If Wabi Sabi means finding the perfection in imperfection, then I'm going to extend this to mean that I don't need to make my childrens' lives perfect.

Oh, sure, I talked a big game about how I thrift store shop for their fabulously stylish Harry Potter tank tops and 1980's Mork from Ork tee shirts. (Yup, that one is in the 12 Year Old bin. Stink is gonna love me for it in Jr. High.)

I brag about our fabulous public school that is giving my kids a better life education than any private one could offer round these parts.

But deep inside, I had mom guilt. "Are they going to have the same opportunities as that group of five year olds with the berets we saw on our last field trip who didn't seem so raucous and knew how to ask for directions to the bathroom in French?"  or "Am I scarring them for life by, you know, making them (gasp) share a room when all their friends have their own corners to read, play and sleep in peace each night?"

Like all parents, I want my children to be shielded from hurt. I don't want them to have any disorders. I don't want them to be teased by friends. I never want them to go hungry on any level - physically or emotionally.

A few weeks back, though, I heard a reknown psychologist speak about how, in attempting to give our kids everything, we are actually "neglecting" them. That in shielding them from natural hurts we are depleting the life skills they need to grow as balanced humans. 

Then, at the monthly art salons I host, our speaker and life coach, Wendy Wood, spoke about how it's not good for us to shield or kids from disappointment. Instead of fixing their mistakes, we should acknowledge them and walk beside them... showing them how to grow through it.

That's all I needed to hear to not make second guess our summer... a summer which consists of lots of library time. Lots of moments with friends. Lots of lazy days spent at the local pool. And...

CHORES

Here's to reorganizing the Tupperware!

A friend of mine is starting to write once/week about good things that happen in unexpected places. It's called "The Happy Miss Project" and very Wabi Sabi in finding the perfection in imperfection.

I talk a big game about not caring about being perfect. I don't want to be a people pleaser. Instead, I strive to be a child of God only where I won't let my feathers be ruffled by others' (and my own... mostly my own) unrealistic expectations of who I should be, why I should be that way, and for fxxx sake why can't I find a summer dress that accomdates my moo-cow breasts and doesn't make me look pregnant?

And for fxxx sake again, why can't my husband just give in and knock me up ONE MORE TIME?

But if I did get prego, what if I had an unhealthy child due to my age?

And... oooh... look out the window! It's a humming bird! Oh, no, wait, it's ADHD!

Huh?

Tangent? Moving on.

....Back to not getting my panties in a bunch by other peoples' inconsequential actions. And yet, it happens. 

And I  brew.

I steam.

I then explode.

And honestly, wtf!???!

At 40, I'm at this crazy cross roads in my life. I know that I simply need to move forward in all areas, but honestly, I get scared.

And fearful.

Take this slide at our local pool. It looks daunting, doesn't it?

It looks intimidating and TALL (probably how a lot of people describe me)  and OMG what's waiting at the bottom?

I could drown! Or worse, lose my bottoms in front of 30 fifth graders on the opening day of summer camp!

But Stink doesn't care. He knows nothing but warm, waiting arms of a life guard will catch him.

And even if he gets water up his nose, he'll blow it out, and then have a blast under the funky bidets... ahem... water structures.

It's more than cliche to say that my kids are teaching me to live as a grown up with joy, but holy hell, it's true!.

They know how to giggle even during rush hour traffic...

They create art, despite less than ideal artistic surroundings (and paint on the floor? Pffsshaw!)

They are beyond loyal (and silly) friends...

And hell, when things get really stressful, they know how to tap dance...

(If you make a crack about my boy dancing in blue sparkle I will reach through the computer and agree with you! I mean, hurt you.)

I love that my little dancer gets that a warm bath is the antidote to all our woes...

I am also aware that I write far less than I used to. (Lucky you!) It's more a record of my kids and some wonky oberservations of life as I see it.

But I have to tell you all that despite my anxieties... Despite my disappointments in where I think I should be or how much further I ought to have grown, I... without a doubt... am beyond in love with the little people that live in our humble home.

I will have something more profound to say next week. But for now, thank you for reading. I love your blogs, too.

I hope you are having as enjoyable a summer in your little neck of the woods as I am having in mine.

xoxoxox... Andrea

It's been one of those weeks where "faith" and "acceptance" has been as important in my life's diet as Diet Coke and Yuban. (I mean water and exercise.)

Every day I have tried to get insurance to pay me back for some claims.

Every day I have found more charges on stolen credit cards.

Every day I have looked in my mailbox for a paycheck that hasn't arrived but two bills have taken their place.

And yet, my mind drifts back to a few Saturday agos in Big Bear. We had an amazing time as a family, but my son's tics (which had been almost non-existent) were a constant and steady stream of "mmms" and "hmmmms" and gulps that were combined with hyper activity I hadn't seen in ages.

Every throat clear... every hiccup... every click was a megaphone blaring to my frazzled soul, "YOU HAVE FAILED. YOU CAN'T CURE THIS."

A part of my brain tried to remind me that I have, indeed, done wonders in suppressing those nasty tics through a healthy diet and a stream of supplements as steady as those soft vocals, but during that particular trip - confined in a small space with no place to run and hide - I wasn't much for logic.

My patient husband held my hand the whole way up the mountain. "You're doing great," he'd whisper, as if to convince himself as much as he was trying to persuade me. (Actually, I do think he believed it. How does he do that? Where can I get some of that delusion... I mean... magic?)

I bought ear plugs. I prayed for patience. I listened to music. Nothing worked.

That night, while making dinner, I couldn't take it another second. I turned on my kids in a fury, after slamming the oven door.

"STOP!" I shouted. "I can't take it anymore! STOP RIGHT THIS MINUTE!!!!!!!!! Gox Daxit!"

Yeah, cuz I suck.

Stink didn't say a word, but my daughter looked at me in wide eyed horror. "He can't help it, Mommy. It's just his tics." She quickly added, "And give us a dollar! You said Gox Daxit!"

And there we have it. A five year old. The voice of reason.

Stink soon chimed in. I was ready for another assault on my parenting. Instead, happy as a lark, he chirped, "Oh, Pip, it doesn't matter! Mommy said a long time ago that sometimes she might tic, too, just because she can't help it! You know she LOVES them and wishes she had it, too, right Mama?"

"Right, baby, that's exactly right," I said back, now in tears. I was ashamed. And awed at his innocence.

At seven, Stink believes he is fabulous and perfect. (Because he is.) But my little anger shows -like firework explosions that only last so long -  are not going to fly when he's ten. And perhaps even more to the point, while it might not affect him (who clearly inherits his delusion skills from his Papa) it's not okay for Pip.

I took Pip aside later and told her I was sorry. That I'm working on it. That she is right. That I was wrong.

"Am I angry a lot?" I asked her.

"No," she said. "Not all the time. But sometimes. And it makes me sad."

For days after I flogged myself. A perfect mother wouldn't be irritated at Tourettes. A perfect mom would hold her cool. A perfect mom would never yell and scream... take her kids to church on Sunday and scream like the wind on Saturday.

But I am not a perfect mother. I am a human one. I occasionally cry and scream and curse and lose it all together.

And then I apologize and vow not to do it again.

And I haven't. And honestly, I don't think I will again - not like that.

Will I get mad? Irritated? Sleep deprived and frustrated as hell? Oh, sure. But I'm going to give myself more time to breathe. More time to run. More time to play and laugh.

The past two weeks - while far from perfect - have been more joyful than I've experienced in years.

Because even though Stink is still ticking (and I think I know why... more later in my "Ticked Off" section) he can still play ball with my sister after school on Wednesday.

When my daughter asks to rollerblade - even if it's dinner time - I can (God forbid) say yes.

And soon my husband will join her.

And we can mess up the patio...

Laugh like fools over dinner...

Take Grandmas to lunch...

Cook linguini and clams as a family...

And one day make rabbit stew if this stinkin' bunny doesn't stop crapping on my floor.

I am so lucky  to have my life. During quiet moments like this, I am most thankful for a house that is chaotic, my crazy family and friends and even the tics. (Well, not that last part yet, but I'm getting there. And wouldn't you know, that it's not really about the Tourette Syndrome, but my own issues with control? Yeah! Really! Who'd a thunk?)

Oh, shut up.

Happy Wednesday. May your days be filled with joy even when your life is far from perfect.

If you really want to feel blessed, make sure your wallet gets stolen. In doing so, you will find out the following:

* It's a lot easier to get a license at the DMV if you speak English, have teeth, and don't call the overworked line processer a "ridiculous buffoon who deserves to be working in this government run pit from hell."

* Your kids will surprise you with a fistful of pennies bigger than Simon Cowell's ego and tell you, "Mama, we know you're broke. We WANT you to have this." Then they will sneeze on your desk, ask you to bless them, and tell you that your feet stink.

* Your husband will randomly insert cash in your bank account because he feels sorry for you. You don't even have to do that thing with the hand and the moaning. (Back scratches, you pervs.)

* Your best friend from grade school who held your hand on the bus all those frightful First Grade angst years ago will forgive you without a moment's hesitation for not wanting to fulfill a cooking date obligation and instead cart your butt to Target, your kids dance studio, and Office Depot where she'll promptly inform you "You're a mess. No wonder your wallet was stolen Miss NO ORGANIZATION."

Then she'll sit with you at Gelson's over ice tea and really fattening egg salad and fill out the numbers in your calendar page by page. She even lets you in on the secret code of moms everywhere that somehow I seemed to miss: Post-Its. Like great sex, they are durable, colorful, and just a little bit sticky.

* Your mom will remind you that you are doing too much and that the kids, not you, are the center of the universe these days. (It's her fault. She made me the center of the universe until 7 years ago. Now she wants me to change?)

* Your sister will offer to come babysit any day you need it. (She meant one day... for 3 hours... not every day for 24 hours each. She clarified that for me, so I'm doing the same for you.)

* Another friend will take your kids home mid-week and let them jump in her trampoline until they are dizzier than Sarah Ferguson after a bad money deal. (Did you see her on Oprah? I like her... she made a mistake, but I forgive her. She's real. She needs to guest post on my future Wabi Sabi blog. I won't even make her pay me 40k for it.)

* You will find that despite arguing with insurance companies over check reimbursements that... um... well...okay, I can't put the good spin on that one. (Oh wait! Yes I can! You can be happy you are a client and not a worker who has to listen to people like me all day long complain complain "oh give me my money now" complain.

* You can go to coffee two times in one week with old and new friends and remember that life goes on despite a crazy few weeks of feeling really discombobulated. (Because, you know, I'm not the center of the universe. Damn it.)

in closing, I'm most happy about what you see on that little desk. It is there for me no matter what. It never lets me down. It is reliable and steady like the sun.: My new little organizer! (C'mon... like my family does that! Sheeesh!)

I have started marking off times every day just for me to write and exercise. It keeps me way less stressed with the kids, which means that when things go nutty, I can roll with the punches.

One day at a time. One credit card replaced at a time.

So tell me, are you organized? Because I had underestimated the power of that. I really had. (Oh, and locking my car door. Where was that advice, Mom?)

I had the privilege of keeping watch over a four month old today. It forced me to slow down... to clean out my desk... to watch Oprah with the delicious smell of baby powder mixed with formula swirling around my head.

I snapped this photo right after she fell asleep. Looks kind of perfect, doesn't it? The cozy blanket, the chubby cheeks... you can almost hear an audible sigh.

And yet, if I hadn't cropped that photo, you'd see even more of my faded couch. You'd see shavings from a rabbit cage all over the floor. (Yeah for us! Pip won the class pet by a "hare".) 

You'd see TV remotes and coffee cups. You'd see magazines, art supplies, and carelessly strewn couch pillows.

I'm not saying we're pigs around these here parts, but we're not perfect. We're humans. We are a big slice of running late/can't find the ballet shoes/woops left my car unlocked so got my purse stolen/oh no out of milk again/really did you just say that, Stink/sorry to disappoint you again, Pip/Rex I HAVE NO IDEA where I left your keysSHUT UP ABOUT IT life pie. 

It was only in sitting with Baby V... in that stillness... that I realized, truly, what I've been fighting against this past year. It wasn't just loneliness. It wasn't depression. It wasn't anger, or Tourettes or writing angst. It was not my marriage or my body or my home or my bank account. 

It was my desire for perfection. Even though logically I knew/know I can't have it, I want it. And that's about as crazy as thinking that Baby V is going to sleep EXACTLY when I want her to because I have a column to post.

To borrow a term from an art salon I hosted a few months back, life is really about Wabi Sabi. This is a Japanese term that means finding beauty in imperfection. 

For lack of a more spiritual term - DUH.

That's what has been missing!

That is what I long for!

A word and a name for what my soul has been dying to sing about but couldn't quite put my finger on.

And now I know.

And I can't turn back.

That's what I want my blog to be about. That's my book. And most importantly, that is going to be my life goal. Every. Single. Day.

If I could wake my children up right this moment, I would beg them for forgiveness. For putting up with a cranky, sullen, and funny only in bursts, Mommy. 

Somewhere, along the way, I found God (Thank God) but I I lost my verve. I lost my humor. I lost my blog. I lost me.

But now I'm back - soon with a new name.

I'm so ready to Wabi Sabi my way into June. 

What are your perfect imperfections? Who's ready to embrace the crazy insanity that makes up our wonderful, insane, BEAUTIFUL lives!

(And on a totally selfish, self-absorbed note, what do you think of a blog called "Wabi Sabi Mommy" where my posts are similar to the ones I already write, but with a focus on the chaos that makes life fun? Is that name too long? Thanks for your input.)