Incomprehensible facts aside, I feel it. I feel the imminent change. And for me, that change has a name: Kindergarten.

Something ignited my consciousness a few weeks back. I am sure it was Kindergarten Orientation. How real it all seems now. When my son was two, I saw preschool as a much needed break for me for a few hours a week. At three, there were more days of preschool and at four, an even greater opportunity for him to soak up the amazing curriculum at Landmark Preschool. As this school year rolled on, I was so happy to hear him read, speak Spanish and occasionally speak Mandarin. But now with August 27^th looming on the not so distant calendar as his first day of Kindergarten, I have a creeping sense of dread. I figure this is about the time a mom starts thinking of having another baby. Fill that hole! Well that’s not happening in this story so I must have a plan b.  My plan b is still forming, but for now, I just want to spend as much time as I can with my baby. For so long I have been trying to fill our days with activities to keep his high-octane energy level satisfied and now, I feel the need to slow things down and retreat.

Yesterday I saw a glimpse of the perfection I so desperately seek, in of all things, legos.  It was one of those moments that would have passed by unnoticed had I not been paying attention: my son and I, side-by-side, spending time together with no distractions.  I had the wherewithal to recognize the moment, smile and give him a kiss. I was so glad I did because thirty seconds later we were both ankle deep in frustration because “Jay’s Jet” wasn’t opening when we pressed the button. I did say this was a glimpse of perfection. Then it was gone.

I am so glad I have realized these moments are all we have so I better enjoy them now. I will wake up on August 27^th and put my son on the bus for his first day of school. He already fights me when I reach for his hand in a parking lot, how will it be in the fall? How soon will I hear “drop me at the corner mom”? December 21^st, you’ve got nothin’ on a mom on the first day of Kindergarten. End of the world? No, but certainly great upheaval. What would a Mayan Mama do?

The dictionary converts ma’am to madam and states madam is a woman of refinement.  Some synonyms listed were just the same word in other languages: frau, senora, madame. The only interesting synonym was madonna. Pop diva aside, the dictionary goes on to define madonna as “my lady”.  At first I thought this was ok but recalled a recent dinner experience in Florida where the overzealous server kept referring to me as “ma’ lady”. “Is ma’ lady finished?” “Can I remove the dish for ma’ lady?” Ugghh! I wanted to boot him out onto the sand shortly after the appletizer (how my son says appetizer) was served.

In the scheme of things, this is no big deal and I should be spending my time solving the real problems of the world. If you hadn’t heard the news, I am now qualified to solve world issues, just being named a superhero by my son.

“Mama, you’re superhero name is Pretty Woman because you make everything pretty. And I am beautiful because I love you.”

No truer words were ever spoken. These sweet little words have the power to wash everything else away, the big hurting words and the little annoying ones. So bring on the ma’ams, I will just deflect them with my indestructible gold bracelets.

Many of you are aware that my book Eat, Drink and Remarry is hot off the presses. In the short time I have been marketing my book, I have had the good fortune to connect with many wonderful people in the wedding business. One person in particular is Paula Bisacre. Paula is the mastermind behind Remarriage Works, LLC. Remarriage Works is a multi-media resource for people getting married for the second (or third) time. Her website www.remarriageworks.com is an amazing source of information from encore wedding dresses to blended family counseling.

I started writing my book because of the lack of help during the planning of my second wedding. I tried to plan it like my first and struggled the whole way through. I looked online to find only first time marriage sites that never addressed my current situation. A resource like Remarriage Works and its sister site, www.remarriageshowcase.com would have saved me much time and heartache.

Planning a second wedding is a completely different experience than planning a first. But most wedding professionals do not acknowledge this extremely important point. The ceremony is often times outside of a place of worship so picking a venue is a big undertaking and coinciding with that, you must find a creative alternative for your wedding officiant. The invitations are worded differently. The brides dress is often times scaled down. A bride wants to look amazing but not covered in a mountain of tulle. There may be little ones from a previous marriage to consider in the ceremony, reception and beyond into your new marriage. The list goes on and on. Not to mention one of the biggest hindrances to enjoying your second wedding planning is all of the guilt that you have carried since the end of your first marriage. I know from experience that if you don’t exorcise that demon, it sits and waits to show itself at every opportunity in the process.

Eat, Drink and Remarry is a resource for creative ideas but is also a comfort to those getting married again. We all love to hear stories similar to our own. That is why Chicken Soup for the Soul is so successful. Just hearing someone else survived the same train wreck goes along way.

After buying my book and reading it from cover to cover (it’s a great and short read!) I urge you to check out Remarriage Works. Paula has taken this very neglected demographic under her wing and is helping to smooth out the inevitable bumps in this journey to a happy and healthy second marriage and blended family. I believe in her vision so much that I became a Titanium Sponsor of all of the Remarriage Showcases for 2012. I look forward to a great year ahead with Remarriage Works!

I saw a dear friend yesterday (one that I do not see nearly enough) and a quick, four word sentence from her has completely changed my life. That is quite a bold statement but I dare say it is true. We were discussing the future, what we may have in store now that the kids are in school more.

“I really want to make this writing thing work.” I said.

“It already is working,” was her reply.

Those four words stopped me in my tracks. It already is working. Yeah, it is.  It is working. I think I have a genetic defect that only allows me to see what I have yet to accomplish and block out all that I have already created. Those four words made me realize I have had the wrong perspective when it comes to myself, my goals, my job well done. Somewhere in the back of my belief system, I held a strong one that my creations somehow miss the mark. How unbelievably erroneous. The thing is, we all hold these beliefs within ourselves. Who doesn’t feel unworthy, incapable, unsuitable, unqualified, the list goes on. The sad thing is, these feelings couldn’t be farther from the truth. I come in contact with dozens of amazing women all day long. I see them at dropoff at my son’s preschool. I see them at the grocery store. I see them at my Women’s League meetings. I see the amazing light that shines in each one of them, yet I find it so hard to acknowledge the light in myself. After my awakening from my friend’s words, I vow to change that. We think it is a bad thing to love ourselves or appreciate our own contribution to our families and the world. If we didn’t think it was bad, we wouldn’t hate our waistlines, or hairlines, or panty lines.  We would celebrate it all.

Sewa Singh Khalsa, a Kundalini Yoga Master Teacher was once quoted as saying “If a man sees you and doesn’t immediately want to serve you and devote his life to you then he’s not worth your time!” Let’s think about that for one minute. Do any of us walk around for any hour of the day, let alone EVERY hour of the day feeling this way about ourselves? I have to say, it sounds pretty good. It is now added to my list of goals.

This started as a blog post about my book but it is way more than that. In fact, it just may be the topic of my next book, StaceyLu’s Guide to Loving Ourselves. People with think they can find it in the sex manual section. That idea probably needs some work but there is definitely more to come on this topic. I give you food for thought. How hard are you on you? And maybe, think just for a minute, that those thoughts you tell yourself are wrong. Maybe they come from your mother, who was wrong. Or they come from your ex-boyfriend, who was wrong. Or they come from your fifth grade social studies teacher who was so wrong he was later fired for inappropriate conduct. The point is, once we hear these opinions about ourselves from people who are so screwed up themselves, they wedge in our belief system causing all sorts of crap and at the very worst, self-doubt. That is the biggest killer of dreams right there.

So I salute you, wonderful woman and Ed, (the only man I know who reads my posts!) reading this right now and I say go out and be the radiant light that you are and join me in kicking self-doubt in the ass and say “Yeah, It’s working!”

“Uuuugggghhhhh!” Being sneezed on any time of the day is the pits but first thing in the morning? I’ll let you fill in the rest. I had to cut the snuggle short to run screaming from the bed to the bathroom to get this smell off of me. I washed my face, neck, behind my ears. I still smell.  I can’t find the smell. Where is it coming from? The only cure for this is a shower and I have no time before the sprint of preschool prep and drop off and zoom to yoga. I debate skipping yoga, I can’t practice so close to all the ladies smelling like sneeze! But I have to go. My holiday hiatus has made me in dire need of some zen. Ok, I will go and sit in the back of class, hopefully it wont be too crowded…

I, of course, walk into the most crowded class ever with a minute before start.

“Hi Stacey. Take the last spot up front between Sheila and Christopher… Christopher? Who the hell is Christopher and why is he in this class? (It turns out Christopher is the perfectly chiseled son of a longtime yogi who is home from college for the holidays and he is in this class because God thought it would be funny.) I can’t believe it.  I smell like sneeze and have to practice six inches away from this Adonis of a young man.  I am a happily married woman but I do have the wherewithal to appreciate God’s handiwork.

My practice goes ok for a while but I get a whiff of the sneeze now and then and now I am convinced everyone around me smells the sneeze too. My only reprieve is the smell of garlic from someone else’s dinner last night.  Although now does everyone think I smell like sneeze and garlic? Yikes. I just want to get through this class and go through my day checking off my to-do list as the enlightened soul I think I am.

A little more time and a few more poses pass when words are uttered few want to hear:

“Stick your butt out.” For some reason, in yoga to get the proper alignment of form and function in so many standing poses, one must “stick your butt out.” That is usually no big deal when you are among friends and fellow yogis but today was not that day. I did what I could to follow direction but apparently not enough because I soon heard:

“Stick your butt out even more!” from our teacher who is either so enlightened that she doesn’t see the embarrassment of it all or does see it and agrees this is the stuff blog posts are made of.

So now I have this perfectly sculpted college kid with his perfectly coiffed head four inches from my nether yea and my teacher wants me to stick my butt out more? Kill me now! I did what any other happily married woman smelling like her son’s morning sneeze would do…I collapsed into the safety of Child’s Pose.  All I have to do is breath…Seriously where is that smell coming from? It has to be my hair.

Shavasana doesn’t come soon enough. I Namaste myself out of there and hightail it home to hit the showers and get put back together before pickup.

I can always count on yoga to be a practice in so many wonderful experiences, one of which being humility. That is a really great thing because we all need humility to keep us grounded, especially after the craziness of the holiday season. To be able to laugh at yourself in the face of truly awkward situations with better-looking, younger people than you, that is a gift that keeps on giving!

Happy New Year All! ~StaceyLu

It is only hours later as the empty bowl sits on my counter waiting to be washed that I see the hardened butter caked to the bottom and think “Gee that is somewhere caked to the bottom of my digestive system. Maybe I shouldn’t eat that anymore.” That worked for a few days, but then J didn’t finish his meal and you know what happens next.

I also love to drink wine and cosmos (fortunately for my liver, not on the same night).

We had friends over last night. It was great fun but boy I sure don’t feel like myself today. Maybe I am coming down with the flu.

“Maybe it’s a hangover,” my husband says.

“No, can’t be. I didn’t drink that much wine. Two glasses maybe. I didn’t feel tipsy last night.”

I brood for an hour dwelling on the fact that my husband is right AGAIN. I give in and take two Advil after my egg and cheese breakfast. I feel better. Sh%^&t, it was a hangover.

That’s it, I am giving up alcohol. It inflames my whole body, makes my insides hurt and I finally realize I am voluntarily contributing to my own death. That sounds extreme but not really. If you think about it for more than a minute, alcohol is not on the food pyramid. It dehydrates and depletes a human body like nothing else can. Yes, I am sure of it, I am giving up alcohol.

Two days later, I can’t take it; I really miss my glass of wine. Why? Am I an alcoholic? No. Just a mother of a four-year-old mountain of peppiness and look forward to my unwinding time at 7pm. I really feel I am depriving myself of something not having my nightly glass.

I went into Whole Foods a few weeks ago determined to stock my fridge and pantry with natural delectables to nourish myself and my family. I was in there for almost an hour and left in almost tears. I was so overwhelmed by all of the “wholeness.”  I left with one bundle of kale and lavender moisturizer.

I seriously needed a guide that day to show me what to buy, what tastes good, and what tastes like the burlap it is packaged in. I could spend thousands of dollars in that store and throw most of it out because it tastes like roof shingles.

Today is a new day. My nagging feeling for better eating is getting louder. A hangover with no wild night to show for it will do that to a person. Juicing is all the buzz these days, I will try that. If I can’t remove all the crap from my diet, maybe I can offset some of it with healthy additions. The thought of buying a juicer to use once and sit in the back of my closet with my Thighmaster doesn’t appeal to me so I will return to Whole Foods and have them make it for me.

I have to say, the first time you go to a juice bar, it feels like the first time at Starbucks or Victoria’s Secret. There are soooo many choices, all with foreign words like spirulina, chlorella and ginger root. I recognized parsley and carrots. I stepped up to the counter and all eyes were on me. I ordered an Earth Goddess because in contains beets. I love beets. There are other ingredients in there, one of which is wheat grass. It was so incredibly fascinating to see them extract juice from a blade of grass. I was then going to drink this. So I did. It wasn’t terrible. I didn’t love it either. But I could get it down and I was doing something amazing for my health so who cares that it tastes like lawn.

Almost instantly, it gave a rich rosy hue to my cheeks that I only thought existed after an orgasm. This is it! The fountain of youth, I have found my new way of living. I am juicing every day. Well, still not buying a juicer so trekking to Whole Foods and paying a whopping nine dollars for 24oz of liquid love.

You know what, today I will get two 24oz containers. It stays good for 48 hours in the fridge so I can suck one down today and have one for tomorrow and save myself a trip to WF.

The lady in line with me at the juice bar admired my gusto.

“Its best on an empty stomach you know. Best for absorption,” she says.

“Great,” I say. “Maximum absorption is what I am after.” I collected my to-go cups and headed to the food bar. This too is almost too much to take. The beautifully presented pizzas and salads and perfectly fried potato latkes look camera ready. I stay to my agenda and walk up to the roasted veggies.

Who knew Brussels sprouts could be so amazing. Roasted in oil and lots of salt. I am in love. Yes, I am eating in my car but how many car eaters can fess up to eating roasted Brussels sprouts!! Very few I am sure. I have about six. Don’t judge me they are Brussels sprouts for goodness sake! I am so healthy.

So it’s about 45 minutes after I got home from WF and I am racing to the bathroom. Holy Sh#$@!, literally! What did I do? Did I overdo the healthiness? I am renaming WF, W the F? I totally overdid it and now, there is no way I am drinking that stuff tomorrow or ever again! Well, at least not tomorrow, i have to let my ass recover. But I spent almost twenty bucks on all that Earth Goddess and now I can’t drink it?!? I am in Health Food Hell. Where’s my box of mac and cheese? Where’s my pinot noir?

This is getting too long so I will say To Be Continued…

Eat, Drink and Remarry…StaceyLu’s Guide to Planning the Second Time Around has hit the virtual shelves on www.amazon.com. I am so happy to get this book done before paper is obsolete. Although for you e-reader enthusiasts, the Kindle version is available November 20^th just in time for some light Thanksgiving reading.

Follow this link to get your copy today:

http://www.amazon.com/Eat-Drink-ReMarry-StaceyLus-Planning/dp/1461106346/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1320429029&sr=1-3

The flame of this shining moment was slightly diminished by a snowstorm in October and subsequent seventy-two hour power outage but you can’t keep me down for long!

If you are one of the few people left on the planet that I have not told about my book, here is a synopsis:

I was twenty-eight when I got divorced and thirty when I walked down the aisle for the second time. I didn’t know one person who was divorced at my age, let alone remarrying. At the time, I didn’t feel like I had the right to ask for help with anything. Friends and family helped me plan the first wedding (bridal showers, engagement parties, gifts) and they supported me through my divorce. How could I ask for anything now?

After I got married (round two), I began to see more woman going through the same process – getting married way too young, getting divorced and remarrying around thirty. I felt compelled to write this book. I saw myself as a pioneer, and not in a good way, but at least maybe I could help others going through the same thing.

Almost everything went wrong when I was planning my second wedding. The only right part about the whole experience was my husband-to-be. But even though I was marrying Mr. Right, the Universe kept sending every wrong circumstance my way. I soon realized that I was the source of my own misery. My frame of mind attracted these circumstances. I was engaged less than one year after my divorce was final.  That isn’t much time, especially because once I received those papers I never looked back — never thought about it, never talked about it…nothing. So, I never dealt with all of the emotions surrounding my divorce.

The pages of Eat, Drink and Remarry are chock-full of love and gratitude for the stories they tell. This is my story and the stories of other brave women who were honest about the struggles surrounding their encore weddings. There were plenty of happy moments, but for some reason the low points are much funnier. Most of it was a rollercoaster of emotions and one big logistical nightmare.

This tale is told with honesty and humor and contains some tips for women who find themselves on the same sinking ship I was on, planning a second wedding.  It only took seven years to complete so I am feeling right on schedule. For those of you not planning a second wedding, buy it anyway, its funny!

The bad news is I am not pregnant. (I just look like I am.)

I have gained ten pounds in two months. That is very ambitious eating. For the past two months I have been either eating food or shopping for food to eat later.

Did you know that there is a well researched piece of documentation in the world entitled The Life Events Inventory? I was unaware of this. I was also unaware that moving is on that list. It ranks only slightly lower than death of a family member or being incarcerated. Well, maybe quite a bit lower than those two but it ranks right above sexual difficulties. That makes sense.

The last day of summer camp callously coincided with our move out of our wonderful house of eight years into a temporary apartment. In the time between camp ending (August 12^th) and school starting (September 8^th), I have lost a few things and I have gained a few things.

What I have lost:

I lost my beloved cat of fourteen years due to the circle of life, whom we put to sleep three days before we moved. I lost my dog, who is vacationing in Vermont while we are in the apartment. I was not about to walk an untrained eighty pound Labrador on a leash. I lost my yard to keep my high octane son busy. I lost the ability to know if the sun is shining unless I step outside. Our pad is practically in the basement. I lost my routine (yoga who?) and basically every ounce of who I was while J was in school. For one month, I neglected to listen to my music, exercise with any regularity, or have any fun whatsoever. I became a full-time butler-on-duty (my son’s current favorite phrase because he gets to say “butt” and “doodie”). For the last month, I lost just about everything that made me, me.

What I have gained:

I have gained ten pounds, all in my middle, from the emotional eating and drinking that got me through our move and started to take up residency in our apartment while my husband was traveling. I had to finally kick the oreos and mojitos to the curb when it was starting to become a habit.

I have gained perspective. After some settling in, I got back to experiencing joy in our new surroundings and in our new routine. We are playing soccer in the road of the development and it’s fun. I feel like we are street kids from the seventies yelling “car!” to move to the side to let the cars pass. My sheltered four-year-old is learning how to navigate around cars and not walk and look backward or he will plow into one.

I have gained the knowledge that home really is where your heart is. This little apartment is where my husband comes home to and is where my son sleeps so peacefully and is where I am filled with the appreciation for the love we carry with us as a family wherever we live.

Today was the first day of school. We stepped out our door this morning to be greeted by three fire trucks and a Channel 12 news van. There was a major gas leak in the next building over and apparently that is serious stuff. I drove J to school then headed back to the development. I was on a mission to exercise guilt-free for the first time in many weeks.

I got on my exercise sneakers and headed to the gym across the driveway. I stopped to ask about the two giant flames shooting out of the gas lines a hundred yards away.

“It is currently contained” the fireman told me. Good enough for me! Having been reassured by authorities, I headed for that mill.

“Aren’t you concerned right now?” a fellow apartment occupant asked me in the hallway as I started toward the gym.

“Are you kidding me? Today is the first day of pre-school and nothing is getting in between me and my treadmill. And that includes an impending gas explosion.” She didn’t look the part of a mom with kids in school. She just didn’t understand.

Running again, listening to my music was a freedom worth the wait. The struggle of the last month melted and all I could feel was the joy of the present moment. This tiny slice of my life was so unbelievably perfect, gas flames in full view and all. I could only throw my head back and laugh. God bless the first day of school.

What I hear: “You are doing it wrong.”

What he says: “Be careful not to overstuff that box, your vases will crack.”

What I hear: “You are doing it wrong.”

What he says: “Did you tape the bottom of the box securely? Let me check for you.”

What I hear: “You are doing it wrong.”

A wise friend recently told me moving is a test to any marriage. “Thanks for the head’s up.” I replied. In my head I thought, “Not my marriage. R and I are always in sync and sensitive to each other’s feelings.” Today is day four of packing up the house and I am already digging out the crisis hotline phone number. I feel like the woman in labor screaming at her husband, “You did this to me!”

Our moving process couldn’t be going any better. It has all been flowing nicely. So why the Prozac-deprived behavior? I can only blame it on my inner child who hates change and is throwing a fit that I have no control over. No, that’s probably not it. In the past four days, I have become this cranky puppy-kicker and R is the puppy. My husband can not do or say anything right. Only the clarity of a car ride this morning made me see I am not myself and he deserves an apology. Good thing he is #1 in my favorites. I have a feeling I will be making this call a lot.

Then I realized the source of my crankiness is the mess that this house has become. We are in the worst stage of the whole process – the weeding out and tag sale stage. No room is without piles of items to be boxed, donated or thrown away. That’s the other upsetting issue. Our carbon foot print is a size 15EEE with the amount of trash we are generating. I see old humidifiers and broken dressers that are destined for the dump to sit for eternity and it makes me sick. It makes me never want to purchase another item ever again. Not sure I can stick to that one though, a new house to decorate awaits.

I realize to save my sanity I need to get comfortable with living with temporary chaos. I am not sure how to do that. I like order and neatness. I struggle when my son’s toys are everywhere and now it’s like the house is one big heap of toys. I find wine has helped me get comfortable. Wine is my new best friend.

Now that I think about it, to save my sanity, I must first find it in this house of crazy. Excuse me while I go do that, I think it I hear it screaming from under a pile of sh#t on the living room floor.

To be continued…

Even though I had apologized to him before dropping him at camp, I was still feeling down about the whole thing. While having some lunch I turned on a taped Oprah (I have a backlog of the countdown shows that I still haven’t seen) and picked one at random (Oh how nothing is random.) It was the show about divorce and the two children who’s mother abandoned them and they are still ripped apart from it six years later. I immediately burst into tears. Then I sobbed, and sobbed some more. I felt so bad for these children who only wanted their mother back, more than anything in the whole world. This mother who walked out on them six years ago, never to be heard from again, they want back. Two thoughts came to mind. One, that after everything she put them through, they would want her to come home is an amazing testament to the love and forgiveness of a child. And two, I just wanted to hug my son so tight and give him all of the love I feel for him every second of every day, but that gets slapped or kicked or poked into oblivion, and becomes a lost opportunity to express.

I see this mini life lesson as a wake up call to not be so uptight when it comes to my boy. He is, in fact, a boy. I am still learning what a boy is. I don’t know from boys. Up until age four, I had a sweet, sweet mush of baby that loved love.  Once four hit, my sweet mush now rations his hugs, wipes off all my kisses and has the ability to be mean just for the fun of it. A stalemate often ensues over who will pick up the trail of whatever is all over the floor. “No, You” is his standard answer. Lately, he has started using fake tears like emotional terrorism. If I give in just once, it sets a precedent for all future negotiations. Daily requests include “smell my feet, pick this up, get me this” and the aforementioned “hold my penis while I pee.” I take great comfort on a regular basis knowing I am not alone. As I write this, millions of mothers of little (and not so little) boys are having this same experience.

I can lament about why things are so different since J turned four, or I can Accept What Is. The latter is better. And I try to do it with a laugh and an acknowledgement that this too shall pass. Someday his favorite word won’t be “poop.” Someday, in the far distant future, he won’t try to burb in public because it’s funny (maybe.)

For now, I can relish the fact that I am still his favorite person. I don’t know when that will change. Please don’t tell me. I want to enjoy our date this afternoon to play mini-golf in the rain. Our conversation after the morning meltdown went something like this:

J: “I want to go play miniature golf today, Mama.”

Me: “that’s something we should save for when Daddy is home, or the kids. Or do you want to go with just me?”

J: “Just you, Mama.”

Ahh, how sweet four is.