Sacred Downtime

Posted on December 5, 2013 by jessiepbraun

Thanksgiving Morning – Sunrise over the ocean

In her recent piece Musings on Comfort and Joy, Laura Munson writes:

Whoever you are, wherever you are,the holidays are bound to leave your heart in shreds at least a little.

I get this.

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, the edges of my heart were a little frayed. I needed a sign around my neck that read: Fragile. Handle with Care. The sudden death of an old friend and neighbor shook me to my core; I felt raw and vulnerable. Our Thanksgiving plans were unclear – we vacillated between traveling and staying home.

Then we received our dog’s bone cancer diagnosis. This news put our hearts in a choke hold. Our chocolate lab, Ellie, has anywhere from a few weeks to a few months to live. Phil and I sat on the floor of his home office and hugged and cried. There was no question where we needed to be. We had to tell our kids that their dog was dying. We needed to huddle up, hunker down, and hold each other close.

We needed what my good friend Gerry calls: Sacred Downtime.

The word sacred comes from the Latin “sacrare:” to consecrate, set apart, immortalize, dedicate. After a frenetic year filled with the buying and selling and moving of houses, it was time to lay down some roots. To stop, breathe, and be. To be able to say, “this is our first Thanksgiving in this house, and it will be Ellie’s last.” This year, we needed to do things differently.

That being said, memories of Thanksgiving run deep: a dining room filled to capacity: an abundance of food, wine, and familiar faces. Trying to re-create the day we typically share with extended family just didn’t feel right. Cooking an enormous turkey for the four of us felt kind of….depressing.

Munson writes:

Let’s change the way our holiday minds think. Let’s look truthfully at what is comfort and what is joy. And let’s create a save haven around us.

What would bring us comfort? What could cultivate joy when our hearts felt so heavy?

We sat down with Emma and Phoebe and said: “You are Pilgrims planning the first Thanksgiving. What do you eat?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Phoebe. “Pancakes.”

“And popcorn,” added Emma.

“What are you going to wear?” we asked.

“Pajamas!” (Followed by multiple costume changes).

And what did Pilgrims do on this fantasy first Thanksgiving? “They got massages.”

“They danced to Lady Gaga on the Wii.”

The ordinariness of the day soothed my shredded heart and frazzled nerves. Frederick Buechner says:

The sacred moments, the moments of miracle, are often the everyday moments.

Mid-afternoon, we all lounged around in the living room doing our own thing. Emma reading her book, Phoebe playing with her Barbies, Phil and I flipping through the paper. Ellie limped into the middle of the room, and with a heavy sigh, laid down at our feet. I knew this was the moment to tell them. I ditched the pre-canned speech and five books I had ordered off Amazon. What needed to be said just…came to me. Just like that. Which, by the way, never happens to me.

“Hey Girls, we need to take extra special care of Ellie, because she’s really not feeling well.”

Emma looked up. “You mean for Christmas? Like get her extra bones and toys and stuff?”

“Well…sure. But really she just needs a lot of love.”

“Will that make her leg better?”

I looked over at Phil who was now crying into a pillow. Apparently this was going to be a Steel Magnolias parenting moment.

“No. She’s not going to get any better. This will be our last Christmas with Ellie, so we need to make her feel really special and loved, ok?”

Emma’s eyes got huge. “You mean she’s going to heaven, with Nannie?”

“Yes.”

She got quiet and started biting her nails. She looked up as Phoebe returned from the bathroom, naked. Because that’s just how Phoebe rolls.

“Phoebe,” Emma began in her best Caring Big Sister voice, “I need to tell you something very sad. This will be Ellie’s last Christmas with us. Then she will go to heaven to be with Nannie and Aunt Terry.”

Phoebe, perplexed, put her hand on her cocked, naked hip and said, “It’s Christmas?”

Emma gave me a look that said, Ahh, to be Phoebe, for just one day. I gave her a smile that said, I know, right? She went back to gnawing her fingers.

Then, as organically as the conversation began, it ended. We made more popcorn. We watched Bee Movie. The girls had a bath and then went to bed. Just like any other day….but the best day.

Knowing that 24 hours of sacred downtime was probably our limit, on Friday we hosted a “Keep On Giving” get-together for some friends. Typically party prepping in our house can get tense, simply because ~~Phil is slow and I am frantic~~ we move at different speeds. But this time, as we chopped and diced and pureed side by side, there was an ease and rhythm in how we worked together. It was, dare I say, peaceful.

“Peaceful” is not my usual set-point, especially in social settings. I attribute this newfound zen to a sense of balance I gained from Sacred Downtime.

When I taught yoga, I often gave the cue root to rise: Find stability by rooting -not gripping- your feet into the ground. Notice how feeling stable and grounded allows for expansion across your heart, and freedom in your upper body. Virginia Woolf said:

I am rooted, but I flow.

Carve out some Sacred Downtime for your family -and yourself – this season. Root to rise.

The Nook

Posted on November 21, 2013 by jessiepbraun

This week almost kicked Gratitude Month to the curb. In a low moment I considered posting: “Life sucks. The End.”

On Monday evening I ran into Shaw’s for a few things before picking Emma up from Brownies. As the cashier scanned my items, a message popped up on my phone from one of my old neighbors in Pennsylvania:

Hey Jess, I am sorry to pass on some tragic news – Jen Stagnaro passed away this morning during her run. She collapsed and couldn’t be revived.

“Excuse me, m’am, what is this?”

I looked up and saw the cashier staring at me, holding up a now seemingly foreign vegetable, waiting for a response.

“What?” Suddenly I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing there.

“What is this? Is it like an onion or what?”

“No it’s…..um…it’s a….omgwhatthefuckisthatcalled…..fennel. It’s fennel.”

I somehow managed to pay for the groceries and get them into the car, where I sat in the dark for a while. I read the message over and over, stunned. Oh my God. Jen. Oh my God. My mind was suddenly flooded with images of Jen’s sweet face, her beachy-blond hair, her fair, rosy skin.

For the three years I lived in Malvern PA, Jen and I were friends and neighbors. I had the pleasure of getting to know her, her husband Mike and their three gorgeous kids. Sitting in the Shaw’s parking lot, memories played in my head like a home video: drinking wine with Jen at book club, waving to her across the gym at Body Pump, stopping for a chat when we were both out walking our dogs.

I pictured her two girls -blond, athletic, mini-versions of Jen- hopping my fence in the backyard on their way to a friend’s house. Her proud Facebook pics of her son Drew playing hockey. Her supportive and thoughtful comments about something I had written – an opinion that meant a lot to me, coming from a teacher and bookworm like herself. Oh my God. Jen. How the hell is this happening?

I moved through the rest of the night in a fog: pick up Emma, dinner, homework, bed. I thought of my other Malvern neighbors, and how stunned and shattered they must be. Never before had I lived in a more tight-knit community: potluck dinners, pool parties, running groups and meal trains. And Jen, always in the middle of these events, helping, contributing, making shit happen. Sweet and strong. Lovely and feisty.

I thought of Mike, Maggie, Annie and Drew. How do they go on? No, really. How does that work?

My phone chimed and dinged with more messages from friends and neighbors. One text from my friend Mo said:

I came home and hugged [her husband] immediately! It makes you think, you know?

It did – it made me think about a lot of things. Just a an hour earlier, Phil had come home, having just heard the news himself. He came up behind me as I sauteed some kale, put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Do you need a hug?”

I stiffened. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

I know, I know: What a frigid bitch! What’s her problem?

I don’t know what my problem is – I have many – but all I know is that I absolutely did not want to be hugged, or held, or pretty much anything in the touching category. This irked me, and continued to do so when Phil and I went to bed that night.

We read for a while on our respective sides of the bed, but when I turned out the light, I stayed on my edge, curled into a ball. I could feel Phil’s eyes on my back, silently begging me to meet him in the middle…to lean into him, to spoon, settle into the nook. On a night where he was hanging on by a thread in a world that felt so unsafe and tenuous, he wanted someone to hold onto. So did I. But I couldn’t.

Then, the next morning, as I was trying to make sense of this through writing, my friend Kari sent me this video.

Do we love harder? Do we squeeze tighter? Or do we pretend not to care that everyone we love is going to be taken away from us?

I fear the middle of the bed because I fear that one day Phil won’t be there to meet me. So I try and beat him to the punch by pretending not to need him, by curling myself up into an icy cocoon, thinking that will prepare me, make it hurt less when my worst fears are realized.

But we all know it doesn’t work that way.

Yesterday we found out our sweet dog Ellie has bone cancer.

Our Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. Not sure how I will ever say goodbye to those sad eyes. We have anywhere from a few weeks to a few months left with her. This time will be filled with as much holding, hugging and squeezing as her fragile little body will allow. That night in bed, after reading our books and turning out the light, I shimmied to the middle of the bed where Phil was already waiting, and settled into the nook.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

This week I am grateful for Jen Stagnaro. I feel blessed to have known her and called her friend. I will always remember her smile, her dry wit, and her deep love for her children. Those memories will keep her light alive for me. Forever.

I pray that her family and friends hold on to each other a little tighter and say,

I will not let go.

Grateful Pleasures

Posted on November 14, 2013 by jessiepbraun

Gratitude Month Week #3: Guilty Pleasures

Last month I had dinner with my friend Mary, who in addition to being a marble friend is also a Health and Wellness Coach. I told her that I was in a bit of a funk, but would soon snap out of it with the help of my vast library of self-help books. I even had one in my bag as a reference, which I plopped on the table in between the chips and guac.

“See, this book says I really need to be going to yoga five times a week. And maybe I need a vision board? And I HAVE to get up earlier to meditate. But I already get up at 5:00 so maybe….” Two glasses of wine later I was an overwhelmed, weepy mess blowing my nose in a cocktail napkin.

Mary gave me a long, serious look. “You know what you need to do?”

“What??” A silent retreat? A juice fast? A sugar detox?

She grabbed my book and held it up to my face. “You need to stop carrying self-help in your purse. PUT. THIS. SHIT. AWAY. Read The Hunger Games or something. Just chill out. Do something for fun, and don’t feel guilty about it.”

On the way home, I thought about Mary’s advice. The last book I read “for fun” was the novel Me Before You by Jojo Moyes. It was in the summer, because that’s the only time I allow myself to read novels (Yes, as I type this, I realize how masochistic that sounds). I devoured it in 48 hours, curled up in my favorite chair. No self-improvement, no end-of-chapter “dig deep” journaling prompts…just 100% guilty pleasure. Pure bliss.

Guilty Pleasure: (n). Something pleasurable that induces a minor feeling of guilt.

Why do we feel guilty about pleasure? For me, guilt comes from ~~being Catholic~~ the fear that self-care is the gateway drug to laziness. Another contributor is my parents’ somewhat Puritanical work ethic.

I think that the guilt that comes with watching Dancing With the Stars or rocking out to Ace of Base stems from the feeling that we should be doing something else (more productive, cerebral, and growth-producing) or that we should be someone else (cooler, smarter, and more sophisticated). We should askew fluff in favor of substance. Use our time valuably.

But, sometimes….

Isn’t feeling good value enough?

I say yes. Dammit.

This past week, I vowed to be grateful for guilty pleasures. Here are some of mine:

TJ Maxx: When Phil travels a lot, I can get a bit ~~bitchy~~ fried. When he’s home, he will say, “Why don’t you get a pedicure?”

And I respond: “I just want to go to TJ Maxx. Alone.”

I don’t know what it is about that place, but for me it’s more relaxing than a spa. I roam the aisles peacefully, filling my cart with a designer bag, a sports bra, a pumpkin candle – and then methodically put everything back. Then, before I leave blissful and (sometimes) empty-handed, I run to the bathroom to poop. Because TJ Maxx is just that relaxing.

Coloring: I baby-sat a lot as a teenager, and always went armed with coloring books and the 64 pack of Crayolas. “Wanna color?” I would say, whipping out my materials before they could say “Barbies.” I use the same strategy with my own kids, and they usually buy it because I sit and color with them. The problem is, they lose interest after about 10 minutes, which is not nearly enough time for me to finish my masterpiece. They wander off while I sink deeper into the coloring zone, until I inevitably get busted by Emma. With a nice big roll of the eyes, she says: “MOMMMMM! Aren’t you gonna like, MAKE DINNER?”

VH1- I Love the 80’s: This show makes me snort. Where else are you going to find Carrot Top, Traci Lords, and Alice Cooper pondering the big questions of an entire decade, like:

Why did Doc from Love Boat get laid so much?
Was He-Man gay?
Can watching scrambled cable porn give you brain damage?
Do you need to be high on cocaine to master the Rubik’s Cube?

Excessive Texting: When I find myself waiting -the bus stop, school pick up line, or doctor’s office – I would love to say that I seize the moment of solitude by meditating or reading a passage from Rumi. But the truth is, by 4:00, by brain is too toasty for Rumi, and if I tried to meditate I would fall asleep. So instead, I send a highly intelligent text, like this one to my cousin Meg:

Guilty Pleasure Playlist: Here we go. Now we get to the good stuff – the playlist of shame. You know you have one – it’s the reason the phrase “guilty pleasure” was invented. I have to admit, posting this playlist – the one I only listen to in the car, alone – feels braver than having my colon removed. I am musically naked. But in the spirit of Gratitude Month, I’m going for it.

Do I feel embarrassed looking at this playlist? Well…maybe a little bit. But guilty? Absolutely not. Each of these songs make me feel something: silly, energized, peaceful, weepy…more alive. And that makes me feel grateful, not guilty.

Sometimes I think we confuse pleasure with numbing. But numbing is something else. Numbing is eating the whole box of Thin Mints with no memory of doing it. To numb is to tune out. To feel pleasure is to tune in.

The idea of pleasure is to feel more, because it feels good: the “ahhhh” of sinking into the couch, the urge to dance that accompanies ~~House of Pain~~ your favorite song, the taste of your grandmother’s oven-roasted potatoes.

Kids get it. They just do what feels good, because, why wouldn’t you? Kids don’t “dance like no one is watching,” because they don’t give a shit who’s watching. They just dance.

What are your ~~guilty~~ grateful pleasures?

Feelin’ Alive

Posted on November 7, 2013 by jessiepbraun

Last week I declared November Gratitude Month. Immediately I began noticing an abundance of things to be grateful for: my family, the ocean, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. These are no-brainers. So I decided to challenge myself by cultivating appreciation for something that can draw a more mixed bag of emotion.

This week I am grateful for: My Body.

Before my total colectomy in 2011, I was a ~~spaz~~ pretty active gal: hot yoga teacher, marathoner, etc. If I didn’t wake up with tight hips and sore hamstrings, I wasn’t working hard enough. I will spare you the gory medical details, but let’s just say my post-surgery body operates by a different set of rules. It took me a long time to admit that, and even longer to accept it.

Ok, I didn’t really accept it. I kept trying to do the same things I did before, as if I were some kind of colon-less Wonder Woman. Then, after failing miserably, would say to myself, You just need to try harder. And then perform the whole song and dance all over again.

I just re-read the memoir Waking by Matthew Sanford, who, at age 13, was in a car accident that killed his father and sister, and left him paralyzed from the chest down. Through the practice of yoga, he developed a keen mind-body awareness and a deep sense of compassion for his handicapped body. It’s what he calls a “healing story.”

When I think of “healing stories,” a strong memory comes to mind. Early in our relationship, Phil took me to a retreat run through Villanova called the HEC (Handicapped Encounter Christ). Because that sounds like an obvious place ~~to get laid~~ for a third date.

The HEC, run by a gentle hippie Augustinian named Father Shawn and a group of lay people associated with the University, was an amalgam of Christian revival, Girl Scout camp, and a Grateful Dead show. As one of the able-bodied participants, you were responsible for changing catheters and other tasks I am pretty sure should have been handled by a licensed medical professional, not my boyfriend wearing a balloon hat.

But no one seemed to care who was doing the job as long as it was getting done. Taking care of business left room for other activities, like dressing up in costumes, helping someone bang a tambourine with his elbows, and shot-gunning beers by an open fire. Safety was not a huge concern to the HECers. They grabbed freedom where they could get it.

They just wanted to feel alive.

I was maybe 24 at the time, and was not the in a “grab freedom by the balls” phase of life. I was more in a rigid, neurotic, “I am going to control all the changes in my life by running 40 miles a week and eating only melon.”

I may not have known it then, but I really needed the HEC. No one cared that I was such a hot mess, because they were all hot messes too, in their own unique way. No one gave a shit if I ate the mashed potatoes or not, because most of them had mashed potatoes all over their faces. I can say this with great fondness, because we all laughed about it – no one took themselves too seriously. Everyone made fun of themselves and each other, but in a loving way. It was pure, joyful madness. It really wasn’t all that different from Thanksgiving with Phil’s family. Relax, I’m kidding. ~~Sort of.~~

In Waking, Sanford says:

My experience is not so different from yours, it is only more extreme…We all live on a continuum of ability and disability. The process of aging guarantees this – everyone eventually will become less able.

The humility of his comparison blows me away. All changes in our bodies – whether it be a spinal cord injury or the post-pregnancy curse of peeing when you sneeze – require some degree of adjustment, compassion, and acceptance. I don’t mean forced optimism. You know, when people say things like: “Why would you need another baby? You have two beautiful girls!”

Maybe for some that’s helpful, but it makes me want to respond with: “You’re right! Who cares that I can’t absorb nutrients or procreate? I can still go to the circus and eat ice cream and dream about rainbows and unicorns!”

A blessing doesn’t cancel out a loss, like some kind of spiritual Jedi mind trick. It’s about holding space for both the disappointment and the gratitude. Running long distances and having my kids made me feel alive.

So what can I do to feel alive right now?

Recently, after a failed attempt at a run, I chose to NOT kick my own ass or plan a new training strategy. Instead, I went for a walk. And the next day I went for another walk. Then, a few days later, I walked for a bit, stopped, laid in the grass and looked at the clouds. I haven’t done that in 25 years.

When I see my body as fleeting and impermanent with a No Moneyback Guarantee, I am more inclined to stop and thank it for what it does for me right now. Because while I may not be able to do this:

or this

I can still do this…

…and this….

…and this.

And that’s a lot to be grateful for.

What would make you feel alive today?

Marble Friends

Posted on November 1, 2013 by jessiepbraun

I declare November Gratitude Month. This week I am grateful for: Marble Friends.

Let me explain.

Emma -my 2nd grader- has been experiencing some playground drama. When she gets off the bus, I can tell from her face what kind of day she’s had. I take a deep breath and jump in:

“How was school today?”

“Terrible. On the playground, I tried to play tag with C and N, but they kept running away from me. So then I asked M if I could play with her and she said she had to go ask K since the game was her idea. But then they decided to to go on the monkey bars so I just stood there ALL ALONE. Do we have Pirate’s Booty?”

I was not ready for this. I thought I had more time to prepare for the “Surviving the Shark Infested Social Waters” conversation. I was banking on 4th grade. Now I had to come up with something wise to say before I got around to reading Queen Bees and Wannabees. Dammit.

When I was Emma’s age, I was taught to be nice. Respectful. Be polite to everyone ~~even if they steal your lunch and beat you with it.~~ As a people-pleaser, I was committed to being liked, so I focused on being nice and funny. Being funny was my ticket to social acceptance, because even if you are not popular, smart, or athletic, most kids enjoy eating lunch with someone who is willing to snort pretzel salt for a laugh.

Having a sense of humor saved me from myself many times, but the “be nice” thing ~~landed me in therapy~~ created some internal conflict. Because not everyone is nice in return. Some people are assholes, and others are assholes pretending to be nice. Many times I found myself being nice to someone who wasn’t respectful, or oversharing with someone who wasn’t trustworthy. Then I would feel icky and desperate, or like the bastard child of Teddy Ruxpin.

I find it interesting that my parents always encouraged me to “be picky” when it came to potential boyfriends, because I deserved to “be selective.” But no one ever said that about girlfriends. Shouldn’t these early friendships lay the ground work for deeper relationships down the road?

My dad would say, Make sure you can really trust a person before you date him. How about: Make sure you can really trust a person before you play “Girl Talk?“ A game that instructed you to “lap water out of a bowl like a dog” and cover your face with red zit stickers was way more traumatizing than getting felt up at a Blues Traveler concert.

The main points I wanted to get across to Emma:

Not everyone is going to like you.
You are not going to like everyone.
That’s ok.
There are different degrees of friendship.

It took me many years to fully grasp #4. I am pretty much an open book (I know, shocking) and I had to learn how to ~~not projectile puke my feelings~~ self-censor my emotions in certain social spheres. In order to do this, I had to just shut the hell up for a while – and ease up on the wine, because then everyone is my BFF. The shame spiral that occurs the morning after you told your neighborhood book club about your Ambien-induced Cool Whip incident is more humiliating than your worst college hook-up. Yes, even him. Trust me.

But how do I describe this whole hierarchy of friendship to a 2nd grader? I don’t. I let Brene Brown explain it, because she’s awesome and I drink whatever flavor Cool-Aid she is serving. In Daring Greatly, she describes a situation with her then 3rd grade daughter, Ellen. Ellen shared a secret with a girlfriend at school, only to have that trust betrayed. Rather than find the little Benedict Arnold and force her to play Girl Talk, Brown likened friendship to a marble jar.

Whenever someone supports you, or is kind to you, or sticks up for you, or honors what you share with them as private, you put marbles in the jar. When people are mean, or disrespectful, or share your secrets, marbles come out.

I relayed the marble jar metaphor to Emma while driving home from karate. I watched her face in the rearview mirror as she absorbed this concept.

“So who are your marble friends?” she asked.

“Well, I am lucky to have a few. Aunt Lynnie is one for sure.”

“Why? What makes her a marble friend?”

“Well….she’s very loyal.”

“What’s loyal mean?”

“She sticks by me. Remember when I had surgery? Aunt Lynnie bought me really nice body wash before I went into the hospital. That made me feel really loved. And she lets me be myself. I can cry and blow a snot bubble and she won’t laugh or make fun of me ~~until at least two days later~~. Does that make sense?”

She nods. “Yeah. It does. I think I have some marble friends, too.”

“Cool…who?”

“McKenzie. Because she is kind and we both like to do art….and if I tell her a secret she won’t tell anyone. And, probably Sophia too, because we’ve taken baths together and she’s seen my private parts.”

“Makes sense.”

Since that conversation, there has been no mention of the playground. The Marble Jar. It’s f***ing genius.

As for me, I’ve been thinking more about how to be a better Marble Friend: Listen more. Don’t fix. Be on time. Show gratitude. SHUT THE HELL UP.

Anne Lamott says:

Maybe we don’t find a lot of answers to life’s closer questions, but if we find a few true friends, that’s even better. They help you see who you truly are, which is not always the loveliest version of yourself, but then comes the greatest miracle of all – they still love you.

Thank you, Marble Friends. You know who you are.

Happy Halloween

Posted on October 31, 2013 by jessiepbraun

Hey there – crazy day today with costume prep, school parties and the unnecessary last minute candy run. (Does the “do I have enough?” question keep anyone else up at night?)

New blog post coming tomorrow. A perfect excuse for you to procrastinate until your candy hangover subsides. I had my first Reese’s at 6:30 this morning. What? It has peanut butter…which is a breakfast food….

Happy Halloween!

Jessie

Ferris Bueller and Joe Bloggs: Daring Greatly Together

Posted on October 24, 2013 by jessiepbraun

Phil and I were driving home from a doctor’s appointment yesterday when I saw the sign: “Bat Houses For Sale.”

I was intrigued. “Bats buy houses? I thought they shacked up in haunted attics.”

Phil, always at the ready with an official sounding answer, said, “They need to seek refuge because they are deaf.”

“What?”

“Bats are deaf.”

“Ummmm, I don’t think so Dr. Doolittle. Pretty sure they are blind. You know, blind as a bat?”

He laughed. “Or dumb as a stump.”

I love these rare moments with a less-than-perfect Phil, because most of the time, he comes pretty damn close. When we first started dating, his superstar resume almost scared me away: 4.0 student, captain of his high school football team, full engineering scholarship to Villanova. Ok sure, that’s impressive, you say. But is he a total nerd? Nope. He’s fun, charming, and 100% likable. Think Ferris Bueller.

As I see it, the downside to this charmed existence is the pressure to be happy, dazzling and brilliant all the time. I, fortunately, do not have this problem. I call it the Beauty of Being Average – no one expects too much. You are not afraid to fail because the bar is set so low. It’s like falling off a step stool vs. Phil’s 10 foot ladder. I was an average student, an average musician, an average athlete. Think Joe Bloggs.*

In high school, Phil was doing advanced calculus while I was smoking cigarettes outside the PathMark in East Hanover, NJ. He ran football drills and led student council meetings. I streaked my hair with Manic Panic while my friend Maureen pierced my ears with a safety pin. He was every parent’s dream and I was an ABC Afterschool Special. At my college graduation from Villanova, my dad said, “Well Jess, I wasn’t sure you could pull this off. But what do you know, here we are!” I’m pretty sure that’s French Canadian for “Congratulations.”

These childhood roles – Phil as Superstar and Jessie as Hot Mess – spilled over into the early years of our marriage, and we worked with a therapist to bring more equality into our relationship. But certain situations trigger old behaviors. My recent health issues, for example, have brought out the ~~bossy control freak~~ natural leader in Phil. He feels it is his duty to help me, which is nice….if I ask for help. But he tends to take over, acting as if he has everything under control – even though I know he doesn’t. He feels frazzled and I feel like a burden. This creates distance – the opposite of the intended effect.

I tried to talk to Phil about letting his guard down, but these conversations ended with both of us getting defensive. I couldn’t figure out why until I read Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly:

We ask [men] to be vulnerable, we beg them to let us in, and we plead with them to tell us when they’re afraid, but the truth is that most women can’t stomach it. In these moments when real vulnerability happens to men, most of us recoil with fear and that fear manifests as everything from disappointment to disgust. And men are very smart. They know the risks, and they see the look in our eyes when we’re thinking “C’mon! Pull it together! Man up!”

Holy crap. I thought. Is that really true? Do I really do that? The answer, of course, is yes. I am guilty of this double standard. I want Phil to be sweet and sensitive when we are talking about “safe” topics. But when we are discussing issues that make me feel squirmy and insecure – like money and medical bills – I want him to be in control. Powerful. Confident. I want to feel safe at all costs, even if that means being lied to.

But it’s a trap. Because deep down you know when someone is telling you what you want to hear. Then you both retreat to opposite sides of the bed with all that bottled up emotion, and you don’t feel safe at all. You feel alone.

I had to stop this cycle, and find a way to invite vulnerability into tough conversations. But I needed a mental reminder – a tool to keep me from getting defensive or judgmental. Like an electric fence. Or ego taser.

Then, I found this little gem.

When I look at this face – the first face, not the spooky floating ghost-face- my heart softens. Phil is allowed to have doubts and fears just like the little boy in the picture. In many ways, he is still this kid who just wants to be seen and heard and loved. The kid who wants someone to hold his face and say, “Hey. I’m here to help, it’s going to be ok,” when he forgets how to make a slip knot or whatever the hell you do in Cub Scouts.

However, my new approach hit a snag when I started shaming myself for shaming him. What kind of heartless bitch crushes the spirit of an earnest little Cub Scout? Who the hell do you think you are?

I am this person.

This little girl still exists, too. Maybe she feels inadequate, not that smart, a little lost. She needs someone to place a grounding hand on her shoulder and say, “You can do this. You are capable of a lot more than you think.”

In The Gifts of Imperfection, Brene Brown says:

Love is not something we give or get; it is something we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them – we can only love others as much as we love ourselves.

A part of me cringes at this definition; the self love things always throws me for a loop. My inner critic has been around for a long time, and that bitch loves a good cat fight. So I will continue to arm myself with baby pictures. Because you would never say:

“Get up and do something, you lazy slob!”

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Go find that shoebox of old photos and give it a try. I dare you.

* Joe Bloggs: (n). Brit slang for an average or typical man. Used by the Princeton Review SAT prep course for the average student prone to choosing the most obvious, dumbass answer.

How To Stop Googling Yourself Dead

Posted on October 16, 2013 by jessiepbraun

I had kind of a rough weekend.

For the record, I am a bit of a medical mystery. I had my colon removed three years ago due to a congenital nerve defect called hypoganglionosis. No one seems to know much about it, although according to Mary Roach’s recent book Gulp, Elvis may have had something similar. So at least I am in good company there. Except that he’s dead.

Anyway, since my surgery my body refuses to absorb iron. This has resulted in microcytic anemia, for which I require intravenous iron. I receive these treatments in Boston, which is a bit of a hike, but the level of care has outweighed the inconvenience.

When Phoebe broke her leg, however, my weekly appointments went from challenging to impossible. So, as mothers tend to do, I got distracted by ~~spoon feeding Phoebe ice cream~~ my maternal duties and hoped the rest would just go away.

No such luck. On Friday I woke up feeling like I had been run over by a cement truck. My chest was tight and my hands and feet were numb. So of course I called the doctor…right?

Wrong. I had a better idea. I called the gas man.

Our smoke detectors had gone off the night before, so I decided we must have carbon monoxide. This must be the problem, I thought. It’s the air! It’s poison, I tell you, POISON!

Bill the Gas Man refuted my theory. No carbon monoxide.

I took the next logical step and Googled “anemia” and “death.” This brought up a story about the actress Brittany Murphy, who died from a lethal trifecta of anemia, pneumonia, and (alleged) mold.

Hmmm. Mold comes from dampness…and we left the car windows open during that rain storm and never replaced the floor mats. I called Phil.

“I think the car has toxic mold.”

“Stop Googling and call the doctor.”

“Ugh. Fiiiiiine.”

Calling your doctor in Boston at 4:00 on a Friday is a sure fire way to NOT RESOLVE A DAMN THING. My exasperated hematologist said, “The chest pain is the lack of iron, but the numbness is probably a B12 and copper deficiency, which we can add to the IV when you come in next week.”

“So what are you supposed to do now?” Phil asked when I hung up.

“Suck on some pennies, I guess.” And try not to Google Copper deficiency and neurological defects.

I haven’t always been paranoid/simultaneously avoident about my health. I used to take things -even scary things -in stride. But then my sweet and loving Aunt Terry died. What we thought was fibromyalgia ended up being cancer that killed her two months after being diagnosed. Her death took my blissfully ignorant notion of “this could never happen to me” and kicked it to the curb. So maybe I call the gas man instead of the doctor because all I’ve got to lose in that scenario is a furnace.

Phil took the kids out for pizza. I got ~~busy on laundry~~ back in bed. Have you ever flipped open a book to a page you really needed to read at that exact moment? Well, that’s what happened to me with Dani Shaprio’s Still Writing.

The greatest shocks I have experienced[…] ignited in me […] an awareness that life is fragile. That bad things had happened, and without a doubt, will happen again. That to love anything at all is to become able to lose it. Somedays, this awareness gets the better of me. Anxiety sets in. But more often than not, […] it has taught me that ordinary life -or what Joan Didion calls “ordinary blessings – is what is most precious.

I woke up Saturday morning determined to embrace my ordinary blessings.

We went to the beach to fly a kite.

It was a beautiful day. The girls were having a blast, which made me smile….but I still felt slightly removed. Like there was a pane of finger-smudged glass separating me from the rest of the world. Mindfulness is hard for me on a good day, and harder when I can’t feel my hands or feet. I was tired and cold and kept thinking about the couch. The couch and lots of blankets.

While we were at the beach, our fridge died. Rather than try and salvage some of the already questionable leftovers, we decided to go out for dinner.

As we drove along, I stared out the window and tried to “stay in the moment” – even though “the moment” was filled with non-stop bickering from the back seat that was making me want to bang my head against the dashboard. But then a miracle occurred.

I could hardly contain myself: “OMG. You guys.”

“What?”

“I just saw the best thing ever.”

“OK, whaaaat??”

“Someone changed that street sign from Hoop Pole Lane to POOP HOLE LANE.”

We snarfed and snorted for a good 6 minutes. I thought Emma was going to puke from laughing: “THAT IS HILARIOUS!” I WANT TO LIVE ON POOP HOLE LANE!”

I realize this is not exactly an appropriate parent-child dialogue, which is why I made a public service announcement as we pulled into the parking lot.

“Hey girls, you know that “poop” is not a restaurant word, right?”

“Neither is DAMMIT.”

Thank you, Phoebe. Glad we are all on the same page here.

In the blog Positively Positive, Jennifer Pastiloff writes about finding the miraculous in the mundane – the rare moments in life when we can say, “I don’t need more than this.”

I look forward to regaining feeling in my extremities, and maybe one day absorbing nutrients the good old fashioned way, without needles. But in the meantime, it’s a relief to have moments when I can still stay “I don’t need more than this.”

Daddy Drives With His Knees

Posted on October 10, 2013 by jessiepbraun

“Daddy drives with his knees.”

“What?”

“Daddy drives with his knees. Isn’t that cool? Can you drive with your knees, Momma?”

“Umm, no. I drive with my hands.”

“Oh. Daddy’s gonna teach me to drive when I’m ten.

“Is that right.”

“Yup.”

Normally I would find this car conversation with Phoebe amusing. Maybe if I wasn’t driving home from the orthopedist’s office with a purple-casted 4 year old, I would have cracked a smile. But ever since Phoebe broke her leg on the playground, I’ve kind of lost my sense of humor surrounding safety issues.

~~Despite being the parent on duty at the time,~~ Phil remains unaffected.

I am not blaming him. The same thing could have happened on my watch. While I ~~always~~ usually have an eye on the kids, my hands are often occupied: sending a quick text, jotting down my grocery list, rummaging through my bottomless bag for Chap-Stick.

The point is, I get it. I am guilty of multi-tasking, of not being present, of courting the hairy edge of disaster. So I did not freak out when Phil called me on the way home from the playground that afternoon.

“I have to tell you something but you have to promise not to get mad.”

Never a good start to a conversation.

I did not get mad. However…

There’s something about seeing your child’s leg in plaster that rouses your inner Mama Bear. That’s MY baby’s leg in that cast. A bone that I grew with my own body. I know every inch of that little leg – I clothe, wash, and carry it everyday. This made me fiercely protective yet uncomfortably vulnerable at the same time. It’s a little like having an infant. A 35 pound infant who screams for the IPad and gorgonzola cheese.

Phoebe took the whole thing in stride. Large strides. Running, careening, wildly unsteady strides. The minute she figured out that she could get around on the cast, she was off and running…dragging her purple leg behind her like a pint-sized, pony-tailed Captain Ahab.

Her drunk pirate routine made me drink. I imagined her flying down the stairs or slipping on the bathroom floor. I saw bloody teeth, a broken arm, potential head injury. Suddenly our own house was a death trap.

When I shared these concerns with Phil, he just rolled his eyes.

“You are being ridiculous. Yay, Phoebe, a new trick!” he said, clapping as she pirouetted around the kitchen.

“Can you please stop encouraging her?”

“Why? I’m teaching her to turn a setback into a comeback!”

“Her limb is being held together by paper mache! Looks, she’s getting all dizzy – and her toes are bleeding! PHOEBE STOP SPINNING!”

Phil is the fun parent and I am the….other parent. As Emma once said: “Dad plays soccer, but only after Mom goes to Target and buys the soccer ball.” I am fine with these roles, but Phil has a tendency to push the boundary of “Fun” and move into the realm of “Holy Shit Who Is In Charge Here?”

Like when he hung a tree swing in our yard that swings directly into the street, aka. “The Suicide Swing.”

Then there’s the time he “temporarily misplaced” Phoebe at a 5K Fun Run. She was later found on the massage table getting rubbed down by a random male masseuse.

I tried not to freak out when I discovered that his version of “giving Phoebe a bath” meant sticking her in a tub of running water before retreating to the upstairs bathroom with the sports section. I remained calm when he admitted to taking “9 Minute Chaise Lounge Naps” when taking the girls to the pool.

But this time was different. The more Phil ignored my plea to protect our daughter from a permanent leg deformity, the more pissed off I became. When he rolled his eyes, called me overprotective, or re-explained the strength elements of a cast, the anger percolated in my gut like lava.

And when I looked outside to see Phil and Phoebe doing soccer drills, I LOST. MY. MIND.

“Really Phil? Soccer?”

“What? The doctor said she could walk on it.”

“She didn’t say she could play soccer on it.”

“Ahhh, but she didn’t say she COULDN’T play soccer on it!”

“Because no one with half a brain would ever think that those words actually need to be said.”

“Don’t you understand the strength elements of a cast? You see, the way it works is…”

No words.

Later that night ~~after a few glasses of wine~~, I came up with a new strategy for getting my point across. While Phil was paying bills in his office, I left this outside the door.

Twisted? Sadistic? Lifetime movie-esque? Perhaps. But it worked.

About an hour later he came downstairs.

“Ok, I get it. I’ll stop. You’re one crazy chick, but I will stop.”

“Promise?”

“Trust me.”

I do trust Phil. Do I trust that he will miraculously transform into a Danger Ranger armed with a First Aid Kit and detailed fire escape plan? No, and thank God. That’s not who he is. I do trust that he will back off the One-Legged Olympics. Not because he wants to, but because he knows I really need him to.

For me, trust is surrender. Relinquishing the need to be right. Going somewhere unfamiliar because it is really important to someone else. Being able to say: “I still like my way of doing things, but I am willing to give your way a chance.” To trust is to consider that maybe there is validity in the other person’s point of view.

And I must admit, the view from the Suicide Swing is pretty damn good.

My Best Friend’s Wedding

Posted on October 3, 2013 by jessiepbraun

Last month, my best friend Lynne got married.

She was beaming, glowing…magnificent.

I cried tears of joy, then tears of gratitude for the tears of joy. I was grateful because in the months following her engagement, I wasn’t 100% joyful.

I know. This makes me sounds like an awesome friend. Believe me, my inner-critic had a field day with my mixed emotions: “What the hell is the matter with you? This is a great thing. Lynne loves Jon. Jon loves Lynne. So what is the problem?”

I remembered leaving my parents’ house the day after my own wedding. As Phil and I drove away, my mom and sister stood in the middle of the street, crying. Sobbing, I watched them get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. I made Phil stop the car so I could run down the street and hug them.

Now I was the one standing in the street.

When we lived in Pennsylvania, Lynne -“Aunt Lynnie” to my kids- brought light and energy into our home. With Lynne, there’s just….more. More wine, more food, more laughs – everything gets turned up a notch. She danced in the kitchen and sang One Direction with my kids. She ate wings and watched football with Phil. And Lynne and I – before drinking obscene amounts of wine – we walked.

We walked and talked -about men, kids, food issues, the Godfather trilogy -whatever. I could say anything to her, no judgement. And that felt safe and grounding.

Then everything changed. We put our house on the market and Lynne got a new job. She got engaged a few weeks before we moved to Massachusetts. Our walks were replaced with text messages, which I decoded like a CIA agent looking for encrypted enemy telecommunication.

“What do you think she means by ‘things are good’?” I said to Phil over dinner. “Like, really good or just kinda good?”

“Look,” he said. “Lynne is half-dude and is in Dude Mode with the new job. Just give it some space.”

I’m not good with space. I fill space with crap. You know that person at the airport whose suitcase is over 50 pounds because she crammed in a last-minute bottle of prune juice? Yeah, that’s me. I don’t want space, I want details. I want to know what you had for dinner and the results of your grandmother’s colonoscopy.

With all space and no details, I fill in the gaps in my head. And my head is where the crazy happens: Is she happy? Is she stressed? Does she know not to put Hershey Kisses in the wedding guest hotel bags because they will melt all over the Advil?

I prayed. I meditated. I read self-help books. Post-it affirmations covered my bathroom mirror: “I am willing to release patterns that create discord in my relationships.” Nope. Still crazy.

But God speaks to us through unlikely sources – like the movie Bridesmaids.

It was the scene where one bridesmaid (Megan) gives the maladjusted maid of honor (Annie) a little tough love regarding her best-friend-getting-married issues.

Megan: You’re your problem, and you’re also your solution. You get that?

Annie: Yeah. I guess I just miss her.

Megan: I know you do. I know you do.

I started bawling. At Bridesmaids. Because suddenly it was so clear. I just missed her.

I missed the way she would fall asleep on my couch and I would find her bra between the cushions. I missed her doing the Roger Rabbit after a ~~bottle~~ glass of wine. I missed her voice calling me “J.” I missed watching her order the nastiest appetizer on the menu, like cheesesteak egg rolls. I missed our walks. I missed Lynne.

You’re your own problem, but you’re also your solution.

On my next visit to PA, I sent her a text: “I’m here. Wanna walk?”

“YES!”

We met on Kelly Drive in Philly, and within minutes we were crying on the bank of the Schuylkill River. Ok, I was crying. Lynne alternated between reflective listening and cursing. She is a lawyer, after all.

“You are such a (expletive). I can’t believe you felt this way and didn’t tell me.”

“But it’s your special time and I didn’t want to be needy.”

“That is (expletive) ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, you text like a dude.”

“Huh?”

“Your texts. They are too abrupt: ‘Yeah’ or ‘Not sure.’ I get nervous that something is wrong.”

“Ok. That’s legit. How about we do a phone call once a week?”

“That sounds good.”

“And J?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you, too. I know I don’t always say it…but I miss you more than you know.”

In The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran writes: “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” The problem was not that I was sad. The problem was that I tried to suppress being sad, which is kind of like trying not to puke. You know you hate to puke so you pretend you don’t have to, even though trying not to puke is more torturous than actually doing it. Then you finally surrender to the puke and say, “Oh my God, I feel so much better now.” Then you get to have toast and ginger ale.

Sadness = Puke, Happiness & Joy = Toast & Ginger Ale. Is anyone still with me? Bueller?

At my best friend’s wedding, I was all toast and ginger ale.

I didn’t see Lynne before she left for her honeymoon. She said upon her return, “You know J, it’s probably better that I didn’t see you that morning, because I would have totally lost it.”

Maybe it doesn’t matter if you are the one standing in the street or the one driving away. Perhaps there is equanimity in the humanness of it all. While we might move in different directions, we find connection in the jumble of emotion that comes with change and growth. That’s the place where we stop the car, run to each other, and hug.

No Cigarettes, No Bologna

Because marriage is all about compromise and throwing stuff

Sacred Downtime

The Nook

Grateful Pleasures

Feelin’ Alive

Marble Friends

Happy Halloween

Ferris Bueller and Joe Bloggs: Daring Greatly Together

How To Stop Googling Yourself Dead

Daddy Drives With His Knees

My Best Friend’s Wedding