That's My Joy

Have you ever noticed that life throws you curve balls whenever you announce (either to yourself or out loud) that you think you've got it all figured out? For me, it happens every time. The end of September brought some unanticipated excitement to the Colasante household, followed by a touch of unforeseen disappointment. And though in a few years, when I look back on this time, it will amount to the smallest little blip on the radar of my life, it shook my world just a bit.

I'm in a good place. Have everything I want: a wonderful husband, a precious child, a beautiful home. My health. You know, all the right stuff. And I thought that once and for all, those questions that seemed to eat at me over the years (everyone has theirs: the "what if's?", the "why not's?", the little regrets that take some time to reconcile) had been answered and laid to rest. And that's where I was wrong. A brief turn of events and I was right back at the same point and on the same shaky ground I've found myself time and time again. And when I'm on shaky ground, I stumble. Big time.

It made me wonder what it was that I wasn't learning? Why was it that THIS lesson was revisiting me over and over? Why did my life seem marked by such things (note the twinge of self-pity there...my life isn't marked by such things but when I'm down I can be very dramatic)? And then, for the first time in years, clarity came. I realized that there was no lesson to be learned from the event itself. What happened is just a part of life. The lesson is in how I react to it. When something sad or tragic happens, it has the power to consume. Heck, when any disappointment shows up on your doorstep, even if it's a molehill it can seem like a mountain if you let it. When it's truly the mountain, it can be devastating. My epiphany was that it doesn't need to take over my life and it doesn't need to define me.

What should define and consume me are the joys that happen every day; you know, the ones we usually pay little or no attention to. It's the smell of my morning coffee. It's the joke my 4-year-old tells that makes me smile (even though it's more crazy than funny). It's David Bowie's "Blue Jeans" coming on the radio and catching it from the very beginning. It's the modern-day McGarrett on this season's "Hawaii Five-O." It's a weed prevention system actually working. It's bright orange and red leaves set against a seriously blue sky. It's my husband sitting with me night after night enduring what he considers my less-than-admirable taste in prime time programming just to be with me. It's my friends making sure my son is where he needs to be (because at the time, I couldn't) and fixing me dinner to remind me that even in my darker hours, I'm not alone. It's being surrounded by good people. It's having faith that no matter where I am in life, I am where I need to be, no matter how bumpy the road behind me has been.

So I'm going to stop swimming against the tide. I'm going to stop trying to dissect the low points, the heartaches, or the tragedies of my past to uncover some sort of mystical truth of life. From here on in, I'm going to focus more on the beauty I see on a regular basis. The stuff that fills my heart, even if it's just the smell of my clean laundry or the sight of my favorite mag in today's mail. That's my joy, and I'm going to stop taking it for granted. 

Just Get in the Game, Baby!

Tuesday afternoon. Bright sunshine and lots of fresh, angelic 4- and 5-year-old faces. Shin guards and shiny new soccer balls. Bedford's Preschool Soccer. Matt was so excited to go, because he's all for running around and kickin' a ball, and it thrills him that his neighborhood buddies attend as well. The moms just sit on the sidelines watching the little ones scramble around the field, some fully into it, and some (like mine on this particular day), eyeing the nearby playground and wondering when they can make a break for it. My young "Ferdinand," stopping to smell the roses...or the ragweed.

Another one of my childhood favorites!



20 minutes into the lesson, Matt was done, and he sat down on the field, looking around and holding his own against any one of the young coaches who approached him, trying to encourage his participation. Just like the gentle bull in one of my childhood favs, he was far more interested in the feel of the grass, the blue sky, and yes, the pretty blond female coach who'd occasionally indulge him by walking around the field hand-in-hand (he's such a "player").

I give the kid credit: when he's made up his mind, he really can't be swayed. And as much as I hate to admit it, I was bothered by it. Not that he wasn't the star of the lesson, but that he was choosing not to be involved. Yes, I get that this is what preschoolers do (though I do have to remind myself of that). And no, it's not about my caring whether he truly learns the skills involved in running a ball down the length of a field and scoring a goal. I could care less (or couldn't care less ... you know what I mean) if my child is athletically inclined. I just want him to never hold back. To never fear participating because he's not the best. I just want him to get in the game.

Days of Wine and Roses (and Apples and Sno-Cones, Of Course)

For those of you who haven't met me personally, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm short. I'm a huge fan of the old crooners, like Dean Martin, Ray Charles, and well, sure, Sinatra. It would be an understatement to declare that I enjoy coffee and cop shows. And I love, love, love, love, love the fall. This time of year gives me a renewed energy (I'm kind of a lump in the summer...heat demotivates me). It's the crisp breezes, the falling leaves, and the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and pumpkin that gets me going. So this past weekend, Matt, his dad and I were delighted when friends invited us to join them for a fun afternoon at Nashoba Valley Winery's "Kid's Day Off Family Concert." It just seemed like a perfect autumn-y thing to do!

Normally, of course, I'm a little suspicious about these sort of events. I'm all for bringing Matt to places that are designed specifically for the eight-and-under crowd, but let's admit it: most of the time, those venues are far from what the parents would consider entertainment. But my friends assured me that the Kid's Day Off festival was a great way for everyone in the family to enjoy some down time, and I trusted them completely.

Matt (far right) and his buds working off some cider donuts.

They didn't let me down. What a beautiful afternoon, what a gorgeous vineyard, and what a perfect blend of activities for the children and their parents to enjoy. As soon as we pulled into the field and parked the truck, the knots in my shoulder (you know, the ones you earn with a "first-week-at-preschool-and-first-cold-of-the-season" combo) had begun to disappear, and I knew it would be a relaxing few hours. Kids and parents milled about, blankets were strewn across the grass for numerous picnics, and children were dancing to the tunes of "The Folk Tradition" trio. Sheltered in the shade of the gazebo, they played classics like "You Are My Sunshine" (please see my earlier posting, "Having A Moment, Or Not" for more on that one) and kept the kids clapping and shuffling their little feet. After picking out a delicious lunch of burgers, pulled pork sandwiches, and cornbread, we just sat and took in the loveliness of a fall afternoon in the country.

When lunch was done, Matt and I headed off to enter ourselves in a candy-corn raffle (I keep checking my cell phone...I take it I didn't win), face painting (we spent 10 minutes in line before Matt decided he didn't want fangs after all), Sno-Cones (which to chose, red or blue?) and an apple art stand, which thankfully, did have green paint (it's M's favorite color...if it's not available, everyone might as well just pack up and go home). The highlight for Matt was the balloon pup that the on site balloon artist crafted for him. Actually, that was the agony and the ecstasy of Matt's time there: he was on Cloud 9 when she handed this creation back to him and then in the depths of despair when it all but deflated 45 minutes later. Of course, by that time, the event was all but over. Balloon Lady had called it a day and my husband had begun that little antsy shuffle he does to signify game time is looming and he's nowhere near his man cave. It was time to head home.

I think the true beauty of this event laid in the fact that it had something for all ages and retained an elegance that appealed to an older crowd. That's not easy to manage, but it's so appreciated by those who can remember--from their not-so-distant past--enjoying dining out at fine (well, at least finer than Chuck E. Cheese) restaurants, seeing movies that didn't involve Pixar, or listening to music that didn't include the alphabet or themes like sharing, potty training, or going to bed when mom or dad say so. Sure, we love to see a look of delight on our children's faces when they're approaching a carousel or gearing up to greet an over sized mouse, but isn't it made that much better when you can shed the title of Chauffeur and actually enjoy the event too? I think so.

I'm happy to say that there are many wonderful events like this in and around the MetroWest area, so the next time you're looking for something that both you and your children would enjoy, head over to my friends at Ziptivity.com! There you can search on your children's interests, a particular date range, and cost (among other parameters) to find just what you're looking for!

I'm Not A Perfect Mommy, but I'm Better Than Betty Draper

I've had mommy guilt since the day Matt was born. It started with the fact that he spent his first 10 days of life in the NICU, often without me (doctor's orders), as I recovered from bed rest. How weird is it that total strangers are caring for your little one in some far-off hospital while you're at home, lying down, watching NYPD Blue? Part of me was relieved that I had some sort of grace period--now that my guy was here and healthy--in which to gain back my strength (four months of living horizontally makes a body pretty wobbly) and maybe squirrel away some sleep before I was the main provider of everything this child might need, including midnight feedings.

When he got home, the guilt seemed to weave its way through many areas of my parenting. After much angst, and despite the LaLeche proponents of the world screaming "breast milk is best," I waved the white flag and gave up on breastfeeding three weeks into it. My little preemie just didn't seem to have the hang of it and I was obsessed over how much nourishment he was actually getting. The weight of the world (at least most of it) dropped off my shoulders when the wonderful, straight-to-the-point, no-nonsense Nurse Maureen at Matt's pediatrician's office looked at me during a well-visit and said (in her now-familiar sarcastic tone), "Contrary to popular belief, your child will survive and thrive if you formula-feed him." I so appreciated that candor, and went straight to the store on our way home to pick up some Good Start.

Of course, as soon as I closed the book on that issue, another one surfaced. The next guilt party arose when I met with a new moms group for the first time. Matt was probably about seven months old and was a wonderful baby. He was rarely sick, no colic (no major issues, in fact, beyond spitting up), but boy, the kid just would not sleep through the night. Sadly for him, he was born to a mother who needs about eight hours to feel her Doris Day-best. I was exhausted and a bit cranky. I'll never forget when one of those perky "my-baby-started-sleeping-through-the-night-at-two-months" moms approached me at this meet-and-greet, and put the question before me: "Isn't this just the most fabulous and beautiful thing you've ever done?!" I looked at her like she was from another planet. At that point I thought she was either high on Red Bull or just someone I could never relate to. And it got worse. If she had just once during our conversation said something with a note of the exasperation I was feeling, like "Ugh, my boobs hurt" or "I just need a minute to myself!" or even "I don't know what the hell I'm doing!!!" I would've forgiven her her overwhelming enthusiasm, but as it was, I never returned to that group of Stepford Mommies. And of course, the fact that I wanted to slap her silly made me feel guilty. Why didn't I feel that way?

That was over three years ago, and my miscalculations haven't stopped. I've been fumbling around this thing called motherhood since Day 1 on the job, trying to figure out which philosophies I agree with and which I don't. According to the books, I make plenty of parenting mistakes. Matt goes to bed too late. 8 pm is as early as we can get him there, because dad needs a little father-son time after he gets home. I let him watch too much TV. He makes his pointer-finger-and-thumb into a play gun and I don't freak out. He's heard Lady Gaga, though I have (I think) explained my way out of some questionable lyrics. And I yell. I'm pretty sure I'm the reincarnation of a 1950's mom, whose parenting style is more let-the-kids-play-while-I-cook-and-clean-and-talk-to-my-girlfriends than let's-make-robots-out-of-toilet-paper-rolls-together. If I liked martinis, I just might have one every now and then (as long as I wasn't driving to a play date, of course), and yes, I enjoy wearing kitschy aprons while cooking. If my own mom had written a book on child-rearing, she'd probably say I'm right on target. My mom didn't though, and all the info coming at me from today's parenting magazines and the Mommy Gurus is that all of the above is inappropriate. In the past, that made me feel rather uneasy.

I'm tired of feeling guilty, though, and I'm turning over a new leaf. As someone once told me, guilt is a wasted emotion, so as I embark on my 40th year on the planet, and my fourth year as President and CEO of Matt, Inc., I'm embracing a new philosophy. Whether I sit on the floor and play with him for hours on end, or enjoy a mere 30 minutes of mom-and-Matt time before I delve back into other things--things I perhaps enjoy more than lining up Thomas trains for a journey through Sodor--I will not regret how I raise my son. I will love him with my entire being (easy!), I will continue to smother him in hugs and kisses on a daily basis, I will do his "Frankenstein" dance whenever he asks me too, and I will nurture him in my own way. And I will without a doubt go a little easier on myself and embrace the fact that I am a good mom. After all, I love my son, and at the very least, I'm a heck of a lot better than Betty Draper.