"The One With the Fancy Shoes"

What girl doesn’t enjoy sparkly, fancy, high-heeled shoes? While on a shopping trip looking for some serving trays and platters (is there a difference?) that I probably didn’t need but I really wanted and never found, I instead happened upon some glittery peep-toe stilettos that I had to have. I couldn’t remember the last time I bought new shoes and I had already justified the purchase with at least half a dozen places I’d wear the shoes. Since being a stay-at-home mom for the last three years, I haven’t exactly had many opportunities to wear fancy shoes, so I knew I’d have to break in my pathetic flat-shoe-wearing feet.

I wore the shoes for the first time out the next evening during a double date night with my husband, sister and brother-in-law. As much as I loved them, my feet were already killing me and I dreaded having to walk anywhere after our dinner. All I kept thinking about was the episode of “Friends” when Monica buys new boots and tells Chandler she’s going to wear them everywhere in order to justify her splurging on them but after the first wear, her feet are screaming! Seriously, my feet were in pain but each time I went to take the shoes off to give my feet a rest, I was instead distracted by the sparkly loveliness that were my shoes and just couldn’t bear to take them off. A tiny voice in my head said “suck it up, whiner, how often do you get to play dress up and go out?”

When we returned home, I took off the shoes and gently placed them back in the box atop the shelf in my closet, thinking, “well, it was fun while it lasted,” and ready to admit defeat. Who was I kidding – these shoes were not for the amateur high-heel shoe wearing lady I had become.
About a week or so later, while shopping for a birthday gift for my brother’s girlfriend, I came across those inserts that you put in your shoes to supposedly make them comfy. I also found foldable ballet flats that you can keep in your purse as a backup (seriously, who knew Nordstrom Rack carried such items?). Armed with both, I decided it was time to give those sparkly lovelies another chance. After all, if the padded inserts didn’t work, I had the cute little ballet flats in my arsenal so I wouldn’t be forced to walk the streets in my bare feet (although it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that, but that’s another story!)

Well, the time came to try them out. I attended a fancy event that I was on the planning committee of, and although my feet still hurt, they weren’t killing me by night’s end and I never had to wear the ballet flats. Maybe it was pride, maybe I was becoming immune to the pain in my feet, or maybe it was the wine I drank, but I understood the idea of form over function, style over comfort, etc. Yes, I could barely walk and my feet throbbed the entire next day, but those sparkly beauties sure were fun and, dare I say, worth the pain. There, I said it.

Don't Let Them See You Cry!

I am a very emotional person. I cry at the silliest things, like when the children’s choir sings at mass, or when I write heartfelt cards to my family members, or when I’m over tired and stressed out and my kids just won’t stop being annoying or like many people, during a poignant moment in a tv show or film. Most people know this about me. So why do I feel like I can’t let anyone see me cry when it really matters?

I remember when my Dad called to tell me that my Grandpa’s cancer had returned after years of being in remission. My daughter was probably a little over a year old at the time and she and I were alone when I received the call, and I still felt silly crying in her presence. Was she going to judge me for having a heart and showing a human, vulnerable side of me? Of course not. Once I realized how crazy I was acting and decided to let the tears flow without reservation, she toddled over to me and sat in my lap, like she could sense that something was wrong and I needed her support. Of course, I cried even more at that moment.

When I was 19, and my first boyfriend told me he had cheated on me, instead of giving him a piece of my mind and letting him see just how much he hurt me, I instead walked home (he lived two houses away) and cried my eyes out and spent countless days and nights crying when no one was home to see me crumble.

Why do I put up the tough front? Why can I let people see me cry when it doesn’t really matter, but once crying is called for, I wait until I have a private moment to do so? I think women, especially mothers, are expected to be sappy but it’s way cooler to come off as emotionally unavailable. Could this have anything to do with trying to maintain a “put together, strong woman” persona on the outside without letting anyone see the emotional train wreck that really exists? I really don’t know but I’m getting teary-eyed just thinking about it. Thank God no one is around to see that. There, I said it.

The Business of Being Funny

My sophomore year in high school, I had to take a speech class that I absolutely DREADED. Public speaking was never my forte. I’m just not comfortable with standing up in front of a room full of people and having the attention focused on me as I try to remain calm and collected. I don’t care how many people I have to visualize naked, I’m just not cut out for public speaking.

Throughout the class, we explored different genres of speeches. The one I dreaded the most ended up being my most memorable: the comedic speech. I envisioned standing up in front of my peers trying to deliver silly jokes to keep them entertained. I was not a funny person, there was no way I was going to be able to get through this. That is, until I realized that delivering speeches is just like telling a story. That, I figured I could do.

When it was my turn to get up and be funny, I held onto to my index cards, desperately trying to memorize all the funny parts of my speech that were supposed to make my audience roar with laughter…or even get me a courtesy laugh. My comedic speech revolved around an experience that took place that summer at my family’s beach house. My sister, friends and I were walking on the pier and gawking at a hot surfer boy we named “Surf Hut boy” because he worked at a shop called the Surf Hut. Long story short, we ended up following him home – okay, we were stalking him actually. My sister was on crutches that weekend from an unfortunate skim boarding incident and was slowing us down so we left her behind in order to continue to follow Surf Hut boy. Looking back, the story itself really isn’t that funny, but for some reason my classmates were laughing from the get-go, and at parts that I didn’t think were funny at all. Maybe I was funny, after all! With a newfound ego boost, I put aside the index cards and just told my story. Of course, as any good storyteller does, I embellished some of the details making the situation seem more dramatic than it actually was, but the story remained true.

By the end of my speech, I felt liberated. I got up and stood in front of my peers and they in return rewarded me with real laughter, validating that I really could go up in front of a crowd and make them laugh. Now, I’m not a stand-up comic by any means, but I do have the confidence to tell stories and find ways to bring out the funnier parts of them and make people laugh. That’s actually something I really enjoy and am so grateful that I discovered that I can be funny without really trying. There, I said it.

Second Step

My brilliantly hilarious sister coined the term “second step” to refer to people lacking the ability to take the next step when it comes to simple tasks like putting dishes in the dishwasher, closing cabinet doors, putting their shoes away….you get the picture. Us girls have a good laugh when we compare stories about our second step offending husbands and have come to the conclusion that perhaps the real underlying issue is that of the ability, or in this case, inability to multi-task.

I have a huge adrenaline rush on the days when I’m juggling a dozen things at once, yet manage to accomplish everything. I am a great multi-tasker! While I’m waiting for my kids’ waffles to toast, I’ll load the washing machine with laundry, or clean the kitchen counter, or make my bed or straighten up the living room. It’s amazing how much one can accomplish in a short amount of time if you take advantage of the time. This is why I just can’t wrap my head around second step offenders. Is it really that difficult to put your glass in the dishwasher after finishing a drink? At least put it in the sink…but leaving it on the table just boggles my mind. Or how about replacing the toilet paper roll? I must admit that even I get a little laugh at walking in to the bathroom to find a new roll propped up on top of the empty roll. So…..at least the new roll was put in place, but it must have been too much to ask for the empty one to be thrown away. It’s not like the trash can is next to the toilet or anything.

Let me be clear in admitting that as much of a multi-tasker extraordinaire that I am, I am – GASP! - also a second step offender. My husband calls me out on this repeat offense all the time: I leave the clean laundry in the dryer until I need to load it with clothes from the washing machine. I don’t know where I picked this up from, but it doesn’t bother me in the least bit although it does bother my husband.

Maybe second step offenders really can’t help themselves – perhaps they don’t see what they’re doing as annoying or bothersome or lacking common sense. Maybe, just maybe, second step offenders are just preoccupied or multi-tasking in other areas and lose sight of other seemingly obvious things. I’m going to keep telling myself this until I’m convinced. There, I said it.

The Joys of Being a Real Housewife

Ugh. My cleaning lady didn’t show up today. Neither did my nanny. Or my trainer, or my chef, or my assistant. Oh wait, I forgot I live in REAL reality and don’t have any of those! Way back before I had my children (three years ago), I remember a co-worker asking me if I was ready to be a mom. I told her I was ready for motherhood, but dreading being a “real” wife….a housewife. No matter how many spinoffs Bravo TV creates, the connotation of a housewife still isn’t glamorous! Trust me, I watch all those trainwreck shows and keep wondering when the “real housewives” are going to appear. Can you imagine?

I’ve had the good fortune of being surrounded by strong, level-headed women who are married and juggling married life with either careers or motherhood, or both. It’s a lot to handle, especially in the real world where there isn’t an entourage to support you and make it appear that you really can do it all. Where is the camera documenting me being woken up at 2:30 am by a fussy one year old who doesn’t want to go back to sleep, but also can’t decide if he wants to lay on the couch with me or play on the floor in the dark so he keeps climbing up and down the couch while I silently scream in my head. The camera still isn’t there when I wake up with a stiff neck from “sleeping” on the couch with my fussy and indecisive son partially resting on my head and my three year old waking up and asking for water and telling me she’s hungry for dinner… at 6:15 in the morning! And the camera still isn’t around as I navigate through the morning routine and still manage to drop my daughter off at school looking presentable and with her lunchbox in hand. Hmm, think anyone would want to watch that show?

Back to the cleaning lady topic. No matter how often I clean my house, it’s still cluttered with toys scattered everywhere, paperwork that needs to be sorted and filed and bathrooms that just never seem clean enough, no matter how many different cleaning solutions and supplies I purchase. I would love for someone to come over and show me how to clean the showers and tubs and let me in on the magic power of getting my kitchen floor cleaned. I also need a lesson in grocery shopping. No matter how much food I buy and money I spend, I still open the fridge and cupboards every night and can’t find anything to make for dinner! Where’s that chef when you need him? Think any of those “real housewives” find themselves in these same or similar situations? Maybe. But of course the cameras don’t show up for that. There, I said it.

Confession: I don’t enjoy playing with my children

You read that correctly. Eek, I feel like the worst mother on the planet for admitting that. Is it too late to take it back? But it’s true, most days. I was so looking forward to bonding with my son each Tues/Thurs while my daughter attended preschool. This would be “our” time. I’d teach him to wave (seriously, why won’t he just wave? That’s all I’m asking for.), to say his ABC’s, learn his colors, write an essay…you know, all the things a one year old is supposed to know and do. But instead, I find myself trying to run as many errands as I possibly can with the one child who doesn’t yet argue about sitting in the cart, the child who doesn’t have to be rushed from the very back of Target all the way to the front of the store to go potty all the time, the child who, for the most part, is pretty easy if you can get past the unnecessary fussiness.

As a child, I had a vivid and wild imagination. It was and is one of the things I treasure the most about my childhood and wish so fervently that my children inherit from me. I remember during the summer of seventh grade, my sister and I were playing Barbies and had just set up our Barbie houses and had our dramatic story lines all figured out when one of my friends called to see what I was doing that day. I lied and told her I was just hanging out. It occurred to me at that moment that it wasn’t cool to say I was playing with my younger sister when all my friends were shopping at the mall, or going to the movies. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure it was my idea to play and I had to convince my sister, my younger sister, to play with me. I should have been too cool to play, but there was nothing that I wanted to do more. I felt sad once I “grew up” and wasn’t supposed to play anymore. I entered high school and just outgrew playing with my Barbies and Legos. I remember babysitting for two little girls who lived up the street and was so excited to learn that they had wild imaginations too and played just like my sister and me. Kids like us really existed!

So what happened? Did I turn into a Grinch who bah-humbugs all the time? Some days, I feel that way. Why can’t I just sit on the floor and sing songs and make silly faces at my one year old to engage him in playtime? Why can’t I look past the mess on the floor of the kids’ room and be grateful my three year old wants me to build her a Lego garage? Luckily, it seems that my daughter did inherit my imagination gene. I love watching her play with her toys and listen to her make things up as she plays. She really is like me in so many ways. And shouldn’t I be thrilled that my child is so good at independent play but still plays well with others? I just hope she (and her younger brother) stays forever young and doesn’t lose that innocence of letting one’s imagination run wild. And maybe it’s not too late for me. Perhaps the days of me enjoying playing with my children are still to come. There, I said it.

(Re)Inventing One's Self

It’s difficult to reinvent one’s self when one really hasn’t invented one’s self fully. I’ll explain. I’m a wife and mother. Sure, there’s more to me, but I’ve yet to really discover what that is. I don’t really have any hobbies. I love to read – when I get a chance to plop myself down with a book and keep my eyes open longer than the turn of a page, which hasn’t happened in a long while. I enjoy watching tv and movies. I love having date nights with my husband and girls’ nights with my friends. But are those really hobbies? I’m not sure. I’ve been told I’m a good writer, but I beg to differ – I know so many people who are way better writers than myself.

Here’s a confession. As my children are getting older at the ripe old ages of 3 and 1, I feel like my “born on date” is about to expire. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom since Abby was born in September of 2008 and wouldn’t trade that for the world and I truly mean that. I’ve been blessed to be able to work part-time from home and I enjoy being able to have adult conversations and be stressed to tears about meeting deadlines. But, the notion of my children growing up and entering into school full-time scares me. That means I’ll have to go back to work full-time and I have no idea what I’ll be qualified to do at that point. That means I’ll have to shift my focus from my children to myself. I hate attention being focused on me. So, do we have baby #3 to postpone the inevitable? Am I really considering bringing another child into this world just so I can delay re-entering the working world? I’ll admit it – possibly. There, I said it.

Boring Brown

Boring brown. That’s how I used to (and sometimes still do) describe the color of my eyes and it sort of sums up how I feel about myself at times. There’s nothing special about the color of my eyes. My sister has beautiful blue/green eyes that change color depending on the weather, her mood, the color she’s wearing, what she ate for lunch…you get the picture. She is as free-spirited as her eye color. She’s like a golden retriever puppy. Lovable, friendly, highly energetic, eager to please, and loyal - sometimes to a fault. She would give you the shirt off her back but would be worried that it might smell and you might not like it instead of for a second worrying about getting it back. People remember her.

My brother has brown eyes like me, except his are, as I like to describe, the color of melting chocolate. Seriously, if he’s really tired, or the sun hits his eyes at just the right angle, they look like they just might melt into a yummy mound of melted milk chocolate. People remember him, too. For one, he’s the baby in our family and the only boy. With enough charisma and personality to fill a stadium, he is a leader and an upstanding citizen concerned about the welfare of not only those around him, but of the world we live in. He is older beyond his years and I truly believe was put on this planet to do great things.

So what about me? Well, I was always an above-average student. In fact, I tend to be average or above-average at many things. Not that there’s anything wrong with that at all. The world needs average people just as much as it needs awesome leaders. Growing up, I was pretty shy and I think that was my crutch for not trying as hard to achieve greater things. “What if people don’t like me?” “What if I make a huge mistake and mess up and people get mad at me?”

It’s funny because my sister and I have an inside joke in which she refers to me as Lucy. One day, we were at a coffeehouse and ran into a family friend who recognized my sister right away but clearly had no clue as to who I was. My sister caught on to this once the person asked how her family was doing and she quickly replied that everyone was fine, then gestured to me and said “this is my friend, Lucy.” We both had to stifle our laughter, but sure enough, the guy shook my hand and said it was nice to meet me, err, Lucy. You’d think I’d be totally jazzed that I could walk through my life with a tiny bit of anonymity. I should have been able to live my life carefree and not worry about what others would think. Heck, no one remembered me anyway, so why not go crazy just this once? Instead, I found myself more concerned about why no one remembered me. Was I unfriendly? Sure, I was shy most of my life and have pretty much outgrown that, but still am not totally secure in social settings where I don’t know many people. I’m definitely not the schmoozing, ass-kissing type, but did I come off as indifferent or unkind?

I know there’s more to me than just boring brown eyes. I just need to find myself and feel secure enough to get beyond the boring and average part and dare to be different. In the meantime, I'm boring brown and I'm proud of it! There, I said it.