Battle of a Lifetime

A few weeks back, we entered our first essay contest...it was very exciting! Sadly, our entries didn't win but that's not the real reason behind our writing. It's the great NEED to tell a story...our stories. Here is my entry. The contest theme was "Transitions." Enjoy!

Battle of a Lifetime

by Jennifer Hale

It is a sweltering Saturday afternoon in September and I'm frazzled. It's one of those days, packed with more activities and places to go than physically possible. The boys' games are on opposite sides of town and only an hour apart and somehow, I volunteered to be snack mom for both games. Really?

As usual, my husband and I are forced to divide and conquer. That means we have to locate two coolers in the mess we call a garage, sparingly spread the ice from the freezer between those coolers, and cut and package obscene amounts of oranges and cookies. Add to that my daughter's dance class and a birthday party she is due to attend, for which there is no present yet, and my stress levels are maxed out. I'll admit, almost all of my anxiety is my own fault. I should be more organized, but that fact doesn't help me at the moment. The heaps of mommy-guilt and mommy-insufficiency will just have to wait.

"Honey, I'll take Noah now and you take Logan to his game in half an hour. He has to be there 45 minutes early, although I think the kids are going to be exhausted before the game even starts, warming up in this heat," I grumble, annoyed by the stifling weather and our competitive coach.

"Just drop him off and swing by the store to pick up a gift card for the party. Bella, do you think Lexie would like a gift card for Target?"

At that moment, I look at my thirteen-year-old. Her eyes are wide and her nose is all wrinkled up. She looks just like she did when she was a toddler and she got hold of a lemon wedge. Disgusted.

"No, mom, gross! That's so lame! You like Target. Teenagers don't like Target! I can't bring a Target gift card to the party! God!" She hisses.

"Ok then. Michael, you're taking Bella with you so she can pick out a gift card that won't be offensive. And then, she can go to her brother's game and help pass out the snacks."

I turn to her again. "That should cheer you up," I smile, a little too sweetly.

"And I'll get you after Noah's game and drop you off at dance. Bring clothes to change because Tatum's mom is going to pick you up and take you to the party. Ok?"

"Good luck at the game, Logan! See you in a bit."

And we're off...

We don't stop running until four hours later when we finally land at our air-conditioned home base. I ignore the sink full of dishes and the counters piled with paperwork from school, and head for the couch. No sooner have I collapsed, a leftover Gatorade and a Real Simple magazine in hand, when my youngest, Noah, comes a-calling.

"Hi, my lovely mommy," he sweetly sings. I can tell he wants something.

"Hi Noah. What's up?" I reply, taming my terseness.

"Well, mommy, I wanted to know if you would like to have a Lego battle with me?"

Yep, there it is. My adorable eight-year-old wants to play with me. And as much as I completely love him to bits, at that moment, I would pay large sums of money to NOT play with him. I am done. All. Done. But I can't say that. It would ruin his day. So I stall.

"Oh, babe, I would love to have a Lego battle with you, but can I just rest for a little bit? Mommy is tired. I just need a few minutes to relax. Is that ok? Can I have fifteen minutes?"

He kisses me on the cheek and promises to wait. I secretly hope he'll ask his brother to take my place, but, as he leaves me to my magazine, I hear the "beep, beep" of his watch. He is timing me.

Flipping through ads and articles of various appeal, I find my favorite section, the advice columns. They always provide good perspective. The second article catches my eye: "How to Handle an Empty Nest." I laugh at the irony. At that exact moment, all I long for is an empty nest, and here this woman, Rebecca from Colorado, is simply yearning for a few more minutes of chaos.

"I'm not sure where the time went..." she is saying as I drift off.

I'm startled by a beeping noise. Silence surrounds me except for the timer sounding from the microwave. I groggily drag myself from couch to counter. The slow cooker is steaming. It smells delicious but I don't feel hungry. Actually, I feel a little nauseous. My head aches and my chest feels heavy. I survey the kitchen - tidy and organized surfaces, neat pile of bills, everything in its proper place - but it all feels wrong. Desperately, terribly wrong.

Michael comes in from the garage and turns off the timer. Standing alone at the sink, he washes his hands.

"Is dinner almost ready?" He asks.

I nod and watch him as he grabs two plates from the cabinet, two forks from the silverware drawer, and two napkins from the pantry.

"What would you like to drink?" he asks as he pulls two clean glasses from the un-emptied dishwasher.

"It sure was nice when the kids were around to help with the dishes. Remember when they used to fight over who did it last?" he reminisces.

"I do remember," I reply, "and I remember the countless dishes they chipped trying to hurry through it. They were always in such a hurry..."

My voice trails off as the tears begin to fall. Michael has me in his arms before the sobs are unleashed, holding me upright until they pass.

"It was over too fast," I cry. "I wasn't ready for them to grow up. One minute, we're stocking band aids and kissing boo-boos and the next, we're buying sheets and towels for the dorms."

The hole in my heart seems to expand out through my ribcage and into the pit of my stomach. It physically hurts me. "I know," he says, rubbing my back gently.

We hold each other in the heavy silence. The crock pot sputters, ready to boil over. That's how I feel, like an ache from my core is seeking a place to escape, a way to find solace. But there isn't any. Not there in that quiet kitchen. My husband, certainly hurting in his own way, missing our gone-too-soon children, willingly absorbs some of my pain.

Broken-hearted and drowning in our depressingly empty nest, I sob and mutter:

"Can they really be gone? It just feels so empty..."

"It's just so empty..."

"I'm empty..."

From a distance, another beeping sound slowly penetrates the confusion and sorrow-filled space around me. I hear a little whisper and feel an ever so gentle tap, tap, on my shoulder.

"Mommy...mom...it's been fifteen minutes. Are you ready for our battle now?"

I open my eyes and the leftover tears from my dream trickle away as my blessed present returns. I still have time.

"Absolutely, Noah. Let's go play."

{J}

A Letter to My Daughter...

I'm so excited about our blog. It's like a personal scrapbook of all the important things that happen. One day, when we're old and gray, we'll be able to transport right back to this time in our lives because of these records. Our children and grandchildren will inherit these stories, stories about them. That thought makes me smile. So, without further ado, may I introduce our next series titled "Letters to our Children."

Dear Bella,

I'm writing you this letter because I love you. Part of that love includes hope and happiness and dreams, but it also includes fear and worry and limits. I understand that can be annoying to you, since you're almost 13 and you seem to know it all, but one day, God willing, you'll understand.

So there's been a lot of hype in the news lately about Victoria's Secret line of underwear called "Bright Young Things." Wow, people are upset. Critics complain that when a popular and successful company like Victoria's Secret sells underwear that says "I Dare You" or "Wild," they over-sexualize young women and send the message that your value is connected to how you look in your underwear. Victoria's Secret says that the BYT line is designed for college-aged girls so it's ok, since the girls are 18 or older. I think that teen girls and college-aged girls, and even 39-year-old moms, should be hearing one message only: YOU ARE ENOUGH. YOU ARE A GIFT. The way you look in your undergarments does not define who you are. Period.

In many ways, your dad and I want to shield you from growing up too fast. We want you to remain our innocent little girl who loves music and coloring and dressing up. We are still trying to get used to the pain that comes with packing away American Girl dolls and Disney Fairy books and too-small holiday dresses. It physically hurts to finish these chapters of your life even amidst the excitement of the present. In so many ways, we watch as you teeter on the brink of growing up and we witness the competing magic of your childhood encroached upon by the inevitable dawning of adolescence. It is a conflict for you, we know. We are conflicted too.

On the other hand, we want you to be prepared for what lies ahead, to feel comfortable with who you are and what you believe in, especially when the teen culture surrounding you emphasizes things like popularity, looks and wealth. And that preparation requires your dad and I to do some hard things.

Bella, we don't want you to ever feel like you're more or less, because of the clothes you wear or the things you have.You are unique, lovable, wonderful and worthy just by being you. God created you and you are a GIFT. You will know girls whose parents have unlimited resources to get them the trendiest clothes, the latest electronics, and one day, even a great car, but they do not limit the amazing potential that you possess. Likewise, you will know girls who are going through an acne phase, who wear their sister's hand-me-downs. They are no less deserving of your kindness. Please remember, you shouldn't place value in those girls merely because of what they look like or what they have. Each one of them deserves the opportunity to achieve greatness separate from their circumstances. Please, take the time to get to know them.

Sometimes, there is so much attention given to outside forces of influence that we, as parents, forget the great amount of influence that we have at our fingertips, inside the home. That is a mistake. I want you to know that you will have friends who are allowed to wear shorter shorts or more make-up than your dad and I are comfortable with. You will meet people whose parents give them more freedom than we allow. And that's ok. We live in a community that embraces diversity, from cultures to curfews, from religions to rules, and rather than waste time judging, your dad and I are committed to finding the right rhythm for our family. Our job is to thoughtfully, responsibly, teach and care for you. And you will notice that our recipe will differ from other families that you know. Remember, that's ok.

There will be a time when you will want more than what we permit and that may even cause you to roll your eyes and swear at us under your breath. But we promise to be consistent, to love you, to remind you that what you are made of is much more important that how you make yourself up. While you are under our roof, we will establish rules and renegotiate them when necessary. We will talk to you and always be available to answer your questions. We will challenge you to be the very best version of you, starting with your beautiful heart. And we will love you even more.

We will outline our standards and hold you to them. We will strive for your respect, more so than your friendship, even though that's harder than being "cool" parents. We will love you in ways that feel like smothering and nagging, but trust me, it is love.

We promise to tell you things when the timing is right for us, and for you. We will not scare you or use guilt as a motivator. We will teach you things that you will need to know as you partake in life's greatest adventure: growing up. And that will be hard for us because we want to protect you and keep you from feeling the inevitable pain and heartache that life delivers. But we will do our best because we know that along with the falling and hurting is the growing and soaring and oh so much happiness that life also has in store.

And when you purchase your first pair of lacy underwear, you will remember that you are much more than fancy packaging, because we will always tell you that and show you that. And I would be lying if I didn't also tell you that one day, donning a pair of sexy underwear will be important to you and your husband, that it will be completely appropriate and enjoyable and healthy. But we can't have that conversation until you're much, much older.

Love you forever,

Mom

{J}

Come Home When the Streetlights Come On...

Those words are reminiscent of my childhood. Young and free, we raced through the neighborhood, roller skating, kicking the can and climbing trees...actual trees! We lived in a small suburban town in California. It was very safe.

I'm pretty sure those exact words were used in the marketing materials for the master-planned Ladera Ranch back in the late 90's. At that time, the new, suburban, South Orange County town was flooded with families seeking some fertile soil in which to plant their roots. We were sold! In 2000, husband, baby and I moved into Ladera and have been calling it "home" ever since.

Schools alive with learning, fields packed with soccer practices, neighborhoods lined with pocket parks...this is home. And, for the most part, we feel very safe here. But it doesn't take much to transition from feeling secure to feeling vulnerable. Recently, and unfortunately, our town has been victimized. Our entire town.

The victims are not just the two 12-year-olds playing at the park who, thankfully, escaped attack. All our kids are victims. They hear stories of a school shooting and wonder if it could happen here. They hear about a bad guy lurking in the park and wonder where he's hiding out. My littlest keeps asking if I think he's still in Ladera. My middle says that I don't have to worry about him, that he can run really fast. (He actually can.) But when the rumors spread around town as ruthlessly as head lice, all of our frightened children are the victims.

And they aren't the only ones. With far-reaching and easily-accessible information, fear spreads. We adults see Facebook posts of adorable first-graders taken from this world too young, and we sob, heartbroken for their families. At school pick-ups we swap details with other parents of break-ins, shooting sprees and other crimes, and we wonder how it could happen in our seemingly safe city.

But bad things can happen. Anywhere. So it's our job to be a part of the safe haven that we call home. It's ours to protect. We need to be outside, watching our children and watching out for danger. Conduct a "Stranger-Danger" refresher around the dinner table. Show them what to watch for and carefully explain the scary truth that a cell phone or a friend may not be enough to protect them.

Because bad things can happen. Anytime. So let's make sure our diligence doesn't diminish a year from now, when time has buffered us from these scary events. Remember to sit on the porch when the kids are racing around the neighborhood, skateboarding, dodging the ball, or searching for a mature tree they can actually climb.

After all, we are a village. It's our job to watch out for each other and take ownership of our safety. Let's live and play and make memories. And when the day is done, let's walk each other safely home when the streetlights come on.

{J}

Article from The OC Register 3/22/13

Fitness Craze Piques Curiosity

I am acutely aware of the level of “fitness and health” happening around this town. I feel only partially guilty that I haven’t joined in the “fun” yet.

A few weeks ago my husband, on his way to work at 5am, noticed my neighbor leaving around the same time. Rain or shine, there she was, freezing temps and all. Why you may ask? A boot-camp here in Ladera and the workout starts at 5:15. It must be pretty great because I can’t think of anything short of a crisis with my children or an earthquake that would get me out of my warm bed at that hour. A few of my other neighbors drop their kids off at school like hot potatoes and SPEED to the gym to attempt to get a place in the strength training class. Apparently if you don’t have your name signed in by 7:50am, you have to stand outside the workout room and hope someone will keel over so you can claim their spot. It’s a very popular class.

Juicing is another crazy thing that is sweeping the neighborhood! It’s all the rage. I kind of get it. It’s healthy and tastes pretty good as long as you add pineapple or green apples to the mix of kale, spinach and wheatgrass. But I’m not too sure about the “cleanse” aspect of it. Drink only juice for 7 days?? I think after day one, my family would beg me to eat a muffin just so I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Adding to that, my husband has jumped on this juicing bandwagon. We have a juicer that my in-laws gave us that was “brand new” according to them. When we got it we realized that “brand new” was giving it a little too much credit. It was more like “we bought it 20 years ago and never took it out of the box”. We figured that out when the “instructions for use and cleaning” were on a tape. That’s right, a cassette tape, (for those in their 20’s, please feel free to Google it).

Overall, I know that I need to get motivated to get healthy. I need to get into the NOW. It’s not an easy fix. I will start slow, and although I won’t be up before the sun, you may find me in the produce aisle looking for that perfect mix of green, leafy and sweet. Maybe I’ll even start using modern technology to make that healthy meal.

By the way, does anyone out there have a tape deck? {H}

Holly and Jenn Dare to Suck!

We are brave!

We entered our first, ever writing contest! That may not seem like a big deal, but to two girls who really take writing seriously, and worry sometimes that they may not be as good as it takes, this is BIG!

We wanted to share this with you because you help us. You have a way of making us feel like our stories are interesting and that really helps when we're feeling all vulnerable and exposed, like right now. This put-yourself-out-there-for-REAL-writers-to-judge-your-stuff is not easy, but it is necessary. It's the reason we started this blog...to share all of our writing endeavors and experiences, to learn from the great writer-ly types who have paved the way for dreamers like us, and to welcome the advice and criticism (be gentle) that will help us become better story-tellers and recorders of life's priceless moments.

So here we are, daring to suck and oh so happy to bring you our essays. We have to wait until early April for the results before we can publish our entries here, it's part of the contest rules, but stay tuned... In the meantime, check out this INCREDIBLE group of women who have come together in collaboration and celebration of all women, their talents and dreams. They do AMAZING things! www.abandofwives.com. (It is their "Truth in Words" contest that we enthusiastically entered.)

As always, thank you for your support. We love you!

{H&J}

A Give-away!

I have a special introduction today! AND our very first GIVEAWAY!! Yippee!

Please meet Lesley Grainger, Artist extraordinaire!

Lesley and I used to be neighbors and will be lifelong friends, especially since my youngest keeps wanting to have play-dates with her! Wouldn't you if you got to put on a smock and throw paint at a canvas bigger than yourself?? Creating art! It's great fun and great memories! Lesley creates prints, large canvas paintings, and fabrics, one of which was featured on "The Rock's" Super bowl milk commercial (cute rocket ship pajama bottoms). She has also illustrated for several children's books AND she creates online photo card designs for Wal-Mart!

A woman of many talents and she is offering up a FREE print for you! All you have to do is leave a comment here, on our Facebook page, on Lesley's blog or on her Facebook page. You may enter on all four for a better chance at snagging this great prize! Check out her beautiful prints here! Tell us which one you love! We will randomly choose the winner and announce on Friday. Here is just a sample of what you can see at Lesley's Etsy shop!

Thank you everyone and good luck!

{H}

Mom, Dad: You're on my list!

No one ever told us it would be like this. Maybe it's a conspiracy set in motion by the drug companies, or maybe the generation before us just forgot to mention it, but either way, they didn't warn us enough. I'm talking about the staggering fear that goes hand-in-hand with parenting.

Yesterday, as I sat in a hospital room with my very sweet and very sick, twelve year old daughter, I watched medical professionals poke her, scan her and try to figure out what was ailing her. Meanwhile, I cursed at myself for not carrying a stash of Xanax in my purse. Her heart was racing, her breathing was labored and she couldn't answer simple questions. She was really sick. And while she received much needed care, my heart was sinking, I held my breath and I couldn't imagine how parents of terminally ill children got through stuff like this. I was sick.

The door to our room had a big red warning on it. Anyone who entered donned masks and protective gloves. I felt like we carried the plague. It was eerie.

As it turns out, my big girl was experiencing some serious symptoms of Influenza A. She responded quickly to fluids and proper meds, and her cognitive function increased as her temperature decreased. The scans came back clear and they fixed her up real good.

But I was not so lucky. My anxiety lasted all night. Long after we were discharged, anti-virals in hand, I still suffered: nausea, tachycardia, clamminess, tremors and emotional instability. I was a wreck!

Mom and Dad, why didn't you warn me? You never told me that once a parent, my heart would no longer reside safely in the confines of my chest. That it would divide into three parts and roam the earth, frequently exposed to all varieties of accidents and illnesses. That it would break when my middle wasn't invited to a birthday party. That it would sink when my baby got lost in the grocery store. That it would shatter when my big girl was hospitalized.

Maybe you left the scary parts out because you lived in simpler, safer times. Maybe the anti-anxiety pharmaceuticals paid you off. But despite the current state of my frayed nerves, I'd like to believe that you just wanted me to know the limitless joy that accompanies the fear, and that the rewards of parenting far outweigh the risks. One day, when I get your grandchildren to a safe, all-grown-up age, I will thank you. But for now, I'm a little ticked off.

{J}