This year I decided to take a giant step outside my comfort zone, ignore the flashing red lights and blaring sirens and Embrace The Void. I was getting too snug, too stagnant. I needed the experiential equivalent of a good hard shake and a few backhanded slaps across the face.

Inspired in part by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s excellent book, “Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience,” I decided to mimic the philosophy of the Shuswap Indian tribe of British Columbia, who (as explained in the book) decide every 25-30 years that the forest has become too familiar, the streams too easy to forge. The tribal elders make the call to pack up and move to new terrain, and soon challenges abound and the people find themselves learning again, expanding themselves in ways they never knew they could. They find themselves in flow. Flow was what I wanted more of. But increasing flow also meant overcoming fear.

I made a list of things that scared me, things I could tackle in the span of a year. I wanted to host more parties, which is eventually (once the wine starts flowing) a fun endeavor, but initially tends to make me break out in a cold sweat. I wanted to take on an athletic activity that I had never tried before, which is not difficult to achieve considering my high school Varsity letters were in dance and Academic Team.

And then there was the thing that terrified me the most, the thing that made me sick to my stomach just thinking about it, the thing that loomed like a big ugly monster every Monday and Wednesday from noon to 1 p.m., holidays excepted. I wanted to learn how to to a handstand in yoga class. Not a headstand, not a forearm stand, a handstand. With nothing but my own two palms to hold my weight and my head dangling mere inches from the ground.

I decided to get my party on first, since that one seemed easy enough to tackle and usually involved booze. I say usually, because my child’s first birthday party was the year’s initial foray, and even I know that setting up a keg next to the jumpy tent probably won’t go over well with other families enjoying a Saturday at the park.

That’s when it hit me: Jumpy tent. Jumpy tents were the problem.

Or at least jumpy tents were a symbol of the problem. I don’t know where I ever got the idea that every party I hosted had to come straight out of an edition of Martha Stewart Living, but I know that’s where the fear lies. I feared ‘messing it up’ somehow, that people wouldn’t have fun, that people would judge the food, the drinks, my house, my life. Then I remembered something one of my friends once said when she came over unannounced and caught my house in a state of ruin: “I came to see you, not your house.” Anyone who truly loved my son would come to his party to enjoy spending time with him, jumpy tent or no. Pony ride or no. Private Kanye West concert or no.

And this is how my son’s first birthday became a simple affair at a beautiful park with some balloons, some cupcakes and a lot of really great people. This is how I managed to have a wonderful time hosting an impromptu Fourth of July barbecue that involved exactly four guests, two of whom were my grandparents (my grandmother told me later she hadn’t gotten to socialize in months and was thrilled just to be playing Bananagrams). This is how I decided, when it came my turn to host a meeting of our book club, that I would make exactly one dish (instead of the ridiculous feast I usually prepared, and often resented preparing) and take a leap of faith that everyone else would follow through on their commitment to contribute to the potluck. And they did. And I had exactly one dish to clean up. Best. Party. Ever.

Feeling cocky, I decided to take on the next challenge, which was trying an athletic activity that was new to me. I chose kayaking, both because it sounded serene and easy to manage, and because, well, Groupon.

I enlisted my hubby to join me and we showed up in La Jolla on a sunny but breezy July afternoon. We were told that kayaking out to the sea caves, as we had anticipated, was a no-go because the surf was too high, but we could try for the open water. I immediately balked. I had never kayaked before and wondered if I was strong enough to paddle out in rough water. I hate being cold and wet. I didn’t want to let my hubby down when he needed me most. And what if the thing capsized and I get stuck under water? What if the swells were huge and my old recurring tsunami nightmare came true and I ended up tumbling end-over-end with a mouthful of sand, never to emerge?

The fears came in one after another, and they were relentless. I made up some excuse why I couldn’t do it and told my husband we’d try again another day. We made an appointment for the next month, and the day came and went. I kept telling myself I was being ridiculous, that people do this sort of thing every day and have a wonderful time, but somehow I thought enjoyment and pleasure while paddling a kayak couldn’t possibly apply to me.

I was defeated. I had failed. And I still had to conquer handstands.

You must understand that I had already made some progress in this area, if you can call it “progress.” I had gone from flat-out refusing to even try to do handstands against the wall (even with assistance!), to making half-assed attempts to kick my legs into the air from Downward Dog. If you do yoga, you know how incredibly graceful this looks.

But there was still something about attempting handstands that made me freeze up inside and want to run to my mommy. I had zero faith in myself. There’s no way these wrists can hold up my body weight, I thought. There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep my balance. This ground is hard, and my head will hit first. Not doing it. Uh-uh. No way.

So, naturally, I registered for a three-day, nine-hour intensive handstand workshop. I saw it as a means of force-feeding myself the concepts I would need to succeed. At first it was fun — we did drills, abdominal training, trust exercises. But when the teacher said those dreaded words — “Bring your mats to the wall, everyone” — the mechanism inside me that regulates courage ground to a halt. I got shaky. My throat clenched. And I was so mad at myself, so furious that after all this it was my own damn ego and my own damn mind that was going to get in the way, I almost wished I would fall on my head, if only to knock some sense into myself.

I assumed the position: Downward Dog, facing the wall, one leg in the air. One of the assistants must have smelled my fear, because she came to stand next to me. I kicked up once, twice. And then I collapsed in a heap of tears.

I have never felt so humiliated. All around me, lean, lithe yoga gods and goddesses were kicking up into beautiful handstands, some of them even unassisted in the middle of the room! I was the only one who was still right-side-up, sobbing in the arms of the assistant.

“You’re having a breakthrough!” she told me, beaming.

“I think you mean breakdown,” I said, blowing my nose.

It turns out we were both right. Once I finally admitted to myself, in messy, snotty, dramatic fashion, that I was scared shitless, that I didn’t want to do it, that I hated it, that I was a loser, that I couldn’t do anything right, I was suddenly able to kick up, with ease, into a handstand. By the next class, I was kicking up into a handstand in the middle of the room, with the assistant holding my calves in her hands and telling me to extend. To extend! As in extend my legs into the air and my head down toward the ground! I was upside-down and the world never looked so good. I breathed. I was in bliss. In flow. My wrists were strong enough. The ground below me was supportive and forgiving. And there was someone there to catch me if I forgot all this and fell.

And that may be my greatest lesson in all of this striving and failing and trying again. The fear will always be there, and a part of me will always try to avoid it. But another part of me knows that the fear is inconsequential, because I am strong enough. Life, after all, is supportive and forgiving. And there will always be someone there to catch me if I waiver, or waffle, or teeter too far toward the void.

Before I get too dark and moody (say Concrete Blonde’s Dance Along the Edge), I do have a great life.  I think if you read enough entries of this blog you will see that I’m deeply grateful and appreciative of the big and little moments in my life.  In fact, I’ve always been one of such a sunny disposition, I literally have a tattoo of a sun on my backside.  Maybe that’s why I know I’m slipping, it’s such a stark contrast.

I also know that others go through this and the path of a SAHM is often a steep one.  Well, I’m on the climb or should I say decline.  Which way is out?  In the moment, I’m not so sure.  I just know I’m so completely frustrated and angry that I could simultaneously scream and cry (which I’ve done).  I have those movie moments in my head when I can see myself doing all sorts of violent things to my (soon-to-be) five year old and then I blink and he’s still there.  Talking.  And talking and talking.  “…and you know what else Mommy?…”  “…and then the garbage truck went [insert sound effects and claw like action here]…”  And then there’s BabyD patting me on the leg saying, “Mommy potty, Mommy potty!”  He needs me to take him to the upstairs potty because for whatever reason he won’t go in the downstairs toilet (and we were just up there, but he didn’t go).  I would have sworn that I sat them down with snacks and plenty of trucks less than 10 minutes ago.

I feed the boys every 1 ½ hours.  I turn on the tv so I can take a shower and reasonably be uninterrupted for 20 minutes.  I get up early in the morning and do a little yoga to set my day right.  I know how to count to 10 and breathe deeply.  I try to get out every day, if not to run them out at a park then for us to run errands together.  Everyone has quiet/nap time for at least an hour.  We eat lunch pretty much about the same time every day (and we eat fruit and vegetables).  I’ve got a good schedule and feel I have a good read on the emotional and energetic needs of the boys.  In general, I feel pretty good about that.  And overall I do have great kids.

But please god oh please, could I get a f’n 15 minutes not interrupted here and there throughout the day???  No.  Evidently I can’t.  Can we go to a store, the post office or the park without a sibling fight, temper tantrum or extreme meltdown?  No. Evidently we can’t.

Please stop hitting your brother.  Please lower your voice.  Please be kind to each other.  Please say you’re sorry.  You come over here and sit by me, the other sit on the chair right here and no more talking.  BigBoy give BabyD his toy back.  Stop yelling (as I scream).  BabyD, leave your brother alone.  One more time and you’re getting a time out.  That’s not a nice thing to say.  That’s back-talking; knock it off.  Yes, I’ll get you more water, crackers, snacks, oranges, bananas, toast, etc.

I say all this and more 10 times a day.  Inside, outside, awake, asleep, everywhere I go.  I want to pull our hair out and I’m not a Trichotillomaniac.  Just a SAHM going slowly crazy.

And I still can’t get through my emails, return a phone call, finish the laundry, do the dishes or clean the kitchen each day.  I’m a Mommy Interrupted.  It’s constant, non-stop and maddening.  I’ve always believed that there is enough room here for everyone to get what they need, but lately I feel what I need is just a couple of moments of solace here and there throughout the day.  They are so F’N DEMANDING, RELENTLESS, LOUD, IRRITATING.  And then two minutes later we will be laughing because one of them did something so completely funny or we start dancing in the kitchen because a good song came on.  It’s all the extreme range of emotions that has me thrown for a loop and thrown close to the edge.

You gotta know I’m a good Mom and typically rather sane and reasonable.  However, I can finally see behind such tragic events of the headlines.  Why do Moms rarely talk about losing their sanity?  Do we just accept that it comes with the territory?  I know I’m not the only one.  I know I don’t need psychiatric help or psychological services, but some community support and acknowledgment that this is real and I’m not going nuts (well maybe that I am and it’s okay) would be much appreciated.

How do you deal?  Mommy on the brink needs to know!  I’d say cheers, but I’ve already had too much!

P.S.  I’d like to thank Bryn and my SIL, Heather, for putting words to the emotions I’ve been feeling lately.  Thanks friends for helping see the light through the dark.

It’s important for me to remember when it’s really tough that “this too shall pass.”  An old friend, Mary Michael Murphy, once told me, “The way out is through” and I never forget that.  Soon enough there will be peace and then some new challenge will come along.  During my pregnancies and ever since birthing, one of my ongoing mantras has been “You’ll be okay.”  Yes, I’ll be okay.  Just repeat after me and laugh with me.  That’s what I do.  Repeat, laugh, breathe.

We’re in nap time transition.  We’re in the second week of Baby only having one nap instead of two.  He is 19 months.  It is time, really.  So with yesterday’s episode and thumb sucking early today, he went down early (11:30 am) and it’s quiet right now.  Can I get a collective, “ahhh!”  I’m so thankful for quiet time.  I’m happy to report that we’re not going any where today.  I’m going to do laundry and work in the back yard.  Today is a quiet day of domesticity.  Yes, there is something strangely pleasant in these days for me.  (Contrast that with the going, going, going that we often do.)

So today is a day of breath and relaxation.  Yes, I did my yoga this morning.  Thank you for asking.  Some quiet sitting is in order though.  So I’m getting off the computer, going to have my favorite lunch (Triscuits, two slices of havarti cheese, and a vanilla yogurt), read a bit, and breathe deeply.

Enjoy your day and cheers, friends!

Monday was just one of those days.  To admit the truth, I didn’t do my morning meditation or my yoga, so it just goes to show me.  Anyway, BigBoy was not listening to me and was not picking up the toys off the floor and out of my room.  Don’t you know, I stepped on that stupid, yellow metal jet and cut my foot.  Of course this was all happening when BabyD was screaming and the dog was at my heels wanting something.  I yelled a loud profanity and I swear I could have thrown that yellow jet like a ninja star toward BigBoy, but I held it and screamed some more.  I gimped back to my room while I heard BigBoy break into sobs because undoubtedly I scared him.  He apologized.  I apologized.  All was well.

But then again there was BabyD who just couldn’t get the day started on the right foot.  He was crying and hitting and pushing our buttons.  I start my deep breathing and turned on the hot water for a shower.  “Just two minutes alone and quiet, please” I prayed.  I could hear the boys playing (and fighting, but they’ll work it out) down the hall.  I saw my moment and jumped into the shower.  I love HOT showers.  Lots of good thinking and relaxing happens there.  As I was toweling off and putting on lotion, BigBoy walks in and says to me, “I protected you from Baby and here’s a band aid, Mom.”  OMG…how endearing is that?  Love them!

Yesterday, I was blow drying my hair and the boys were jumping on my bed.  BabyD comes around because he likes when I shoot the blow dryer at him.  We were laughing and carrying on and he starts screaming “Bug!  Mommy! Mommy! Bug!”  I look around but I don’t see it and his little pudgy legs run over to me fast and he starts stomping on the bug (I think it was a silverfish or something).  He was protecting me from the bug.  I said “Thank You BabyD!” and gave him the biggest hug ever.  Love him!

Ahh how sweet it is to have my little boys looking after and protecting me.  Chivalry is alive in my house!

Here’s what I learned.  I need more quiet time.  Plain and simple.

I realize that being a SAHM (stay at home mom) means that you’re home a lot.  Sure you might leave the house during the week to run errands, go to the park, or to the library.  But when do you really have a day off?  NEVER.  You come home to “your work.”  Ok, I realize that some women may be offended by relating my kids and home to work.  But I take my job seriously (and not so seriously too!  We have lots of fun and laughs).  Nonetheless, for me, being a SAHM is WORK.  I’ve been having a hard time legitimizing that!

My husband gets to GO to work then come home.  My home (and family) is my work.  I live in my work place.  I think I’ve been feeling the effects of what it must be like to work to live.  Work is never done.  I have felt overwhelmed and equally underwhelmed of late.  I’ve lost a sense of myself (probably at the bottom of the toy box) and I’ve dug my head under books and Bejeweled Blitz (damn that game!) to hide out and wallow.  I feel like I’ve been dazed and confused.

I used to work (out of the home) and it cost me.  It cost my sense of humor; perspective of my family and finances; and particularly my relationship with BigBoy (we like each other so much more now).  I always felt like I was just barely dog paddling enough to keep my head out of the water.  For those working moms who are keeping it together, I applaud you.  It’s fast paced dance, so good for you if you can keep up with the rhythm with some sort of grace and joy.

So enough complaining.  Lola helped to lift the fog.  I see that if I spent some more time engaged in the activities that I know take care of me, I’ll be happier, healthier, and have my head on straight.  Enough of the hitting myself on the head for not getting everything done.  I’m not gonna get it all done.  I know that.  I will find more joy and ease in my life (not to mention a sense of accomplishment in my day) if I do my meditations (5 minutes helps), morning yoga (5 sun salutations), and journaling (blogging helps too!).  I learned some great techniques for staying on the positive side of life from another great friend and teacher, Rita Hovakimian, that I know work!  So I’ve pulled out my old notebook from her class and started reading and writing.  Yeah!

I’ve always been a big supporter of afternoon quiet time (for all of us).  BigBoy doesn’t have to sleep, but play quietly in his room and Baby goes down for his nap.  Recently, I’ve not been rigorous about the amount of time, but I’m reinstating the 1-1/2 hour afternoon minimum (but I’d like to shoot for 2 hours!).  This is when I get to do what I want, not laundry or dishes (out of obligation), but uninterrupted time to lunch, relax, write, and read (moderately).  And yes, I’m blessed because I have kids that can stay (relatively) quietly in their own rooms.  The truth of the matter is that I need my down time.  It helps me listen to the unending story of garbage trucks just a little bit longer in the evening.  It helps me not want to yell at my husband when he walks in the door.  It helps me complain less and love this life a little more.  Because I really do cherish this time.

I also have Annie Witzmann to thank for taking care of my boys on Fridays.  I call them Sanity Fridays.  I get to do my own stuff without the boys.  It’s like a weekend (pre-kids) crammed into 8-hours.  Sometimes I pay the bills (I’ve learned that uninterrupted time means that they go on time with the right amounts!) and clean house, but other times I go to the movies (saw Whip It and loved it!) or walk on the beach.  So thank you god for having me hear this message.  Got it.  Shhh!  It’s quiet time.  Cheers and THANK YOU friends!