MY TEXT: I can’t wait for tonight!

HIS TEXT: Me too.

And I couldn’t. I really, really couldn’t. It had been a long week. A good week, but an exhausting one. And in the middle of it was the first night of auditions for the Mother’s Day show, which were amazing. Lots of laughter and affirmation, and funny, funny stories. And even though the storytellers could leave after they auditioned, they didn’t. I had an open mic in my living room. It was awesome. I felt a little wistful as I nodded and laughed with the moms of small children. I was relieved to have passed through those years, but they really were rich with humor. And now? I’m not saying that my home flowed with the milk and honey of good parenting, but there simply weren’t as many bad moments as there used to be. I was changing. Growing.

Even still, my husband and I hadn’t been out together in a few weeks, so I was really excited. We were going out watch a show with some of our very favorite people. My house was still clean. ONE didn’t have homework. I didn’t have to cook dinner. The girls were excited about their babysitter. (I was excited about their babysitter.) All I had to do was get myself ready and feed the kids some nutrient-free pasta and I was done. I was having such a good mom day that I even threw in a bath for the girls.

I get really negligent about bath time in the winter. No outward dirt, no pressing need to wash them. Whatever. But I tossed them into the tub and even pulled out the Tea Tree Shampoo as advised by my wonderful friend Jane from TheyCallMeJane because I’d used that (and the Super Duper Lice Comb) on my girls every ten days since the Faux Lice Disaster of ’11. I still had one hour until I left. One hour to sit at the counter and have a glass of wine and gaze across my clean kitchen while waiting for my husband to pick me up. My mind was blissfully somewhere else. Somewhere trendy. Somewhere with dim lighting. And as I combed through ONE’s hair with the Super Duper Lice Comb, I found these. Lots and lots of these:

And the more I combed, the more came out. Her scalp was gracious and yielding, like fields of manna at first light. The Lice Happens technician who visited our house in November was right. We didn’t have lice last time. We had it this time. And unlike several months ago I didn’t jump around shrieking, or shiver with imaginary skeevies, because I was in control this time. I was going out. And also? My mind was busily vacillating between how I’d keep it from the babysitter, and why the hell I had to be so cocky. They hadn’t needed a bath. Why’d I have to go and try to be super mom? That never, ever works out for me.

I stopped combing ONE’s hair because I knew it was just the beginning for her, and moved on to TWO’s head. TWO announced that she was fine, because only her sister and her sister’s friends got lice. ONE moaned and cried. I rolled my eyes. ONE caught me. She screamed that I didn’t understand her. That I hated her. And then stormed out of the room, slamming doors. Whatever. I ran through everything the technician told us as I brushed through TWO’s head and inspected her scalp. I wanted to sound convincing when I assured the babysitter that it was all taken care of and she could still come over. Lice die in 24 hours if they’re not on the scalp. They can’t live or breed anywhere else. They only pass head-to-head, through brushes and…I looked down. I was brushing TWO’s hair with the brush I’d just used on ONE.

I was hand-delivering the lice, unscathed, to their place of worship.

And I would spend the rest of my night wandering in the wilderness, unable to enter the promised land.

I changed out of my “Mommy You Look Beautiful” clothes,  called the babysitter and cancelled. Poured myself a glass of red and brought it into the bathroom. I took a long sip and gazed at the shower. The idea that I’d grown was as bullsh*t as the lice shampoo I’d paid too much money for. The amount of bad moments I’d been experiencing had nothing to do with my parenting. It was all about logistics. Since the moments could no longer slip out through tiny little cracks during the day, they gestated while the girls were at school, rising in strength and power until they exploded forth in a million little lice.

Lice.

F-ing lice.

(PS: If anyone reading this happened to be at my house the other night, don’t worry. It wasn’t in our furniture or anything like that. You’re safe. Unless, of course, your child’s classroom happens to be located on the same hallway as ONE’s. I have no idea what’s going on down there, but it’s not good.)

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

We’ve added another audition date for SpeakeasyDC’s Mother’s Day show- Bad Mommy Moments: A Storytelling Playdate for Moms! It’s going to be a fantastic show. Join us! See this post for more details, or email Amy Couchoud at coosh(at)speakeasydc(dot)org for an audition time.

]]> http://badmommymoments.com/2012/01/20/second-verse-same-as-the-first/feed/ 26 http://badmommymoments.com/2012/01/12/stay-outside-of-my-line/ http://badmommymoments.com/2012/01/12/stay-outside-of-my-line/#comments Thu, 12 Jan 2012 11:55:11 +0000 ck http://badmommymoments.com/?p=16507

After last week’s post on Grace Brown’s Project Unbreakable, the same types of questions crept into conversations I had with other moms: How do I start this kind of conversation with my kids? How do I know when I’ve said enough? How do I keep from saying too much? The most important thing is to have these conversations, regardless of how uncomfortable they make you. Kids need to know they can talk to us about the uncomfortable things. But for anyone (like me) who is looking for tools to use, or ideas of where to start, here are a few things I’ve compiled. (And if you have any tips, suggestions, or stories about what worked for you as a kid, or with your family, please consider adding your comments below. Enough cannot be shared on this topic.)

When I was a kid my mom used to play a tape called Safety Kids over and over. We sang songs that taught us our phone number and address, how to handle strangers, what to do if we got lost, and that if an adult didn’t “stay outside of my line,” (or disrespected our space and touched our private areas), we’d tell on them. You can still buy Safety Kids, though I’m guessing there are also more updated versions to chose from.

There are also games. We have one for our girls called, Safetyville, which is okay, though some of the questions are a little awkward to explain to small kids (like: If you find yourself locked in the trunk of a car you should…) But as long as you read the questions in your head first, you can monitor what your kids can handle, and a lot of the questions lead to natural conversations. (Clearly I didn’t do it that way. I just charged ahead and caught myself mid-question. Lesson learned, moving on.)

Sometimes our girls bring up questions about appropriate touching, usually following my repition of phrases such as, “Keep your vagina to yourself, there’s plenty of room for you both in the tub.” Or, I bring it up following their yearly doctor’s appointment. The doctor always says something like, “I’m going to look at your private areas now, but it’s okay because I’m a doctor and your mom (or dad) is here.” I usually bring the topic up in the car. We discuss what to do if an adult, or another kid, tries to touch them. (ONE has decided that she’d yell “No!” and punch them in the face.) What kinds of secrets are okay, and that we’ll always believe what they tell us. I can usually tell when they’ve had enough. Their eyes glaze over, or they change the subject, so we stop there.

I also asked my friend Yvonne Moss (rape survivor and advocate for victims of sexual abuse), to share some thoughts on how to talk to kids about sexual abuse. Yvonne was one of the brave individuals photographed in Project Unbreakable, you can read her story here.

Yvonne: Mom’s know their kids, and each child is different. With this subject, as with any other, go at it with a plan. The most important thing to remember is that a child knows how a mom feels even when no words are spoken. If mom hates peas the first time she feeds her baby peas, that baby knows full well that there is something wrong with that green stuff on that spoon. How? By the look on mom’s face. If the mom has a look of terror on her face when she starts this kind of  conversation, that child has predetermined that this subject is bad bad bad.  And if that child is ever molested, he or she is not going to want to come back to mom with that bad bad bad ‘face on’ and tell her that something bad bad bad has happened!  

The hardest part about talking about abuse is sharing it in such a way as to make it okay to talk about in the first place. And to continue talking about it until you know that you have succeeded! All of life’s lessons deem repeating, right?

 1.  I always told my kids that there were really nice people in the world.  Those are the people who smile at you and say hello to you because they think you’re adorable or sweet.  Or maybe even because they say hello to everybody! (That’s me!) This always make you feel okay, or even good, because it’s a passing thing.

 2.  Bad people often appear nice at first. But within moments, even the smallest child will have a ‘blip’ in their little being because the conversation lasts just a bit too long, or seems off.  To me, this is usually because it’s all about them. Not the child. And that wrong motive comes through. When a person who just loves children and is moved to smile or greet them has a pure heart, I really think it comes across. How did I teach that?  I’d say things like “If you ever feel strange around someone, you don’t have to listen to them.”

3. And then there is the obvious. No kind person asks a child to come with them for candy, puppies or to help! The common tricks abductors use to bait. I tell them that their mommy would never ask a strange child if they want candy.  Or come see a puppy. Or ask for directions. But I would say “Hi!  You have lovely hair!”  

4. And I always taught them what to do in case of an emergency. The main point being never to scream.  More children are abducted in front of people and scream than we can count. I ask you… what do you think when you see an adult grab a child and they are screaming?  I, along with most, just assume that it’s an out of control kid being grabbed up by an embarrassed dad or mom.  So I taught my kids to yell (as loudly as they could) HELP! I DON’T KNOW HIM!  I’M BEING KIDNAPPED! 

One thing about abusers is that they single out compliant, quiet children. Now if that describes your child, don’t panic! Even a compliant child can be taught how to deal with a bad situation.  If that child knows that there is such a thing as a ‘bad touch’ and that ‘bad touches’ can sort of feel good on the outside, but make you feel off or yucky on the inside… well, then they know how to sort that out.  Then, they need to know that they do not have to respect anyone who says something or does something that makes them feel like that.  Having permission to yell at a teacher, coach, uncle, brother, or whoever if or when they encounter a bad thing is the THING THAT WILL MAKE SOMEONE STOP.  

So, if you see that ‘freezing’ is a way that your child deals with fear… address THAT!  Teach them how to sort out those ‘frozen’ feeling and address them. In the area of potential abuse, teach them to yell back at the ‘known adult’ with words like NO. Abusers tell themselves that kids ‘like it’ when they are allowed to touch them. Being told NO changes that. And each mother needs to know how to teach her kids this.  There is no easy answer.  Not that being touched once, or being asked to be touched once,  won’t stay with them and that they won’t need help in overcoming even THAT, it will however stop years of abuse if they taught how to be bold.  

Check out Yvonne’s blog —> Yvonne Moss: Make-up, Skincare, Cooking, Organizing, Product Finds, Motherhood & Music 

©2012 CEK & YVONNE MOSS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

One more week until auditions for SpeakeasyDC’s Mother’s Day show- Bad Mommy Moments: A Storytelling Playdate for Moms! See this post for more details, or email Amy Couchoud at coosh(at)speakeasydc(dot)org for an audition time.

My mystery rash reappeared the day after Christmas, 20 months after my last outbreak. I recognized the sensations immediately: the tingly feelings in my hands and feet, the itchiness on unmarked skin. I tried to be positive, but after the girls fell asleep I curled up in my husband’s arms and cried. The next day a cluster of itchy bumps appeared by my knee. The day after that swollen blotches of reds, pinks, and purples paint-balled my arms and legs, the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet, and even my joints. I was covered. Walking was difficult. Sleeping, impossible.

I knew I needed to get a biopsy before taking any medications, because the only medication that would offer relief was a steroid that changed the make-up of whatever it was. But it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s. My dermatologist was out of town. The doctor at Johns Hopkins who gave me her bat line was no longer at the hospital, and my doctor’s office didn’t perform biopsies. I was sure I could find a way to get a biopsy if I really pushed it, but my girls were home all week. The pain and itchiness was all consuming, and since it was all over my body, I quickly sunk into a sense of helplessness. There was no way I’d make it without relief.

Physical mess aside, I struggled with finding the balance between being honest with my girls about what I was going through, and not scaring them. I mean, it wasn’t cancer or anything. I wasn’t dying. The medication would eventually suppress my skin into submission. But it was really scary to look at, and I couldn’t go two steps without itching some part of my body. Plus the woman in me wanted to be Super Mom. To meet all the needs and hide the hideousness of my skin. I’d hidden it before, while my mom or husband played Need Meeter, but the girls were older now. And not blind.

So I let them in. Not all the way, but far enough that they’d understand why I looked the way I did and why I couldn’t spend much time with them. They watched as I was examined at the doctor’s office, and witnessed yet another professional’s eyes bulge out at the sight of my skin, and heard her apologize for having no answers. ONE saw my shoulders sag as I was handed the name of another doctor to see, and piped in with some of her own disgnoses: maybe she’s allergic to something at Christmas. Or maybe she accidentally rolled around in the pink stuff hanging from the ceiling in our attic. Doesn’t that make you itch? When we got home the girls each said little prayers for me, and then entertained themselves while I spent my afternoon numbing my hands and feet in ice water.

In the middle of this TWO wandered into the room. She stood several feet away and watched me. I smiled at her.

ME: I look pretty scary, huh?

She nodded her head. Tears filled her eyes as she took in my arms and legs. I looked down at my skin and tried to imagine how I would’ve felt if I’d seen my mom looking like that when I was four. When I lifted my head again she was standing next to me. She looked right into my eyes, took my hands, kissed my speckled fingertips, and rested her cheek in my swollen palms.

TWO: You are the most beautiful mommy in the world.

I don’t know if it was the conviction in her small, sweet voice, or how much I needed to be told that I wasn’t the monster I felt like, but I started to cry. I thanked her in whispers as she climbed into my lap and wrapped my stained arms around her. She turned her little face up to me and smiled. “You are my beautiful mommy.” And even though I could see my skin in the periphery, and I could feel the burning and itching radiating through my body, I was grateful that I’d let her see me this time. Because in being honest, her eyes were able to locate the part of my heart lost inside my skin. And in that moment I felt her words. I clung to them. I believed them.

I was beautiful.

©2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

One more week until auditions for SpeakeasyDC’s Mother’s Day show- Bad Mommy Moments: A Storytelling Playdate for Moms! See this post for more details, or email Amy Couchoud at coosh(at)speakeasydc(dot)org for an audition time.

Dear Google,

We’ve been together for a long time. I remember you before you were a verb (when used with an object), when you were nothing more than an Ask Jeeves alternative. Sure it’s been on-and-off. I know you’ve had (many) other women, and I’ve tried several other search engines, but in the end, we always came back to each other because it was only when we delved into the world of online intrigue that we truly felt lucky.

You’ve been like a third parent to me. Slipping information I didn’t ask for into the answers I was seeking. Excusing my distracted behavior because you knew what was really going on behind my related searches. Directing strangers to my blog who couldn’t possibly have been looking for it, like the guy searching for “shorts with balls hanging out” or the individual who needed to know “Tom Hanks, how long he pees.” Imagine their surprise when they landed on my site? And my surprise when they returned?

We were allies. I disappeared into your web of information when my kids overwhelmed me, and you comforted me with about 30,800,000 results (in 0.22 seconds).You didn’t judge me for creating absolute truth from information gleaned on pages 1 and 2. Instead, you lifted my spirits and helped me spend money. You kept me abreast of news after it broke, but before CNN could puree it into my vegetables. You saved all of my emails when no one else cared, and still my mailbox was only 46% full. If my husband knew how many words I’ve hoarded in your infinite space, he’d probably find a way to put me on his show.

I mean, really. Was it necessary to use this as the image people see when they plug in my address? You can’t possibly expect me to believe that you and your friends just happened to be photographing my street on the *one* day in 2009 when I cleaned my car. How long did you camp out in front of my house, waiting until I looked my absolute worst? You’re not fooling anyone with that half-*ssed blur on my face, either. Like someone else would just randomly stop on my street and vacuum my car for me. Look at my hair. My old shirt (that I still have). No wonder my search pages have been filled with ads for PacSun and Charlotte Russe.

My friends are telling me I should break up with you. Or rat you out to your parents, demanding they take this photo down. But I won’t. I’m an adult. I can take it. But for the sake of what we once were, and for all the hours we’ll spend together in the future, please let me know the next time you’re in town. I have just enough pride left to go away. Far away. For as long as it takes.

Yours forever,

-CK

PS: I will ask that you take down part of my street view, though. You posted my daughter on it. I’m okay calling her out in public when she’s whining and following me around. But you may not. She’s my daughter, not yours. And you didn’t ask my permission. Blurring her face does not make it okay. She was 4. Take it down.

Last month I found Unbreakable, a photography project started by Grace Brown, a 19 year-old student in NYC. Grace photographs victims of sexual abuse, holding up signs with the words of their attackers.

Reading the messages on the cards wasn’t easy for me; many of the women I grew up with–and around–were victims of sexual abuse. And now as a mom the safety of my daughters is something I think about and pray for on a daily basis. Because no matter how far removed you find yourself from your past, or from stories like these, motherhood brings it all back.

When it comes to my daughters, I find it easy to get wrapped up in the what-ifs. And for me it’s hard to stop the thoughts once they start. But getting to know Grace has reminded me that while I can’t control their futures, I can teach them to how to express themselves. How to speak up. And hopefully, like Grace, how to be courageous.

•                        •                    •

Meet Grace:

I was always involved in rape culture, so to call it. In April of my sophomore year of high school, I discovered feminism – not what society sees as feminism, not the scary, militant kind, but the “make a difference, change the world” feminism. It made me stronger and more aware of myself. My plan was to go to school for rape crisis counseling. It seemed that I was always able to connect with victims of abuse, even though I had never been abused. I thought of myself as one of the lucky ones. One of the girls who managed sixteen-almost-seventeen years of never being affected by that.

Then, something happened. It wasn’t rape. It wasn’t even physical. And I didn’t realize I  was a victim until two and a half years later.

•                        •                    •

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

My grandfather will be here soon, I thought to myself. I double-checked that I had everything: dance bag, tap shoes, a Gatorade, clothes for the next day, a sleeping bag and pillow. Check, check, check. On top of having dance auditions later that night, I was so anxious to see my cousins for the first time in months that I couldn’t sit still. I glanced one more time in the mirror and examined the clothes I had on – a tank top with pinks and yellows and blacks, tights, and dance shorts. Something strange crossed my mind. What if my grandfather looked at me differently since I was wearing something so tight? I mean, men are men. I shook the thought away and concluded that he was my grandfather and he’d never do anything like that to me.

I got into the car and thanked him for picking me up. I told him how much I appreciated it. At that moment, I truly did.

He turned to me and said he would be happy to give me a ride whenever I needed. I felt a familiar fullness in my heart – this was the longest we’d ever spoken in my entire life, but he was being so kind to me. Then the conversation turned as he put the car into reverse.

“I’m glad your mom asked me to pick you up. I actually have a question for you.”

I obliged, and let him go forward. Maybe he’s going ask me to be nicer to Mom.

“It’s a personal question and you can’t tell anyone.”

I obliged again, though the uneasiness settled in. Something felt strange in the air and I didn’t like it. I watched as we pulled away from my house, the home I’d lived in since I was born.

“I know you like money…”

Wait, what did he think I was? A greedy child? Is that what my family thought of me?

“How would you like to make a thousand dollars?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Do you like boys? Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked, as we turned off my street.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to. In the way he spoke – quick and almost like he was sharing a secret – I knew where he was going and begged him to stop talking. Later, I’d replay this moment over and over searching for a hole, looking for a way that I misunderstood him. I always thought I’d be strong if something like this happened to me, but in that moment I burst into tears and couldn’t stop. I started digging at the skin around my fingernails, a nervous habit I still have, and looked down at my bag. If he did anything physical to me, I didn’t know if I’d be able to grab my cell phone without him noticing.

“I’m in the shithole, please don’t tell anyone, please don’t tell your grandmother. You’re my granddaughter, I love you.”

He wouldn’t shut up. He kept repeating those words over and over. I watched us pass by the white house with blue shutters on the corner near my elementary school. You don’t love me. If you did, you wouldn’t have done this.

I realized I couldn’t go to my grandparent’s house like this. I couldn’t go there ever again. I got a shot of adrenaline and yelled at him to bring me to my to dance studio instead, and surprisingly, he obliged. I prayed that my dance teacher would be there, even though I was over an hour early.

He was so flustered that he made a wrong turn. I directed him the right way, and right across from the place I bank at now, he asked:

“Can I write you a check to keep you quiet?”

Anger rushed through me and I snapped at him that I didn’t want his money. It was exactly the thing I hated in my work with feminism: men who felt that they could erase what they did (or didn’t do) with money. I didn’t want his hush money. The thought of it made me sick. And besides, I knew I would be quiet anyway.

The dance studio parking lot was empty and my heart sank. Here I was, at my sole place of comfort, the place I ran to in times of need for fourteen years, and no one was there. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was going to make me to stay in the car. But he didn’t. And I got out as quickly as I could and watched him drive away as I frantically dialed my best friend’s cell phone. I don’t know if I said a word of English between the tears, but she was there almost instantly and brought me to our friend’s house, where her mom consoled me for the next hour.

I don’t know how I made it through dance auditions that night. I really don’t remember much about them, but I do remember doing a short combination to a Black Eyed Peas song, which I still can’t listen to. While I was waiting to go next, I leaned against the glass window near the office, and just willed myself not to cry openly. The worst was over.

Little did I know that healing is even more painful than the actual event.

•                        •                    •

Earlier this year, I told my story to a woman who, in turn, shared her story of rape and abuse with me. I told her I would never go public with my story, I would never confront him (despite the weekly dreams I had about doing so) and I most certainly would never tell my family. I didn’t want to ruin their image of him.

In October, I was inspired by a friend’s sexual abuse story to create Unbreakable, I decided to include myself in it, but never showed my face or stated that it was me. The project took off and soon I was photographing handfuls of people and answering emails from people all over the world sharing their stories with me.

In December, I was honored for CK to ask if she could write a piece about me and my reasoning behind Unbreakable. I shared my story with her, and by the time I finished typing, I realized I was ready to come forward and I wanted to do it on her blog. The only issue was that I would have to tell my family first. A few days later, I had a meltdown. It was two in the morning and I decided to go back and read the journal entry I wrote the night it happened. Everything came flooding back to me. There were so many details I had forgotten, but what hit me the most was the date. Although I’m normally good with remembering dates, I had never known the date of when it happened. The moment I read June 23, 2009 was the moment I realized I wasn’t okay and that I had to do something about it. The next day, I began by telling one of my aunts what had happened.

December was painful. I dealt with a lot of flashbacks and couldn’t sleep. But each time I told a family member, the weight lifted a little bit. My family members took it all the same – they were angry with him. And some weren’t surprised about what had happened, which was also something that I had to wrap my head around: maybe it could have been prevented.

But between my family’s strength, the strength of the survivors participating in Unbreakable, and the strength of people who have become my family, I was able move forward. I am okay now. More than okay. And in a couple days, my grandfather will be receiving a phone call from me, letting him know that I am no longer keeping quiet.

I feel free.

If you are interested in participating in project Unbreakable, contact Grace: grace(at)50extraordinarywomen(dot)com.

Giving birth taught me three very important things:

1) Don’t eat anything–not even a Cheerio–before going into labor. (No matter how many times your doctor/midwife/friends assures you that it won’t happen to you, or that you’re not the kind of woman who’d accidentally sh*t on her kid, don’t listen to them.)

2) If you can’t laugh about it, you’ll never make it.

3) You will need other moms.

Number three was especially hard for me to grasp because I’m the kind of introvert who can’t do kiddie groups for more than fifteen minues. Mom groups? Forget it. It’s just too much. I struggled a lot during early motherhood until I was  introduced to the world of mommy blogging. Within weeks I learned just how powerful it was to connect with other moms going through similar stages of life. Moms whose kids sucked as much as mine did. Moms who could admit that motherhood wasn’t what they thought it would be, but loved it anyway. Always. Most of the time. Sometimes. Whatever.

Through the encouragement of other mom bloggers, I learned that I had stories worth telling. And through an awesome storytelling group called SpeakeasyDC I learned how to tell them on stage. It was an experience that was hard at first, but one that I’ve grown to cherish. Not just because it’s something I can do with my husband and without our kids, but because it’s a fun place where I can be myself. And the audiences? They’re the kind you dreamed about while belting Vision of Love into a hairbrush in front of a mirror. (Don’t lie Mariah Carey fans. I know you’re still out there.)

So you can imagine how excited I am to share that I’m partnering with SpeakeasyDC for a Mother’s Day show called: Bad Mommy Moments: A Storytelling Playdate for Moms. Mark your calendars and get a babysitter for Saturday, May 12th!

And if you’re a mom who likes to tell stories, also mark January 18th. We’re conducting the first round of auditions on that date, with auditions via Skype for those who can’t attend. We’re looking for moms with stories on any of the following topics: motherhood failures, surprises, tough decisions, “new” bodies, balancing work and kids and life, losing yourself, finding hope…and why it’s all worth it.

You don’t have to be an actor, or someone who’s ever been on the stage before. Just a mom with a story to tell. (Though if you’re a mom who’s also an actor, that’s incredible, email me.) There will be rehearsals before the show, so you can feel confident that your piece will be in fantastic shape before you take the stage. And if you can’t find a babysitter, or you live too far to make it to the rehearsals, we will be conducting rehearsals via Skype as well.

Wondering if your story fits, or how to tell it SpeakeasyDC-style? Here are some guidelines I swiped from their website:

• Storytelling is an oral art, so we share our stories in front of an audience without notes. It’s a telling, not  not a reading.
• Our stories are autobiographical which means they are true, original, and first-person. It’s not fiction or folktale.
• Our stories have a narrative arc which, in a nutshell, means there are characters and a plot.  It is not an essay, a series of jokes, or poetry.

Still with me? If you are, you should consider auditioning. Because the best part? The part that makes it all worth it? The audience. On any given night you’d find them ready to laugh, and generous with their applause. But this audience will be special because our show celebrates them. Moms just like us.

So while I can’t promise you won’t crap on the table the next time you give birth (though I’ll certainly be rooting for you), I can promise that you’ll laugh, you’ll meet other great moms, and your experience on the stage with SpeakeasyDC will be one to remember. Check out the clips below. They aren’t all on a Mother’s Day theme, but they’ll give you a sense of how it all comes together.

PS: Please pass this along to anyone you think might be interested. Thank you!

•                                        •                                        •

To audition, prepare a complete story on one of the above themes and contact Amy Couchoud at coosh(at)speakeasydc(dot)org for an audition time and more details. You can also email me at ck(at) badmommymoments(dot)com if you’d like help putting your story together and preparing for the audition.

Vijai Nathan performing as part of SpeakeasyDC’s Mother’s Day Special 09 from SpeakeasyDC on Vimeo.

Erin Myers tells true story at SpeakeasyDC from SpeakeasyDC on Vimeo.

Eritrea Pitts tells a true story at SpeakeasyDC from SpeakeasyDC on Vimeo.

She stared at the back of his head as he led the animal down the bumpy, uneven path. She really needed him to stop again, but couldn’t ask. They’d already lost so much time because of her. The baby kicked. She grabbed her stomach and shifted. Everything hurt. Upper back, lower back, head, legs, stomach, bladder. She wasn’t going to think about that, though.

Other than the rhythmic clopping of the animal, it was quiet. A peaceful quiet. Neither of them had much to say. They didn’t really know each other yet. Even still, she pondered his behavior. She wondered how he could look at her as calmly as he did. Her greatest hope had been that he wouldn’t allow the people to stone her. She prayed that he’d divorce her quietly. That he was really as righteous as her family said.

While she waited at her cousin’s house for the news, she wept over his imagined reaction. His shock. His anger. His refusal. When her parents finally sent word, she was astonished to learn that she was still engaged. She wasn’t sure that she deserved such a man.

She was afraid that at any moment she’d do something, or say something and he’d change his mind and send her away. And an unprotected woman with a baby in a foreign land would be in danger. Which made it harder still to tell him that she needed to stop again. So she didn’t.

The cramping increased. Pains shot up her back. She shifted again. Stiffness seared through her body. She fisted her hands and pressed them into her sides. Arched her back. He sensed her movement and stopped the donkey. He turned, read her eyes and reached out his arms to help her down again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head and smiled. He had yet to accept an apology. There was no one on the road other than them, but he shielded her anyway as she relieved herself.

They were on the fringes of a large group when they left Nazareth, but her constant need to stop soon left them behind everyone. And then they were alone. She was glad. She preferred it that way. She’d decided months ago that she wouldn’t care what everyone thought. Or said. Or how they looked at her. But when she was alone, sadness often overwhelmed her.

And she hadn’t counted on the way it would hurt to see how they treated him because of her. As if he’d done something wrong. But all he’d done was protect her. Shouldered her shame. Accepted who she was and her situation. Accepted what that meant for his life. The stares, the whispers, the refusal of business.

He’d saved her life.

He was a good, good man. But still, she feared what would happen when the baby was born. How he’d feel when he looked into the face of a child each day that wasn’t his. How good could one man be? What if it was too much? What if he changed his mind?

She was glad that they were leaving Nazareth. Relieved to get away, even if just for a little while. Part of her heart missed her family, but even they weren’t the same. They wanted to believe her. Some of them did. But it was an impossible story and she knew it.

She never expected that it would be easy. She just had no idea how hard it would be. The looks in the eyes of everyone in her small town. The stories. The voices of the girls who used to be her friends. She had no idea how lonely it could be as the sole owner of the absolute truth.

With the exception of her cousin, the only other person who seemed to fully comprehend and believe her truth was the man leading the donkey. And even she didn’t understand his resolve.

He seemed hopeful that things would be different in Bethlehem. He’d told her parents that they’d remain there with his relatives for a while. Maybe return in a few years. She wanted to believe him, but she had little hope. The town was small, only about 300 people. And while many were relations of his, the large crowd that they’d traveled with would arrive before them. And she was pretty sure her “situation” would make it to Bethlehem before they did. But she kept it to herself. Maybe she was wrong.

The pains started just after they were turned away from the second relative. She’d grown up learning firsthand the cultural obligation of hosting relatives. No one was to be turned away. She’d never seen her family refuse someone in need. But there were so many relatives in town for the enrollment that there simply wasn’t one guest room.

For her.

She tried not to be bitter. But she couldn’t help but think that if it were any other married woman about to give birth sitting on the back of a donkey she would be rushed inside. She’d be crowded by every woman in the house, ushered to a spot, made comfortable and assisted.

The pain hit again. It was excruciating.

She was glad it was night. She turned her face so he couldn’t see her expression. She wasn’t going to upset him. She breathed deeply. Her sides squeezed in; fire shot up her back. She forced back the sobs.

When it passed, she looked up as he was turned away from yet another relative. They were staring at her. They shrugged and pointed her husband towards a stable. He arched his back, insulted, and turned away from them. So, it would be no different here. She wept for her husband. What his life turned into. She wept for her child, unable to imagine what his life would be, starting out with the “shame” of his mother. And she wept for herself.

She cried out to her God.

A warm hand clasped her fingers, tangled in the donkey’s mane. She looked up. He smeared the tears across her cheek. He leaned his forehead against hers. He promised her that he’d find a place. That there would be someone among his relatives who would take them in. That it wasn’t her, it wasn’t their circumstance, it was the enrollment. But he couldn’t look at her as he said it.

At that moment, she felt how great his pain was. He wasn’t used to being refused by family. He never dreamed that he wouldn’t be able to meet the basic needs of his wife. He wanted so much to provide comfort, yet he was helpless.

And that comforted her.

She pointed to the stable and asked him for it. Something close, quiet, and away from all of the people. He was appalled. It was unsanitary. It was beneath them. Their child would not be born where animals defecated.

She squeezed his warm, rough hand. For a moment the pain ceased. And she saw him. She saw his heart.

And she was no longer afraid.

She knew he wouldn’t change his mind. He wouldn’t send her away. And at that moment it didn’t matter where the baby was born. Or that their first experience together would be something he shouldn’t have been a part of. She didn’t care. Her God had already provided more than she needed.

She assured him that the stable was perfect. And there wasn’t time, anyway. He nodded his head and grabbed a bag of rags and blankets from the side of the donkey. He lifted her up and carried her towards the low braying of animals.

She leaned her head against his and let the pains consume her.

© 2008 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER

There are times when I miss my girls being little, and then there are times when I remember why I wanted to shoot myself when they were small. Cheers to all you moms out there with precocious little ones. (And to all you who get stuck in elevators with other people’s precocious little ones…)

•                    •                    •

What I Wished Happened …

The elevator door closes.

A CALM MOTHER (ME) and her WELL-BEHAVED DAUGHTERS (ONE and TWO) share the tight, windowless space with ANOTHER MOTHER, TWO NANNIES, THREE STROLLERS, FOUR LOOSE KIDS and an OLD MAN.

…a Very Nice Old Man who stopped using deodorant sometime in the early 90′s.

VERY NICE OLD MAN (to Calm Mother): Your daughters are beautiful.

CALM MOTHER: Oh, thank you, Sir.

VERY NICE OLD MAN: And so well-behaved.

CALM MOTHER: Thanks. They’re doing very well today. Right, Pea?

ONE: Thank you, Mama.

They all stand in blissful quiet.

The elevator opens; everyone exits.

The End.

•                    •                    •

What Actually Happened…

VERY NICE OLD MAN (to calm mother): Your daughters are beautiful.

CALM MOTHER: Oh, thank…

ONE: Yeah, we are.

CALM MOTHER: Thank you, Sir. (To ONE) Say. Thank. You.

ONE: Mommy?

The Calm Mother is now Embarrassed Mother. She smiles at the Very Nice Old Man and pulls ONE close.

EMBARRASSED MOTHER: What did I just say?

ONE: Well, it’s just that my nose smells poopy.

All of the other loose kids in the elevator giggle. Their caretakers smile and look away. The Embarrassed Mother closes her eyes.

ONE: And I didn’t fart, and you didn’t fart and the baby didn’t fart. And I don’t think it smelled like a kid fart…

EMBARRASSED MOTHER: Ha, ha. Maybe your nose is telling you a story. And let’s whisper, okay? There are a lot of other people on the elevator…

ONE (whispers loudly): No, my nose was just sniffing around and found out that the old man smells like poopy.

The elevator opens.

No one moves.

The Embarrassed Mother starts the walk of shame, turns and smiles past the Very Nice Old Man.

EMBARRASSED MOTHER/SH*TTY WIFE: Sir, I’m so sorry. It’s their father. He uses a lot of potty talk to compensate for not having a son.

She hustles her girls away from the elevator and towards the nearest exit.

It. Never. Ends.

©2008 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

EVER FEEL LIKE THE WORST MOM IN THE WORLD? EVER PRETEND THAT SCREAMING KID WASN’T YOURS? EVER GET CAUGHT UP IN PLAYGROUND POLITICS? WE WANT TO HEAR YOUR STORY! AUDITION TO BE A PART OF SPEAKEASYDC’S MOTHER’S DAY SHOW, “BAD MOMMY MOMENTS: A STORYTELLING PLAYDATE FOR MOMS.” WE’RE LOOKING FOR STORIES ABOUT MOTHERHOOD FAILURES, SURPRISES, TOUGH DECISIONS, “NEW” BODIES, BALANCING WORK AND KIDS AND LIFE, LOSING YOURSELF, FINDING HOPE…AND WHY IT’S ALL WORTH IT. CONTACT AMY COUCHOUD AT COOSH(AT)SPEAKEASYDC(DOT)ORG FOR AN AUDITION TIME AND MORE DETAILS.

“Is what Victoria said true, Mama?” 

I looked at VICTORIA, the features of her small face squished in defiance. I looked at ONE. Arms folded across her chest, eyes wide and furious. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, taking tiny steps toward me as if the first one to back me against the wall would be right. This was NOT what I’d signed up for when volunteering to help out in ONE’s Sunday School class. Or maybe it was. I did want the chance to be right in the middle of her world…

VICTORIA (whispering): I don’t care what she says. She’s the one who wraps your Christmas presents and puts them under the tree, not Santa. 

ONE’s eyes glazed over with tears. I gave her a kiss and told her this wasn’t the place to talk about Santa; we’d do it when we got home. And then I decided that I was never going home again. Ever. We’d already been through this two summers ago, and at that point we decided to keep the Santa charade going (though I really struggled with it). But she was 5 ½ then and believed in Santa without question. Now she was almost 7, and was starting to question the details. How does he get to all the houses in one night? Why do some kids get more from Santa? Etc…

My husband and I talked with ONE that night. For over two hours. (The girl can stretch bedtime like no one else.) She was broken-hearted. Tears, crying, the works. Santa was never a big deal in our home. Neither of the girls were interested in seeing him in the mall, and they only received one small present from him. And it wasn’t until she was five that ONE was truly excited about him. Every year leading up to that she requested he leave her present out in the vestibule because she didn’t want a strange man in our house. But still she was sad to see him go.

We talked at length about why she shouldn’t share her new knowledge with her sister or her friends or anyone else who still believed in Santa. She agreed. She wished with all of her heart that Victoria never told her, so she had no problem letting everyone else still have the magic of pretending. The next day when she got home from school her spirits were so lifted that it was like Sunday never happened. Maybe it didn’t…who knew with her? She bounced all over the house and was especially nice to her sister. And then I got an email early Tuesday morning from her teacher:

I just wanted to make you aware of a situation that happened yesterday at school. ONE was very upset at writing time because she wanted to write about how she found out about Santa. I had a small conversation with her and told her she needed to talk with you and your husband about this. She also told a few kids about Santa and I really don’t want this to cause any trouble with the other families…

No wonder she felt better. She shared the poison. We called her into the room. She broke down immediately and told us that her friends really wanted to know the truth. We asked how her friends happened to know that she was the right person to ask for such information. She hung her head. She’d offered the truth. Just like Victoria.

It was hard because I understood her argument. When it came to Santa, we’d sent a big mixed message. We expected her to tell the truth, but hadn’t we lied to her? And why should she have to write letters of apology to the parents of her friends when she only told the truth? I told her I understood her dilemma better than she thought. I pulled out a letter of apology I’d written to her in her journal when I lied to her about Santa. I didn’t try to excuse my actions. I’d decided to let her believe, I explained why, and promised I would do my best never to lie to her again. So far I’ve kept that promise.

In the end she understood that the punishment wasn’t about telling the truth. It was about actively seeking ways to make other people feel the sadness that she felt. It’s not fun to be sad when everyone else around you is happy, but there are ways to make yourself feel better that don’t involve taking that happiness from other people.

And that happiness came the next day from a very unexpected place. Every one of the kids she’d told about Santa decided that they still wanted to be her friend even though they disagreed with her belief on the matter. Which in my opinion was an amazing gift, and a lesson I’d never be able to teach her on my own. She is going to go through the rest of her life with beliefs that differ from those of the people around her. And now she knows first-hand that it’s possible to still love them, and be loved by them, without anyone’s beliefs needing to change.

A few days later she came home from school and told me that she decided that she still believed in Santa. “You are wrong sometimes, you know,” she informed me.

What? Me wrong sometimes? She’s crazy. Deep breath and repeat: we all have different beliefs. We all have different beliefs. We all have different beliefs. (Even ridiculous ones that are so obviously out of touch with reality…)

©2011 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.

EVER FEEL LIKE THE WORST MOM IN THE WORLD? EVER PRETEND THAT SCREAMING KID WASN’T YOURS? EVER GET CAUGHT UP IN PLAYGROUND POLITICS? WE WANT TO HEAR YOUR STORY! AUDITION TO BE A PART OF SPEAKEASYDC’S MOTHER’S DAY SHOW, “BAD MOMMY MOMENTS: A STORYTELLING PLAYDATE FOR MOMS.” WE’RE LOOKING FOR STORIES ABOUT MOTHERHOOD FAILURES, SURPRISES, TOUGH DECISIONS, “NEW” BODIES, BALANCING WORK AND KIDS AND LIFE, LOSING YOURSELF, FINDING HOPE…AND WHY IT’S ALL WORTH IT. CONTACT AMY COUCHOUD AT COOSH(AT)SPEAKEASYDC(DOT)ORG FOR AN AUDITION TIME AND MORE DETAILS.

Dear Ms. Berkner,

You may not remember the day we met, but I do. I was pushing a whining 3YO through Target, and wearing a space-heater newborn on my chest. I’m pretty sure it was winter (ever day felt like winter then) and I was sweating, overwhelmed, and near tears. I just wanted to go home. But I couldn’t. My house was being worked on and we were staying with a relative. Six people and two large dogs in a one-floor, two-bedroom home. Every day dragged for me then. Getting out of the house, even though we were broke, was all I had. And the 3YO was about to ruin it.

She wanted to run around and hide herself inside of a circular rack of clothing. Normally I would’ve let her do exactly that while I stared at the decorations hanging from the ceiling, willing myself to disappear. But that day was worse than the others, and I was afraid I might not have it in me to retrieve her. So instead I grabbed a CD and gave it to her. It was Rocketship Run. I’d already handed her some books and DVDs to look at, and within two minutes the music was buried in the cart. I’m not sure if I bought anything else that day, but for some reason I plunked down my weekly coffee money for what turned out to be the best purchase I’d make that year.

Since then you’ve become such a part of our daily lives that I don’t always notice you’re there. There’ve been countless times when I’ve caught myself singing and bopping along to your songs in the car before it occurs to me that I’m alone and can put on whatever I’d like. And it wasn’t until we played your music in the background of the baby’s forth birthday party that I realized we hadn’t listened to you in a while. I stood back as Rocketship Run started and remembered the day my girls raced into the room wearing only their underwear and sang, “5-4-3-2-1 Blast off! We’re on an underwear run!” And the endless loads of laundry I folded to “Candy Cane Jane” while they rode their bikes in the basement.  And how Balance Beam played though my head during the baby’s first tumbling class, and when I serenaded her with it she begged me to stop, reminding me that you were the one “s’posed to sing the song,” not me. And all of the places in my house I hid from them during the winter we were house-bound for almost two weeks. You never judged. You just distracted them so I could take a drag of my Entertainment Weekly. (I still hum “Mouse in my Toolbox” when I pull a new issue out of the mail.)

All things I’d forgotten until your songs played through the speakers at the birthday party, and it all came back. I might have cried. A little. (A lot. And had to excuse myself.) Mostly because this time in their lives is coming to an end, and though I never would’ve believed it possible, it makes me sad.

So thank you for being the soundtrack of their childhoods. The childhoods I remember better than my own. The sound of your voice makes me happier than any other music I get nostalgic over, even the 90’s grunge that makes me giddy and slightly mind-drunk. You remind me that I made it through a time in my life so overwhelming that it ended with my husband’s vasectomy. (Though no worries, he wasn’t listening to you as he healed. He’s more of a Hip-Hop kinda guy). Your wonderful songs are what I hear when I look at my girls and play a montage of the last four years of our lives. And when those times are set to the sound of your voice–instead of the actual words, whining, and screaming of my offspring–I can see beyond myself to the girls whose little lives changed my own.

Thank you, Ms. Berkner. And please keep singing.

CK

©2011 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Ever feel like the worst mom in the world? Ever pretend that screaming kid wasn’t yours? Ever get caught up in playground politics? We want to hear your story! Audition to be a part of SpeakeasyDC’s Mother’s Day show, “Bad Mommy Moments: A Storytelling PlayDate for Moms.” We’re looking for stories about motherhood failures, surprises, tough decisions, “new” bodies, balancing work and kids and life, losing yourself, finding hope…and why it’s all worth it. Moms (or those who act as Mom) only. Auditions will be held on the evening of January 18, 2012 (or via Skype on a date TBD); the show will be on May 12, 2012.  To audition, prepare a complete story on the themes above and contact Amy Couchoud at coosh(at)speakeasydc(dot)org for an audition time and more details. Or you can contact me at ck(at)badmommymoments(dot)com if you’d like to workshop story ideas.

WANT SOME DAILY AFFIRMATION THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY BAD MOMMY OUT THERE? FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, OR COME VENT ON FACEBOOK. WE’LL BAD-MOMMY IT TOGETHER.