Entrepreneuring, Mothering, and Laundry Basket Despair, #365StrongStories 47

I prefer mountains of laundry to mere hillocks. So, when I enter a marathon sorting and folding session, I know there will be plenty of time for introspection. Today, however, both kids are home thanks to some freezing rain and a minor fever. Turns out I can’t get much deep thinking done when I must constantly exclaim “Please do not knock over mommy’s stacks!”

So I’m left to consider the clothes themselves. Since I could tell you my life story by giving you a tour of my closet, this is actual fertile territory.

There’s this fuchsia Marks and Spencer sweater that’s just beginning to pill. I find this terribly disappointing and give myself over to a little bit of laundry basket despair.

Even in that moment I knew I was actually mourning the fact that I’m folding and refereeing rather than writing and planning. This was supposed to be a brilliantly productive professional day. But wishing I were entrepreneuring instead of mothering isn’t going to get these clothes in drawers or make me any nicer to my kids, so I focus on that sweater (and sounding kind when I beg the girls not to jump on the towels I’d just turned into relatively perfect squares.)

This sweater doesn’t owe me anything. It was some hand me down that I never even put on my first daughter because it always looked too fancy. With my second daughter, I’ve tried to quit hoarding pretty things for the day when our lives were perfect and posh enough to do them justice, so she’s worn it during trips to the grocery store. As I sit in the midst of this domestic mountain range, unable to control the weather or viruses or my own work day, I breathe into the realization that our lives will never be what the glossy catalogs tell me I’m supposed to be striving for.

We’ll have brilliant days while wearing our mismatched pajamas and we’ll suffer through others while wearing our newest and brightest best. Eventually, it will all come out in the wash.

An Invitation to Create Rather Than Sacrifice for the Next 40 Days, #365StrongStories 41

“Oh, Marisa!” exclaimed a new client. “We worked together so long ago, but I have had your name filed away in my mind. When I saw one of your Strong Stories I knew that I had to call you.”

Right there - that is the proof that forty days (and, often, nights) of collecting experiences from daily life, current events, and my own memory and sculpting them into stories has been worthwhile. Writing all these stories is in fact good for business. Gee whiz, content marketing does work!

Thing is, I’m not just powering through #365StrongStories to impress potential clients. My dedication to marketing just isn’t that robust!  No, in order to devote up to an hour of each day conceiving, writing, image wrangling, and posting these stories, it’s got to more than a visibility gimmick.

I have dedicated myself to writing and sharing a story every day in 2016 because I want to show you that it’s possible.

You can look at the world with fresh eyes each day and tell a meaningful, authentic story that changes the reader in some small, vital way.

A Creative, Rebellious Act

But there’s another reason I launched this project. Let me share an an anonymous quote that has been following me around the internet:

“In a society that profits from your self doubt, liking yourself is a rebellious act.”

Here’s my truth: I’m writing and posting a story a day because I like what I write. I also happen to like the act of writing and the satisfaction of having written something.

And damn, to like myself and my writing enough to do it each day without fail is a personal rebellion for me right now.

It’s rebellious to send my two year-old to go find Daddy in the kitchen because I’m trying to get all the ideas on paper before dinner. It’s a rebellion against what mothers are “supposed” to do when I train my first grader to “respect the hand” and walk quietly away so mama doesn’t lose her train of thought.

This creative rebellion may just be about survival in a distraction-plagued world.

Thanks to 40 Days of Experience, Here's Some Insight into the Next 40 Days

It’s a delightful coincidence that I can speak from 40 days of creative practice at the moment we begin another 40-day cycle. Today is the first day of Lent, a time that is generally about sacrifice rather than creation.

To be honest, there has been an element of sacrifice inherent in this project. Giving up wine with dinner, Netflix and a snuggle with my husband, and desperately needed sleep - sometimes I do that grudgingly. Not infrequently, I’ve had to chose my commitment to my own project over my kids. And sometimes we’ve eaten frozen pizza so I could hit publish before I hit the pillow.

Guess what? Everyone still knows I love them and still manages to eat a balanced diet. And I’ve never had to give up anything that was too precious to lose. There’s a really good chance I would have spent that “quality time” sneaking peeks at my phone anyway!

Overall, #365StrongStories has been a creative celebration - even on the days I curse myself and this terrible, demanding project.

When you honor a daily promise to show up to the page and actively partner with the muse, you’re actively erasing self-doubt.

This is your invitation to create rather than sacrifice

It doesn’t have to be a yearlong project. It doesn’t even have to last 40 days. It doesn’t have to be about stories or even about writing.

But do consider how this period of the year that is significant to so many people can help you start a personal creative rebellion and kick meaningless sacrifice and self-doubt to the curb (regardless of religious affiliation).

I'm just inviting you to doing something every day that makes you like yourself a little better.

Have you seen the stories in my series? Subscribe to the weekly #365StrongStories Digest so you can catch up on these quick reads each Saturday morning.

Viewing the Super Bowl through an Innocence Filter, #365StrongStories 39

We’re a football family, but I feel there should be an asterisk beside our names. At our house, there’s a love for the game and even for the hype. But there is also a whole lot of ambivalence.

If not for my husband, I probably would never watch. That said, I admit to being completely obnoxious when my team is on the field.

We love losing ourselves in the drama of 4th and inches and we’re suckers for a good Hail Mary pass. Because the kids aren’t old enough for many movies that capture parental interest, we rely on 300 pound men to entertain us and help pass cold winter Sunday.

And yet, we’ve programmed our six year-old daughter to avert her eyes whenever a “bad” commercial comes on.

I've laughed when my husband says to me “It’s not television, it’s football!”  But how can I blame him for saying something so silly when I'll let the girls sit on the couch with him, exposed to the kind violence and sexism and commercial idiocy that I usually protect them from? (Such is the price of some time to myself!)

Feeling like a hypocrite is never fun, but last night’s Super Bowl freed me from that stress. I was able to see that we’ve struck a balance that works for who we are and what’s important to us.

You couldn’t miss that it was the “Pepsi Halftime Show.” When I asked my daughter if she new what Pepsi was she looked at me with wide-eyed certainty: “It’s a beer with lots of Pep and See in it.”

Clearly, football ads are not responsible for soda addiction in children.

And during Beyonce’s Formation on the 50 yard line, our toddler stared up at her and asked “Riverdance?” We rushed everyone up to bed before there was a full scale tantrum over the fact that the show did not include Irish step dancing.

The tides of mainstream commercialism are fast and insistent, but we seem to have created a little raft for our family that allows us to safely navigate those waters and have fun on our own terms.

What about you - can you make peace with the football menace and all the madness that surrounds it? (Yes, I know I am opening Pandora’s box considering all the ugly behavior of the players, but that’s not the sort of stuff that my kids see when they’re watching the ball make it down the field so it’s not part of this particular equation for me.)

Testing the Truth of Two Birth Stories, #365StrongStories 34

It went on for pages. Exacting descriptions took the reader minute-by-minute through the entire 28-hour process. Though the story was written over several weeks, the narrator would tell you she remembered every detail because she'd been exultantly present in every moment. The journal pages filled more than four years later were more like notes on a dream. The writer lingered on the result, not the road that got her there. When you finally do find out what really happened, entire hours are summed up with “I was lost in the torturous, incremental progression of it all.”

Though the stories were written by the same hand, it would be hard to say that the same woman gave birth in 2009 and in 2014.

After my first daughter’s birth, I considered myself a force of nature - triumphant and ecstatic at the power of the female form. When I survived the second, I was a deeply humbled creature who contentedly swore “never, ever again.”

In truth, the second birth was probably the safer one… transition was a long, brutal hell, but I pushed that baby out in the space of eleven banshee-screaming minutes. The first time around I flirted with “failure to progress” and I’m sure the story would have ended very differently if I wasn’t in the care of trusted homebirth midwives.

Both stories were rooted in my truth as I understood it, but none of it was necessarily true.

Birth is ascending to the stars and falling to your knees. It’s all hope and despair, euphoria and desperation, and the words on a page can only offer a distant view through a cloudy glass. For something so sacred, that is just as it ought to be.

How to Evolve Like a Freaking Mother Goddess, #365StrongStories 27

The modern world likes its goddesses to look and act a certain way. Gorgeous nymphs in gauzy gowns. Abundantly bosomed beings who offer wealth and well being. Great mothers who nurture their beatific babes.

Once upon a time, I used to agree. Six years ago this January, when I was leaving my first daughter to return to my J-O-B, I wrote this:

Want a surefire, foolproof, 100% guaranteed way to become a goddess on earth?  Follow these steps:

• Be born a woman.
• Make love at your most fertile moment.
• Act as a hospitable vessel for nine glorious months.
• Love the little creature that you have created with all your body, heart, and soul.
• Leave aforementioned angel child with a trusted caregiver after she has been lavished with two and a half months of dedicated attachment parenting.
• Return within four hours to a child with eyelids slightly purpled and swollen from much weeping.
• Hold her in your arms and offer her that sweetest mother’s milk.
• When this child falls back in a delighted coma of sleepiest nourishment, witness the rapture on that flushed face.

That’s lovely, but I’m revising what it means to be a goddess. The sweet innocence of a milk dripping deity is great, but there’s another way to earn your place in the pantheon.

I’m nearing the end of my breastfeeding journey with my second child. My boobs can still soothe a crying kid, but I’m less amazed by my alchemical powers. (Wow! I eat food and it ends us as someone else’s poop!)

Now, as I endure the two a.m. screaming that I can feel in my teeth simply because I will not submit to being treated like a human chew toy, I discover I have another superhuman skill: the firm but gentle “no.”

Every mother who resists the desire to devour her young - even when they seem hell bent on swallowing their mother whole - yeah, she’s a goddess.

There is something divine about cradling an infant and pledging a lifetime of nourishing devotion. The refusal to turn into Kali in the darkest hour before dawn? That’s the love that creates the world.