Working Moms SpeakEasy

A blog written to share working moms joys, struggles, frustrations and tips

[danielletimmons]

What the heck am I, anyway?

I’m like that drab sort-a gray that occurs when two colors mix. I’m neither black nor white. I’m like this great flavor that’s been watered down with another ingredient so you’re not really sure exactly what the taste profile is.  For years, I’ve struggled to understand my identity.   My father is 100% Italian, and my mom is 100% Puerto Rican. Both cultures permeate strength -- mentally, physically and through characteristics.  And my sister and I land squarely in the middle of these two culture clashing. As a child growing up in this mixed home, I always felt the push/pull of both sides of the family – equally jockeying to dominate the other.  Both grandmothers were the backbone of their families (physically and emotionally); both had family-centric cultures with plenty of cousins and extended families to love and love me in return; both shared a strong love for their native cultures; and both had wonderful cuisines that would envelop our home.

My Italian grandparents have interesting stories. My grandmother (or Nonna in Italian), was northern Italian and hailed from a small town (and I mean really small because I’ve actually been there) outside of Pisa called Vicopisano.  Her parents were both Italian immigrants, and even though she was born in America in 1911, she had traveled by ship with her two older sisters to visit her grandmother in Vicopisano when she was just 2 years old. But World War One broke out, and forced her and his sisters to live with their grandmother in this small, poor town for seven years. That’s seven years without her parents, who went on to have plenty of kids in America while she lived in Italy. And that’s seven years of getting a fig or orange in her stocking for Christmas. That’s seven years of dipping bread into 1 egg yolk for breakfast, which she had to split with her sisters.  That’s seven years of having to draw water from a well and walking the bucket up and down the hills of Vicopisano, while wearing shoes made of wood.   When finally she could safely make the journey across the Atlantic back to America, she sobbed as they dragged her away from her grandmother – the only mother she really knew and as the story unfolded, the only mother she would ever truly love who loved her unconditionally. She came to this country as an American citizen but couldn’t speak or write in English.  And although a citizen, she was forced to endure the hardships as so many before her, sailing into Ellis Island. When she entered the school system, she was called a Whop and a Dago and profusely made fun of because of her accent. Yet she was a citizen.

My Italian grandfather (or Nonno), was quite different from the woman he was destined to marry. His parents were immigrants from the island of Sicily, and he was born on American soil. He was without question an American with little Italian accent.  In fact, I’m not sure he could speak Italian because I seldom heard him speak it. Let’s say he didn’t seem to speak it as fluently as my grandmother. His parents were poor but seeded in him a deep, religious faith to be grateful to God for everything.  In his heart, he wanted to be a priest. It was his passion. But the Catholic Church in the 1920s was different than today.  While attending school to become a priest, he was dismissed when the Church uncovered he was, in fact, a bastard. His parents had immigrated to America as a married couple but never actually got married because my great grandfather was legally married to someone else in Italy when he left.  Talk about the sins of the father affecting the children... I also find it fascinating the Church was tremendously successful at tracking down my grandfather’s lineage – which is pretty good in 1920s --but couldn’t/wouldn’t piece together the decades of sexual abuse children sustained at the hands of priests who were no better than animals.  After receiving the crushing blow, my Nonno opted to attend school to become a bookkeeper, which earned him a nice living.  He went on to meet my grandmother and asked for her hand in marriage. My grandmother’s father and mother, however, said no because they considered my wonderful grandfather a dirty Sicilian. A man, who’s first love was Christ, was deemed not worthy to marry my grandmother. It boggles my mind. It seems times really haven’t changed that much when you think about it.  But my grandparents went on to get married without her parents in attendance at the wedding.   And my grandfather became devoted in service to a local Catholic Church in Richmond. In fact, he spent so much time at the church that my grandmother grew to hate and despise that church. Jealous much, Nonna? The Church was, after all, his first love.

Their story ends when my grandmother died unexpectedly on 12/31/2003 and my grandfather, who was very sick, died 1/1/2004 – different decade, less than 18 hours a part. That’s what real love looks like, folks – 67 years of enduring good and bad times but hanging in there to get the sweet fruit at the end.

That’s 50% of me.

The other 50% is just as complicated and fascinating.  My Puerto Rican grandmother (or Nana as I called her), has such a complicated past that I could write a novel about it. I’ve always thought of her as our family’s strong matriarch yet that were something fragile about her.  She was born in Puerto Rico, but her parents were immigrants from Spain.  Although I’ve always considered her Puerto Rican, she had different physical characteristics than other Puerto Ricans I’ve met that I could never quite figure out. She had 1 failed marriage that resulted in two beautiful girls, whom she had to give up when she left the abusive man, who was also a local police man.  Times were different in Puerto Rico in the 1920s and 30s. I don’t think they had a strong internal affairs department.  She went on to meet my grandfather, whom she fell madly in love with. She gave him 3 children, including my mom. My Nana, who thankfully passed on her ability to cook amazing Puerto Rican food to my mom, couldn’t speak much English. In fact, she was very shy around new people because she was never confident about her skills to speak English.  She didn’t say much, but when she spoke, they were always powerful words that spoke to your heart.  She suffered from congestive heart failure and rheumatoid arthritis. I don’t think she weighed 100 lbs soaking wet.  Nana was always calm, pure and genuine. I only saw her cry once. It’s when she told me the story of having to give up her two girls to save her own life.

My grandfather (or Papi) is another interesting figure with a checkered past. Although there’s some question about his lineage, based on my mother’s research through Ancestry.com, it looks like he may have been part Taino Indian (native to Puerto Rico) and part African American (a legacy from the slave trade back in the 1700/1800s). Like my grandmother, he too had been married and had 2 boys with his first wife. When they divorced, he took his boys, met my grandmother, and they got married.  My grandfather was in the military, so he was transferred from base to base all across the world, taking his family with him. He served in 2 wars, including World War II and Korea.  He died when I was only 10 years old, so I have little memories of him. But of the few I do have, he could make anything; he could fix anything; and he had a green thumb. This can also describe my mother to a tee.  Genetics are strong and undeniable.  He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, he commanded respect. I can still hear him telling me in a firm and gruff voice to “Opaga la luz!” when I left a room – translation – “Turn off the light.”  He loved his beer and his cigarettes, which eventually caught up to him in the end.  He was the dominate force in my mother’s house growing up, but when he died, my grandmother found her voice.  She stepped into the role of matriarch like one steps into a new pair of comfortable shoes.  

So am I more Italian? Or am I more Puerto Rican? How do I fill out those damn surveys and applications when it asks for my race?  Am I Caucasian or Hispanic?  And am I American?  My mother preached to me growing up that not a drop of American blood courses through our veins. She took great pride that her offspring weren’t American.

You can see why I’ve lived in a confused hybrid state.  As I get older, I reflect on my ancestry and find myself less focused on which nationality I am reflective of (Italian, Puerto Rican, American) and more focused on the pride I feel that I confidently know all three cultures are deep down in my core.  The truth is some days, I look, feel and act more Italian; the next day, I look, feel and act more Puerto Rican, and the third day I find myself firmly entrenched in American cultures.  Although I know I’m a half-breed (I say very lovingly), I’m so incredibly proud of my roots, the cultures they each have, the stories each has imparted to me over the years and the tradition each culture carries. I rejoice in my ability to seamlessly cook Nonna’s rigatoni or my mother’s rice and beans. I celebrate those moments when my Puerto Rican temper gets the best of me when I need to defend my family member’s honor.  I secretly laugh when my Italian side comes through as I plot my silent revenge on someone who’s committed an atrocity against my family.  

Although the cultures that burst out of me are different, the 1 commonality they share that I most revere is their love of family.  Putting family first is the one constant tradition that my nationalities have taught me. It’s what my grandparents demonstrated over their lives, and it’s the one tradition I’ve seen come through strong with my sister, cousins and extended family.   In the end, it doesn’t really matter if I’m more Italian, more Puerto Rican or more American. The truth is I’m all three in equal parts. And I’d like to think I reflect the best of each culture.  The cultures infused in me have provided a wealth of tools I can use.  I just need to be smart enough to know when to pull out the tools as I ebb and flow through life.

[danielletimmons]

Look For Similarities Rather Than Differences

I was born in 1971, and that decade - ripe from the 1960’s – still carried the hippie vibe of peace and love.   But later that same decade, I remember an African American classmate worried that if Ronald Reagan were elected, he and all African Americans would be sent to Africa. Silly to think of now, but de-segregation was only 15 years old then.  In the end, I’m thankful Lamont was wrong.  

Enter the 1980s – a time when eccentricity, bright colors, rap and MTV emerged onto the scene.  This was the greatest era to grow up. After all, who didn’t love Downtown Julie Brown, big hair, add-a-beads and neon pink? Civil inequalities and unrest weren’t a big part of this decade, although I’ll admit perhaps I just didn’t see them.

But something happened in the 1990s.  I vividly remember my friends and I watching coverage unfolding about the L.A. riots in response to the Rodney King beating.  That marked the second time I saw inequality.

We had big issues in the 2000’s, like Y2K and the Great Recession, so again, while inequality may have lived under the surface, it wasn’t a focus I saw.

So that brings me to today. There are countless examples of companies trying to carry the banner of Diversity and Inclusion.  And while I see noble intentions, I’m not sure I see (and believe) genuine movement.

While I admit I’m not in tune to all discrimination, I acknowledge it exists. And today, it feels more rampant than ever.  But I ask myself two questions – (1) is it really more pervasive today, or (2) am I just hearing about it more because of social media and the Internet?

If it’s the first, and it’s occurring with more frequency than before, I’m scared for me, and I’m scared for my kids.  I’m scared that our country is changing into something that will set us back.  But if it’s the second, then I’m sad I’ve lived in ignorance all these years. That I somehow closed my eyes to social injustice because it made me sleep better at night.

Let’s remind ourselves what our forefathers professed in the Declaration of Independence:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Don’t Americans still believe those words? I do. They are profound. They’re more than words on a piece of paper. They have deep meaning and set the stage for how all Americans should be treated.  It’s not about what we deserve – it’s what we are promised.

During tumultuous times like I think we’re living in, I seek the Bible for comfort and inspiration. Today, I   reflect on the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4:

"When a Samaritan woman came to draw water, Jesus said to her, “Will you give me a drink? The Samaritan woman said to him, “You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?” (For Jews do not associate with Samaritans.) Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”  

And there are countless examples throughout the Bible like this.  Jesus didn’t care if people were different than him. He accepted one and all. We, however, struggle with the frail, human condition. We judge each other because it’s easier to criticize and hate than to love.   So here’s my ask of you. Rather than look for differences in others, use that same energy to find things that are similar.    If you and I don’t move our society forward and embrace everyone as equals, who will do it? And then what?

[danielletimmons]

Commit, Already.

As I’m watching my 12 year old learn how to play tennis, her natural tendency is to play from mid-court, center. I grew up playing tennis, and I know that’s the most dangerous place she can stand.  Either move up and play the net, or play from the baseline. But you can’t play mid-court because you’ll likely miss most shots. She has to commit – but it can’t be in the middle.

That same afternoon, driving home, a car veered into my lane, which of course forced me almost off the road.  The same thought entered my mind as when I watched my daughter playing tennis.  That driver needs to commit to a lane and stay in it.

Read CNN.com, and you’ll get an eye-full of election coverage. There are those who are fiercely committed to Hilary and others who are staunch Trump fans.  Although I usually don’t talk politics, I must admit I’m not a supporter of either candidate. Consider me agnostic on this election.  But I know inaction, like opting not to vote, or a middle of the road action, like voting for an independent, is likely to waste my vote. I need to pick a candidate – even though I don’t want to.

It’s a life lesson that most of us are still working through.  There’s something in our DNA which says we must please everyone, therefore, don’t commit to anything for fear of offending someone else. Here’s an example I’m sure you can relate to.  Have you ever tried to choose just one charity that you and your family will donate to - with time, financial contributions and/or donations?  I’ve often debated which charity pulls on my heartstrings the most. The reality is – they all do. I feel guilty if I donate to the SPCA because I know humans should come before dogs. I feel guilty if I commit to the American Cancer Society because those darn SPCA commercials with Sara McLaughlin’s “Arms of Angel” get me every time.  So what happens? I don’t commit to any charity, and no one gets anything from me. I didn’t do the hard work upfront to determine which one is the best option for my family and I.

Committing to anything requires serious soul searching. It’s not just a random thought that pops in your head. It’s that question you keep going back to – time and time again – and keep coming up with the same answer.   It’s that quiet voice inside of you that sings each time the instinctual answer flashes in your mind.  

It doesn’t matter if the question you’re wrestling with relates to work or a personal problem.  You’ve got to pick a side and be committed with everything you have to support the side you’ve chosen.  Don’t waste time waffling aimlessly around. If you don’t pick a side and instead ride the middle, you’ll end up in no man’s land, being that person who talks out of both sides of their mouth. Don’t be that guy. Be the person that’s done the introspection upfront to identify what the best course of action is, and what side to be on.  

Pick a lane, be committed and be strong – even when you hit road bumps, stop signs and yield signs.

[danielletimmons]

Wandering Aimlessly In The Desert

I don’t usually discuss religion with others because I deem it to be fiercely private, but I couldn’t help but share something my pastor recently preached about. In Exodus, the Jewish people were led by Moses into the desert and, for a few reasons, arrived in the Promised Land after 40 years of wandering aimlessly. Regardless of your belief system, you have to admit that’s some story.  During those years, they complained; they worshiped false gods; and even suggested going back into enslavement in Egypt.  Can you imagine what it must be like to endure hardship for 4 decades?

At times, we’ve all felt like we’ve wandered aimlessly through our own personal desert.  Your desert may be work, a relationship, being a parent, being a working parent, or something that lives deep, down inside you may not even be able to articulate.  Like the Jewish people did in ancient times, you’re entitled to moan, gripe and blame others for where you are.   We all do it. Somehow, it just makes us feel better to verbalize how miserable we really are.  But what did complaining get the Jewish people?

It certainly didn’t get them anywhere – at least not fast.  In fact, some might argue it’s partly why they were stuck in the desert so long.  So while it’s ok to complain and blame others for where you are in life, remember that you have the power to change things.  

I’m a believer that most of us – most of the time – have free will to make choices about where we were, where we are and where we’re going.  Have you ever thought about that one decision you’ve made which shifted your entire core of being?  When I graduated Virginia Tech, I was accepted into the Peace Corps. For personal reasons, I declined that offer, and instead, got married where I began career in Marketing.  Had I accepted the Peace Corps assignment, what would my life look like today? What deserts would I have encountered? Would I still work in Marketing? Would I still have three wonderful children?  I didn’t know it at the time, but that decision set me on a path that led me to where I am today.  

While I’m fortunate that I’ve got it pretty good, I have questions about decisions I’ve made along the way and how they helped me or perhaps put me in the desert.  When I feel like I’m in the desert, that’s when I feel helpless, and I find myself acting like I’m a victim of circumstance.  In a few instances, it was just my crappy luck. But if I’m honest, it’s usually decisions I’ve made that put me in the middle of my own proverbial desert.   But the real question to ask is not why you’re there, but how do you get out of it?

When we’re stuck and floundering in bad situations, why don’t we move quickly to make a change? Because carving a different path for ourselves can be intimidating. It may mean a move, a career shift, a relationship change and many other countless situations.  Sometimes, the fear of the unknown and what could happen paralyzes us to the point where we make no change at all.  This fear causes us to accept situations that are intolerable, inferior and even degrading to what we deserve.  

And important people in your life will encourage you to accept the status quo because they’re afraid for you. Here’s the unabashed truth – if you feel like your life can be better if you made a change, do it. Don’t wait. Do it now. It will mean being brave. And sometimes pulling yourself up by your boot strap, or putting one foot in front of the other during the period of change.  But shaking things up in your life to guide you toward happiness is never a bad thing.   I’ve had to do this several times in my life, and each time I did it, I came out feeling stronger and invincible.  Changing to get out of the desert is admirable and becomes an example to your kids about being a master of your destiny, which I firmly believe you are.

So for those times when you find yourself wandering aimlessly in the desert, think about the Jewish people who at one time, thought it was better to be slaves than be free. They were tested; they were challenged. But they eventually got to the Promised Land. What’s your Promised Land, and what direction do you go to get out of the desert to get there?  The land flowing with milk and honey awaits you if only you’re brave enough to set a course for it.

[danielletimmons]

Trust Your Inner Voice

Maybe it’s because I’m a Pisces, but I consider myself intuitive.  I seem to have that inner voice giving me advise about what’s going to happen.   But here’s the problem.  I don’t always listen to it. And I think I know why.

That inner voice of mine is a major downer.  It always seems to want to introduce something unexpected and rarely does it lead to anything good.   In fact, it usually brings to the surface one of three scenarios:  (1) things I’m afraid of; (2) things that lead me off track from my plan; and (3) things I don’t want to admit. All of these scenarios are terrible, so they’re easy to ignore.

When my gut is screaming those awful things I’m afraid of, I just want to close my eyes and assume it’s me being that consummate pessimist.   But all too often I find myself wishing I heeded my internal warnings sooner. After all, had I prepared myself, I wouldn’t be caught off guard and could have mitigated some of the damage.  When a company I used to work for began laying off employees, I knew it was coming. It wasn’t because anyone told me, but because I somehow felt it was coming.  Thankfully I wasn’t impacted that time, but it made me think twice about listening to my instincts. 

But when my inner voice warns me there’s imminent danger of my task going off-track, I quickly disregard it because it would mean I need to take additional steps I hadn’t planned on taking. You might think this isn’t such a bad thing, but I hate wasting time. Above all, I detest wasting my time. And preparing myself for something that “could be”, seems, in part, life a waste of time. After all, time is money, right? Recently I gave my advertising agency an assignment brief. I thought it was well written and clear.  We even followed up with a conference call to discuss expectations.  Just before the agency delivered the first concept to me, I had a nagging feeling – seemingly out of nowhere - there was miscommunication.    I wanted to ignore my inner voice, but I thought twice.  Instead, I called the agency, and my instinct was right.  There was miscommunication, but I was able to course-correct the agency just in time.  

While the first two scenarios don’t happen every day, the third one occurs frequently.    As much as I hate it, there are some things that I just don’t want to admit.  This kind of scenario surrounds me – both at work and at home.  It’s much easier to close my eyes and ignore the truth staring back at me.  I’ve had a few good ideas over the years, and a spark of genius struck me while at work years ago.  It was one of those ideas I couldn’t let go. I excitedly went to my supervisor with my great idea.  It was met with a luke-warm reaction.  So I waited a few days and pitched the idea again to my boss and received a similar reaction.  I tried a third time, sure that this time, he would see the genius in it.  I didn’t want to admit that this just wasn’t a novel idea.  Had I listened to my inner voice, I wouldn’t have pitched it two and three times. The idea, in hindsight, wasn’t worth the time.  

Is it really an inner voice you’re hearing, or are you interpreting signals you’ve read, heard or seen? As much as I’d like to believe in my psychic abilities, I think we know, driven by both conscious and unconscious signals we receive constantly, what’s happening or will happen in the near future.  

Whether you’re scared of something big, wasting your time or just ignoring the facts, open your eyes, and listen to your inner voice.  All too often, we complain about life’s twists and turns. But the truth is – we’ve been giving an amazing gift.   We all have that inner voice and signs of what’s to come are in front of us.  Don’t leave your plans and your life to chance.  Instead, embrace what you know to be true, deep down, no matter how uncomfortable or painful it may be.  It’s better to prepare yourself than find you’ve looked the other way.

[danielletimmons]

Love yourself.

I’m my worst critic. You won’t catch me complimenting myself for something I’ve done well. What you will hear most often are criticisms I’ve launched at myself.  “Why can’t I lose these nagging ten pounds?”  “I can’t believe I forgot to schedule my daughter’s orthodontist appointment.”  “Did I really just feed my kids frozen chicken nuggets and French fries for dinner?” “Why did I forget to schedule the conference room at work?” And the list goes on and on.   Don’t I do anything right?

The answer is obvious. Of course I do.  I’m a hard worker, a faithful wife and a great mom, so why can’t I give myself a break – even for a day?  I’m not sure, but I do have a theory. I call it the “working moms guilt complex.”  I don’t know about you, but I sometimes feel like I’ve got to be perfect.    Even though I give breaks to others every day at work and at home – I can’t seem to find that same level of tolerance for myself.  But I know – deep down – that I should. As I reflect on what to give to those I love the most for Valentine’s Day, I’m reminded that it’s not the gifts that matter.  It’s remembering them on this special day and treating them the way I know they should be each and every day during the year.  Showing love for others is more than a day on the calendar.  So I have to ask myself then – why can’t I find the same expression of love for myself?  And as I’m sure my husband and kids are thinking about the perfect gift to give me this year,  the gift I need the most right now is something they can’t give me.  It’s self love.

Since this can’t be given to me, it has to be something I personally commit to doing.  But where to start?  Here’s where I’ve decided my journey begins.  On February 14, this year, I’m committing to NOT criticizing myself for any reason. I’m only going to give myself positive encouragement and praise.  Just on this one day this year.  And when I start to doubt myself, I am committed to turning my thoughts around.   After all, if I don’t give this gift to myself, I’ll never truly find peace.

Here’s my challenge to all of you reading this. On Valentine’s Day this year, make a commitment to encourage yourself and pat yourself on the back for the all wonderful things you’ve done and will do.  Who knows? Maybe if we embrace this challenge, we’ll get so much positive energy from it, we’ll want to keep it going. And perhaps – it may even become a habit.  We deserve 3600 of love.  And we’ll never get it if we don’t find a way to love ourselves.  So why not try it on the one holiday that represents love?

Happy Valentine’s Day, ya’ll!