“Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!!”
This childhood battle cry, from in front of Disney Channel’s Jessie (or it could have been Austin & Ally) was my tipping point. It was Friday of a long week, and in the first four seconds of being home — that beautiful, wonderful, sacred place that we daydream about from our desks — my 7-year-old daughter yelled, Mommy!!!!, in that heartwarmingly excited way that children have, and then unleashed a MLB-worthy fastball pitch right into my eye. It was a 2-inch soccer-inspired foam stress ball, but it HURT! And then, despite the fact that everyone else in my family had been home all day, dishes were piled on the kitchen counter and sink. I’m not a clean-house fanatic by any means (my husband is laughing right now at even the suggestion). We have two daughters, ages 7 and 8, and three cats, and two tired parents. But somehow, for no good reason, those dirty dishes just ticked me off, and sent me into a cleaning frenzy, still in my jacket, and much to everyone’s general confusion.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!!” ….I don’t know what sibling complaint this was about because suddenly, I was sitting in my youngest daughter’s room, in front of her not-quite-empty Easter basket, foraging for chocolate …. ooooh, and jelly beans! How has she not eaten the jelly beans when they’re the best thing…. but I digress.
I love my kids. They’re funny, dynamic, creative people. And while they still feel bathroom towel hooks are strictly ornamental, and enjoy the good secreted yogurt-container science experiment in bedroom back corners, they are amazing. I worry that I’m failing them by being so constantly tired at the end of the day, by posting adorable photos of family time, instead of being fully present in family time, by not fully savoring every last drop of wonder in these days and years that are going by so, so quickly.
I love my husband. He’s the stable pivot point of my pendulum, the foothold just when I think I’ve missed a step. And when I want to strangle him… well, clearly I’ve never actually done it. But because of a few health issues — chronic hives, chronic GI issues — I worry I’m failing him, too, day-to-day. There have been a lot of family plans postponed, plans simply unmade, better-nots and wish-I-coulds, because… what if I wake up covered in hives? Despite a wardrobe infused with linen, hives on a hot summer day are self-esteem sabotaging. What if we get to the top of that mountain, or take that back road, and I’m desperate for a bathroom? Uh huh, great view, can we get the heck out of here? As fast as possible? It’s like being a hostage to your own fears until they become self-perpetuating. Actually, it’s not like that at all. It’s exactly that.
And now I’m finally ready to change it.
And so… that brings us to this blog. Frozen grapes are not dessert. I believe that literally and passionately. Because seriously, chocolate lava cake is dessert. Hot fudge sundaes. Maybe even strawberries and (real) whipped cream. But every so often I read a celebrity interview that cites frozen grapes as a favorite dessert. Just… no. If anything, they could be a clever ice cube substitute for summer cocktails. But I’ve recently started thinking about this as a life motto. No more substitutions. As they say, anything worth doing is worth doing right. I want to make plans and climb mountains, to feel alert and healthy and present. I’m on a quest to choose the real, the worthwhile, and even if I have to temporarily give up actual dessert to do it, I’m ready, because frozen grapes are not dessert.