Author: Monica Marcelis Fochtman, PhD, CPRW, CCTC
Snark is my sugar
Today is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. As a Catholic Christian, Lent is an important time for me. It is a 40 day journey (47 if you count weekend days) toward Easter. It is a time to pray better, reflect more, and strive to end the journey different than when I started. I hope to have a stronger relationship with Christ as a result of this Lenten journey. I hope to have a stronger relationship with myself as a result of this Lenten journey.
Every year I start Lent with great enthusiasm. I actually love Ash Wednesday. I love getting ashes. I love that the ashes come from burning the palms used on Palm Sunday the previous year. The cyclical nature of the Church’s seasons is very comforting to me. Catholics also do symbols really well. I love the symbolism of the ashes- “remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”
In my circles (very small ones on Twitter and Facebook), there is talk about “what did you give up for Lent?” There are many great responses- eating out, cursing, sweets, caffeine, Facebook, sugar. I decided a few days ago that I was going to take a huge personal risk (Risk is my #oneword2014) and give up public postings of snark. For 47 days, I will try to make all of my public posts, wall comments, and tweets positive. I will not post sarcastic, snarky things in response to what I read.
This is a huge deal for me. Snark is my sugar. I love snark. I am addicted to snark. Snark is hard to resist. It feels so good going down.
I use snark to be funny and self-deprecating, to put others at ease, to feel smart. I used to think that my snark was justified because I am from the east coast, smart, and been through more than most of my peers. While these things may be true in my head, they do not matter to the outside world.
Several people whom I know and love have told me that I am direct. I thought this was a good thing. I say what I mean and I mean what I say. What you see is what you get. These are good things. In context. With people who know and love me and whom I know and love. Snark is not a good thing without the context of relationship.
I am slowly learning that snark is my shield, my armor, my way to strike first. It also creates distance. It puts the receiver on the defensive, or leaves them confused. That is the opposite of the impact that I want to have. This is the opposite of the impact that I do have with the students, colleagues, and friends who know me well.
Snark is my sugar. It is so, so good going down. But after a bit, the sugar high wears off and I get a headache.
So, this Lent, I am going to try really hard to give up snark. I am going to be honest and positive, not direct and snarky. I am going to challenge myself to start, endure, and finish Lent strong. I am taking a huge risk by doing this and by telling you all about it. I welcome and appreciate your love, prayers, and words of encouragement.
Thank you, Jimmy!
Dear Jimmy Kimmel,
Thank you for taking the time to invite our friend #SuperMax to be on your show. I met Max and his Momma Audra in 2012. Audra and I are part of the 46 Mommas. We’re moms to kids with cancer, shaving our heads to raise money and awareness for the St. Baldrick’s Foundation. As I am sure you know from meeting them, Max and his family are forces of nature. They are not like other people. They DO things to make others better. They DO things to make the world better. They have ideas and then they make them happen.
Children with cancer go through so much. Too much. And Max has been through more than most. Our children endure so much that most of the popular media has turned a blind eye to them. I don’t understand why children getting cancer is not newsworthy. I don’t understand why our children dying from cancer is not newsworthy. It’s not though.
But you wearing a rainbow #SuitoftheLoom and then auctioning it off for charity has gone viral. Thank you for doing this. Maybe it was for ratings. Maybe you needed the publicity to make yourself feel better. I don’t know. I don’t care. I care that you did it and now the world is watching.
I bet that after meeting Max and his family, you are feeling some things: Awe. Amazement. Wonder. Gratitude. Disbelief. I keep watching this clip of you and Max. I see you getting choked up. I am moved by watching you be moved by this small, brave, strong, kind boy. Please don’t stop. Please continue to be moved by him. Please don’t turn away.
Please lean in to those feelings and keep supporting him and the 1,000s of kids like him. 1,000s. Children with cancer need people to stand up for them and be their voice. To raise awareness and desperately needed money for research. You are doing a good thing. People are watching. And many #childhoodcancer parents like me are grateful.
Love from your new fan,
Monica
Keep your heart center open
Most of the time I want to post snark. Snark about students, work, the weather, other drivers…always about others.
I didn’t realize this until today at yoga.
During triangle pose Hannah said, “twist up and keep your neck soft. Keep your heart center open.”
And a voice inside me said, “to myself.” Keep my heart open to myself.
In a heart to heart (ha! No pun intended.) that my mom and I had right after L finished treatment and I graduated in 2010, she said that the hardest part of my moving on would be tolerating others who have not experienced the trauma that we have. That the moving on for me would be marked by moments of exasperation and frustration and impatience. Funny how mothers know us and can get to our very core quicker than any other. I am fortunate that these words were said to me with love and empathy. But, they were still hard to hear, mostly because they are true.
Impatient. That is how I feel most days. Even now, 4 years later. Impatient. Why was that truck parked at the gas station (it’s a gas pump not a parking spot), while the engine idled (duh! gas!), and the driver chuckled on his cell phone? Why is he in my way? Why is he blocking my way to the pump? Doesn’t he know I am already late? Doesn’t he know that I have been through more than him? Doesn’t he know that my son and our family have been through a lifetime of fear and agony and so the rest of life should be smooth sailing?
I thought all of those things in the span of ten seconds this morning, all before 8:15am. That’s a lot of thinking and a lot of brutal self-awareness. I so desperately want to move on from our experience with cancer. Yet at the same time, I wear our experience with cancer like a badge of honor, trying to be an advocate and drum up awareness. I use it like an angry megaphone, when maybe a quieter instrument would be more effective.
In the deepest, truest parts of my soul, I know that there is still healing I need to do. I need to forgive myself for not seeing L’s cancer sooner. Maybe if I had looked harder I would have seen it sooner.
I need to forgive my friend who betrayed me when I needed her the most. I need to forgive myself. Long before she betrayed me, I saw things in her that made me uneasy. I chose to ignore them. I shouldn’t have.
Many of the things that are frustrating me about others, are really things that are unresolved in me. The thing with trauma is that it takes your locus of control and flips it upside down, backwards, and sideways. In childhood cancer world, there is not control. You are a slave to the protocol and absolute neutrophil counts (ANC). We spent 15 months rudderless and hyper-paranoid. It’s exhausting. The re-entry into a world where I do have control (in theory) has been long. It has been arduous work that I underestimated.
I can’t go home again. I am not the same and neither is home.
Today in yoga, a voice told me that my snark is about me and not anyone else. Today in yoga, a voice told me that I need to keep my heart center open- to myself.
Big enough dreams: Part 2
“Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.”
Well, I got what I wished for…I was accepted to the Listen to Your Mother Metro Detroit show! You can see the official cast announcement here.
Holy buckets! I am so nervous I might barf. I am so excited I can’t sit still. It is an honor to be chosen from among the almost 50 women who auditioned. It is a great privilege to be able to share our journey through #childhoodcancer and how it has influenced how I think of myself as a mother.
When I told S the good news, I said “I think I am becoming a writer.” He said, “You have always been a writer. Now, you are writing.”
Gulp.
Practice makes…good enough
I’ve been doing yoga lately. On Tuesday it’s “Basic Yoga” with Hannah (pronounced Hah-nah like Ah-nah but with an H in front) and on Wednesdays it’s “Yogalates” with Scott. No interesting pronunciations there and sadly, no lattes either. “Yogalates” is half yoga and half pilates. I’ve never had a male yoga instructor before either. He’s very zen. But not in an over the top way at all. And, he has a tiny little gut that hangs out of his tank top. It makes me like him more.
Both of these classes kick my butt and my mind in the best ways possible.
I have actually done yoga and pilates off and on for years. Prenatal yoga was an absolute necessity for me and pilates helped me get some of my pre-baby body back. I always seem to find my way back to yoga. And when I do, I am always like, “Oh, yeah! This is why I come back.” I love yoga. This cracks me up because yoga is the complete opposite of everything I think of myself: fast-paced, sharp-tongued, east coast, impatient. Yoga is none of those things. And that is why I love it.
At first, I was hesitant to take a “basic” course because I’ve done yoga before and I was like “I’ve done this before, I don’t need basics!” Then, the first day of class, and every day since then, I have fallen more in love with “basic” yoga. Hannah is always telling us, “don’t let anyone tell you that basic yoga is not hard. It’s hard to focus on one thing. To actually stand there and work on one muscle at a time. And tomorrow, you will feel it.”
Basic means you focus on one part of your body the entire class. Last week it was shoulders. Today it was hips. We do maybe three or four different poses. But in each one, you focus. It’s hard work to stand or sit and only focus on one thing. One thing! You breathe. You stretch. You strengthen. You practice. I love this about yogis (Am I allowed to say that? I’m not a yogi, so I hope I am not breaking some cardinal rule here.). They are always saying, “the practice of yoga” or, “today in your practice, focus on this.”
Practice. Isn’t that a lovely concept? Not mastery or perfection. Practice. Get out there. Put yourself out there. Try. Fall down. Get back up.
I love yoga because it is one of the only judgment free zones in my life. I don’t judge anyone who is there, ever. And I don’t judge myself. Yoga provides the time, space, and place for me to practice. Practice breathing, standing up straight with my shoulders back and heart center open. I am not sure about you, but spending hours in front a computer pretty much guarantees that my shoulders are kissing my ears by 830am and they don’t come back down until 530pm, if they come down at all. That 50 minutes at lunch is all about me and my body. Listening to what it is telling me. I am learning to listen back and not push muscles (or thoughts) that shouldn’t be pushed. And, areas that can be stretched a little bit more each time.
Today, Hannah threw out this gem that has stuck with me all day: “They say that shoulder and neck tension is the most recent. As you go further down your spine, the tensions are older. So by the time you reach your lower back that would be the oldest tension.” Whoa. I’ve had lower back pain since 2001. That’s a lot of holding on to stuff.
I have also been thinking of student affairs practice. I remember in graduate school the word practice got used a lot. I remember writing essays about my philosophy as a student affairs practitioner (rooted in the word practice). As a mid-career professional, I feel pressure to have it all figured out and am no longer allowed to practice. Practice means doing the same thing over and over and over again, until it clicks and becomes innate rather than forced. Practice means making mistakes. I know I made at least one mistake today. Tomorrow, I will go to work and hopefully not make the same one again. I am going to practice.
Big enough dreams
“If your dreams don’t scare you, they’re not big enough.”
This quote (not sure who originally said it, I have seen it so many times) inspired my #oneword2014 choice of “risk.” My goal this year is to push myself out of my comfort zone and not just talk about taking risks but to actually take them.
I took a huge risk today. I am auditioning for the Listen to Your Mother Detroit show. I think I might throw up. I am so nervous. I am nervous that I will not get chosen and then I will come back here and tell everyone. I am nervous that I will get chosen and then I will have to stand up in front of an auditorium full of people and read my writing. Somehow posting on the inter-webs feels safer than a face-to-face reading.
So, the fact that I am terrified tells me that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
My audition is February 1. Prayers, good thoughts, juju whatever are totally welcomed and appreciated.
How do you teach a six year old about love?
Tonight at bedtime with C:
Something happened at school today, Mommy, but I don’t want to tell you about it.
Why honey?
Because I don’t want you to get mad at me.
I won’t get mad. You can tell me honey, its okay.
Even if I do something bad?
Even if you do something bad, baby.
It doesn’t feel like it when you get angry with me.
I raise my voice sometimes honey because I get frustrated. But I always love you.
If it’s doubly bad?
Even then sweet pea. Honey, I will always love you. I love who you are, not what you do.
What if it’s quadruple bad?
Yes, bugaboo. Always. That’s the magic of moms. We always love our babies. I promise.
I am not ready to tell you yet. Can we stop talking about it? Let’s do butterfly kisses, Mommy.
Okay, baby.
Why are they called butterfly kisses? Oh, I get it. Like if a butterfly’s wings are on your cheek?
When did my baby grow up and how is he so mature that he can recognize when he is ready to talk about something and when he isn’t? I’m 38 and I have yet to master that skill.
And more important, how do I tell my son that my love is forever? That I will never, ever, stop loving him? That there is nothing that I would not do for him? How do you teach a six year old about love?
As a mother, I learn something new about love every day. Today, I learned that I cannot teach my son about love. I have to show him. I have to never stop loving. Never stop showing him my love, in word, in action, in thought, and prayer.
The wonderful thing about being a mom is that we forget everything and nothing. I will forget what he did at school today. I will always remember his sweet face under his blue blanky as he asks me to rub his back.
C, I will always love you. Always and all ways.
Reconciliation
This year our older son will make his First Reconciliation (Penance, Confession). This sacrament involves an examination of your conscience and then a confession of your sins to a priest. My husband and I went to the parent meeting this morning. The very scattered, but in the end very wise, Religious Education Director asked us to go around in a circle (shudder, shudder) and share our experiences with this sacrament. I am a “cradle Catholic,” meaning born and raised. I went to Catholic grade school, high school, and even college. I cannot remember the last time I went to Confession.
As we went around the circle sharing our experiences, a common and very sad theme emerged. Few of us in that room had a positive experience with Reconciliation and only one parent continued to go regularly. Many of the people in the room were in my age cohort and our early, formative experiences of church and sacrament were focused on shame, guilt, and fear. One woman shared that her first Confession was so awful that she is still getting over it. Oy.
Almost all of my early experiences in church were focused on things that I had done wrong (shame). I had chosen to sin (guilt). I had made God angry with my bad choices (talk about fear! Yikes!). At my grade school, we had to carry a discipline folder at all times. It had one piece of paper in it and one piece only. The color of that paper changed every quarter. If you committed some sort of infraction, you were given a check on your discipline sheet. Ten checks equaled a major, which equaled a detention. Not having your folder was check-worthy. What the what? The focus, as I remember it, was punitive. The focus was on doing wrong, not on striving to do better.
Somehow I managed to never get a detention. Although in sixth grade, I dropped the F bomb at recess, which should have been an automatic major, but the teacher took mercy on me and instead, reamed into me in the hallway so all my peers could hear. That was uplifting and life-giving.
My #oneword2014 is risk. I am taking a big personal risk here and for the first time publicly calling out the church. You failed us. You failed an entire generation of young people who are now trying to raise our children in the same faith that failed us. You taught us to live in fear. You taught us that we were beings who needed fixing, not gifts that could be polished or refined or shone for a greater, higher purpose.
I made my first confession in second grade. Everyone did. It was just the hoop that you went through. The only things I remember from that day are: one of my classmates bawling his eyes out because he was so nervous and me making up some story about not eating my vegetables and disobeying my parents. I have no idea what I wore, how long it lasted, or how many times I have gone to Confession since then. Clearly a formative experience that stuck.
In my time to share, I stated that I could not remember the last time I went to confession. Yet, I feel deeply connected to the Eucharist and we attend Mass regularly as a family. Both of these are true. I love going to church and I love going to our church in particular. It feeds me, literally and spiritually. I love the music, the sense of community, the diversity.
I started the meeting with a chip on my shoulder, thinking that L would jump through this Reconciliation hoop too and then that would probably be the end of it. I don’t go to Confession. I don’t need to because I confess my sins before I go to Communion. I pray for forgiveness and strength, daily. Isn’t that a confession of sorts? As the meeting progressed, the Religious Ed Director shared her own experiences with the sacrament. She joined the church as an adult and said, “I feel very fortunate that my own formation was so positive.” She then shared a new analogy for the sacrament. She encouraged us to think about it like you would a relationship with a personal trainer. You don’t go and get beat up because you ate a doughnut or didn’t work out. You go to make improvements, to get better, more fit. Confession is not a program about what you did wrong. It’s about a clean slate so you can be the best version of yourself.
Whoa! What a refreshing and life-giving idea! Talk about a complete paradigm shift from the lessons I learned as second grader in 198…. What a wonderful way to think about this sacrament. She then encouraged us to think about going to Confession regularly (whatever that looks like for you personally). If we go, then our children will go. If you only do something once, “it won’t stick” she said. And, they will value it even less because there was no purpose or meaning behind it.
Gut check.
I grew up in a household where one parent’s motto was “Do as I say, not as I do.” I often feel that this was the motto of the church in which I was raised as well. This is hypocritical at best and the first violation of good parenting. Children will see everything you do and remember very little of what you say. Yet, when I acted in a way that was consistent with what I observed, I was shamed and made to feel less than. I do not want that for my own children. If I am going to require that they invest time in the sacraments, then I must as well. Do as I do, not as I say.
So, in keeping with my #oneword2014, I will be going to Confession. Soon.
The kind of mother I am
Today was a snow day for our whole family. Over coffee I started to ask my husband about the laundry list of projects (in my head) that need to get done in our house. I’d like to continue to organize the boys’ bedrooms, donate old books and clothes, tear down wallpaper (who wallpapers a heating vent?), take out the old rounded baseboards and put in the more current, squared off taller stuff, crown molding in the living room. When I start these conversations, I can feel my wheels spinning and see my husband’s eyes glaze over as he tunes me out. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He works hard to maintain our home. He just has other priorities. I asked him if he ever got overwhelmed by the amount of work that needs to be done. His answer was simple. “No. I know we are going to live here a long time and there is nothing that needs to get done tomorrow to make this house liveable.” Here I am beating myself up because I want my living room to look like a Pottery Barn catalog and my boys to be able to find toys when they want them and my husband is enjoying his coffee and his snow day.
I often think to myself, “What kind of mother am I?” This morning, it was 5 degrees. At their request, I bundled the boys up and helped them trek outside, but I didn’t go myself. Too cold. But I sat inside bathing in mom guilt because I had the day off and I didn’t take advantage of the time with them and play in the snow. Maybe I am not the kind of mom who does those things.
Maybe I am, I just wasn’t that kind of mom today.
For me, the biggest battle of motherhood has been with myself. Some of it is internal wiring. Some of it is my upbringing and the pressure put on me by myself and others to always be striving for more, to achieve, achieve, achieve. I don’t judge my husband, my sons, my parents, or my friends by one choice that they make on any given day, so why am I holding myself to that standard?
Motherhood isn’t about one decision on one day. One decision does not define me. But, a lifetime of decisions, does. And, as long as the cumulative effect of my decisions is positive, then I will have done right by them. That’s always the goal, right? To leave the world better than I found it. I hope to leave the world two men who will go on to do their own good in the world.
I was still in my pajamas when a friend texted to arrange a play date between her two sons and mine. At my house. Granted, I had offered the night before, so it wasn’t a total surprise. But, I was still in my pajamas! What kind of mother does that? At 2pm on a Monday? I never showered so fast in my life.
When all four boys were playing, I got inspired to organize the drawers in my nightstand. I’m still in purging mode. In with the pens (how many pens do I need in there?), chapstick, and Aveda hand lotion (the best, and completely necessary in Michigan winters), I found my prayer journals, some books, and piles and piles of little notes. I knew the notes were in there, I had just forgotten how many. There were hundreds of them, written on old sticky notes, receipts, vouchers for the parking garage at the hospital where our son was treated, on the wrappers of tea bags (?).
My sons’ childhoods on little pieces of paper.
When they slept through the night, rolled over, sat up. How many words they knew at a certain age. Funny things they said. Stories about what happened at school on a particular day. Recountings of dreams and nightmares. Fear of the dark and thunder because “it makes me sad.” Hugging me and my husband “because you are two people and I have two arms for hugging.”
Most of the notes were dated and labeled with who said it. (Go me!) I spent the afternoon sorting them into piles and then putting each pile into a folder. Some day I will give each son his own file folder full of little scraps of paper. They are memories. My memories of them and how they are growing before my eyes.



Looking at the piles that covered my bed, I thought about what kind of mother I am and what that means for my sons. Today, I was not the kind of mother who bundled up and went outside. Today, I was the kind of mom who raced to the shower so I wasn’t embarrassed when a friend showed up to play. Hopefully my sons won’t remember those things. Those are just the things I did today.
Hopefully they will remember me as a woman of courage who worked to quiet her inner critics. Hopefully they will remember me as the kind of mother who remembers to write down the quirky stories and the funny things they said. Hopefully they will remember me as a writer and a keeper of memories. That is the kind of mother I am.