Fringe.

The other day, I thought about going back to my old life.

Me. Circa 2004. I think my title was Director of Something important.

I looked at a job site and thought about applying for a real job. Like one in an office. With start and stop times. And a regular pay check. And a real boss. And benefits and pensions and staff meetings. And a communal coffee pot. And a dress code requiring suits from Banana Republic, J.Crew and Ann Taylor. And bagels on Friday in the break room. Perhaps a communal monthly birthday cake. You know, all that stuff regular people do--all the stuff I did a long time ago.

Of course I immediately stopped submitting my resume for a job called "Director of Something," or "Coordinator of Something-Else," because, well, I bought a fringed shirt at Urban Outfitters. And you cannot wear that while coordinating something and directing something else. It is just impossible.

When I first started conceptualizing this blog entry, I thought I'd write something whimsical and funny about my new quirky lifestyle. My free-spirited, freelance writing, yoga teaching, book drafting, cooking, pickling, stay at home mom lifestyle-as if I am some sort of bohemian, anti-establishment younger version of Auntie Mame.

The truth is, I just like fringed shirts. And I am always late to everything. And well, Lily has therapy during the day and I am scared shitless of being separated from my children.

At work, today. Notice, no hosiery. And my boss is shorter than me.

Right before Lily was diagnosed with a brain tumor, she attended daycare four days a week. She started on August 15, 2006; Her last day was May 15, 2006. Nine months. 36 weeks. 144 days. All this time in daycare and something was brewing in her brain. I know I could not stop it. I know working for your family is part of being a parent. And I know it all worked out. But it is that time I missed, that haunts me--because what if, what if our outcome was different? What if that brain tumor did what it set out to do?

You can never get time back.

So, here I am. Lily is skilled at conference calls and can offer meaningful critiques on articles I read aloud (her favorite comment: it does not flow). Chloe teaches her collection of Minnie Mouse dolls yoga (downward mouse). And for better or for worse, I am home. Working. Sweating. Wearing fringe. Using my children as excuses for lateness.

Job title: MOMMY! (typically screamed at the top of someone's lungs while I am interviewing the Mayor)

Puke.

This morning, Lily woke up and puked.

Lily is fine. Chloe puked the day before. Mike is probably going to puke. Maybe, if God really wants to make me feel secure, I'll puke before noon.

God really is that good.

And when I say Lily is fine, it is on our eff-ed-up-brain-tumor-life-death-shunt-meningitis-infused standards.

Four years ago, when Lily puked it meant her shunt could be malfunctioning and she could need brain surgery. It meant she could have meningitis. It meant that a tumor could be growing.

But today, it means her stomach is upset, not her brain. Today, it means pedialite instead of an IV cocktail of steroids, electrolytes and antibiotics. Today, it means I rejoice in a family of stomach viruses. Today, I joyfully Lysol the toilet.

Today, it means Lily is a little girl with a belly ache.

Despite God's backhanded assurances via communal puking, morning puking always disrupts the time-space continuum for me. One morning of Lily vomiting, one slight gag and I am Alice tumbling right back into freaking hell.

It all rushes back. I used to cry and pace during the rush, trying to stop my descent into the madness. More recently, I shut down and sit quietly. I let the entire "thing" flash before my eyes.

So here it is, today's flash:

The weeks before Lily's diagnosis. The mornings of hearing her puke on the baby monitor. My frustration at the pediatrician (really, a month-long bladder infection?). My frustration at Lily (please stop puking, I have a deadline at my stupid job.). My fear (more accurately the bone chilling, cold sweat inducing terror that my baby would die.). The month at CHOP. The weeks in Houston, giving Lily a midnight bottle in her crib, because she would not be allowed to eat until noon the next day. Waking up every single morning, tying our shoes, brushing our teeth, changing Lily's diaper, then handing her over to Dr. Woo and crew to have her sedated and to have radiation aimed at her beautiful brain.

It is so abnormal. It is not what we signed up for. I signed up for mornings spent dropping Lily off at daycare. Afternoons spent rushing to pick her up. Evening dates with Mike. Weekends at the pool or the pumpkin patch. I signed up for the toughest moment and biggest parenting challenge to be the first time she took a sip of alcohol or when her best friend stole her boyfriend.

But for right now, I let the normal wash over me. Puke. Belly aches. Emergency trips to the potty. Little slices of normal. And one day, the normal may stop of the rush of the abnormal. But for now, I pick up my Lysol, wash the sheets and thank God for germs.

The eyebrow incident.

Today there was an unfortunate incident with my eyebrows.

It involved hair dye. Hair dye left on for two hours. And lots of exfoliating with straight up kosher salt.

I would have used dirt if we were out of salt.

It was that bad.

The dye, left on for 4x longer than recommended, had adhered to my skin. It created the effect of painted on eyebrows which reminded me of Bert (as in Bert and Ernie), but as my dear friend pointed out to me, I looked like Uncle Leo (see the YouTube clip if you don’t recall).

Since had my tirade at lunch time yesterday, I am certain my children did not say anything for fear of making me angrier than I already “appeared” (literally).

Anyway, this got me thinking about all the things I do to change myself--to draw myself away from my au natural state.

I dye my hair. I have forever--first I dyed it fake red in college; then summer highlights as a career girl; now, I just color the gray away. I’ve dyed my eyebrows for an eternity (they are blond, my hair is nearly black).

But the outside stuff, well, that is just nonsense--sometimes it borders on art--much like a tattoo in the form of hair dye, painted toe nails and new lipstick. It all washes away--even if it an arduous and lengthy process. No matter how many times I dye my hair, it always fades back to exactly where it wants to be.

I try to change my insides too. Almost daily.

Like times when I don’t say what I really think because it takes too much energy. Or I talk too much and listen too little because I am scared someone might say something I don’t like. Or times when I let my temper cloud my genuine love for my family. Or when I let my fear of failure stop me from querying an editor. Or when I get caught up in gossip and forget how deeply I love each and every human being on this planet.

Or when I let my own life experience disconnect me from my friends. When I pretend to feel connected, when I just don’t.

All these things--the silence, the noise, the temper, the fear, the gossip and the disconnect--these cloud who I really am. These shields hide my truest self. To be my self, to be who I am at my core, I don’t have to change--I just have to shed the garbage.

It is like a spiritual weight loss--burning through the gristle to get to the lean, mean and healthy me. Maybe this all starts with accepting my blond eyebrows and my nearly salt and pepper hair. Or maybe it just starts with letting go of one shield--just one at a time.  Maybe it just takes a little faith that the shields I’ve built for myself are completely unnecessary.

Because no matter how much you try to hide and change, you just can’t change the truth.

It always pops up, just like a gray hair.

Gentle Hearts

I am the first to admit that I am tough on my girls.

On the days when I am firm in my resolve, the rule is one warning and then the consequences. And if it means the big one misses out on a fun time at the park because the little one is a terror, well so-be-it.  If I miss out on seeing my mom friends at a playdate, well life isn't fair.

I can take it all--the complaints that I am mean, unfair and not nice. ) I can take the tears (and occasional fit of hysteria).  I can take it, because in my heart I know I am parenting my children the way they need to be parented.

But then we had lunch.

The big one was whining about some nonsense related to the grill marks on her grilled cheese and the little one was shaking her juice and laughing.  I asked the big one to stop and to eat. I took the little one's cup. The little one began laughing and pointing to the big one in mockery. The big one cried and wailed. Then the little one spit out her sandwich and laughed.

Seriously. (they look so adorable in photos).

And, as I choked on my perfect BLT (which had a bite missing from Henry, our dog), I lost it.

My tirade was loud, mean and mostly loud. I am certain I was purple. It included screaming. Eye bulging. And stomping (I seem to have these fits at the dinner table, quite frequently).

Then both girls were quiet. Silent. And I saw big tears fall from Lily's eyes onto her plate. Big, silent tears. Silent, heart breaking, earth shattering tears. The real deal. My heart broke. My rage seemed like a bad dream.

Of course, I hugged her. Hugged them both--the big and the little, my darlings.

My gentle hearted girl--with all her bravado and drama--she is tender. All children are tender, gentle souls who require gentle voices. They require gentle voices when they are at their most wild--when their misbehavior is the most egregious, when they are completely out of control.

My hug was like a blanket of calm on all three of us.

What I learned today--something my mother taught me long, long ago--kill them with kindness, hug them until your arms hurt and above all, be gentle--hearts are a fragile thing.

Yoga, Big Macs and one Crap-tastic Night's Sleep.

Confession:

Some days I don't want to teach yoga. I don't want to do yoga. I want to just sit in my yoga pants, with the elastic waistband and eat Big Macs and drink milkshakes and shove Oreo's in my mouth like I am in a food competition.

Milkshake + Yoga Clothes = Dysfunction

Today was one of those days.

Let me set it up for you: It started the night before. It was one of those toss-turn-toss-curse-pee 85 times kind of nights. I could not sleep. I did not want to sleep, but I did not want to be awake either.

I was in the midst of one of my random panic attacks about Lily's brain tumor--the kind of panic that I never tell Mike about (because I know he has them too and does not need to share in mine). It is the kind of panic that sometimes sends me right to the internet to Google, "ependymoma," like a maniac. The kind of panic that has my heart racing, my breath escaping me and my mind--my terribly cluttered brain--trying to use logic to fend off any possibility of a reoccurrance.

At some point, Lily wandered in, following a bad dream. She climbed into bed and I had to watch her sleep for 2 hours, just to make sure she was breathing.

And you should know, that Lily is doing great--better than great--she is healthy. And beautiful and smart and a royal-pain-in-the-fanny, just like every other 5-year-old. I am just crazy.

However I had to sleep.  I had to get up early and drive to Pennsylvania to meet with contractors and electricians and flooring guys who were all giving me quotes on the renovations to my parent's house. I had a full day of painting ahead of me. My parents were depending on me. My Dad, my elderly, slightly senile, beloved Dad and my Mom--oh my Mom--they needed me.

But, there I was, listing all the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad things that could happen, instead of resting. There I was stressing about the unknown--the future--how terribly unyogic.

My bad night's sleep became a bad attitude--snide remarks to my parents, intolerance with electricians and angry painting.

So today, the day I teach my favorite adult class, I did not want to go. At all. I was tired. I was cranky and I was covered in paint. Then I thought of Paulette--one of my students and happily, a new friend. I thought of her favorite pose (Half-Frog) and I knew, I had to put the Big Mac down and get on the mat.

The truth is I need my students more than my students need me. When my days are bad and I show up at class, I know I have a job to do. It is my responsibility--my solemn oath to teach yoga and teach it the best I can. I have to check all the crap at the door and be Trish, yoga teacher.

And by sharing good thoughts and gentle words and laughter and my truth, I forget that girl who was up all night making nonsense out of nonsense. I forget the worrier. I forget the snotty lady. I somehow, become more myself and for a couple moments, I believe everything I say--that yes, in this moment, this very moment, everything is perfect. 

And yes, yoga pants are elastic--for stretching; not eating.