Every moment is not a moment

“Aaaaaargh! How has child-rearing got so… so complicated? It’s as if you have to keep them on some sort of permanent high of engagement and happiness.”

From Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy,

by Helen Fielding

Me, age 40

Over a breakfast of egg sandwiches and café-au-lait, my good friend Sarah and I catch up on things.

She’s talking about a woman she knows. “I can’t call her for mom support because she doesn’t feel real to me,” Sarah says. “She will literally stop a conversation with another adult to get down on the floor and play Legos with her children if they ask. She thinks every moment with them should be quality time. This is frustrating because I don’t believe that every moment needs to be a ‘moment.’”

I feel the same way. Maybe it’s because I was raised by parents who didn’t hover: once in awhile they played with my sisters and me, but usually they tossed us the garden hose (or Monopoly game or Play-Doh) and told us to go have fun.

Sarah continues, “My kids are signed up for after-school activities, but all they want to do is ride their bikes, play on the jungle gym, and run around outside. I let them do that the last few weekends, and they arrived at dinnertime hungry and dirty. It was great. To me, that is just as important as playing Legos with them.”

My twin daughters have never been into Legos, but Sarah’s point is spot-on. Years ago, I learned that trying to coordinate one moment after the next is not only impossible: it’s insane.

When my girls were one-and-a-half, for example, I took it upon myself to orchestrate a trip to a little local beach. Never mind that they were perfectly content splashing in the plastic baby pool in our backyard: I packed up our stuff, pried them away from the pool, and drove across town. All while congratulating myself on being such an awesome mom.

In the parking lot of the beach, I got out of the car and was at once dismayed to find that the air reeked of algae. But hell if we were going to turn around and go home! I had made us a picnic lunch and coated the girls in sunscreen! We were going to do this!

I threw the girls and our supplies into the double stroller. After only a couple steps, however, I realized that there was no paved pathway to the beach, only sand.

Have you ever attempted to push a double stroller – or any stroller, for that matter – through sand?

It was not a pleasant experience for me or my daughters.

Once we finally arrived at our destination, I took one look at the water and muttered a few choice words. The reason it stunk like algae was because algae absolutely blanketed the water like a fuzzy green comforter.

“Time to go, girls!” I hollered, trying in vain to turn the stroller around. I was sweating, my daughters were wailing, and I wondered why we hadn’t just stayed at our house, where their idea of adventure was as gratifying and uncomplicated as pulling all the tissues out of a Kleenex box and feeding Cheerios to our blind dog.

***

As I leave my breakfast with Sarah, where this whole conversation started, I think about another friend of mine. Like many moms, she has come to accept that it’s OK to not coordinate every last moment for her children.

“I always used to plan these huge birthday parties for my son, with classmates and presents, and he enjoyed none of it,” she says. “I think for a long time I needed to do these parties because that’s what you’re ‘supposed’ to do. But then I realized a few years ago that all he really wants for his birthday is a day with his favorite people – his family. And maybe some cake.”

Type A-

Me, age 40

 

My friend Janet owns a company called Type A, LLC.

 

As the name indicates, Janet is bewilderingly well-organized. She has an MBA and the uncanny ability to remain poised at all times. She helps small businesses get a better handle on the details of their everyday operations – think budgeting, audit preparation and website content, for instance – and she does this while appearing to never perspire.  

 

I used to be like Janet.

 

I am not anymore.

 

Not so long ago, I balanced my checkbook to the penny. I swept up dust-bunnies from under the bed before they could procreate. Piles of things – junk mail, bills, banana peels, socks – made me nervous.

 

But then my kids came along, and it became necessary for me to resign as a Type A human being. I’ve discovered, in fact, that the words “mom” and “Type A” don’t cozy up together real well within the same sentence – for me, anyway.

 

My new status, I’m proud to announce, is Type A-. And, to be completely honest, on my craziest days I am closer to Type B+.

 

I have a firm and capable grasp on what needs to get done to keep my home and family in basic functioning order: I feed my kids, get them to where they need to be (more or less) on time, and make sure they’re wearing clean underwear. But beyond that, it’s a crapshoot. Dust bunnies? They’re everywhere. Stop by my house and you can pet one. Where’s the toilet paper? you ask? We’re all out, but I’m going to Costco the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, just use Kleenex. Is that the interior of your car, Laura, or a peat bog? Both are correct: it’s the interior of my car and it’s a peat bog. It smells like decaying plant matter, no?

 

It’s nice to see how far I’ve come. At one time, these things would have put me into a state of apoplexy. Now, I view them as the signposts of a very full and frenzied life with children. Just recently, for example, my sister-in-law Betsy was visiting from out of town. Like Janet, Betsy is supremely disciplined and put-together; I’m positive she never misplaces her postage stamps or drives an automobile that stinks like decomposing vegetation. Betsy was enjoying a glass of wine and keeping me company in the kitchen, all while I ignored the dirty dishes on the counter, failed to mop up a pot of boiled-over pasta, and yelled ineffectually at the kids, who were running in and out of the room screeching. Betsy asked if I needed a hand. “No thanks,” I replied with a cheerful shrug. “It’s all good!” She looked at me, askance. “What has happened to you?” she said. “Kids have happened to me,” I answered. She nodded sagely, clinked my wineglass, and toasted me for having loosened up so much.

 

As Betsy and I downed our Pinot Grigio, I said a silent thank-you to my burgeoning Type A- approach to life. I didn’t necessarily ask for it, but I’m doing my best to make the most of it.

 

I’d like to think that if Janet herself sat down with me to discuss my own process improvements, strategic planning and communications strategies, she’d pat me on the back and tell me I’m doing OK. My efforts are a far cry from perfect Type A work, but they’re enough to get by. And right now, that’s all that matters.

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you fabulous moms out there, whether you are Type A, Type B, or somewhere in between.

Wallpaper

Me, age 38

 

Twice in the last week I’ve almost been hit by a car.

 

Granted, I am sitting in my tank-like SUV both times these near-accidents occur, so I don’t fear for my life. I do, however, find myself wondering how the other drivers have managed to not actually see me or my car, which, embarrassingly, is as imposing as an armored military vehicle.

 

“Am I invisible or something?” I mutter to myself, posing what I feel is a legitimate question that seems to pop up regularly, especially at home among my family members.

 

Just the other day, for example, after growing out my inch-long pixie cut for a whopping three years, I am finally able to scrape my hair into a ponytail. Although scraggly and unimpressive, this ponytail represents a major personal accomplishment, so I am ecstatic to show it off to my husband. After parading in a circle in front of him, elatedly demanding, “Do you notice anything different about me?” I am dismayed when he replies, “Um, no, I don’t. Is there something different about you?”   

 

“Yes, there is something different about me!” I shriek, shaking my ponytail in his face. “You haven’t seen me with a ponytail since 2001! How can you not notice?!”

My husband shrugs his shoulders, tells me my hair looks nice, and goes back to reading his newspaper. “Oh, my God,” I say, leaving the room. “It’s true. I really am invisible.”

Next, I find myself in the kitchen with my three children, who appear to not grasp that I exist in human form. I am forced to whistle in their faces like they’re dogs to get them to lift their gaze from the inane game they’re playing on the iPad. When I ask them what they would like for a snack, they apparently don’t comprehend the English language because no one responds. I start tapping my foot like a nervous tic as I grow more frustrated. “Do you want a pear? Graham crackers? Strawberry yogurt?” They stare at me blankly, so I embark on a brief experiment: “Do you want CHEETOS?” I ask. “Do you want CHOCOLATE CAKE? What about CRACK COCAINE?” I am aware that I sound like I’ve lost my senses, but it doesn’t matter because my kids have already turned their attention back to the iPad, happily snackless.

 

I cannot be the only mother who feels like she’s invisible, can I? After devouring a magnificent book of essays edited by Leslie Morgan Steiner called Mommy Wars: Stay-at-Home and Career Mom Face Off on Their Choices, Their Lives, Their Families (which, incidentally, should be required reading for every mother, and it has nothing to do with the stay-at-home vs. career thing), I realize I’m in good company. In her essay “Being There,” Reshma Memon Yaqub describes her mother:

 

“She was never the domestic type… She never cozied up to the stove or the mop. She threw ugly looks at the dishes that insisted on piling up around the sink, mocking her with their ketchup stains. But still, she did her home thing and she did her mom thing, and she did it well. She simply, if somewhat reluctantly, accepted her fate… She was always there, always in the background, almost like wallpaper, which, to a kid, is just about the highest compliment you can give a mom.”

This perfect nutshell of a phrase – “She was always there, always in the background, almost like wallpaper” – resonates deeply with me. Maybe I am around my kids so much that I’ve literally blended in with the walls! Maybe, like Reshma says, it’s a compliment that I’m invisible to them!

 

In “Happy,” Anne Marie Feld talks about her mother in a similar way:

 

“In home movies, my sister and I, long-limbed and small-bodied, dance and do gymnastics in the foreground. My mother lurks in the background, head cut off, washing dishes or zooming diagonally through the frame on her way somewhere else.”

I decide that I’m a lurker, too, lingering in the background of my children’s lives. Like Anne Marie’s mom, I am mostly invisible to my kids – headless or limbless or hidden behind a gargantuan pile of laundry – but if you look close enough, I’m there. Part of the scenery of their childhoods.

 

***

 

Just when I’ve gotten comfortable with the idea of being akin to wallpaper, something extraordinary happens. I’m alone at Starbucks, drinking coffee and catching up on a work project. “Excuse me,” says an older gentleman sitting at the table next to me. “Don’t you usually come to Starbucks to read a book?”

“Why, yes, that’s what I usually do,” I respond. “But today I’ve got work to do, which is not nearly as fun.” He smiles at me. I try not to gape.

 

“For years, I’ve noticed you reading here. You always look so happy when you read.”

I’m having a difficult time processing his words. He’s noticed me? For years? I always look happy? My head is reeling. As I turn back to my laptop and coffee, I savor the sweet fact that perhaps I do not pass through the world as invisibly as I thought I did.

 

But the million-dollar question remains: Did he happen to notice my new ponytail?

Man hands

I am a sucker for deep-tissue massage. When I peel myself off the table after being massaged, I want to feel like a piece of tenderized meat. For years I have searched for the perfect massage therapist to really get in there and work out the kinks, but everyone I go to has left me dissatisfied and wanting more.

 

Today, I have an appointment with Natasha. A friend recommended I try Natasha because, in her words, “she doesn’t mess around.” I am intrigued. 

 

I pull up to the bare-bones building where Natasha works and am struck by how it resembles Communist-bloc housing. Emblazoned in Russian in the front window is “Madison Hot Stone Therapy and Massage.” (I know it says this because, in smaller letters below, is the English translation.) Inside the shadowy and unquestionably not spa-like office, I meet Natasha. She is sturdy and robust, and my eyes immediately wander to her hands. They are like paddles. This is a little scary, and part of me wants to run. The other part of me is desperate for a decent massage, so I stay put.  

 

Speaking in a thick Russian accent, Natasha welcomes me and inquires about my “problem areas.”

“My entire body is my problem area!” I reply with a nervous barking laugh.

 

Natasha doesn’t smile. She leads me to her massage room and confirms that I want a deep-tissue massage instead of something lighter. When I nod, she says in her throaty voice, “I come from Soviet Union. In my country, deep tissue massage is very…intense. This is all right with you?” There is no turning back now. I am game.

 

After I disrobe and get settled on the table, which is covered with a bright homemade afghan (presumably from “her country”), Natasha begins. It takes approximately 4.5 seconds for me to realize that I have met my match. She starts with my ears, squeezing the lobes and cartilage in a way that is terrifying. I break out in a sweat and try to focus on my breathing. I never knew my ears were sore and needed to be massaged! I think feverishly. But clearly they do, because this hurts like a bitch!

                                                                                                                                                            

Natasha has a talent for seeking out many other body parts – my calves, my palms, the arches of my feet – where I wasn’t aware I was amassing stress. When she kneads these places, I feel my muscles protest against and then submit to her hands. It’s not exactly a restful experience, but my body is kind of enjoying being flattened like bread dough.  

 

As Natasha moves from head to toe, it is evident that she is more than a massage therapist: she is actually able to identify my medical conditions.

 

“You have asthma?” she asks. Yes, I do, but how in the world does she know that? As if reading my mind, she says, “I know because of the freckles you have on your body. In my country, we believe in ancient Eastern medicine. Everything is connected. ” I am skeptical of Natasha’s ancient Eastern medicine (how do freckles relate to lung function, anyway?) until she announces a few minutes later, “Ah! You also have sluggish digestion!”

“Yes,” I respond. Apparently there is some quality about my arms and legs that has alerted Natasha to the fact that my digestive track resembles an iron vault – what goes in does not, in fact, come out. I don’t understand the correlation between my arms and legs and intestines, but I’m becoming a fast believer in her Soviet way of looking at things.

 

“Are you successful in having bowel movements?” Natasha demands. Golly, this is a personal question, but I don’t see how I can possibly lie, seeing as though I am essentially naked and putty-like on the massage table before her.

 

“No, not exactly,” I sigh.

 

“Massage will help,” she declares. “Come back regularly and you will notice big difference.”

After all of my health concerns have been addressed, Natasha takes my massage to a different level by asking about my children. She wants to know how many I have, how old they are, and what they are like. She also wants to know if they cause me any stress. Before I can answer, tears are rolling down my cheeks. What has this woman done to me? I am falling apart! Who cries during a massage?! Of course they cause me stress!

 

She murmurs that she knows how challenging it is to raise children, because she has five of her own. By validating my struggles and saying all the things I need to hear, she turns the massage into a therapy session, which means my emotional state is now as pulpy as my muscles.     

 

Maybe it’s the warmth of the Soviet afghan or her soothing guttural voice or the way she very kindly causes me bodily pain. Whatever it is, I’m sold on Natasha.

 

When my massage is over, I feel emptied of all anxiety. Not only has she pounded out every ounce of frustration from my muscles, but she’s also managed to scour the dim corners of my mind. I make another appointment with her (how could I not?) and stumble to my car feeling light-hearted, optimistic and healthy. I feel – to quote Natasha – connected. It’s as if my entire being has been aligned.

 

As a mother, how often do I feel aligned? Never, but I suspect it’s something that might be good for me. If I can achieve this state of relaxation, even if it’s only once a month, maybe I can learn to better read the signs of stress as they accumulate in my body and deal with them before it’s too late.     

 

“There really is something to this mind-body stuff, isn’t there?” I exclaim to myself in wonder.

 

And then I drive home and proceed to not have sluggish digestion. Once. Twice. Three times. All in the same afternoon.

Review

In my job as a mother, there is one thing that is missing: an annual performance review.

 

How I long to sit down for a bracing chat with my direct supervisor to discuss my mothering abilities. We would talk about my strengths, challenges, and frustrations. We would set some goals, and I would receive some much-needed validation.

 

Alas, this is a pipe dream, because I do not have a direct supervisor – nor, sadly, do I anticipate getting one.

 

So, instead of dwelling on the fact that I’m doing this mom-thing without a jot of constructive feedback from anyone, I like to imagine I have a fairy godmother who is watching me as I go through the motions of my day, nodding encouragingly as I whip up a batch of homemade mashed potatoes and tsk-tsking me for ignoring the bed linens that need to be washed. I think that my fairy godmother would be thrilled to conduct my annual performance review, and that she would do so with aplomb (as well as a British accent):

 

Fairy Godmother: Overall, I am very pleased with the caliber of your work. Every morning you show up on time with energy and enthusiasm. Your ability to multi-task and your attention to detail are exemplary. I’m impressed that you consistently attend to your responsibilities, even though you’d rather be watching Project Runway or going to Starbucks.

 

Me: Thank you.

 

Fairy Godmother: I see that you worked overtime a remarkable 99% of your days on the job this year. You certainly went above and beyond the call of duty, especially during those middle-of-the-night shifts you picked up without advance notice.

 

Me: Yes, I did. Thanks.

 

Fairy Godmother: I am especially impressed with your meal-planning and execution. If my calculations are correct, you made roughly 1,095 meals this year, and that is a lot of time spent in the kitchen! I’m aware that no one in your family realizes how much effort you put into preparing food, but I certainly do – especially that lovely pot roast with root vegetables you made last week. Nicely done! On a side note, please watch your son’s sugar consumption. He hoards cookies and candy and has got what appears to be a gnarly sweet tooth.

 

Me: Duly noted.

 

Fairy Godmother:  There are a few things that you need to work on, so please take note:

 

1. You could try harder to do something crafty with your kids every now and then.
2. Baking brownies or cake (or anything, for that matter) from scratch won’t kill you.
3. You need to organize your closets before one of your children is struck by a falling object.
4. You should attend to that pile of mail and notes from school that has taken up residence on your kitchen counter.
5. You must tidy up the interior of your car. It’s revolting! That chunk of wasabi that fell under your seat when you were eating take-out sushi last April is still there!

 Me: Yes, it is. I appreciate the reminder and will take care of it right away.

 

Fairy Godmother: Now, let’s talk about the dreaded elephant in the room. And by elephant in the room I mean the dirty laundry you still haven’t washed and the clean laundry you still haven’t folded. It appears to be taking over your home.

 

Me: [Silent.]

 

Fairy Godmother: Is there a problem? 

 

Me: I’m sort of traumatized by my laundry, Fairy Godmother. It’s always there. As soon as I get one load finished, there are two other loads waiting to be done. It never goes away.  

 

Fairy Godmother: No, it doesn’t. But it’s gotten a little bit out of hand when you’re selecting clean clothing from a mountain of laundry located in the corner of your dining room – really, of all places! – rather than from your closet or dresser like normal people do.    

 

Me: I will try to be more responsive and timely with my laundry, I promise.   

 

Fairy Godmother: That’s good to hear. We will revisit this topic next year and see if you’re able to reduce the amount of days it takes for a load to be completed. I expect to see some change here.

Me: Absolutely. I will do my best.  

 

Fairy Godmother: Now, as we bring this review to a close, I would like to congratulate you on successfully keeping your children fed, bathed, dressed, educated, and physically fit. Because of your accomplishments, you are eligible for a salary increase and –

 

 

***OK, my imagination is starting to get away from me.

 

I snap out of my daydream and realize with dismay that I need to peel the carrots for dinner, review my kids’ homework, unload the dishwasher and – no surprise here – throw a load of clothes into the dryer.

 

I miss my Fairy Godmother already.  

 

Skipping

Me, age 39

 

I’m at the mall, where Christmas carols are playing. I get a little upset because it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. Aren’t we rushing things a wee bit?

 

I don’t know why I am appalled, seeing as though every year the world seems to launch directly into the Christmas season as soon as Halloween is over. I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but it’s always distressing to me when anything lovely and meaningful gets the shaft, and Thanksgiving is no exception.

 

It all comes down to this: I wish we could savor each distinct moment we happen to find ourselves in. It’s tedious and draining to constantly peer at what lies on the road ahead, ignoring the sweet spot of right now. We will never be able to enjoy this exact sweet spot again, so why are we trying to skip over it?

 

As I depart from the winter wonderland of the mall, I realize with a jolt that I am a total hypocrite. I admit to myself, with a good deal of shame, that in my role as a mother I regularly wish to fast forward through certain moments and jump headfirst into what’s next. I should have learned by now: The minute you catch yourself muttering, “I am so ready to be finished changing diapers,” all too soon you discover that your delectable toddler has turned into a feisty boy, wielding dangerous, pointy sticks to fight off imaginary monsters in the backyard. And the second you say, “Will my son ever stop wielding dangerous, pointy sticks to fight off imaginary monsters in the backyard?” he morphs into a first grader who fails his spelling test and gets in trouble for wrestling on the playground.

 

And so on and so forth.

 

Each moment in mothering presents its own unique set of challenges, but I need to learn how to be fully present where I’m at, regardless of what those challenges are. Because the view from here is inimitable and beautiful and rewarding in its own right. I must relish it before it disappears – and it will, in the blink of an eye.

 

No more skipping. Let’s hunker down and celebrate a divine Thanksgiving.

 

Christmas can wait.  

 

 

 

Flee

Every January, I get together with ten of my oldest friends. These are women I grew up with; some I’ve known since kindergarten. Nearly all of them are mothers, which means they are as desperate as I am to get a little respite from the demands of family life.

 

Without fail, we count down the days (and even hours) until our departure for our highly anticipated spa weekend. More to the point, we devolve into a bunch of giddy schoolgirls, texting each other about the wine we’re bringing and the facials we’ve booked. With each passing year, we seem to get more hysterical about things.

Take, for instance, my dear friend Sarah, who is my driving buddy from Madison to the resort an hour away. After leaving tire marks in my driveway and shrieking “TIME FOR MOMMY TO GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE!” to my blissfully empty car, I fly across town at illegal speeds to pick up Sarah, who is standing in front of her house with her bags at her feet, checking her watch. She sees me and within ten seconds is ensconced in my passenger seat. If we could crack open one of the bottles of wine in my trunk, it would already be half-gone. 

 

As I pull away from Sarah’s house, she yells, “PEACE THE FUCK OUT!” at the top of her lungs. To whom, you may ask, is she wishing such tidings of goodwill? That would be her sweet husband and three kids, whose noses are forlornly plastered to the living room window as they watch us peel down the street. 

 

***

 

Sarah and I are far from alone in our almost breathtakingly intense desire to flee our families once in awhile. To get a rare moment to ourselves (or time with good girlfriends, who require nothing but laughter and idle gossip) is important for so many reasons. I’ve asked my friends to describe how they feel when they are able to steal away, whether it’s for an hour or for a weekend, and this is what they said:

• Balanced
• Whole
• At ease
• Unencumbered
• Non-suffocated
• Relaxed
• Free
• Quiet
• Young
• Lighter

It doesn’t necessarily require a trip out of town to get a break from our duties. My friend Terri says she likes to visit Bed, Bath & Beyond, where she can aimlessly roam the aisles by herself. Margaret loves to read in a coffee shop. Others, like my friend Liz, go running. She says, “My runs are the only time I literally have nothing but myself: no kids, no purse, no car. It’s the ultimate getaway just steps outside my front door.” Laura agrees: “The only time I truly feel free of my family responsibilities is when I go out without my cell phone, which is why I love going for a run. When the sun is right, it can feel like a Caribbean vacation.” OK, Laura, you might be exaggerating a tiny bit (because Wisconsin never feels like the Caribbean), but I admire your good attitude and think you’re on to something. Whether it’s running or shopping or getting a pedicure, it doesn't matter if we're in the Midwest or Mexico: it’s that we’re able to remember who we are without children hanging from our limbs – what makes us tick, what bring us delight, what makes us feel full and content and 25-years-old again.       

 

Virtually all of my friends indicate they do not get enough time to themselves. (I include myself in this group.) And yet, it goes without saying that the consequences of not getting physical and/or emotional space from our families every so often can be tough. We become unproductive, off-balance, stressed-out and short-tempered. My sister, who has three small kids, says she starts to feel terribly isolated. A friend of mine admits, “If there is nothing on my to-do list, I can become overwhelmed by the choices I have. It’s almost like I’ve lost the ability to be spontaneous. Then I become depressed by my inability to make the most of my time alone.” Another friend says, “I never get enough time to myself; there are just not enough hours in the day. Some nights I just cry. I don’t cry because I’m unhappy or angry. I cry as a relief from my exhaustion.”

 

Ann is one mom who is able to carve out time for herself without guilt or excuses, and I admire her endlessly for it. She says, “It’s critical to recharge on my own so I can be ready for my family when they need me. It’s like when our kids were newborns, and the pediatrician said, ‘Sleep when they sleep.’ It’s the same philosophy. You never know when you will be called in for overtime without notice.”

I aspire to be more like Ann, but it is awfully hard – although maybe it’s as simple as doing what Laura does when she can’t go for a run: “I retreat to the bathroom (behind a locked door or two) to take an extra-long shower or read a magazine,” she says. Liz has a similar philosophy: “Sometimes I have to get creative. I read in the car pick-up line at school, and it’s often my favorite 20 minutes of the day. Any time I can be on my own is equivalent to putting on my yoga pants after a long day in tight jeans.”   

However we go about accomplishing it, I think we all need to flee a little bit more, because no one wants to spend her entire life in tight jeans. When we commit to putting on our metaphorical yoga pants and taking better care of ourselves, everyone benefits. As my wise friend Lisa says, “If I am happy as a human being, I am happy as a mother. And a happy mom is a good mom.”  

 

***

 

Unsurprisingly, my friends and I are happy human beings for our two idyllic days at the spa. Between massage appointments and soaks in the hot tub, Liz suddenly gets serious. She proceeds to summarize, in the most eloquent way, why our trip is so critical to her well-being: “Obviously, sitting around in a robe is relaxing. But even more important is the relaxing of my mind. There is nothing to do or worry about. For just a little while, I don’t have to be defined by someone or something else. I’m not the wife, the mom, the helpful neighbor, the overachieving volunteer, the hardworking co-worker, the snack mother, or the carpooler. Although I love those roles in my life, I just get to be me.”