Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Connecting to the Natural World

My sensual relationship with the natural world all began in a small yard, in an urban neighborhood, in a dirty New England city.  I think most young people feel a call to the wild from the domesticated edges of the nature that surrounds them. City parks and the wild un-kept fringes of these places hold mystery and sensual nature experience. A tree with climbable branches, a little danger and daring, a branch of a bush that hangs down and creates a perfect reading nook, these are the things that stimulate a relationship with nature.

As a child I was an amateur naturalist. In my urban New England town I would collect bags full of horse chestnuts and crab apples. I explored the giant woodpile my parents had delivered to our driveway each spring. We would spend the summer piling the logs into neat rows on the front porch preparing for long, cold winters. Each log was a microhabitat for bug life. I would often catch salamanders in my hands and examine all the squiggly bugs hiding under a log at the bottom of the pile. My brothers and I would play king of the mountain and climb to the top of the woodpile or hide buried among the logs on the far side of it. 


In my little urban yard I spent a lot of time hiding under the eaves of lilac bushes reading Shel Silverstein poetry. I would write in my journal under a rose bush in the semi-wild strand between our property and our neighbor’s property. The huge Norwegian maple tree in the corner of our yard was a dear friend of mine. I would gather her leaves into piles in the fall and try and kick the piles down while swinging on our play set. I picked raspberries in the far corner of the yard and marveled over the mystery of a hidden quince that flowered each spring and produced little sour fruit I did not know what to do with.

One arbor day I was given a pine sapling and planted it next to the hemlock in our yard. I planted it in the shade of the big hemlock and it soon died. I was discouraged not knowing how to properly plant the tree so it would survive. Another year, in the front yard, my mother had me plant corn seeds and before long our corn stalks reached their arms to the heavens with yummy large cobs to eat all summer. I became a corn maiden.



As a grown up and mother in my Mid South little city I use the nature in my back yard as a contemplative space for myself. I do a "Sit Spot" in a corner of the yard twice a week. For 20 minutes I sit in that spot and watch as the life of my back yard animates before me. I have never felt bored doing this. There is so much to see, listen to, and understand. I now long for my sit spot session. It is my quiet time to take in all that surrounds me. Getting to know one place, one habitat, has taught me to fall in love with where I live. It helps me to be more focused when I come back to my home afterward and step back into the role of parent. It also helps me to remember how important it is to spend time outside with my kids.

Children approach nature differently from adults. In my adult lens I want to preserve nature, to examine it without the influence of my touch. A child wants to get up in nature, feel it, pick it, prod and poke it. If we don't give them a chance to do this, they lose interest. Although I know about these differences, they can be hard to stomach. I hate it when Sweetpea picks flowers from our front yard bush. I find them piled on the console table, presents for me that are forgotten soon after the picking. I realize that in her picking she is getting to know the plant, she is touching and ripping, smelling and feeling all the essence the plant has to offer. If she just looked at the plant with her eyes she would soon tire of it. Unless I sat with her and encouraged her to look deeper, she would forget the plant. The act of taking from the plant helps her to build a relationship with it. She also helps me trim this bush in the spring. When new shoots threaten to take over the front porch. We get to hack them down together. We have a delightful scented pile of brush to play with for the next few weeks. These branches could become fairy crowns, birds’ nests, or the woven mat of a roof for an earthen shelter. 
The possibilities are endless for a pile of sticks covered in leaf and blossom. 


I have learned as an adult there is a whole category of intelligence called nature intelligence. When I have called myself a plant person I did not realize I really had the brain for it. I soak up nature knowledge and it comes easily to me. I hear a plant name and know it by heart almost immediately. I never saw this part of myself as a career path, I always saw this talent as just a part of me. Being a plant person was a piece of who I was, but not a calling. As the world shifts and changes, our climate becomes more unpredictable. Food is becoming more expensive and insecure and disconnect from the place a person lives is more prevalent. I am starting to see how much plant knowledge and earth connection is needed. My interest in birds, plants and the day-to-day wildlife is something a lot of people don't have and need help finding.


I am now seeing it as my mission to teach the skills of sustainability. I am bringing nature knowledge to young people. I am teaching adults to remember what having a sensual connection with nature is by learning about the environment that is right in front of them. I believe when people know the nature that surrounds them they care more and are more likely to make choices that keep the earth in mind. People feel Connected to the beautiful and intricate web of life starting in their backyards.

Nature Knowledge all starts in our daily environment. This knowledge is potent, it is believing we have influence and are connected to all living things. If we realize this, we give power to the earth and we give voice to the policies we want to see in place. We must appreciate the importance of being present with the beauty of our own little worlds and make sure it survives for generations to come. 

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Choosing the Un-Hip Home "2 Years In"




In all my wildest imaginings of where I would find home I did not expect to find myself in Tulsa Oklahoma. I have chosen to have a place and community I call my own regardless of where it is. I have lived many places in my life, mostly in the Northern states. I grew up in New Haven, Connecticut. As a teen I spent a lot of my time on a Metro North train bound for New York City exploring the city with a tight circle of friends in the surrounding Tri-state area. As a young adult with a taste for adventure I moved myself across the country to Seattle where rainbow flags lined the streets and the breath taking beauty of the natural world made me vibrate with emotion. While nannying on the side I would save all my money and go travel in Europe and South America.

After becoming a parent my priorities changed. I wanted family, I wanted people that were as dedicated to raising my kids as I was. I flirted with the idea of returning to the land my people are from. Though I grew up in the North, my parents are from this Southern land. My husband’s family lives in Tulsa. For a soft move to see if we could really live in this part of the country we moved to Austin, Texas. It is a reclaiming of my heritage to return to the south. While in Austin I watched as the tech industry took over this small, hip town. I really liked the city but watched as the rent price went up and my neighborhood became too expensive to live in. This is when Tulsa started looking like the right place for us to live.




My new home is buried deep in the Mid-South in a red state, and so be it. I say screw moving for a job, screw the idea of moving to the over inflated markets of hip, liberal, coastal cities and living dirt poor under the confines of cool. Screw all that, I am moving to Tulsa. I am excited, exploring like a little worm investigating the interior of a ripe apple. What layers does this city hold for me? What opportunities can our family glean from this place? What can I bring here? These questions lie on the surface of this overwhelming sensation of, I am home! I don’t have to move again!

I chose simplicity, a life based on connection to loved ones, a do-able place where I don't have to live on the edge and can write from the fringe. A place I can afford to live in and be able to buy tickets to visit the people I love in those above-mentioned hip, liberal, coastal cities. It is a relieving feeling having a place called home. My cancer crab nature has been looking for roots my whole adult life.


I live now in the land of my husband’s family. I live in the state my dad was raised in. I am circling back into a web that I cast aside in my younger adulthood. I want my kids to know their grandparents. I want to have big family dinners and be able to know that people here have my family’s back. These desires outweighed the red flag warnings of moving to a place where I knew I would be fish out of water. In Tulsa my punk/queer history could easily slip under the surface and into hiding.

Going undercover with my radical nature has been a part of living in the South. I had to get used to this upon moving to Texas a few years ago. I am now more selective with whom I share what. When I was younger it was all about in-your-face confrontation. Living on the edge meant being your self no matter what. Now I see I can be myself and not share all that comes into my head. I can think my opinions and still get along with folks very different from me. This is a great skill to adopt.


In some ways this place is sheltered from the harsh realities of a competitive city. Tulsa says: “welcome! Here is a new opportunity or possibility for you.” And Ha! In my face! It can be hip here. Tulsa has a thriving alternative scene complete with artists, climate change activists, hippie farmers, entrepreneurial young couples and pug lovers. Not as many radicals as in the Northwest, but still freaky people choosing to live here.

One of the biggest differences I notice is the lack of transplants here. Spending all my 20's and late teens in the transient North West it is so odd for me to be around all these people that come from this place. There are also folks that never left. I have seen stylish, young Okies selling fermented preserves, sporting handle bar mustaches and wearing ironic T-shirts like the best of them never having left their hometown. There is a lot of hometown pride here. I see many a shoulder adorned with a tattoo that outlines the state with a heart over Tulsa.

When I move to a place I learn all about it.  I study the history, culture, and natural marvels of the place. Tulsa is old. The actual rock that makes up the land is filled with fossilized shells. Prairie grass still rolls around some parts of North East Oklahoma. They call this land Green Country. The wind can howl through you and bring with it the cold weather. There is a Lesser Prairie Chicken Festival. Where the attendees watch as a Prairie Chicken “displays” on its gobbling grounds. One day I will make it to this festival and chortle happily.

This place is native as well. Native American culture surrounds the dominating white culture. I thought of this a lot when I first moved here. Making connections into the Native community is important to me, but it has not been easy. It is easy to surround myself in predominantly white culture and forgot about the fact that this is Native land. I feel it even more living in Indian Territory and seeing tribal plates everywhere.  I notice it when I see entering and existing reservation signs on the roadside. What does it mean to enter Cherokee land? Land that was given to Cherokees that was not even their ancestral land? I am 1/16th Cherokee and I am still figuring out what that means and how to claim it as a person of the predominant white culture while still being real.

I have gotten good at moving and remaining authentically me no matter where I live.  I still feel a part of the East coast and West coast within me. I carry both cultures as well as a good Southern twang now. After a couple of years here, I have settled in, and it seems that Tulsa and I have blended. We have grown together. Maybe my edgy east coastness has been toned down, and maybe Tulsa has taken a step towards being a touch more liberal. Maybe I just fell in with the right crowd. I believe it is a combination of all these things.  Something about getting older has made me feel more grounded in the person I am, not striving anymore to be something greater, or in a particular culture that I have to fit into. I am home for now and it feels so good.






      












      


Wednesday, March 23, 2016

The Checks of Shame

I receive WIC.  Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) is a government-subsidized program designed to help low income families pay for groceries, promote health and breast feeding. You can sign up when you are pregnant and stay enrolled if your income is still low enough to qualify, until your child is 5. I have been on WIC with both my kids. I got it when I was first pregnant with Sweet pea and now I get it with Pickle. Apparently my mom used to get WIC back in the day when I was little. WIC has been a great breastfeeding support system for me. They gave me a free electric breast pump and all the pump parts right after having Pickle. While I am super grateful that I get a significant discount on groceries every month I often wonder at what cost. 

WIC is not a delightful experience. Because the government subsidizes WIC, the food is very specific, down to the ounces of how much you can get of one thing. WIC allows only generic brands, nothing quality, just the basics. This specificity leads to many mistakes. In the beginning I would screw up all the time. A 16oz loaf of bread can be hard to find. There is no handy swipe card, in Oklahoma you get big checks with the items written out on them. In the 2 years that we have been on WIC since moving here I have had a total of one pleasant, pain free interaction when using WIC. As I am writing this I can't believe it either. Really, just one in two years!

I have come to call WIC the checks of shame. “Time to go do my checks of shame shopping!” I shout as I leave the house on Monday with a sarcastic grin across my face.

There I am, scanning the aisles trying to find the shortest line with the most competent looking cashier. I have tried to strategize when I go WIC shopping to avoid a long impatient line behind me. In the middle line, is a free space, I wedge my cart in. Time to put on my sing, song, happy go lucky voice as I hand over my checks. “I am doing WIC first. “ I say calmly. The cashier is an older woman who already looks terrified. I remember to put my cloth shopping bags in front and let the bagger know to fill them all the way up. I often end up with 4 plastic bags at the end, even when I bring my own bags. Oklahoma still has not figured out yet that I bring bags because I don’t want plastic.

I cheerily put forward my WIC items, cleanly separated out, meticulously scrutinized for the proper ounces and brands. I think maybe this time it will go smoothly. I give her the first check, the easy one.  All there is on this check is milk, eggs, bread and PB. She spends a lot of time clicking buttons before she has to call her supervisor over to remind her how to do WIC. I wait patiently. I try to coach her on what to push, since I have watched every mistake ever done by a cashier. I point at another cashier I recognize in the line over and say, “she can help, she has helped me before. “ No dice, guess I should have noticed her line before this one. The supervisor comes, does a quick tutorial and we are back in business. First check down, I am in good spirits, than I go in for the kill. $12 of fruits and vegetables. According to my mini WIC encyclopedia I get to have fresh produce, it can be organic vegetables, pre-washed greens, all $12 worth for a month! Maybe for some $12 of produce is significant but for our family it barely buys 2 meals. Still free food, is free food, so I put down the check and wait. A calm before the storm.

The cashier starts up her process then after the first vegetable she rings up, it says, this is not a WIC item. She tells me flatly “This is not a WIC item.” Like every other week I get out my mini encyclopedia and explain to her that yes, any and all vegetable and fruit are game for my $12. She calls the supervisor over again. This time I am getting hot around the face. I now have 2 other folks behind me, “this will be awhile” I tell the women behind me. She does not budge. Then I realize I recognize the other women behind her. It’s a friend. This friend is probably one of the best people to run into in this scenario.  She and her family are chill and sweet people who are thoughtful in trying situations. I am trying to play it cool as we wait. We start chatting about the church we both go to. Its pleasant but I am also distracted by how long this is taking. I am really heating up by the time the supervisor arrives and saves the day with his “special card.” She can now finish ringing up my $12 of produce.

One more complication arises. I got too many vegetables. In this case often the cashier will just add my extra veggies to my non-WIC items. Only this cashier really did not know what she was doing. She wanted cash. I reach into my wallet and hand over $5. That was supposed to go to something else. It sucks that money is so tight $5 feels like too much to give.

I say thank you, say goodbye to my friend, and wheel out into the spring air. It is when I get to my car I realize the bagger switched halfway though that transaction and gave me 3 plastic bags. I get in my car and cry.
At least once a month I come home crying after a WIC trip. The mark of being low-income stings. It’s so confusing and hard I often wish we did not qualify for it at all.

But we do, and until we do not qualify I cannot see any way of not taking the free food.
From Hyperbole and A Half Blog


Tuesday, February 16, 2016

The Burning Hot Nanas

There is a "gentleman’s club" my daughter and I pass on the way to her Pre-K. It is a place right in the middle of a busy, family oriented neighborhood strip. Her dance school is a few blocks down, its surrounded by a vet office, plant nursery, restaurant and violin shop. I don't know how the club came to be there but there it is, right in our faces as we drive from point A to point B. I find the place sleazy & do my best to ignore it.

One day my very observant Pre-K kid asked me about the place. "Mama, why is there a picture of burning hot nanas on that building?" (nanas is a friendly term for breasts we used when she was breast feeding, pronounced nah-nahs.) The strip club has its name emblazoned on a red sign with women's nude torsos engulfed in flames. This is it, that horrible moment where I have to decide how to explain to my daughter the exploitation of women in our culture. I rack my brain for the most simplified response I can imagine. "Well, honey, the person that owns that business put up that sign. What do you think of that sign?" a pause from the back seat, "I don't like it." Neither do I honey." Another pause, then she says, "We should tell them to take it down. " I said “yes that is a great idea."

After our talk I was motivated and ready to put pen to paper and give this business a piece of my mind! But by the time we got home a million other thoughts had swept through my head and we were onto the next thing. We pass by this place a few times a week. Since  the initial conversation Sweetpea sometimes notices the nanas and sometimes does not.  When she does notice she says. "I don't like that sign, let’s tell them to take it down." I have told her to not look if it bothers her. I have told her yes it bothers me too and I agree we should ask to have it taken down. Finally after many excuses I told her we will write to them she just needs to remind me when we are home and by paper and pen.


I started to get a daily reminder, "Remember mama to write to the place with the burning hot nana sign." This reminder comes to me in the same vein as " Remember to take out the garbage." I tuck her into bed and she reminds me to write the place with the burning hot nana sign. I am fixing her snack and she reminds me again. Its incredible how something so intense and confusing as talking about sexual exploitation of women has become such a run of the mill conversation in my home.

One night I finally set the wheels in motion and started the letter. I am tired of feeling worn down by offensive media. I am tired of accepting the BS that says this world is just crappy and we can't do anything about it.  Even if they don't take down the sign I know it’s important to write the letter. It’s important because I want to show my daughter that we can try to make change. She needs to know that we can state our opinions no matter what. Also, that stating her opinion makes things better. In my ideal world there would not even be a strip club my daughter and I would have to interact with. Confronting the burning hot nanas is giving us a chance to say what we want in our community with our voices. This is a powerful step against sexism and towards empowerment even if the nanas continue to burn.

Foot note: To all women/mothers working in the biz and ex-sex workers this is not about what you do. We all have to make money and for some this is the most reliable option. I salute you in your efforts to pay bills and raise families as a female in this society. We are all in this together.

   




  

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

The Value Of Adventure

Recently a fellow mom friend and I were talking. We were discussing all the amazing adventures we had in our young adult lives. We longed for that fresh-eyed perspective of youth, having new ground to walk on, new people to talk to and new sensory experiences that drew us to the present. As we have both gotten older, we have chosen to have families and the days of wild abandon had shifted. We missed that aspect of ourselves. 
By, Rosa Mund-Zander

As much as we were happy with the lives we had chosen, that need for adventure was sadly neglected. We talked about the realities of being lower income and money going to meet the basic needs of our family. We also talked about how it’s different adventuring with small children and or your partner, trying to meet everyone's needs and your own at the same time.

The conversation boiled down to we both felt like we did not have enough adventure, and how it was a value of ours. Re framing adventure as a value suddenly made this big ever present desire in me spark to life. I have spent a lot of my motherhood down playing this need of mine. It is always last on the list of what we need to put energy or money toward. My husband has been a huge stumbling block in the way of this value. He does not mean to be. He just feels that one of us has to be the practical one in this regard, so he takes on that role. It has been a source of discontentment sense we became parents. 
By, James Richards for wanderarti blog


Usually the conversation goes like this:" let’s go somewhere fun this year! I want to see our friends in the NW." To which he replies, "We can't afford that." "There are all different ways to travel, what about frequent flyer miles etc." "We need to pay off debt before we can go into more debt." Most of the time I feel ashamed of this desire, like I am not putting the needs of my family first. Why would I want to do something as frivolous as travel?

By re framing adventures into a value I looked at the situation differently. If I don't have fresh perspective, my creativity suffers. I become more jaded and melancholy. I can't enjoy the experiences in front of me as easily. I parent better when I have fresh eyes and new experiences under my belt. I can share this value with my children, and they see the spark of life in their mom and get excited too.

I am a restless soul and adventure is an important thing to honor in myself. By hiding this need I am hiding a big part of the magic that is me and I am not ok with that.
By, Candace Rardon on Wanderarti blog
So how do you do it? I am still figuring that out. It started with a big conversation with my husband. I let him know adventures were a value of mine and I could not neglect it even though money is very tight. Just saying this out loud helped to get the conversation going. I have also made a list of the adventures I want to have this year. These are my heart felt intentions and goals. I am not sure how they will happen, but just setting the intention makes me feel excited.

I am also narrowing my focus on what are things I see as necessary places to go, verses any whim or passion. I am assembling a list of local adventures to keep fresh eyes on the place I am living now. When I read about a new ethnic restaurant or market, it goes on to the list.  When I hear about a neat hiking trail, a good swimming hole or camping spot, they all go on the list. I also keep a list of adventures I want to have with the family and what I want to do alone or with friends. It is so good to prioritize self-adventures where I only have to meet my needs. Also to be ready for a family adventure knowing it will look different and be about the needs of all of us.

Seeing the value in adventures is leading me to show myself more while being a mom. It’s a win win.


Monday, December 14, 2015

The Life And Death Of A Friend

Recently, a good friend of mine died. She was a mother of two, a fierce and insightful being that decided to take her own life. Two weeks after the horror and shock of this event I have been left in a pondering stage of grief.  Thinking about what all she lost by leaving us to soon and what I still have to learn about her. I also think about odd things like what she is missing by not having a body on this earth any longer. How she doesn't have to deal with this crazy world we live in anymore. The two mass shootings in the US this week, who to vote for president next year, what exactly climate change will do to us in Tulsa. All those intense and complicated things she does not have to deal with any longer.


She created a ripple in our community. I would not call her a community leader, but deeply embedded in the alternative circles we both tended to hang out in. She was an artist and a healer and shared her talents with us through tarot readings, massage, kundalini yoga and sexual awareness workshops for women. She thought it was a tragedy that there were some women that had never experienced an orgasm and wanted to help all women claim this magical right.

Our relationship was separate from any circle. We did not meet through friends, it was at an art opening where we recognized that spark of commonality. Our kids became fast friends and that made us get closer. We bonded over living in the NW and being transplants to the mid-south. we shared hippi alternative view points. Our values were aligned in connecting ourselves and our kids to nature, eating fermented foods, making art and living a life in the counter culture.

At her memorial they had on display some of her things. In the eulogy our minister spoke of her being an avid collector. Having real style and sensuality. One of her friends was quoted with saying "It was like being with an angel who got kicked out of heaven for making a lewd joke." That was her in all her glory.

I also wonder what I could have done to prevent this from happening. I know it was not in my hands but I do think of the ways I was passive about her addiction issues. How I waited for her to come to me instead of being an active helper. How I watched her family go through transition after transition and felt paralyzed to help them. I saw her get more in debt and feel helpless in her situation. Held captive by the restrains of capitalism, being a parent and a free spirit.
By Jenny Armitage

At her eulogy I learned so much about her history I never knew. There are still many mysteries that now will only be brought to light with the stories of the ones who knew her. This experience has made me value all the parts of my story and how I don't want to wait till I am dead for people to know who I really am.

We are left with holding onto her family, her loved ones she left behind. Her daughter and son have to have a community of mothers and I am now one of them. I will continue to learn her story and not let her life fade into the past.


Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Tales of The Part Time Working Mom

This seems like the ideal set up. In a lot of ways it is. Part time working moms get the best of both worlds. We get a fist full of life outside the home and a baby and kid to coo over all afternoon when work is finished. We can wipe clean our workday and see our kids with fresh eyes and perspective as they enter into the wider world beyond our home cocoon. 

More income is coming into the household, not a lot of income in my case but something to help with the daily round. My kids get to see me more then they would if I worked full time. I actually miss them in a day verses being so overloaded with parenting I am ready to ditch as soon as my co-parent arrives home.  I have time to pick them up from school or day care, hear about the day and go home to some play, dinner prep, down time and nursing. I get to role model for my girls a confident mama in the world taking on big projects with her family alongside her. Recently Sweetpea told me she wanted to work at the Botanic garden when she grew up. I have a reason to get dressed up in the morning, wash my nice clothes and throw a huge spit rag over it all in hopes I won't be blurped on before I get to work.

Our minds are filled with the details of our jobs as well as the details that make the engine of a family running steady. My partner shares the parenting load more. Home life and work life are split up and we both play an integral role in each place. A level of respect and harmony floats around us when I have a moment to notice it. 


I have others looking after my young ones who love, respect and care for them. I use the mantra it takes a village to raise a child and trust my babies are taken care of and its good for them to experience life and culture with more then just me and daddy. There is energy in the part time working mamas home. An energy of accomplishment, being present and a little bit of chaos. Two non-profit jobs cannot hire a cleaning person so we settle for a bit of dirt and clutter that gets scurried away when we have a party or friends over for dinner. 

Part time work has a lot of pros but like most life choices it is also not as dreamy as it seems.  The part time worker is not paid as well. We get no benefits except the benefit of more time with our family. We forgo a lot of self-time for work time. Creativity is an after thought that lives burning in my heart and only get touched upon occasionally. As a women and mother I often put the needs of my family or job first and suffer from not being authentic to the creative well within. Exercise only sometimes happens and usually involves taking an unwilling kid along. As a part time worker my experience is so unique. So many other part time workers have such a varied experience. Some work from home, or have to take the office with them everywhere. Some are on call, some have their own business. It’s a hard way to relate to others experience when the experience can look so vastly different. We are all united on having kids and making some money at the work we do but the similarities often stop there.

 There is no handy acronym for the part time working mom, not SAHM or working mom, you are kind of a hybrid. Finding good, affordable childcare that caters to working parents as well as SAHM is rough too. Full time day cares are too expensive and not what I want but part time day cares like mothers day out only sort of work and are full of SAHM so you feel a little isolated as a worker in their midst. 

Going from SAHM to working mom was a huge shift as well. I constantly compare my experience with my first to my second and try to measure up to what I did the first time around. I cannot be there for everything with Little Pickle and it is heart breaking. At the same time it is relieving to have more income and knowing she is being well taken care of by others so I can also do important work in the world.

As a part time working mom you feel the urge and pressure to do everything a SAHM does but half the time to do it. You want to take on the PTA and volunteer projects at the school, you want to make muffins and have long kid directed play times after school. You have the expectation that you can get all the housework done and dinner ready every evening. But there is just not enough time for it all. So it happens in chunks. Chunks of self-care used for writing dates and calling up dear friends to talk. Going to interesting events around town. Time to snuggle up with your husband and watch a show in the 2 hours between when the kids fall asleep and when it’s your time to turn in. Chunks of time and patience are key to well being. 

I salute you fellow PTWM! You are kicking butt on so many levels, now stop and give your self a much needed bath and book date.