Kristy Lund
About this author:
Kristy received her Master’s degree in Occupational Therapy from USC. During her five years of internships and work as an Occupational Therapist, she worked in a Parkinson's outpatient clinic, an adult mental health private practice, skilled nursing facilities and with access technology for people with visual impairments. One of her favorite jobs was working with at-risk youth in South Central Los Angeles teaching independent living skills. The lives of these young men truly touched her heart.
Her desire to travel led her to spend a summer in Sweden to study their health care system. Little did she know she would meet the man who would become her husband two weeks into the trip!
Fate and magic united the two in the Bay Area, Kristy’s home town. She changed careers to work for a software company where she ultimately managed a business tools team. However, with the birth of her children, life called for a change to follow what has heart and meaning. After working full-time, then part-time, and then being a full-time mom (the hardest job yet) she was inspired to study to become a certified Reiki practitioner.
Kristy's love of writing came into play thanks also to her children. She would turn to writing as a much-needed outlet for the constant narration in her head of the humorous disasters and touching moments of being a mother, and being very human along a spiritual path.
Kristy is a contributing member of The Writing Mamas Salon. Her work is also published at Divine Caroline. She is working on her first book, “Are We There Yet? Humorous Stories on Being Very Human along the Spiritual Path of Life.”
If and when she has free time, she loves to do more of what brings her joy: writing, painting, reading, organizing, creating craft projects with her children, talking with friends, date nights with her husband, and making cards.
In her next life she hopes to be a cat and sleep a lot.
Say hello at www.kristylund.com.
My Articles:
May the Porcelain God Shine Happily On My Second Child
Before my first son was even interested in potty training, I worried about it — should we be starting, why doesn’t he show any readiness at age three, etc.
When he finally was ready, my husband and I made a big deal every time he peed, congratulating him.
Shoot
The funny thing about motherhood is that there is no warning when some mommy challenge is on its way.
They just sneak up and surprise you, like it did to me this past Friday when I picked up my son from preschool. It was 101 degrees outside and my head felt foggy as I noticed my sons’ red cheeks and wet hair from perspiration. I was trying to take a sip of water to cure my headache. It was then, with my two boys playing in a shaded spot we’d named the “magic tree” that my four-year-old used “the word” for the first time.
Gun.
Wanna Ride?
After a community meeting, a fellow mother asked if I could give her a ride home. As we walked to the car, we spoke mama stats: she had two boys, five and eight years old. I belong to the boy club as well, ages two and four.
I always feel a bond with other mothers of boys. I asked how the five and eight-year-old stage is. The prognosis was good. I like it when people with kids older than mine say it gets better. I dislike those people that tell you it’s still hard, just different. I don’t mind if you lie to me, just tell me it gets better and easier, please!
As we get to my car, she says, “Cute!” as I have a butterfly pasted on the butt of the car. But as I look in the passenger seat, I realize there is a few days’ worth accumulation of definitely not cute stuff. I know she’s a mom, so I remind myself not to worry too much, but I tell her it’s going to take a while to clear the seat so she can actually sit on it, hopefully finding a place for her feet as well.
Once
My sister recommended the movie “Once.”
It took my husband and me about three months to see it, meanwhile paying Netflix for the privilege of having it sit atop our television. When we finally took the time to see it, I was struck by the movie’s simplicity.
It’s about an aspiring musician with a broken heart trying to start a music career, and a Czech immigrant making her way in Ireland. What touched me were how these two people, who had so little monetarily, were truly living their lives and pursuing their dreams in a simple, yet profound way.
It made me think about how much I have, and how I should try to live life fully in the now, instead of waiting for more. I often think, mostly unconsciously,
Swedish Love
“Go meet a nice Swedish boy!” my host mother called out to me. It was my second week in Sweden. I was 23, and enjoying my stay. Officially, I was there studying their health care system for my master’s project. In truth, I wanted to travel and have an adventure. “I’ll see what I can do,” I called back.
Three months earlier I’d had a dream. It was on Valentine’s night, after having a party with my single, and not the least bit bitter (OK, maybe a tiny bit) female friends who also did not have dates on this annual night of relationship-status reflection.
(Cue dream-land music) I was taking a bus (no one I knew took the bus in Los Angeles, but it’s a dream, so work with me here) to a night club. I walked in, and saw HIM. He was someone I felt I knew, and was handsome, in a good-person way that makes you just want to smile. I was so happy that I immediately hugged him. He took my hand, and led me outside. In my journal (yes, I did write this down) I describe it as a French courtyard with cobblestones and window boxes with flowers. He leaned down and kissed me, one of the most romantic kisses I’d ever had.
Potty Time for Mama
After four years of going to the bathroom with an audience, I wished for the thing that every mom told not to: that my kids would grow up soon in hopes of being able to visit the restroom in private.
I used to like to sit and think on the toilet. It was my place to, well, re-group. I remember as a child when my dad told me he was going on a retreat to be silent and think. My response was, “Can’t you do that in the bathroom?”
Like most things, we get used to the status quo. So, as a mom of two young sons, I would announce, “Mommy’s going to the bathroom!” and we would all march in like it was a special occasion.
A Hasty (not Tasty) Conversation
I am not a good cook. But I dream, or at least think about becoming a good cook some day. The problem is that I always think it’s going to happen overnight. Take for example, the Promise of the Crock Pot. I have friends who told me tales of wonderful meals, cooking themselves (I guess you have to put the stuff in there to begin with though) which are then waiting for you at the end of the day with very little effort on your part.
So, when I came home with an eight-person monstrosity called a crock pot (a.k.a. slow cooker) my husband looked at me and said, “Well, I look forward to our first meal,” not-so-secretly knowing it would be a while.
But one day I decided it was time. No more trying to decide what to cook at three p.m. No more ordering pizza or Chinese. I picked out a wonderful-sounding recipe called “Chicken and Rice Pacifica,” which included chicken, soy sauce, bell peppers, and pineapple.
Complaint Free?
If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude. Don’t complain.
— Maya Angelou
I began reading the book “A Complaint Free World.” The idea is to go twenty-one days straight without complaining. You wear a bracelet to remind yourself, and move it over to the other wrist when you make a verbal complaint.
Before starting this practice, I considered myself to be fairly positive, at least in my spoken words. Though I’m still working on my never-ending negative thoughts floating around in my head. The book likens it to a Tasmanian devil, wreaking havoc in your mind. I know mine sometimes says, “You really suck as a mom” or “Everyone else’s kids are in extra-curricular activities, why aren’t yours?”
Taking My Figure Into My Own Hands
It came one afternoon, like so many times before.
Innocent-looking-enough, this clothes catalog arrived with the rest of the mail. But today was not like other days. To begin, my brain was starting to leave the hormonal fog of having my son eight months prior.
Life was beginning to resume some sort of order that sleeping five hours straight (not more) at night affords you. But my body was still predictably soft and squishy. The births of my children had each left hallmark weight, on top of the weight that had slowly crept on post-wedding diet.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the catalog, about to have to make dinner, realizing swim suit season was coming, and generally not in a good mood with how I was looking or feeling.
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