Mothering in the trenches: Finding time for yourself when your kids are little

In my downsizing quest, I've found stacks of old articles I wrote 15 years ago, when I was in the mothering trenches raising young children. Here's the opening to a story I wrote that was published in Vancouver Kids magazine in March 1999 when my kids were 9 and 6.

"It's difficult for mothers to take time for ourselves. On a recent evening after dinner, I locked myself in the bathroom for a much-needed Calgon moment in a hot bath with soothing vanilla candles, fragrant bath oil, a loofa sponge and a resolve to shave both of my legs.

"Almost immediately after settling into the steaming bath, I was jolted back to reality by my children knocking on the bathroom door. What was I doing in there? Could I pour some juice for Conor? Answer Katie's questions about her homework? Where was Conor's Batman cape? And when was I coming out?"

Ah, those were the good old days!

I'm serious.

Although it's exhausting raising young children, I loved being a mommy. I enjoyed playing with my kids and sparking their imaginations. We built fairy houses on the banks of rivers, read stacks of picture books and created art projects. Visits to thrift stores helped me stock the kids' dress-up trunk so they could pretend to be dinosaurs, pirates, cowboys, fairies, knights and princesses. Even Batman.

Fifteen years later, I'm a single empty-nester. I can take a soothing bubble bath whenever I have a hankering. How ironic that a bubble bath is no longer what I long for when I need to relax.

Now, I most often head for the woods or the river for a hike, call a friend for a chat or make a cup of tea and read a book. When I was in the thick of raising young children, I didn't have the luxury of such freedom.

I have several younger friends who are in the child-rearing trenches at this moment. They're giving every bit of themselves to their families and their jobs. It's brutal being in the trenches.

I hope these women realize what a wonderful job they are doing--and that before they know it, their kids will grow up--and they'll have plenty of time for bubble baths, walks in the woods and reading an entire book from cover to cover.

Storing stuff for a life I no longer lead

 



The lights went out. Complete darkness engulfed me.

I was straddling stacks of plastic bins while looking for my camping gear in my 10-by-10 storage unit. I didn't want to move for fear I'd upset the bins stacked high around me. So I waved my arms until the motion detector kicked the lights back on.

Blinking, I looked at the stacks of boxes surrounding me. My hand steadied myself on a cardboard box marked "platters" Back in my apartment, my four favorite Fiestaware platters in cobalt blue, yellow and red were on a shelf. Yet here was an entire box marked platters. How many platters did I need? I rarely used the four platters in my apartment.

Next to it I found a box marked "candles and vases." I knew I had one or two vases stored in my sideboard in my apartment. When was the last time I lit a candle or arranged flowers in a vase? How many candles and vases do I need?

Leaning against the wall was an enormous, clear Space Bag stuffed with surplus linens: kitchen towels, oven mitts, placemats, cloth napkins, tablecloths, extra sheets and towels. I haven't used any of those in four years since I hosted a holiday dinner at my big house.

I no longer have a big house. In my tiny apartment kitchen, I have exactly three oven mitts and one table cloth. I gave away my teak dining table to my friend, Henry, five moves ago. I eat at a tiny gate-leg table that began its life aboard a fishing boat. It bears the scars of cutting fish. It folds down to a one-by-three-foot footprint. And it doubles as a coffee table and workspace for my computer. In my old life, the fishing boat table had been relegated to a dusty corner. Now it's my only table.

In my old life, our dining table had been encircled by a matched set of six century-old prayer chairs from Saint Anne's Catholic Church in Ghent, Belgium. They were a bargain I found at Portland Antique many years ago, and they had fit our 90-year-old house. When I'm eating a meal in my 600 square-foot apartment, I sit on a folding wooden chair that can be moved out of the way when it's not needed. Those beautiful antique chairs were not practical and would not fit my new life.

Five moves in two years, and I still have too much stuff. I had a epiphany while surrounded by my stuff in my storage unit: Why was I paying to store stuff for a life I no longer had--and likely would never have again?

Even worse, by having to pay a monthly storage fee, this stuff still owns me. Our stuff should not own us or dictate how we live.

I'm no longer the soccer mom, wife and mother of school-age children cooking family dinners or hosting large holiday meals. I usually eat alone. When I have friends or family over, we eat at the fish table (if it's just two of us) or on the couch or outside in the forested yard.

No, I'm a different woman than the obese soccer mom I was four years ago. I'm a divorced, empty-nester. But don't feel sorry for me. I have a great life. Now I'm an adventurous woman paddling my own canoe. In the past few years, I've started dragon boating, returned to hiking and backpacking, conquered my fear of skiing, tried archery, belly dancing and swing dancing, kayaked many rivers and camped several nights in a teepee. I've found my voice again by playing an African djembe drum around a campfire. I'm dating an amazing Mountain Man who also is ready for fun. I have a dragon tattoo on my right shoulder blade. I'm the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo! I've changed.

Through all of this adventure, I've rediscovered myself. In the process, I've brought my young adult daughter along for the journey and have modeled a strong, confident woman as I've taken her hiking or to an archery range to learn to shoot a bow.

But standing in my storage unit surrounded by my surplus stuff, I resolved to continue my downsizing journey to simplicity. I will get rid of those platters, candles and vases. I don't need all those linens. I still have too much stuff.

Instead, I want to live fully, joyfully each day, unencumbered by too much stuff. Instead of my hands grasping material things I no longer need, my wish is that my hands and heart be open to the delicious possibilities ahead.

In August, I backpacked for the first time in 28 years. The Mountain Man and I backpacked in the Elkhorn Mountains and camped at an alpine lake surrounded by curious mountain goats.

The trials and tribulations of used car shopping

My first car: a 1961 American Rambler, which I drove when it was 16 years old.
It was the antithesis of the muscle cars--Mustangs, Chargers and Cougars
popular when I drove this car in high school in 1976-78.

I'm about to use three words guaranteed to make your head ache, your stomach churn and your palms sweat. Ready?

Used car shopping.

Ick! Is there any task less appealing?

Who looks forward to wading knee deep through the doo-doo of deceitful used car ads online? Who relishes the thought of dealing with commissioned sales people who descend hungrily upon you--teeth bared and grinning--like the great white shark in "Jaws?"

My daughter's 1993 Toyota Camry finally bit the dust. Thanks to a loan from her aunt, my daughter has a modest budget. However, we're not finding much in that price range.

But after doing research online and at the library, we girded our loins for battle and drove to a used car lot. The salesman was upon us before I turned off my car's engine. I brought a notebook and took copious notes. That made the salesman nervous.

On the entire lot, only one car fit our budget and other requirements: a shiny red Ford Focus. It had 86,000 miles, which was a little on the high side for my comfort level. My daughter was excited about the car, but I insisted we take it to my mechanic, Don Orange of Hosely Eco Auto. We dropped the car off at his shop for a thorough pre-purchase inspection while we walked to Uptown Village for lunch.

When we returned from lunch, Don greeted us with: "Don't buy this car. This is not a safe car. It hasn't been taken care of. You can do much better."

Then he gave us a three-page print out listing the car's issues and needed repairs.

My daughter and I were disappointed the car wasn't going to work out. We talked about being relieved to have not made a mistake in buying an unsafe car that needed multiple repairs and would have cost much more money in the long run.

My daughter summed it up like this: "They polished a turd."

We've been car shopping for a couple of weeks now, and after some other dead ends, are no closer to having found a car. However, we're much more skeptical of pretty, shiny cars and the sales people who push unsafe vehicles to unsuspecting buyers. Shame on them!

So this week it's more used car shopping for us. We're skeptical. We're cynical. We're running Carfax reports. We're checking the Kelley Blue Book values. We're kicking the tires. And we're relying on my mechanic to weed out the polished turds.

Meanwhile, we're looking for a reliable, safe sedan with a clean title, low miles and one or two owners--for under $5,000. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

A tiny babushka fishing from the dock

"Babushka" by Irina Gaiduk

Recently while climbing into our dragon boat one warm, summer night, I noticed a teeny-tiny, very old woman fishing from the dock just six feet from our boat.

Her slight frame was tucked into a wheelchair. She was so short that her thin legs dangled like a child's. She was dressed like a grandmother from the "Old Country," as my own grandma would have said. Graying hair peeked out from underneath a hefty headscarf tied under her chin. She wore a dark coat, dress and dark stockings, even though it was a warm evening.

In her time-worn hands, she grasped a fishing pole. Her head bent toward the water, she peered intently into the river where her she'd dropped her line. Waiting. Waiting patiently for a bite.

A man who was probably in his sixties--likely her son--stood next to her, minding his own fishing line.

Jeanie, our dragon boat coach, gave the command to "Shove off" and we began the rhythmic paddling to pull our boat through the Willamette River. An hour later, after paddling hard, we returned to the dock.

And the fishing babushka was still there, grasping her pole, peering into the water and hoping for a bite.

I climbed out of the boat and felt compelled to try to talk with this woman. Wish her luck in her fishing.

"Excuse me," I leaned down toward her.

But she shook her head and murmured some words. Russian maybe? Her son shook his head too. No English. They continued fishing in silence.

I wished I'd been able to speak to her. I wanted to tell her that I hoped I'd be fishing and having adventures when I'm 90. That she inspired me to keep paddling my own canoe.

I stood on the dock a moment to watch her, to remember her face. Then I turned and walked with the other Mighty Women toward home.

Three years a Mighty Woman!

In three years of paddling a dragon boat with the Mighty
Women, I've reinvented myself--and earned all this bling!
 

Our blades in the water, the Mighty Women waited for the horn starting our last race of the season.

Perched on the edge of bench four in the dragon boat, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. In 30 seconds, I would be paddling so hard I would have to remind myself to breathe.

The horn blasted! We dug in.

I was completing my third year paddling a dragon boat with the Mighty Women. And I have the biceps--and the dragon boat bling--to show for it. It's been a wild ride!

In the past three years, I've reinvented myself. Dragon boating has changed my body, my attitude and my life.

My old life had fallen apart, piece by piece. Although life doesn't offer us a chance at a complete do over, my only viable option was to make a fresh start from where I stood: divorced, suddenly unemployed, broke and trying to find firm footing on shifting sand.

Three years later, I'm standing on firmer ground. Have there been tough times? You bet! That's life.

Am I better off now, three years after the bottom dropped out of my life? Absolutely! I'm happier, healthier, more confident and definitely stronger. We don't realize how strong we are until we have to paddle through challenging rapids with lots of debris blocking our path and threatening to overturn our boat.

But now safely on the other side of a series of rapids, I've learned how strong I am:

• I can learn to become a journalist 30 years after earning my journalism degree, even though I'm twice the age of many of my fellow reporters.
• I can live in 550 square feet for three months without a bathroom, heat or running water.
• If I have to, I can move three times in three months. But I wouldn't recommend it.
• If I am frugal, I can live on 29 percent less salary than I had before.
• If a day seems particularly challenging, I can look deeper to find joy in simple things: walking in the woods, marveling at a sunset or hearing a loved one's soothing voice.

I've learned my limits too. I am not willing to live without friendship, laughter, chocolate or adventures!

On a Post-It note attached to my laptop I've written this prescription for joy in my new life:

Believe in myself.
Listen to my inner voice.
Build the life I imagine.
Reach toward my dreams.

When I'm powering through the water in a dragon boat with my teammates, I'm doing all of those things.

During our final race, I concentrated on my rhythm, my stroke, my breathing, my rotation. It's a big no-no to look outside the boat, especially during a race. But my ears are more easily distracted. I heard boats closing in on either side of us as we neared the finish line.

We had to paddle harder, deeper, stronger than ever before.

My lungs burning, I breathed out an audible "whoosh." Then with my paddle, I reached for my dreams.

Food orgy: curbing the craving

I have a confession to make: I am a food junkie. I love the smell, sight and especially the taste of food. I am addicted to sugar and particularly to chocolate.

I was tiny as a kid and a young woman. Chalk it up to an amazing metabolism, but not to my eating habits.

At my first job out of college, one of my office mates had taken our donut orders, knocked on my office door and delivered my donut. She closed the door and left. Thirty seconds later, she opened my door and said, "I gave you the wrong donut."

I wiped the donut crumbs from my mouth. I already had wolfed down that donut. The wrong donut. Someone else's donut. She didn't believe me.

"You're kidding me," she laughed. "No, really! Where's Julie's donut? How could you eat it so quickly?"

I shrugged. I've never been one of those girls who eats daintily like a bird, gnawing on seeds and maybe a lettuce leaf.

After bearing children, my unhealthy eating habits continued. I began packing the pounds onto my petite frame. In my profound unhappiness with myself, I medicated myself with food. I nearly doubled my weight in 20 years.

At midlife, I made major changes to reintroduce health--and joy--in my life. In the past three years, I've lost about 50 pounds through mindful eating. When I've found myself reaching for comfort food, I ask myself: "Why are you eating? Are you really hungry? Maybe you're thirsty or stressed out. Maybe you didn't get enough sleep." I've made healthier choices, chose smaller portion sizes, eliminated processed food and fast food.

I've worked my butt off by exercising harder than ever. I've paddled a dragon boat three times a week, hiked, kayaked, used a weighted hula hoop, did endless crunches, walked miles of trails. And everywhere I went, I chugged water.

I've dropped five jean sizes. I am no longer consider obese, but now am just "overweight." I feel and look better than I have in 20 years. People who haven't seen me in the past few years don't recognize me.

I was so proud of myself. I'd conquered the Food Beast at last! Yay! Give that girl a gold star. (Better yet, give her a Dove chocolate!) Ha! What a joke!

Early in the summer, I caved and had a Burgerville strawberry milkshake. It tasted so good! Giving in to that temptation opened the floodgates.

The Food Beast began collaring me and whispering in my ear like an evil crack dealer: "Come on! It's only one Frappuccino! It's a really hot day. You've been working so hard. You deserve this. What harm is there in having one? Ask them to make it with skim milk."

As the summer progressed, my food decisions regressed. I've had French fries, Dairy Queen blizzards, even a fast-food burger. I caved to carrot cake, strawberry pie, hot fudge sauce, homemade huckleberry ice cream, brownies, cookies and a s'more made with a Reese's peanut butter cup.

As my annual trip to my doctor drew near, I dug my scale from the closet and stepped onto it.
The good news is that, despite my summer food orgy, I've gained only seven pounds. My saving grace is that I've continued to be physically active.

The bad news is that I've regressed to my old habit of medicating myself with food. Rewarding myself with chocolate or some other craving instead of considering why I want to eat. I've been stress eating like the old me. That scared me. Hadn't I already fought this battle--and won it?

I've realized that my food cravings have not stopped. They likely never will. Accepting that and figuring out how to cope with my food cravings will be a lifelong journey. I am up for that challenge.

Missing the boat

Last night, I missed the boat. Has that ever happened to you?

After working late, I drove to downtown Portland to paddle a dragon boat with my team, the Mighty Women. I texted my coach that I was almost there. Then I ran all the way through downtown traffic, into Waterfront Park and down to the dock.

For the first time in the three years I've been dragon boating, the dock was empty. Not a dragon boat in sight.

Figures.

It seemed appropriate. I'd been missing the boat all day.

I missed the newsroom boat--fellow reporters doing the weekly walk to Mighty Bowl to grab a healthy lunch. That boat left without me because I was on the phone trying to reach a government official for a story I'm writing. Of course, he wasn't in. I left a voice mail.

I'd been missing the boat connecting to sources for stories all week. July is a tough month for an education reporter. All K-12 schools are closed in July. District offices seem to be running on skeleton crews while most of the staff vacations. So when I am looking for a piece of information, quite often the person who might be able to provide that information is out of the office.

So Thursday night as I stood at the end of the empty dock, scanning the Willamette River for dragon boats, it seemed appropriate that I'd missed the dragon boat too. Some days are like that.

I pulled out my phone and called my dragon boat coach, Jeanie.

"Do you see us? We're right under the Marquam Bridge," Jeanie said. "We'll be right there to pick you up!"

Ten minutes later, I was paddling in rhythm with my team, matching the cadence of paddles digging deep into the water at the front of our stroke as we pulled the dragon boat through the river.

As we whooshed along the Willamette, a breeze blew through my hair. I sighed. What a glorious night to be paddling on the river, and a perfect ending to an imperfect day.

Paddles up!