The Bad

As I get older, I realize more that there are three sides to every story.  Each person has such  a different perspective and the truth lies somewhere in between.  But what is the truth?, just another subjective idea. 
It also never fails to amaze me how quick we all are to believe the absolute worst of people.
There is a quote from Pretty Woman about the bad stuff being easier to believe. 

Sigh. 

Last time?

This will likely be my last blog. As much as I love blasting all my thoughts into the universe, accepted opinions and controversial, as I move back into the professional world, I need to keep my mouth on the DL. 

A friend asked to meet for coffee today. As much as I truly enjoy her, we have never hung out. My first thought was "Holy shit why?!?! What happened. What could she want from me?". Never just hey maybe she wants to chat. Maybe someone is just trying to be friends, as you have discussed hanging out for 2 years now on social media, but never actually done it.
That's how I roll. I have the best of intentions. I do WANT to spend time if I say I do (if I don't want to, I just avoid the conversation with a haha or something cheap), but I intend to do so when I say it. It just rarely happens. Because I am lazy, because I am busy, because I actually like to sit alone, because I have friends I rarely see and I need to fit them in too... a thousand excuses.
A friend of mine told me sometime last year that I was guarded. My initial response was ME?!?! Guarded?  No way. I am an open book. I am full of love and sunshine and rainbows and acceptance.
Nope, she's right. I am guarded. I am hard to get close to, and I will withdraw from those initial relationships at the first sign of trouble. After the honeymoon though, I am stuck like glue.
As I get older, I realize these things about myself. Maybe I wasn't always that way, and years of disappointments have created it, or maybe I was. My memory is bad. 

So when someone new asks me to hang out, I assume the worst.
I went though, because I truly enjoy this woman and I wanted to spend time with her, regardless of the reason.
Which brings me to my point- and I do have one.
She said she wanted to talk to me because she knew I would be honest. Brutally honest even. In thinking about it afterwards, that is me. Is it popular? No. But it's me.
I struggled for years with who I am. I always thought I was a late bloomer. I found my spot late. I had kids late. I went to university late. I figured out what I want from life late. I had to make some serious mistakes before I knew who I was and what I wanted. I had to go through the shit I DIDN'T want first.
For years I defined myself by the man in my life. I hate to admit that, but it is true. Sometimes genuine passions grew from identifying with his hobbies... and sometimes genuine pain came from them. Sometimes both at once, all convuluted and messed up. It took time and pain and mistakes to realize what I wanted... what kind of eggs I like. (Runaway bride reference. If you got that, we are kindred spirits and you should come over for wine and cookies right now).

I guess all those memes are right- as you get older, you have less f*cks to give. You learn more about yourself and (as my friend said today) you learn to give yourself value. You learn what you are worth, and you are unwilling to accept less.
I am honest. I will not coddle or tell you what you want to hear. Maybe that makes me a good friend, maybe it makes me a shitty one. Maybe both. But it is how I am. Maybe I am guarded; maybe I am intolerant of bullshit; maybe I am lots of good things too.... and even though I strive to be better and be more- I strive to be more authentic. Not different, but more ME. 

Hugs to all who have read my messy blog off and on for a while. I appreciate that someone, somewhere, takes the time to wade through my thought process, offensive or not. Much (guarded and flawed) love to you all.

Plastics

I was at a home party a while ago. If you're a suburban mom, you know the kind. A friend of yours signs up to be a consultant of some merchandise and invites you and all their aquantainces over to eat cheese and look through items you don't really need.... but will buy depending on how much of her cheese you've eaten. They always say "just come, you don't have to buy anything!". Yeah right. So you spend the evening weighing the value of snacks you've consumed against how much you need another smelly bar of wax, or which necklaces will match your yoga pants...then go home and stuff the receipt in your glove box because the hubster decided you should watch your spending.

While standing around the snacks in the kitchen, a friend of mine started talking about looking into a "Mommy Special". To me, a mommy special is a bottle of good red, two advil and Thursday night TV after the kids go to bed. Apparently it's also a nip and a tuck.
Conversation about plastic surgery has become normal at my age. Also normal is that a party is about melted smelly wax and snacks... not sure which is more sad.
I could rant about loving ourselves as we are, acceptance and ridiculous social expectations. I believe all that. I believe we should love ourselves as we are. I believe we are all beautiful. Does that mean I think it's likely? Do I think radical self acceptance is attainable for most people? Sadly No..no I don't. I've been there. I've hated my skin so much I felt like I was in an alien body. We've all been inundated with society's expectations of beauty. I see thousands of images in a day of that unattainable (for most) body, and very few of reality- the stretch marks, saggy belly, the dimply bum. One is beautiful I guess and one is not.
The recovery is glossed over in these conversations. The idea of being sliced open and introducing that stress to our physical and mental bodies is minimized. The end result is all that matters.... and that scares me.
I wrote about the same idea with my hair blog, this is really just a more extreme version of that. I tell my kids all the time that being kind is more important than being pretty.... but am I really showing them that?
A very close friend of mine got implants a few years ago. I didn't understand her choice, but I didn't need to since it wasn't mine. She commented that I used to want them, and didn't I still?
I almost got them done. There was a time in my life when I had the cc amount, the Dr consult and the credit to get them. I read all I could about over vs under, lifting and recovery after etc. I had a date. But I didn't.
Now I wouldn't.
(Note- I wrote the top part of this months ago. Then I saved it, not knowing how to end it or where to go without looking like a judgemental bitch. I knew I had more to say, but wasn't sure how to say it.... I've said before that my choices aren't yours. They aren't anyone elses, and you don't have to agree with them. Just as I don't have to agree or understand yours. If you are getting offended, please go watch a cat video and know I love you no matter what you do. Unless I don't love you, then wtf are you reading this for anyways?).

This I wrote today. There are some redundancies and it doesn't always make sense strung together, but I have shit to do.

I was at a another party recently. It used to be 30th Birthday parties... now it's 40's. Lol. I vaguely recollect (through wine colored googles) a conversation about boobs, and surgery. I remember saying I didn't want any.
I remember feeling the need to defend myself, because I remember everyone looking at me like I was insane. I had to defend why I DIDN'T want plastic surgery....
That doesn't mean I think I am perfect, as by now you should know. That doesn't mean I think I am superior, or even that I have given up (maybe a little, but not enough to buy Mom jeans yet). It means I am afraid of cutting my body open and putting it through even more trauma. This old body has been through enough punishment and hatred. The last thing it needs is elective surgery. I am afraid of reacting to anesthetic and dying and leaving my children without a mother from my own vanity.  I am afraid of the explanations to my children and how that would affect how they see themselves. My daughter tells me I am beautiful- who am I to tell her she's wrong? I am mostly afraid that it would be yet another band aid solution to the greater issue of self loathing.
I have come a long way in loving myself. I still have a long way to go, but I now appreciate it's a journey. For me, likely a life long one. I have created babies, I can lift moderately heavy things and I can fit into most of my pants most of the time. I try to be kind and I own a push up bra.
I am enough. Just as I am.

Pity party

I am being a baby.
I generally try to be mindful and grateful. It comes fairly naturally to me now, and I routinely have teary eyed moments where the joy and appreciation for my life washes over me.
This week I am being a baby.
We aren't going on a holiday. I don't get a beach vacation. The economy sucks.  Our income is down, bonuses aren't coming, we did renos. So logically I know we aren't going. We went to the Bahamas last Jan for my dad's bday. So logically I know I agreed to take a year off big vacations. We got a lake lot for the kids. Logically I know we've spent the extra.
Logically. I've never been an overly local cat though.
My heart wants palm trees and ocean breezes and swimming kids and all inclusive Pina coladas. 
Sigh.
I look at sale prices. I gaze longingly at others vacay pics and get a little pouty.
I realize what an entitled little baby I am being. I realize that people are hungry, unable to pay their mortgages, homeless and terrified. I realize all those things- Logically. 
Ever try to reason with a spazzing 4 year old? That's how I feel.  G yelled at me this morning for making her 4 pancakes when she only wanted one. That made no sense. I didn't tell her she had to eat all 4, there were just 4 in the pan. When I tried to tell her that, she flipped out and stormed off to her room.
I want to storm off. To a room in Cancun. 
Double sigh.
I'm not sure when I decided I deserved a holiday every year, or Lululemon yoga pants, or a fancy suv, or a newer house. Most of the time, I am not this way, but I do have to routinely check myself. It usually comes in comparisons..and comparisons as they say, are indeed the thief of joy.
So today I will be mindful or what I have, and not focus on what I don't.  This too shall pass... but maybe I'll look at a holiday savings account for next year 😅

Defining

I am a hockey mom.
I am pretty much everything stereotypical that goes along with that. I wear Uggs and leggings/ skinny jeans to the rink. I stop at Tims on the way to get a giant coffee. I drive an SUV. I am learning which rinks you bring your own water to, which rinks are cold as f*ck and where all the washrooms are (that coffee comes out pretty fast). I am fiercely proud of my little player, and I have fantasized about throwing a throat punch at the other team. I never would of course, as I have completed my Respect in Sport Course lol.
I am also a preschool mom. A new ringette mom. A gymnastics mom. I've been a soccer mom, a basketball mom, an art class mom, a room rep, a PTA mom...
I'm called A's mom. G's mom (I won't type out my kids names because the internet). I am the Beard's wife. I am the bootcamp trainer. I am the yoga teacher. I have been the runner, the Spartan racer, the figure competitor, the junior high teacher.... But I am not enough of any these things to put a sticker on my car. I am the sum of all of them, and yet still more.#hockeymom #rinklife #noidentityofmyown
See how these labels go on and on and on. Occasionally I am actually called Cara.
My point is that I am defined by none of these things. Many of them are a fleeting season in my life. Many of them are life long labels. I find so many fellow moms defining themselves by these labels. Hockey is not all we have. I have my own accomplishments that I am proud of, as I hope my children do. I am not JUST a hockey mom. I am not JUST a mom. I am not only a wife. I am me. I am a separate entity. I am certainly not defined by my children's accomplishments.  What will you be when hockey (insert child's activity here) is done (since none of our children are going to the NHL lets be honest)... Which group will you cling to to identify with?
I was thinking about women as we age.  We become the hockey/ soccer/ working/ pinterest mom. How can you not? My life is consumed by my family at this point. I admit that I adore it. I love watching my children learn, and grow, and be active. My calendar rarely has a blank space, but when it does- I relish every second. How can we avoid losing ourselves in all this? When the activities and driving kids all over town is done... what will fill my time?
I have heard from many women that they lost themselves. I have heard many women blame their spouses for losing themselves. I hate to say this ladies, but if you lose who you are... you allowed someone to take that from you. Over years and years, we get chipped away. I get that. It happens in small pieces and suddenly you realize you are so far from who you actually are that you don't know how to get back, or even what it is you need to get back to.
Be more than someone's mom. Be more than someone's wife. Somehow, some way, make time to be YOURSELF. Sometimes, you have to be persistent. Sometimes, your family may balk at this and wonder why you are being selfish. What kind of mother spends time doing things they enjoy, when there is ALWAYS laundry to do, pee to wipe up, a bake sale to bake for, a child to read to, a meeting to attend.....a good mother. A mother intent on preserving herself for the long term gain of her family.
Maybe this happens to men too, I have no idea. I only speak to what I do know.

We talk about self care all the time. I feel sometimes we have gone too far in our generation, and are so worried about time away, that we don't appreciate what we have. Trips without kids, girls trips, guys trips- but that is a blog for another time.
Self care brings you back to the core of yourself. I lost myself in a sea of resentment years ago, and it took yoga to bring me back. Maybe yoga isn't your jam. I lost myself in a sea of competing many years ago, and it took a divorce, a ton of therapy, eating disorders and a drunk summer to bring me back. Maybe that wasn't the best way....
I am certainly not saying get divorced or abandon your children. I am saying deal before it gets there. Don't allow yourself to be chipped away. Be the greatest hockey mom, but be the greatest YOU too. The kids are going to leave you, as devastating as that is, and do you want to look across from your spouse and having nothing to say? Invest in you. Invest in him. Invest in the relationship- and how can you invest in him if you have nothing left? Do something only for you. Something that makes you feel like you. Like the old you, before your calendar became a mess of color coordinated activities. Before people called you the wife... when you just had one name.
Because you're amazing. Just you. Just as you really are.

Things no one told me...

*Note- I started writing this last week on the first week of school, but had to step away because I kept crying. I am a baby and I cry a lot. Not in front of people, so if you're surprised it's ok. I cry alone, and apparently while writing things. I am posting it today, in honor of my biggest little turning 7 tomorrow. I find myself feeling weepy all over again... I have yet to get through a birthday of one of my children without crying. *

I read all the baby books. I read all there was to read about pregnancy, post pregnancy, attachment parenting, natural consequences, sleep solutions... I felt prepared. I had an ed degree and isn't that really just 4 years learning how to raise kids? I had seen other people parent and knew exactly what I would never do. I knew it all.
Until I had a kid. Then another kid. And I realized I didn't know anything.

No one told me that breastfeeding wasn't easy. No one told me my birth plan wasn't worth the paper it was written on, and that I'd have to have a c-section, and since that wasn't part of my type A birth plan I had no idea how to deal. No one told me my belly would look like deflated bread dough for months after, regardless of what I ate or exercised. No one told me about how my boobs would entirely change after two babies, and i would barely recognize myself anymore. No one told me I would have drenching night sweats, or migraines, or awful depression from the hormones post baby.  No one told me about the resentment that would build up boiling hot in my chest when my husband got to go out for work lunches or golf and I was at home trying to make sure the baby had enough tummy time so he wasn't a stunted freak.No one told me it's ok (and accepted even in most cultures) to cosleep if that's what the baby needed- instead I lay awake convinced I would roll over him and smother him to death... while all he wanted was to be close to me.
No one told me how I would be so far from the mother I thought I would be. No one told me I would pause mid-yell (or even YELL at all!) and be horrified at the words coming out of my mouth. No one told me that after 7 years of rarely sleeping through the night I would have to force myself to be kind at 3am to my wide awake child instead of my natural instinct to yell "would you freaking  sleep already?!?!". No one told me about the guilt over working, the guilt over not working enough, or reading enough or doing enough crafts or creating an independent thinker or creating an obedient child. No one told me about the guilt.
No one told me that not every mom dances when their kids go to school. No one told me that the hardest thing I would face in the first few years was not interfering or running onto the ice when my child was sobbing as he learned to skate. No one told me how it would rip my heart apart when my child was upset over not being included in a birthday party and not having an answer to his why. No one told me I would worry about absolutely everything, all day, every day.  No one told me that most nights after they went to bed I would sit and think of all the times I could've and should've done better. No one told me that family vacations would be more work than vacation, and no one told me that trips without the kids would result in an ache without them.
No one told me that sometimes liking my child would be a struggle but the mama bear love would never fade... even if they were being the most annoying human on the face of the planet.
No one told me that the greatest moment of a day (week, month) would be a chubby, sticky arm around my neck while reading Barnyard Dance for the 150th time. Or of a heavy body sagging into me as they fell asleep on my lap. Or of a big boy saying "Mom I forgot to give you a hug!!" And running back to me before he walks into his grade 2 class. Or of a big girl telling me she will be ok by herself at preschool, as I sob in my car alone- so proud of the little person she is, but at the same time so scared of the world she has to navigate.
My kids went back to school this week
Grade 2 and preK.  I've been a mom for 7 years. And I've learned how little I know in that 7 years. I've learned that the mom I planned to be, isn't the mom I am. I'm still learning to give myself a fucking break when I am doing my best, and sometimes I need a swift kick in the ass, because I'm NOT doing my best. These kids deserve my best. Maybe not every minute of every day, but most minutes and most days. Just because I'm tired, or stressed, or at my daily limit of being touched... my words and actions will shape who they become and how they feel about themselves.  No one told me that either. The enormous responsibility it is to create a human.
7 years is nothing. 7 years is a fart in the wind. I have no answers and I have no advice.  Maybe it'll get easier, but I doubt it.
Most of all, no one told me that the saying about how "having a child means your heart is walking around outside your body", wasn't just an adorable plaque to hang on a wall.It's an agonizing truth. A wonderful, life changing, exhausting truth.

Squad goals

I don't have a squad. I don't have a big group of girls that do ladies nights. There are no pics on my fb of girls nights out in the city, because they don't exist. If I died tomorrow, there would likely be a quite a few people at my funeral. Very few of those people would know what I was doing, feeling or dealing with in the days leading up to my untimely death. Morbid I know. But true.
Sometimes I am really lonely. Those weekend nights after the kids are gone to bed and I have two glasses of wine and I scroll through others super fun party pics. I generally enjoy alone time, because I have so little of it.  I have a few girlfriends who are solid and wonderful that I love and trust. I have a few others who are mommy friends, or hockey friends, or work friends. I love them too, but the space is always there. I don't have anyone who walks into my house without knocking, or anyone who's kids will grow up with mine, their memories all entwined. I'm also a bad friend because life gets busy and I forget to keep up. I need friends who get that too. I'm also an understanding friend because I totally get it. 
I saw Bad Mom's with a friend who I hope becomes a closer friend. She's one of those rarities who is fun, who genuinely likes her husband and who has real conversations. I said I was sad that I didn't have a squad. She said she had one, they just all lived in her house.
Sometimes I stop talking and listen. Sometimes things percolate in my busy brain and I think about them for days. This was one.
Girlfriends are important. Integral to sanity even. But the 3 people that live in my house are it. They are my squad. They are my everything. Sometimes I miss the days of dressing up and hitting the clubs, but I hate missing bedtime and snuggles more. I'm pretty sure my dress lulus aren't club appropriate anyways.