You Can't Fight Crime in a Thong: Mysogynist Madness

So, if you're like me and raising a daughter, have you noticed it's not getting any easier making sure she knows her worth isn't in her looks? Do you, like me, fear her highest aspiration will be only to be a Real Housewife, or God forbid, a Bachelorette? Luckily, my daughter has two older brothers, so she is constantly exposed to their toys, books, and shows. She's into action, so it wasn't too surprising when she asked for a Wonder Woman party for her birthday last year.

Now, the superhero world is clearly male-dominated, sure, but did you know it's practically impossible to buy Wonder Woman or Super Girl party decorations, toys, or clothes? When it comes to girls' toys, entertainment, and clothes, your choice is pretty much pretty much princess, diva, or brat. And even if you do see a strong, capable female in the media, she's always all tarted up. I'm looking at you, Lara Croft.

For further example, the new Justice League comic is out. And sure enough, Wonder Woman is hypersexualized. Here's some fun via Bleeding Cool: let's see what the male superheroes look like when they're posed like Wonder Woman (complete with the actual rendering of her at the bottom):



Men would never stand for such nonsense. I mean really, people. It's 2011. Are you basing your daughter's worth subtly on her looks? Are you praising your son for his efforts and your daughter for how pretty she is? Why are young girls' clothes getting sluttier and sluttier? Related: my daughter's young tuchus will never sport a message, thanks. When I see a pre-teen girl wearing the word "Juicy" across her behind, I fear a future on the pole for her.

And speaking of poles, shouldn't we be a little embarrassed we're speaking about poles? Pole dancing has come out of the strip clubs and into the fitness clubs. Ten year old model Thylane Lena-Rose Blondeau is featured spread out suggestively in the name of "fashion." Suri Cruise rocks high heels at age four. What's next? A porn career for Dora the Explorer?

Seriously, folks. If you're parenting, gain some awareness about how you interact with your daughter. If you're a female, check yourself. Are you sending the message of body acceptance? Or are you reinforcing the message that you are who you wear...and it better not be over a size 6? Make sure she understands her worth is based on the content of her character and how she behaves, not the size of her behind or what brand's stamped on it. Oh, a little princess fun can't hurt anyone. But raising a generation of women who think the only vehicle to success is being hot? Then I'm pretty sure the terrorists win. 

Kids' Parties: Now With Less Sucking!

Well, it's that time of year again at Chez Counce. My sons, also known as The Boys of Summer, also known as Borg Designations 1 of 3 and 2 of 3, are having birthdays this week (yes, I had two sons two years apart in hottest time of the year in the hottest place in the country. It's how I roll). Time once again for their combined children's birthday party, also known as: The Seventh Canto of Hell.

Seriously, children's birthday parties are a beating, whether you're the parent throwing one or attending one. I'm channeling the Grinch: oh the noise, noise, noise, noise. Have a couple of children, though, and count on it: you'll be attending one of these beauties practically every weekend (this will be chapter four of my upcoming book: They Did Not Tell Me This at the Hospital).

And I'm sorry to say, parents, I've been to some real turds of parties you've put on. Don't get me wrong! Clearly you just lack some insight into how to make your children's party suck less for the adults and yes, even the children. Luckily, you have me. Let me edu-tain you regarding some key ways to avoid your child's party torturing the adults who are compelled to attend as well.

Let's begin, as they say, at the beginning. Is your party at your home? Is it too much to answer the door yourself, ask me who I am, grin at my face, and introduce me to the other adults? DO IT OR SUCK. Or if you have help answering the door, please have it be someone who knows how to make eye contact and actually greet me and who will lead me to you, the host, and say something like "Oh, look! 1 of 3 and his mother are here!" At which point you take over the welcoming. It sounds complicated, but I know working together, we can do it. Acquire breeding, that is.

You, the host or hostess, should be on the lookout for arrivals whatever the setting. Smile at these people who come bearing gifts. Realize these parents would rather be having a root canal. Give some sign we're in this together, people. I even make the rounds to all the adults during the party to spread some chat around equally. We hate those three moms who always clique up and leave some other poor woman studying her manicure by the bounce house. It's called warmth. Look into it.

It's not gonna kill you to have something for adults to snack on, too. I'm not saying make it a reception, but I'm supplying water, fruit, and veg for my adult guests to snack on while their offspring wear themselves out. And enough pizza and cake for the adults, too. Just because we're over four feet tall doesn't mean we don't want to shove frosted roses in our faces.

Make sure your venue is age appropriate. Two year olds don't know what "treasure" means. Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not make me take her by the wrist and drag her all over a sports complex through crowds of people on a hunt for one. And take it easy on the scheduling of crafty projects. Bob Vila couldn't complete some of the crazy kits you Intensive Mothering types find at wherever you crazy OCD ladies shop.

Sorry to say it, mom, but the cutesy games, themes, and activities you came up with ain't about your kid. And they make me work too freaking hard. I barely managed to get a shower to get to your kid's party. I'm not in the mood to get in the floor and laminate a place mat. Right before we decorate our own cupcakes and cobble a shoe for a party favor.

And speaking of those favors: can we all just agree that the minute we get home we take that plastic Chinese crap and toss it in the trash? There. I've said it aloud. I am not going to look down on you if you don't have some cheesy gift bag for my already over-indulged kid. He gets presents for just staying awake already, practically, and I'll just be stepping on the damn things in the dark. Got a balloon? Let's call it even.

So wish me luck this weekend as my boys celebrate their natal days with their friends. If any of the children's parties I attend in the future suck less, my work here will have been done. And if you're one of the lucky parents who will be attending the birthday bash for the Counce kids, you're welcome. I'm just sorry the bounce house doesn't serve hooch.

Shut The Smurf Up

That's it. It's official. I want to spray for Smurfs.

I mean it. The only reason this piece of odiferous pablum is at the top of the box office is because of, I do believe, the ungodly summer heat. Parents would take the kiddies to see Caligula at this point if it was animated and the theater was air conditioned. Admit it.

It's not like we parents have had a lot to choose from the craptacular selection of children's cinema this summer. We've had Jim Carrey (UGH. For another rant) and his penguins. We've had Larry the Cable Guy (UGH UGH UGH) and a bunch of explosions. We've had a remake of Pooh, evidently because there WILL NEVER BE ANOTHER ORIGINAL IDEA IN HOLLYWOOD AGAIN.

And now, the Smurf movie. I've got low, low tolerance for cutesy, and I've hated the Smurfs ever since I was a teenager and had a four year old brother who would wake me from my hangovers playing his favorite Smurf record at top volume. If you've forgotten the theme, it was this clever:

LA LA LA LA LA LA!! LA LA LA LA LA!!

Good times.

It was all very suspicious, anyway. Especially that Smurfette. All that long blonde hair, pumps (even in the woods, the girl wears heels), hip kicked out....and the only chick with all those guys out in the forest. What the hell? Was she Poppa Smurf's old lady or something?

Add in the use of "smurf" as a verb and sometimes even as an adjective, and all of the sudden I'm wanting to cut somebody.


So, as much as I like Neil Patrick Harris and Katy Perry (et tu, Hank Azaria??), there is nothing that could make this film palatable. Unless I decide to go for that lobotomy, which frankly I am beginning to believe might make this god-awful summer heat better. And I'm not sure even partially removing my frontal lobe would make the Smurf movie not like Chinese water torture.

So put that in your Smurf and smurf it.

Crazy From The Heat-Related Metaphors

Okay. It's officially enough. We're on day 33 here in Dallas of temperatures above 100 degrees. And it's time to stop the madness. That sizzle you're hearing is me, frying gently in my own fat. Or maybe it's the pancake-colored "vegetation" in my yard. Are yards supposed to be crunchy? I digress.

I know, I know: I'm a Texan. I'm supposed to be used to our seasons, which by the way here are called Just Had Summer, About to Have Summer, Summer, and Face of the Sun. But this one's forging me, people. Last time I got cooked like this was the summer of 1998. Over 50 days with 100 degree weather. Hubs and I were childless, and living in a charming little Dallas honeymoon bungalow we couldn't cool under 80 degrees inside. I literally tin-foiled over the windows. Hubs took to watering the roof with a sprinkler. I was so hot, I believed, because I WAS IN HELL.

That summer thinned my blood. Thought I could take anything after the experience. But with the addition of three surly children to entertain this record-breaking summer, the heat-related Angst-O-Meter is pegging out. What a great summer to choose to work at home. The mini-van has become some kind of crock pot in which you can fry bacon or sear flank steak. Or children tenders. The kids and I always look vaguely like we've been dipped in marinade when we emerge.

And here's something fun to add to the mix: the air quality is so poor in Texas, we frequently have what the news cutely calls "ozone action days," which, loosely translated, means "pollution-levels-can-actually-poison-you days."  The government around here is more interested in businesses making money than MY CHILDREN BREATHING, so few regulations regarding how much polluting corporations do. Hello, house arrest! And a vague feeling I'm starring in some low-rent version of Brazil. But again with the digression.

Texans, supposedly used to this heat, become even more surly and entitled as August sears its way through our collective conscious. Patience in traffic is at an all time low, and my county evidently will remain permanently under construction. Related: if you cut me off to run through a gas station parking lot to make a turn, I might have to drag you from your car and beat you. Oops. See what I mean about increased aggression with increased temperatures? Must stop the creeping madness.

Politics ain't helping us lower any negative effects from this brutal summer either. The vitriol over the debt ceiling debate I believe contributed to my local Planned Parenthood being Molotov cocktailed this week, speaking of hotheads. We as a nation face losing a third of the stock market if these children in Washington refuse to share and care. And I do believe I feel a little hotter typing that.

But I'm here to say, as hard as it can be to do: CHILL OUT. If I can keep from child abuse or a aggravated assault charge this summer, you can too. The Earth is, indeed, still turning on its axis. Preseason football is on the horizon. This political free-for-all will be just another footnote in some child's baby book under "Politics When You Were Born" shortly. Let's all concentrate on keeping our heads up and our minds cool. We're in this pressure cooker together, people. Make it so. Just Had Summer is almost here.

The Key to World Peace. You're Welcome

Tense conversations between people starkly divided by values. An inability to agree on almost anything. Frustration, followed by walking out on important negotiations. Are we talking about the debt ceiling talks? No! We're talking about my trip to see family last week!

Yes, the trip brought all the drama, angst, and stress that was expected. I can't be too specific without being voted off the island, though, so I'll step carefully. You see, my traveling to my home state IS kind of like a bipartisan summit in that it brings together two branches of one family that could not be more diametrically opposed in ideology. Whether it be regarding social issues, political issues, religious issues...oh, hell, any issue...we're probably not going to agree on much (outside we pull for State or whoever's playing Ole Miss. But I digress).

Which is part of the stress of roadtripping. Visiting the state I grew up in is like traveling back in time to an alien orphanage I felt like I grew up in (did YOU ever look around in childhood and say to yourself, "I am clearly adopted."?). And there were moments where I, like Boehner, opted to walk out of the room rather than deal with the stress. But then, something inspiring happened.

My brother-in-law and sister-in-law, referred to from here as BIL and SIL, provided some hope for change. Now, these folks are fine Fox News-viewing folks just like the rest of the state. But here's something else they are: loving. Despite our differences, they provided an oasis from the stress of visiting (in the form, largely, of Def Jam comedy and liquor, but I again digress).

My point: BIL and SIL made it a point to find, discuss, and enjoy any similarity they had with us. We share taste in music and comedy as well as the very Southern love of Crown Royal sipped slowly on a porch. We all love our children fiercely and are fighting daily to shape them into something society can benefit from. We work hard for the money and to grow and improve ourselves. We value being authentic, productive, and of good character.

How do we make Democrats and Republicans into Americans? The same way the Lefty Counces and the Righty Counces come together to be the Counces: find the similarity. Be sensitive that people are so much more than their ideology. And realize: we have far more in common than that is different. We need to realize we're on the same team, show respect for differences, and be willing to be happy instead of right.

So I'm putting it on you! I'm declaring it Hug a Conservative week. Reach out across your aisle, so to speak. And I'm sending thanks to my BIL and SIL for acting more grown up than evidently we can count on Congress to do and making my twitchy liberal butt feel at home. Because I'm almost certain if Obama and Boehner sat down to some Def Jam comedy paired with a nice bourbon, we could iron something out.

On the Road

Oh, y'all. Pray for me. I am in the process of filling four suitcases for a week away from home. Three small children, six days of clothing, medicine, and entertainment. We're driving to the in-laws. Hermetically sealed in a van. For ten hours. In 100 degree heat. Destination? Beaches? Theme parks? Attractions? Hardly. Try northeastern Mississippi for what I'm calling the Hotter than Hell tour.

It's a lot of togetherness, folks. I'm getting a little concerned. As a Highly Sensitive Person, there's been a lot of input for the senses this summer. I'm adjusting to working from home, having transitioned from a job that involved lots of quiet murmuring between adults in a cozy, confidential office. Now I live in a daycare. A screamy, screamy daycare. Jarring.

So I have some concerns about the trip. Crucial items will be left behind. There will be, I approximate, 2,454 stops for potty along the interstate. 1,566 of those will involve, indubitably, my sons peeing out the sliding van door onto the side of said interstate. There will be more chicken nuggets than stars in the sky. There will be at least one milkshake rotting in the carpet, along with countless fruit snacks, goldfish, and assorted other crumbs.

And then there's the bitch/goddess of the van I affectionately call the Blazebago (Furthur was already taken): the DVD player. Pro: kids can watch movies. Con: Kids can watch movies. I believe the last thirty miles of this trip, made last, were spent by me sobbing while simultaneously singing "Hakuna Matata." For the 53rd time. We will listen to cartoon for ten hours straight. Ears have been known to bleed.

Then, the arrival. Don't know if you've been to Mississippi lately. But it's hardly a tourist mecca. We have only "visiting" on the agenda. Our visit's purpose is for us to be eyeballed. And eyeballed we shall be. The folks in Mississippi value their sitting and talking time. Oh, yeah, and Fox News.  Fox News, a lot of face time, and lack of sleep find me prone to sarcasm. No. Really.

It's been a long summer, y'all. But with the family jumping into the Blazebago (admit it. "Blazebago" is much sexier than "mini-van") for the Counce family tour to the land of the blues, Momma might just be finally going crazy from the heat taking this insane clown posse on the road. The kids, after all, are the rock stars, no? I'm just the roadie. Onward, y'all. Through the fog.

Ain't No Cure for the Summertime Blues

Good God. I am being held hostage in my own home. My captors are like drug addicts: prone to wild mood swings, tears, and violence. They're demanding, complaining, and entitled. And then they suddenly pass out. I cannot be the only parent to small children who is frantically hash marking off the days on the calendar like Casey Anthony in jail until my unholy brats...erhem, angel children...return to school. I've been traumatized. Picture me, hollow-eyed and wrapped in an Army blanket as I type this.


Okay, I am prone to hyperbole. But still! This summer has been a beating of epic proportions. It's July 8. There are six weeks left of this season of Extreme Parenting, and I've only written enough for the pilot. I'm so broke I can't pay attention. I just know they're going to kill me and eat me. I'm weather-beaten and chlorine-bleached from pools, sprinklers, and water parks. My face will be a leather bag by the time I'm 45. I've ironed on, glued on, painted, markered, stenciled, board-gamed, Play-Dohed, dosey-doughed, ring-around-the-rosied, ducked, ducked, ducked and goosed. So to speak. Only streaming Netflix has kept mob mentality from rising.

Additionally, no one tells you about the sheer physicality of full time child care. Your nose bloodied accidentally with a vicious head-butt related to the pulling up of someone's underwear. Bruised from kicking shoes as children literally scale you. Balls thrown at your face, or God forbid, other tender parts of you with no warning. Games of Horsey gone terribly, terribly wrong. You should see the gun show I've got going on from doing forty pound toddler curls all day.

Take for example of my summertime blues our cinematic excursion this week to see Cars 2, a two hour cartoon with twenty minutes of material in it. Never mind the second mortgage I took out to afford concessions. First we stake out enough seats for a basketball team, but naturally these seats go unused as my youngest alternate climbing me or swinging from or pummeling with their feet the chairs in front of them. Every one of them wants to be next to Mom. People in nearby seats relocate. The kids' complaints start:

Mommy, I wanted regular M and Ms. These are peanut.
I want up.
I want down.
I want something to drink.
I want to go home.
Mommy, this is scary.
Mommy, this is boring.
Mommy, I'm tired.
Mommy, I lost my shoe. *starts to wail*

Add the constant narration of the movie's action by a chipper four year old, and you're getting a little idea of the family fun. Add in temperatures over a hundred for eight days in a row, and I'm telling you, I'm going to need bail before August. Sibling rivalry has taken on an eerie, Mad Max cage-match quality. Even Hubs, who you have to poke with a sharp stick to annoy usually, broke a toy sword this morning before I arrived at the scene of the fray, pounding it into the carpet in madness, trying to separate them. These children would have Job himself getting reamed out by Nancy Grace on TV for abandoning them at a fire station.

It can't just be our kids. Please tell me I am not alone. I swear, no judge would convict us either at this point. He might even offer me an Army blanket. And can you get a small business loan to pay for lemonade, peanut butter, and Goldfish? I need a grant, people. A duffel bag of money. Hell, I'll take a charitable donation for therapy at this point. A coupon for half off chicken nuggets. Anything.

Oh, yeah. And while you're at it? I could use a big, fat, stinking miracle to make it across this River Styx we're calling summer vacation. It can't just be me.

What the Heck am I Doing, Anyway?

Stay at home mom. Or SAHM, in the vernacular. Housewife. I loathe these terms as I am not married to a building and am in the damn minivan waaay too much to be considered "stay at home." So how to handle the inevitable cocktail party question: What do you do?

What do I do? I am still a professional psychotherapist, but with no employer, it's hard to explain to people that I didn't surrender my license with my office keys when the lease was up. I just gave up running my own business, not being a counselor.

Oh, I imagine I'll garner a paycheck again in the future. But I looked around and asked myself about my values, and I found that growing this offspring of mine into healthy and happy creatures is number one with the proverbial bullet. Something had to give, and it was the shop. So for now, I'm creating a new business title for myself that more accurately reflects my occupation.

Yes, ladies and gents, I am a People Engineer. Yup. You heard me. I am a human rearing specialist. I'm a walking encyclopaedia (under 21? Look it up) stuffed to overflowing with information about child development and psychology, organic cheffery (I just made that a word), local attractions and distractions, arts and crafts director. I have acquired the diplomatic skills of a UN peacemaker (have YOU been to a PTA meeting? Sheesh) and the ability to change a diaper with one hand (don't ask).

And as you all know, that's just a short list of mad parenting skills. Don't sell it short: all the unseen expertise you're providing daily. We ain't "staying at home." We wouldn't recognize a Bon Bon if one bit us on the butt. And "housewives" only really exist on Bravo and ABC. You're crafting tomorrow's citizens. Let's all embrace the People Engineer title. I'm ordering the business cards now.

Not Your Mother's Mommy Blogger: or The Voice

I hate the term "mommy blogger," which is too bad, because I actually like reading just about all of them. But I loathe the title. Just doesn't capture the whole of me or my writing at all. I'm more of a "Erma Bombeck on acid" blogger,  a "tipsy Gladys Kravitz" blogger, maybe, and "mommy blogger" just doesn't capture my rich inner world.

Admit it. A lot of people see "mommy" in your Twitter handle or blog profile and can't click away fast enough. Why? Because of the box "mommy" can put you in. You might as well say "Blogging about poop consistency and play dates" as attractive as "mommy" sounds. I have a theory about this phenomenon: there are not enough mommies brave enough to really disrobe on the internet.

Wait. What? Settle down! I'm talking about authenticity and the hairy ovaries you must have in order to write with your outside matching the inside, a topic that often came up in the counseling office. Keeping it reals. How do you dare to peek out from behind the mask? The internet is full of people pretending to be something they're not (in my case, funny, but I digress), including mommies that are upbeat, spouting motivational quotes, and virtually hugging one another.

Lucky for you, there is a dark, smarmy underbelly to mommydom, and I am she. I invite you to join me on the next challenge as I transition to a writing-at-home-mother: blogging authentically about the joys of parenting, sure, yet also authentically chronicling the challenges of the whole of this mommy. The light and dark sides of the parenting coin, sure. But also about mommy as woman, wife, daughter, playmate, citizen, mammal, friend,  consumer of ridiculous amounts of popular culture, metal music connoisseur (no, really!). Finding The Voice. It's 11 am. Do you know where your Voice really is?

Poking Fear in the Eye

I've been calling Fear out on the carpet of late. I've gotten to where I don't like the cut of his jib, thank you very much, and am wanting to enjoy myself without his company. Now, those of you who've been watching the bouncing ball know a little of my life's special brand of Fear: the hubs and his lemon of a liver.

Been interesting times of late: a five day evaluation to assess his placement on the universal transplant receipient list. Good times: early long commute five days in a row to the belly of the beast that is the hospital I call Major Medical. Meetings and procedures scheduled 8 to 5, the necessity of the presence of "a caretaker" for hubs (needing "a caretaker" when you feel like a healthy guy in your thirties has one fun psychological punch, but I digress).

Good news came out of the visit, though: we've gotten a few miles added to the liver forecast, and tests were showing improvement. Hubs is looking amazing compared to some of our fellow travelers with far scarier diseases and enthusiastic progressions. My having acquired the knowledge of a hepatologist, a nutritionist, and an organic chef evidently have not been in vain. Best of all: he's listed. You be a donor now please.

And there's more to do to punch that jerk Fear right in his chinless face: love. Love, love, love: I'm going to sound like the high heeled hippie I actually am. No matter what happens, there will be enough love for me. You, my fellow planet dwellers, and I are going to figure this out. Together.

Love: it's what will make you truly secure. Money won't. Just ask Kyra Sedgwick and Kevin Bacon. Richer than God Himself. But decided to invest with Madoff and were subsequently relieved of the awesome responsibility of being that fabulously wealthy. Every story told to me as a counselor literally boils down to matters of love or power.

It's love love love: the investment that can never fail. And when you love, you make yourself secure...and most powerful. The strength is indeed in our numbers. Hand love out freely and never want for anything in your life, no matter what farce, predicament, or drama presents itself.

Talk to the hand, Fear.

Would Jesus Have the Burger? Or: Going Veg for Lent

Reverent is hardly the first word to leap to the lips of those who know me when asked to describe me. I've found a sense of humor to be particularly effective in behind-saving throughout my life. And truth be told, I've got no real use for religion. Seems a lot of these folks are claiming to be close to Jesus when ain't none of them crowding him any.

I digress. I am, however, a spiritual person. I am attempting to become more deeply so. With this endeavor at heart and having been raised within the rigors of a Christian church calendar, The Lent/Easter season seemed a natural prompt to work on my relationship with God, since like with any relationship, if you don't work on it, put energy into it, it won't flourish.

Now, I've been celebrating Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras, with some vigor since I was a teen. But these days, I find myself taking the holiday into context. The last blast before forty days of resistance to temptation leading to eventual redemption and rebirth (and the pagan calendar marks the vernal equinox, the first day of spring, at roughly the same time; we have the ancients to thank for the dyed eggs and baby animals).

So I challenged myself to explore a way to pay tribute to my values at this time of relinquishment leading to rebirth. I value peace. World peace, a peaceful home, and inner peace. I want to increase the peace. I started to think about what the tradition of giving up meat during Lent really meant. Mostly likely it's all about lack of refrigeration back in the day. But what if I spun it?

What if for forty days I went without eating anything that died violently? I've been doing a lot of research about trauma for my counseling practice, and I'm learning that trauma is truly stored in us on a cellular level. Trauma happens to our souls, minds...and bodies. I started to think about what might be stored in meat that lived a stressful life...or died a stressful death.

Don't get me wrong! I was raised by a hunter! I truly believe those little pointy teeth up front are for tearing flesh, and if God hadn't had meant us to eat animals, they wouldn't be so darned delicious. And wild animals that are hunted are actually much less stressed than the Food, Inc. most of us eat. And so with a sense of adventure, I decided I could try going vegetarian for forty days as a outward tribute to my commitment to peace. With an escape clause if I got particularly stabby. Did I mention I'm not terribly reverent?

Largely, too, a plant based diet has been proven as superior for your health, so forty days isn't going to kill me; in fact, I might discover I feel a little lighter and cleaner. Maybe. Or I will discover, I fear, that my sister the cow I must again enjoy on a bun with cheese. And with some bacon. Good news: wine is from fruit and coffee is from bean. I can do this.

I'm on day two. But I am interested to see what effect eliminating meats...and yes, fish and seafood too...for Lent will have on my body, mind, and soul. But if you try to take my eggs or dairy products from me, I'll cut you.  However it goes, you know I'll keep you posted.

Turn and Face the Change, or: Second Acts

Talk about your second acts. I thought I had already embarked on my life's "second act" when I gave up teaching teenagers grammar and literature, married the prince of my dreams, boldly became a Texan, and followed my heart to become a professional mental health counselor. The last ten years of my life have been devoted to the end goal: establish my own practice.

And I was good at it, too, folks. Good at counseling, good at promoting my business and attracting clients. However, five years into my private practice, my family got thrown a bit of interesting news: hubby's got a lemon of a liver than will more than likely require a replacement. A quick inventory of resources: financial, emotional, and otherwise, led to the realization that adjustments in family roles might need to be made.

Of course, as all of you have experienced, life's challenges require change. And hence: faced with current circumstances, turns running my own business is not going to be the best thing for the family. Hmm. So, here I go again. I am dismantling my beloved practice that I have grown just as I have my own children in the past five years.

But I'm discovering the more I live with the change, the entrance into this second or third or whatever additional act, everything is right where it needs to be. I find myself relaxing into the idea of new priorities. In fact, I'm actually starting to become more conscious of the aspects of running my own business for which I actually harbored a smoldering resentment. I feel the small thrill of options again.

I like taking the challenge to sow in a different field, too: as a sharecropper's granddaughter, I know sometimes the best way to make a fallow field rich again was to allow it to lie empty for a season. That way, its nutrients could renew. I know in my heart I am not giving up my beloved counseling, just being a small business owner.  And I don't have to fear the next act, whatever that is beyond growing my children as best I can while I cast out into the universe.

Life will always throw you change. Some welcome, some not so much. But I've found if I can stay calm in body first, mind follows. And then the charge is to surrender, lean to acceptance of what is unfolding. You are, I am alright. We always have been. We always will be. There's no opposing evidence. So: here's to second, third, and acts beyond and the delight of starring in them with each other.

My All-Beef Valentine, or: Love Con Carne

May I start this piece by admitting, nay, even promoting the fact that I am indeed what the boys call "high-maintenance." I always encourage my therapy clients to insist on higher maintenance as well. I like to point out that Ferraris and Lamborghinis are also high maintenance due to their rarity, value, and high performance, just like me. So, yeah, no problem owning the "high-maintenance" label.

Why the caveat? Because I'm already envisioning the hating as I process my interesting Valentine's Day date last night. I am lucky, you see. I have a handsome, hardworking spouse. He really wants to make the holiday special for me. He always takes time to plan out a nice dinner for us, always antes up the roses, etc. There was one poor decision once involving a stuffed gorilla, but I digress.

Alas, as Tammy Wynette puts it: he's just a man. Missteps happen. And  this Valentine's Day, he made reservations at what evidently is a really popular spot, a steak house, he told me. Arriving after an hour in the car (another Valentine's tradition of ours is getting lost going to the new fancy restaurant), I knew this was a popular establishment indeed as evidenced by the lack of parking and air to share with everyone in the room. It was close company, and there's nothing like your dinner view being the haunches of waitstaff and corpulent fellow diners.

There was no escaping the togetherness. If I swung my arms, I would have smacked the people at the adjoining tables eighteen inches to either side of me. It was a meal with a hundred of my really close, chubby friends. My hair literally blew back in the breeze every time one of the many, many waitstaff would whisk his glutemus maximus around my chair.

And there's the other thing: this was one of those steakhouses that has a million men with giant skewers of animal carcasses zipping around slicing it off for patrons to pick off with tongs. Now, please don't misjudge me. I was raised by a hunter. But perhaps because my father hung deer upside down in our backyard and cut them open and gutted them, seeing the giant sides of meat spinning in the front window wasn't incredibly appetizing. Add some bloody drops on the tablecloths...it did distract me from the worry one of these feint servers would drop a butcher knife through my hand, however.

This place also had a giant salad bar which consisted of the rest of the meal (outside the meatapalooza). I know I can't be the only one completely ooged out by communal food troughs, right? Color me OCD, but there's not a sneeze guard large enough to convince me to compete with a pack of fellow diners to come pawing through food hundreds of people have already picked through.

But don't worry! There was a white chocolate martini and a ruby drop pendant that made my most carnivorous Valentine's Day ever end up perfectly. Not to mention the most handsome and charming date in the place (he makes pretty babies, too). I am grateful to be so blessed. And so to my thesis: Here's to you, dear reader and valentine. I am sending you much love and wishes for a Valentine's Day as laden with blessings as mine is. And if you wish, piles and piles and piles of meat.

Would You Just Sit Down Already: Self-Care Musings

I'm telling you, folks, it is not dull being me. Where have you been, Eliska? You may have wondered. We thirst for your wit, Eliska! You may have said as much. Okay, you didn't say as much. But at any rate, you won't believe this stuff. This stuff writes itself. There's so much, I'll give the blogger bullet points (what's the point in waxing?) Hemingway didn't:

• Two sons, five and seven, high fever, piggy flu: a week
• PMS/period (sorry, male readers, but you must have respect for the rage)
• Broken appliances
• Husband held prisoner at work (I may be prone to hyperbole)
• Piggy flu attacks me as the four days of
• Snow and ice and all that entails
• Rolling blackouts: see above

Y'all, you are lucky to have not seen me on the news. And I couldn't get well, it seemed, despite being at home. Physically and emotionally, I felt more and more run down. And getting impatient with myself, because I was telling myself things like "It's just staying home with the kids." And "I know my spouse must, must get in his seventy hour serfdom, and I must facilitate it!" Okay, again, I may be exaggerating a wee bit.

But, as people do often wonder, I do have a point. I got lost in the forest and couldn't see the trees: Running a daycare is hard work. When you've got three children under the age of seven, you are officially a daycare, and if you are cooped together for weeks on end (I must work on the exaggerating), it might be more exhausting than your usual routine. Add above bulleted stressors, and I'm telling you, no judge would convict me.

I did what we women do: in a way so subtle I didn't notice it until my non-healing flu forced me into bed today. I put everyone else's needs in front of mine. Which is awesome. Until you run yourself into a position where you are no good to anybody. Like me, today. Poor spouse is juggling the kids and his job while I lie flat, harassing everyone on line, rambling febrile rants. Twitter wants to chloroform me. My Facebook friends are fleeing in numbers. And now you're reading this, hopefully coherent, post. But my point:


Every now and then, you've got to put the oxygen mask on first when the plane's going down, no matter who you are or how many responsibilities suck at you. The world will make it one day without your supervision. I think. I'll get back to you on that tomorrow when I peek out the bedroom door to see if anyone is bleeding or anything's on fire.