Permission.

Last week, I found myself journaling about how I still felt like I needed permission. Permission to do what? To live my life and do the things that I want to do.

I undertake things timidly afraid that someone is going to say, "Um, who said you could do that?" or "That's wrong." or "There is no future in that." or "There are a millions other things that you should be doing right now."  (Inner critic rearing its ugly head again.) I have this need to have someone validate whatever it is that I'm doing. I need someone to nod their head and say, "Yep, everything looks good. Carry on."

I am 27 years old with a kid of my own and I still feel like a kid...and not in the good childlike-wonder way.

So imagine my surprise when yesterday a delightful update from Danielle LaPorte's whitehot truth pops up in my inbox with the subject: your permission slip from the universe.

There were two that spoke to me the most:

• You have permission to pursue your own agenda.
• You have permission to start now, without the degree, without the funding, without knowing exactly where you're going.

This prompted me to come up with some for myself. I have permission to:

• change my mind.
• be unapologetic about my lifestyle.
• let my kid watch more than 30 minutes of television.
• only cook once a week.
• drop the facade that I have it together.
• move closer to my parents because it is not a sign of failure to realize the necessity of a support network, it is a sign of growth.

A permission slip. That little piece of paper that meant that it was okay for you to go on an adventure. To quote the wisdom of that skinny jean clad genius KiD CuDi:

 I ain't gotta wait for no one. 

If I wanna fly, I could fly for freedom. 

I'll be up, up, and away

 'cause in the end, they'll judge me anyway. 

So, whatever.

The Reason.

Why resurrect this blog?

The impetus was meeting Hilary Thayer Hamann, the author of one of my favorite books in the entire world (and inspiration for the name of this blog) Anthropology of an American Girl. The book was rereleased this summer and I was honored to write a review that is featured on her website. (I wrote the second review signed T.H.).


She is truly an amazing woman and graciously spent a couple of hours with brown-eyed babe and myself. It was positively surreal and hands-down the highlight of my summer. A few weeks later I recieved a beautifully handwritten  note from her which is now one of my prized possessions. I love that lady.

This amazing experience occurred toward the beginning of June. It was quite unexpected and resulted from my blogging. This lead me to contemplate why I had let my blogging fall by the wayside and why I was feeling so unmotivated and stagnant. I was anxious that my other blog had no direction and that I had nothing of value to contribute which prolonged the hiatus. What better way to avoid feelings than to ignore whatever it is you think is causing that feeling. I avoided the blog, I avoided writing, I avoided creating and instead threw myself into reading and hid in my books. But as they always do, the books I found myself drawn to started to light a path and my summer of discovery began to take shape.

I read (and continue to read) various books and blogs on creativity/art/journaling.  I created a tumblr to serve as a outlet for the images and words that I found myself drawn to.  I began writing every single day. Then I was gifted with a glorious week alone as brown-eyed babe went to get Disneyfied with my parents. I started art journaling. I started breaking the rules of what I had believed journaling to be. I started focusing on the process, not the product,and certainly not perfection. I allowed myself to let go and dream about what my life can be and what I want it to be rather than what I percieve everyone else thinks it should be.

My feelings of joy resulting from the creative process snowballed and I decided that I needed to make a change to allow myself more freedom. I had placed unnecessary restraints on myself and my writing/blogging over the past two years. I (oddly enough) needed to give myself permission to break free of the practical and dive into the whimsical.

Who said that I wasn't an artist? Who said that I wasn't a writer? Who said that I wasn't creative? Who said that I have to constantly fight to compensate for single motherhood by attempting to blend in with the traditional and conventional? Who said that I did not have an entrepreneurial spirit? Who said that I have to have a legal career like everyone else?

My inner critic, that's who.

My return to this blog is me telling my inner critic to shut the fuck up.

The Return.

In my absence I was musing over here.

But, the course of my creative journey has led me back to Anthropology of an Urban Mama.
So, here I am in with a fresh look and clearer mindset, ready to present all my glory and imperfections as I dare to dream a little bigger.

Decision Made.

Brown eyed babe and I are headed for...



CHICAGO!

Oh The Excitement!

The acceptances (and one rejection..bleh) are rolling in.

Yay! So thankfully, I have my pick of law schools to attend. But the problem is that I have my pick of law schools to attend. I am probably placing a great deal more pressure on myself by thinking, "Wherever I go I have to stay and it has to be a home for brown-eyed babe and myself...permanently." While I understand that it doesn't have to be permanently, I definitely want for her to have a place that she can call "home". She deserves that much at least.

Needless to say the Big Looming Decision has me very excited.

Very very excited.

The Game.

Next Monday I am attending the LSAC Forum in San Francisco. For the past week, my e-mail inbox has been bombarded with schools shouting "Come to our table! Come to our table!". Now while, this made me feel good for about a minute, especially when some of the schools contacting me were pretty high end, I became increasingly frustrated. Some of these higher-end schools that I absolutely do not have the numbers to get into are contacting me and it's obvious that it is disingenuous. They want to boost their numbers. Get more applicants even though you admit the same number as last year and you appear more selective. Whoopity doo for you. I will not play your little game.

Unless, of course, you give me a fee waiver.

Yay, Motherhood.

I just read this on iVillage.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up spit-up laced with hot dogs, birthday cake, and fruit juice saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."
Who have walked around the house all night with their babies when they kept crying and wouldn't stop.
This is for all the mothers who have shown up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who have run carpools and made dozens of cookies for school teas and sewn Halloween costumes.
And all the mothers who haven't because they are at work trying to earn enough to keep on top of the bills.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see.
And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes and all their love.
This is for all the mothers who have sat on cold metal bleachers at hockey, baseball or soccer games instead of watching from their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and meant it.
This is for all the mothers who have yelled at their kids in the grocery store and swatted them in despair when they stomped their feet, like a tired two-year-old does who wants ice cream before dinner, and then hated themselves for "losing" it.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children to explain all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.
For all the mothers who read Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who taught their sons to cook and sew and their daughters to be brave and strong. (And sink a jump shot.)
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home or grown up.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just fine once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away. And they do.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, and who can't find the words to reach them.
For all the mothers who bite their lips, sometimes until they bleed, when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green.
What makes a good Mother anyway?Is it patience?Compassion?Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it the heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?
Or the terror in your heart at 1 a.m. when your teenager with the new driver's license is an hour late getting home?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
Or to feel the dull ache as you look in on your sleeping daughter or son the night before they leave for a college in another city?
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?
For all the mothers of the victims of all the school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.
This is for mothers who have tearfully placed flowers and teddy bears on their children's graves. Whose children have died from illness, accidents and the worst of all and hardest to comprehend, suicides.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation.
And mature mothers who have learned and are still learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Grandmothers whose wisdom and love remains a constant for their grown children and their children's children.

Yay, motherhood.