla chips.)

4:02

To be honest, I’m surprised that I complete any one task, work or otherwise, while my toddler is awake. If he’s not distracting me on purpose, I’m getting distracted on accident because I love to watch him move. I love to see how he interacts with his toys, so I end up shooting sly glances and smiling to myself because he totally melts me.

(Except he dumped out all of his chips while I was writing that last thought because I refused to eat the chip he offered me. Heartwarming, right? Is it bedtime yet? Wine time? BRB after I sweep up the mess.)

4:17

(Refilling his water bottle because he just dropped his cars into mine to tell me he was thirsty. Obvi.)

4:22

This work-from-home thing isn’t for the faint of heart. All of you parents who figure out how to do this with with limited (if any) childcare or other support are my heroes. And if you have multiple kids and do this, I will buy you dinner in exchange for your WFHP wizardry tips and tricks.

(Nope. That is DEFINITELY poop. Did he eat a rotten goat? That is gagtastic.)

(How did poop get on my shirt? And my elbow? Quick break for a change of clothes and baby wipe bath.)

4:55

My husband is home, and he’s early, which means it’s time to take a shower and then start dinner. I’ll clean this post up later tonight, during the most productive hours of my day when my son is sound asleep, and we are all fed and bathed and content after a long Tuesday.

I can’t wait to do this all over again tomorrow.

Your Fellow WFHP,
Carrie

IT’S NOT A BABY! Belly

August 19, 2015 by Carrie 13 Comments

A few weeks ago, we were at the grocery store. The checker looked at my round belly and said, “When’s your baby due?” I cut her off before she could even get the words out and replied with a dead-inside voice, “I’m not pregnant.”

“You’re not? REALLY?!”

“Nope. Not even a little.”

“Wow! Well, I guess it’s harder for us older moms to lose the baby weight.”

Yep. Old and fat. That’s me!

Thanks, lady.

I silently took my groceries and my two-year old son and not-pregnant-but-certainly-looks-it belly and left the store without another word. I didn’t trust myself to speak to her calmly or kindly. All of the terrible insults I could hurl back at her were bubbling up and filling my mouth with their unsaid-ness. Except that’s not entirely true. My mouth filled up with the unmistakable taste of tears, and a Napoleon Dynamite-esque internal monologue of lame comebacks.

Then I got angry at myself for wanting to cry because crying means I care. And I really don’t want to care.

This isn’t the first time my squishy belly has been mistaken for a baby belly. Being frisked at the airport by the TSA agent a few months ago: “You have such a cute bump!” I waited a moment to respond before saying, “Thanks! Due in September! Super excited” because it was easier than going through all of the embarrassment of denying and the apologies from the offending party, or even worse, the justification.

When I tell you that I have dozens of these not-pregnant-but-people-still-ask-anyway moments, I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been asked while sipping beer during happy hour on a gorgeous day. At a baby shower for my BFF from a licensed therapist as I arranged a tray of carrot sticks. Flagged down by a curious neighbor as I walked in from the garden, full of sunshine and good vibes, expecting a hello or request for zucchini and instead getting a “Girl, I had no idea you were pregnant! When are you due?”

I know I’m not alone, Women of the Interwebs. I know you’ve experienced this, too. The not-a-baby baby belly mistake also happened before I had my son, so I can’t blame pregnancy. It’s just my body. It’s where I carry any extra weight. I know the babywatching world gets a faux oxytocin high at the mere thought of squishy baby flesh, the newborn head smell and frail Chewbacca cries from miniature, undeveloped lungs. It’s almost too much for anyone to resist.

But seriously, Babywatchers. STOP IT. It’s none of your business. Commenting on a woman’s body in general without any solicitation from the woman is not only unwanted, it’s inappropriate. As humans, we’re nosy by nature. We want to know all the things. I totally understand. However, some things are just none of our business.

So, I put together a little infographic. Here’s how to know when it’s appropriate to ask if a woman is pregnant. Even if you’re like, 99.9999% certain there’s a baby in that belly, here’s a quick flow chart to help you.

Share this broadly, my friends.

Are you still unclear? No worries! I went ahead and ate a big Indian food lunch, wore some leggings, a formfitting tank tank top, and skipped showering and make-up to create this little video with my iPhone. It doesn’t get any more real than this. YOU ARE WELCOME.

Happy to be baby-free,
Carrie

An Outsider’s Guide to Exploring Portland {I Heart Jim Gaffigan}

July 19, 2015 by Carrie Leave a Comment

Sometimes, you post to Jim Gaffigan’s page two days before he comes to town and think you’re funny until you hit “done” and then immediately regret it but can’t find it to take it down. Your FaceBook app is glitchy and it hates you after updating it. But then you’re already in bed and are too lazy to get up and change it on the computer so you say Eff It and go to sleep.

Then you decide to out yourself immediately the next morning because maybe it will make it less worse (it doesn’t) and make someone feel better about themselves (they won’t).

Sorry, Jim. And also, welcome to my favorite city.

Hot Pockets Forevah,

Carrie

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Dear Jim,

I know you probably have one million posts to read and you give them to an unpaid, yet over-eager intern to sift through. I get it.

FAME HAS IT’S PERKS, MY FRIEND.

While you are in Portland, I have four appropriate recommendations for you. And as Portland’s ONLY family/food blogger, I think you should take my advice to heart about the best places to eat and drink while you are in my town.

1. Chain restaurants. They’re family friendly and CONSISTENTLY serve mediocre food every single time no matter where you are. Some folks might want to devour a Lardo Pork Meatball Bahn Mi or anything The Woodsman Tavern has ever served. Skip it. Go for what you know.

2. Voodoo Donuts. Never has there been a donut place so revered. Go there. Wait in the hour long line (or delegate yourself this task, Intern) for a novelty donut that tastes like every other donut ever. Blue Star might have artisan ingredients like milk gleaned by a monk from a free-roaming cow and straight up liquor instead of mystery creme filling in their donuts. It’s no matter. A donut shaped like Texas(s) is waaaaay better.

3. Hit every Portlandia landmark. Laugh ironically as you pull out your Apple II-e and compare jokes with people in the park. Feel victorious because you are taking hipsterdom to a whole new level. Skip the lesser known places like St John’s, Rocky Butte and Sauvie Island because they’re super unpopular amongst tourists and way too straightforward in their greatness.

4. CBIC Trifecta – Coffee. Beer. Ice Cream. These locally crafted treats are incredibly overrated. Instead of opting for Sterling Coffee, a pint at Breakside, or fresh waffle cone packed with salted chocolate ganache ice cream with caramel ribbons from stupid Salt & Straw, there’s a strip mall in Beaverton that has a Starbucks, liquor store, and Baskin & Robbins sure to make your toes curl with delight. Plus, you have the opportunity to run into Phil Knight over there. He’s a REAL celebrity. You can totally fangirl him.

If you, or your beleaguered intern, need any more recommendations, please feel free to ask! I would just shout this to you at your show, (Because who doesn’t love a good recommendation or opinion in the middle of a standup routine? Just ask Demitri Martin.), but we missed our window to buy tickets. Which is ultimately for the best because we decided instead to prepay our two year-old son’s college tuition 18 years ahead of schedule. Inflation, bro. Go class of 2035!

May all the delightful Portland weirdness find you here,
Carrie

I’m A Shi**y Friend. {A Letter From An Overwhelmed Mama}

July 13, 2015 by Carrie 2 Comments

Dear You,

I am a shitty friend.

For 33 years, I showed up. I checked in when we missed connecting for too long. I saved hard earned pennies to go to music festivals, embark on international adventures, and attend weddings, funerals, and graduations. Sometimes, I hopped in my car and drove all night just to hang out with you because I missed you and I could. We cracked jokes. We talked deep for hours. We threw parties and planned adventures and surprises. We walked every step of our treacherous, joyful, fearful, conflicted, soul-seeking journey together. We shared sacred space in our hearts. Even when distance and difficulties stretched out between us, we always made our way back to each other

We became family.

I wasn’t always consistent. In fact, I can be a total jerkfaceasshole. And I really hate the phone, so that was never my strong suit. But you knew when your phone rang and I was on the other end, I would be 100% yours the whole time.

I wasn’t perfect. But I was all in.

When I got pregnant a few years ago, dynamics shifted dramatically. I puked my guts up for six months, and it took every ounce of energy to keep my part-time job and be a nominally decent human. I birthed an amazing baby who suffered a stroke, survived, and was given a life-altering medical diagnosis that made the most normal things ridiculously difficult. We were all thrust into chronic survival mode, became overnight experts on the medical system and waged a wild war to keep our baby alive and thriving. I was attached to a breast pump for almost two years. In truth, I have almost zero recollection of most of my mom-life. My brain and short-term memory have taken a blissful hiatus in order to continue the essential act of living. But of the sparse, dream-like moments I manage to recapture, I am painfully aware that I have been a shitty friend to you.

I’m sorry.

Motherhood has been magical and transformative. It has changed me in a million wonderful ways. It has also been an indescribable nightmare. PTSD, PPD, and PPA in addition to the normal physical/emotional/psychological challenges of new motherhood almost wrecked me. You listen with compassion and want to understand what’s happening. You want to be with me every bit as much I want to not be so alone in this. But there are no words for the challenges my family is facing. There is no way to bring you all the way to the core of this experience. I can barely handle the pressure of it myself. I’ve had to hang on with all my might to keep even an ounce of that free-spirited, bright-spark, I-will-do-anything-for-you friend that you love. I know you miss her.

I miss her, too.

My grace, my energy, my bright spark – it all goes to my son and partner right now. I don’t think it’s going to change any time soon.

And here is my present day reality: If there is something left after all of the doctor’s appointments, therapies, fighting insurance companies and working during naptimes and early mornings and late nights to alleviate the unbearable financial burden this stupid syndrome has placed on our little family, I unapologetically take it for myself. Because I can’t do life if I’m an empty husk inside.

I miss you. I miss my freedom. I miss being someone you can count on. I miss showing up on your doorstep at 1AM to hug you when your heart is breaking and laughing until we’ve completely forgotten how we started to begin with. Those days will come again. In the meantime, that grace you posses…the ability to navigate life and stay connected and keep things moving so well with your own set of challenges? Yeah, that. Your super power. I could really use a little bit of it now. I know it’s not fair to you because I am not an equal partner in our friendship during this season. But I need you anyway.

I’m on my way back to myself. I’m on my way back to you, too. I promise. It’s slow progress, but it’s happening one tiny step at a time. I still love you and you still matter to me, maybe now more than ever before.

And I’m still (always) all in.

Thank you for staying.

xoxo,

Your Shitty Friend