Embrace the Wedgie

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 10 Comments

A few years back the family headed up to Wisconsin Dells for one of those intense indoor waterpark experiences in the dead of winter. The kind where it doesn’t matter if it’s 356 degrees below zero outside because you’re in a climate controlled indoor experience that is nice and warm (though the humidity is approximately 172%).

Humidity aside, it is a great time to go down many crazy, zig-zaggy water slides and have some sopping wet fun. Me being the practical (aka miserly) girl I am, I didn’t want to wear my good swimsuit to go down all the slides. After all—I might wreck it—and where would that leave me come summer? (I know many women are shouting, “At the mall with a great reason to get a new suit!” but I find shopping for swimsuits about as desirable as eating my own hair, coughing it up, and eating it all over again. Too graphic? Maybe, but I think you better understand my feelings on swimsuit shopping.)

There was just one problem with my thrifty plan: the elastic had up and died in my old suit. Luckily I brought a pair of swim shorts to go over the suit (hey—I never claimed to be a fashion maven), but this did not solve the problem. While the shorts offered coverage, the exhausted elastic meant that every time I went down a slide (or pretty much did anything), the suit gave me a nice little wedgie.

I grew somewhat adept at demurely fixing the wedgie each time my suit scurried its way north, but it was a constant nag on my swimtastic experience, and it was really dampening my spirit.

And then I had an a-ha moment.

I realized I needed to embrace the wedgie.

Sometimes all you can do is hang in there as best as you can.
Sometimes all you can do is hang in there as best as you can.

You see, I was fighting it because I knew it wasn’t supposed to be—but what if I accepted it as reality and embraced it? What if I told myself that the wedgie was supposed to be there? It was in this moment that I realized that embracing the wedgie meant that I needed to stop fighting physics and work with it instead.

Granted, this took some getting used to, but from the moment I told myself “let it stay—this is my new normal” I felt a bit of a shift in dynamics (as well as my wardrobe). I owned that wedgie, and that made it less annoying.

When our time there was up, I gladly threw the suit in the garbage, but I didn’t forget the lesson. There are experiences in life where what is happening is not ideal but also inescapable for that span of time. I can fight against it and maybe have a moment’s relief, but the annoyance will be all the more frustrating the second it returns. Or…I can accept it for what it is—a “life wedgie” that I need to put up with for a while, and by doing so, lessen the nagging irritation.

And there you have the simple moral of the story, my friends: sometimes you need to embrace the wedgie in order to have as much joy as you can flying down the water slides of life.

The Monotone Masseur

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 8 Comments
Ah...
Ah…

Want to send me into LaLaLand? Rub my feet. Or at least give me a gift to have someone else rub my feet. And so it was that I was headed toward my second foot massage the other day, as I had been fortunate enough to receive two “foot reflexology and massage” gift certificates for Christmas.

I went for my first one a few weeks ago, and though it was different than I expected (more body massage than foot), it was still quite delightful. It was an interesting little setup, with these Lazy-Boy type chairs that recline to fully horizontal. Throw in the fake fire “burning” on the big screen TV, a little ethereal mood music, and I was game. The young woman who took care of me did a lovely job and I actually had my mind taken off of things for a while.

Then there was my second massage.

The first time I went, I was the only person in the large room of about 10 chairs. This time, there was another woman off to the corner…with a guy massaging her. A guy? The thought hadn’t crossed my mind that there would be masseurs, as well as masseuses (yes, I’m all about the proper massage therapy terminology). Hmmm…that would be a little weird, I thought to myself. No guy besides my husband has ventured to lay hands on me in that way for eons. I just closed my eyes and tried to relax.

I heard this low, monotone voice say, “Hi. I’m Patrick,” and I opened my eyes to see a young 20-something set down the soak bucket in front of me. He did not sound unlike Patrick Star from SpongeBob. In fact, if there was a line-up of guys you would think least likely to be a masseur, his number would be called again and again. “This should be interesting,” I thought.

While my feet soaked and got less “footy,” Patrick started on my head and shoulders. “Let me know if you want more or less pressure,” he droned. Now, for whatever reason, I never like to tell someone who is giving me a massage to go easier—some sort of twisted sense of pride? Whatever it is, it’s stupid. Patrick started in on my neck, which is a big ball of tension, and I thought, hey, this may be okay…then he moved to my scalp. I didn’t know if he was breaking off strands of hair or simply ripping them out from the follicles, but…wow. The noise inside my head sounded like a mob of angry crickets. But I took it, dammit.

By the time he moved to my arms, I was fairly certain he was making it up as he went along. He seemed to be trying to relocate my never-been-dislocated shoulder. I figured maybe he was stretching out my socket. Then he did some sort of weird finger tap dance up and down my arm. I swallowed a giggle and wondered if I was on Candid Camera. But when he moved over to my other arm and did the exact same thing, I realized he was either a very good remember-er or there was a method to his madness. Slowly but not-so-surely he made his way down to my feet. His technique of pat, press, and poke made me wonder just what sort of massage school he had attended, but I hung in there.

He could be perceptive, though—as when he asked, “Too hard?” after he pushed into the arch of my foot so deeply I was certain my spleen had exploded. (I’m no expert in reflexology, but I’m pretty sure he killed my spleen in that moment.) Perhaps it was the convulsive movement that mimicked being electrocuted that hinted to him that he had been a bit too firm.

At some point, it became all about survival. After the foot portion of the rub, it moved to my back, with the chair fully reclining, and me on my stomach. Talk about feeling vulnerable…with my gluteus MAXimus at the mercy of “Hi. I’m Patrick.” The poking, pressing, and prodding continued.

I realized I was now much tenser than when I first sat down. My claustrophobic self was just concentrating on breathing (the little “face ring” that is supposed to allow a person to breath easily never quite does the trick for me). I may have even promised God that if I survived this I would strive to be a better person.

To add to the ambiance, the woman in the corner was now making odd grunting and moaning noises. I wasn’t sure if she needed help or a cigarette. Just as I was concentrating on ignoring her animalistic noises, Patrick took me by surprise and bent my recently operated on knee back beyond its acceptable range of motion. It was at that point that I overcame my “massage machismo” and nearly barked, “No!” I think I stunned him, but he was a good listener. He didn’t even try the other knee, and I wasn’t going to remind him, either.

By the end, I briefly entertained the idea of asking the receptionist for my “I Survived Patrick” t-shirt. Instead, I’ll make sure to request the woman from my first visit. In fact, I may need to schedule that soon, since I still haven’t untangled myself from Patrick’s masterpiece.

On This, We Can Agree

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ Leave a comment
Thank you.
Thanking and remembering ALL.

Most people recognize that today’s America is extremely polarized. Hostile camps are set up on pretty much every issue, to the point where our government can’t even work together to solve very solvable problems, and our population is all too comfortable denigrating one another’s views. But on this—I hope, I pray—we can agree: we thank and honor those who have given the ultimate sacrifice in service to our country. And we are grateful to all those who serve.

Memorial Day was created after the Civil War to honor both Union and Confederate soldiers who died in that war. (And, of course, it has evolved to honor all Americans who have died in military service.) But perhaps its origin should be a lesson to us today—that extremely opposite sides can come together to honor the sacrifices made for this blessed country of ours.

I don’t mean to be simplistic about this at all. War is certainly not just good vs evil…but no matter what the gray areas are of any given conflict, we must always remember that we have people who say, “I will risk my life for this”—and the “this” is ultimately the freedom we Americans enjoy—warts and all.

My dad served in World War II. My father-in-law was present at the Cuban Missile Crisis. I never got to know a cousin of mine because he died in Vietnam when I was just a baby. I have friends and neighbors who serve and have served bravely. Hundreds of thousands of people who don’t even know me are taking care of business on my behalf. Thank you all.

I pray that as a country we strive to be better people every day, and that we grow in tolerance, respect, and love for one another. To me, anything less dishonors those who have given all.

Thank you.
Thank you.

Call Me Ripley, Dammit

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 3 Comments

The swirl of life can be all-consuming. Just the regular ToDos can make one day blur into another. Throw in a few curve balls, and some days it feels like your best option is to duck. Amidst all that hubbub, it’s easy to forget to have a little fun every now and then.

This weekend was my son’s birthday party for his friends, and the main event was laser tag. As things got underway, the host said to my husband and me, “You know, you guys get to play, too.” My eyes immediately lit up, but my husband was concerned we might put a damper on the boys’ game. Of course not, I told him—besides, we’ll mainly shoot at each other! And so we suited up.

I must admit, I had some seriously ridiculous fun. The place used strobe and black lights, plus it pulsed with the intense music of a Hollywood blockbuster. I let my mind only concentrate on the moment, and it reminded me of days where running around and playing Police Woman was a whole lot of fun.

Of course, I was in heeled flip-flops, so the men had a bit of an advantage on me, and my husband definitely took me up on the “we’ll just shoot at each other part,” as he shot me continuously. No matter where I turned, there he was, blasting away. I have to think it was a kind of marital therapy for him.

Look out, boys--Ripley is here!
Look out, boys–Ripley is here!

The completion of the first round gave us our stats, and I took…last place. We had a lot of fun comparing numbers, and as we poured over the info, I saw that we were all given names as players. The boys shared theirs: Tron, Spyder, Blade, Hammer…my husband’s was Alpha…What was mine you ask? Shaggy. Shaggy. That’s right—the dude from Scooby Doo known for uttering “Zoinks!” and always being hungry and afraid. What the hell kind of fighting name was that?! No wonder I was last place. Now if I had been named Ripley, then I would have showed those stealthy 10-year-old boys who was boss! Shaggy. Yeesh.

But the bottom line is that embracing the silly is good for the soul. I was never one for being too serious, but sometimes with all of life’s responsibilities, I forget to let myself just be plain old silly. Letting the troubles of the day wait a bit while I engage in a few minutes of play helps me to better deal with those troubles when I have to let them back in.

I’m sure that those folks looking through the window of the laser tag arena and seeing a 45yo woman (and a strange man with an evil grin stalking her!) amidst a bunch of 10yo boys having their own fun must have thought me pretty wacky. And that’s okay. I’m no stranger to wacky…and I thank God for that.

Maturity By Way of a Dingleberry

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

Parenting bright spots can come in some funny ways. As I wrote last week, my son is newly 10. Most days he makes choices that make me wonder if he will ever register on the maturity scale. Of course, there are those lovely glimmers of the man that he may become, like when I see how sweet and attentive he can be to younger children, I believe that someday he will make one heck of a dad. But on the average day, he exemplifies “typical boy.”

We had a mature moment this past week, though…maybe it is because he has now entered the realm of double digits. Or maybe it was just a blip on the radar to be followed by many more head-scratching moments. Nonetheless, I believe in taking the bright spots and running with them!

The Culprit
The Culprit

We were leaving our vet’s office with our dog, who had been there all day to have a procedure done. My son wanted to hold him on his lap. Since he did a good job bringing him to the vet, I figured if the dog was doing okay it should be just fine. Off we went. I would check my rear view mirror here and there, and all was seemingly well. But then I looked over my shoulder, and I swore I saw a little smear of something on the towel we were using for the dog. As I was processing this, I looked up to see my son’s eyes as big as hockey pucks staring at the poop on his hands. In a nanosecond, he cried out, “Mom! He’s got a dingleberry!”

Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with what a dingleberry is, go Google it. My son was using it very accurately. I had to get my eyes back up front not only because I was driving (though we were stuck in parking lot traffic), but also I had to hide my chuckle. Even though I knew that a poop-cleaning catastrophe lay ahead, I couldn’t help but be amused by the visual that had just played out before me.

What I found so impressive is that my son kept his head. He didn’t push the dog away or freak out. He did say, “Can’t you pull over and clean this?” to which I reassured him that I would as soon as I could safely turn off. But he really held it together (not the dingleberry—just his attitude).

In a couple minutes I was able to pull into a corporate parking lot. No bathrooms available, but we were able to clean all things to a reasonable point, thanks to a bottle of Perrier, hand sanitizer, and paper towels. We then journeyed on and hosed ourselves down when we got home.

I couldn’t help but be impressed at how my son handled the whole experience. From the smearing to the cleaning, he handled a crappy situation like a pro. (Please tell me you got that pun right away.) He even continued to take care of our dog—now dingleberry-free—for the rest of the ride home.

I shared with him how much I appreciated the way he dealt with the situation, and how proud I was of him for being so mature. He brightened up and had that look that’s says, “Yeah, I did do a good job, didn’t I?” It was a precious moment of seeing my kid understand his own capabilities and growth.

Who knew that because of a wild dingleberry, a boy might stand a little taller?

Stop and See the Eggs

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 7 Comments

Today is my son’s 10th birthday. As a parent, there are so many life lessons I want to share with him…from why morning breath isn’t “cool” to the importance of kindness. And I always hope that the good parts of what I say stick, and the less than ideal ones fall away.

But some lessons I aim to share with him are ones that I need to hear myself. Over and over again.

Though I’m told it’s typical behavior for a boy his age to need to be told everything at least three times, I really want him to be better connected to the world around him. For instance, after taking a trip dozens of times, the other day he asked, “Are we going the right way?” illustrating that he hadn’t been paying any attention. This is just a tiny example of how he is in his own little bubble that I would like to pop. Many times we have had “conversations” (read: nag-a-thons) of how he needs to pay attention to what’s going on around him.

But what about me?

Though I may know the route I’ve taken dozens of times, how connected am I to the actual moment I’m in? We who struggle with the juggle of life also struggle with the clichéd stopping and smelling of the roses.

Our little nest.
Our little nest.

Recently my husband discovered a robin’s nest in the pine tree right outside our kitchen window. After we all enjoyed seeing the beautiful blue eggs, the mama robin nestled in. She had expertly camouflaged the nest, and when she covered the eggs with her body, there was no way any of us would have known what miracles lurked beneath. I realized that it was the exact right perspective at the exact right time that clued us in to this exciting little world. My husband’s height gave him the angle to see, and the fact that the mom was out stretching her wings gave him the opportunity to discover. It came together in one ideal moment. Now we all know where to look and are enjoying watching our new little neighbors grow.

But what do I miss because I am not looking at the right angle at the right moment? I wonder.

Too often I have my “busy-busy blinders” on…on one mission after another, I power through and forge ahead. My bubble may move faster than my kid’s, but it’s still a bubble.

Thankfully, there are times of self-awareness where I simply make myself stop. Stop the swirl. And in those moments, inevitably I find something worth looking at…truly seeing. Maybe it’s enjoying my favorite goldfinches dart and weave after getting a nibble at our feeder…or maybe it’s seeing my son practice his piano with his bare feet (growing bigger by the day) keeping time while his tongue peeks out from his pink lips and tries to help him along.

The older he gets, the more I am trying to savor those moments. It was only yesterday, it seems, that he let go of my leg and walked his first steps. Only yesterday that he waved goodbye to us on his very first day of school. Only yesterday that he would pummel me with questions like, “Mom, does the sky end? Does the grass end? Do our days ever end?” Only yesterday.

boy and tree
As Gretchen Rubin says, “the days are long, but the years are short.” If I can get my little man to understand this sooner rather than later, then I will have helped him in a big way. I know I need to be a better model to help him see this truth more clearly. I better get my act together.

My stubborn self knows this is a life lesson I need to teach myself over and again. I guess the silver lining is that we learn best what we teach, so maybe there‘s hope for me yet.

Happy birthday to our beautiful, not-so-little-anymore boy who is loved tons and tons forever and always by his crazy mom and dad. You make the world a better place to be.