Listen To Your Mother: The Epilogue

The story of how I became involved in the Listen To Your Mother Show, well, it's kind of complicated. I stumbled upon Ann Imig's blog in 2009 and decided we were soul sisters, because of this post. (Her total unawareness of my existence was a minor detail). One year later, she would create the first ever Listen To Your Mother Show. I watched a couple of the You Tube videos from that show and thought, "This is really cool. People are sharing some seriously real sh*t and it's beautiful and important." I didn't even have a baby yet. I was, in fact, ambivalent about ever having kids. But I knew Special and Awesome when I saw it.

Fast forward a few years later and I was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of white wine and my laptop, a warm fall breeze blowing through the window while my seven month old slept. I'd had one of those nurse, diaper change, attempt nap, endure crying, abort nap, repeat type days. It was the kind of day that makes you want to punch the next person who looks at your child, smiles at you, and then tells you to enjoy every minute. Mindless web surfing led me to the The Listen To Your Mother Show's call for new cities. The application was due October 15th by 11:59 CST, no exceptions. Seriously, it said "no exceptions" in bold. It was about 8pm in Boulder. Which meant I had three hours in which to request, complete, and submit the application. This left me approximately two seconds to decide whether I actually wanted to create a Listen To Your Mother Show. I don't know if it was the Chardonnay or divine intervention, but I had a feeling it was no coincidence that this opportunity had presented itself to me that night.

The application asked me who I might team up with. I considered leaving that question blank. I'd already admitted I had twelve Twitter followers on my application. It seemed unwise to make myself look even more friendless. But whose name could I write in that blank? I figured the person had to be a mother and a writer. Also, they should be someone I at least liked. Except the application said not to pick a friend, but rather someone you knew you could work with as a team. Joelle was the only person I could think of.  I called her and asked if it was ok. I'm not sure if I even fully explained what Listen To Your Mother was. I just wanted her to know that if this thing actually happened, I would need some help, but not too much help, just some, and anyway this was not a commitment, it was more me checking in to see if I would be totally lying if I put her name down.

A couple weeks later, I received an email from Ann Imig- my blogosphere idol- telling me my application had been accepted. I was scappy. (Scared + Happy = Scappy). I felt like I might throw up. I told my mom. I told Dan. I still needed to tell Joelle. Telling her would make it real, and that scared me a little.

Then I had to write a bio for the Listen To Your Mother website. This scared me a lot. The producers in the other cities were writers- like real writers- who had authored books and written for Huffington Post, and they had professional head shots. I had a blog and a picture from our friends' wedding that I cropped my husband out of. And then I got the 50 page production manual and I got really scared. We were going to have to find a venue, publicize auditions, choose a cast, secure corporate sponsorships, send a press release (I didn't really know what a press release was. It sounded fancy), select a cast, hold rehearsals, advertise the show, and the list went on and on and on.

Fast forward seven months. The morning of the show I called Joelle.
"I couldn't sleep last night!"
"Me either. I was kind of freaking out."
"Me too, but I was also excited. I felt like it was the night before my wedding day."
"Me too!"

There was so much energy behind every aspect of this show. And then the show happened, and with it rose up a wellspring of love, gratitude, and community. Before the show, getting dressed, doing our makeup, snacking, drinking a little Prosecco, and going to the bathroom one last time together, we felt like old friends. On stage, there was something magical about the way each of us got up there and NAILED. IT.

I didn't need the praise of audience members in the lobby after the show, or the post-show emails or texts to prove it (though they were all so very welcome). I didn't need to hear the applause to prove it either. There was an unmistakeable feeling so strong that I didn't feel the significance of what we had created; rather I knew it.

After an experience like that, you just need to decompress.  If the day felt like our wedding day, surely the next day, we needed a honeymoon. But we didn't take one. And now, several days later, I'm not sure what I need. Maybe a martini? The kind of workout that leaves my lungs and legs burning, perhaps? Thankfully the Urban Ten Miler I signed up for this Sunday should take care of the latter. And I do have some vermouth in the cabinet and Tito's vodka in the freezer to address the former. I thought I might feel some joy in kicking my feet up to relax after the show had been put to bed, but instead I feel lost, sad, and a little bored.

I used to think only boring people experienced boredom. I have now widened my circle of bored people to include not just The Boring but also those who are coming down from the sky-high, like outerspace-high high that results from co-producing a Listen To Your Mother Show. You can't not feel low after you've had a high like that. But I would take this low any day to experience that kind of high. 

Did this opportunity pick me, that random fall night when I was feeling so insignificant? Or am I assigning way too much meaning to some random internet surfing?  I'm not sure. But I will always be grateful I decided to meet the internet halfway and complete the application.

I'm grateful to Ann Imig for ignoring the fact that I had a mere twelve Twitter followers and accepting my application anyway.

I'm grateful to my co-producer, Joelle, for taking it on with me, and in doing so, subtracting fear from the equation, for being the calm yin to my high-strung yang, and for the cute emoticons. 

I'm grateful to our cast for sharing their hearts with our audience (and later this summer on the LTYM You Tube Channel).

I'm grateful to our audience for being there to receive it. 

I'm grateful to whatever it was in the universe that didn't let the fact that I was scared of virtually every part of this project keep me from diving in. 

Listen To Your Mother: The Morning After

Our show was last night. I'm not sure how to put into words how it felt to see our show come together. To see each and every one of our cast members share intimate parts of themselves with our audience. To hear our audience's laughter and sniffles. To see the vague shapes of heads nodding in the dim house lighting. 

The sharing of our stories- of ourselves- is so simple and yet so powerful. Here is my story:

 Prepared

To prepare for having a baby, I bought a treadmill. I’d heard babies sleep a lot and I wanted to be able to log some miles during the long naps I’d heard so much about.

And I read. As a type A personality and compulsive reader, I read everything from Exercising Through Your Pregnancy, to Baby Whisperer to Spiritual Midwifery.

As my due date approached, I reviewed my to do list:

Read ten books on pregnancy, birth, and babies: Check

Breastpump purchased: check.

Cloth diaper service arranged: check.

Dozens of gender-neutral onesies washed and folded: check

There were a couple of items on my list that had me worried. 

Giving birth and being a mother.

For nine months, I had nightmares.

I pestered my midwife at every prenatal appointment, asking for tips on how to prepare for the birth. She assured me there was no magic breathing technique, no special self-hypnosis method, nor any other type of training I could do to ease me through the arduous task of labor. As someone who wouldn’t dare toe the line of a race without having trained, the idea of showing up to childbirth without proper preparation seemed irresponsible, arrogant even.

Friends assured me I would be fine. About the birth, they said “It’ll be like a marathon.” I had completed six marathons, and two ironman triathlons. If labor was really like an athletic event, why hadn’t I ever heard any of my mom/athlete friends make that comparison? From what I could tell, an athlete was just as likely as a couch potato to proclaim that giving birth was the most painful, difficult experience of her life.

I am someone who howls over a stubbed toe, pouts over a papercut, and begs for the strongest narcotics available for the most minor medical procedure.  And I was planning to have my baby at home, sans drugs.

My contractions started when I was out. On my way home, I picked my husband up and casually mentioned, “I think I’m in labor.” I felt smug. This was what everyone was bellyaching about?

Four hours later, searing pain in my low back woke me up from a sound sleep.

My husband set up the birth tub while my mom breathed with me through the contractions. When the midwives arrived at my house, the birth tub was finally full of hot water. I eased into it as the day’s first rays of gray light peeked in through the blinds and thought, “This morning I will have a baby.”

Except it didn’t happen that morning. Or that afternoon. Or that night. The baby was born in the wee hours of the following morning, fifteen days after her due date and thirty hours after the first contraction.

I could tell you about how much it hurt, or how each minute felt like an hour. About the fatigue, or puking my guts out. About my mom brushing my husband’s teeth when I demanded he get his nasty breath out of my face and then protested when he left my side. I could tell you about the hours- and hours- of pushing. About the text message I received from a friend that Friday night, asking, “You busy?”

About what it felt like to not even care whether I went to the hospital, got an epidural or even had my baby cut out of me just to MAKE IT STOP. About how, for a while, I wasn’t sure I believed I had the strength to continue laboring.

But you don’t want to hear about all that. And you definitely don’t want to know what it was like it to watch my husband pick little pieces of my poop out of the birth tub. 

When the midwife placed the sticky, oily, perfect, baby in my arms, I smiled into a pair of little dark brown eyes that stared back, intently. My husband and I gazed at the precious being we’d created. My mom watched, tears glistening on her cheeks. I spread the tiny legs, “A girl!” A beautiful, healthy, alert baby girl.

I’d birthed this baby. In that moment, I felt I could climb any mountain, soothe any screaming baby, endure any sleep deprivation, tolerate any chafed nipple. In the wake of giving birth, I possessed a power unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I was confident I was capable of anything- even mothering this baby. 

On the baby’s first night with us, she slept the whole night through, but I was awake all night, listening for her cries. On the second night, I was ready to sleep, but she was up on an off the entire night. By the third night I was exhausted, my sore nipples were leaking milk, soaking my pajamas and bedsheets, and I still hadn’t taken a crap- I was too scared. (no one warns you about that part). The excitement of childbirth had worn off.

The books had done nothing to prepare me for an actual baby. When my mom and dad had flown back east, my in-laws had stopped dropping over every day, the steady stream of visits and frozen meals from friends and neighbors ended, my husband went back to work, and I was left alone in the house nursing the baby all. day. long, it seemed, it occurred to me- The books didn’t mention this part.

If childbirth was unlike a marathon, actually being a mother was even less so- with no course arrows or mile markers, I had no idea how I was doing, or if I was even going the right way. Nothing could have prepared me for motherhood; not for the monotony of days spent nursing, diapering, and burping, or the nagging sense that nothing was actually getting done. And nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of the love that burst from me for this tiny being, my baby.

And maybe that was the point. Because if anything could prepare you for the pain of childbirth, the heartache of watching your baby get her first shots, the anxiety that someday someone will push her on the playground, break her heart, or fire her, then there would have to be something to prepare you for the overwhelming joy in toothless smiles, the gleeful sound of high pitched giggles, and the pride in watching your child achieve mastery of a new skill.

And the idea of being prepared for all that- if it were even possible; as much as my type A self thirsts to have all preparations in place, to be ready for what lies ahead- I know that that would only strip all the magic away.

Upon reflection...

A reporter recently asked me "How has Listen To Your Mother changed you?" For one thing, it has had me calling, emailing, and/or texting my co-producer Joelle no less than ten times a day. It has also turned me into the kind of person who just sends one more email or checks our LTYM director/producer Facebook group one last time while my baby's wails grow increasingly louder, as she signals her nap is over. It has also taught me that I can sell, advertise, manage people, and do all the other stuff required of creating a show.

Although our (sold out!) show hasn't happened yet (it's actually on Mother's Day), Listen To Your Mother has shown me how quickly and strongly the simple sharing of stories binds a community.

A few months ago, we had our first rehearsal. For the most part, the ten women and the lone man who comprise our cast were strangers to one another. Over the next few hours, we ate pizza and listened to each other's stories. There was laughter. There were tears. A lot of tears. Thankfully there were tissues. There were nods of agreement. There was the sense that each of us, even the most self-doubting of us, belonged in this room full of writers. And while we're on the topic, let's admit it. We're writers. Not people who write sometimes, not people who just happened to write this essay and by golly we just got picked for this show, but writers.

And us writers, we feel afraid that our stories aren't good enough. That no one will listen to them. And that if anyone does, they won't like them. And then we get this chance to read our work to a live audience and see just how much they do like our stories. We hear them saying, Me too. And we know it was worth it to share this piece of ourselves.

When we arrived at our next rehearsal, there was easy chatting where there had been nervous glances. We had shared our stories. We opened ourselves up to each other. We had become a community.

Listen To Your Mother

I talk to my mother almost every day. Sometimes it's just to say hi. Sometimes it's to vent. Sometimes it's for advice on cooking, mothering, or (rarely) cleaning. Sometimes it's because I'm desperate.

Like when I called her a couple of Friday nights ago- Dan was out with the guys and I was looking forward to putting Sweet Pea down, sitting in my quiet house with a glass of wine and an episode or two of Girls (do you know about this show? Lena Dunham is a genius and if you haven't yet, go watch it. You can thank me later, if you have the misfortune of only just now hearing about this groundbreaking masterpiece for the first time).

Except that's not what happened. When the last dish was in the dishwasher and my tired feet were finally up, Insane Crying commenced. Please note my Crying Scale whereby:

0 = Not crying at all
1= Eh-Eh/whining that precedes a full-on cry but is mild enough to allow you to delude yourself into believing genuine crying may not ensue
3= Annoying, intermittent I'm bored crying
5= Steady, loud, I have a poopy diaper. Come get me. crying
8= Very loud, unrelenting I'm teething I need Tylenol and boob, STAT crying
10= Extremely loud, agitated, unyielding, I just hit my head so loud you heard it go SMACK on the concrete, aka) INSANE Crying.

Why was I hearing Insane Crying at 8pm? One of the hallmarks of Insane Crying is that it occurs between the hours of 2:00 and 4:30 am. It is also commonly heard following a particularly scary/painful tumble. But at 8pm while lying in the crib? This was uncharacteristic. I waited to see if it would subside and listened as it gained momentum and intensified.

So I investigated. Holding her close, stroking her hair, and repeating "It's ok, Mama's here" did nothing to calm the fury. The softie/wanting to relax and watch Girls while my baby slept part of me wanted to nurse, return her to her crib and be done with it. The disciplined/wanting to get pregnant again but still haven't had a period in over two years part of me reminded me we had already night weaned and back sliding into nursing at night was not part of the plan.

So I held her. I rocked her. I gave her baby Tylenol. I got in the crib with her. (Yes, yes, I did. Though I can't take credit for that idea). The Insane Crying persisted.

When my inner softie finally grew a pair and told my inner drill sargent to go f*ck herself, I sat in the glider chair and offered Sweet Pea my breast, the one thing that always soothes her.  She quieted down in anticipation.

And then she bit down on my nipple with her sharp little teeth, hard. I shouted in pain and unlatched her. What followed was Insane Crying times twenty.

Desperate, I called my mom. With Sweet Pea on my hip, screaming into my left ear, I cradled the phone in my right ear. I heard my mom pick up and I explained the situation, nipple bite and all, and waited for her words of wisdom, which would surely make everything right.

Except I couldn't hear a damn wise word she was saying over the crying.
"Wait mom, I can't hear you."
"You need to..."
"Wait, what?"
"What she needs is...."
"Mom? Mom? Hang on, let me just..."
I knew the answer to my exasperation was on the other end of the line, if only I could hear a single bit of it over Sweat Pea's screaming.

Finally, I heard my mom say it was ok to just let Sweet Pea hang out with me in the living room, to let her sit on my lap, play with her, read her a story, do anything to distract her from what was probably teething pain, and not worry about messing up her routine or her sleep schedule, and that it would be fine.

And it was.

We might have even watched an episode of Girls together. Did you know that the detrimental effects of Adult Content and the American Pediatrics Association's recommendation of no screen time for children under two are null and void in the face of Insane Crying? It's true.

Sometimes, even when you're grown up, you still need to listen to your mother. Because she's done things. Which means she knows things.

Do you have plans this Mother's Day? See if there is a Listen To Your Mother Show in your city. Each show is locally cast and produced, and features local writers reading their own words about the beauty, the beast, and the barely rested that is motherhood. There are 24 cities hosting a show this year.

The Boulder show, which Joelle and I are co-producing is next Sunday, May 12th at 7pm at the Dairy Center. We can't wait to see all our hard work come together in this powerful collection of stories, on topics including adoption, addiction, abuse, and even an amusement park ride.

Cast members include a published author and a sex therapist. I will be up there telling a story, too (one I've never shared on my blog). Please come be part of the magic of this community event. To learn more go our website. To purchase tickets ($12 in advance/ $15 day of show) click here.

I thought I was so cool when...

 ... I drove myself to school for the first time. It was March 7th 1995. I know because my road test was March 6th. I can't remember where I put my phone or my keys but that date has been branded into my memory. In the weeks and months leading up to that date, I counted down the days. I was sure having a driver's license would change my life in ways I'd only ever dreamed of, not the least of which was finally knowing first-hand what it felt like to stand in the class lounge, jangling a set of keys in my right hand, as I prepared to head home.

And I was not disappointed. Having a driver's license meant all the things I'd imagined as a sixteen year old; driving myself to school, shopping at the mall by myself, having control over the radio, and of course hearing the sweet jangle of keys emanating from my own hand. 

Having my driver's license also gave me experiences I never would have imagined... Getting lost on the way to a place I'd been dozens of times and realizing I'd never actually paid attention to how to get there (this has happened more times than I care to admit). Watching from the driver's seat, mouth agape, as my front passenger wheel dislodged itself from the car, then spun in a lazy S-shaped path until it finally rested on it's side in a bed of perfectly manicured flowers at the entrance to my apartment complex. Packing my car full all of my carefully chosen favorite things, including two bicycles (my trusty, old road bike and my sexy, new triathlon bike) and driving cross country to create a new life.

But on March 7th, 1995, I didn't know about any of that. I only knew how cool I felt as I opened the double doors of my all-girls prep school, and stepping out into the warm spring afternoon, holding the keys to my grandmother's 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra.  I stepped into the car that I thankfully had not had to parallel park that morning.

As I cruised down Blackstone Boulevard, I rolled my windows down, turned on the radio, and sang along to The J. Geils Band's "Centerfold," hoping the driver of a passing vehicle would notice me. Me, the young driver of this oh-so-uncool grandma car with a terrycloth steering wheel cover. Me, wearing my school uniform, which consisted of a way too short plaid kilt, a white polo shirt, and a pair of Doc Martens. Me, with with my white, straight teeth, perfect from four and a half years of braces. Sixteen year old me, picked last for every team, never invited to the in-crowd's parties, silently wishing someone else would notice how cool I was, driving my grandmother's car on that sunny March afternoon.

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Grateful

I was all ready to write about the trauma of trying to find the perfect outfit for the Listen To Your Mother Show. But then I heard what happened at the finish line of the Boston Marathon and blogging about my fashion woes seemed about as appropriate as tweets like "9 inches of snow. It's like spring in Canada! #denver" sandwiched between "Our hearts are with Boston" and "Bless the men & women who ran towards the explosion to help victims right after it detonated. They never hesitated. #heroes"

Today, thousands of miles from the place where the tragedy would unfold, we woke up to a quiet, peaceful blanket of snow. My plan to take Sweet Pea to inspect the Listen To Your Mother poster proof at the print shop in the Burley trailer didn't make any sense in these weather conditions.

But I hate driving. I loathe schlepping Sweet Pea in and out of the car seat. And I really don't like removing snow from my car. Instead of a garage, we have a section of what used to be a garage, a sweet little unheated room that we hardly use, a Boulder address, and a large loan from our mortgage bank.  Our house is a 3 minute walk to the bus stop, though. So I bundled us up in our puffiest, warmest duds, popped Sweet Pea in the Kelty backpack, and hopped on the bus.

Sitting behind us was a man with a graying mustache, bright eyes, and more than a few deep laugh lines etched around his mouth. He made faces at Sweet Pea for nearly the whole ride. I wasn't in a position to see what he was doing, exactly, but based on Sweet Pea's grins, I could tell he was bringing the funny faces with gusto never before seen on the SKIP bus (at least not by me).

He told me he had five kids who were all now in their teens and twenties. He said his kids missed the 15 passenger van he used to drive them and their friends around in. Talking about the fun he used to have taking all his kids and their friends to the mountains, he beamed.

A few stops later, he stood up and headed for the exit. As he passed us, he looked at me in the eyes and said "Enjoy the gift of parenthood."

Right on, man.

What gifts are you grateful for today? 

If I could live anywhere, I'd live...

...in a peaceful, vibrant, low-stress place known as the present. I'm not sure what's keeping me from relocating. It's not the property taxes, real estate prices, or the school systems. In fact, I understand the quality of life there is unbeatable.

Stuck in my current habitat, I'm constantly thinking of my to-do list. When I'm at the park, I'm making a shopping list in my head. At Costco, I am thinking about what time I need to be home in order to make dinner so that Sweet Pea can get fed, bathed, and put down by her bedtime. While I am bathing her I am thinking about what I am going to have for dinner. While I am sitting down to dinner, I am checking my phone to see if there are any urgent text messages. Which is ridiculous, considering the two people with the greatest chance of needing me urgently, Dan and Sweet Pea, are within 15 feet of me.

I do visit the present on a regular basis. Like, when I'm running, and the only thing on my mind is how my breathing feels, or what the Flatirons look like, covered in a wash of pink as the sun rises. I visit the present when I sit in the glider chair in Sweet Pea's room, nursing her and marveling at the softness of her cheeks, the fineness of her hair, and the way her plump thighs beg to be squeezed. In those moments, I can really see myself being happy in the present full-time.

Don't worry, I won't just up and move and disappear on you. I'll stay in touch. I just may not return your texts or emails as quickly or like or comment on your Facebook status as often.

I probably didn't have to go all the way to Hawaii to get my mind into the present. Although it didn't hurt.

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