Mother's Day Gifts

It was the verbal equivalent of the old yawn and stretch maneuver that you see a teen-age boy use in 1950s movies to inconspicuously put his arm around a girl’s shoulder.

“So… mom… What’s your favorite breakfast?” he asked casually on Tuesday night. “I mean, if you didn’t have to make it.”

When I started to tell Junius my preferences -- two eggs over medium, bacon, fruit, maybe half an English muffin -- he asked me if I could write it down. You know, casually.

"No," I replied with a smile. "But you can."

The conversation continued as he carefully wrote down my breakfast menu, then moved on to asking about my favorite restaurants for dinner. You know, just because, no reason. Not like Mother's Day is coming up or anything.

When he finished writing, he folded the paper in half, turned away from me to write "Mothers day" with three underlines on the outside and took the page upstairs.

It was about the cutest conversation I've had with my son in a long time. Even if he doesn't manage to use the list (although I suspect my lovely husband will help make it happen), watching him delight in his sneaky strategy to be nice to me was a gift in itself.

For those of you wondering what to get your mom (or the mother of your children) to celebrate her day on Sunday, here's my suggestion: Think luxury.

I don't mean a luxury automobile or a luxury vacation (although if that's within your budget, those are totally good options). Instead, think of the little luxuries that mom wishes she had time/money for and give her the means to enjoy them -- even if that little luxury is her favorite homemade breakfast or just a quiet hour alone in the hammock with a good book and iced cocktail.

But if you really want to be impressive, here are my suggestions of everyday luxuries I'd love to have in my weekly or monthly budget -- and I'm betting lots of other moms would, too:

1. Housekeeper: There's nothing better than coming home to a clean house when you didn't have to do any of the work. Okay, maybe coming home to a clean house where the maid service didn't turn on your gas fireplace and leave it burning when they left the house hours earlier -- but that's a different story. Anywho, even if it were just an occasional deep clean, it's always nice to enjoy your house without having to think about the mess.
2. Car wash: I hate a dirty car. And with two kids (plus the occasional friend) in the back seat every day, there’s no way to keep all the dirt on the outside. Between the raisins and the tissues and the string cheese wrappers and the leaves and the mud and… well, it’s gross back there. Plus all this springtime pollen makes a mess of the outside, too. A clean car just feels more civilized.
3. Massage: Even when things are going well, life can be stressful and exhausting. Between keeping up a more regular exercise schedule, working at a desk and generally chasing my children around, I’d love an hour – okay, maybe 90 minutes – to close my eyes, listen to soothing (if a little cheesy) nature-sounds music and let go of the stress. 
4. Mani/pedi: I love a pretty polish (especially on my toes), but this one isn’t really about having colorful nails. It’s more about having healthy-looking (and feeling) hands and feet. Again, between the exercising and the dish-washing, my extremities get a little rough. And it’s just so nice to be taken care of by someone who doesn’t need anything from me. 
5. Haircut: If you have short hair, you know that you really need to get it cut at least every six weeks. I try to stretch it to seven or eight weeks to conserve cash, but I always hate my hair that last week or two. If money and scheduling were no object, I’d get a haircut once a month. That way it always looks fresh – and I’d look like I just stepped out of a salon more often.
6. Fresh flowers: Even if my house isn't really clean, it looks cleaner if there are fresh flowers by the front door and on the dining room table. It's like I can't even see the piles on the counter or the dishes in the sink when there's a vase of white hydrangeas in view. Shoes scattered around the foyer seem to fade away if I'm greeted by a wildflower bouquet. They don't have to be formal or fancy, just fresh. 

Let us know what's on your little luxuries list... leave a note in the comments.

It's a Girl

This post is from my piece at last year's Listen to Your Mother show in Raleigh. You can watch me here, but I realized I never posted the text. Excited to go see this year's show tonight as an audience member!

When she’s older, my daughter will probably hate me for saying this, or even thinking it. But I didn’t want to have a girl.

My son was about to turn two that Father’s Day morning when I peed on the stick and realized we were going to have another baby. Junius was finally starting to sleep more at night. Life was just beginning to feel manageable again. While I was excited to be pregnant, I was equally overwhelmed by the idea of beginning it all again.

As the weeks went by, my second pregnancy mirrored the first. I was tired, but never sick and only occasionally queasy. Girth increased steadily with weight, matching the first pregnancy pound for pound and inch for inch week by week.

This baby is a boy, I thought -- just like the first. If it were a girl, I would know. I would feel different and I would be vomiting. But everything was the same and I was relieved.

I imagined we would become “Cyndi and the boys.” Our sons would be buddies and build LEGOS and play basketball. My husband would take them camping and fishing on weekends while I stayed home and went for pedicures and read books. Yes, they might be loud or messy, but it would be worth it.

It’s the American way: boys love their mamas. They would love me, cherish me and never, ever turn on me.

Because ladies, let’s be honest. We save the really bad shit for our mamas.

I wasn’t a crazy or rebellious kid. I have always had a good relationship with both of my parents. But in my teen years, something changed. I was mean to my mother and treated her in ways that I never would my father. Even when I wasn’t upset with my mom, I still held back my disaster meltdown moments until she was the only one around to deal with me.

The best of daughters seem to go through rough times with their mothers. And that’s the good ones. The rest wind up hating their moms, vowing never to be like them, and rolling their eyes and yelling obscenities at them.

So when the ultrasound revealed that this new baby was a girl? I was terrified.

And I hated myself for it.

I was supposed to be excited. A son AND a daughter. One of each! Isn’t that what everyone wants? Slugs and snails meets sugar and spice. The perfect family.

Except that I wanted a matched set. Wouldn’t it be so much easier -- and so much less frightening -- to have another boy? I was getting good at being a boy mama. Starting over with a newborn was scary enough without the specter of one day having to share my house with a hormonal pre-teen girl.

For two weeks, my husband and I didn’t tell anyone we’d found out it was a girl -- not even our parents or our son. We practiced at home saying “she” and “her” instead of “it” and “the baby.” We talked about girl names. We thought about friends who had painted nurseries pink in preparation, only to discover on birth day that their baby had been hiding his little boy parts when the ultrasound tech was looking. Maybe the ultrasound was wrong?

Of course it wasn’t wrong. Our baby girl arrived as scheduled on Feb. 22, 2008, beautiful and round and perfect.

It turns out that I was wrong about not wanting a daughter. The last months of my pregnancy gave me time to get used to the idea. When she was born, I already knew her -- and I loved her immediately. Five years later, Pippi is sweet and funny and crazy smart. She sings and dances constantly through each day, strutting her stuff in pink cowgirl boots and mismatched outfits. She possesses a powerful confidence at age five that will hopefully carry her far in life.

But it also turns out that I was kind of right to be afraid. Pippi may only be five, but she’s already giving me a run for my money. She saves her worst behavior for me and her best for her teachers. She tells lies and tests limits and pushes my buttons in ways that make me grind my teeth and bang my head into my hands. She is a Daddy’s Girl -- apparently it takes one to make one -- and she already seems to know that she can be meaner to me than she treats him.

She is the best and worst of having a daughter. And I am lucky to have made her.

So I try hard to give her the most important things my mother has always given me. A patient ear. A loving heart. A shoulder to cry on. And a wonderful father for the many times ahead when she doesn’t want any of those things from me.

LTYM: Watch Me Read to You!

Who knew that watching a video of myself presenting my writing on stage at the Listen to Your Mother show in May would make me more nervous than actually presenting my writing on stage at the show? But when I got the email today saying the videos had been posted, my heart started racing and my palms got all sweaty.

Watching myself is crazy weird. That's all I have to say about that.

But I loved being part of this show with our amazing producers Marty and Keanne and all of the great cast members, so I absolutely must share it with you. Now go fix yourself a beverage, find a comfortable spot to sit, and settle in to watch our show...



After you've watched all the awesomeness from the Raleigh-Durham show (trust me when I tell you to it's worth watching them ALL), be sure to check out the other 23 cities. 

The LTYM video launch is made possible thanks to our national video sponsor The Partnership at Drugfree.org. We are proud to promote their message of preventing prescription drug misuse and abuse.  Take a moment and check out The Medicine Abuse Project to learn more and join me in taking the Pledge.

LTYM Raleigh-Durham would also like to thank local video sponsor Myriad Media for videoing the performances.

Eye of the Beholder

Throughout my life, my mom has always told me that I'm pretty. That's a great thing for a girl's ego -- except that often my mother does it in the context of disparaging herself at the same time.

"I wish my hair were shiny and beautiful like yours -- mine is so gray and flat now."

"You have such a nice figure -- I can't wear dresses like that anymore."

"Your teeth are so straight and white -- I've always hated my teeth."

The truth is that my mom is pretty -- and I look a lot like her, so it must be true. She's also 28 years older than I am, so I have a bit of an advantage.

Her habit of putting herself down while simultaneously lifting me up always makes me self-conscious. It's not a competition, I want to tell her. We are always our own worst critics (see the latest from Dove's "Real Beauty" campaign for more on that one). We're both getting older and changing, but I like to believe that neither one of us looks our age.

Then I look at Pippi. And suddenly I see what my mom sees when she looks at me. She's perfect and gorgeous and way more amazing than I am -- but unlike me, she has always looked more like her dad than her mom.

Until today.

This afternoon, Pippi and I went to our favorite salon so that she could get a summer haircut and donate her beautiful, shiny, sun-streaked ponytail to Pantene Beautiful Lengths. As Stephanie snipped and trimmed a sassy little bob and Pippi winked and grinned at herself in the mirror, I watched my long-haired daughter start to look just a little like me for the first time.

Looking at her wearing my haircut -- and grinning from ear to ear -- made my heart melt just a little. When I texted pictures to my husband so he could see the new do, he texted back, "Beautiful! She looks like you now ;)" -- and that made me melt just a little bit more.

It's a funny thing about motherhood, how each stage makes me understand something about my own mother. I'm starting to get it, what she sees when she looks at me. When I look at Pippi, I know she's prettier than I am -- the difference is that she's already got such a big head (literally and figuratively), that I'll be keeping that opinion to myself.

Click here to see the 1977 photo of my mom and me in our matching (Dorothy Hamill) haircuts, along with photos of Pippi's first haircut.

A Prayer for the Living

When seniors Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold stormed into Columbine High School and murdered 12 classmates and one teacher before committing suicide on an April morning in 1999, I was an 11th grade English teacher in Charlotte, NC. That afternoon, I sat on a desk in front of the television in my empty classroom, paralyzed by the story playing out on the news.

That could have happened at my school, I thought. Could have happened at any school. And I was terrified, trying to imagine what I would have done if I'd been the teacher facing the end of a loaded shotgun.

This past Friday, when the news alert landed in my inbox with the headline "'Several' Students, Adults Dead After Elementary School Shooting In Conn.," I was frozen again. But this time the fear was different. This time I wasn't in a North Carolina classroom -- this time, my son was.

The rational part of my brain knew he was fine, knew the situation was unspeakably horrible but also hundreds of miles away. Still, the rest of me -- all the mom parts of me -- needed to get to my son as quickly as possible and hold him close.

Since Friday afternoon, I've read pieces of articles, heard bits of stories, all of which stop me in my tracks and reduce me to tears so that I'm forced to look away. After Columbine, I was scared. But Sandy Hook has pierced down under my skin, broken into my heart in ways that I cannot really explain except to say that I am a mom now. When I think of those in the school who were both teachers and parents, I cannot even comprehend what they experienced.

I hear the story of the police officer who slipped his badge under the door so the kids in hiding would know it was safe to come out, listen to the rabbi talk about trying to help a grieving mother breathe, read about one father who found his child alive and another father who didn't, imagine the terror everyone must have felt -- and my brain simply starts to shut down. My heart constricts, my stomach drops, I can't breathe. If my child were among the missing, I am certain that I would simply cease to exist.

And yet these parents are still breathing, in spite of it all.

So that is all I can think to pray for today. Please, God, help the survivors to breathe. Find air for them to fill their lungs so they can find a way back to living. Make space for them -- the parents and students and teachers -- to catch a breath now and then that will be deep enough to force the pain out and lift them up to the light for just a moment.

Guest Post: Support Strollerthon, Support Moms

My name is Suzanne, and I author the blog pretty*swell. I’m so grateful for Cyndi sharing her space today for a cause close to my heart.

The StrollerThon, benefiting Postpartum Education and Support, is this Saturday in Apex, N.C. If you live nearby, it’s not too late to register! We’re also hosting an online raffle of a beautiful Bumbleride stroller. Tickets are only $5, and you don’t need to be present to win.

Proceeds from the raffle and event will allow our organization to keep helping moms beat perinatal mood disorders like postpartum depression and anxiety.

Here is the story of Jodi, one of our warrior moms, in her own words:

I had my breakdown about a year ago. It was a Monday morning, still very clear in my mind, and I was eight weeks postpartum with my second child. My son was sick, again, and I was crying so hard I could barely text my mom to have her come over immediately. I waited anxiously at the door with a screaming, ill child and greeted her by handing over my son, saying, "I can’t do this anymore." She had me call my doctor that morning, and I can’t thank her enough for starting me on the road to accepting and recovering from PPD.

The anxiety and depression were both new to me, and I only experienced mild baby blues with my daughter. My son, N, was a huge Christmas morning surprise to my husband and me (two pink lines? What?), and nine months later my cute little boy was born, unaware of the challenges that awaited him.　

He had a very bumpy first three months and was sick often: N had everything from harlequin color change to dairy intolerance. All of this weighed me down, spending countless hours at doctor appointments, pharmacies and "researching" on the internet. I was overwhelmed. I felt guilty, exhausted, constantly sick to my stomach, and I cried many, many times a day.

I didn’t want to show any sign of weakness.　

My anxiety came in the form of the clock; it was my worst enemy. I would time N’s feedings with a stopwatch, starting the timer before getting him latched on just to add a few extra seconds. I couldn’t help myself, and I knew it was silly, but it’s just what I HAD to do. I had alarms on when to feed him, when to wake him, when I should wake, when I should sleep, and I was basically driving myself over the edge. I didn’t sleep much, and the insomnia was becoming dangerous: I vividly remember driving alone one night and seriously considering crashing my car just so I could get some rest in a hospital.　

My depression surfaced during those long, lonely hours at night. I dreaded the sun going down, because I felt so ALONE, and was I left with my fears and guilt. My husband was fantastic and caring, my parents were helpful, but I just couldn’t shake the darkness that enveloped my life. I felt like I was living in a deep black hole and struggling not to sink deeper. I was scared to be alone with both children, scared to leave the house, and scared to admit that I needed help and wasn’t as strong as I thought.　

Through an online moms forum, I read about Moms Supporting Moms and was willing to give it a chance. After sobbing my way through my introduction and hearing others talk, I felt so comforted knowing that I wasn’t crazy and that there were moms there that *got* my feelings of guilt, anxiety and depression. If it weren’t for the caring and understanding moms I met through Moms Supporting Moms, along with my wonderful family, I wouldn’t have been able to heal like I have.

It’s been a long road, but light and happiness now fill my life, and I say yes, I can beat PPD.　

So can you.

*To register for the StrollerThon or buy raffle tickets for the Bumbleride stroller, click here.*

Note from Cyndi: Thanks to Suzanne and Jodi for their work in support of moms in need! Please check out the links above and help in whatever way you can.

The 12 Days of Mommy's Christmas Wish-List

On the first day of Christmas,
my children gave to me
a chance to pee in privacy.

On the second day of Christmas,
my children gave to me
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the third day of Christmas,
my children gave to me
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my children gave to me
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my children gave to me
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my children gave to me
six days a playing,
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my children gave to me
seven toys a cleaned up,
six days a playing,
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my children gave to me
eight easy bedtimes,
seven toys a cleaned up,
six days a playing,
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my children gave to me
nine "please" and "thank yous,"
eight easy bedtimes,
seven toys a cleaning,
six days a playing,
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my children gave to me
ten laughs a tickling,
nine "please" and "thank yous,"
eight easy bedtimes,
seven toys a cleaning,
six days a playing,
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my children gave to me
eleven "Love you, Mommy,"
ten laughs a tickling,
nine "please" and "thank yous,"
eight easy bedtimes,
seven toys a cleaning,
six days a playing,
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me
twelve solo trips shopping,
eleven "Love you, Mommy,"
ten laughs a tickling,
nine "please" and "thank yous,"
eight easy bedtimes,
seven toys a cleaning,
six days a playing,
five FULL nights' sleep...
four great big hugs,
three whine-free meals,
two smiling faces,
and a chance to pee in privacy.

Guest Post: Supporting Postpartum Moms

When Junius was born, it rocked my world -- and not always in a good way. I vividly remember sitting in the rocking chair of my room, sobbing while I held my newborn son because I thought my life might never be okay again. I don't know that I officially had postpartum depression, but I know that I couldn't have made it through that time without a lot of help and support. 


That's why I'm happy to welcome Suzanne from pretty*swell with today's guest post. Suzanne is sharing her story on behalf of Postpartum Education and Support, the umbrella organization of Moms Supporting Moms. PES is hosting its first-ever StrollerThon fundraiser on Oct. 2 at Bond Park in Cary. In addition to the three-mile walk, there will be Tot Trot races, inflatable games, face-painting and fun for the whole family. All are welcome – strollers not required! 


Now, in her own words, here's Suzanne...

______________

When I opened the door to my first Moms Supporting Moms meeting, I wanted to turn on my heel and walk right back out.

I was terrified. And embarrassed. Even though every single woman in that room had been in my shoes.

So I sucked in a deep breath, let go of the handle and sat down. As each person in the circle took a turn introducing herself and sharing her story, relief began to wash over me. I remember thinking: These women are describing exactly how I feel. I’m not alone.

I’m not crazy.

I can’t tell you how validating (and supremely comforting) it was to recognize that I was not the only person on the planet struggling with postpartum depression. That I had nothing to be ashamed of. And, most importantly, that it did not make me a bad mother.

Hopelessness and chronic anxiety, sleeplessness and crying had dominated my frame of mind since my daughter was a few days old. I was terrified to be alone with her, and I dreaded nighttime because I knew it meant that I would not sleep.

Walking to the mailbox was a feat. I did not want to leave my living room.

But when my haven began to feel like a cave swallowing me whole and my fears grew more irrational and the crying did not stop, I decided it was time for help.

I reached out to my family, talked with my next-door neighbor (whose kindness and grace will forever be cemented in my heart), called my doctor and went to Moms Supporting Moms meetings every week.

Quickly, I began to heal.

The women in that group – the new moms like me and the “survivor moms” who facilitated our conversations – helped save me.

If you’re a new mom struggling with postpartum depression or anxiety, please know that you are NOT alone. Ask for the help that you deserve. Check out a Moms Supporting Moms meeting.

And please know that you WILL feel better.

I’m living proof.


*Join us for StrollerThon fundraiser on Oct. 2 at Bond Park in Cary -- good exercise, great fun and an important cause. All are welcome – strollers not required! 

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 5

continued from yesterday

Richard, an Australian who has been Mwenya’s partner for seven years, has been supportive of her decision to come to Cardiff. “He feels I’ve got a lot of potential in consulting,” she says smiling. “It’s a really big sacrifice for him, but he says he did it out of love so it’s worth it.”

Mwenya says Richard misses her the most at night when he’s alone in their large home, although she says he copes by staying busy. “You know how men are,” she laughs, filling the house with the sound, “macho about everything.  But we talk every day, and he consults me about everything. We haven’t broken that relationship.”

Her parents have also encouraged her to pursue higher degrees.  “They’re from a very enlightened family, so they value education a lot. Every time my mom calls, she says, ‘As soon as you finish that MBA, you have to go do your Ph.D.’”

Like Carol, Mwenya believes coming to Cardiff was a good decision, but friends – here and at home – have found that choice difficult to accept. “People ask, ‘How can you do that to your kids?’  I tell them I’m not doing anything to my kids,” she says firmly, shaking her tiny braids. “It’s a pity that there will be a one-year separation, but sometimes in life you have to take decisions. They might sound selfish to other people, but sometimes you have to take decisions and get on with your life.”

She hopes that her children will learn from her and never become complacent. “I try to impress upon them the importance of education. They must never think, ‘We’ve come from a good home. Mom and Richard are doing things for us, so we can sit back.’ I’m trying to set an example for them.”

Being a role model is especially important in Zambia, according to Mwenya. “As African women, we’ve got all the odds against us. It’s really some kind of achievement for an African woman – especially a married African woman – to leave her family and come study,” she says. “People think once you’ve finished school and you’re working and married with kids, that’s it. I’ve tried to tell people there are so many opportunities out there. If you’ve got talent or opportunities, you should use them.”

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 4

continued from yesterday

After having a good cry with Carol, talking to Mwenya, a taller woman with high cheekbones and dark brown skin, is easy. There are no tears – only laughter, strength and a determined confidence to be a role model for other Zambian women.

Mwenya has worked as a supervisor for the Central Bank of Zambia for the past 12 years. Her job is very demanding, but provides a comfortable salary of £2,500 per month in addition to allowances for travel, education and utilities. She chose to pursue an MBA to increase her marketability in the private sector. “I don’t want to be a Central Banker for the rest of my life. I need to branch out and do something for myself,” she says, suggesting that she might join her partner Richard in his consulting business or possibly open a small orphanage.

She had considered getting an MBA previously, but something always stopped her. “There’d be a major change at the office, or my children were changing schools,” she says. “But I told myself, come year 2000 I just had to do it.” Although she was offered a place at the University of Zambia, she chose to come to Cardiff’s one-year programme for a more globally diverse education.

“I started telling the kids I wanted to do this about five years ago, and it became a joke,” she says. “It was like, ‘Oh Mom, that’s what you said last year.’” When they realised she was actually going, the joking ended.  “They couldn’t understand why I had to go away because I still had another degree and a good job. Initially it was very difficult for everybody.”

To make things easier for Richard, whose work keeps him very busy, they chose to send the three children to boarding schools at a total cost of over £5,000 for the year. Gamphani, 13, was already planning to attend a residential school, so the separation was less disruptive for him. Mwansa, 10, and Lukonde, 8, who attend a different school that sends them home on the weekends, weren’t happy at first. “They rebelled against it, but they’re really pampered at school.  Now they don’t want to come home.”

Although Mwenya knows her kids miss her, she does not worry much about them. “They’d have probably missed me more if they’d been at home,” she says. “I’m happy because I know that they like their schools, and Richard gives them a lot of support. He doesn’t give them a reason to start missing me.”

continued tomorrow

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 3

continued from yesterday

In September 1998 Carol began her studies in Cardiff’s Diploma in Business Administration (DBA), a nine-month degree and prerequisite for the MBA. “The first month in Cardiff I can’t remember. I was like a walking zombie because my heart and my soul were at home. Only my body was here.”

She says she survived that first year because of her flatmates. “They were lively, happy people,” she says smiling. “We were a family. We had our differences, but they could see that I was suffering and they helped me.”

Returning in September 1999 to complete the MBA after three months at home was not any easier than her first departure. “Leaving gets worse. The distance makes you become even too close. When I have to go, it is like trying to part something that is stuck as one,” she says, weaving her small fingers together.

Carol has found her second year at Cardiff to be even more difficult, missing both her family and her former flatmates. “This year has been the worst for me. I’ve been depressed, plus some of the company I have in this house doesn’t make me feel better,” she says, gesturing that she doesn’t mean me. Envisioning her family relaxing at the weekends in the comfortable lounge of their three-bedroom house doesn’t help matters.

The MBA, a difficult, intensive programme, has also provided academic challenges that caused Carol to fear that she might not pass the course.  “I cannot suffer so much and then get nothing at the end.  The grief, the pain, the torture, and then you don’t get what you came here for?” she says, fidgeting with her rings and fighting back tears.  “But I believe in God and I kept on privately praying.”

She now feels encouraged by assistance from two other students and has adopted a new attitude towards the course.  “From now onwards I’m not giving up on myself.  I nearly buried myself, so I have to fight to be alive,” she says with determination.  Carol often spends 60 hours per week working on the MBA.

In addition to her concerns here, Carol also worries about her family at home.  “Every day I receive emails saying, ‘We miss you Mom.’  I see things deeper, like their results going down,” she says, frowning.  “I know I’m hurting them.  I feel guilty because I know deep down they are not happy.”

Carol says Patrick is counting the weeks until her return, but she sees benefits for him.  “It’s good for him because he’s getting closer to his daughters.  He has to fix them breakfast, buy them clothes, do shopping with them – everything,” she says.  “It’s a learning process for him.”  She also believes the distance has made her marriage stronger, bringing them emotionally closer.

Ultimately Carol knows she made the right choice in coming to Cardiff and sees herself as a role model for her daughters.  “I hope they’ve learned to live without me, to be patient, to know that in order to get something good sometimes you have to suffer first,” she says, setting her strong jaw.  “Staying home wouldn’t be fruitful for me.  In the long run, it will bring pain to me because I could lose my position.  So that’s a lesson for them – they should weigh situations, even if there’s some heartache.”

continued tomorrow

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 2

continued from yesterday

Carol, a short woman with a bright smile that flashes across her brown skin, works as a consultant for the Ministry of Public Service in Swaziland, evaluating new positions within departments. She completed short-term training in Botswana in 1995, earning a Certificate in Management Services. “It was painful to be away from home,” she says, “but I was close enough to go home by bus for the weekend, so it was easier for me.”

When her turn came for long-term training in Cardiff, her managers’ preference, she did not want to participate. “I applied, trusting they would reject me,” she says. “I gladly sent my undergraduate transcripts because they were not nice – I thought they would say, ‘Okay, you are hopeless.’ I was devastated when they admitted me.”

Her next prayer was that the funding would fall through, but she was granted the scholarship. “There the feeling started,” she says, twisting the ends of her short hair. “It’s like your heart is sinking inside you.”

Because the other employees in her department already have MBAs, Carol needed the degree in order to progress. A promotion would also nearly double her current salary, the equivalent of £400 per month, making it easier to afford the private school her daughters attend.

Carol’s husband, Patrick, supported her decision to get an MBA.  He works as an Under Secretary in the Manpower Development Department of the government and already has a Master’s degree from the US.

When they explained the situation to Una, 10, and Sonia, 7, the daughters accepted it at first. “But as the time got nearer, they started crying.  That’s what really tore me apart,” says Carol, her brown eyes turning red with the memory. “Some days I would pretend that I’d be okay, but inside I would be dead. Sometimes I would just cry with them. We’d all be on the bed together – the kids would cry, I’d be crying, and I’d look at my husband and his eyes were red. Everybody was crying in the family.”

As painful as the decision was, Carol knew she had to go. “You feel like your heart is being torn apart. At the same time, I can’t forfeit this opportunity. It’s for my future and their future.” She feared that refusal to complete the training scheme in Cardiff could result in eventual dismissal from her job.

continued tomorrow

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 1

Before I showed up for grad school at UNC and found my husband teaching Intro to Public Relations, I spent a year in a professional degree program at Cardiff University in Wales. That year changed me in so many ways, thanks in part to the women who were assigned as my flatmates.

This week, I'd like to share with you an article I wrote at the end of my course there. It's a little schmaltzy in places, but it tells the story of two amazing women. At the time that I lived with them, I found their stories incredible -- now ten years later, as a mother and wife who is the age they were then, I am profoundly moved by their courage and grace.

The SITSgirls recently asked "What woman (other than your mother) inspires you?" Here's my answer, from May 2000 (retold in five parts, because it's too long for a single blog post):

***

I have never felt as alone as I did last September. At age 26, I had left my home in North Carolina – my family, my friends, my job, my car – to study for a year at Cardiff University. I was living in a very plain university flat, sharing a bathroom and kitchen with four strangers. For two weeks, I was convinced that my heart would actually stop from homesickness, or that my eyes would become permanently red from crying myself to sleep.

But my perspective changed drastically when I began to talk to two of my flatmates who had come from Africa for a Master’s in Business Administration, a programme comprised almost entirely of overseas students. Carol Muir, 35, and Mwenya Nyirongo, 38, had not only left their friends and their jobs – they had also said good-bye to their husbands and children for the year.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so homesick anymore.

continued tomorrow

A Most Amazing Gift

Five minutes. That's about how old this baby was when I held him for the first time. The freshest baby I've ever had in my arms -- and he's not even mine.

Junius and Pippi were at least two hours old by the time I got to cradle them, count their toes, marvel at their tiny, long fingers. That's among the crazy things about having a c-section -- during those first precious hours, you're still flat on your back in the operating room and recovery while someone else is taking care of the tiny person they just pulled out of your body.

Then last week, I got to be that "someone else" for my dear friend S, who asked me to follow her sweet baby boy from delivery to recovery to take pictures of him. As someone who's had two c-sections, I knew something of what my friend was thinking about while strapped onto that operating table -- but she may never fully know the amazing gift she gave to me by inviting me into those first minutes and hours with her son.

In many ways, it was just hospital routines -- checking his reflexes and vital signs, cleaning him up, poking at him, warming him under the little heat lamp. But for me, it was this magical missing piece that I'd never seen before. This beautiful baby will never remember that I was the one there with him during his first hour, but I will never forget.

Dating Women Sucks

Three years ago this month, my husband and I sold our house in Raleigh, packed up our stuff (and two-year-old Junius) and moved in with my parents in Greensboro so that we could be closer to a job opportunity. Two months later, we bought a house there and attempted to settle in before Pippi arrived -- which is to say I was on a desperate hunt for friends before the newborn craziness started.

I loitered at parks near my neighborhood, hovered around the baby pool, practically stalked women by the entrance at Junius's preschool. Some women ignored me, but most were nice and many stopped to chat -- still, nothing clicked. It felt like I was 21 again, trying to meet guys at a bar ("Hey, didn't you go to Carolina?"), but worse -- no loud music or alcohol to mask the awkwardness, and with a crazy toddler at my side.

When I spied a similarly pregnant mom with a young son at the Children's Museum one day that fall, I nearly threw myself at her feet -- as our boys miraculously started playing nicely beside each other at the train table, we had enough time to talk and discover that our baby girls were due within a month of each other. Before she left, she asked for my phone number. That night, I'm pretty sure my husband thought I'd gotten digits from Brad Pitt -- I was that excited. "SHE asked me for MY number!" I kept saying, like somehow that made me seem more desirable.

This scene flashed through my mind last week when Brenna at Suburban Snapshots wrote about the difficulties she's had making good friends as a full-time working mom in her 30s. "Is there a cut-off to making lasting friendships?" she asked. The post clearly resonated with lots of people -- within days, she had 50 comments and 46 shares on Facebook, mostly from women who were facing the same loneliness, whether they were SAHM, WAHM or full-time in an office with no children.

The truth is that dating women sucks. I realize I don't shower every day and sometimes I'm kind of opinionated, but I like to think I'm generally a socially acceptable, easy-going, relatively interesting person -- and finding good friends was really hard. Maybe it's just that we're all so busy -- with jobs, kids, husbands, houses and more. Maybe, as some of Brenna's commenters noted, making friends in motherhood is more complicated -- it's harder to put on a pretty face when you've got baby spit-up down your back and your 3-year-old is screaming because another kid just whacked him on the nose.

As it turned out, our stay in Greensboro lasted less than a year before we moved back to the same neighborhood we'd just left in Raleigh. (It's a long story and requires adult beverages, so feel free to invite me over if you really want to hear it.) And so I was blessed (and I mean that literally) to come back to a group of friends who were still here and still loved me. But I've never forgotten those lonely days, wandering the stacks of the children's section at the Greensboro library, hoping some cool mom and I might reach for the same Curious George book at the same time and realize we were destined to be friends.

So when you see that mom who looks like she's eavesdropping on your conversation at the park, invite her in next time. It will do you little harm and do someone else immeasurable good. Dating is hard enough without having to come up with a pick-up line at the swings.

Friendship necklace photo from HandCraftedCollectibles. I never had my own.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Back in the day, my mom and I had nearly matching haircuts. Dorothy Hamill-style, natch -- I mean, it was the 70s. This was us (plus my brother, who did not have the matching haircut, much to his relief).

As I got older, I grew my hair out long, then cut it short, then long-ish, then very short, then long again, then perms (ah, the 80s), then short-ish again, then very long and finally landed in some version of my current 'do after college. Around these parts, I believe the technical term for my style is "the Raleigh bob," although I like to think my cut has a little more sass than that.

I tell you all of this as a set-up for what Pippi did for the first time yesterday.

She went from this...

...to this (notice the lollipop we had to use to bribe her into the chair)...

...to this...

...which, if you look at my profile picture on the right,
is pretty much the same haircut I have now. 

And motherhood comes full circle once again. Although I don't recall my mom teaching me to say, "Pippi has a sassy haircut!" when I was a girl.

For Super Dylan's Mom

Three years ago this summer, I spent a couple of days with Junius at Duke Children's Hospital. Fortunately for both of us, Junius wasn't sick -- we were there visiting our buddy, Super Dylan.

If you'd seen Junius and Super D during those visits, you wouldn't have guessed that either one of them was sick. They looked like any other pair of almost two-year-olds as they took turns pulling each other through the lobby in a wagon and chased each other around the fountain and the hospital playground -- this picture shows them playing on the floor in D's hospital room. But the truth is that Super D's powerful, feisty exterior hides the cystic fibrosis that threatens his life and keeps his lungs and digestive system from working properly.

At the time, we didn't even know Dylan and his family very well -- we were neighbors who were just becoming friends. But I'll never forget those visits and what I learned from watching Dylan's mom. During that 2-week stay at Duke three years ago, she never left the hospital. Two weeks. Never left, not even when friends or family were there with Dylan. Although I don't know what I would do if I were in her shoes, I do know that that much time in a hospital would make me crazy.

Yet she never complained (at least not out loud), never looked flustered, never seemed to resent being stuck. She just advocated for her son, loved him, helped him in every way that she could -- just as she does every day of the year.

So on this Mother's Day, I invite you to make a gift to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation and our Super Dylan team. We're walking on Saturday to raise money to help Dylan -- but I'm sure that finding a cure would be the best Mother's Day gift for his mom and thousands of other moms around the world.

P.S. Dylan's mom is probably going to be annoyed with me for writing this post. She doesn't like attention and doesn't seem to think that she's anything extraordinary (which she is). So please make a gift, however small, so that she'll be a little less irritated with me. To learn more about CF and the Foundation, visit cff.org.