Stuck in Paradise

My Sunday morning routine always starts with coffee on my back patio. Because of the consistency of Florida weather, this is a ritual I enjoy year round. However, this past Sunday, as I stared into the abyss of palm trees obstructing my view of the sky, I started thinking about the relativity of beauty.

Being a New Jersey native, my version of beauty may be somewhat skewed. Growing up fifteen minutes away from one of the most influential cities in the world was definitely a perk. As a teenager, the epitome of freedom was cutting class to hang out in “the village” with only five dollars of lunch money in my pocket, hoping desperately that I didn’t get too swept away by what New York City had to offer, and wondering if I would be able to make it back home by the time school let out. By my early twenties, I embraced my obvious crush on the Big Apple by spending as much time there as humanly possible.

And then I got married…and had children.

My love for the city was instantly overshadowed, and eventually became a liability. While I knew how much the tri-state area had to offer my children in the future, my concern came from what I witnessed in other children while living there, which was that city kids simply grow up too fast. Above everything else, I didn’t want to cut my kids’ childhoods short. So, here I am, years later, living in Florida, where my twelve-year-old daughter is still interested in toys rather than make-up and thinks boys have the cooties, and my nine-year-old daughter still believes in Santa, the Easter bunny and fairies. Moving here accomplished everything I wanted…for them. But for me? I’m stuck in paradise.

Most people come to Florida to get away from it all. The lure of swaying palm trees, sunshine and Mickey Mouse offers peace, warmth and fun. When the Orlando airport doors swing open, vacationers eagerly welcome the staggering humidity that slaps them in the face as they draw their first breaths. They find beauty here, even if it’s just for a week.

And I get it. But let’s not forget that beauty is relative, and for me, it doesn’t include palm trees and beaches. That kind of beauty, that is so apparent to everyone else, is completely wasted on me. Sure, I’ve vacationed in some “island-y” places, but lying on a beach in the sweltering sun, trying to keep my sunglasses from sliding down my sweaty face, trusting my sunblock to not make my already-dark-skin darker, was never a treat for me. None of those island vacations screamed beauty to me. If anything, they left me bored and slightly agitated.

My agitation continued upon moving here, when I learned that the running joke was, "Florida is where you come to vacation, retire or die.” Although it got a chuckle from me the first few times I heard it, this particular joke had a bit too much truth to it. It made my inner child whine, “I want to go home!” And by home, I am, of course, referring to New York City.

For me, beauty is the music coming from the guitar of a man sitting on the mucky subway floor, hoping that his song will encourage me to drop my dollar bill into his beat up guitar case; it’s ducking into my favorite pizza place on Broadway to “grab a slice”; it’s hearing a man’s whistle, while watching his arm extend outward, expecting a cab to stop immediately to rush him off to his next appointment; it’s the hustle and bustle of Times Square mixed with the peace and tranquility of Central Park; it’s witnessing how much life is crammed into these overcrowded spaces. This is the version of beauty I understand. Despite the clichéd smog, dirt and grime associated with the city, it is the only place where I can breathe. You see, for me, beauty is not necessarily beautiful.

But trading skyscrapers for palm trees has shown me that if I truly wanted to find my personal definition of beauty, I had to start by looking deeper than the picturesque views of seagulls on the beach, or the memory of Manhattan’s magnificent skyline. Living in both places has taught me that beauty is not what I see, but rather, what I feel. Beauty is whatever makes my heart beat faster.

Beauty is what makes a person feel alive.

And although my current zip code is missing the palpable energy of New York, each time I walk through the door and see my daughters and my husband, the flutter of excitement I feel on the inside is a constant reminder that, no matter where I am, my heart will always find the beauty that will lead me home.

Being a Mommy

Not all of us are lucky enough to have someone in our lives who makes the transition from mother to mommy. Regardless of how many hours of labor you went through, or whether or not you chose natural childbirth over the epidural, becoming a mother by giving birth to a child is the easy part. Becoming a mommy is much harder. 

I'm not sure which traits qualify us as good versus bad moms, but I think I associate the "mommy" title with how engaged a mom is with her kids. I frequently ask myself if I’m good enough for my girls, and my husband always tells me that the fact that I even ask myself that question makes me a good mom. He also is always quick to point out that, at nine and twelve years old, both of my girls are always singing, and he correlates singing with happiness, and happiness with how I parent them. So, in an If-You-Give-a-Mouse-a-Cookie-way, I am doing a decent job. But while going through the daily effort of trying to be a mommy, rather than just a mother, I can't help but reflect on my own mom, and the example that she set for me. 

My mom has always been a worrier. Being that I was an only child, diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at the age of four, I can't really blame her. Having kids is hard enough, but having one who needs constant medical intervention? I can't imagine it. As a kid, teen and pre-adult, I had a really hard time with her constant concern for my wellbeing. But now that I am an adult with my own kids, I totally get it. While my worrying style isn't as pronounced as hers, I understand how pure love for your children can make a mommy's heart worry. 

When it comes to my mom’s heart, love incessantly pours out of her four-foot ten frame, touching everyone around her. Whether it’s love, time, loyalty, food, money, or even clothes, she is always emptying her pockets with an expectation of nothing in return. She rarely does anything for herself, and if she does, she figures out a way to give some of it to others. She gives one hundred percent of herself, sharing everything she physically and emotionally has with anyone who has the pleasure of knowing her. She is staunchly supportive and makes it abundantly clear that she is always on my side, and she extends that support to my husband, my kids, and even to my friends. She is the greatest cheerleader you can ever dream of having. But my favorite quality of hers is that she makes me feel loved.

Someone once told me that love is a verb, but being a mom has shown me a different definition. Sure, we all do whatever it takes to make our children happy. But for me, love doesn’t mean that you always have to be doing, acting, proving. Love, from a mommy’s perspective, is an invisible quiet feeling that is constantly coursing through your veins. And if you are successful at being a mommy, in the way that my mom is, you simply just make your children feel loved, without saying it, doing it, or proving it.

No matter how crazy your mom makes you, no matter how many mistakes she may have made, in the end, if you feel her love, then she gave you the gift of doing it right. She was your mommy, and always will be.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mommy, and to all of the other wonderful mommies out there who, regardless of time or distance, make their children feel that they are always loved.