Home – Angie Mizzell

You are worth the fight.

April 2, 2012 By Angie 26 Comments

The other night my cell phone rang and I didn’t recognize the number. I let it go to voice mail because, I mean, don’t you? A woman left a message and said she thought her friend was going through postpartum depression and was seeking help. She explained that a Google search produced my name and number, most likely because of my position as race director for the Moms’ Run a couple of years ago. The run raises money for the Ruth Rhoden Craven Foundation for Postpartum Depression Awareness. I called the woman immediately and connected her with the people who could help.

When I listened to the message, my first reactions were concern and relief. Concern because so many women experience PPD and suffer silently. Relief because this woman was willing to reach out and fight for a friend.

Sometimes I’ve wondered if what I experience after having babies is PPD or the more common “baby blues”. Whenever I take quizzes like this, they come back inconclusive. Since I’ve had Cate, some days have been better than others. I went to the OBGYN recently, and she said, “I hate postpartum.” And honestly, it’s validating to hear those kinds of things… when a fully functioning woman… a medical professional… admits that it’s hard.

It is hard. And I try to remember that on days when I’m at my tipping point. My ability to experience many good days in the midst of the difficult ones probably makes me more normal than I feel sometimes. What concerns me about our society in general is what we’ve come to accept as normal. Is it really normal to go as much as we go and do as much as we do and produce as much as we produce? I’m ambitious. I love to work. But I wonder sometimes.

I’ve studied stress management for years, long before babies came into the picture. The first time I ever heard someone say “you gotta take care of you before you can take care of anyone else” I was 29 years old and had just quit my job in TV. To say I was stressed and depressed feels like an understatement. And it came from years and years of ignoring my inner voice, telling me so many things I didn’t want to hear. Because listening to that voice requires action. It requires making changes I wasn’t yet ready to make.

When I finally broke free from that bondage, I told myself I’d never get to that place again. I’m not sure I’ve done an excellent job of that. It’s hard to break old patterns of saying yes when I mean no, of taking on other people’s stuff, of doing what I think I should do rather than listening to my own soul speak.

But today I have something I didn’t have then: awareness. I remember I have the ability to pull myself out of a slump. I have a willingness to fight for myself. I’m not sure where that comes from. Probably from knowing I’m loved by many and the grace of God.

Last week, Andra wrote a powerful post about how everybody hurts. And since then, I’ve been hearing REM’s Michael Stipe reminding me to hold on. And what’s funny about that is before Andra wrote the post, I’d been walking around for days singing Wilson Phillips’ “Hold on for one more day”. I’d sing the song and think about the movie Bridesmaids and laugh.

But that’s how I do it, friends. That’s how I stay afloat when the days—not just the postpartum days—get hard. I wrap myself in a theme song, or I go to Starbucks and get a frappachino with an extra shot of espresso, or I exercise, or drink a big glass of water, or browse Barnes and Noble.

I pray. I hug my babies. I take a nap. I call a friend. I write.

I remember I’m worth the fight.

And I feel better.

What helps you hold on?

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Filed Under: Balancing Act, Popular Posts

WHY do you do it?

March 29, 2012 By Angie 17 Comments

The clock on my computer says 4:50 am. My 6-week-old sleeps in the bouncy seat beside me. I won’t go on and on about how she kept me up all night, because the truth is, she didn’t. She slept from 10pm until almost 4:30am, and in newborn baby land, I put that in the category of freaking amazing.

And so, for a moment, as I walked to the kitchen to turn on my Keurig machine, I asked myself what I was doing. Why was I seconds away from turning on my laptop instead of going back to sleep? I have a cold. I don’t feel great and my bed looked delicious as I exited this morning. It called to me like a lover. Run away with me. Sink your head into my fluffy pillows, hide under my covers and never come back.

And I swear it wasn’t Shawn. He’s still sound asleep next to Dillon, who apparently crawled in between us sometime in the middle of the night.

Speaking of Shawn, weeks ago he sent me a link to a video. The subject line read: “Video for inspiration”. Shawn is a hardworking, highly motivated person. He’s smart and has an uncanny ability to cut through the bs. And sometimes I call him the Rainmaker because he’s really good at his job. He’s gifted at making connections. For example, he put one of his groomsmen and my college roommate together on the dance floor at our wedding reception and said, “Scott, meet Lexanne. Lexanne, meet Scott.” And they got married. Shawn knew it would happen.

I know.

So as I was saying, Shawn has a gift. But flowery words like inspiration rarely cross his lips. That’s more my department. But he couldn’t stop talking about this video. Perhaps you’ve seen Simon Sinek talk about how great leaders inspire action. In it, Sinek says people don’t buy what you do, they buy why you do it.

They don’t buy what you do. They buy why you do it. He repeated himself for effect. It worked.

I’m apparently drawn to stock photos of question marks.

Last night I was watching “American Idol”, and the contestants want to be stars. They want fame and record deals and the opportunity to hang out with the likes of Steven Tyler and Jennifer Lopez. But some of them, I noticed, are connected with their why. Here’s what JLo said to a contestant named Heejun:

When you go there Heejun, when you believe, when you let go of all the other stuff… which I love all the other stuff, I love all the funny and I love that side of your personality…but when you connect and you really sing to us, you move people.

Recently, I asked myself why I write this blog. In the past week, close friends have commented that I’ve “kicked it up a notch” and am writing in a way that makes them remember “that girl from Hanahan.” And one even said “Your writing just went from cute blog to something amazing, compelling even.” Cute blog? Ugh. Amazing and compelling. Much better. I accept this feedback with humility and gratitude, because they are my friends and honest critics. But it also makes me freak out a little. I ask myself, can I really keep showing up here and digging into my soul like an archaeologist? Do I have it in me to be more real, more often?

Then I tell those voices of self-sabotage (I know them well) to back off. Those voices aren’t afraid of failure. Those voices are afraid of success. And success is not fame. Success is what happens when we live out our why. When I reconnect with my why (and believe me when I say it’s a concept I’m still processing) I’m not afraid anymore. We don’t need to be scared of our why. The why is what saves us.

What’s your why?

Filed Under: Redefining Success

What pulls me apart holds me together

March 26, 2012 By Angie 21 Comments

Dillon was sick again. Blake had more than the usual share of snot running out of his nose. I shifted from Wednesday to sick day, and conceded that most of my to-dos would probably not get done.

But there was one thing I really needed to do. In the grand scheme of life it could have waited until the next day. Of course it could have waited. Most things can wait. I heard all the voices: Life is short and children grow up quickly and today, your kids need their mommy. I needed the world to stop spinning. Just stop moving for thirty minutes. Okay, 45. I always underestimate how much time something will take, so the extra 15 wouldn’t hurt.

Please, just slow down.

Sometimes the simplest—and the hardest—thing to do is be their mom. Dillon is a big boy now, so taking care of him involved tucking him into a snug cocoon on the couch and turning on his favorite TV show. But not Blake. It was barely 9am and he was already bored. He insisted on standing two inches from the television screen. Mommy, hold you. Mommy, I want a snack. Oh, sorry Mommy, I spilled it. I watched as coffee stained the pages of Seth Godin’s Tribes. The book is about being a leader. I was being a terrible leader. A terrible mom. The voices of reason wrestled with the voices of my critics.

Angie, you just had a baby. You have three kids. You’re supposed to be tired and cranky. Give yourself a break.

I thought that once I took a leap of faith and started doing work that really mattered to me, work that added a sense of purpose and meaning to my life, it would get easier somehow. I thought it would make me feel whole, not fragmented. Not so conflicted. But sometimes the tug is so strong I feel defenseless. The work is like a fourth child. Calling to me. Demanding my attention. I don’t want to choose. But I can’t be everywhere, everyone at once.

I glanced over at Cate, so tiny and precious, sound asleep in the vibrating bouncy chair. Thank you, Little Miss.

Later, she stirred and let out a pitiful baby moan. I picked her up and noticed she was hot. Yellow gooey stuff was oozing from her eyes. I called Shawn at work and told him to come home so I could take Cate to the pediatrician.

My infant is sick. I felt sober, awake and calm as I heard the doctor say, “I’m sending you to MUSC. And you need to be prepared because they will probably admit her.” I put Cate in the car and headed downtown to the hospital. I called Shawn with instructions. “This is going to sound so much worse than it probably is. It’s probably just a virus but they have to make sure. I need you to pack a bag for me. Can you make a list?”

The world had stopped spinning. There was no confusion. No tug. No conflict. I sat with Cate in a hospital room while they ran a bunch of tests. We bonded and I played paparazzi. She gave me the stink eye:

Two days later, Cate and I came home. The house was clean. My husband was my hero. Dillon and Blake were the most adorable creatures I’d ever seen.

Cate is six weeks old now. She is well. My family has been showered with so much love my heart might pop. And the work still calls out to me. Another story, demanding attention. Waiting to be told. And sometimes the world stops spinning, and I remember that what pulls me apart also holds me together.

Filed Under: Balancing Act, Popular Posts

The blessings of an unplanned life

March 22, 2012 By Angie 25 Comments

I make a plan and it laughs in my face.

That’s what I thought yesterday as the morning gave way to the pressing (if you will) situation happening in front of me. I’d just locked Cate’s infant carrier into the base and had walked around to the other side of the car in search of Blake. Normally, I’d see his chubby legs hanging out the back passenger door. “I do it myseff!” he says. Instead, I found him standing in the garage.

“Blake, come on,” I said, walking towards him. “It’s time to go.”

He waved his hands and shouted, “Stay!” When my probably-should-be-potty-trained-by-now child says “stay” it means I must keep my distance while he takes care of business. There’s no interrupting—or rushing—this process.

“Are you done?” I asked five minutes later. “Stay!” he said again.

By some miracle, I was showered and looking quite presentable, and I had the best intentions of dropping Blake off at preschool in plenty of time to pop into Starbucks and write before my meeting at 10. I’m never going to get anything done for the rest of my life, I whined to myself. I began to count all the things that were stacking up, itemizing and obsessing over everything on my plate. And that’s when I heard another voice.

You were not planned.

What?

You were not planned.

True. I am, technically, not supposed to be here. I was conceived out of wedlock and born into a marriage of emotional and physical abuse and that “family” (for lack of any other word I can think of at the moment) dissolved by the time I was three.

I was not planned. But I am not a mistake. It’s something I’ve been told countless times, but I’ve always been filled with a sense of deep knowing. I’ve never doubted my existence. But this is a piece of my story I’ve downplayed, choosing not to be defined it. I can assure you this was not the blog post I would have written if Blake had settled his potty issues at some other point in time. But now I see how this part of the story relates to the one I’ve been telling you all along.

Leaving TV news was a defining moment in my life. Changing course after so much time invested was not the plan. The plan was to become wildly successful in that career and live happily ever after. It took a significant amount of unraveling to get to the point where I was ready to take a leap and reinvent my life. I’ve put a lot of emphasis on that story because I understand its importance. I can see how telling it might be helpful to others.

I think intellectually, we all know and understand that life doesn’t always go as planned. We’ve discussed it so many times. It doesn’t keep us from setting goals and getting up each day and working towards something we believe in. That’s equally important.

But now I see—I really see—how some of life’s most beautiful blessings aren’t born from plans. And I hope I’ll remember that the next time I’m holding on to an agenda, a belief or an idea so tightly that it’s hurting me more than it’s helping. When my stress level rises over things I can’t control, I hope I’ll remember that letting go of control is exactly what I need to do. I hope I’ll remember to relax, shift my focus to the present and trust.

Because it’s really pretty awesome how things work out when I do.

Can you pinpoint a time in your life when you let go? I’m not talking about the point when the plan fell apart… but when you let go of trying so hard to hold it together? What happened next?

I’d love for you to leave a comment, subscribe to my blog or share this post with a friend.

Filed Under: Popular Posts, Redefining Success

How real is too real?

March 19, 2012 By Angie 20 Comments

I’ve been told that I’m a person who appears to have it all together. And that’s all fine and good, but sometimes it leaves me feeling a little awkward. On one hand, having it together is a good thing, right? On the other hand, the perception concerns me. Because I’m confused, insecure, sad and overwhelmed more often than I care to admit.

The other day I met a friend for coffee. The intention was to have a mocha and catch up. Instead she got tears and too much information. I apologized countless times. For being a buzz kill. For “dumping my crazy in her lap.” But if you can’t dump your crazy in the lap of a friend, where can you dump it? The way I see it, you can’t have intimate, close relationships with people if they never get to see your crazy.

I believe most of us crave that closeness. That unconditional love. It’s hard to find. And in those rare relationships where that level of intimacy exists, I’m terrified of blowing it. I’m afraid that if someone really sees me, all of me, they’ll hit the road. And that fear drives the need to wear a mask with a painted on smile. To play a part. To protect other people’s feelings instead of being honest about my own.

Why am I telling you this? Because I believe that to ever find whatever it is we’re seeking in life, we have to expose that fear. We have to recognize it. Shine the light on it and be brave enough to stare it in the face. I believe that’s how you make the demon loosen its grip.

After my last post, James commented: I think that there is a fine line between genuine and sharing too much. I think that most of us that do write online struggle with how much is too much. Some things are just too personal to share online, or at least that is how I feel. Maybe I am wrong.

But I don’t think James is wrong at all. Some things are too personal. So I commented back: You don’t have to talk about EVERYTHING to tell the truth. My mentor and friend Kelly Love Johnson said once, “Be honest enough so that people can relate, not so honest they cringe!”

James and I were talking specifically about blogging. But I think the rule can apply to real life. So as I discover and accept the authentic me, I’m also seeking balance. If I “dump my crazy” on a friend, I’m willing and ready to return the favor. And if my outward persona gives off the vibe that I have it all together, then great! Because you know what? I’m trying to do this thing called life the very best I can. Life’s too short to let darkness rule the roost.

I am the good and the bad, the confident and the insecure, the together and the mess all rolled into one. That’s my real. What’s yours?

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Filed Under: Balancing Act

Stepping into the not knowing

March 14, 2012 By Angie 40 Comments

I know the only way I’ll be able to explain this is to act like I’m writing a close friend. And that’s not too far off from what’s actually happening here, because over the past few years since I’ve started this blog, many of you have become just that. Today, I’m purposely trying not to hide behind the layers of a carefully crafted story. Today, I just want to speak what’s been on my heart for the past couple of weeks.

As I explained in this post, my blog is where I come to “punctuate the moment. To underline important scenes from my life with ink.” I am a writer. I tell stories. Stories that hopefully entertain you, make you laugh, cry or think. But I’ve always intended this place to be so much more than that. I’ve always wanted it to be about more than just me. In the back of my mind I’ve always known I’ve been dancing around the point. I’ve been afraid to make a point. I don’t think I was purposely being vague. I just wasn’t ready. I was opening up to you slowly, over time. Telling you about my life. Yet holding back.

I suppose we all do that. We reveal. Then we feel vulnerable. So we pull back. We strip the layers and we’re liberated. Then we feel naked. So we hide again.

But I’ve come to a place where I can’t hide anymore. It’s time to tell the story I haven’t been telling.

I’ve been asked to give a talk for the women at my church in May. The topic: Who am I supposed to be now? They want to know more about how I set out to be one thing (a TV news anchor/reporter) and then ended up doing something else. And that’s when it hit me like the brightest lightbulb in the room—the one that was brave enough to whack me over the head and say hello, this is the direction you need to go. This is the point.

Ironically, I’ve spent the better part of two years (and years before that journaling and brainstorming) writing a memoir about the time in my life when I left my career in television news. About what was driving me to succeed in that high profile business, and what made me stop in my tracks, question my entire identity and change course after investing so much time. What I didn’t fully see until now is how that story speaks to so many women, no matter where they are in life. It’s a story for any woman standing at a crossroads, questioning who she really is, her purpose in life. We don’t arrive at that place once. Life takes us through many seasons and stages and we have to define and redefine ourselves.

For years, I’ve kept the story hidden behind the pages of an unpublished book. As an author seeking traditional publication, I guess I’ve sort of been “saving it” until that magical moment when my dream comes true and my book sits on the shelf at Barnes and Noble. But the publishing world is changing, and as I’m watching it change, I realize I’m changing too.

I am in transition. But this time, I won’t hide behind a veil and reveal the finished product when everything is pressed and perfect.

I’m not saying I’m going to self-publish the book. Nor am I giving up on my dream. I am saying that I’m going to bring the heart and soul of that story to the pages of this blog. I’m going to try to talk about the things going on in my life that I’ve been too afraid to talk about. And I’m going to do a better job of reaching out to you.

Are you in transition? Are you at a crossroads? Do you wonder sometimes, who am I really? So many of us feel the exact same way and we don’t talk about it. This blog is about me. And it’s about you, too. It’s about all of us who feel like we’re traveling this road alone. I’m here to tell you: You aren’t alone. We are not alone.

So let’s talk about it.

I’d love for you to leave a comment, subscribe to my blog (click here), and/or share this post with a friend.

Filed Under: Popular Posts, Redefining Success

The House that Clair, Phylicia and Mama Built

March 11, 2012 By Angie 18 Comments

Donloyn Gadson, Guest Blogger

When our friend Angie asked me to guest post on her blog, I was so humbled and excited. When she asked me to share the things I had learned from Phylicia Rashad, I was spilling over with thoughts to share. It wasn’t until I actually sat down and the words began to fill the screen that I surprisingly became flooded with conflicting emotion.

Ms. Rashad had impacted me in a way that was beyond what I had expected, and I was blind-sided with a delicate realization.

I saved what I had typed, read it to my husband, wrestled with my fears and wrestled some more.

Two days later, Abigail Green shared Telling Your Truth on Angie’s blog. Her words struck a nerve with me, almost as if it had been written especially for my circumstance. It gave me the strength to honestly share what I have learned from Ms. Rashad. It gave me the courage to tell my truth.

From the time I was 12-years-old, Phylicia Rashad has been a part of my life.

From the ages of 12 to 20, she was there, every week, as the beautiful, intelligent and fearless Clair Hanks Huxtable. Those were my formative years…the years I began to lay bits of the foundation of whom I would later become. Many of those bits came from Clair. The sassy and sophisticated, strong and self-confident pieces…the self-reliant, sharp and courageous pieces…I recall finding those qualities, which already existed within me, being validated, encouraged and strengthened each time I saw them demonstrated through her.

Now that my foundation has been laid, the walls have been framed and each shingle has been carefully placed; at age 39, I have found myself in the decorating phase…the phase of seeing my potential and highlighting and enhancing my unique features…the phase of remodeling and creating additions, while being careful not to compromise my structural integrity. And Phylicia, as herself, is here now.

When I was an older teen, I remember wishing that she were my mother. I remember seeing in her all the things that I needed…all the things that a mother should offer a daughter…an open relationship that encourages a young lady to be all that she can and more…an open relationship that encourages a young lady to explore and discover her own creative self.

I have a mother, and, though we share many wonderful memories, the relationship is strained. It has been since the time I began discovering my own thoughts and opinions…the time I began to assert myself as an individual. That was the time I began to fantasize about having Clair as a mom. My mother wanted to mold me into what she wanted me to be. She wanted me to think as she did…do as she did. And, if I didn’t conform to her ideology, then I had to endure silent treatments and spiteful glares. My mother’s relationships with my sisters are basically non-existent, and there is so much distance within my family. It’s always been this way. I don’t mean to say this in a non-caring, disrespectful or flippant manner; I love my mother, and I know she has done the best she could given her life circumstance.

In retrospect, my rollercoaster ride of a mother-daughter relationship is probably a good thing, for it is the bumps and bruises that have conditioned the strongest of hearts…my heart.

You may be wondering, “How is Phylicia Rashad here for you now?”

In November of 2011, I had the glorious pleasure of interviewing Ms. Rashad for an article on Family that appears in the February/March 2012 edition of Living Roots Magazine, Phylicia Rashad: Lessons on Family, Humanity and Love.

She was all that I thought she would be and more. She was all that I knew Clair to be.

She was deliberate in her speech, taking the time to thoroughly weigh her thoughts, feelings and the facts before delivering a well-crafted response. She was powerful and engaging, gently commanding your full attention when she uttered a word. She was wise, and she generously shared that wisdom as if it were her duty to impart knowledge on those who are where she has once been. She was caring and nurturing, taking the time to pay attention to my life circumstance and giving me personal advice based on that. She was committed and endearing as she spoke to the significance of family.

On that day, November 17, 2011, I realized it is for the above reasons that she is synonymous with Clair Huxtable. It is because of her embodiment of motherly guidance and wisdom that she is mostly noted for roles as the wise female head.

I learned many other things on that day.

I learned that family is sacred, and should be held together and fought for.
I learned that deep inside I am still that little girl yearning for positive female connections, and that yearning is what lies at the heart of all I have become today.
I learned that the time for fantasizing is over. Clair Huxtable is a scripted character and Phylicia Rashad, like my mother, is also a flawed human being.
I learned that if my mother’s relationships with her daughters are to be repaired, then I have to be the catalyst that sparks that change.
I learned that my mother has always been a fine example for me—During her shining moments, she was an example of what to do—During her not-so stellar moments, an example of what not to do.
I learned that had it not been for my human relationship with my mom, then I would not be the woman I am today, seeking to empower, uplift and inspire other women and young girls.
I learned that I owe a debt of gratitude to my mom.
I learned that I love her now more than ever, flaws and all.

Ms. Rashad left a lasting impression upon me, one that I reflect on regularly. During our interview, she spoke of relatives who are no longer here. Although she misses them, she cherishes the memories of their love. Through her words, she has taught me that I must do all I can to rebuild the crumbled relationships that exist between my mother and her daughters.

What Life’s storm has damaged, Love’s power can restore. When my mother is gone, and, sadly, one day she will be, I don’t want to be amidst the rubble, alone and confused, filled with regret.

Thank you, Clair. Thank you, Phylicia. Thank you, Mama.

Donloyn “Dee” Gadson is a freelance writer and owner of Creole Magnolia Creations. When she’s not running after eight (yes eight) children, she blogs at the Creole Magnolia Cafe.

Filed Under: Guest Bloggers

Telling Your Truth

February 29, 2012 By Angie 7 Comments

My blog is in excellent hands today. Friends, please welcome Abigail Green from Abby off the Record (cue thunderous applause). Abby, after you entertain the readers, I’m shipping my boys to Baltimore. Would that be okay?

Telling Your Truth

I have always been more fascinated by real life than fiction. At the library or bookstore, I head straight for the biographies, memoirs, travel anthologies, humor, and essay collections first, only sometimes making my way to the novels after that. I’ve always found the truth to be far more interesting than anything someone can make up.

So I suppose it’s no surprise that I grew up to be a writer of nonfiction and teach classes on how to write personal essays. Early in each class, I broach the subject of truth with this anecdote: Years ago, my only brother and I got married within six weeks of each other. We didn’t exactly plan it that way; that’s just how it worked out. This presented some logistical challenges for our family. My mother swears to this day that I forbade her (her word) to wear the same dress to both weddings. I will cross my heart on a stack of Bibles and tell you that this never happened. I’m hardly the forbidding type. Even my kids don’t take me seriously when I threaten to never let them have dessert again if they don’t eat their vegetables.

But it doesn’t matter—my mother believes it’s the truth. And to her, it is. So if she were to write an essay about “The Mother-of-the-Bride Dress Debacle,” I might be annoyed, but it’s her prerogative. It’s her truth.

Obviously, it’s never OK to lie and pass it off as the truth in your writing, published or not. If nothing else, we learned that from James Frey and the media firestorm surrounding the discovery that he fictionalized large parts of his 2003 Oprah-touted memoir, “A Million Little Pieces.” However, “truth” can be a somewhat tricky concept for writers. There’s the literal, factual truth about an event, as would be presented in a police report. Then there’s the writer’s own perspective of that event as he or she experienced it. That experience is every bit as true to the writer as the police report, if not more, because it includes her feelings and interpretations along with the facts.

So what’s the point of all this? That as a memoir or essay writer — or a blogger, for that matter — you owe it to yourself and your readers to be as truthful as possible in your writing. Of course, tread lightly and consider others’ feelings when you write about “truths” that involve other people. But again and again I have found that the things I’m most afraid to write about – too embarrassing, too personal, makes me feel too vulnerable – is the writing that resonates most with readers when I finally have the courage to put it out there.

Me too. I get it. I’ve been there. Thank God it’s not just me. I’m so glad I’m not alone. Those are the reactions that mean the most to me as a writer of personal essays. Because the point, when you get right down to it, is to make the personal universal. To relate. To connect. And you can only do that if you’re telling the truth.

***

Abigail Green’s 6-week online writing class, “Personal Essays that Get Published,” starts Weds. March 7. It is open to all levels of writers. Students will learn how to find ideas, discover their natural voice, craft catchy leads and solid conclusions, and find markets and submit their essays for publication. Former students have been published in the New York Times, Southern Living, Chicken Soup for the Soul, A Cup of Comfort, regional parenting magazines, web sites, and more. Registration closes this week! Click here to register.

Abby is a freelance writer in Baltimore, MD and has published over 200 articles and essays for such places as American Baby, Health, and Smithsonian magazine, as well as A Cup of Comfort for New Mothers, Babble.com, TheBump.com, and Skirt! She is also the author of the e-book Mama Insider: Laughing (And Sometimes Crying) All the Way Through Pregnancy, Birth, and the First 3 Months.

Filed Under: Guest Bloggers, Writing

When you know better, you do better. Part two

February 27, 2012 By Angie 6 Comments

This week, I’ll ease back into reality and the fantabulous world of kiddie car pool. I’ve taken pretty good care of myself since Cate was born; I’ve accepted help from family and friends, taken a few daytime naps and broken a million “rules” you find in all those parenting books.

I’m ready. But I’m sure I’ll have my moments and they will find their way to the blog.

In the meantime, I’ll share an essay I wrote for Hybrid Her back in 2009, shortly after Blake was born. While I like to don my tiara on special occasions, rest assured, I’m not wearing it this week.

Not So Supermom

About a month before I gave birth to my second child, I took an online quiz. Which Superhero was I? I was dying to know. On Facebook, I had adopted a strict “no quiz” policy. But since I’d found the Superhero quiz on a friend’s blog, the rule didn’t count.

I answered a series of questions and the results came back as I expected. I was, in fact, Wonder Woman. I lacked Lynda Carter’s rock-hard body, tiara and teeny blue shorts covered in stars. But I remembered the summer of 1980, when I ran around barefoot sporting a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos. I took this as proof the test was highly credible.

Shortly after my son was born, my superpowers—fueled by adrenaline, 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and a daily dose of Starbucks—were intact. I felt ready to take on the challenge of mothering two children. I put on my cape, muscled through the sleep deprivation and attempted to resume life as normal. I reasoned that getting out of the house would be good for my three-year-old, and for me. So with my newborn in tow, we went to play dates, the museum, an indoor playground and the pool. We had lunch with friends and entertained visitors.

So maybe I overdid it, just a bit. Eventually, the Lasso of Truth reeled me in.

When my throat began to hurt, I ignored the symptoms. I kept going when I lost my voice. But when I started to look a little less like Wonder Woman and more like the corpse of Lynda Carter, I went to the doctor. The doctor concluded I had a viral infection and said I needed more rest. What? No caffeine patch? No miracle drug to instantly zap me back to health? I resisted the urge to laugh/cry in her face and agreed that she was probably right.

But how, I wondered, is it possible to give my children what they need? Will I ever learn how to love them and care for them and simultaneously take care of myself? When will I find time to work, date my husband, sleep and exercise? I had just gotten my groove back after having my first child. Was it possible to lose it that quickly?

I pondered these questions as I spent a quiet week at home with my kids. I traded my tiara for yoga pants and nursing tanks, and my three-year-old entertained himself with his cars and trains. I got better acquainted with the daily rhythms of my newborn. I even experienced a rare moment when the heavens opened up and both children napped at the same time.

So, while I may resemble Wonder Woman, I have resolved that my fantastic superpowers have limits. Maybe I’m doing my children more good by revealing my greatness, as well as my weakness, rather than perpetuating the fantasy that I can do it all. Because I can’t. At least not all at once.

And that is okay.

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Filed Under: Balancing Act, Life with Kids

When you know better, you do better. Part one

February 24, 2012 By Angie 9 Comments

Cate is two weeks old day.

Two weeks ago, I went to the doctor for my scheduled appointment. We’d been watching my blood pressure and keeping an eye on Cate. I saw the look on my doctor’s face and knew what she was going to say.

“It’s time to have a baby.” We were fine, but I had carried Cate long enough.

There was a moment in the hospital room when my husband had left to pick up Dillon and Blake from school, and I was alone. I stopped texting and turned off the TV. I listened to the thump thump thump of Cate’s heartbeat on the monitor. I breathed it all in and took a picture in my mind.

About a week before Cate was born, I was listening to a conversation with Jane Fonda and Elizabeth Lesser on Oprah radio. (Think what you want. I love me some Oprah radio.) Fonda was talking about how she had gotten into blogging, and Lesser asked what Fonda thought about it: Does blogging take you from the moment? Does it keep you from experiencing what’s right in front of you? Fonda said (paraphrasing here) that she felt like she was punctuating the moment. Underlining the moment with ink.

So when people ask me how I’m managing to blog during this time, that’s what I think about.

This morning, I was going to write about something completely different, but the title was same. As soon as I sat down at my laptop, Cate woke up. I fed her and balanced the computer on the edge of the Boppy. I looked down and her eyes were wide open. So I stopped typing. Then Blake called from upstairs, “Daddy! Help!” Nothing was wrong. He always cries for help when he wants us to come get him. When Blake had been “saved” he cuddled up beside Cate and me. I moved the laptop out of the way. Then Dillon woke up and tried to squeeze his way onto the couch.

I watched the scene unfold. I took another picture in my mind. A couple of minutes later, Cate was asleep. The boys lost interest and moved on to toys and cartoons.

Now, I’m simply punctuating the moment. Underlining the moment with ink. Funny how the title still fits.

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Filed Under: Balancing Act, Life with Kids