Maternity Leave Limbo Land

I am in the middle of a little bit of an identity crisis.  Being on an extended 18 week maternity leave has allowed me to put work on the back-burner and really focus on my family, in particular getting to know my beautiful little ladies, Eme and Brynn.  But although my days are focused on feedings, diaper changes, and finger painting, I am not a stay at home mom.  I do have a career outside the home and some days, especially when I check my email too often, it calls to me from down the road, begging for my attention.  

Because my work schedule follows the school calendar, I am fortunate to only have to go back to work for 8 weeks before being able to be home again for summer vacation.  I think that knowledge has allowed me to feel even more removed than I would be if there were still several months left in the school year.  Even so, I am still invested and connected to the school in which I work and the kids inside it.  I also know that whatever is going on within the walls of that school building today will effect me and my work come April 23rd, making it impossible to really put it out of my mind.

Now, I am use to balancing work and my family.  I have been a mother for two years and three months, and I have learned to manage wearing those two hats simultaneously.  Not that it's ever been easy or simple, but I have figured out how to feel good about my work as a school counselor and my forever job of being a mother.  I have also learned that there are times in which one role needs my focus more than the other and that it's okay to turn down the volume on my mommy meter and let my work persona take over (or visa-versa).  This is one of those times when I am suppose to be a mommy first and foremost but although my work radar is lowered considerable, it isn't totally turned off.  Those work sounds: the cries of crises, the guidance lessons, the lunch groups, and crowded meetings, still hum in my ear.  They're not loud enough to cover the coos or cries of my girls or the giggles and jokes of my toddler but they make a background noise that's pretty difficult to ignore and trying to do so takes up energy I would rather leave for other things.

If I could, I would love to stop working until all three of my kids are in kindergarten.  I would love to pack up "School Counselor Bri", and put her into a closet somewhere with my classroom guidance lessons, my DSM-IV, and my basket of fidgets, and keep her safely tucked away (out of hearing distance) for about 5 years when all four of us (the kids and I) could happily make the track to school together.  But alas, we cannot afford for me to stay home and I have learned to be okay with that.  I am so blessed to have a career and a job that I love that isn't just a paycheck but also something I find incredibly rewarding and on most days, enjoyable.  The school calendar allows me 10 weeks in a row every year to be home with my kiddos.  We get to enjoy beautiful, warm Maine summers frolicking on beaches, playgrounds, and inside state parks (not really something to complain too much about).  I also have practically every holiday known to man off, as well as snow days, and three other vacation weeks (not bad for a family girl).  

I have a good gig.  I will still miss my kids horribly when I go back inside those brick walls in the spring and will probably feel a little sorry for myself for having to leave my simple but lovable life at home but I do know it could be a lot worse and considerably harder.  I feel for those women who don't have any vacation time or have jobs that they get nothing else out of besides a paycheck (if you are reading this and are in one of these situations, please accept a hug and a pat on the back from me).

So here I am, happily lost inside maternity leave limbo land.  Eight more weeks ahead of me to stick my metaphorical career head in the sand and focus only on the little people who now lay on my lap and hang off my back.  But I never forget that only a couple of miles down the road 600 of my little friends play, learn, and grow in that winding, brick building with my office inside full of my things but currently inhabited by a stranger.  That room and those children await my return and, although other difficult feelings will be flying around for me those first days back, I will be happy to see my students' smiling faces and to catch up on all they've been up to during my not so complete absence.  

My Life in 1969

Welcome to 1969!  Hello, blue shag carpets!

No, I'm not using fuzzy math, I wasn't really kicking it in 1969 with all the other groovy people but the house in which I sit sure was.  1969 was the year this elegant spilt level house was built, with it's blue shag carpeting, patriotic wallpaper, and speckled laminate countertop.  The day we moved in it screamed 1960's and it's still at least whispering it's ode to the decade to this day.  

We decided to fulfill the American dream of being property owners about 5 years ago.  We were one of the many unlucky fools that bought right before the real estate bubble burst, removing the rose colored glasses from many American's eyes.  Back when qualifying for a mortgage was easier than opening a savings account, I was beyond excited about home ownership.   I felt especially lucky since I was making this all important purchase with a guy who could handle most home improvement projects and fix many of the issues I imagined could arise when you owned a piece of the American pie.  

When it came to shopping for a home, I surprised myself.  I am not someone who enjoys shopping.   A trip to the mall is not my idea of a good time.  When I do have to venture out for something specific, I have about a half hour window before I burn out, get a headache, and head for home, even if it's empty handed.  I am also usually VERY indecisive.  In order to make a purchase I have to be in love with the item in question and I still usually need a second (or third, or forth) opinion before taking the long walk to the cash register.  Home buying was strangely different for me.  I really enjoyed looking at houses and picturing the life I might have inside.  I also suddenly had the urge to jump right in and buy every other house we looked at.  For once, my husband was the voice of reason and our real estate agent was fortunately a friend who wasn't just commission hungry.  

Because my husband was ready and able (so he claimed) to fix up whatever house we bought, we focused on those houses which could use some TLC and able hands to spruce them up.  We had visions of a house we could take some personal credit for and one we could make some moolah out of when we went to sell (something we laughably thought would happen in 2-4 years).  We looked at some really beautiful houses in our price range that were already in close to tip-top shape but passed in search of one that was in need of our love and affection (those houses with their updated kitchens and shiny, new siding now haunt my dreams).  

On a rainy day in June we found what we were looking for in a white split level house with blue shutters, sandwiched between two other lovely split levels.  It was sort of like a party for retro houses, except most of the other houses in this affluent town wouldn't be caught dead attending.  But at the time, we didn't see it that way at all.  I at least, saw this house as my little piece of heaven.

I was 25 when I first stepped foot into the house in which I now reside.  The fact that someone was going to let me own a home was unbelievable to me.  I wanted to hurry up and buy before someone took away my adult card, realizing I was just a child playing dress up, sending me back to the kid table.  The fact that we were even looking at a house in this town was unbelievable to me.  In my mind only extremely successful doctors, lawyers, and politicians lived in this coastal community.  I was instantly in love with this humble abode, eagle over the door and all.  To me it looked gigantic, like it could house 10 offspring (which is good since I've come closer to that than I ever imagined).  Instead of being deterred by the blue shag carpeting that covered 75% of the house (even the living room and bathroom was carpeted) and the wall paper with flags, hearts, and huge purple flowers, I pictured the house we would have in a matter of weeks with hard wood and tile floors, and walls painted with clean, conservative colors.  I saw every downside as an adventure and an investment.  I wanted to make an offer that minute, that very second.  A month later we were spending our very first night in our very own 1969 home (every little girl's dream).

Today I see this house a little differently.  Many of the projects that were going to be done that first summer are left unchecked on a disheveled to do list filed away in some  untouched drawer.  It turns out that on most days my husband doesn't want to come home and do more of the work on his own house that he has spent all day doing on someone elses.  While we haven't walked on blue-shag carpet in quite some time, we do still have siding and a deck that have seen much better days (like back in the 70's).  Although I do believe in counting my blessings, as I am driving home I often wish I was pulling into the house across the street or better yet further down the road on the OTHER side of town.  

Today as I write this little blog entry, I wish I had those 25 year old eyes back.  Because the fact of the matter is that we're not going to be building our dream house anytime soon (not with three kids in diapers anyway).  This is our home today, and for the next few hundred at least.  I need to spend more time looking around and feeling blessed to have a house to raise my kids in that we can afford to keep and to heat (although sometimes just barely), and to have a backyard and enough space for my toddler to play.  So the 1969 split level packaging isn't perfect and it isn't what I would choose if I had to choose again, it is what I have and it is the setting of 5 years of some of the best memories of my life.  I remind myself that some people would do backflips to have this house or any house.  And that 25 year old me would probably have done backflips if she could have, upon having our offer accepted all those years ago.  In conclusion, I am working on more happily living my 1969 life and all the blue shutters, pink tiles, and turquoise garages that it comes with.  It is, after all, a fairly wonderful life.  

Better You Than Me

32 weeks pregnant with my girls & feeling pretty good about it!

So anyone that has ever been pregnant can tell you that people say some pretty dumb "insert expletive" to women who appear to be with child.  When I was pregnant with my son I was shocked by the comments and questions of some of my friends, family, and acquaintances, let alone total strangers.  For some reason many people seem to feel like pregnant women no longer have the right to their personal space bubble or a right to keep private information private.

But my experiences with the stupidity (maybe ignorance is a kinder, more appropriate word) of some during my first pregnancy, did not even begin to prepare me for the comments, questions, and general demeanor of people when they discovered I was having twins.  My girls are now 9 weeks old and I am still haunted by some of the awkward conversations I was faced with at a time when I was already pretty uncomfortable.  

Please don't get me wrong, most people were totally lovely and supportive about my family almost doubling in size.  I found the words of moms of multiples to be especially calming, positive, and helpful.  But some people would have been much better off with a simple "hello" in passing or "congratulations" when told of my crowded uterus.  

Since having my girls comments of the insensitive variety have not stopped but now that my daughters are here and I've found I am still able to breathe, speak, walk, and perform other functions essential for life, these comments don't have the ability to shake me as they once did. 

So here it is, for your viewing pleasure, my list of things NOT to say to someone who has or is prengant with twins.  And yes, all of these things were said to me at least once.

• "Was it planned?"  Come on people, really?  Who plans for twins?!  I'm not sure if these people (yes, this is one that I've been asked several times) were really inquiring about our use or nonuse of fertility drugs or to see if our daughters were conceived through IVF, which, in case you were wondering, is also not okay to ask.  Or perhaps they were questioning if the pregnancy itself was planned, once again, unless you are a really close friend, not appropriate to ask of a stranger or causal acquaintance.  

• "You know how hard that's going to be, right?"  Didn't your mother ever tell you that if you can't say anything nice you shouldn't say anything at all?  Basically telling someone that you think the rest of their life is going to be a living hell isn't nice, not nice at all.   

• "Why don't you hurry up and have that baby already?"  This is actually not okay to say to any woman at any time, ever.   A total stranger said this to me at the mall.  You should have seen her face when I told her in my bitchiest voice that I certainly hoped that I wouldn't have my babies any time soon, since I was only 30 weeks along!  Take that, jerk!

• "You look about 6 inches bigger than last week!"  Or any other comment that involves guessing about  size or weight increase.  Bottom line if you wouldn't (or better yet shouldn't) say it to a woman who is not pregnant, then it is equally not okay to say it to a woman with child or in my case, children.  

• And the most annoying thing ever said to me regarding having my girls, "Better you than me."  I'm not sure why this one bothered me so much, perhaps it was the tone and body language of this total stranger.  Said woman looked at me like I had some contagious disease that she might catch if she got too close.  I'm not a violent person but I'm pretty confident that if she had stuck around much longer she would have instead caught my fist on her face (not very school counselor like of me).  

I'm sure if I kept thinking about it I could come up with at least a dozen more bothersome comments but I feel the need to contain this rant and get back to the wonderful world of my three cute little monsters and all the smiles, throw up, love, and blow-outs they give me.  Because honestly, even though I have considered calling a mental institution once or twice, it is an amazing life and I feel so lucky to be living it.  

Double duty!

Foolish Family

Three Generations of Educators 

I am a third generation elementary school educator.  My grandmother taught primary school.  My mother was a preschool teacher and now teaches 3rd grade.  I am a K-4 school counselor, specializing in playing with puppets and building with legos.  I have found that in order to work well with young children two things are essential: 1) you need to be willing to make a fool of yourself on a daily basis and, 2) you need to have the ability to memorize every nursery rhyme or silly song ever written (this skill will also help you with skill #1).  Both nature and nurture helped me to strengthen these necessary skill-sets and, as a result, I can entertain my children and friends for hours on end with a variety of children's songs and poems without ever having to repeat myself and without putting too much thought into my audience's characterization of my mental state.  I have also discovered, through incidents described below, that a gift for creating your own prose and then attempting to pass it off as commonplace, often goes along with these other inherent traits.  This, my friend, is where my story for today lies. 

A few years ago I was showing off both my skills of memory and of tomfoolery by singing the theme songs to the cartoons of the early 80's.  I was on a streak when the friend I was with brought up the inspiring and gripping show "Today's Special", which happened to be an old-school favorite of mine.  I started belting out the lyrics to the opening song: "Muffy Mouse comes to visit our house every morning at 6:30.  She talks in rhyme all the time while telling her little stories."  But instead of  applause or praise for my excellent rendition of the classic song, my friend insisted that I was mistaken and hummed out an entirely different tune, which he believed to be the theme song.  While the song he referenced did sound familiar, I was positive that I was correct and my song was the one that started the show.  

Although confident in my position, I needed back up to prove my case.  So, I called my role-model in all things ridiculous and random, the woman who bore me from her loins, my Mother.  But when I started singing what I believed to be the theme song to my beloved show, I was met with a strange, worrisome silence.  What happened next was not only devastating but would begin a pattern of embarrassment and disappointment that would last a lifetime.  

Mom, Ben, & I (twins in tow)  

That was the day I discovered that I had been deceived.   The song that I had so confidently sung to my friend was in fact created by my devious mother to lure preschool aged me from my warm bed in the morning and downstairs to my bowl of cereal and favorite morning television show.  If this had been the one and only incident of betrayal and deceit I might have been able to move on with my childhood and integrity intact but I am sorry to tell you that this is not where this story ends.  


Mere months later I was having a small dinner party at my apartment when I made a comment about my lack of cooking and domestic skills. I said, "I am no Kitchen Canary."  But again, I was met with confused, blank eyes.  "Bri, what the hell is a Kitchen Canary?!", one friend responded.  I replied that it was a saying, of course, meaning that I couldn't bee-bob around the kitchen with ease.  After consulting with all the other party goers, it was clear that I was the only person present who was familiar with this clearly (at least to me) common place expression.  I had not yet learned my lesson, so again I consulted with my sayings, songs, and silly poem guru.  This time my Mother did not falter and insisted that "Kitchen Canary" was an often used American phrase.  But in the face of much controversy (my growing swarm of opposing friends) she followed up with her own foolishness expert, aka my Grandmother.  My Mom got a taste of her own medicine as she was met with the same awkward silence she had recently given me.  It turned out kitchen canaries hadn't traveled outside my extended family and was a creation  of my Grandmother.  

These incidents have now happened enough times that I question every song, phrase, and rhyme that comes out of my mouth, quite the burden to bare.  Since my Grandmother passed away a couple of years ago, we are often not able to trace the origin of some of our favorite silly sayings.  So, we give her the credit and a smile, and know that she is looking down and laughing at us for the confusion her craftiness caused.  

Now I am charged with the responsibility of creating silly songs and poems for my own children that they will mistakenly believe all of their pals will also know.  I look forward to the day when they look to me for confirmation after a performance of unrecognized material and I get to fill them in on the foolish truth.  Inflicting embarrassment and the opportunity for ridicule on your own offspring, the pleasures of being a parent! 

My Mother & Grandmother

Because I know he will demand credit, I should say that it was my Father's idea to write about this topic.  Look for future entries to be centered on him, as he is perhaps the biggest character of all (at least in my immediate family).  

Marrying My Best Girlfriend

In honor of Valentines Day (a holiday either adored or despised depending on your perspective and relationship status) this post is about falling in love, which in my case was by accident and without realizing it was happening at all.  

Getting married robbed me of one of my best god-given skills, dating.  In my late teens and early 20's I really was (if I do say so myself) an exceptional dater.  Attracting others and starting a romantic connection really is a game and to play it well you need to know which cards to throw when, which parts of yourself to fluff up and which to hide all together.   You need to be able to adapt and predict your partners next move before it happens, know when to pull away and when to open up a little.  

I understood pretty early on that romantic relationships with the opposite sex were best played carefully and coyly.  My trouble was knowing when to stop playing the game and being able to develop trust and true caring for a person who I had looked at for weeks as an opponent in an elaborate chess game I was determined to win (sometimes only for the sake of saying I won).  For me, romantic relationships were based on pretty rocky ground, not quite a lie but definitely a partial truth, making it almost impossible for me to truly let my guard down, let alone fall in love.  If I had continued to date in attempt to make a romantic connection, hoping that it would eventually lead to love and marriage, I am fairly confident I would still be single today.  But that sly little devil called love, found me another way entirely.  

Things with my husband, Sean, might have started with an awkward dinner and a quiet movie and ultimately led to nothing at all, except that when I first met him in the year 2000 Sean was deathly shy and, in large part due to past relationships, terrified of girls.  So when I smiled and flirtatiously tossed the handouts to the cute but prematurely balding boy behind me in labor history class, I got no response, figured he must be a loser for not finding me adorable and moved on.  Fortunately for all involved, our paths crossed again when we were both at our favorite bar with our buddies.  Sean's BFF was interested in my BFF.  The boys invited my girlfriend and I to sit at their table and while we did hit it off, there were no sparks to be seen, no feelings of instant romantic chemistry.  Instead, we became friends- the generic, platonic kind. 

But, as often happens when boys and girls become friends, Sean got into a relationship with someone who didn't appreciate him having a female side-kick and confidant, and we grew apart.  By the time that relationship ended, I was in the middle of a long term relationship myself.  Sean became our plus one and was often seen out and about with my boyfriend and I.  When I wanted to stay in but my BF wanted a night on the town, Sean would stay home and play a board-game with me or watch television.  If this was a movie, some flakey romantic comedy, most of you would already know what was going to happen next and who would end up together but Sean and I were both blind to the path we were on.  Sean became known as "my best girlfriend" (this was how I introduced him) and even as my current relationship was falling apart, advised both my boyfriend and I to try and work it out, and supported and comforted us both when it didn't.  

In those next few months Sean and I became fairly inseparable.  If either of us was aware of any romantic feelings, we hid them pretty well.  I dated other people.  Sean kissed other girls.  We were totally oblivious, until we weren't, and then we were terrified.  The other two times I fell in love I knew it was happening, I could feel myself falling.  It was like jumping to the earth from space, there was time to think about it, maybe even time to catch yourself if you really wanted to.  This was like a car accident where one moment you are driving safely on a familiar street and then, after dozing off for just a second or two, you find yourself off the road and crashed into a large tree.  By the time I realized I was in love with my now husband it was far too late to pull back, put my guard up, or pretend to not be quite so flawed.  And he will tell you it was pretty similar for him too.  So, while watching Keanu Reeves (possibly the worst actor in the universe) in The Lake House, we owned up to our feelings and decided to give it a go.  

Almost six years later, my very best girlfriend is now my husband.  Together we have a mortgage, a decent CD collection, and three small children.    Because it feels like we have been friends forever, and because he loved me and really knew me long before he ever tried to get in my pants, I trust him entirely and don't ever feel like I need to hold anything back.  We laugh a lot and still think the other is pretty cute and fun to be around to boot.  

So, on this Valentines Day I feel the need to thank Cupid (or whoever is up there looking out for misguided people like Sean and I) for helping me to find and fall in love with my science loving, story telling, big belly buttoned, husband.  I hope that if you (the reader of my little blog) don't currently have this kind of love that you have faith that it is on it's way to you.  Keep your eyes and heart open, it might be coming in an unexpected way.  

My Big Blue Backpack

Like most people in their early thirties, my life has changed fairly drastically in the last ten years.  12 packs of beer have been replaced with bottles of breastmilk.  Trips to the gym traded for play dates with other women in sweats and their overly active toddlers.  In fact, as I look around, I struggle to find any evidence or traces of the lifestyle I led back in the early 00's.

  

As I search to find something that connects Bri circa 2002 with the Bri of today only one item stands out.  The one and only item that seems to have stood the test of time is a large, blue LL Bean backpack, purchased the summer before my senior year in college when I spent a month traveling and studying in Europe.  

The trip was organized by the university.  The professors in charge advised us to travel light to ensure that flights were made and trains were caught.  I was one of the only students (at least the female ones) who took the advice and the LL Bean backpack was key to having all the essential items in a compact and organized place.  Packing up my things as we moved from city to city, country to country became even easier after I left many of my clothing items in a laundry room in the Netherlands after oversleeping and almost missing the cab to the airport.  I prefer not to share the details to the public at-large but lets just say a handsome British cricket player was involved in the incident.  

Fast forward 9 years or so, and instead of finding me at a bar, a frat house, overseas, or a funky coffee shop, you will find me in my living room with my three adorable, but not necessarily all especially planned for, children.  My two year old son is currently pretending to be a "horse", which involves growling and hopping.  One of my 8 week old daughters is passed out on my lap as I type, and the other stirs in her bouncy seat, making faces that lead me to believe she is in the middle of some work that will soon require my attention.  This is now my life and, for the most part, I love it.  

But in my view, sitting by the sliding glass door in my kitchen, is that same big blue LL Bean backpack that once walked down the Red Light District in Amsterdam and came close to being left behind on the Tube in London.  That same large backpack with it's pockets and compartments, now makes an accommodating diaper bag for me and my three small children.  It's days of holding make up, flasks, and foreign trinkets are over.  These days, all of those zippered compartments make space for diapers and wipes, burp clothes and nursing pads.  

You might think that I look at that bag and feel remorse or nostalgia, that I might wish to return to those exciting, freeing days.  But instead of symbolizing what was or the person I use to be, that simple backpack instead reminds me of my evolution, reminds me of the path I took to become the person I am today with the amazing life that I have.  And I have a feeling that backpack of mine hasn't seen it's last adventure quite yet.  

So this is me, and whatever your reason for taking the time to read this little blog, thanks.  I'll try to come up with interesting things to say and make an attempt to write somewhat regularly.  But please do keep in mind I do have three kids under three, brain cells and time are hard to come by.  Also, my punctuation and spelling leave something to be desired, either ignore or correct kindly if you must.  Until next time, keep living the dream (whatever that might be).