Something is eating the petunias.

Something is eating the petunias I just planted. It’s also nibbling the basil. Several of the marigolds have lost their heads.

I worked for hours over the weekend to get one corner of the living room straightened. It was so tidy that I actually twirled in the center open space. The rest of the house remains the same, looking as if it was turned upside down and shaken, or as if we were recently ransacked.

The littlest needs vision therapy, and still have to call the insurance company to see whether it will cost thousands out of pocket.

There are no clean hand towels in the downstairs bathroom.

Tomorrow I have an important meeting in the morning.

Tonight the littlest was in tears asking to stay home and snuggle with me tomorrow.

The hydroponic rosemary I bought, which clearly stated on the package that it can live on the countertop in water, has shriveled and died.

I weigh the same or slightly more now than I did when I had an almost full-term baby inside me.

It’s getting warmer, and I’m dreading summer clothes with my current body.

I meant to join the gym today, but instead I drank tea and took a nap. I meant to join the gym last week, too. And the week before that.

I have to step over piles of laundry to get up the stairs.

Must remember to go through all the kids’ clothes as well as my own to donate things we never wear. I am constantly folding and putting away.

I am getting better at remembering which baskets contain clean clothes versus dirty.

We are out of cheese sticks. Therefore I am not sure what the littlest will eat tomorrow. It is “Oat Day” in kindergarten. He will eat oats at school, but never at home. They are completely different oats!

Tonight I yelled. Again. I immediately regret it, and yet we’re stuck in the cycle of no one listening to me unless I yell.

I feel like an awful parent. The big one struggles with reading and math, and somehow I never remind her to work on it at home. I should know to remind her and have time to help her. Somehow I remember to water the plants being eaten by slugs, but forget to remind my daughter to learn. If I do remember, she groans in exasperation and doesn’t want to right now. I worry she’ll spell anything as “eneything” forever and never learn to multiply.

I need to stop staying up until 1am.

The 6:30 alarm comes too soon.

And I hit snooze five times today.  

Those other moms.

Those other moms. They are so impeccable. They park their shining Land Rovers outside the school and their stylish children tumble out laughing. They have trendy, cool haircuts and time to maintain them at the salon every four weeks. They wear good shoes and expensive coats. They wear blazers and interesting glasses. They walk on high heels through the playground holding fancy coffee and confidence.

They wear absolutely no makeup because it’s toxic and they can’t allow it in their house. Also, because they happen to have flawless skin. They have naturally shining, voluminous hair that looks fantastic in a pony tail. They volunteer every week and work on their knitting while they wait. They will eagerly share their Pinterest pages with you, and aren’t fazed a bit by the antics of the new puppy. He’s just perfect for their family! They are always early for school drop off and pickup, and their children will sit quietly with a book while they talk with a friend or with an iPad while they get a massage.

Of course they haven’t forgotten anything. They meal plan. They have a household binder. They wake up an hour before the children, to do yoga and have “me time”. They work out and drink smoothies for breakfast. A nice salad for dinner of kale and pomegranate jewels, with homemade vinaigrette, which they’ve taught their children to prepare. They have time to shop for fresh produce. They never crave a staggering amount of pasta and one hour away from their children.

They own real bras and remember to put one on in public. They often resemble a Patagonia ad and look fresh faced in the wind. They have so much to say about what they heard on NPR this morning or their political activism or the amazing concert or book reading or lecture they recently attended. These sentences come out of their mouths, articulate and complete. They have PhDs and law degrees and somehow own their own business on the side, while they cheerily take their children to cello lessons and skiing lessons and trapeze club. They, as well as their children, are always in bed early.

They have a back up sitter in case the nanny or the main sitter cancels. They would never miss a date night. Their husbands are fantastic, athletic, help with the laundry, and drink only the good whiskey. They get away on trips to the wine country with their best girlfriends and take pictures of the dozen of them getting a pedicure together. They are composed, dignified, and sure of themselves. They never say too much. They happily stay in their circle, and rarely make eye contact. Those other moms. They never talk to me.

A Confession.

I have a confession to make. I’ve been hiding the fact that I am a fraud. I have been trying to write this blog about self care and healing, and yet for many months now I haven’t doing either of those things. I haven’t been able to write because I’ve been busy being a fraud. I haven’t been working out. No yoga, except for a little at home that was prescribed by my movement therapist. He was so fantastic that I just couldn’t go back for more sessions, because I felt like I was failing him and wasting his time. No kettlebells, even though I had a regular thing going for several months and began to feel stronger. No more than five or six hours of sleep per night. My headaches and nightmares are coming back with the vengeance of a toddler given the wrong color cup. Breakfast on more than one occasion has been a handful (or two) of chocolate covered almonds sprinkled with sea salt and turbinado sugar. Many days I eat more pasta than vegetables. A glass (or three) of dry, red wine quiets the anxiety in my head at night. I stay up until 2am watching Seth Meyers, Anderson Cooper, Stephen Colbert, and Rachel Maddow on YouTube and feel sick about the world my children will inhabit. I am stressed, sad, and certainly not taking care of myself. I have headaches and body aches. I have gained obvious weight. My back injury has flared up more than usual. I’m tired all the time and snap at my children. It doesn’t bode well for that long, horizontal wrinkle across my forehead. I am failing myself and wasting my time. These feel like the toughest bad habits to break.

I am embarrassed to come here and write under the heading To Bounce Not Break, because so often I feel broken. I am losing my body as well as my mind. I’m missing time with my children and holding onto negativity. I have been attempting to escape and ignore myself with food and wine and mindless, endless television. I have been pushing through the days with my head down, afraid to look up and see the world I am in. I have been afraid to try, feeling as if I am so low that I cannot get back up. I am ashamed and alone, with so much work ahead of me. I am back at the bottom and must take those first steps yet again.

Self Care and Coffee.

I don’t often get time alone. I stopped in the cafe for coffee and a sandwich. I am a pseudo-single mama, stuck in marital separation limbo. Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” was playing, reminding me that long ago I was a kid. My daughter looks like me in the 80’s. Apparently neon and ruffled skirts are back.

I went into the cafe stressed and tired, slightly sick, deepening the horizontal line I’ve been etching into my forehead. One might think a mama out alone could order a sandwich and coffee and eat in peace, but I made my own internal noise.

There was an old woman at the table across from me, with perfectly round, fluffy white hair. She was wispy like a wishing dandelion, quietly sipping coffee from a chunky white mug. She had passed the worrying years, while I am in them, trying to keep a clean home and plan meals, worrying about money, avoiding Pinterest because it makes me feel less than, hoping my children are happy, feel loved, sleep enough, get time to play, dig in the dirt, run in the grass, eat enough vegetables, and know that I love them until the stars turn to fish, even though I feel like I’m screwing it up nearly every day. Just drink the damn coffee, mama, I told myself.

My children want their dad to live with us in our house again. They don’t understand that sometimes parents need a vacation from one another and need space.

The coffee was supposed to be relaxing. Self care. But it is not self care to sit quietly and mentally beat up one’s self. The dandelion lady was gone. A fresh-faced, blonde haired tween in skinny jeans and Ugg boots took her place, coffee in one hand while the other picked an enormous muffin apart into manageable chunks. She licked her fingers between bites and said “like” every ten seconds. She was happy and talked with sticky muffin hands. I am somewhere between the muffin girl and the dandelion lady. My coffee got cold.

My First Double.

When in doubt, do yoga.

Today was my only day with childcare until next Saturday, so I used my time to complete my first double. Three hours of bikram today, and it was so good. I didn’t relax during the first class, but I also made sure I didn’t overextend myself. Due to scheduling, there weren’t two classes back to back, so I went home, showered, washed down a little protein with a ton of water, waited, and then came back for round two ready to sweat again. I was tired but energized, able to stretch more and go further than ever. I began already warmed up, when usually it takes me several poses to get there. I felt so strong all the way to the end. If you haven’t yet completed a double class, you must try it.

Day 16. Yoga Girl and the Mirror.

A very young, very pretty, very good at bikram girl put her mat down so close to mine today. Sigh. There were plenty of open spaces available. Why must she put herself in my back pocket?!

I know I’m only supposed to look at myself in the mirror. We are all on our own unique paths. But damn, my self esteem got the better of me today, with this perfect girl so close to my wobbly reflection. She is lean. She is flexible. Her thighs are golden and smooth. She wears the short shorts. She is unwrinkled. Untroubled.

I am a back row beginner. Advanced students usually take the front row, so they can be good examples for the rest of us. I don’t know if I will ever feel confident enough to put my mat down in the front row, directly in front of that mirror. I like hiding, as much as one can possibly hide in front of a floor to ceiling mirror that spans the length of the entire room.

It’s a funny thing, that mirror. It doesn’t lie. I am almost 35. I’ve had two kids. I can see that fact in my hips. I never had hips before, and suddenly, BAM. There they are. I wear capri pants. No, you can’t hide from the mirror. You must confront yourself, and sometimes that mental work is harder than 90 minutes of sweat and strength.