Wanda Says…On the importance of wagons.

November 5, 2014 / Wanda / 8 Comments

I fell off the wagon.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I jumped off the wagon. Except my wagon isn’t just a workout wagon. My wagon is a high maintenance, high protein, sweaty, fruit and vegetable cart.

After three months of living in my workout clothes and having very little to show for it, I took a break. I stopped working out for about two weeks. I drank wine. I ate pizza, burritos and Halloween candy.

It was a little scary at first. I had become so routine with my workouts and I was following a very structured whole foods diet for about a month, purging my house of so many unhealthy processed foods. So the first time I allowed myself to eat a slice of pizza, I did so with trepidation. Isn’t that ridiculous? As if the cheese on my pizza or the pizza crust would cause my body to instantly self-destruct the moment I swallowed it. That’s how I felt. When you educate yourself and understand what you’re really putting into your body when you eat processed, preservative and chemical laced foods, it really can be a bit scary when you knowingly choose to ignore that knowledge and eat it anyway.

But eat it, I did. And it was sooooooo good! I wish I could tell you I didn’t miss it. I wish I could tell you that eating healthier whole foods for a period of time had erased my love of sugar and complex carbohydrates, but that would be a lie of ginormous proportions.

I didn’t completely lose my mind. I followed the general outlines of my diet for the most part, still eating a lot of protein and high fiber carbs. But if I wanted some chocolate after dinner, or an extra glass of wine with my meal during my little hiatus, I indulged. One morning I ate toast with white, fluffy, delicious bread and Jif Peanut Butter. Another night I had pizza because I was sick to death of cooking. For me, that’s the hardest part of trying to eat clean. You have to prepare everything yourself from all fresh, natural, organic ingredients. The meals I cook taste great, but that’s a lot of meal preparation when you eat five times a day and still have a thousand other things that have to get done between the kids, work, housework, homework, etc… There is no convenient opening a package and putting it in the microwave. No take out. No delivery. No restaurants. I miss restaurants.

Surprisingly, I didn’t gain any weight. To date, I’m down six pounds, still averaging about a half pound a week. Trying to eat healthy all the time, workout every day, and still not see more noticeable physical results for weeks and weeks is very defeating. Some days it makes me question why I deprive myself at all. Why put myself through this hard work and abstain from all the delicious foods, convenience and restaurants I enjoy for a measly six pounds?

And the answer is that because losing six pounds is better than gaining six pounds. Being less tired and having more energy is worth it. Showing my kids that no matter how slow and frustrating the process can be, that mommy isn’t going to give up, makes it worth it. Knowing I’m slowly improving my health and the overall health of my family through being more conscientious of our physical activity and eating habits makes it worth it. It’s not a sexy answer, or a fun one. But it’s the truth.

After two weeks of lazy self-indulgence, I don’t feel any better for it. Oh sure, I enjoyed my Halloween candy, but not to the point where I can give up all the hard work I’ve done thus far. So today, I chased down my wagon. I’ve realized that I need the foundation of that metaphorical wagon to build on for my continued success. The wagon helps me with focus and temperance. It’s a symbol, or a reminder of what I am trying to accomplish. There might be some gaps in the boards of that wagon, where occasionally chocolate and cheese can creep through, or a bottle of wine, but as long as the foundation is solid, I can live with that.

Here’s to the next six pounds! 🙂

Wanda Says…Losing weight is hard.

October 11, 2014 / Wanda / Leave a comment

In a recent post (Move your ass, sister!) I talked about some of my challenges with physical fitness and weight loss over the years. I also discussed how in recent months I’ve overcome some of my motivational barriers and begun working out regularly.

I’m still working out six days a week and surprisingly, I’m enjoying it. I like the way I look after a workout, all covered in sweat and red in the face. It’s validation that I worked hard. I feel my body getting stronger in some ways, especially through my arms, and I am definitely less fatigued throughout the day and have more energy. However, I’m losing weight at a snail’s pace, and it’s incredibly frustrating.

When I first started increasing my workouts, in the first two weeks I gained four pounds. Four fucking pounds! Everyone said, “Oh, don’t worry, you’re probably just gaining muscle. This happens.” Despite the fact that I was calorie counting and working out daily, these four pounds just sat there, shaming me every time I got on the scale. After a couple of weeks the scale began to slowly eek its way down, a half-pound at a time. To date, I’ve lost those four pounds, but only those four pounds over a nine week period. At this pace, I need to change Operation Hot by 40 to Operation-Hot-By-The- Time-You-Stop-Giving-A- Fuck-About-Being-Hot.

I talked to my doctor and she didn’t have answers for me. I’m very healthy and my bloodwork is always great. The logical answer is for me to look at my diet, and admittedly, I could be making some better choices. But I will never be that girl who can survive on salad and lemon water. I enjoy food, and while I understand calorie counting and calorie quality is important, I believe in moderation versus elimination. I know from experience that if I’m too extreme in my diet or calorie reduction, it will just set me up for failure. I start to feel sick and lethargic for days, and then ultimately throw the diet out the window out of frustration and physical misery.

More importantly, I get cranky and snappish when I’m hungry. Have you spent time with super thin people who don’t eat? They’re assholes! And they should be crabby because they’re starving! Living in LA, you hear about this stuff all the time. It’s really popular for people to take appetite suppressants or other drugs to help control their weight, because God forbid, if your thigh is wider than your arm, California may just kick you out for not conforming to the standard. If there’s some actress or model throwing a fit on set because her imported bottled water isn’t the right temperature, I guarantee you she probably isn’t really a bitch as much as she just needs a sandwich.

I know liquid diets are really popular these days, too. That’s one thing I will never be able to wrap my head around. I don’t know about you, but when I’m hungry I want to feel like I really ate something. I want to chew my food. I love the flavor and texture and aroma of good food. I can’t just choke down a green shake made from ten kinds of lettuce that tastes like horse piss and feel even remotely satisfied. Can you?

A girlfriend of mine tried this diet where she had a list of all these different drinks she had to rotate through in a day. It was so complicated everything had to be written down to keep track, and there was a different mix or shake you had to take every hour or two. And then for dinner she could have a small salad with an ounce of chicken. An ounce of chicken! That’s like two bites! But I would call her to offer support and encouragement because that’s what friends do. She can usually make it to day three or four before she goes crazy and eats an entire pizza by herself out of desperation, and honestly, who could blame her?

I just can’t live like that, but I know that I have to find a balance between my diet and exercise if I’m going to make this work, and I feel like if I don’t get this right, all the hard work I’ve done so far will be for nothing. I’ve recently started a new diet I found floating around Facebook. It requires me to eat five small meals a day with a lot of protein, vegetables and whole foods only. I’m on day four and so far I’m not starving and I don’t have the urge to kill people. In my book, that’s a win!

PS–If it goes well, I’ll do a follow up post to share the details of the program. 🙂

Wanda Says…Do these wrinkles make me look wrinkly?

September 30, 2014September 30, 2014 / Wanda / 2 Comments

Lately I’ve been having a lot of facial skin issues and it’s stressing me out. I’m a firm believer in rocking what you’ve got, and my good skin has always been an asset that I don’t mess around with. I buy good skin care products, wash my face every day and moisturize.

I don’t know if it’s my hormones, but the texture of my face right now is similar to that of a 13-year old girl. I haven’t had to buy Clearasil since I was a freshman in college. Last week, I had to go buy a tube of that shit, and guess what? It doesn’t work! It’s like I have mutated, zit cream resistant acne. I had to go through puberty once to become a woman, and now I have to go through it twice to become an older woman? WTF?

Now let’s talk about all the wrinkles and lines that have appeared on my face in the past month or so. It’s like I just woke up one morning with crow’s feet and saggy eyelids.

I’m pretty conservative with makeup during the week since I’m usually home with my kids. If my husband and I have a date or plans to go out with friends, I will wear more makeup, depending on the occasion. But I’ve noticed lately that even my makeup is aging me. For example, any eye-shadow with a shimmer to it makes me look like an old hooker. And despite the fact that I don’t wear a ton of makeup, when I do it’s like it just settles into all the lines in my face, making me look like one of those Shar Pei dogs. (And if you’ve been reading my blog from its inception, you know how I feel about being compared to dogs!)

So today I went to Sephora seeking the advice and support from cosmetic and skin care professionals. I’m typically leery of asking for help in that store, because it’s so easy for them to ply you with over-priced makeup and products, convincing you that you need all this crazy stuff if you want to be beautiful. It can be overwhelming, and I’m already vulnerable and feeling insecure about my appearance. Today, I was their perfect customer. It went like this:

Me: Hi. I need help (cringe) picking out some new foundation. The one I’ve been using is a powder and it’s making my fine lines appear worse.

Sales Girl: Are you wearing a primer?

Me: No. What’s a primer?

SG: Well, that is part of your problem! (She parks me in front of the makeup mirror and hands me a makeup remover towel). Clean all the makeup off your face and we will start from scratch!

Me: (thinking, “Oh Fuck! I’m in for it now!”)

SG: We are going to start with something called a Truth Serum! This is a fantastic product that has Vitamin C and it’s essential for hydration, brightening the skin, anti-aging and protection. You will love this, and the small bottle is only $48.00! Don’t you just love that citrus scent? It’s so refreshing! Now I am going to apply this moisturizer, and then some makeup primer. The primer fills in all the lines and wrinkles. It’s basically like spackle for your face! Isn’t that fantastic! Oh, look how much better you look already! Now we will apply some foundation…whah, whah, whah, whah, whah, whah (to be read like the adult voices in all the Charlie Brown shows.)

And what’s sad is that I’m so desperate to resolve these skin issues and get back to normal, I allowed myself to drink the Kool-Aid. I allowed myself to be worn down emotionally by a barely 22 year old girl with no wrinkles wearing enough makeup to make her look like a clown, or an extra in an 80’s Robert Palmer video. I’m not proud.

I walked out of there with a whole new skin care system (including the Truth Serum), Mark Jacobs foundation, fancy makeup primer (spackle) and new mascara for just under $200.00. My silver lining is that Sephora has a great return policy. If it doesn’t work or you don’t like it, and you’ve used less than 50% of the product and have your receipt, you can return anything. It sort of takes the sting out of buying a $30.00 tube of spackle. 🙂

Wanda Says…Waiting for Superman.

September 20, 2014 / Wanda / 12 Comments

It’s here. I couldn’t stop it from happening. For some reason that I don’t fully understand, I’ve been dreading this milestone birthday, and Superman didn’t show up to gallantly circle the earth at inhuman speed backwards to reverse time so I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I am now 40. Fuck you, Superman.

I woke up this morning and found myself continuously fighting back tears, despite the kisses and hugs and shouts of ‘Happy Birthday’ from my family. I didn’t want to appear sad or ungrateful in front of them, so I smiled and thanked them for their love. My son was so excited, and he dragged me by the hand downstairs because he wanted to present me with my birthday balloons. (My husband and I always set up balloons and decorations after the kids go to bed the night before their birthday, so when they wake up it’s like the birthday fairies visited to surprise them). But there were no balloons. Bryce looked confused. He stood there looking around the empty living room and said, “Mommy, where are your balloons?” He doesn’t understand that these things don’t just magically happen. All I could say was, “I don’t know, buddy.”

My husband could tell I was emotional and asked if everything was ok. I told him it was fine. He had this look on his face like he was disappointed that I wasn’t more excited to face the day. I know it sounds terrible, but I don’t feel like this birthday is any more special or different than any other, and the truth is that I wanted this birthday to be special. I’m 40. I suppose I was hoping for something out of the ordinary to help ease the transition. I didn’t get to do anything exciting for my 30^th birthday. While all my friends were throwing themselves big, elaborate parties to celebrate entering their 30’s, on my 30^th I was 9 months pregnant and having contractions. So I spent my birthday lying on the couch enjoying a celebratory pizza. I gave birth to my daughter four days later.

A group of my college friends and I had been planning a 40^th birthday trip to Mexico. Since we all turn 40 this year, we picked a weekend to celebrate all of our birthdays together. Unfortunately, I had to cancel the trip for myself due to some financial constraints. The trip is coming up next month and I’m disappointed and sad that I’m not going. Most of my close friends live in other parts of the country, so I tend to feel isolated out here in LA. I’ve also been missing my family and the support and unity that come from living close to people who have known you your whole life. This is a big part of the depression I’ve been experiencing. I miss my people.

So this morning, as I faced the fact that I am now a member of the 40 club, I allowed myself to have a few minutes of privacy so that I could host my own little pity party. I cried and processed through my feelings. I cried for missing my best friends. I cried for missing my family. I cried for all the safe choices I’ve made and the risks I didn’t take in the last 40 years that have prevented me from doing much of anything that I could look back on and say, “Wow, that was so amazing and I can’t believe I did that!”

When I was finished feeling sorry for myself, I dried my tears and reminded myself that attitude is everything, and I have always been a badass, take charge kind of girl. I reminded myself that I am responsible for my own happiness, and it’s up to me, and only me, to change my attitude and embrace this new chapter in my life. Sometimes you have to be your own Superman. Sometimes the people who love you are so busy taking care of you in other ways, that they can’t foresee and anticipate all of your emotional needs. Sometimes you have to save your own day.

When I accepted this and embraced my new attitude, so many wonderful things happened. I had an amazing lunch with my dear friend and neighbor. She took me to a fantastic seafood restaurant down by the beach and we enjoyed several gourmet small plates, all made from fresh caught seafood. (One of the benefits of living alongside the Pacific Ocean). When I arrived home, there was a vase filled with beautiful multi-colored roses waiting for me, and my husband went to my favorite bakery to get a sampling of all my favorite cupcake flavors. The day was starting to look up.

That evening, my husband made dinner reservations for us at our favorite sushi restaurant. At first I was a little surprised that he chose this particular restaurant because we go there frequently. It’s sort of our go-to sushi spot and part of our ordinary routine. I thought to myself, “What’s special about that?” But my new attitude prevented me from suggesting we go someplace else. He made the effort to arrange our dinner and make the reservation, so I would appreciate his thoughtfulness and enjoy our date.

When we got to the front doors of the restaurant I started to slow my walk and hang back a little so he could go in first, but he was holding my hand and started to sling-shot me forward, sort of gently pushing me through the doorway. I started to turn around to tell him to stop shoving me, when out of the corner of my eye I saw several balloon bouquets…and a wall of our friends and family. I was sort of struck dumb as I stood there processing the room and looking at the excited faces of several people that I know and love. Some of my husband’s fraternity brothers were there with their wives and girlfriends. All of these men I love like big brothers, and their wives are amazing, too. My neighbor and friend who had taken me to lunch (and led me to believe she had other plans that night), was standing there with her husband, smiling radiantly. My godmother and her wonderful husband were there. Another very good friend that I hardly ever get to see because of her crazy work schedule came as well.

I was overwhelmed. I wanted to cry. Again. But this time the tears weren’t for self-pity, but for this amazing realization that all of these wonderful people were willing to go out of their way and come together to help make my day special. Some of them drove from over an hour away. I moved through the room, hugging and laughing and kissing all of these lovely people, and feeling happier than I can describe.

When I managed to make my way back to my husband, his face revealed so many emotions. I could tell he was happy, relieved, and proud. I hugged and kissed him fiercely, and thanked him for everything he had done to make my day so special.

Superman came after all. He may not have been able to reverse time and prevent me from turning 40, but he went out of his way to not only plan this party, but keep it so secret that he had to allow me to wallow in my self-pity in order not to spoil the surprise. He filled my day with my favorite flowers, desserts, friends, and love. And he didn’t forget the balloons, which were my favorite color, red.

Wanda Says…The Hormone Guide–How To Speak To Women

September 15, 2014September 23, 2014 / Wanda / 4 Comments

My neighbor and dear friend sent me this funny chart today. We laughed, and then we added a few of our own “safest” comments. They went like this…

That whole dirty, un-showered look you’ve got going on? You rock that shit, baby.

Is that new perfume, or do I just love the way you smell after you haven’t washed your hair in two days?

It’s perfectly fine that you’ve been wearing the same yoga pants for three days. I know, they are so versatile!

Oh, don’t worry about not having time to do my laundry this week. I’ll just go buy new underwear on my way to work tomorrow. It’s no big deal!

That spit-up on your shirt doesn’t smell offensive at all. It smells really organic and fresh.

You look great with your hair up in that messy knot everyday. I don’t miss your clean, untangled hair, at all.

If you say so, then it must be hot as hell in here. Let me go put on a sweater and then I’ll crank up the AC.

You don’t need to shave your legs. Chewbacca is my favorite Star Wars character for a reason!

You’re right, honey! Chocolate goes with everything! 🙂

Wanda Says…Jumping Jacks are hard.

September 2, 2014 / Wanda / 9 Comments

When did a jumping jack become the hardest exercise in the world? I was trying to do jumping jacks today as part of my workout, thanks to Jillian Michaels and her torturous 30 Day Shred, and instead of my body obeying my commands to jump in a coordinated fashion with my arms, I just sort of flopped around like I was having a vertical seizure.

I seriously could not get my arms and legs to coordinate in this movement that has been ingrained in me since I was a child. It was uncomfortable and it felt like someone had tied bricks to my feet for all the effort it took to get them off the ground. It’s a jumping jack. How could it be this hard? I also had trouble doing the butt-kickers. You know… that exercise where you jog in place and literally try to kick your own bum. I couldn’t seem to get my legs up high enough. This makes no sense! I can jog on the treadmill and get my legs moving just fine, but I struggle with jumping jacks and butt-kickers?

My body is responding to this criticism by saying, “Don’t blame me! You’re the one who hasn’t exercised us properly in the past five years! If you want to bring sexy back, learn to do a jumping jack!”

Well, I guess that’s fair.

Move your ass, sister!

August 24, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 4 Comments

These days it seems like everyone is embracing some sort of fitness craze. I’ve seen the phrase, “fitness is the new mid-life crisis” floating around the internet quite a bit and it really seems to be true. I think I’m ready for a mid-life crisis.

For me, there’s something about my 40^th birthday, which is looming around the corner that creates a sense of urgency when I think about my health and overall fitness. It feels like if I don’t have my shit together by then, it may never happen. My window might be closed, forever.

I’ve always wanted to be more active and fit. What I’ve lacked was the drive. I’m not athletic, and I don’t enjoy physical activities that cause pain. I try to avoid pain whenever possible, and a workout including lunges and squats will have me limping for days afterward. And I’ve always found the atmosphere at gyms to be very intimidating. It feels like I’m surrounded by health freaks who are judging me with their tight fitting workout clothes and bulging muscles. There’s nothing like working out next to a woman wearing tight panty shorts and a sports bra to make you feel like Martha Dump Truck in my baggy sweats and t-shirt. No thank you.

I’ve had a life-long, love-hate relationship with dieting and exercise. You name a diet or exercise gimmick, and I’ve probably tried it. I used to love watching infomercials on the weekends because I was convinced that the next great thing would really work for me this time. The Thigh-Master? Been there. The Great North American Slimdown? Done that! The Cabbage Soup Diet? I don’t recommend it. Tae-Bo? I can still demonstrate an impressive high kick with a side-punch! Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Nutrisystem…and the list goes on.

One of the most important things I’ve learned in my life is that you have to love yourself and be happy with who you are. And I do. I would just like to be a physically stronger version of myself. A less tired version. A mom who can play tennis with her daughter, chase my son on his scooter at the park, and still have enough energy to come home and make dinner without passing out in the salad. Part of ‘embracing my Wanda’ is about pushing through my barriers, and my weight gain, and fitness abilities (or lack thereof) has been a significant physical and emotional obstacle for me for many years.

So a couple months ago, I began “Operation Hot by 40.” I realize that only giving myself a couple months to get hot before my 40^th birthday was a bit optimistic, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere. And when I say ‘get hot,’ I’m really just talking about losing the extra baby weight I’ve been carting around for the past four years, and toning everything up a bit, because we all know gravity turns into an asshole after 40.

So a few months ago I started working out regularly, about three times a week. This is a big deal for me. I hate working out and my usual routine involves working out once, and then feeling like I did my due diligence for the whole month. I also purchased one of the fitness trackers that are so popular now.

My first day wearing the tracker was enlightening. That is to say, I was enlightened to what a lazy ass I really am. I was shocked to see the level of activity it really takes to lose a pound a week. The first day I was constantly checking the display device on the tracker to see where I was with my steps and calorie burn. I did a 40 minute moderately intense workout, my usual 30 trips up and down the stairs, and running around the house doing stuff for the kids. Then while making dinner, I found myself doing squats while standing in front of the stove. My daughter walked up behind me and was like, “Ummmm, what are you doing? You better not be sweating in my dinner!” While talking on the phone to my brother, I was going up and down my steps in the hallway. Up and down, up and down, just trying to boost my numbers so I could meet my goal for the day. It was exhausting!

Is this what it really takes to lose weight and be healthy? This continuous squeezing and flexing of my muscles, all day long? And the crazy truth seems to be, yes, this is what it takes. And that just blows, because I was never good at this!

But…I’m not sure what’s changed…but…wait for it…wait…for…it…

I’ve now progressed to working out every day. Did you hear that? I’ve been working out every day! And I am super-fucking proud of myself!!!! It’s only been a few months since I started working out, and just a few weeks since I increased the frequency of my workouts, but I already feel myself getting stronger.

I’m finding my attitude is slowly changing about my workouts, as well. I’m starting to look forward to them. I’m not trying to avoid them anymore, but actually plan my day around when I can do it. I never, in a million years, thought I would become that person. The person who likes to workout. I’ve always envied those people, because isn’t having the desire to workout half the battle?

Today, while I was jogging on the treadmill, I realized two things. One, I liked the sound of my feet hitting the belt, because that’s the sound of my ass getting smaller, and two, every step feels like a journey I’ve been trying to take for 20 years. And for me, that’s pretty amazing.

If you ask me what I do all day, I will punch you in the throat.

August 18, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 9 Comments

I became a stay home mom almost four years ago after the birth of my second child. Prior to that I was a working mom, and at one time in my life I was a single working mom. So having experienced the parenting challenges inherent in those situations, you can imagine how thrilled I was to have the opportunity to be able to stay home with my kids. I thought it would be fun and I imagined all sorts of scenarios involving playdates, an immaculately clean house and home-cooked, healthy meals I would make for my family every night. I mean, how difficult could that be? I would be home…with my own kids…ALL…DAY…LONG.

Cue the hysterical laughter.

The reality for many of us, or at least for me, is that being a stay home parent is a lot like being stuck in Groundhog Day hell. You tend to repeat the same activities over, and over, and over. My life often feels like an endless loop of housework, laundry, toddler drama, managing school drama, homework, cooking and hygiene. And the hygiene management isn’t even for me. It’s amazing how difficult it is to get a school age child to care about showering or brushing their teeth, or teaching a potty training toddler how to wipe without creating a disaster area that requires a hazmat team to clean up.

Sometimes, when I’m doing housework, I imagine that old Dunkin’ Donuts commercial where the old man goes through his morning routine, saying in a dreary voice, “It’s time to make the donuts.” Here’s my rant about housework, so bear with me…If I spend an hour cleaning my hardwood floors, in another hour they look like shit again. I do the dishes so that we continue to have more clean dishes to dirty. Laundry is an endless cycle of wash, dry, fold and repeat. Nobody likes a dirty bathroom, and with young, potty-training children in the house, I could clean the toilets daily and they may still look and smell like gas station toilets, which is just gross. And the toys…oh, dear God, the toys. I can pick them up, but the second I put one away, three more magically appear out of thin air. Is it me, or do crayons and Legos have the ability to multiply on their own?

Now let’s talk about caring for young children and running household errands. For the sake of providing a brief, yet complete picture, let’s just say that taking care of young kids is a lot like what I imagine it would be like working for a bi-polar, incontinent dictator(s), except without the threat of death or having your fingers cut off. “I want milk! No, I want orange juice. Give me some orange juice! No, I want milk! I have to have milk! Now I have to poop! Mommy, wipe my butt!” So demanding! And grocery shopping with toddlers is like willingly entering the seventh circle of hell.

In my first year as a stay home mom, I was a raving lunatic about the house. It was my job to take care of the house, and how could I do that if everyone keeps wrecking it?! One day I said to my husband, “Imagine you went to work and finished a big project. And then someone comes into your office and destroys your project and tells you to start over. I bet you’d be pretty pissed about that, huh? That’s what every day is like for me.” My husband suggested we hire a housekeeper to help me out. I got upset (over-reacted), and said absolutely not because if I’m home there’s no reason to pay someone money for something I can do myself. (Again, cue the hysterical laughter.)

I did actually have several emotional breakdowns. A couple of times I just started crying in the middle of folding laundry. I began to resent the dust on the floors and the animals for constantly shedding their hair. I was short-tempered and impatient every time someone got out a toy or dripped something on the floor that I just cleaned. I wanted to scream over spilled milk. I felt isolated, spending up to ten hours a day alone with my kids and the only person I had to talk to was more interested in playing with his toe jam than in having a conversation with his Mommy. In short, I was a hot mess.

I was depressed. I thought what the hell? Is this my life? When did I become this person? I used to have a career! I used to feel respected and like I was a valuable member of a team. Now I feel like I’m just here to cook, clean, chase kids and make everyone else’s life easier. I worried that my value would be diminished in my husband’s eyes because I no longer had interesting and intelligent news to contribute over our dinner conversation. It’s hard to feel valuable when the extent of your daily news is how many times our son went pee-pee on the potty, how many loads of laundry I did, or how I struggled to help our daughter with her fourth grade math homework. (And fourth graders do hard math these days, so don’t judge me.)

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There are some women who seem to be able to do it all. They can keep a nice house, go to the gym every day, cook homemade meals with organic, unprocessed ingredients, grow their own vegetables in a garden, volunteer at their kid’s schools, and also volunteer at church every week. They make it look effortless. I’m convinced that these women take drugs, or they’re just really good liars, but that’s pure speculation on my part. Regardless, I’m not one of these women, and I’ve learned to be perfectly fucking okay with that.

I have now allowed myself to try and let go of most of my self-imposed expectations, and I accept having a not-so-perfect house. I understand and accept that my sanity and my family’s overall happiness is more important than clean floors and picked up toys. I understand that playing games with my son and reading books with my daughter is more important than trying to live up to an impossible standard of perfection. I’m learning that sometimes doing less really does equate to more.

What changed? First of all, my Wanda reminded me that depression is an asshole, and we don’t choose to be friends with assholes. Second, I reminded myself that attitude is everything. The outcome of any given situation is largely dependent on the attitude you adopt while dealing with it. And up until that point my attitude sucked. I also realized that I have to take advantage of this gift of time I’ve been given with my kids and my family and stop stressing about unimportant things. Now, when my son walks up to me at 10am on a Wednesday and says, “Mommy, can we just snuggle?” instead of thinking about the dishes in the sink or the laundry in the dryer, I just embrace that time with him. In those moments, I feel like I have the best job ever.

Sure, I look around my house and see stuff that needs to get done. Some days I tackle those things and some days I don’t. Some days I get a small amount of time to myself, but most days I don’t. Some days, I want to walk outside and beg a stranger to have an adult conversation with me, but I never follow-through on that impulse because that’s just weird and I don’t want to be the neighborhood weirdo.

I’ve learned to embrace yoga pants and pony tails. I’ve accepted that I will not wear make-up every day, and some days I just feel fortunate to get a shower alone and my teeth brushed before noon. I still battle with the stay-home-mommy-blues, but I take what good things I can get, where I can get them. I’m trying to find a balance between making myself happy and doing what I need to do for my family. This is difficult, but I keep trying.

And the most incredible validation comes when my husband walks over to me, usually after spending a weekend taking care of the kids, kisses me and says, “I don’t know how you do this every day, but I’m so thankful that you do, and I appreciate you so much.” That makes me feel respected and like an important member of our family’s team. And I thank God every day that I have a supportive and understanding partner, because if he walked in after work, looked around the house and asked me what the hell I did all day, I swear to God, I would punch him in the throat.

What’s in a Name?

July 26, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 17 Comments

My name is Wanda. Well, my real name isn’t Wanda. Let me explain. When I was ten years old I decided that my real name was not so great and I wanted to change it. My real name was popular in the 70’s thanks to a well-known band and their one hit wonder about a sea captain and his favorite portside wench. My real name was also very popular with dogs, as in I shared the same name with many dogs. It was particularly popular with Irish Setters and Golden Retrievers. Can you imagine what it’s like to go over to your friend’s house for the first time to meet their family, and then while scratching their dog on the head hear them say, “Oh, our dog’s name is ______too!” It happened to me all the time, and at the tender age of ten this bothered me. (Due to this childhood trauma, I have a strict policy of only naming my animals after literary characters or historical figures).

Why couldn’t I have a more interesting name? Like Kelly, Heather or Wanda. Wanda sounded very exotic and exciting to me at the age of ten. It was exciting in an earthy, trailer-court-living sort of way. I’m not kidding, and I’m not making fun of trailer courts. At the age of ten, trailer courts fascinated me, and in the Midwest trailer courts were plentiful. The houses were on wheels for God’s sake! Some were on cement blocks or permanent foundations, but still, can you imagine being able to move your house? To a ten year old that shit was fantastic! And I wanted to be fantastic too.

So one night I asked my mother if I could legally change my name to Wanda. My Mom just smiled at my request and said, “Sure honey, whatever you want. But why don’t you take some time and really think about it before we do anything permanent, okay?” If you knew my mother, this incredibly adult and rational response would shock you, and I guess it shocked me into putting some thought into it as well. Obviously, my mother did not let me change my name and I eventually forgot about it and moved on.

But here I am many years later, and I will never forget that feeling of wanting to be better than I was. I will never forget wanting to be different. Not in a stand-out-in-the- crowd way, but just to be different than how I perceived myself to be. I wanted to be brave enough to try new and challenging things without the fear of rejection or failure. I wanted to be as good, special or talented as I perceived other people to be. I did not want to be compared to dogs. (I should say that I do really love animals, but to a ten year old, continuous dog comparisons were not good for my self-esteem).

I realize now as an adult that we rarely see ourselves as others see us, despite our talents, intellect, how we’re raised or what we’re told about ourselves. And I believe that if we knew how others saw us, we would probably be well and truly shocked, in both good ways and bad. But regardless, we all have that deep down desire to be better or different in some way. We have that desire to challenge ourselves to be more than we thought we could be. It doesn’t have to be epic. It just has to move you in a way that propels you forward toward something that helps you to learn, or evolve, or be happy and find peace within yourself. That deep seeded desire is my Wanda.

Three years ago I left my previous career after the birth of my second child and moved to a new city for my husband’s job. Somehow, I failed to find my balance in this life change, and for the past three years I have felt adrift and at a complete loss as to how to anchor myself again. It sort of feels like leaving my career and devoting my life to my family somehow negated that part of me that is uniquely me. I lost my Wanda.

I adore my family and I believe that my contribution as a stay home mother is important and has value. But any stay home parent will tell you that choosing this path, while very rewarding, also has its own challenges. It’s hard to feel accomplished and like you have contributed something important to the world when you spend your day cooking, chasing children, doing housework, homework and folding endless loads of laundry. My family might be better for it, but some days I feel like I’m drowning.

Recently, my husband presented me with the idea of writing a blog. He recognized that I needed a creative outlet and my own small way to reclaim my sense of self. Immediately, the under-achiever in me (who I do not reward by giving a special name) felt unsafe and insecure. I am not a writer. Why would anyone want to read what I have to say? How could I write anything that hasn’t already been written about by many other people, who probably said it so much better than I can? Then my Wanda reared up her head and pointed out that I needed to get over it already and just write the damn thing because it would be a fun thing to do and I would enjoy it. But what if nobody reads it? And then my Wanda said, “Who the fuck cares?”

So here I am, writing a blog. It’s time to try something different and to challenge myself to be more. This year I resolve to embrace my Wanda! I pledge to follow that saucy bitch wherever she leads me. I have spent three years thinking about the direction of my life and making no choices because all my choices seemed so intimidating or unreachable. But those choices don’t have to be epic, right? They just have to propel me forward.

My name is Brandi, but this is about the discovery of a girl named Wanda.