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.

Shooting Yourself in the Foot

Even when I was a kid, I had a tendency to pop off at the mouth. Combined with a keen intuition, an eye for hypocrisy, and too large a vocabulary, I was always getting into trouble. You could count on me to stand on a table to introduce you to the elephant in the room.

If it sounds like I scorched some earth back in the proverbial day, there's truth to that. I was a disc jockey in my hometown when I was fifteen, for example. For some reason, they gave this certifiable teenager a real disc jockey job. I locked up the place, spun records (look it up, kids), and took my Personality on-air. But, whoops, got fired before I turned sixteen for making fun of New Coke. Turns out people who buy ads pay your salary. But, might I point out now, as I pointed out then: I WAS RIGHT?

But I digress. I lost another awesome gig as the Features Editor of my college paper, just for making fun of campus police (I'm tempted to again now, but alas still wary. Those guys get jacked up on coffee and doughnuts, and they'll arrest you like a real cop). Again, I may be right, I may be funny, but I have bloodied some noses along the way, however unintentionally. And taken some big, big lumps as a result.

I recognize this shortcoming of mine, along with a full menu of character flaws that on most days I can own. Every time I experience pain associated with these flaws, I try to see them as an opportunity to grow. I would encourage you, dear reader, to check your head if you are in emotional pain. Is there a character flaw you are digging your heels over that keeps costing you at work, at home, with friends? Are you shooting yourself in the foot?

Refusal to accept the Universe's lesson about self-growth enslaves you to repeat the pain. Don't make Her smack you. Like Nancy Grace, She'll issue a warrant. Open the mail already and evolve.

Marley was a Pussy(cat): Meet Shiner

I promised a while back I would spend a little time talking about this guy:

Hope this picture isn't so big you can look up his big, dumb snout. Oh, don't feel sorry for this guy.  He's a shelter dog, mostly a Heeler mix. I wanted to name him Steve, but when you look at his eye, it's the first thing everyone comments on. No, he's not Petey. He's Shiner. Now, if you're not familiar with big, dumb country dogs, Heelers are cattle dogs. They are working dogs. I was unaware of some very key things about this dog when he moved in, so I'm here to help you learn from my experience. He was so cute! I'm sure even Hitler was as a baby, too. Here are some things I did not know when I picked him out as an eight week old puppy that I wished I had:

1. I would have to tether him to the coffee table until he was two years old to keep him from eating the crotch out of family members' pants.

2. That he, like a shark, evidently, must keep moving or die.

3. That he would lack the ability to attach emotionally to any other living creature,  and he would go on to crush my children's dreams by not caring about them in the least and knocking them down regularly and rudely.

4. That my cats would hate him and beat him up regularly. There is nothing more funny than the "thock thock thock" of a declawed cat smacking him in his stupid maw.

5. That he would eat his weight in food daily and somehow magically convert ten pounds of food into twenty pounds of poo...each log approximately the size of a Chanel clutch bag.

6. That he would dig enough holes in my yard to fill the Albert Hall (with apologies to Lennon and McCartney here) and prefer sleeping caged in a kennel rather than anywhere near me.

7. That despite being the most submissive dog ever, he would require a collar with spikes on the inside to keep him from dragging me to my death when walking leashed.

8. That no electrical current, even one that would kill the most virulent of Texas death row inmates, can faze him or keep him contained in the yard.

9. That he would be capable of scaling a six foot privacy fence as well as have the ability to, when hit by a car, damage the car and run away unscathed.

10. He's a big, dumb animal, folks, and Marley's got nothing on him.

Do you have your own unbelievable pet stories? Share them with me!

What You Need to Know about Dallas: Superbowl Edition

All eyes are on my 'hood. Yes, Dallas is all adither: the Packers and Steelers are coming to town, and we North Texans are bracing for the onslaught of Northern visitors from the strange lands of Pittsburgh and Green Bay. Translators might actually be a good idea. There are a lot of conceptions out there about Texas. I'm a native on the ground ready to give you your guide to what's true and what's false as you prepare to descend on our Lone Star State.

I'm concerned for our travelers, dear reader, because not only are these visitors Yankees, but a lot of them will be celebrities too. Historically, Texans have low tolerance for both former and latter. Have you seen the NFL's commercials starring Troy Aikman asking all of us to behave when the out-of-towners arrive? The fact the organization thought this was necessary should indeed concern you about the levels of Southern hospitality in Dallas.

Because here's something most people don't know: most who live in Dallas are not from Dallas or even the South. We are not all issued cowboy boots and a hat upon arrival. True, some do wear belt buckles off of which you could serve a turkey, but this is less common than you would suspect. Most of us have never approached a horse. We do not, I repeat, NOT all "boot scoot." This is particularly important for me to have you understand.

JR Ewing, by the way, wasn't real. Most of us work with telecommunications here now, not oil and gas.We are not all Republicans. Texas may be red, but you will discover Dallas itself to be quite blue (on every level). You will enjoy the Roman Orgy atmosphere of Jerry's World, where there were at last count go-go dancers at different levels in the stadium. Trust me, the Baptists don't have the hold they'd like to here. For every church there is an equal and opposite strip club. There are gays here! Bet you thought we didn't allow them. In fact, Dallas has a thriving and wealthy gay population and one of the biggest gay churches in the nation.

What you call a "pop" is a Coke here. It doesn't matter if the can says "Pepsi," "Sprite," or "Dr. Pepper." It is a Coke. Our table wine is sweet tea. Now, our Mexican food is better than anyone's. That much is true. Our women are prettier if a little high from all the hairspray. Texas women are also football literate, so don't underestimate us. The females here like football, watch football, and are used to winning football. Football is a religion here. Tom Landry is our patron saint. We can be just as mean as any body-painted Cheese Head. Example:

Northern girl: Ooh, this football game is so violent.
Texas girl: Tackle that sumbitch and break his legs!

So, I'm happy to be Ambassadress (that's a word I just made up, I'm almost sure) as you explore Texas and Dallas in the next two weeks. If you're a celebrity I follow on Twitter, I'll put you up on the sofa bed and buy you a margarita: we do make the best of those in the nation too, by the way, and I haven't even touched on the beauty that is a Shiner Bock beer. Sigh. Enjoy all that is beautiful in Texas; who am I to say what is? Y'all travel safe, and don't believe the hype.

Mutiny in the Kitchen, or: Appliances Gone Wild

It will go down as The Week of Appliances Gone Rogue. They made this movie in the 80s, and I'm telling you, the AC/DC soundtrack song "Who Made Who" has been blasting between my ears for days.

Let me back up. It begins innocuously enough: in the middle of dinner prep last week, the microwave abruptly stops working. Now, for a mother of three children under the age of seven, this is an earthquake, magnitude 7.0. No warming coffee, in particular, proved to test us all, as did my five year old's refusal to give up his "hot milk." I challenge you to not use your microwave for a week as an exercise in gratitude. Insult to injury: can't replace the microwave for two weeks. I am now down two burned sauce pans.

Okay, so I once again apply yoga/meditation/breathing and get right. And I say to myself: Self! What a funny blog post these tales will make! Ha! It takes some effort, but I make some progress carving some new neuropathways about this farce: Oh, the microwave dying is really an exercise in gratitude for me. I will reflect on how rich I am because of this experience. Kumbaya, a little mental sweat, but I do seem to start not sulking so much about lack of caffeine.


I'm telling you, be careful what you put your attention on, folks; next, the Universe decided that since I was mining such wisdom from the microwave malady, I could really use some extra material. Because the next morning, at five of the clock, with sleet pounding on the window, on the coldest day of the year, I awoke to no power.

Have you ever attempted to dress sleepy, recalcitrant toddlers near open flames in sub-normal temperatures? The house resembled a Sting video. No hot water, also, means no bath for grubby mommy....who was due in for a long day at the sadness reduction factory. And have I failed to mention I'm kind of an indoorsy, American prinncess anyway (I can own it)? Surliness ensues.

After an epic struggle against the Universe...will I ever learn?...the power did return six hours later. But as a result? Both the stove and the electric garage door were broken, joined the revolution.  And since all the cool kitchen accessories were doing it, my toaster handle came loose and half off just to keep up with the crowd.

Am I being punk'd? Is, to date myself, Alan Funk lurking behind a bush somewhere? Alas. I am left only to struggle to find the inevitable personal self growth inherent in this situation. And this premise under which I operate, that everything that happens as designed specifically for my growth, is how I'm going to play it. I am a powerful conjurer-upper of my own experience. And thusly, I have elected to think all these unbelievable stories happen to me so I may blog about them, be given some outrageous book advance, and live the rest of my life out like a Katy Perry/Molly Ivins hybrid.

So here's to picking the thoughts that make the most meaning out our Family Circus on acid adventures. Certainly, if I can help make you laugh about some of your challenges, there's meaning indeed to the truth of my life that is, indeed, stranger than fiction. As I always tell the little ones and clients alike: it's always better to share. And I share on twitter too at @eliskacounce. See you there.

We Gotta Get Out of This Place: the Parent's Lament

I've been traumatized. Consider this a note slipped to you from a hostage. I'm sure, I know as a therapist, other mommas and daddies are challenged by their own tough dramas with their small kids too. I'm not alone. Sometimes knowing this fact is comforting.

Sometimes, however, my children...comment se dit?...screw with me in ways for which no degree in counseling seems to prepare me. I cope only as I can. I strike a yoga pose alone in the back yard, deep breathing, run a mile: all the correct jazz. Processing the nuttiness (like blogging!) can bring down the blood pressure too. But today...today....

I blame myself, of course, because that's what parents do. I had three babies in four years. I know the look that came over your face reading that last sentence, too. Insanity, I realize now, only too late. They're seven, five, and three. So, being educated in child development and trained to coach parents effectively, I know: there will be intense times. I did it to myself. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

But recently the bar has been raised. My daughter in particular, the three year old (I'll call her Paris to reflect her current level of perceived entitlement), has taken on the surliness of Christian Bale on a movie set. She has become Impossible. For some strange and woeful reason, among her demands is that her father not look at her, touch her, or basically interact or serve her in any way. He is Not The Mommy. Egad.

Add to this the lung capacity of Pavarati and a will of iron, and I'm telling you, it's a shellacking. Allow me to paint you the picture: bucolic family Saturday afternoon. Naptime, as it does every day of her waking life, arrives. She screams her intent of having none of it. There are tears. There are dramatics. And the toddler acts up too.

I mean, did anyone else today keep their howling toddler in a basket hold for twenty minutes while she decided if she wanted to go to bed with stories or no stories and turned purple screaming? Only to go finally limp in my arms and say, "I love you, Mommy. Cuddle me." My blood pressure is just now regulating. The kid's going to kill me.

"Grow," my husband squints, wiggling his fingers before the children as if to age them with magic. I know it's wrong to want everyone to go ahead and get five, but wow. Just wow. You just don't see it coming when they hand you that cute little swaddled thing in the hat in the hospital. I hear it's worse with teenagers. I'm thinking about hopping on the back of stranger's Harley here pretty soon.

So, let's huddle together, hostages! Here's to the parents of small children: I salute you, unseen soldier. I salute your lack of sleep. I salute your Job-like countenance in the face of fire, your lack of adult movies and beverages, your fate to discuss consistency and frequency of poop in place of Truth and Beauty. The Earth is continuing to spin on its axis, though, darlings. Time will pass, and we're gonna look back on this and laaauugh....

Conquer Fear, or: My Life is Worse so Cowboy Up

Are you battling fear? Of course you are. You, unless the cat has learned to log in, are human. I am both human (though debated historically) and a warrior in the battle against fear. My husband has a lemon of a liver, for those of you who haven't been following the bouncing ball, so I've been flexing my fear-vanquishing muscles a bit of late. I encourage you to read more about Primary Scolering Cholingitis. It's a sweetheart of a disease, hard to detect, rare, and the only treatment is transplant. He's 38. Congratulations! We're having a liver!

Whoa, isn't Eliska supposed to make with the funny? Don't click away yet. It is, as the kids say, all good. I'm coping well. And as usual only thinking of you, dear reader, and how to pass along all the wonderful wisdom I am mining from this unique experience (okay, you may or may not be sniffing a whiff of sarcasm in the air now).

Because I'm not going to blow sunshine up your skirt: there are some pretty impressive fear triggers. Life-threatening diseases are up there. But I've acquired some skills out of necessity that help you cope when anxiety is really shaking you by the lapels.

Get good at healthy self soothing. Sorry, folks, this does not include (perhaps sadly) margaritas, valium, macaroni and cheese or Ben and Jerry's, retail therapy, or casual sex. Although these are some time-honored tricks widely used to calm down, they tend to be on the self-destructive side. No, I now have the A, B, C, and Ds I do every day to keep everything in check: organic, mostly plant-based diet, check. Vigorous moving about often, check. Professional counseling: check and check. Girlfriends at which to moan, rail, and laugh, check. And meditation and yoga are the new xanax...they just take a little longer to swallow. I'm not disciplined, just that fragile.

Check yo head. Your thinker is your best friend or worst enemy. Forcing yourself in any situation to find the positive, even if you're not feeling it, can at least give you a sarcastic laugh. Example: you run red light and nearly kill me. Instead of "I will follow that man and pull him from his car for a beating," the new choice is "Oh my. Perhaps his wife is about to draw her last breath at the hospital." You can pour fire on the problem by telling yourself, "I will die alone and a bag lady with a shopping cart filled with cats." I prefer the cool water of, "I can make myself totally safe by opening my heart and loving." Actively attend to what you are grateful for. Which dovetails nicely into...

Friend God. Can you tell I've recently reactivated my Facebook account? Listen, I'm not religious, which is tantamount to Ellen saying she's not into men. But I've been developing a relationship with my HP (Higher Power, not Hewlett Packard, you geeks) all my life despite the antics of Jesus' followers. Science supporting spirituality: energy is neither created or destroyed. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Think of a person, an event, a coincidence that changed your life for the better: the odds are astronomical that it happened. Highly improbable...but it happened. Odds are much higher for other outcomes. Look into becoming a believer. Spirituality, however it looks, is comforting and meaningful.

Give and get good face. Y'all, I love Twitter and Facebook and my lovely blog. But God help us if the electricity goes out and we actually have to look up from our iPhones to help one another. Please, if you are out with me, I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR PHONE. I know I am old. Perhaps even greedy for your attention. Nay, even needy as a Hollywood starlet! I will own it. But to ignore cashiers while you chat (please God, keep me from turning on the next woman I hear out say, "Nothing...I'm just in Target...") is bad enough. Please don't make me share you with your plentyoffish.com profile.

Always my pleasure to help out. These are just a few tips for handling fear and her lovely cousin Anxiety. I hope you got a chuckle even if the advice is bunk. I gots, as I always say, more. Feel free to reach out if you're interested in more on this topic or anything else under the wellness sun.

Social Media Envy, or: I Am Officially the Elderly

"I was with it once! Then, they changed what 'it' was. Now 'what it is' is scary and strange! It will happen to you..."

If you watch The Simpsons, you probably recognize that quote from Grampa Simpson. It's a perfect sum of my latest experiences as I become A Blogger, and, more terrifyingly, a twit. I mean, a Tweeter. My husband is an enabler! I married an IT engineer, and he just really thinks it best that back away from the hardware as I am to computers what Michael Vick is to veterinarians.

It's so sad to watch me fumble with technology that others my age have zero issues with. I mean, the cast of Jersey Shore can bip around the internet with adroitness, for the love of Mike. Did you notice I managed to get my Twitter feed to appear to the side, there? A major accomplishment for someone just learning Power Point and how to download j-pegs that left me smug for a whole afternoon.

And did you know there's a whole set of etiquette to learn with each of these social media thingies that no one will let me get by without conquering? Who wrote these rules? Friending, unfriending...I'll tell you about that when I'm finally forced onto Facebook. But I'm totally intimidated by learning this navigation of following, unfollowing, how to post pictures and videos...and I'm supposed to, for some reason, really want tens of thousands of followers. So I'll thank you later when I am more educated.

I take personal risk with this post! My intellect is already questioned due to my abnormal obsession with The Young and the Restless (as a therapist, I have a theory about why I adopted friends that are two dimensional, but I digress). I consider this post a bit of a personal confession, dear reader, because I have a feeling it will hold me accountable to joining this century. Making public my shame over my Techno Fear will force me to adapt, I hope. Kinda like those Biggest Loser candidates that they make take off their shirt in front of high school stadiums full of people they know: accountability!

So I invite you to bear witness to my inartful clumping about townsquarebuzz.com, mckinneymommadrama.blogspot.com, and Twitter at @eliskacounce. I'm (sometimes quite unintentionally) hilarious when I'm not annoying the poo out of you. You'll either be kind enough to help me or your hate mail will shame me into learning. A win win!

Holiday Lessons Learned, or: Why You Suck as a Houseguest

Happy New Year's, revelers! I must say my yuletide, despite an alarming amount of shopping, cooking, and cleaning, was fun and refreshing. I hope yours found you similarly. However, now that the yule log is smoldering out, they're stretching the BCS Bowl season into March, and we're at least three days into the shame of broken resolutions, I think two good lessons have emerged that I would like to highlight for the betterment of you, dear reader.


Speaking of New Year's Resolutions, I've got one: let's all work on this apostrophe as a plural, shall we? You are not the Smith's. You are The Smiths. Or the beautifully uncomplicated The Smith Family. It begs the question: Merry Christmas from The Smith's? The Smith's what? The Smith's house elf? And just who is this The Smith person who refers to himself in the third person? My teeth are itching.

But it's been awhile since I wielded my red pen as an English teacher. No, today, dear reader, is your quick list of reasons why you are a lousy houseguest. Just because I am invested in your wellness, really. It's like telling you about the spinach in your teeth. I yell because I care. You just might suck as a houseguest if:

You show up ill, physically or otherwise. If you have something you wouldn't wish on your host, you might suggest alternate housing, especially if your host has small children and you have explosive vomiting/diarrhea. And could you keep your mood pleasant? I know some trips can be hellish, but when you're scowling and slapping your children as soon as you arrive, they're likely to want to ask you to just get back in the car.

You think childcare comes with the room. Hey, buddy, I've got three small kids of my own. Come follow yours around, feed them, and keep them from destroying property.

It never occurs to you to offer to help in the kitchen. Male, female, it's just the decent thing to do. "Hey, you're doing a lot. Can I help some way?" Practice it. Don't let someone toil alone in the kitchen while the party whoops it up in another room. It has a direct correlation to seething. And related:

You fail to show enjoyment and gratitude. You have had guests. You know the truth: you, though loved, are expensive and disruptive. Compliment the house, the food, the trouble everyone's gone to, the fellowship, the fun. McKinney Momma says: you don't have to have money to never come empty-handed to a friend's.

You don't leave it as you found it. No one expects you scrub the guest bathroom before departure, but would it kill you to make the bed, throw out your trash, and walk your dishes to the kitchen?

Aren't you glad you have me to tell you, "You have just a little something...right there..." when you need it most? Again, you're welcome. You'll be so glad when people talk less smack behind your back. Related note: if you've been my guest recently, I'm sure I'm not talking it about you!

Some wait until their loved ones are asleep to sneak to the liquor cabinet, the internet for dubious lacivious pleasures, to the fridge for the forbidden snack. But then, there is me: denying myself the extra hour of sleep for you, dear reader! I've been herding three small children for the last fourteen days of holiday school break. I know there are others of you who share my pain. To blog for me is to hear for the first time today, perhaps, my  own voice in my head. Thank you.

I know you other Matriarchs (and Patriarchs!) understand! Let us not undersell the majesty of the role of mother, though, with the simple label "Mommy." Oh, no. It is not "Mommy" who strategizes a catering menu for a week, constructs a shopping list broken down by grocery store departments. "Mommy" suggests a softness not inherent in The Matriarch who dons her New Balances for the hours in Target with her list broken down by departments, holiday joy set in her sights.

Of course, there is a method to the madness. We have values, we Matriarchs. Smells and memories for our children and loved ones, sights and joys to treasure and pass on. Which is one of the reasons I am pleased to wait for the small ones to abed, even the weary Knight of Local Technological Corporation to doff his shield for the eve, to steal the chance to possibly connect and share with some of you other royals who live and get it.

And what cannot be lost: the incredible luxury in what we live. As we prepare to usher in and celebrate the new year, Matriarchs can't just be responsible for the catering and the cleaning. It's also about passing on the the awareness of the luxury in which we enjoy here in Collin County; the kind of wealth that the Matriarch in Afghanistan. in Iraq, in Darfur could only imagine in her wildest dreams.

I am blessed to be here in North Texas with you and your children in 2011! Stayed tuned! I got more. Please: know you are wealthy beyond belief. Act accordingly. I'll do the same.

Who the hell uses celery seed and what aisle is it on??

I just gots to give a shout out to the other women who are doing exactly what I am today...wondering where the hell the flour sifter is and if it could be actually possible that I haven't used it since 1998. Kitchen Bouquet? Are you kidding me? What IS that, and what's in it? And if you're checking gramma's recipe, WHAT EXACTLY IS OLEO and on what planet can I procure it???

Time for several belly breaths. I mean, was it really necessary for me to create and decorate both gingerbread men and sugar cookies with the kids? And made chocolate candy? AND my grandmother's signature dessert (actually, it's funny: both sides of the family had the recipe. The Catholic side called it Better Than Sex and the Baptist side called it Sin. Makes sense).

But I digress. All I know is between three meals, two snacks, and two deserts today combined with two casseroles tomorrow I have officially flipped my culinary wig. Not counting the trip to the grocery store (the third in as many days!), I have been on my feet cooking and cleaning more than Florence from The Jeffersons. Have I mentioned my recalcitrant family will probably wrinkle their collective nose at my beloved, traditional family dishes as well, just to make all this furious activity a little more insane?

Just a reminder, ladies. I know you're out there, going great guns in the final 48 hours. You're infusing all the food with tons of love and perhaps a pinch of resentment when folks don't notice and appreciate your toiling as much as you'd like. It's fever pitch time...except it really doesn't have to be.

Realize: It comes without pumpkin pie spice as well as boxes and bags (and what's up with that cheat anyway?? Back in my Momma's day you used your three separate bottles of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice all together...and you liked it!).

Enjoy this time. They won't remember what they ate, but they will remember Yulezilla. Peace on Earth, darlings, and pass the potatoes flavored with the best kind of Christmas spirit.



 

Word up, Dr. Drew...

"We have gone through a 30-year period where terribly unhealthy things that contribute to unhappiness have been normalized as 'just another choice,' just another way of doing things, when in fact that's bullshit. Divorce is an extremely unhappy, extremely stressful, extremely problematic thing. Thank god it's an option for some people. But...it impacts people's mental health. The least it does it create problems around intimacy until the fourth decade of life. It tends to normalize after that. But it takes people to their 30s or 40s to, under the best of situations, to expunge the experience. That's a lot of suffering. And that's often a lot of failed relationships and other failed relationships and more children exposed to divorce. The problem with divorce is that people consider it an option. You just shouldn't consider it an option unless it's absolutely necessary."

Dr. Drew, y'all....

Unsolicited adivce: or, shut up and listen

Ooh, an aggressive title got your attention! Stay tuned for the twist, though, because my thesis is multi-layered. Here's my unsolicited advice of the day: you really need to get off your cell phone during certain times. Tweeting during funerals, for example, should be widely panned. Texting and driving makes you a nightmare. And don't get me started about cell phones during date night....Grrrr.

I know, I know, I have the electronic tether too. Emails, tweets, calls, texts, daily calendar reminders all make my pants vibrate every other minute just like yours. But there's one time in particular I want to talk about when it's really, really important to step away from the Crackberry that doesn't get much attention.

Whether you are a dad or a mom, if you are a parent whose children attend school or daycare, I implore you to not be staring at/talking to an electronic device when either picking up or dropping off your kid/s. Of course, those of y'all who know me are aware as a counselor, I'm big into the concept of mindfulness: being here now. And I get it that Megatronics Corp expects you to do those conferences calls at their beck, so to speak.

But partings and comings-together are incredibly important in your relationship with your children. They need and deserve your full attention when leaving for school. School time might have been awhile back for you, but this is their life and challenge now. They're small or young, and this is their gladiator arena. They want to look in your eyes as they go in, see your smile, see your calm assurance for and interest in them. They need kisses and hugs for which you are actively present.

Pick-up time is key as well...your child, whether or not they act like it, want to know you are interested in seeing them again, interested in the story (even though teens can make it tough). They want to nestle back into the family, feel snug again. They may wear their heinie on their shoulders, but this tendency does not make it any less true that they crave your attention as much as any two year old.

Thank God for the concept of good-enough parenting. I hardly claim to be the perfect mother (actually milk might come out of my family's collective nose at my making that proclamation), but being in counseling practice and by being dragged into maturity by my own brood, I have figured out that you don't need to be perfect...or anything near. Like Woody Allen says about life, turns out 80% of good parenting is just showing up.

Take a Lick of the Valium Block Already, It's Christmas

Okay, people! Clearly you are in need of some advice from McKinney's premiere mom/counselor. Come, sit down a minute. You've been stressed. You're road raging. You're snarling at sales representatives. I'm sorry to say it, but you look miserable. McKinney Momma to the rescue! Luckily, I am always ready with the advice.

Decide now you're going to enjoy yourself, dammit. Make a conscious decision to put your eyes on the positive and overlook the faults of others. Where you put those peepers magnifies. Side note: use of terms like "peepers" makes me seem 120 years old. 23 skiddoo!

Use your senses to really put yourself in the moment when the good is happening...smell it, taste it, touch it, hear it! Christmas is a time for wonderful sights, smells, and sensations. The more you stay in the moment, the more joy can register in your brain.

Make an exercise of finding the reason to be grateful in any moment. For example, sure you're stuck in traffic, but are you with screaming kids? Hey, a reason to be happy. You're probably in a climate controlled car with your choice of audio, too, so not too shabby. Guy in front of you has 20 items instead of less? Focus on how lucky you are to pick out food at the grocery store and take it home. Your address does not include the word "Darfur" in it. You're blessed. Consciously reflect on that fact.

Nourish your body with breath,movement and mostly plants to eat. Get enough rest. It's a choice.

Giving to people really does light up the brain in a bio-chemical way. Look into giving a damn.

Play! It's Christmas! Make a cookie, sing a carol (I like "Nuttin for Christmas" right now), wrap a gift, pay it forward with a random act of kindness. Watch the Charlie Brown special in footie pajamas.

Now, I hope to see y'all out in a much better humor. You're welcome.