What I learned from my Listen To Your Mother audition

You will try your best not to think about it so much, but in reality it's the only thing running through your mind since you sent in your email requesting an audition spot.

It will take weeks to choose a piece to read, then when you read it for your best friend, she chooses a different one for you.

When the Producer and Director say to bring 3 copies of your piece, the third one is for you. Bringing your own copy in large print made you look like an old grandmother who needs bifocals to read 12 pt font.

You'll practice your piece standing up, but when you get there the Producer and Director will be sitting on a couch since the audition is in a hotel room. There will be a chair waiting for you to sit and read. This will throw you off a little.

You'll decide five minutes after meeting them, that there is no doubt in your mind that you want to be a part of their show. It is more apparent to you now than ever.

You think you won't cry when you read. But you do. Just a little.

You'll feel confident going in but more unsure of yourself than ever as you walk out the door and get into your car to drive home. You'll wonder if they really liked you and your writing. Or were they just being polite?

The week after the audition will feel like the slowest week of your life. Especially since there is no school on Monday due to President's Day.

You will try your best to focus on the normal day-to-day tasks and activities of life after the audition, but really all you can think about is whether or not you made the cast.

Five days after the audition, when the email finally arrives in your inbox, you'll read it quickly. Because when it comes time to take the band-aid off, the faster you do it the less it will hurt.

You think you won't cry when you read the rejection email. But you do.

You'll wonder if you could have done something differently. Would it have changed their minds?

You'll long to hear "I'm so sorry, honey. I know how hard you worked on your piece and how badly you wanted this. It's okay." while he wraps his arms around you.

But instead, he'll say "It's not that big of a deal. It's just one audition. There will be other opportunities, honey." which will sting. And more tears will come.

You'll give the kids a bath and tuck them both in, reading more books than you usually do, because it's a distraction from the hurt.

You'll pull out your journal and you'll write until you feel better. Or at least until you stop crying.

You'll want to self-medicate with a big, expensive bar of dark chocolate and a glass or two of really good red wine but instead at that moment you'll realize you're the textbook definition of an emotional eater and so instead you'll choose to take a bubble bath.

In the end, you'll realize that this just may not be your time to "no longer be anonymous" and so you'll decide to keep your identity under wraps a little while longer.

You'll be flattered that both the Producer and Director email you to ask you to audition next year. And to not be a stranger.

And you'll think: maybe 2014 will be your year to share your story on stage.

You really hope so.

Congratulations to the 2013 Cast of Listen To Your Mother DC! I'm looking forward to another incredible show on April 28th. Last year I was inspired, this year I auditioned, and maybe next year will be my year.

LTYMAbout the show:

The mission of each LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER production is to take the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates mothering through giving voice to motherhood–in all of its complexity, diversity, and humor.
LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER aims to support motherhood creatively through artistic expression, and also financially–through contributions to non-profit organizations supporting families in need.

Living an inspiring life

Yes, that is a bowl full of pomegranate seeds. I scooped them out myself. And of course, when I finished de-seeding this lovely fruit, I took a picture. Because it took a good 20 minutes and I was proud of myself for getting every last seed out of the darn shell.

Your life is your message to the world. Make sure it's inspiring.

I believe this to be true and I so want to heed this advice.

I registered for my second writer's conference this morning - a memoir writer's retreat - in March of 2013. I want to make my dreams of sharing my story a reality and I'm taking concrete steps towards my goal of publishing my memoir. I want to be an inspiration to other young women living with bipolar disorder who are wondering if they'll ever be able to have kids. I'm living proof that it is possible.

Now, let's be real here. I'm not perfect. I most certainly have my moments. Those times when I'm overtired, stressed out from a work deadline, and the kids are arguing over a toy - those are the times when I need help. And I've learned when to ask for it and how to not feel guilty about needing a little time to myself in order to re-charge my batteries. It helps me tremendously and then when I jump back into the action I am that much more prepared to handle anything.

Just like a pomegranate is a tough fruit to de-seed, I think I'm a pretty complicated individual. And yet, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I'm the type of person who would share my life story with someone I just met, if they wanted to listen. I love meeting new people and making connections; I feel like that is such a huge part of what life is all about. I believe everyone on this Earth has something to share. Me? I want to share my story of how mental illness crept up on me and emerged out of nowhere, shocking the living daylights out of me, my husband, my parents, our siblings and our friends. How I rode a roller coaster of emotions for a year and a half before finally becoming stable and healthy again, only to be thrown on the same haunting ride of my past, landing in the hospital twice more, yet emerging a stronger, more determined and driven version of myself than I was before.

I've decided that I'm going to start carving time out of my schedule to write. An hour a day is what I'm going to start with. Whether it be a blog post, a journal entry, a chapter of my book, or time spent reading other memoirs, I'm writing down goals so that I can measure my progress. I learned a ton in Sanibel (and met a bunch of really extraordinary people) which I want to apply to my writing in order to improve and grow as a writer. Beginning in January I am going to set new goals, specific to my book project, so that I can truly hold myself accountable and make progress every day.

I can feel my dreams moving closer within my reach. Because if I write words, they turn into sentences; if I write sentences, they turn into paragraphs; if I write paragraphs, they turn into pages; if I write pages they will eventually turn into my book. Just like it took patience and determination to empty the pomegranate of its seeds (have you ever tried to open one of those darn things?? Talk about the fruits of your labor. Sheesh.), I will eventually get all of my thoughts out on paper in a concise, engaging story which will hopefully help to end stigma and educate not only young women living with bipolar disorder, but also their families, friends, doctors, and therapists. Just because someone is living with a mental illness, it doesn't mean they cannot enjoy the good life.

I love my life. I feel incredibly blessed. So glad that Thanksgiving is right around the corner because I have so much to be thankful for.

From this day forward

I've decided, after attending Day 1 of my first writer's conference, that I am finally ready to call myself a writer.

It was a long day of travel, of planning for being away. My 4-yr old son was so excited about sleeping over at Grandma and Grandpa's that he barely even noticed when his sister and I were dropped off at the airport. His Grandma took him home to her house and he was off in his own little world of too many toys from grandparents who love spoiling him.

My little girl was an angel on the 2 hour, 15-minute flight to warmer weather. I thought she might nap on the way but the many distractions on the plane - the mini TV set in the headrest of the seat in front of us, the ipad loaded with several new kiddie apps, and of course the tray table which she was determined not to keep in the upright position during takeoff and landing - not to mention all-you-can-drink apple juice and unlimited animal crackers - made it an adventure of which she did not want to miss a wink. Still, more than one person nodded their approval of her attendance on the flight with a smile and "she's so cute!" or "what a good little traveler!" which of course made me very proud.

My mom and dad picked us up at the airport and we made the two-hour drive to our hotel on the island, stopping halfway to eat dinner and stretch our legs. Baby girl slept on the ride from the airport to the restaurant and from the restaurant to the hotel, so she wanted to play once we checked in. It was after 10:30pm before we all finally got to sleep and it was a broken sleep at that given the fact that she didn't want to sleep in the aerobed Grandma had brought for her and instead wanted to snuggle kick me all night long in her restless sleep brought on by an unfamiliar bed.

By 6:30am this morning when the sun spilled through the crack between the curtains pulled tight in our room, she and I were ready to get up and have some breakfast. I was eager to get a shower and pick out an outfit to wear to the conference, and she was craving some milk so we got up, ready to start our day.

My dad dropped me off this morning at the convention center and I easily checked in and found a seat outside where everyone was gathered enjoying the early sunshine before we had to head inside for the remaining morning hours. I met a young man who was there, seemingly as I was, to drink in as much knowledge as humanly possible in three and a half days. We were there to strengthen what core intelligence of the craft of writing we came with, to be able to tell a better story when we left. Our conversation flowed, and I felt relief in how easy it was to talk with a fellow writer.

The day flew by. I found myself wishing at times I could have recorded what the presenters were sharing, because as hard as I tried, I couldn't always capture the exact words they shared and I knew my notes would never do their intelligence justice. I was out of practice. It's been fifteen years since I've sat in on a collegiate lecture, and this is exactly what it felt like. But luckily, by the last session I saw definite improvement, my pen swiftly dancing across the paper in my notebook, my heart content that I was going to be able to hold onto the nuggets of advice and instruction I was gleaning from these incredible writers.

A writer.

I never really considered myself a writer until this weekend.

Sure, I love to write. But never having studied English or Creative Writing, I'm certainly at a disadvantage, right?

Nevermind that. I'm not going to let that stop me from achieving my dream of sharing my story.

Being here on Sanibel Island, I am surrounded by such remarkable talent. And it's only day 1. My favorite author has yet to speak. I feel so incredibly blessed to have this opportunity to explore and feed my passion by listening and learning from some of the best writers in the country.

I almost feel like a shell, a shell on Sanibel Island. Of the hundreds and thousands, probably billions, of shells that wash up on this sandy shore, each holds a story of their journey. Some are smooth and soft, others jagged and broken. At sunset tonight, we walked the beach and collected shells in my daughter's beach pail. Just as we are bringing home a piece of the island in the form of these gorgeous sand-covered treasures, I will also be bringing home tiny gems of discovery from the writers who are sharing their love of storytelling.

I'm so thankful for this opportunity. I cannot wait to practice what I'm going to learn this weekend and I hope you stick around to see me grow and flourish as a writer. A writer who, like a crab, is just now emerging from her shell.

As a mother of two

As a mother of two...

  • our day starts at 7am sharp (or 5am if Mister Man decides he just can't wait until the sun is completely up to go downstairs and play - I pull him into bed with us until the sun is actually up or else I can't function).
  • breakfast is usually filled with lots of urgent requests for milk, fruit, napkins, mommymommymommy!!! (Is it 8pm yet?).
  • then we're either home for the morning while I try to put a few hours in of work while they watch educational children's shows (Pinky Dinky Doo, anyone?) or I drop them off at the Mom's Morning Out program up the street where they play for 3 hours.
  • lunchtime is just as urgent as breakfast. Baby Girl has been demoted to sippy cups for her recent cup dumping incidents.
  • three days a week the boy goes to afternoon preschool for 3 hours, so that's another 10-minute drive across town with both kids to drop him off, while on the way home I have all the windows down and the radio blasting to keep the princess from falling asleep before we get home. otherwise, her nap will be much shorter than I need it to be.
  • she's in her crib by 1pm every day for her nap, which rarely goes past 2:30. if the little guy is home with me, he'll always go in his room for quiet time but if he's not asleep after 30 minutes, I let him come downstairs and play quietly. so I don't have to listen to him romp around in his room while I'm trying to work blog.
  • by 4pm when we're home from preschool pick-up (thank God for car lines, sooo much easier), we're ready for Daddy to be home. Unfortunately for us, we have another two hours to kill. So we have snacks, got to the playground, or head to the library. Or, if on the off-chance I'm attempting to cook that night, the kids watch another show or play on the ipad (Toca Tea Party is AWESOME, btw) while I try to put together a meal that the whole family will actually eat.
  • The hubby gets home around 6pm each night, sometimes earlier, but never later. I'm a very lucky girl in that regard, I do know this and am incredibly thankful for his family-friendly work schedule. The kids play with him for an hour, we all eat, and then do bathtime.
  • After bath, we each take a kid. For a few months, our daughter only would let me put her to bed, now she's much better about giving Daddy a chance too.
  • By the time 8pm rolls around, both kids are in bed and the hubby and I have our time together.
  • We need to get back into working out together at night, but travel schedules lately have gotten in the way and we're too exhausted to think of putting on a 90-min P90x DVD. Maybe we'll do it again in January, but for now we're just relaxing and trying to get to bed earlier (I joined the "10pm & earlier bedtime club" this week).

I love our kids and the routine we have. This town we live in is so family-oriented and I am so grateful to live 3 minutes away from my best friend. Sometimes, like today for example, I can take a moment and sit back and take it all in and in my heart I feel one thing: content.

Except for one little notion that lingers in my mind and tugs at my uterus.

I think I want one more baby. I just don't know when.

What I do know is that right now I am content with the two beautiful babies I do have in my arms. I am content with getting a solid 7-8, or sometimes even 9 on the weekend, hours of sleep each and every day. Sometimes I can even nap on the weekends if I want. I am content in being able to work part-time from home and get paid a decent salary, while at the same time, enjoying being able to be with my kids during the day.

I don't think I'm ready for a newborn again.

Not anytime soon.

 

So we'll see. The gap between the Little Man and Baby Girl is 2 & 1/4 years and at the rate we're going, it would likely be a 3 year gap between the Little Miss and a new baby if we started trying soon. That would be nice, but the more I think about it, the more I think that I'd be okay with a bigger gap.

Guess we'll just have to wait and see.