Seriously funny shit...

Why on God's green earth am I about to write a blog post on poop?

I'll tell you...my life has revolved around it the last three days. No, seriously, it's been all about poop. Good times.

For some inexplicable reason my darling daughter as decided that this bodily function she no longer wants to do...and in doing so, my miserable two year old is making the rest of us miserable. Misery loves company, right?

During one of our many trips to the bathroom in the last few days I have had time to reflect quite a lot on...poop. (Sorry, folks. This blog post won't be tugging at the strings of your moral compass...)

Think of it...we use the word "shit" for so many different reasons: "Oh shit," "You're in deep shit," "I know you like to think your shit don't stink," "He's the shit" ...I will never understand that last one.

And what in the world makes poop so funny?

I was driving Blake home from school last fall when she made her first "poop joke."

"Guess what Mommy," she said sweetly.

"What, baby?" I reply.

"POOP!" she shouts, at the top of her lungs.

(No, I don't think she has a future as a comedienne.) I also should add that was the last poop joke she made.

But, turn on the tv, and there they are - poop jokes, bathroom comedy, whatever you call it...there they are.

I told Blake after her little joke that we NEVER talk about poop, unless we are saying we need to go to the bathroom. I'm about to break my own rule by telling a true story...yes, a poop story.

First, I have to give my cousin credit...he happens to have more poop stories than any person that has ever lived. Thankfully, this story did not happen to him...he just bore witness to it.

Summer time. If you grew up in a church youth group, you know what this means. Countless nights away at various camps, mission trips, and lock-ins. This particular summer the youth group at Grace Baptist Church (not really the name, but it serves the purpose of my story) was travelling to Jamaica. They were split into teams to serve in different areas: sport's camp, drama ministry, and children's church.

On this day their bus was travelling over the rugged dirt roads to a small school where the drama team would be performing their last show of the day. They were starving. Having gotten lost driving between shows earlier that day they hadn't stopped for lunch. Now it was late afternoon and at this rate their stomachs would be louder than their voices. Heaven smiled at them, however, because at the same moment that their grumbling was becoming unbearable to the chaperones, they saw a jerk chicken stand on the side of the road. This place was a dive in the worst sense of the word, but the famished teens couldn't care less. They downed plates full of jerk chicken and rice and within minutes were back on the bus hurtling towards their destination.

With their stomachs full they arrived in the small town and set up for their performance of the Passion play. Around the same time that their audience was getting seated the actors were finding that something wasn't quite right. (You know where I'm going with this.) Unfortunately, no one was experiencing an upset stomach more than their Jesus....oh, it get worse. There were no restrooms at the school...only a small outhouse out back.

Before any of the actors could protest (or use the bathroom) the chaperones were on stage starting the show. Nothing could done. The show must go on.

Luckily, they made it through the show without any incidents...or accidents, I should say. But before the actors could take their final bow, Jesus leaps off the cross, bolts across the stage, and sprints to the outhouse. He wrenches open the door, pulls up his robe, and lets it all go...right onto a little girl. No joke.

This poor child did not have the Jesus experience she had been hoping for. Instead she got pooped on.

Now, unlike what I've been experiencing the last few days, that's some seriously funny shit.

America the beautiful?

America is the only country in the world that...how many ways can you finish that sentence?


Too many to count.


Some of the possible ways to complete that sentence are fabulous, but others...not so much.

Don't get me wrong I LOVE our country, it's people, and what it represents to the world - countless freedoms and equal opportunities. Americans are leaders. Americans are innovators. Americans are rebels, patriots, and free thinkers. But let's be honest, Americans tend to be egocentric, and many in the U.S. live their lives in disconnect with the sufferings in the rest of the world.

Our innovative spirits have served us well in so many areas, but there are some in which our attempts to re-invent the wheel have failed us miserably.

While walking with a girlfriend this morning I was told about the book, "The Economy of Love," by Shane Claiborne. The premise behind the book is this: the U.S. is the only country in the world where our lives, and work are structured around the individual instead of the community.

In a sincere effort to be the best in whatever we chose to pursue it's become all about the "me" and the "we" has been forgotten about. So many people share the notion that "if it doesn't affect me it doesn't matter," or "if I help you what's in it for me?"

Now I'm not saying we should get some families together and live in a commune as parts of the book may suggest. (I'm sure that could be very entertaining though.) But I do feel that the sense of community, that so many cultures around the world depend on, is lacking in the U.S.

There are moments when I see a glimmer of this spirit of brotherhood, when the humanitarian heart is awakened across the country. It's a beautiful thing to witness. Neighbor helping neighbor. A person comforting a complete stranger simply because they're hurting and it's the right thing to do. It seems that it's only in the dark times that we experience this change of heart. In the face of tragedy it somehow becomes easier to put the "we" in front of the "me."

I can't help but wonder what our country would look like if we maintained this "community" through the good times. It would be revolutionary - to have individuals come together to solve issues that may not involve them directly but serve a greater purpose.

I'm not talking about giving those in need a hand out, but rather a hand up. I'm not talking about social justice or redistribution of wealth. I'm not talking about creating some government program that would give a forced sense of community. I'm talking about a change of heart.

What would it look like if Americans reoriented their hearts and minds to care as much about others as we do ourselves?

What would we see?

America the beautiful?

I find my happy place.

It's been one of those days.

All the parents out there know exactly what I mean - when both kids are screaming, dogs are barking, the phone is ringing and all I can tell myself is "find a happy place."

And then I started thinking...where would I go, literally, if I could choose a physical place that brings me peace?

We all have that place, don't we? The place where the weight of the world seems to magically lift off our shoulders. The place where we have a little extra pep in our step and can not help but smile.

I have two places that give me such a peace. They happen to be drastically different from each other: New York City and the NC mountains.

Let me take you to my city....

We signed the lease on our first apartment in NYC on my 22nd birthday. Our 298 sq.ft. Chelsea apartment (refering to the neightborhood, not myself) was a fifth floor walk-up with a fire escape that we would occassionaly use to sneak up to the roof and watch the cruise ships come in on the Hudson. It was too small, too old, and in a particular neighborhood that made my hubby too uncomfortable. But it was perfect...at least to me. I remember when we moved there the exhileration I felt walking along the city streets. A permanent smile was plastered on my face...in fact, I probably scared our neighbors with my over-enthusiastic grin, but I didn't care. I had waited for as long as I could remember to live in New York and I was finally there. My heart was meant to beat to the rhythm on Manolo Blahniks on the cobblestone streets of the Meat Packing district.

Can you see it? The hustle and bustle of the city. Prep school kids getting their lattes at Sant Ambroeus on the Upper East Side. The business man hailing the cab with his New York Times. The sparkling, albeit dirty, waters of the Hudson from the views at Riverside park.

Can you hear it? An expletive or two from the cabbie shouted at tourists standing too close the curb...because they will hit you. The opera singer doing their vocal warm-up beside you on the subway. The fabulous Yiddish words sprinkling the vocab of the Upper West Siders. (I miss hearing words like shlep, shmuck, and shmatte. I have no idea why they always seem to start with "sh.")

Can you smell it? The brick oven pizza from John's. The perfume of the socialites on Park Ave. The stench of urine in the subway on a hot summer day. (ah, New York.)

Are you there yet?

I had waited my whole life to be there and I was drinking in every second of it...that is, until the homesickness set in.

It wasn't until the fall that I started to feel this unfamiliar twinge of pain whenever I would hear or see certain things that reminded me of NC. It tripled in effect when the Christmas tree stands went up after Thanksgiving. (My family owns a Christmas tree farm in NC.) I would smell the fraiser firs from a block away and I would start to tear up. Bryan and I seriously had to map out where the tree stands were around our apartment so we could take detours to prevent my meltdowns. Seriously, messy crying, meltdowns. There was one occassion that I really wanted to just go close my eyes and smell the trees, no matter how torturous I knew it would be...and so I did. I stood by the tree lot with my eyes closed, breathing in the scent of the fraiser firs, and tears streaming down my face...that is, until I was noticed by the lot owner who asked if he could help me pick out a tree. I responded, "No, thank you. I don't have room in my apartment. I just wanted to smell them." I'm so glad I couldn't hear what he was thinking even if the look was plastered all over his face.

I missed NC, but I knew if I left New York I would have an equal longing for this city that had become my home.

I started running in NYC along the Hudson every day. I would tune my iPod to some good bluegrass like Nickel Creek and just run. The music of the mountains married with views of Lady Liberty. Priceless.

The homesickness faded away and by 2007 we found ourselves on the Upper East Side. So many good times.

New York City is my happy place tonight...along with this glass of wine I'm about finish. ;)

Some days I need to reflect on it, and sigh. I can end a chaotic day with fond memories of my time in a chaotic city.

Cheers.

Where do you draw the line?

We've all seen it.

Parents at dinner not looking at each other but catering the entire meal to the whim of their child. The baby wearing the bib that declares "I'm the boss," and you can tell it's not too far from the truth. The 11th place trophies. The toddlers playing games on their parents iPhones to prevent mealtime meltdowns.

The fact is we've become a culture of overindulgence without even realizing it. In a sincere effort to shower our children with love and admiration we've encouraged behavior that has snowballed into an epidemic of narcissism.

I say "we" because, try as I might, I know that I too fall victim to this behavior from time to time.

So many parents try to justify their behavior by saying things like: "Well, we give them all trophies because we want them to feel special," or "It's impossible to have a peaceful meal if we don't let her play with the iPhone," or "I really want my child to like me."

You know the saying "Give me a soap box and I'll stand on it?" Well I just happen to have one handy...this blog. Here I go.

"Well, we give them all trophies because we want them to feel special" - The effort made to make children "feel special" leads to nothing more than over-inflated egos and sense of entitlement. Am I saying that we need to tell kids "Hey, you really stink at drawing?" No. But we also don't need to tell a 12 year old they're the next Van Gogh when they can't say inside the lines of their coloring book. (Because this hypothetical 12 year old has a coloring book. ha!) I believe in encouraging children to work hard, praising them for what they accomplish, and helping them to find things they can improve on. Competition is healthy and without it we would all settle for the 11th place trophy. What would be left to work towards?

"It's impossible to have a peaceful meal if we don't let her play with the iPhone" - So many parents give up or give in because...it's easy. It's hard to listen to a whiny kid, especially in public. It's embarrassing to feel like people could be staring and judging your ability to parent based on the behavior of your child. So, it's easier to pull up some kid friendly iPhone app and hand it over to the antsy toddler. In the last week I have seen this happen at least a dozen times (oh yes, I started counting!) But all we are doing is robbing our children of a lesson in patience. Mealtimes are family time...the entire family. Children have to learn how to sit politely at some point, you might as well start young.

"I want my kids to like me." - Of course you do! But, that's not always going to be the reality. Nor should it be. My two year old recently told me after I told her we do not watch tv everyday, "Mommy, you're not my friend." To which I responded, "Honey, I didn't give birth to you because I needed a friend." ...She didn't get it, but it was true nonetheless.

And one thing I am CONSTANTLY the culprit of - ending a request to my kids in a question. Ex. "We're going upstairs to put our pj's on now, okay?" "Let's get in the car, alright?" Arghh! Why do I make it sound like I am asking their permission. Aren't I the parent? I realized this after reading a fabulous book last fall, "The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement" by Jean Twenge and Keith Campbell. I have made a concerted effort to be very conscious of it since then.

Now...let me state. I am not saying to run your house with an iron fist, or exist as a dictator over your poor kiddos. Children need to feel that their thoughts are valued and their opinion respected. Giving them choices when available helps them practice independent thinking and nurtures their self esteem. Allowing a child to make a choice about their wardrobe is the perfect example that should be adapted according to their age. Ex. I give my two year old two choices every morning, sometimes three if I have nowhere to go. "Do you want to wear your pink shoes or your tennis shoes?" I never ask "What do you want to wear?" My child would undoubtedly choose her tutu and a bikini top or some other ghastly fashion faux pas! Now when she's a little older I expect that I'll be able to say, "It's cold outside today. What long sleeved shirt do you want to wear?"

Kids need some freedom within limits and it's up to the parents to set those limits. What a huge responsibility to know that decisions you make day in and day out affect a life other than your own! To sum it all up: Praise your kids wisely, indulge with caution, state the facts, offer choices when appropriate, and LOVE always!

Now it's time to self-evaluate...where do you draw the line?

So...what do you do?

The question is inevitable. I will be meeting someone for the first time, be it at church, Blake's dance class, or as it was today, at a birthday party of a kid in Blake's preschool class; and THE QUESTION presents itself.

I hate this question. Mainly because I don't have a simple answer....and that is what people want when they ask this question - a simple, concise, one (or two, max) word answer. They don't want an explanation of what you did before kids, or what you plan to do once they start school. They want you to say something simple like, doctor, or lawyer, so they can continue with the other nicities.

I don't have a simple answer for them. If I had an answer at all it would be the following, "Well, I'm an actor without a stage. I'm an educator, without students. I'm a writer...waiting to be published. Oh, yeah, and I'm a wife and a mom."

I could say I'm a homemaker...but this does not seem adequate to me. Perhaps it should, but it doesn't. I'm more than a "homemaker" I think to myself whenever I prepare myself to smile and give this simple, one-word answer. Why are there such negative connotations for this term? Why does my jaw seem to harden in place and my stomach drop whenever I prepare myself to say it? Is it because I write a ridiculous student loan check each month for a Master's degree I'm not technically using?

I think it's something deeper than all of this. Somewhere in our culture things have gone strangely awry. Along the way somewhere women have been made to feel like should be doing MORE. No matter how much they have on their plate already. No matter how many committees they chair, teams they coach, hours they clock in, loads of laundry they fold, or delicious-Paula-Deen-couldn't-cook-it-better dinners they cook it simply isn't enough. We feel the need, no more than a need, compulsion to do it all - and then some!

It's a sickness really - a contagious, out-of-control epidemic that is in serious need of a cure. I know you've continued reading because you are on the edge of your seats waiting for me to present you with my unbelievable solution. My astonishing revelation is this: I don't know. I don't know how to resolve something I struggle with daily. Feeling adequate with what I'm doing and where I am in life when I ALWAYS feel like I "should" be doing so much more is a constant nagging thought in the back of my mind.

But, I have learned one thing. I recently read a fabuous book by Daniel H. Pink called, "A Whole New Mind." (Fantastic! I highly reccomend it!) Anyways, one small section of the book was about how the US viewed happiness in comparision with other countries and it gave a small questionnaire to reveal whether or not you are doing what would be the most rewarding job for you to do. It told me this: I am where God wants me to be.

If I had a million dollars to do what ever I wanted or 20 days to live or whatever the question might be, I am doing what makes me more fulfilled and joyful than anything else I could possibly fathom. I am watching my children grow, I am attempting to impart on them wisdom that will help them mature into loving adults, concerned for others, their environment, and their world. I am there everyday to make them smile, listen to their infectious laughter, watch them make new discoveries, wipe their tears when fall down, and wipe their butts when they poop (ah, the joys of motherhood!) There is no place I would rather be.

God has placed me here. It is a humbling place to be - to always be serving someone else (especially for an actress, let me tell you!) But I am grateful for every second.

So for my virgin blog post, let me just say. "Hi. My name is Chelsea. I'm here."

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men."
Colossians 3:23

So...what do you do?