A Newly Seperated Girl's Guide to the Holidays

I went to the mailbox yesterday and received my first holiday card. 

I used to adore this time of year - both sending and receiving cards - picking out that perfect picture (always taken as a family at Thanksgiving) and running to the mailbox every afternoon to see it chock full of those non-bill-shaped envelopes bearing updates from friends and family.

When I saw that first green and gold envelope with a little heart sticker on it, my stomach plummeted.

This year there will be no holiday card from our family, because our family is separated.

I suppose I could send a card with just the kids on it. But what would the message say?  Joy?  Merry Merry?  Happy New Year?

I don't feel any of those things this year. 

Over the holidays, even more than usual, there are reminders of what-isn't-anymore all over the place, like little bomb-lets that explode in my face when I least expect it.

Holiday commercials of intact families celebrating over a Thanksgiving meal. Magazine ads of Moms and Dads kissing under mistletoe, or grinning conspiratorially to each other as they stuff holiday stockings or wrap gifts. 

The holiday cards with smiling Mom-Dad-Kids, their arms slung around each other, wearing goofy Santa hats or matching outfits.  All together, just like they were last year, only one year older.

The holiday season makes me glare at the wedding rings of the Moms in front of me in the grocery line, their chubby babies' drooling grins taunting me.  I used to be them, I think.  My stomach twists with regret and jealousy.  Why didn't I pay more attention when all that was mine.  

The changes are coming at me fast.  Our beloved dog, Casper, died last week.  She was thirteen years old, lived a long, full life, and it was time for her to go.  My husband and I got her when our marriage was only two years old.  As I mourn her loss, I find myself thinking: my marriage began and ended with her life.

I don't want to put up the tree.  I don't want to decorate.  I don't want to celebrate.  Every step of the way I'm haunted by traditions past:  he cuts the trunk, I hang the ornaments, a crackling fire blazing in the background. 

I want to curl up in a ball and unfurl on January 2nd.

Friends mock-complain about all they have to do: the in-laws coming to stay, prepping meals, planning trips to see family, grumbling about what to buy their husband or what their husband will get for them.  All of it sets my teeth on edge, but I just stand there and smile, feeling like I have a blaring neon sign on my forehead that says:  separated.

I gazed at the smiling faces peering out at me from that first holiday card.  Then I closed my eyes, and I prayed. 

May they have a happy holiday season. May I find joy in the blessings I have, instead of all I do not have.

It helped.  A little.

Here's the thing, though: none of these emotions have any bearing on our separation specifically, on the circumstances behind it, or the reasons why.  I don't regret the separation itself, I realize, although it's confusing and hard and sometimes I just want to get in my way-back machine and start all over.

What I'm grieving is the loss of The Dream, the one that is shoved in our faces over-and-over-and-over during the holidays.  If you were an alien from another planet and landed on earth on December 14th, or thereabouts, you would think we were the happiest-smilingest people in the Universe.

At least that's how it feels to me, newly separated for my first holiday season.

Our society commercializes happiness, and it's never more glaring than in November and December.  I'd like to see a magazine ad, or a commercial, of a single mom and her kids sitting down to Thanksgiving, or buying a Christmas tree. 

They'd be smiling, I know they would, because my kids and I smile together. A lot.  I am not unhappy when I'm able to live my life as it is, and not how I feel it should be.  Most of the time I am content, and I'm able to grow and learn from the hard lessons life is teaching me right now.

But, dammit. It's almost impossible not to lose myself in comparisons when family-and-togetherness is everywhere.  Logically, I know that we're still a family, just in a different form. I know my kids are over-the-top excited for Christmas, and that they had a great Thanksgiving with their Dad.  I had a great Thanksgiving, too, with some amazing sober friends. 

I would be okay, most of the time, if that damn cookie-cutter family wasn't grinning out at me from my television, Facebook stream and mailbox. 

That's not how the world works, and I know this.  This is hard core life-on-life's terms. When I'm in a good head space, I can find peace in chaos.  When I'm not, I find chaos in peace.  I fall into the 'shoulds' - how my life should be instead of how it is. 

Don't Should On Yourself, my friend would say.

I'm trying. I will get through this. I will say a prayer of compassion over every card I receive this year. I will pray for peace of mind, for acceptance of what is, and gratitude for all I have. 

But sometimes?  Sometimes I just have to get my truth out there, that this is hard. 

It just is.

Becoming

The hardest part of the day is the last part. Those six or seven minutes between wakefulness and sleep, as I drift off in the in-between space of moments past and moments yet to come.

Instead of those sleepy, mumbled conversations between two married people, parents downloading their day, giggling over a funny thing a kid said, or offering assurances that the work meeting the next day will go fine.... there is silence. 

Sometimes I unconsciously slide my foot over to his side of the bed, expecting the warm reassurance of his presence.  My toes are always icy, and I used to snuggle them up against his shin.  He'd wince and say "ah, c'mon!", but he wouldn't move away.

Now the sheets are cold.  My toes are icy.  He is not there.

I knew separation would be hard, in the broad sense.  I worried about juggling all the moving parts alone.  I didn't know how I would handle the morning routine all by myself.  And what would I do about dinner?  Do I cook for just the three of us?  The kids only really like to eat about four things, so I mostly cooked for him. For us. Would the kids and I sit around the table, where we ate thousands upon thousands of family dinners, with his empty chair blaring silently at us?  I wrung my hands about the schedule - how much time to spend there instead of here?  How would they adjust? How would I adjust?

What I didn't know, what I couldn't know until I was in it, is the hardest part isn't the big picture.  In many ways, because of his long work hours, I handled many of the logistics on my own anyway. Mornings he was out the door before we were all up. Many nights he worked late, and what to eat or where to eat it never bothered me before.  And managing all the moving parts of the kids' schedule?  Well, that was always my role. I'm a pro at all those things.

The part I didn't expect?  The ghosts. Every inch of my life is our life. Was our life.  Is our life.

See?  It's confusing.

Over there is the bureau we bought decades ago, as a newly engaged couple, feeling very grown up on an afternoon of antiquing.  On the mantle are the metal statues of two cranes intertwined, purchased at a funky little store down the street from our first apartment.  When Greta was born we found a little baby crane. "Look, they are a family now, like us," we said. They whisper to me of what was, what is, and what isn't anymore.

I am surrounded by my most familiar and comfortable space - my home and everything in it - and nothing is familiar anymore.  Or comfortable. 

"We marry people because we like who they are. People change. Plan on it. Don't marry someone because of who they are, or who you want them to become. Marry them because of who they are determined to become. And then spend a lifetime joining them in their becoming, as they join you in yours."  ~ Huffington Post

The funny thing about becoming?  It's not a straight line.  It's not all forward momentum. 

Before I thought of becoming like brick laying - cumulative - each brick snuggling firmly on top of the other as we build.  Upward. Stronger.

Then life happens, and that brick wall is smashed to smithereens.  Every brick is still there, except they lie in an unrecognizable jumble at my feet.  Over there is the brick where we saw our first ultrasound picture.  We made a girl, I whispered to him in awe.  That moment is still there, as solid as it ever was, except now it has a crack down the middle.  All that happy, that certainty of how it would all play out, is altered.

Because sometimes, to become, we have to break apart what is to make room for what will be. 

People do change. We know that for a fact, right?  So why is it so hard to keep up?  To pay attention to the thousands of tiny moments, infinitesimal feelings, decisions, thoughts that accumulate every day?  And then it seems so sudden, when things fall apart, or fall away.  But it isn't.  Because we're always becoming.  Changing.  Evolving. 

But our expectations stay stuck.  It's human nature, I think. I am still that young woman clutching her first ultrasound picture, a Technicolor vision of how my life - how our life - would be dancing in my head.

That vision didn't have alcoholism. Or death. Or cancer. Or depression. Or separation. All these things are just as much a part of my becoming as all the joy, success, happiness and peace.


"Marry them because of who they are determined to become. And then spend a lifetime joining them in their becoming, as they join you in yours."

Ah, yes. Sounds straightforward, right?  All Hallmark card-y.  Hopeful.  Because becoming sounds so positive.  All new-agey and personal growth oriented.

But growth, like becoming, isn't all forward momentum.  Most of the growth I have experienced feels a lot like the opposite, in fact. It feels like zooming backward, blind to where I'm headed, white knuckles bracing for impact. 

It's how we survive the out-of-control moments, the backward zooming moments, that define who we become.

Back to marriage. To becoming, and growth.  How do I ask someone to stay with me as I zoom backwards?  As I cast my eyes at the broken pile of bricks at my feet, only to stare in amazement that I'm the one holding the sledgehammer?

I guess the answer is that I don't.  This moment in my journey is an inside job. 

I can kick and scream and lament what was lost, or I can set about, well, becoming.  

Still Behind The Veil

Two years ago I found the lump in my neck.

As with all life changing events, it seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago.

I still struggle. I still struggle with anxiety and depression about my cancer. Sometimes in the most ordinary moments I'm hit with the gut punch of oh my God, I had cancer.  

Anniversaries like these send me into mini tailspins. I start feeling twinges and aches, obsessively feeling my throat: is that spot harder than it was before?

Very rarely am I at a loss for what to write, but these days I am.  I am not sleeping well - a lovely combination of anxiety and the over-the-top menopausal symptoms that chemo and radiation caused.   I am seeing doctors.  I am taking safe and monitored medication.  I am putting one foot in front of the other, and some days it's all I can do.

There are still many, many more good days than bad. But like it or not, anxiety has her hands wrapped around my throat again, making my world go a little grey.

So instead of writing, I will share what I read at BlogHer's Voice of the Year.  Because I have to look back, but not stare. I have to remember the hope that is all around, even when the days are feeling hard.  And I have to remember that no matter what, I'm here today and I have so, so many things to be grateful for:

I Asked Google The Big Life Questions, And This Is What I Found...

Sometimes I check how people find my blog, and it's always a combination of funny and poignant. A sampling from the last twenty-four hours:

"I am drinking and scared"

"Is it bad that I can't find where I hid my wine"

"I forget things when I drink"

"I need help with drinking"

"Motherhood is hard"

"Do I want to be a Mom"

"I drink alone"

and the most popular:

"Am I an alcoholic?"

This got me thinking, and so I did some google searches of my own, to see what the top responses were to certain leading phrases.  I will let the results speak for themselves:

 

And one more.  The only one that had only one response.  Apparently, people are looking for ideas for this:

How we talk to people matters.

How we talk to ourselves matters.

Don't wait.

Live for today.

But I have no answers for this one:

How My Life Changed In Five Months

We are taking a quick break from our regularly scheduled writing for a word from our sponsor ... that would be me, sponsoring myself.... :)

Even though I'm trying not to make this blog too Arbonne-y (totally a word) I had to share this. Arbonne's products have changed my life - physically, emotionally and financially.

I used to spend SO MUCH MONEY on skin care products (really, it was a problem) that didn't work and were full of hazardous chemicals, mineral oils and/or animal by-products.

I used to struggle with a healthy eating plan, controlling calories without looking hard at WHAT was in the foods I was eating.

I knew I had to do something to earn additional money, but REALLY didn't want to go back to an office job.

The skin care products have utterly transformed my skin.  Just the other day a couple of (very handsome) twenty-five year old young men guessed my age as 34.  I'm 44.

I have been able to maintain a healthy weight for months now with little effort, even during the summer months (which have always been hard for me).

I am able to stay home and work - Arbonne fits seamlessly into the other work I do with jewelry and non-profit outreach.

It's funny, because when it comes to shouting from the hilltops about my non-profit work (including my jewelry which funds my non-profit) I have no trouble spreading the word.  I'm getting used to the idea that Arbonne is the SAME.  It changes lives, and it isn't about vanity, or a desperate struggle to look younger, or thinner.  It's about self-care - using safe, pure products that help us feel good from the inside out.

Check out the final results from my two week Genius challenge (Genius is a patented new product from Arbonne and it's going to revolutionize skin care):

Arbonne's RE9 Anti-Aging skin care regime and the new Genius product combined make it so I don't feel like I have to wear makeup to cover dark circles, puffiness and wrinkles.  Let's face it (no pun intended) - how we feel about our skin does impact our self-confidence.  At least it does for me.

And the results from the 30 day fit kit I did in the spring - not only have I been able to maintain these results for over four months now, I learned so much about my eating habits, addictions (hello, sugar) and how toxins (anything our body can't convert to energy) store fat and reduce our energy. I eat CLEANER, and it's made all the difference.

Got rid of stomach/waist fat by ridding my body of toxins.Increased my energy, slept better, went down two clothes sizes and have been able to maintain this lifestyle.

The only way I can show how Arbonne has changed my life from a financial perspective - while maintaining healthy balance - is this way:

Happy kids and the ability to be with them during the summer, after school, at sports - anywhere.

If any of this interests you - healthier eating, your best looking skin, financial independence and security - please ask me about Arbonne ... either the products, the opportunity or both.  My email is onecraftyellie@gmail.com.

I say this not to put a big sales pitch on you, but because it has quite literally changed my life.  I don't ever, ever write about things I can't back up, or that I don't believe in, and I believe in this with all my heart.

We will now return to our regularly scheduled programming - thank you for taking the time to listen and (hopefully) not un-follow me.

Ramble On

I haven't posted here in a while - at least for me, it's a while.  A few weeks feels like an eternity in the blogosphere.

I unplugged (for the most part) since my last post.  It wasn't as hard as I feared it would be. I didn't realize how the constant stream of emails, FB messages, etc. was impacting my mental health.  It all got to be too much.

We went to the Florida Keys as a family - we haven't been away just the four of us on a vacation like that in, well, ever.  I had no idea how I'd do - wallowing in my kids, only peeking at social media periodically like a junkie sneaking a quick fix.  Very quickly, my Internet World felt far away indeed.

I closed my jewelry stores for the summer.  I haven't done that since I opened my first store in 2008.  I knew it was the right decision when I clicked into "vacation mode" with nary a second thought.

I don't really know how to describe how I've been feeling lately. Over my birthday (44 on July 4th) I had what amounts to an emotional and physical collapse. All the stresses of the past months - heck, the past two years - came flooding in. I missed my Dad terribly. I thought a lot about how on earth we got through the past year and a half with his death, my cancer, and all the day-to-day pressures of life.

In part, I realized, I got through it by throwing myself into work. My non-profits - The Bubble Hour, Crying Out Now, Shining Strong -- in addition to my jewelry and Arbonne businesses.  It only took a day or two of stepping away for me to see that I was, indeed, running from and not towards. 

It's baffling, really, because I adore everything I do. As I've written about before, I can't imagine my life without all these things in it.  I didn't stop from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning until I closed them at night.  I spread myself too thin, but I did it willingly. Happily, even.

I don't know yet what will have to give.  I am giving it until the fall to figure it out.  My kids are thriving, and I'm grateful for that.  It's odd to contemplate giving up something that I've worked hard to build.  When I started ANY of the things I do, including this blog, I couldn't ever have imagined the places they would take me, the people they would bring into my lives.  Even my Arbonne business - young though it is - has already brought me SO many gifts.  And some much needed income.

I've decided to let it go - let the Universe direct me where I'm meant to go.  If I don't over think - if I stay out of my own way - I know the answer(s) will appear.

I'm heading to Chicago tomorrow, to the big blogging conference, BlogHer.  It's making me nostalgic; this is my fourth BlogHer, and it seems only yesterday I was heading to New York for my first one.  I remember the dizzying pace of that conference, wanting desperately to be in the middle of all the action.

I could care less about the middle, now, and ironically letting go of needing to be there has swung it around my way. I was chosen as one of twelve Voices of the Year to read a post in the "heart" category at the big community keynote on Friday night, in front of over 3,000 people.

When I saw my first Community Keynote I remember thinking "man, I'd love to be up there someday", but it was for all the wrong reasons, although I didn't realize that at the time.  I just felt so small there among all these well-known bloggers whose words and lives were such a big part of my life.

I hated feeling small.  I was just getting started, chomping at the bit to get the word out there about One Crafty Mother, Crying Out Now and my jewelry.

Now I know you can't force these things.  You can't just dive into the spotlight, or charm your way there.  

But now that the spotlight is swinging my way, I'm ambivalent.  This is not to say I'm not grateful - because I am very honored and humbled to have been chosen.  I think I'm ambivalent because I no longer crave the center of attention.  I think this is growth, but it's tinged with a feeling of undeservedness (now I'm making up words).  This isn't compliment fishing, or false modesty.

I think I simply feel kind of done.  Maybe reading at the Voices of the Year will be my going-out party.  I don't know yet.  We'll see.

If you're going to BlogHer, especially if this is your first time, be sure to come to the Serenity Suite, hosted by my good friends Heather and Maggie.  Read Heather's post HERE for a list of who is hosting.  The Suite locations are Sheraton-1287 and McCormick-921A (one in both locations as this conference is in two locales).  I will be hosting there as much as I can.

Every year someone - or more than one person - comes in feeling small, alone and questioning why the heck they are there.  Nobody is small in the Serenity Suite.  My favorite memories from last year's conference happened there.  So please, come on by and say hi. 

 I will leave you with a picture of a dolphin kissing me, because I can't think of any more words.

How To Do Anything.

My daughter is learning to write. Not just I-can-spell-things-correctly, but really write.

Her awesome 4th grade teacher has them writing all the time. About anything and everything. He knows that the more you do something, the more you'll drop self-doubt and fear.

She padded up to me a few nights about with an essay she had written.  I knew she was proud of it, otherwise she would never have shown me, but she downplayed it when she asked me to read it, saying, "this isn't very good, I don't think."

On her face eagerness and trepidation fought it out.

I've learned not to be overly enthusiastic in my responses to practically-no-win situations like these. If I chirp, "It's amazing! Perfect! There's nothing not to like about this!"  her chin trembles and she says - every time - "you don't like it."

If my response is too moderate - not enough chirp - the trembling chin appears and she says "you don't like it."

So I read it with my own share of trepidation, not about whether or not it's good, but how to help this kid believe in herself, to understand that it's all about the effort, not the outcome.

I gave her a smile and said, "I really like it. Especially the beginning. It really made me want to read more." 

She beamed.  "That's called an engaging beginning. It's important because it's the first thing someone reads so you don't want it to be boring."

"Sometimes I write my beginnings at the end, after I've finished the rest of it," I said.  "Or I'll just write a boring beginning and make it more interesting after I've finished it."

"You can re-write your beginnings?" she asked, her eyes wide. "That's cool!"

~~~~~

I've re-written so many of my beginnings. In recovery, people often say "you get to write your own endings", and I do love that concept, but to me it's more like re-writing your beginning.  Because we don't have that much control over our endings, although we love to feel like we do.  It's the beginnings that we have control over.

Putting a foot forward onto a new path is terrifying. We squint our eyes, desperately trying to see over the horizon.  It's much easier to venture onto a brand new path if we know we'll be successful.  Or safe.  If we are certain there will be laughter and joy and peace along the way.  We believe there will be hardships - bandits hiding in the bushes, mountains to climb, potholes to fall in. It's easy to believe in the obstacles. Where we struggle is with the unavoidable uncertainty that we don't know where it will lead.  All we really know is what the path looks like right under our feet. 

Here's the truth: there will be both. There will be bandits, and potholes and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Maybe some of these obstacles won't be surmountable, and then - gulp - you'll have to start on yet another new path to get where it is you're heading.  There will be smooth, pebbled paths, beautiful vistas and rest stops, too.  That's life.

Sobriety is like this. So is fighting cancer. Or losing weight. So is starting a new business venture or sending a kid off to the first day of school. Or college. Or anywhere.  We want to run ahead, smoothing out the path, shooing away bandits and hacking easy paths around mountains.

We want someone to guarantee our own success, too. No matter how old we are. We want our own path-smoother.

We don't need a path-smoother, though.  We need a walking buddy, or a stranger on the path who hands us water or offers a place to rest.  Those people can be found in the most unexpected of places, too, if we're looking.

Cheerleaders are great to have - all "sis-boom-bah!" and "you can do it!", but we also need a few navigators, people who have walked the path before, or who aren't afraid to tell us we've lost our way.

I've been lost many times. I've doubted myself more than I haven't.  It was in the stumbling that I figured out that I wasn't on the road meant for me.

More than a few people have said to me when I am talking to them about losing weight, or getting sober, or starting a new venture or fighting cancer, 'that's easy for you to say, you did it already."

But I haven't.  I'm just doing.  To lose weight I had to be overweight. To be sober I had to be drunk. To start a business I had to have nothing. To beat cancer I had to have cancer.  I'll gain weight, my sobriety will wobble (or fall), my businesses fail, my cancer will lie in wait, or go away.  I don't control any of that. I haven't written the endings to any of these things, yet.  Just lots and lots of beginnings.

Wherever you are in life, whatever you are facing - sobriety? weight loss? a move? a divorce? starting (or ending) a business venture? - the path is long and twisty, and your choices are few: lie down and give up or take the first step.

That first step? That's you, writing your own beginning.

An Arena. A Skeptic. A Paradigm Shift.

The arena is humming with energy, pulsing with camaraderie, entrepreneurship and hope.

I feel a little bewildered, like a six year old going into her first candy shop.

Eight weeks ago Arbonne was a product I used and loved, and there I was sitting in Las Vegas at their annual conference.

How did that happen?

"You are not defined by your setbacks, but rather by your comebacks." says the inspiring keynote speaker, Cecilia Stoll, who came from quite literally nothing to become the top income earner at Arbonne.  The crowd explodes, 14,000 people leaping to their feet to thunderous applause.

I think about network marketing, as I clap and cheer right along with everyone else.  Prior to the past seven weeks to say network marketing made me skeptical would have been an understatement.  I just didn't get it, and nor did I want to.

It's got to be too good to be true, I thought.  There has got to be a catch.

All the promises of earning thousands of dollars a month or earning a brand new Mercedes just seemed - I don't know - seedy somehow.

I was very, very wrong.

What I witnessed at this conference was women (and men, too) that were empowered, self-confident, and helping each other succeed.   I love that I'm part of a company where a woman can stand on stage and announce to an arena full of her colleagues that her goal is to be the number one income earner and have everyone - and I mean everyone - explode into applause.

That never happens in Corporate America. Or Retail. Or Entertainment.  Pick any other business structure, and the only way to the top is to step on the heads of the people in front of you.

In network marketing - and especially at Arbonne - the more successful you are personally and financially, the more your colleagues benefit.  Not just financially but emotionally, and - this part surprised me - spiritually.

I expected the speakers at this conference to tell us how to sell, sell, sell.  They must be consummate salespeople, I thought before I arrived, to make that much money. 

I was wrong again.  They are storytellers, like me.

They shared their adversities, their challenges - each speaker told  very personal stories about their hardships, and their why.  Why they finally dropped the skepticism (because we're all skeptics when we start - nobody says as a child 'when I grow up I want to be in network marketing') and joined Arbonne.  Their why is what motivates them to each and every day.  They talked about how their self-esteem blossomed as their incomes did, too. And not just because they are making more money - or any money - but because they are introducing clients to products that improve health inside and out, all while stretching and growing themselves as they face fears and do it anyway.

Women, in particular, are sheepish about talking about money when it comes to working, I think.  Or about advocating to make more money, or something.  Not all women, of course, but many women. I know I am.

But here is my reality: both my kids are in school, my jewelry business helps to support my non-profit endeavors, but I need to make money. I want more financial independence, but I don't want to go back to an office job.

And I'm SO not a salesperson.  SO. NOT.

I've been chasing heart dreams so long that I worried I'd never find something that could increase my income AND blend with my heart song of empowering women, sharing story, and improving the world.

I never, ever,  thought that would come in the form of a network marketing company.  EVER.  I've learned a lot about it in seven short weeks, though, and it IS the wave of the future.  I want my efforts - my talents - to benefit me and my clients.  Not some Corporate Muckity-Muck in a corner office.

I want to choose when I work and how I work. I want to be surrounded by interesting, funny, talented and compassionate people. I want to make a difference in the world.  I want to make more money.

I get ALL of that - literally EVERYTHING on my list - with Arbonne.

These women are not ashamed of their success.  They give so much back in the form of charitable donations and in helping other women succeed - whatever their definition of success may be.

I don't need to make thousands of dollars more per month, but at Arbonne that is a possibility.  I'm only limited if my own vision for myself is limited.

One thing is very true - that first Arbonne check I received felt pretty damn good, considering I feel like I'm just out having a ton of fun.

"There is no illusion greater than fear".  Cecilia Stoll quoted Lao Tzu during her speech.

I had to overcome fear to join Arbonne. Fear of asking people to host workshops, to consider buying product, to consider joining Arbonne with me.  The only reason I can do it is I believe in this with my whole heart.

My body looks and feels great.  My skin looks and feels great.  I am having so much fun.  These products are incredible - safe, pure, beneficial - they are revolutionizing skin care and health and wellness.

It's not hard to ask someone if they want to be a part of that.

And, surprisingly, I'm okay with "no".  This doesn't have to be for everyone.  Networking marketing people used to scare me with their pop-eyed zeal.  I get it, now. I'm trying not to be too pop-eyed, but it's hard, because I feel part of something bigger than me, something that is putting control back into peoples' lives - how they spend their time, when they work, how they work, and even how much money they make - this business can shrink and expand to fit into your life, instead of you shrinking or expanding to fit into working life.

What's not to love?

"Courageous people get outrageous rewards", Cecilia said toward the end of her keynote.

I feel outrageous, sitting there in a huge arena in Vegas.  I feel the ground shake underneath me, a paradigm shift in my life.  Anything is possible.  Anything.

Everyone - and I do mean everyone - I have approached about this opportunity starts with the 'why-nots'.  We are so quick to do that - at least I am - to come up with all the "can'ts".  And they don't hesitate because they don't like the product, or because they don't like Arbonne.

They hesitate - like I did - because they don't think they can.

"I'm not a salesperson".  "I don't know very many people."  "I can't speak in front of people".  "I can't be out a lot".

I'm not interested in what you're not, or what you can't do.  Because you can.  The beauty of controlling your own working life is you play to your strengths, you do this in the way that suits you the best.

Courageous people DO get outrageous rewards.  You learn more from your comebacks than your setbacks.  When you stretch yourself - just a little - the world is yours.

You can.

All The Things*

The bus rumbles away and I walk into my house and stand there in a daze.

I have so much to do I don't even know where to start.

My life is very full at the moment, brimming over with amazing endeavors, and every minute of every day is jam packed.  I'm loving my new Arbonne business; it is connecting me to old friends and making me new ones at the same time.  My jewelry business is thriving, which in turn raises funds for Shining Strong, the new non-profit I launched last week.  I realized recently that I'm running four websites along with my three businesses.  Add the hectic schedule of two school aged kids, running a household and trying to maintain my self-care regime to the mix, and it gets overwhelming. 

Someone I just met the other day asked me what I do for a living and I just stood there, open mouthed, unsure of where exactly to start.

"I'm a Mom," I said, because it seemed simplest.  As the words left my mouth I felt a tug of guilt in my gut. These days parenting is crammed into my schedule between the cracks of All The Things.

I'm happy - almost deliriously so. This, of course, makes my inner Panic Monkey nervous, waiting for the other shoe to fall.  Another inner tug of guilt: can't you just sit back and enjoy the moment? What is wrong with you? 

There is the undercurrent of anxiety of waiting for the follow-up procedure of removing more tissue around the site of Greta's suspicious mole.  She is an emotional roller coaster these days - up, then down - giddy with happiness and then crying for "no reason". 

I'm leaving tomorrow morning at 3am for a very early flight for a whirlwind trip to Las Vegas for an Arbonne conference, coming back on the red eye Saturday night. Tonight is a Book Club event with a local organization to talk about Let Me Get This Straight.

I'm not packed. I have orders to fill, schedules to button up for the kids and a mountain of laundry to fold.

I feel the stress well up inside me, threaten to burst through at any moment.  I want to curl up in a ball, but instead I find a quiet corner and focus on my breath.

Sitting still, I breathe in and out, and watch my thoughts float by.  All The Things tumble around in my consciousness: logistics, emotions, images of Greta's face crumpled with worry. 

Breathe, I think, even as my diaphragm tightens with anxiety.

My mind reaches back, mulling over where I was this time last year, weak from the cancer treatments that hadn't yet released their grip on me.  The stubborn lump in my neck was still there, more operations were needed.

A day like today was unfathomable back then.  A busy day last year at this time entailed mustering the strength to see my kids off on the bus.

I'm hit with the odd sensation that I kind of miss those days of forced rest.  I have such a hard time with enough.  Then, of course, guilt for even thinking this way.

Should I be doing this much? I ponder this thought for a while.  I realize the dreaded "s" word, should, has come back into my life.  Should took a hiatus during my illness, when the center of my universe was Healing.

The answer, I realize, is I don't know.  I don't how much is too much.  Is it because I'm an alcoholic?  Am I overdosing on busy?  Perhaps.  But All The Things are important, and I don't want to let go of a single one.

Just do the next right thing, my Recovery Voice tells me.   But they are all Right Things, my Panic Monkey protests.  Laundry? Orders? Dishes? Email? Meditation? Exercise?  Packing? How on earth do I know what to do?

I sit a while longer and wait for my mind to quiet. Eventually it slows, and I think:  write.

~~~~~~~

*All The Things concept credited to Hyperbole and A Half and her post "This Is Why I'll Never Be An Adult" - one of the funniest and most poignant blog posts ever.

Zombie Cells and An Old Soul

I struggle with how much I can write about my kids.  They are 10 and 7 now, and while they don't object to me talking about them on the blog, yet, when something scary or sensitive comes up I don't really know where the line is.

When Greta was grappling with anxiety I posted about it, once, and received so much support and helpful advice, that my heart-gut wants to post about what is going on with her now.  But my heart-gut also says it's not my story to tell.

My mind has gone around and around and I've decided to write about it, because it's on my heart and I need to share.

Greta had a suspicious mole removed from her back a couple of weeks ago, and now it's come back as "abnormal cells with moderate to severe indication of melanoma".

GULP.

We're getting lots of advice from her dermatologist and friends about exactly what this means, how concerned we should be.  We know for sure she'll have to go back and have more removed, the usual procedure for anything suspicious.

But the "M" word? For my 10 year old girl?  It makes me want to curl up in a ball and ask someone else to be the parent.

Apparently this is genetic - not sun exposure. When she was 3 days old she developed a large mole and the pediatrician looked at me gravely and said "you're going to have to watch her skin closely ... this isn't usual for such a young baby".

So I'm crazy about sunscreen, sun shirts, doing everything in my limited power to protect her.

But DAMMIT. There is only so much I can do, of course.

Hopefully the silver lining will be that she will checked regularly, her whole life, and this will mean nothing scary can get out of hand.

But I don't WANT that for my kid, Universe.  We've spent the past year and a half in Cancer Land. I'm always going to be a denizen of that realm, and it's taking me a long time and a lot of hard work to come to terms with it for myself.

Please, please, may my daughter never have to live there, too.

This doesn't mean she has cancer or she'll ever get cancer.  My Mom heart soars into terror, knowing how aggressive melanoma is, even as I realize I'm overlaying my own traumatic past year and a half over her. She's not me. I know this.  But if I could jump in front of this bullet for her - even it's a rubber bullet that will only bruise her - I would.

This doesn't help her anxiety, either.  She's too intuitive, too nuanced, to believe my reasonably voiced assurances.  "This could be bad, right, Momma?" she asks, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"It's not anything right now, sweetie," I answer.  She asks more about cancer, and I try to make it simple.  "Cancer is a really scary word, I know," I say. "But all cancer really means is cells that change, and cells change for all different reasons.  And you have strong cells in your body that fight off that bad cells, too.  You are young and healthy and you don't need to be afraid", I say, convincing myself as much as her.

She is quiet a moment, and then she says, "Like Plants vs. Zombies?  The video game? I have some Zombie cells and the Good Plant Cells are fighting them off but sometimes they can't get them all and then they have to take the Zombie cells out?"

After my own stunned silence I say, pushing back tears, "Yes.  It's exactly like that".  Oh, my wise old soul little girl, I don't say.

Some prayers our way would be appreciated. I'm working on keeping my feet planted firmly on the earth, not letting the awfulizing cycle of bad-scenarios take up too much space in my head. 

This morning I watched her sprint like a gazelle down the soccer field, brown ponytail flying behind her, a big smile planted on her face as she lined up a seemingly impossible shot and BAM! -- she scored.   She high fived and hugged her team mates and looked over at us with a grin. There she is. I think.  My girl.  So vibrant and strong and full of life.

And today?  Today things are good.  If we stay in today step by step we'll work through this, like we always do.

This IS a post about recovery. Of mind, body and spirit. Why I'm so happy.

I'm trying - really I am - to not deluge you with what has been happening to my body - inside and out - since joining Arbonne.  So if you are a closed person who only wants to hear about alcoholism, kids and cancer, skip this post.

On second thought - if you come here to read about alcoholism, kids and cancer ...READ ON. 

I started, officially, as an Arbonne consultant about three weeks ago, and as I posted before my life changed within the first week. I'd been using their skin care products and raving about them and my friend convinced me to sign up for real. 

I am having a BALL.  So, yeah, I'm gonna post about it, because so much is moving so fast for me I don't really have anything else to say anyway.

My skin was ravaged by cancer, and last year Arbonne's RE9 line fixed it in a WEEK.  

Since having cancer I know all about the toxins in the personal care products we put on our body - the number is STAGGERING.  Here's a few things you may not know:

NIOSH (National Safety Institute of Occupational Safety & Health) conducted a study of 2,893 chemicals used in personal care products. Did you know chemicals applied to your skin are in every organ in your body in 26 seconds? The results of this study are terrifying: 778 of these studied chemicals caused acute toxicity. 218 caused reproductive complications. 148 caused TUMORS. 

What do you put on your face/body/hair every day? Since having cancer I don't mess around anymore, and I certainly don't mess around with what my kids use, either. Deodorant, toothpaste and shampoo are some of the worst offenders. This is not a sales pitch - this is a message that can save your health and the health of your kids. Seriously.

So yeah, if you come here to read about cancer, that's pretty relevant.

Now we come to the inside of my body. I hadn't tried any of Arbonne's fitness products. I did know they reduced the acidity in your system, and acidity is a KNOWN link to cancer, diabetes and MANY other chronic diseases. Even before signing up for Arbonne, my oncologist told me an Alkaline (the opposite of acidity) diet gives me the best chances of staying in remission. Or if you've never had cancer or other chronic illness- of not getting it at all.

The fitness essentials program is gluten, dairy, soy, processed sugar free (all toxins) and the cornerstone to the 30 day fit program is a VEGAN protein shake (NOT SOY or WHEY) that builds muscle mass, eliminates toxins (toxins are anything your body can't convert to energy), gives you energy and balances your blood sugar and metabolism. It's not a fad diet - those DO NOT work.   By eliminating so many of the toxins we eat without even thinking, and giving you a simple program to make your body as healthy as possible, what is there to lose?  OH YEAH. WEIGHT.

Check out where I am only 18 days into the 30 day fit program: 

I have said I'm not a salesperson, and I'm not. I'm a storyteller.  This is my story, what's going on with me right now.  

If you come here to read about kids, motherhood, etc. - this is for you, too.  The stuff we put on our kids' bodies is shocking and we don't even know we're doing it. We're not bad people - we're just uninformed. Shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant and sunscreens are some of the worst, and Arbonne has products safe for your children to use, too.

I haven't even started on how much fun I've having as a consultant, improving peoples' health, mental well being - helping them feel back in control of their body inside and out.  So if you come here to read about alcoholism and recovery?  THIS is about self-love, clearing up your body after years of toxins and not loving it or yourself very much.  I know - I've been there.   Being in recovery is an inside job, both mentally and physically, and stopping harming my body.  I don't put crap IN or ON my body any more.  

And I'm saving money by not buying the latest rage of a diet fad, or diet pill (STAY AWAY FROM THOSE) or every-other skin cream so I can look like the Clinique model.   I want to look and feel like the best me.

Best yet - being a consultant is the best thing I've ever done. I've done a lot of cool things. But this beats it all hands-down.

So, yeah. There you have it.  I have some tough stuff going on now, too, that I'm not ready to blog about.  But I'm giving my mind and body the best shot possible to deal with adversity because I feel FREAKING GREAT. 

If you want to learn more - and I say this as a story teller not a sales person - send me an email to ellieandsteve@verizon.net.   People email me all the time about drinking or cancer after reading something that is working for me.  This is no different.   If you unsubscribe because this feels all salesy and weird to you - well, I'll miss you.  

 

The Faces In The Waiting Room

The doors to the elevator whoosh open, and the familiar scents and sounds of the 11th floor Head & Neck Surgical Oncology ward assault my senses. The piney-sweet smell of hospital cleaning fluids, tinged with something vaguely rotten, make me crinkle my nose.

Next to me a woman about my age lies on a stretcher, her neck swathed in bandages and a large surgical drain dangles out of a hole near her collarbone. I unconsciously finger the small white round scar left from my own drain, many months ago.

I tick back in my head and think: how long ago was that me lying there on a stretcher? A few minutes of pondering and I realize it is one year to the day - to the minute, actually - that I had completed the neck surgery that removed a stubborn lump of what we hoped were dead cancer cells and 23 of my lymph nodes.

I shudder, remembering the crippling fear and pain of those days. Waiting anxiously to hear if they got it all, lying helpless in the hospital moaning in discomfort.

One year. Whoa.

The orderly pushes the woman towards me, and I see soft tears quietly streaming down her cheeks. I yearn to grab her hand and tell her this is the worst part.  But maybe it isn't. Maybe she won't be lucky like I was and they couldn't get all her cancer.  I shoot a silent prayer her way, and turn the corner into the head & neck surgical oncology waiting room.  I'm here for a routine check-up, but my stomach is flip-flopping with butterflies. I haven't been here since Christmas, and have been having odd twinges of pain, some difficulty swallowing and increasing dryness in the back of my throat.  I don't know if this is normal or not.

The waiting room is a stark reminder of the ravages of head &  neck cancer. A man with most of his lower jaw missing writes a note to his wife on a little whiteboard. A woman struggles to speak to the receptionist through the hole in her throat.  All around me are people covered in bandages - over eyes, ears, necks and even entire heads.

I look down at my hands, wishing with all my heart I could be somewhere else.  I read yesterday that Roger Ebert's throat cancer came back, and I'm a nervous wreck.

I've been feeling good lately - physically, emotionally and spiritually.  I'm building my new Arbonne business, alongside my thriving jewelry business, and I wake up with a spring in my step every morning, eager to tackle the day.  If you had shown me a picture of my life today when it was me on that stretcher, I would not have believed what I saw.

I have gained all my weight back, and then some, but am working it down again with exercise, yoga and a 30 day fit kit program from Arbonne.  My veins course with healthy vitamins, supplements and proteins.  I have more energy than I can ever remember having.  I feel like I don't belong here, but I do.  I'm still a Cancer Person.

At the end of my treatment I remember thinking: I can't wait until cancer is firmly in my rear view mirror. Here I am, a year later, and I've learned something: cancer is never truly in your rear view mirror.  It's more like a shadow passenger in the back seat, mostly quiet and I think it may have gone, and then I'll hear a faint cough or shuffling of feet and I'll think:  oh yeah.  Cancer's back there.

I'm finally called into the exam room, and the doctor cheerfully asks me how I'm doing. My feet swing madly back and forth as he peers down into my throat, feels around with his gloved fingers, and mutters things like hmmmmm.

Hmmmmm is officially my least favorite sound.

I'm too scared to ask what he sees, and silently let him complete his exam.  He scribbles notes in my folder for what seems like ages, then snaps it shut and turns to me with a smile and says looks good!

A follow-up appointment that will include a CT Scan is scheduled for the end of May.

I rush out of the hospital and into the fresh spring air, feeling like a prisoner on a 10 week reprieve.

Driving home, I think of the faces in the waiting room, wondering what news they are getting today.  I realize I'm always going to be a face in that waiting room - my doctor says he'll follow-up with me "until he retires". He's in his late 40s.

I turn up the radio, roll down the windows and sing along as I drive down the highway.  Cancer settles into the back seat, hunkers down and goes quiet. At least for now.  

The Sprinter and The Trudger

I blow the steam away from the surface of my coffee, anticipating its creamy roasted goodness with a smile.

It's a rare afternoon with no pressing deadlines, no plans, no structure. Sleet spits against the window, blurring the grey and white landscape outside.

I feel poised on the edge of something. I used to feel this way all the time, like a runner hunched over waiting for the gun to go off.  Lately, though, the forced lazy pace of snow days and sick days has unfurled my inner sprinter, forced her to lay low.

Today, for some reason, she's up and itchy, wanting to move forward, press on towards the Next Thing.

What is that Next Thing going to be? I think, with some trepidation.

Cancer honed my ability to live in the day, the moment, which is mostly a blessing.  Thinking about tomorrow, or next week, or next month, when you're in the throes of cancer feels wrong, like testing the fates unnecessarily.

When is it time to move on?  Is the answer never?  Is the answer now?

I had a good natured disagreement with my friend Courtney a while back, about the expression "trudging the road to happy destiny".  I told her it annoyed me, this expression, because I think of trudging as a negative - something you have to do, not something you want to do.  Trudging connoted, for me, feeling the heavy weight of each burdensome step.

She laughed and said she couldn't disagree more.  "Trudging is walking with purpose," she said.  "It's one of my favorite expressions.  When you don't know what else to do? Walk forward with purpose. It works."

She's like this, Courtney.  A casual conversation with her is peppered with all sorts of profound wisdom. She doesn't seem to notice, which makes me adore her even more.

I've been thinking about trudging differently since then.  I trudged my way though early recovery - twice. I trudged my way through the sudden death of my father and the grieving aftermath. I trudged my way through cancer.  I'm trudging my way through a winter clogged with fierce weather and stuffy noses.  Looking back on the past two years, it was trudging that got me through.  Moving through each moment with only one purpose:  keep going.

When I think of trudging, I picture my head down, keeping my view on just the few feet in front of me. This isn't a bad thing, I've come to understand.  Breaking the pace of life into individual footsteps is so contrary to how I lived my life for so long - eyes squarely fixed on the horizon and missing so much that was right under my nose.

So what's next? my inner sprinter wants to know.  Is it the completion of Shining Strong, the non-profit company I'm building?  Is it growing The Bubble Hour even more?  Is it finally writing that book?  What if my cancer comes back? Now that I know how quickly life can change on a dime, do I dare dream?

I feel the anxiety and impatience willing up inside me.  The antidote?  Trudging. Walk forward with purpose, with my eyes focused only on the next few steps.  The outcome has never been up to me, anyway, it just took the cage-rattling experiences of the past two years to make me understand this.

And so I trudge. Every now and then I indulge in a glance back over my shoulder and I think: wow - one step at a time and I've gotten farther than I thought possible. 

Evey now and then I glace up ahead, and think: I wonder what's up there?

My sprinter stamps her feet impatiently, urging me to get there - wherever there is - faster.   It's harder to trudge than to sprint, I tell her.  But it's worth it.

Blink

The little black cursor line blinks at me; the white page mocks me with its silence.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

I close my eyes and breathe, parsing through the past week and trying to remember one moment or other that stands out.  Nothing.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The fire in the wood stove crackles contentedly, the belly of the stove casts a comforting orange glow.  The dog sighs.

I absentmindedly reach down and scratch her head, thinking over the vet's words on Saturday: She's an old dog. We see problems in her blood work.  Maybe there are things we can do, likely expensive things, but like I said she's an old dog.  So it's up to you.

She flicks her eyes up at me with a grateful look and I marvel for the millionth time over her long white lashes.  Twelve years old.  She's slower moving around, now, but not in pain.  I'll enjoy the time I have with her while she's here, this fluffy white companion who has been with me longer than my children.

The phone rings, and my heart sinks. I don't want to talk to anyone, but realize it might be the school calling, so I reluctantly unfold my body from the soft warmth of my writing chair and pad over to the phone.  Unknown caller.  I use the interruption to top off my coffee cup and cradle my hands around the mug as I make my way back to the chair.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

My email pings and I resist the urge to check.  Whatever it is can wait. I feel an aching in my gut, the source of which I can't quite pinpoint.

I think of the text, about a friend whose cancer has spread.  My mind wanders to my own near future, the series of check-ups I have scheduled over the coming weeks, and I feel a twinge of fear, then guilt, for converting my worries for her into unfounded worries for myself.

My phone beeps.  A text.  Perhaps I'm late for something. Maybe that's the source of the vague sense of uneasiness I feel.

I smile, remembering a phone call with a friend yesterday.  We laughed good naturedly at our futile attempts to figure out the complexities of life, choice and time.  We're either really dumb or really wise, we said.  Or maybe we're wise because we figured out that we know exactly nothing. 

The clock ticks, its steady cadence propelling me towards the next thing, whatever that will be.

The fire crackles, the dog sighs and I sit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



This post is part of Heather's free-writing link-up, Just Write.  Read the details of how to join by clicking here. 

Peek

It's a quiet Sunday night; we're sitting in front of a roaring fire, watching the Patriots in the playoffs.  My mind keeps drifting away, thinking about how quickly the days pass.

The kids sputter in and out of the room, blurting out non-sequiturs:  Mom, I Googled 'what is Greta's future' and it said 'no responses found!'. I am imagining what it would be like if dogs could play soccer. How many seconds in a whole day?   

This afternoon I took the kids to the movies. Finn is still young enough that he wanted to snuggle in my lap.  Greta even rested her head on my shoulder.  Bliss.

As we left the theater, we ran into some boys from her class.  "Hi Greta!" one yelled enthusiastically.  "You're so TALL!"  She blushed, uncertain whether she's been complimented or not.  As we walk through the drizzling rain in the parking lot, the boys' voices echoed behind us:  Bye, Greta! Bye Grrrrrrrrrrreta!  See you tomorrow in class! 

Her cheeks blushed a fierce reddish pink, but she was smiling.  I knew better than to say anything about it all.

As we clamber into the car, Finn asked me, for the thousandth time, 'how many days away is Tuesday?'   He has a play date with two classmates - girls - and he is beyond excited.  He seems to be a girl magnet, probably because of his gentle manner and easy smile.  

Yesterday he told me he likes play dates with girls because "they don't try to make me feel badly, like they are better than me at everything."

I didn't really have a response to that, so I hugged him.

I am ramping up my yoga practice, trying more challenging classes.   Today my body is achy all over; I'm feeling muscles I never knew I had.  It's a good hurt, though, because it reminds me I'm getting stronger.  This time last year I was growing weaker and weaker as radiation and chemotherapy started to take their toll.

I feel a rush of gratitude every time my muscles burn.  

The other day Finn said to me, out of the blue: I'm glad you're here, Momma.

I don't know if he knows exactly what he meant by that, but it doesn't matter.  My heart soared and I blinked back tears as I said "Me too, buddy. Me too".

The Patriots are winning.  The fire is warm, and the kids are laughing.

Life is good.

Truthful Thursday - Parenting a Special Needs Child

***Submitted by Anonymous

A note from Ellie: it takes so much courage to write a piece like this - every mother, not just mothers of a special needs child - can identify with a pang of shame about their kid.  NO comments that are inflammatory in any way will be tolerated.  This is a community of empathy and understanding, so please offer your support.  Thank you.

This morning, I drove around town looking for day cares for my younger daughter.  A few years ago, this process was very easy. Back then, I was searching for a spot for my now-3 year old, a clever and witty kid who has always exceeded any goal put before her. Back then, I bounded in to each Director’s office, declared that we needed a daycare, and was met with a welcome party. They practically begged me to enroll.

But with my 1 year old, the process is much more difficult and brings about very painful feelings of shame. My younger daughter is beautiful, smiley, and loving. She will reach out to any stranger and quickly bury her face in his shoulder. She will stand at her sister’s train table and laugh with glee at just the experience of being alive. She teaches me about true happiness. But she also has a very rare syndrome, one that causes developmental delays along with some health problems.

So at 15 months old, she isn’t walking or talking. I’m quick to say that she’s cruising, but she really isn’t. Cruising signifies gripping onto the couch and moving her way along. She’s taken a step or two, but I certainly wouldn’t call it cruising.

Today, when I met with each successive Director at another prospective daycare, I bragged that she was cruising. You see, they won’t move her into the toddler room until she’s walking. She needs to be “steady on her feet and confident.” Until she reaches that milestone, they’ll keep her in the infant room with 6 week old babies. However, sitting in an infant room all day will impede her development because she needs to learn from the older kids. But the Directors are adamant that any child who isn’t walking needs to be with the babies.

 All day long, I’ve had to explain her delay – had to reveal her syndrome. And I felt such shame. I’ve gotten way past the point of blaming her for any of this. I’ve moved well beyond those heart-wrenching and hurtful feelings of only a year ago. But I had to reveal that my child isn’t perfect. I had to explain the characteristics of her syndrome and then, upon seeing one worried look after another, had to follow-up with a happy-faced, bubbly disclaimer: “She’s doing so well though! She’s practically a typical child!” At one point, I said, “You wouldn’t even know there was anything wrong with her!”

That’s when one of the Directors looked at me kindly and said, “There isn’t anything wrong with her.”

I felt such shame. I’m supposed to be her unconditionally-loving mother. And I need someone else, a stranger, to tell me that there isn’t anything wrong with my child?

 But…if there isn’t anything wrong with her, then why did the Director then say: “Of course, I’ve never heard of this syndrome. So I’ll need to check with HR…”? Her sentence trailed off, but it’s obvious that she meant “…before we accept your application.”

I want so badly to accept my daughter for who she is. I don’t want to feel any shame or embarrassment when talking about her. But every time I have to beg to get her into another daycare, I feel that I’m explaining away who she is. I’m asking strangers for forgiveness over the needs of my own, incredibly special child. 

Let Me Get This Straight (My New Book!)

I get all my good ideas from Heather.

I just want to get that out there right up front.  She published an ebook with the best of her Just Write posts, and my brain immediately began to tick, tick, tick.

I have wanted to publish my blog posts - a best of compilation - for some time now, but I haven't been able to find an affordable format that a luddite like me could actually use to make a book.

Until now

And it's a real book.  It has a cover and everything (softcover - because I know you all love me but I know  you don't $50 love me).   It looks really cool.

There is a preview that shows you the first 15 pages of the 150 page book.   The posts are in chronological order, from my very first post all the way through this year.  Just the best ones (in my humble opinion). 

You can purchase it as a softcover book, a pdf download or an eBook.  

The softcover price may seem high, but I'm not making very much money on it. I guess that's just what it costs to produce a COLOR softcover book independently.  Did you notice it has COLOR pictures?  

I would love if it some of you would purchase the actual book, and it could, like, sit on your bookshelf looking cool. And you could also, you know, read it. And you could have friends over and point to it and say, "See that book?  Yeah. Friend of mine."  

Because if you've been reading this blog for a while - if you've hung in there through the stories of my drinking and recovery, the loss of my Dad, my cancer journey and the everyday trials and joys of life, you are my friend.

Profits from the book sales are going towards funding my dual heart projects:  Crying Out Now and The Bubble Hour.  I know those sites are making a difference, and I want to keep building them, getting the word out to more people, but I've reached the limits of what I can afford to do on my own.

Besides, it's a GREAT gift idea.  If I do say so myself.  

The title is a play on words - do you get it?  Let Me Get This Straight?  (Straight as in not drunk..) It's a lyric from a song by Griffin House called Ordinary Day, and when I heard the song five years ago when I was newly sober and struggling, I thought: I'm going to name a book that, some day. 

And now I have.

The eBook and pdf versions are only $9.99, so if you don't thirty-two dollars love me (for the softcover ... but did I mention it's really cool?) you can order the electronic copies and enjoy them on your PC (pdf version) or Mac product (eBook version).

Click "play" below for a preview, and then on the links below to go to my online bookstore to purchase whichever version you'd like. 

And, as always, if you could help me spread the word I would appreciate it SO MUCH.

Let Me Get This Straight by The Best of One Crafty Mother (Volume 1) by Ellie Schoenberger | Make Your Own Book