Her Sexy, Sexy Summer...A Novel.

I'm working on a little something and am hoping you can take a look at it for me.  It's the start of a summertime novel...

"She didn't want to touch it; to take it in her nervous hands; to absorb it into her psyche, but she knew she had to.  She had no choice.  Her mother had talked with her about this very thing; about how timing is everything and that you have to do it when it's right.  But, she knew once she started, there would be no going back. No do overs. No new beginnings. This was it. Was this the day? The time? The way to start down this path? 

She opened her laptop, read through her AP Government homework assignment and knew it was the time.  "Summer homework, here I come," she said to herself, determined to get it done, get it done right and keep doing it, all summer long."


Like it? Me too.

Sorry to pull out the sexy, but I knew that if I started this post with "let me rant about summer homework" many of you might not read it.

Now that we know that the "thing" is, in fact, summer homework, let's dive in.

My kids have no less than 13 summer assignments between the three of them, all due at various points this summer.  While I'm all for maintaining their brain power and ensuring the financial return on the investment I've made in each of them, can we all agree that summer homework is for the birds?

To start off sounding like an old person, we never had summer homework growing up. And we are just fine!  We own businesses.  We are doctors, lawyers, parents, teachers and overall highly contributing members of society. I mean, look at me. I write real good (yes, that was intentional).

I truly believe that the pace of life has accelerated through technology and the resulting expectations (and probably other elements of the time/space continuum that I don't understand) to the point that we cannot appreciate or even stand "down time".  It makes us feel nervous, like we aren't taking care of things we should be focused on. As a society, we say we want this...more vacation time, more alone time, more "me" time. But when we get it, we fill it up with Facebook, Words with Friends, Instagram and myriad other online distractions that leave us feeling like we need to dig into the next thing, and right away.  We can't be still with ourselves.

I am guilty of this. I am always on my phone. I am always on email. I love social media, and binging on Netflix on a Saturday is my idea of a great time. So even though we identify this lack of quiet time as an issue, we just can't stop.

Enter summer homework.  Is the pace of the school year not enough?  I look at the hours my kids spend on homework, service hours, extra curricular activities and the time it takes to make me happy and it's a lot. I know it's more than I spent on all those things as a student.  And, the crazy thing is that I don't consider my kids overly scheduled. They have their passions and their projects, but I have never been a mom who has them involved in multiple things at one time.  At least I don't think I am that mom...

I deeply, truly love summer. I love that my kids sleep in. That I get to sleep in a little bit later. That we don't have to rush out the door in the morning. There is value in a slow breakfast. There is adventure in waking up and deciding what to do that day. There is a lot of money to be spent at Kings Island.

Old school summer fun from back in the day

I love the whole pace of summer living; slower, relaxed, spontaneous and chill.  But, homework gets in the way of all of that. It disrupts what I want summer to be about for my kids:  swimming, exploring, reading what they want to read, hanging out with friends and making memories.  With assignments due at various dates that are spread throughout the summer, they always have the next assignment looming in the back of their minds, wondering when they need to start working on it.

Now don't get me wrong. They will do their homework and they will do it well.  We are LiBrandi's and we do what's asked of us and with fervor.  But, I just. don't. want. to.

Hey look! An actual outdoor activity!

Can you blame me?  I'm sure there are studies that prove that summer homework improves performance throughout the school year.  And we are a performance driven society.  In America, we work more hours than any other civilized nation.  And we are proud of it.  But there is more to life than accomplishments (and this statement is coming from an extreme Type A, results oriented, super competitive person).  I often have to remind myself of this, but for me, the days I feel best about are those where I've caught up with a friend, bought Starbucks for the person behind me in the drive-thru line, made a dinner my kids really liked and that we ate together, started my day with meditation and ended it with saying thank you.  In short, my best days are days focused on people. Not things.

And while I know summer homework doesn't remove human connection from summer time, it does clutter our minds and distract us from it.  So while my oldest is working on creating a PPT about different political parties' views on four societal issues and my middle is churning through 100's of online math problems and my little 8 year old is doing two book reports, I will try to prod the laptops out of their hands for a little bit and ask them to look at the stars and catch fireflies.  To, despite its brightness, actually go out into the sun. To have slumber parties in the family room and make s'mores.  I will encourage them to finish my summer homework assignment:  stop being a student and just be you.

This is the best homework of the summer.  To put down the things and pick up the people.

The wonder of watching fireworks.
Make that a homework assignment this summer! 

Free to be You and Me

This past weekend, my little family of five went on a fabulous adventure to the Bunbury Music Festival in Cincinnati.  We all had our reasons for wanting to go; Bryan and I wanted to see the Black Keys and Avett Brothers; the girls wanted to see Twenty One Pilots and Gabe just didn't want to be left behind at home alone. We all got what we wanted and more.

This isn't Bunbury, but it is the Avett Brothers. And they were amazing.
Flickr - moses namkung 

As is true with most things, they take on new meaning as you get into the heart of them.  For me, the festival was our official claim on the start of summer, a mini vacation, a chance to hear some great live music.  What it morphed into was a deep lesson on fear, parenting and being in the right place at the right time.

Bunbury, for all its warm beer, stench of marijuana, lack of shade and in-my-face reminders of just how old I am, taught me a lot.

We Can't Shield Our Kids From Life
Now, I know that life isn't smoking pot, swearing and running around with glow sticks.  But, that is sometimes a sliver of life, and that's the sliver we were served this weekend.  At first, once it became apparent to me that A LOT of the concert attendees were high (or drunk) and that I was really not in control of what my kids were going to be exposed to, I panicked.  I panicked I had made the wrong decision; that we shouldn't be there; that my kids were going to go home, drop out of school and binge watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High. But, after a quick discussion about what they were smelling and what it was, it was out of their minds.  They had checked the box and moved onto things worthy of their attention. And then the obvious lesson hit me:  my job as a mom is not to keep my kids from everything.  That's impossible and as they grow, impractical.  My job is to equip them for dealing with what may come their way.  For me, that means loving them unconditionally, providing a safe place to question, honest answers about what's happening and frank discussion about right and wrong; healthy and unhealthy; smart and shortsighted. I exhaled my second hand pot smoke and felt better.

Some good clean bubble fun to wash away the pot and beer 

It's Good for Kids to See Glimpses of Us as Kids Ourselves
More mesmerizing than the glow sticks were the kids' reactions to their parents being young.  We hung in there, walked miles, didn't poo poo their favorite bands for a swear word here or there and when it came time for us to enjoy the bands we came for, we sang. And we danced.  And we weren't old.  We were people enjoying the moment, embracing the vibe and having a great time.  Our kids could almost imagine us as teenagers. And that makes us just a little bit relatable to them.  And that's a good thing.

My Kids Are Free to Be Themselves
Sophie is now 15 and really embracing her artistic side. I can fully relate to this because I have this side and I remember feeling it emerge at around the same age.  The difference is that I didn't feel like I lived in an environment that supported self expression.  It was viewed as counter culture and shocking.  So it became something I exposed to certain people but downplayed with others.  I was never fully my full self.  Because of that, I have always worked hard to support all my children's artistic endeavors (or any interest, for that matter).  Writing, singing, music, art and acting are part of our daily lives.  So as Sophie comes more and more into herself, I've been faced with statements like "I love pink hair" or "I'm starting a writing account on Instagram and I'm going to make it public so I can get as many followers as possible" or "I want to sell my art on Etsy" or "How old would I have to be to sing in a bar?" Her personal style is unique and I'm proud of her strong sense of who she is.  At 15, she is already sailing her own ship.

At one point on Sunday, there was a young woman standing close to us that I had already noticed because she felt like a future version of Sophie. Grayish, pink hair, lavender nails, combat boots and circle sunglasses.  Sophie was watching her, then turned to me and said with a sheepish smile, "Are you afraid I'll be like that someday?"  The word "afraid" stopped me in my tracks.  I don't want my children to ever think I'm afraid of anything they are meant to become.  I smiled back at her and said, "I don't think afraid is the right word, but I definitely see you in her." And what I wanted to continue to say, but didn't, was, "Sophie, I would never be afraid of you. I love your style. I love that you aren't afraid to show it. I love that you have a plan for your life that involves learning and growing and creating and travel. I love that you aren't alarmed by anything different than you. I am envious that I didn't have all of that in me at 15."

I loved the Bunbury Music Festival.  I loved that it was the place I finally fully realized that I don't need to be afraid of my kids' futures. I need to embrace who they are, who they are becoming and the relationships I will have with each of them.  And, I loved dancing to the Avett Brothers.

Us and 8,000 of our closest friends

The day my fear died :-) 

This is My Last Blog Post...

...About my Accident

Friday was the last day of school for my two younger kids and it was a typical, frantic morning. Actually, more so than usual because we had the flurry of teacher gifts, after school clothes/money/things needed since the kids were celebrating the end of their imprisonment with friends.  We had a few minor mishaps like eyeshadow falling and breaking all over the kitchen floor (don't even ask why makeup was in the kitchen), a bag with a hole in it; the list goes on.

I wasn't in a great mood; half yelling at the kids to get moving, irritated that I didn't have time to get to the Facebook "kids' last day of school" photo in front of the house, wishing I had more time to be by myself on my last true day of freedom.

Then, as I was driving hastily to school, I was reminded of something I've been thinking about religiously for weeks but that for some reason had escaped my mind that morning.  "This is the spot one year ago where I had my accident."

The accident that left me broken but better, slowed down (temporarily) but not stopped, dependent but not helpless.

"I am an ass."

This is what I thought at that moment.

I am worried about this and that; gifts and bags; to do lists and places to go.  I am however, not thinking about what I should be thinking about.  I am alive.  One year ago, I could not walk. Today, I am running miles.

And so here it is.  I've thought for weeks about writing this post; a blog about the anniversary of my accident, but didn't really know what I was going to say. Thanks? I'm better? What I've learned?  Then, as it so often happens, life knocked on my mind's window and gave me my topic:

How to not let go of my accident.

It's an ironic statement. Why would I not want to let go of something so horrible? Why wouldn't the past be the best place for my accident to live?

Just like the break up with your first love, you almost don't want the pain to end. The pain makes the love real. The only reason you are hurting so much is because you loved so much.  That's how I feel about my accident.

I don't want to let it go. 

Once I got my kids to school, I came home and read through all the blogs I wrote last summer.  Blogs about who I wanted to become, what I would be and how my life would be different because of my  temporary confinement to the couch.  I meant every word of it.  And, then just like the break from your first love, the pain lessens, you move on, you convince yourself it wasn't that bad and you return to yourself.

But I don't want to return to myself.  I don't want to be Deb pre-May 30, 2014.  In that period of weeks as I was recovering, I found a grittier version of myself. I found someone who wasn't as afraid as she thought; someone who could smile through trial and who could forgive without even being apologized to. I loved more and slowed down. I found someone I liked better.

And then, more and more, as days turned to months and those months turned into one year, I've lost her.  Not entirely; not completely. But a little bit.  When I am impatient and yelling at people I love and pushing through moments like they don't matter and wishing things were other than they are, I've lost her.

I had many people reach out to me over the past week about the one year anniversary, and I even marked the date with a small gathering of close friends. I talked for a bit about what all of them did for me and it was a wonderful night. But, after I was alone, and in the honest darkness of night with myself, I thought the words I don't have the courage to say.

I am afraid.  I'm afraid I can't hold on to how I changed. I'm afraid I'm just the same old person I was before my crash. I'm scared that the spark that lit up a part of me is slowly going out. Even though I'm walking fine, I am more unsteady than ever.

What if the change was just a phase, which means it really wasn't change at all? What if I'm the same? And what if all the good people did for me was for nothing? What if I'm a fraud? What if the words of support and affirmation from those who love me make me want to cry because I secretly feel like I haven't done much?

This is how I feel one year from my accident; on sea legs trying to find footing on solid ground.

And the worst part is that I can't explain why. I can't explain why I'm restless with what I have yet to accomplish despite the fact that I've accomplished a lot. I don't know why I am not as proud of myself as those around me are. I don't know why.

And so I rush through days, push out the thoughts and smile when people tell me how great I'm doing. But that is no way to live. I know this.

I know that holding onto the past, in any situation, keeps us from the future.  I need to let it go.  I need to put it firmly behind me with the conviction that the best is yet to come. Because despite what I am unsure of right now, I do know that the best is always yet to come.  So, this marks my last blog about my accident. It's been a meaningful year for me to share my emotions with you and your attention has been a gift. But, starting now, I'm forging ahead in a new direction.

I hope you'll continue to spend some time with me.