Road to an Imperfect Life: Week 1 - The Revolution, Bitches #itsarevolutionbitches

I love posting my life on Facebook: how happy my kids are. all. of. the. time. How smiley and clean my family is, how no one throws a tantrum. ever. No one has a runny nose, no one screaming bloody murder or obscenities. I love posting the sunny days and beach outings and non-migraineful days.

While I'm on the topic, I also love looking through Pinterest and pinning things pretending that this is my real life. These are the outfits I will one day own (dream on) that hang in my magnificent walk-in closet that is inside my master suite bedroom which is painted in the perfect combination of colors to fit my zen or spiritual chakra or feng shui or whatever the word is I'm looking for. I love pinning the foods I will one day (probably never) make, the places I will someday visit when I'm a zillionaire writer, the perfect (non-stained) outfits my kids will wear when I have the time (and buttloads of money) to accessorize them the way a child of 0-years-old should be accessorized.

I'm a sarcastic person so I didn't actually mean that I loved those things. In fact, I actually kind of hate it. Facebook sometimes reminds me of the Jones' and why I hate keeping up with them (don't even get me started on those Kardashians). It's so hey, check out my life, my peeerfect life without any of the this is my real life lifeness. And I don't do this to make people think my life is perfect, most of the times I post these pictures to keep my mom in the loop of what we're up to but in posting all the joyous, loving, non-messy-life moments no one gets to see that my real life isn't always that neat. Real life is a whole cup of coffee spilled on the floor that my one-year-old grabbed off the table like a sloppy drunk, which is exactly what happened this morning.

Months ago I began this thought process with my love / hate relationship with my fake online life. And then I read THIS POST that totally resonated with me. My online life only shows a small slice of life; the part that is cleaned up and often times Instagrammed to look vintage (or Lomo) and cool. But I don't want people to look at my life and think, "Gosh. What a together chick. What a beautiful family and life and perfectness she's got going there," because that isn't my truth. Around this time I started Fighting my Good Fight, feeling a bit like Alice falling through the rabbit hole and I thought I want to write about my ugly, my vulnerable, my not Pinteresty perfect life. This was in September. And then as most bloggers do, I got sidetracked. I wrote other stuff, swearing I would get to this... one day.


3 weeks ago, I found this on a past co-workers FB page: 40 Days of (Imperfect) Beauty. Apparently, I wasn't the only one having these thoughts that there is something a bit damaging to our psyche about always trying to maintain, keep up, airbrush, and smooth overe. And so again, I made the promise to myself to start this, my own imperfect life revolution. And in the process invite others to also welcome in their own imperfections, like a big hug to yourself.

So I'm starting today. March 27. Good a day as any. And I'm starting by owning my imperfection with time and not committing myself to writing about my road to an imperfect life every Monday or every Wednesday. Maybe I'll just leave it at every week. And if I miss one week, I'll try not to be so hard on my imperfect self.

This is a journey that I think is worth taking and one that I think is really important in a world full of reality shows that don't show reality and airbrushed models that need not be airbrushed.

We are not perfect.

So... who's coming with me on my Road to an Imperfect Life.

This is a revolution, people... are you ready?

Moms: The Greatest Force of Nature

More and more since I've become a mother I've read blogs, and facebook statuses, and articles, and posts on how some amazing father did some amazing job with his kids by doing his daughter's hair and making her lunch and driving her to school.


REALLY? That's all it takes.

My husband laughs when he goes food shopping with our kids by himself; strangers - both women and men - have physically taken one of our children "off his hands" to relieve my husband of Dadly duties. Then they salute him. Applaud him. Celebrate him. Oooh and Ahhhh him. My husband, with our daughter in a shopping cart and our son in a carrier - neither of them throwing any kind of tantrum - is cheered on by Dad supporters for "giving mom a break" and taking the kids - his kids - for an hour of food shopping. He is revered in a way that would seem as if he just saved them from a burning building. 10th floor. While blindfolded. Carrying 50 pound weights in each arm. Naked. Balls on fire.

LET ME BE CLEAR. I am astonished my the amazingness of the man I married to be a wonderful father and an equally terrific husband on the daily. He is a superstar, rockstar, and moviestar. He is one remarkable parent. But isn't that his job? To be a dad and dare I say, a remarkable one? But I digress, this is not to take away from the GREATNESS of a GREAT dad. He is. Many dads are. But most don't do anything that mothers don't do too. They just get way more credit for, well, parenting.


So today, I don't want my focus (too much) to be on why dads get so much attention for the spectacular job they do but rather, today, I want to remind you, Mothers of why you are spectacular. Why you too should be saluted. Applauded. Celebrated. Ooooh-ed and Ahhhh-ed. Even if it is just a trip to the supermarket.

Here's a Reminder of why you, Mom, are the grandest force of nature:

Because you get migraines and even when you feel like Wile E. Coyote has just dropped an Acme anvil on your head and you've spent the afternoon hovered over a toilet dizzy and nauseous and vomiting, you still try to figure out how to get out of bed and take care of your children.

Because you know when your children have a fever without a thermometer.

Because when your child throws up all over her crib in the middle of the night and screams, "Mami!" You're already there cleaning her up.

Because when your other child gets the fever your first child had, you now check his warm body for a fever every 15 minutes. And can't think of anything else.

Because in the most hellish of weeks with headaches, and fevers, and throat infections you can still plan the world's greatest birthday party and your in-laws visiting.

Because said birthday party is for your second child, who everyone said would get the shaft, but that won't stop you from throwing the greatest first birthday ever.

Because you schedule doctor's appointments and reservations and dinner dates and family outings while making breakfast, drinking cold coffee, and putting away all of the toys on the living room floor. For the third time this hour.

Because you fly home on a plane with two kids under three to two different states and shrug, "Yeah. I'll be ok."

Because you wake up every morning when the sun is still down and dress two kids, feed them, and drive them to grandma's so that you could work a full day and then come straight home to pick them up and work a full evening.

Because every decision regarding your child is the biggest decision you will ever face and so you put a lot of weight into each and every decision you make: natural birth or c-section, start school this year or next, creamy or chunky peanut butter.

Because the things that make you feel normal or better (i.e. excercise, eating, tooth brushing, sleeping, getting dressed, seeing friends) take a back burner to everything they need.

Because you find ways to leave the house without your children noticing so that they won't cry ferociously and without bereathing until their face turns purple and you could see that punching bag thingy in the back of their throat (which is called an uvula) at the idea of you not being there.

Because when you try to leave the house without them noticing, they always notice and your mother-effing heart breaks every. single. time.

Because when anyone says anything even remotely offensive about your kid, you want to deck them.

Because your kids smack you in the mouth, scream in your face, and throw more attitude at you than a diva and you sit there with a bold, straight face and take it.

Because you know when your kid is about to lose their shit at the table and fling a plate full of food like a frisbee and you snatch it before eggs go flying everywhere.

Because you are a mom and a wife and a woman and a friend and a daughter and are on your A game in all of these fields without batting an eye.

Because the reason the kids don't throw (too) many tantrums in the shopping cart with dad is because YOU have taught them patience and how to sit at a table without throwing a fit, all at the expense of your eardrums. 

You are exceptional, mom.

Daily. Minutely. And sometimes you forget that. You convince yourself that mothers are supposed to do these things and be this way so it's easy to take yourself for granted; to forget that what you do every day is an offering of love, an exchange - exchanging a part of yourself and asking for nothing in return. Not all mothers do this. But you do. Remind yourself of this.

No one can do what you do
...except, apparently, really remarkable dads.

Under Pressure and in the Danger Zone

Mission: 

We created Tunesday Tuesday to bring people together through music. Every Tuesday the link up is live here at DTWB and at The Patchwork Paisley, MrsTeeLoveLifeLaughter-

AND  

welcoming our new permanent co-host, Beth from Structure in an Unstructured Life!

Host Follow Links:





       Meg                               Jen                              Beth                       Tiffany

Can't stick around for this week's party??

Next week's theme will be...

Random Five-O

Put your iPod on shuffle. 

What are the first 5 songs that play?




And Now...

This Week's 

You can't seriously be asking me to pick my favorite 80's song? 

Why not ask me who my favorite parent is or which kid I like better? 

Better yet, why not ask me which finger I like best and then to chop off the rest?

You might think this would be easy for an 80's fanatic such as I but oh sweet child of mine, it's like being in the land of confusion.

This year my husband threw me a SURPRISE 80's Birthday Party. It was so much fun that my group of friends still talks about it. It was so much fun that I kinda wish I could walk around life in an 80's musical. I was born in the 80's. Correction: I was born to the 80's. It owns me. 

So to repeat, how could I possibly choose my favorite 80's song? Like a record, baby, right round round round I go, asking myself the same question, this eternal flame of a question, the kind that flickers in your mind slowly but steadily all day. For a week now, from 9 to 5 I've asked myself what song would be able to encapsulate all that the 80's means to me. And time after time I come up with nothing. No solid answer. When I think of one, another one pops into my mind like a Warhol begging to be remembered, shouting, "Don't you forget about me!"

I thought about asking around for help. So I asked the boys of summer, rad guys I met a few summers back through a friend of a friend. My friend, Jessie who knew this girl, they were her friends. But they weren't at all helpful, bunch of burnout karma chameleons those guys. I asked my other friend who just smiled at me like she had some secret she wouldn't share and I said, "Come on, Eileen. Help me out!" But she just turned and walked away. Next I called Jenny, she was a maneater but she was the expert on all things 80's. I dialed her number. 867-5309. No answer. Damn it! DAMN IT! I left her a message, said, "Call Me!" I could have called Jack but crazy Diane never liked me, some bizarre love triangle thing so I called Billie Jean but she was busy having baby daddy issues. Just then my cell phone rang. I hoped it was Jenny returning my call but my cell screen said 

CALLING...

GLORIA

Ugh. I can't talk to this chick right now. She drives me crazy!

I started to feel lost, like someone who had one really drunk night in Bangkok, someone who has searched the world high and low, head to toe and still hasn't found what she was looking for. I searched in Africa, Down Under, this small isla bonita off the coast of Kokomo I sometimes visit. Nothing. Will I find the answer to my question anywhere? It is somewhere out there?

I was so tired of thinking about this unanswerable question that I needed a vacation, an escape and a piña colada. But the piña colada wasn't enough so I poured myself a glass of red, red wine. But even that wasn't enough so I took some bad medicine. What? Don't judge! It's my prerogative how I handle my problems. You ain't my papa. If you don't like it you could look away or stray cat strut your ass right on outta here, papa. Don't preach to me.

I'm sorry. I said that in the heat of the moment. I didn't mean it. I just feel like I'm wearing a raspberry beret driving a little red corvette down the highway to the danger zone on a manic monday and I just need to relax like Frankie said. "Stand back," he said, "STAND BACK," and just let the answer come to you but at this point, I'm just holding out for a hero because I don't think I will be able to write about anything even close to 80's song related.

This theme has me under pressure like a gambling addict in Atlantic City who owes money. Because let's be honest, does one favorite 80's song encompass the absurdity, the glitz, the putting on the ritz, the abracadabra magic of the 80's? Of course not! Like purple rain, a favorite 80's song is impossible to find. It's St. Elmo's Fire... something that doesn't exist.

I lay down and stare at the ceiling. Just then it starts to rain and my brain can't fight this feeling anymore. It wants to shut down and take a sledgehammer to these rapid thoughts. I allow myself to drift to sleep like 99 luftballoons floating to the sky without writing about my favorite 80's song. It's ok. I'll try again tomorrow.

Tonight, I'm just gonna blame it on the rain. 

**Don't forget to link up your post below & visit some participants to see what they're jamming out to!**

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My Dear Baby Boy: A Love Letter to You, Santiago

Dear Santiago,

In less than two weeks you will turn a year old. A whole year has flown by and as fast as sometimes I wished it would go, I find myself wanting to bury my feet in the sand and get stuck in this time. Like a goalie, I want to guard these moments and not allow anymore of them to whiz by.

You are our little baby: mine, Papi's, and Rafaella's. It is beautiful to see how much you are loved in this family, like you were needed to somehow prove how much love we have to give. Every morning your sister wakes up and you are the first thing she asks for. Not me or your dad. She asks for you, for your presence, for you to be brought to her room and and put in her crib so she could share that precious space with you as her first order of daily business. She does not remember a life without you, doesn't care to as if she was waiting for you all of those months before you ever arrived. Being a second sibling can be hard in many ways, sometimes you feel cheated. Not enough time with dad or not enough attention from mom but she is one way you will never be cheated. She is as bonded to you and as protective and motherly to you as we are, reminding you when things are dangerous and informing me when you need help. She is your greatest fan. You were born into a world with unbreakable, unconditional love from her. You will never know a life where Rafaella didn't love you this much. And that is something that first siblings never get.

I feel so lucky that Papi and I were able to have two totally different experiences with both of our perfect babies: Rafa a surprise and you a decision. Both so extremely special but such unique emotions. I looked at you this morning and held your little hands and remembered how you were so purposefully made: how Papi and I chose you, how I like surprises but for you I planned. And I remembered how quickly I knew when you were already a part of me. I kept that secret for a few weeks before telling your father but I knew you were there. You and I both had our own little secret even then. Is that why you are so sad when you're away from me, why you cry so roaringly when we're apart? Because we've been so entwined from the beginning; so entangled, you and I, that you didn't even want to come out of my belly, like it was more natural for you to stay where you were so I could take you everywhere I went. Sometimes I think you would have preferred to stay in there, you put up quite the fight, I'll give you that, you even made la Doctora come in to get you and drag you out.

Other mothers are jealous of me because you want to cuddle and be snuggled because I get to hold you tight and breathe you in and give you a million little kisses because you ask me to. It's a gift to have a baby who demands that of you, although sometimes I forget that. And your father could be jealous of you because you steal all of his kisses. I spend so much time adoring you that sometimes there's none left for him. He'll be fine. It's not your fault you're so cute... actually it's his fault.

Everyone thinks you look like him. I'll give him that because while you may look like him, you are my son: hot tempered and fiery quick at it when you don't get your way, demanding to be noticed, demanding to be embraced. It's your way or the High(pitched-scream)way. You command attention and to be loved and that doesn't make you needy. It means you're someone who knows what you deserve and aren't afraid to demand it. You have flirty eyes and a flirtier smile and are a social little bumblebee without ever leaving the arms of the woman you love best. You're loyal to a fault. You like to be surrounded by others but know where home is and insist on it, actually. We all want you to walk, we encourage you, push you, bribe you - but you - you have different plans on your own time. You'll walk when you're damn well ready. And no body can tell you differently. Yeah, you're my son.

You are pure laughter and happiness and smiles and we get to keep you. I find myself guilty of reaching into the years of the future wondering about what kind of son you will be, what kind of man you will grow into, no doubt one that will make us proud. And that is said with no pressure, no insisting that you must, no burdening of how you will. Choose your path. Follow it. Make no excuses. To anyone. Make no apologies either. Even to us. We're already proud.

I never imagined having a son. I came from a family where I had a sister, where my parents had two daughters, our dog, Fi-Fi was even a girl, so I guess, without deliberately doing so I never imagined myself "the mother of a son" and dreamed about the future when I would be the mother of girls. That's what's funny about dreams. You think you know what they are so you mold them and use them to motivate you. They keep you hoping. They lead you in a direction but only so far. Until you realize that the reality you've created because of those dreams is so much better than what you could have ever imagined.

You are my reality, my planned for and never imagined son.

The Time I Compared Gratitude to Eggs and Found the Reasons I'm Grateful

There are so many different ways to make eggs: sunny side up, scrambled, deviled, hard boiled, poached, omeleted, quiche-ed, nogged. The same goes for gratitude. You could cook gratitude up for small wonders, big ideas, everyday happenings, once in a life time experiences, people you love, people you don't like.

You could make eggs in whatever different way you choose but one thing will always be the same... you've got it crack it open to get to the good stuff. No one wants to eat the shell.

The same goes for gratitude.

While I understand the idea of listing things we are grateful for, of keeping a gratitude journal, I think these ideas have taken away from the real meaning of gratitude. I could list many small things that I'm grateful for without much thought:

I could also list BIG things I'm grateful for that would be pretty uniform among the lips of many married mothers or 33-year-olds like me:

See? It took me no time at all to whip up these lists. But is that really being grateful? Is that really the idea behind gratitude?

Is that really cracking open gratitude?

I have recently mastered the art of scrambled eggs. And what I realized was holding me back before in my mastering of eggs, wasn't that I didn't add enough ham or cheese or peppers or milk. I had all of the ingredients; I had enough. I just wasn't giving it the time it deserved. I was throwing it all on the pan with a high flame and hoping it would happen fast. I think I've done the same for gratitude. I think, like many things in a rapid fire, technologically advanced, now, please... NOW culture, we've come to think that gratitude works the same way. That if we just throw in the ingredients we've got, it'll amount to something. It might amount to something alright... it just might not sit well for very long.

Yes, gratitude is about being grateful for the gifts we've received, whatever we believe those gifts to be  but the second part - the most important part of gratitude - is to really take the time to understand why we are grateful for those gifts. To get past the shell, otherwise, we risk never really getting to the yolk - the center, the protein, the fat of it, the part that nourishes, the reason we're grateful.

So now let me try really cracking open this gratitude thing again and letting the yolk ooooozey goooze out.

In such a fast moving, one minute egg culture, it's easy to want to take shortcuts; shortcuts that will give us more time, to do more things on our long list of things to do, but maybe, we should let some things simmer. Maybe by letting our gratitude eggs simmer, we discover the real taste of gratitude.   

Dominicans' Loudest Day... and That's Saying A Lot

Sometimes the things you can't stand about people are the same things you love about them.

Within the first few weeks of our arrival to Santo Domingo, a neighbor down stairs had a party.

For the love of God, I'm 8 months uncomfortably pregnant and I just want to sleep. They want to have a party now?! On a Friday? At night? Don't they know that someone living in their radius is about to give birth, is about to push a large fruit out of her hoo-ha and that these were the last few nights of precious sleep she would ever in her life have again? 

I guess they did not know this.

It doesn't matter if it is an intimate gathering or a rocked out, all nighter - Dominicans do not know how to do small. They certainly don't know how to do simple. And quiet? I'm pretty sure if you looked up the word quiet in a Dominican dictionary, it wouldn't be there - instead you'd find a big gaping space where the word should be. Or it would be there with a question mark behind it as if no one could find the definition to such an absurd word.

But, and I laugh as I say this, it is also the thing that now makes me love them. It's like that partner question you're asked at an interview: What's a weakness? What's a strength? Is it me or don't you usually want to answer that it's the same thing, that what makes me strong also makes me weak. (I'm smart. Like wicked smart. But sometimes being this smart is a weakness because I'm so much smarter than everyone else.) If Dominican Republic were interviewed they might have a similar response; their weakness is making everything so grand and big and loud and finding a reason to celebrate everything and there strength is making everything so grand and big and loud and finding a reason to celebrate everything.

It's all in the way you say it, isn't it? The way you choose to look at it.

The end of February is always a reminder for me to say it with optimism and look at it with gratitude. I love Dominican culture because it is so grand and big and loud and everything is reason for celebration. February is Dominican month. And this is serious here. Not to be taken lightly.

In the states we honor our independence for one day. With a BBQ. Delicious, I'll give you that. But do we really celebrate the reason we are independent? Do we remember what makes our country great or do we shuck some corn, grill some burgers, drink kegs upon kegs of beer and then watch fireworks and pass out? I'll be honest, that's my celebration for our Independence Day. But shouldn't we maybe celebrate this monumentous day in our history in a way that is big and embracing and consuming like a hug from your proverbial Big Aunt Bertha?

Dominicans do... for a month.

And at the end of February, el 27 de Febrero to be exact, it all comes to a head at CMS in Comparsas. All month long, the kids in elementary school practice choreographed dances that encompass some part of Dominican culture: the baseball players and the love of baseball, the farmers and the beautiful flowers they grow, the Taíno Indians of Quisqueya, the bachata dancing and merengue shaking, the soldiers who fought for the country's independence. The costumes are incredible: headpieces with 3 foot long feathers, enough glitter to choke on and sequence to blind you. So much work goes into this that sometimes I wonder how they have had time during their days in February to do anything else. This is no makeshift event. And at these moments I think to myself I love Dominican culture because it is so grand and big and loud and everything is reason for celebration. 

And really why shouldn't it be? Why shouldn't life be celebrated? Why shouldn't we find grand, big, and loud celebration in all of our moments?

CMS Teachers performing in Comparsas - my apologies for the screaming... 

I'm part Dominican now.

One of maybe 10 elaborate performances the elementary school puts on.

Even the Pre-K gets involved with a parade for el 27 de Febrero

And the Jukebox Plays: Tunesday Tuesday - Say What?!

Week 12: This is the Memory

Can't stick around for this week's party??

Next week's theme will be...

 Favorite 80's Jam

(This will be impossible)  

And now...

Image courtesy of Meg at The Patchwork Paisley, designer extraordinaire!

When I started And the Jukebox Plays it was because music is a part of my existence like breathing. Then And the Jukebox Plays turned into Tunesday Tuesday, a link up I'm grateful Meg from The Patchwork Paisley asked me to start up with her because it reminds me weekly why I love music so much. 

It reminds me of my father and my earliest childhood memories. It takes me back to days past and conjures up smells, feelings, and emotions in a way that nothing else I can think of does. It brings me to moments I want to remember and moments I don't. Most moments in my life could be summed up by a song... couldn't yours? And because music is a reminder, choosing ONE song that reminds me of ONE person has infinite possibilities on all kinds of scales.

Here's a trick that I've learned in the last 12 weeks of blogging about music... the first song that comes to mind is usually the one you go with. I've tried a few times to think of a different song, telling myself, no, convincing myself that there has to be a better song choice but like swimming against a current, I always find myself being brought back. It's better not to fight it.

This week is an example of that. With all of the music I have stirring around in my head and all of the people in my life that have undoubtedly been connected to a song, I find myself coming back to this one: "Steel Bullets." Never heard of it? That's because it's actually called "Steel Bars" by Michael Bolton - 90's sensation - but my sister used to swear it was called "Steel Bullets." She probably still does. 


We were on our yearly family drive to Miami and like usual we were playing games to pass by the endless hours of the loooooong haul to the bottom of the East Coast. It was Name that Tune hour. I remember the song was a few years old already when we heard it in the car and although sometimes we had to wait a few bars for a song to play before quickly spitting out the answer like sour grapes, we didn't have to wait for this one. 

We both shrieked at the same time:

     Me: Steel Bars!

     Her: Steel Bullets! I said it first.

     Me: What?! 

     Her: I was first.

     Me: No! What did you call it?

     Her: Steel Bullets

Silence. Howling laughter. 
This is the memory: My howling laughter gave way to her howling laughter. The laugh betrayed her, it gave away that she knew she was wrong but it wasn't in my sister's makeup to give up that easily. Years before when we heard Paul Young's "Every Time You Go Away" she swore to me that he finished the line with "you take a piece of meat with you." Really, meat? Not "you take a piece of ME with you?" 

She was hopeless.

(Here's the short clip of the Paul Young song for your listening pleasure)

     Me: The song isn't called "Steel Bullets."

     Her: What is it called then?

     Me: Steel "BARS"

     Her: That's ridiculous.

     Me: Right. That's ridiculous. 

And then to try and prove me wrong she waited for the chorus and inserted the words "steel bullets" into the place of the actual title thinking if she sang it well enough I would concede. I tried to explain to her that even if it did kiiiinda sound like "steel bullets" that it didn't make any sense. Why would "steel bullets" be wrapped around him and make him a prisoner? My father - the musical authority in our car and tiebreaker extraordinaire was brought into the conversation.

     Me: Dad she's telling me this song is called "Steel Bullets."
     Dad: "Steel Bullets?"
     Her: Yeah, listen. (She waited for the chorus again which I happily sat by waiting for as well) "My love for you has got me locked up inside me... Steel Bul-lets wrapped around me, I've been your prisoner since the day you found me..."

Silence. Dad howls in laughter. My sister and I howl in laughter. 

Let's just call that one a tie, ok? 

(If you don't listen to this for ANY OTHER reason - you have to listen to it just to see how my sister fits the words Steel Bullets into the chorus)

 

join us next week...

Every Monday night at 9pm the link up will go live at The Patchwork Paisley, Drinking the Whole Bottle, and MrsTeeLoveLifeLaughter. 

My Total Truths: #6 - You're Not Better... You Just Think You Are

Each one of us has inside of us our own truth. My Total Truths is a series based on MY truths; a list of things that I know to be true. What are your total truths?

# 6 - You're Not Better... You Just Think You Are

One upping.
Listen up, people who one-up: stop it! It's annoying. There are plenty of people out there that suck. Just read People I Want to Punch in the Throat for an extensive, detailed list of people that suck. But the one-uppers have a specific stank because in their pinnacle moments of one-upness their sole purpose is to make themselves seem better than you. Boooo!

When did we get to a place in the human species where everything is an Olympic competition? Where there has to be a number one? Where "anything you could do I could do better?"

Why, oh why, on God's green earth do one-uppers find it necessary to one-up? Every. Single. Time. Let me be clear. One-upping is not disagreeing. Disagreeing is different. Disagreement is a difference of opinion on matters that MATTER and they are said as a difference of oopinion. We disagree on politics or religion by having a discussion. One-upping is usually over nothing important that follows with some deragatory I'm better than you back-handed comment. One-upping at its core is the act of making it sound like what you like or do or care about is somehow a bazillion times better than what I like or do or care about.

Some examples:

I tell you about a great beach I visited.
You respond, "Yeah. If you like that kind of thing. But if you want to go to a really nice place you should try..."

Ummm...I think I just got smacked by the back of your hand. I'm sorry, I'm just trying to understand...  what kind of thing do I like if it's not really nice? 

OR

I tell you about a great, new coffee joint. 

You respond snob style and giggly like you're telling a joke, "Yeah I tried that place but I guess I'm just so spoiled by my coffee place that anywhere else's coffee just tastes like dirt." Followed by a hand flip and snooty giggle.

Here's an idea.. why not eat dirt and then tell me if that's really what you think... I mean seriously? Did I say it was the best coffee place ever had or did I just say I enjoyed it?

OR

I tell you about a delicious hamburger joint. You decide to try it. 

Your response (without me asking BTW), "It was good... but I've had better."

Roll eyes, gag, vomit.  If it was really good, why do you need to add the I've had better. Did I say that eating that burger was life changing? Oh, right, because you're trying to be better than me. I see taht now.  

One upping is so silly because it doesn't actually make you better, you just think it does. You get off on announcing that you're classier, smarter, or have better taste than others, when in fact, it just makes you look petty and silly; like a silly, sad jackass-in-the-box bobbing up and down looking for attention.

Long After the Journey

People are the most important part of any journey. People are who you learn from, who you share with, who you count on, who you cry to and have drinks with and laugh with. They are the family you've chosen who help watch your children and make you casseroles when you're sick. They are who you remember long after the journey. 

To recognize one person who has made this experience for me better would be impossible. Far far beyond impossible in a place of a different stratosphere.

THE BEAUTYFULLNESS
I could recognize Julia. She was my first real friend here. She was also a stay-at-home mom at the time I was 8 months pregnant and she would pick me up to have coffee. I had no car so getting from one place to another was as easy as moving a barge through mud. Having an instaFriend who I sat and had coffee with and told me the brutal honesties of new motherhood - "Your hair will fall out after you have this baby and your boobs will hurt. Just sore and painful." - was refreshing. Up until then people had just been telling me how utterly amazing having a baby would be. She organized a baby shower for me. I knew her all of 3 weeks and she decided to throw me a baby shower, a beautiful little brunch and some poolside time to open gifts - that's the kind of friend Julia is.

Without taking away from her beautyfullness, so many women have offered up that same kind of friendship to me. Mary who started our food train after Rafa was born, Gina who housed our family in more ways than one, Tia Erin who is a surrogate to my kids, J.No and Julain who have become honorary sisters, Katherine who makes me laugh, Honor and Sara who write with me and drink wine with me, Amanda who leads the fight in a woman being all things and not just a mother, Willner who reminds me why I look up to her every time I hang out with her, Raquel who is thoughtful beyond possible belief and makes me jewelry for my birthday, Gaby who is like my little sister...

THE PHOENIX
I would recognize Shayna. If you knew our friendship it goes without saying why I would recognize this incredible love light of a person. A month before I moved to this country I had a best friend. A week after I moved here, I didn't. My best friend from college was my soulmate in many ways but when I needed her the most, she bailed. Through an email.  Newlywed, newly expat, soon to be mother - it was an interesting time - so much happiness was surrounding me and yet I was in a bit of a dark place. Although Husband is my eternal best friend, a girl needs a BFF - that's just what we girls do. I was so happy to be a mother but I had so much sadness for a loss I never saw coming. And then... I found Shayna. Rather, Shayna found us in our apartment because she couldn't speak Spanish to the taxi driver. She was my phoenix, a new beginning to take the place of something that had fallen to ashes. She became many things to me and my family (my best friend, Rafa's Tia Yaya, Santiago's twin sister [Isla] maker, Husband's get out of jail free card) but she was a metaphor in my life; no matter what happens I will always get back up, out of darkness there will always come light.

THE ANCHOR
I would also mention Laura, my best friend from grade school. She isn't part of my expat life in that she doesn't live here, but she too has been a part of making this experience better because she is my lighthouse. She has given me a friendship of, literally, a lifetime and she is someone that waits for me back home. Our friendship has evolved through the years, it has taken many shapes and phases. We met in 5th grade, graduated high school together, went to the same college, and then, as if by pure force of the universe, we got pregnant and had our first babies 6 weeks apart. Without someone like this to come home to, to anchor me home to New Jersey, there would be no reason to go back.

THE TREASURE
And then there's Shelly. Oh Shelly. The single reason I cannot stomach leaving this country...ever. Shelly is our nanny. Correction: Shelly was hired to be our nanny but then became family. So Shelly is the family that helps watch our kids. Shelly has been with Husband and I as parents as long as Husband and I have been parents. She was home when we arrived back from the hospital with Rafaella. There when I battled through breastfeeding. She was the one that shoo-ed me off to go write, assuring me that our baby would be fine, that I had nothing to worry about. She was there when I announced my second pregnancy with Santiago and watched my belly grow bigger and bigger and bigger. Shelly stayed with Rafaella the morning we went to the hospital for Santiago's birth. She has heard Rafa's first words and seen Santiago's first teeth and has seen me come into my own as a mother without ever judging only helping. She is loving and playful and honest. I have never doubted my kids' well-being in her hands, not even for a fleeting second. To know that someone else on this planet loves my children as much as I do is a gift that I can never repay her for. And that's just the wonder she has been in my life as a mother. As a wife, she has been a treasure, granting Husband and I a gem... time away together. I see the important role she has in my family and think of the heartbreaking day that we will leave this country with our kids that she has seen grow up every day since they were born and it is a knife to the gut. She has truly made my experience here better. She has made my life better because she has made our life better.

It is easy to figure out why living abroad is so hard. It isn't learning the language or assimilating to the culture or any of the things you think might make it hard. 

It's learning to say goodbye.

Credit:

Thanks to In an Opal Hearted Country for organizing the February Expat Blog Challenge opportunity.

Day 26: Recognize someone who has made this expat experience better.