8 Percent of My Day

I have been awake for approximately 15 hours. I have spent approximately 1.25 of these hours speaking to one person about taking off, or putting on, clothing.

Take off the PJs - you've been lounging around in front of that bagel for 45 minutes. We're moving on. Put on this thermal. You can't wear straight-up mesh when it's -8 degree (feels like -34) outside. Wear the jersey on top. No? Then remove the jersey.Take off the shorts. [stare down. not worth it. we need to get to work.] Then layer on these pants.

Notice I'm still wearing my hat.

Fast forward 12 hours:

Please put on your pajamas. I would like for you not to be naked while you're eating that pudding. (Where the hell did you get it?)

Underpants. Now. Aren't you cold?

 It's -8 degrees.

Perfect is Stupid

It all started with a bit of crooked cutting. His goal was to follow the perfectly framed edge of the catfish photo but his scissored slipped, the edge frayed and he flipped out. "I messed up! I can't do this. Mommy, you do it."

"I can't do your homework, Jules. And it doesn't have to be perfect," I told him calmly, offering the very advice I so often can't seem to accept myself. "Plus, we're making a collage [with Mod Podge - and I could barely contain my excitement]. Sometimes it actually looks cooler if the pictures don't all have straight edges."

That he wasn't buying. Jules is a guy with an affinity for angles, straight lines and squares, just like his dad. Maybe it's those engineer genes. But he calmed down and settled back into striving for straight lines. Which went mostly almost perfectly. Lucky for us.

Then he started writing the words. The task was to capture two facts about electric eels and he was pleased by those he picked: 1) an electric eel is not really an eel—it's a fish, and related to a catfish; and 2) an electric eel can put out enough voltage to light up a Christmas tree. Fascinating really. But that "r" starting off "related" somehow made its way to the paper facing the wrong way, the mirror image of a right-facing R. He screamed and threw the crayon. "It's a stupid R. I hate this." Two short sentences containing two words that are off-limits at our house. (Those who know how I speak in the company of adults might find this amusing but I'm pretty strict on this point.)

I showed him another superb benefit of collages: You can just cut off that part. If you want, you can cut all the words apart and glue them down separately. And sometimes that's just the right art effect you're going for. He bought it. We kept going. To great success. From his determined expression, and the chatter-box commentary that accompanied the sketching of Christmas tree clearly illuminated with lots of eel-powered voltage, I could tell he was  proud. And I felt proud, too: I hadn't intervened with his vision, hadn't reached more than once for the sponge-brush to help him smooth the Mod Podge, hadn't pushed him to paint the white parts of his poster with watercolors as I'd envisioned, hadn't suggested, a second time, that he might want to find one more fact—because Ms. E had assigned them to report on "two or three" things.

Pushing "perfect" (unattainable, of course) might be the number-one thing I want to avoid as a parent. Of course, I want to encourage the boys to reach—within reason. But I also want them to feel that they that they can create, or conceptualize something, and feel confident enough to share it with someone else, or lots of someone elses, before they feel like that something is fully figured out. That's how you learn, that's how you grow. That's how you get awesome. And have fun.

But I struggle with insecurity of sharing semi-shaped stuff. A lot. I spent more than a dozen years in a world where things are supposed to be edited to perfection before they leave your desk. Now, I work in a role where things have to be iterative. It's empowering. It's liberating. History aside, it's the way I actually prefer to work: with creative input from all sorts of smart collaborators. But I often need to be reminded to let go. To route what I've got right now. And, on that front, I appreciate the encouragement, the coaching.

Today, I told this to my boss when he told me not to overthink part of a project. "Often, I totally need that reminder and love that you help me with that," I'd said. "But not this time. You'd be proud of me. I'm really keeping things moving, even if it feels like I'm just throwing shit on the walls." He loved that. Truly. He even stopped by my office later to suggest a "Throw Shit" sign for my wall.

I'm thinking about it.

Inherited Memories

"Charlie was a boy, right?"

"He was."

It's not the first time Jules has talked about our dead cat. From time to time he even draws pictures of the spicy orange tabby he's never met, the one I adopted in 2002 after my boss Carla rescued him from a vacant lot near a church in Harlem. I'd taken the subway up at lunchtime with my friend Gabby because... who doesn't love kittens? Of course I did. But I didn't love cats. I didn't even really like them. But we got there and, as soon as I spotted the tiny ginger starting trouble—again and again—with his more subdued siblings, all shades of grey, I wanted him. He had sparkle. He had spirit. He had verve. Plus, I was moving to Vermont in a couple of months and I didn't know a soul. Jon had no real timeline for leaving San Diego. This cat could be my best friend.

It was a rash decision, one that my roommate (and BFF) Holly graciously blessed. We covered the couches and Chuck joined us in our tiny Queens apartment. A few months later, Charlie made the move with me to Vermont, where he lived out his years fiercely—a cool king, who reigned the neighborhood, who attacked ankles and who, when he wanted to, perched close for a pet—before he succumbed to congestive heart failure at five-and-a-half. We, of course, were devastated. Chuck was our first "kid." We mourned for months. And then we mostly moved on. We took the ferry to the Humane Society across the lake and brought back Olive and Tina, sister cats who act like dogs, to live with us: Jon, me and Digs.

A few months later, I got pregnant with Jules.  I'm not close with Olive and Tina in the same way I was tight with Chuck: they have each other, they have Demps (and they actually like him, unlike Charlie, who merely tolerated him) and we have a lot going on, with two jobs and two kids. Fortunately, these kids love the girls and, now that the boys are old enough to move through space in ways that don't totally spook the cats, they've forged some pretty solid relationships.

***

Olive has taken to resting on Julian's chest, particularly during the time, just before bed, when I'm lying with Jules, listening to music and talking. It sort of freaked me out at first—having heard all of those stories about cats snuggling up on dying people in nursing homes. But I've come to the conclusion that Olive is just sometimes starved for sweet attention and this is where she finds it—while we're relaxed and calm and still, welcome to petting a purring creature. Here where no one is screaming or dancing or yelling or screaching like a bird of prey. (Literally, a bird of prey. The boys got an eagle costume for Christmas.)

"We're lucky to have such a sweet cat, aren't we?" I ask.

"She's not a cat, she's my sister," he replies. And then, "Charlie was a boy, right?"

Yes, he was, sweet boy. And, crazy as it may seem, it means so much to me that you care.

Couch Cushion Ninja Training for Crazy Children

I've been working hard not to lapse into complete sedentary-ism: making an effort to take a lunchtime yoga class once or twice a week, lowering my standard week-day run from 3 to 2 miles (the result: I've actually been doing it). I may even start teaching a lunchtime jazz (dance) class for my co-workers. I'm on semi-rare good-ish exercise streak—partly because I'm sticking to only activities I love.

I wish I were intrigued by the CrossFit craze or enjoyed plyometric workouts—my friends have had outstanding results. I've tried Beachbody's T25 program twice: Shaun T and his crew don't annoy me at all—they seem like fun, normal people whom I'd love to have over for dinner and drinks. But the cardio workouts really hurt my feet (the arches - it's totally weird) and I don't get any sort of mental rush from doing them. A couple of weeks ago—after the second T25 attempt—I came to the conclusion that

I'd probably never expand my preferred physical activities beyond running, dancing and yoga-ing. Total acceptance. And then today I discovered "Secret Ninja Obstacle Course." Well, actually, not to brag or anything, I created Secret Ninja Obstacle Course. 

Here's how this game goes: You put big couch cushions on the floor and, one by one, players (AKA "secret ninjas") take turns creating a jumping/balancing/memory sequence of movements that must be repeated by the other players, who are sometimes your opponents and sometimes aren't, depending on everyone's moods.

The benefits of this Secret Ninja Obstacle Course, from my perspective, are as follows:

1. It's creative. There must be a story behind your movement ("there are swimming crocodiles waiting to attack!").

2. If you'd like, you can make it be sort-of yoga or sort-of dance or sort-of running (more like bounding from pillow to pillow). Or you can make it all about pure Secret Ninja Moves (read: jumps with spins and arm slashing) so long as you move from pillow to pillow. The rules are up to you. (Caveat: When it's your turn.)

3. I doesn't hurt my arches like T25.

4. It seems to be the only thing that truly keeps my kids from beating the shit out of each other.

5. The boys think I'm waaaaaay more fun than when I'm trying to make them write thank you notes create art to send to family.

The boys and I did triple sessions of Secret Ninja Obstacle Course today. During the last session, one guy participated in his underpants (see above). I guess it makes sense: in SNOC (pronounced "snock"), you work up a SWEAT. The boys couldn't get enough. I'm pretty sure I've started the next workout craze. 

Note: If you care a lot about your couch cushions, SNOC is probably not for you. 

Lower the Bar, Feel Better

Maybe I've had high standards. Or medium-highish standards that have offered an easy out, an excuse, for accomplishing... nothing. If I couldn't do it "right."

If I couldn't run at least 3 miles, then I might as well not even lace up the shoes. What was the point? 

If I couldn't do runs with my friends, then snowboarding wouldn't be fun. I'll just stay home and make the chili.

If I didn't make a really amazing family calendar then I might as well just let everyone hang the free ones they got from their bank/car dealership/alma mater.  Or just use their iPhones. 

You know what I did in this fancy gear? I remembered, after a 6-year hiatus, that I ride regular, not goofy.

I practiced heelside and toeside turns and perfected hockey stops. On the kids' hill.

And then I had a beer with my riding partner to celebrate our progress. 

But, these days, there's no reaching the bars set where they've been. I can't always find time to run 3+ miles—but I can fit in 2 miles on the treadmill after the boys get off to school, before I shower and leave for work. I'm never going to ride like my past-pro (for real) snowboarding friends—but I can relearn the basics in lessons while my little guys are in their own classes so that I don't dread the family trips to the mountain that inevitably are going to happen for the next decade. 

And my 2014 calendars are going to be filled with the first 12 high-enough-resolution sorta cool photos I can find in the next 24 hours (or two, because then I'm going to bed). I've slacked just the right amount on this one: Shutterfly calendars are 50% off till January 7. 

What I've somehow finally started to learn in the last month or so is this: Lowering the bar is making me happier, healthier and richer. I think I'm becoming wise at 38. 

This Year I'm Wishing

I meant to do a End-of-Year or Happy 2014 card. In it, I would capture—in words and images—good wishes for the new year. But I'm not a designer. And I'm not all that organized. And, truth be told, I spent the last week-and-a-half making very many great memories with family and friends.

Now it's January 1. There is no card. I'm letting go of that idea. (Family: I haven't given up on the 2014 calendars.) I'm not writing resolutions. I'm making a list of wishes for the next 12 months. And here it is:

1. Lovingkindness

2. Connection

3. Freedom

4. Pleasant surprises

5. Passion

6. Moments of quietude

7. Perspective

8. Fun and games

9. Creative breakthroughs

10. Enrichment

11. Adventures

12. Good health

13. Luck

14. Gratitude

Most of these can be interpreted really broadly. Some of these, like #13, are simply wishes. (Or are they? Isn't luck all about perspective, #7?) Most of these will require that I set some concrete resolutions and habits if they actually are to happen. I'm pretty sure that aims involving yoga and running and dancing and more mindful parenting practices and better sleep hygiene can tip my life in the direction of most of these. 

In any case, this year, I'm ditching the resolution list in favor of my 2014 Wishes. For me—and for you. Happy New Year!

Nude, Ninja Gingerbread Men for Christmas!

Dear Friends:

The next time I imply that I am time-strapped and overwhelmed by responsibilities, please remind me of that night when I decided to spend the good part of an hour driving to a nearby friend's  (at 10:30) to borrow back our shared bottle of corn syrup, whipping up (stubbornly runny) vegan royal icing to dress my army of whole-grain, vegan ninja men. With a fancy cocktail toothpick. Obviously unsuccessfully. Attempting to painstakingly build eyes, and a random red belt, from artificially colored, artificially everything did not help.

I give up. The rest of my wholesome—and truly delicious—ginger ninjas will run nude. All natural sweeties. Plus, looks don't matter, right? It's all about the stuff you're made of. How you treat other people. These spicy dudes treat well—and they kick the asses of those seriously sandy (in a really bad way) gluten-free Sandies I attempted a few years ago.

That is all. Good night.

#fancycookiefail

I Suck at Telling Stories

I call myself a writer. Jon is an engineer. Our children—like all children—love stories. And in this family, one of us parents is constantly creating fantastical stories: full of magic and forests, dragons and fairies; the other tells tales of two little brothers who get lost in the woods or boring "mini-shorts" about animals who learn that it's awesome to be different, and it's important to be nice to people.

I am "the other." I suck at telling stories. (Jon rocks but who's comparing.) Sure, my brain churns out fiction but it tends toward character development. I've never really gotten very far with plot. That's why I've only dabbled in short stories and why writing a novel, even a really bad one, feels way harder than running a marathon. But even if I were able to draft a novel with a solid plot, it'd be fraught with family secrets... or it'd circle around one moment, one event, or one meeting that unraveled relationships, or saved a life. I don't know what exactly—but drama kids definitely don't care about.

Nevermind  the topic or tone, anyway. Telling anything on demand, isn't something at which I excel. Particularly at the end of the day. I try. Tonight, I told Julian about a monkey who loves oranges and all the other monkeys make fun of him but his mom tells him that he is so special for loving what he loves and, because she and his dad and his brother collect bananas, the oranges make their dinners more colorful and delicious. This 30-second story was lame-ass and Jules told me so, nicely. And because he was super sleepy and because I actually am a good back rubber, I got off easy.

Not so with Kai. I started with a story of many dinosaurs. His request. This story was about a carnivorous dinosaur who'd decided to become a vegetarian. Kai demanded that I include a pterodactyl, an allosaurus and a "long neck." So I made the allosaurus, a carnivore, the star. Basically, he walked around looking for plants. I named all sorts of plants. I asked Kai to contribute. He added onions. Brilliant. So the plot became that the dinosaur had bad breath and his friends taught him to eat mint. Kai thought this plot lame. He was right.

"Tell me about the long necks."

"What should I tell you about the long necks?" This is what I do. I turn the tables, looking for interaction, or a team-effort exquisite corpse sort of story approach. It never works.

"Long necks are brachiosauruses, Mom," he says, exasperated.

I try my best to think of something, talking about the long-necked brachiosauruses looking for food in trees. It does not suffice. I offer a back rub.

"I want a stooooorrrrry!!!" Kai begins kicking me. For real. Kicking. And punching.

I literally am incapable of producing an acceptable story. I tell him this. He keeps kicking and yelling. I leave, walking downstairs, telling him I won't listen until he can be nice. Moments later, he appears at the bottom of the steps.

"I'm angry at you, Mom." He snarls and growls. Literally. I laugh. He is not joking. This is serious—and I am fucking up. I get serious.

"Why are you angry?"

He runs up stairs, screaming—and sobbing, like his feelings are hurt. I follow. He reiterates that he is "angry at [me]" and turns away from me to face into a large plant in the corner of the hallway. I tell him he needs to talk with me about why he's angry, or to go into his room for some alone time (after he sits on the potty because he forgot to do that earlier and I'm sick of washing sheets... I didn't say that last part). After a bit more snarling and pouting he reveals that he's "very angry at me" because "he wanted more story and a snuggle."

We go back to his bed and I cobble together a tale about a beautiful girl with long green curls and purple basketball shorts. Her name is Sack (Kai's choice). She's sad because her brother is at school and so she has no one to play basketball with. She rounds up a bunch of insect teammates (reminiscent of those in James and the Giant Peach - I have no imagination). They walk to the court and... to be continued. Tomorrow, I'll tell the story of who they encounter there...

This story was incredibly dumb. But Kai snuggled it all up with his "favorite blankie" and, with heavy eyes, started nodded off, satisfied.

I feel only defeated, a storytime failure. I'm sure there's a some sort of solution out there for unimaginative parents like me and I'm going to find it. And get more sleep, so that my brain isn't too tired to tell tales. Perhaps I should start reading books about fairies and dragons instead of ones about mothers dying of cancer. I could use a little more magical thinking, across the board. How 'bout you?

Glitter Will Earn You a Pat Down

I have some helpful travel insights to share:

Glitter will earn you a patdown.
Apparently the cozy sweater I changed into for the flight home was littered with glitter. Perhaps you’re imagine some shiny bedazzled duds? Nope. Subtle. So subtle I didn't notice till I got the no-go from the scan machine and quick pat-down from a super nice security officer woman who noticed the glitter right off. Later while lunching in the terminal, I noticed a woman wearing a long-sleeved shirt made of sequins. I wondered whether her screening demanded a call to airport security. 

.

If you want your kids to answer your call…

Order something from Amazon to arrive while you're away. When traveling without my kids, I normally call before their bedtime but the conversation is always a little disappointing. I can't tell which boy is talking and, typically, neither one is all that into chatting (typically I'm trying to connect right when shit is hitting the fan at home). I just end up feeling sad. Last night, we couldn't get the timing right so I phoned this morning, at 6:45 am. The kids were thrilled to hear from me—and I quickly learned why: a package arrived, from Amazon, and they wanted to know if they could open it.

Noooooooo,

I thought and started to panic that I'd clicked too fast and kid-gifts were coming here, instead of going to my secret storage, at Ri's. I quickly logged in and realized that the package was actually the LifeFactory sip top for Ri. I'd also meant to sent this to her house but it was A-OK to open... phew. The boys didn't care who the package was for—they just wanted to open it. And I let them. Via Facetime. I was a hero. 

So, to recap—and to rephrase: 1) during this glitzy holiday season, pack the glitter; dress plain if you're riding on a plane and 2) go ahead and send the right package to the wrong address; it might have a unexpected silver lining benefit. 

I Can Imagine Lovingkindness

I’ve been navel-gazing.

It started with a yoga/movement/writing/visioning retreat that was to be an early birthday present to myself. I really have no words to describe this experience. But if I did I probably wouldn’t share them here. And, in fact, sharing words at all was verboten for the second half of this two-day workshop. Which wasn’t easy for me.

I talk. I question. I prompt. Incessantly. That’s why I became I journalist. That’s why I like mingling at parties full of people I barely know and why I often strike up conversations on playgrounds, in lines, airplanes. Or at least, I don’t shut them down.

But my yoga/writing workshop experience proved not only that being quiet has its benefits (which I know) but also that I was capable of staying silent and, if forced encouraged to keep my observations and opinions and inquiries to myself for a somewhat extended length of time, I might be rewarded with realizations. Important ones.  After all, that’s what happened at the transformative (there’s a word but it’s an insufficient one so it doesn’t count) yoga/writing workshop.

Maybe I won’t be rewarded with profound realizations. Maybe, in these moments of quiet, I’ll just come up with stories, fictional shorts that serve to entertain me—and in some cases even inspire compassion, loving-kindness.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been traveling a lot in the last week. Uncharacteristically, solo. No kids. No Jon. Just me. And, to strangers, I’ve remained mostly silent. Which, as it turns out, that makes me more observant.  And imaginative.

As an eavesdropping voyeur, it’s been fascinating to listen to the dynamics of couples in stressful travel situations—mostly caused by snow and sleet but in one case, by a passport-verifying machine that forced one half of a two-person family unit to back down, cancel out and join her other half, two spots down, in finishing his half-completed customs declaration screen.

She. Was. Pissed.

Her wrath was directed at Brian—that was his name—but we all got to hear it too. Brian and his domestic partner continued bickering. Like children. Did Jon and I sound like this? In public? I thought back to the man sitting in the Burlington terminal a few days earlier: so optimistically relating his (unfortunate) travel situation to the woman on the other end, the one who kept asking the same questions over and over again, in a kind yet-totally-annoying way. (Amazing as it may seem, I was eavesdropping on BOTH sides of this telephone conversation.) He seemed to be so happy to keep repeating his answers. I marveled at their considerate conversation—it seemed so nice.  Again, I wondered: where were Jon and I this Brian-and-his-angry wife/remarkably-kind-couple spectrum.

Twenty minutes later I came across a 50-something woman with strewn-about suitcases, bright makeup and big hair. She was in the process of combing her hot-rolled tresses in wide strokes while a growing line of stall-exiters waited in line to wash their hands.

Who is this woman and why is she hogging up the counter with her vain primping?

And – ew, gross – surely those strands are going to land all over the sinks. Then the story started forming… she was off to meet a guy she’d fallen in love with online. For the first time. Of course she wanted to look nice. Now I was rooting for her.

And then, tonight, just minutes after takeoff, the guy in 15D slumps over, his sleepy head falling over the invisible line dividing his side from mine and starts snoring. I feel an almost irrepressible urge to poke him. I want to tell him to SHUT UP. But my mind starts reeling: he’s a very anxious flyer. He’s medicated to get through. I pull out my iPhone and the headphones I’m grateful to have remembered and I start listening to “Marathon2012”—one of the few playlists I’ve synced to this device. When I tire of that, I turn to “Relaxing,” which consists of one 7:45 minute song that was supposed to be the soundtrack to Kai’s birth—till I requested that the doula switch to a running mix. The 15D Dude’s snorts sound over the ambient chimes. I feel twitchy. I want out of this seat. I remember how 15D slammed down our shared armrest and occupied all of it without even asking. Surely, he’s just a big jerk. I have no feelings of loving-kindness toward this character in the next seat. 

Maybe I should wake him up and ask him where he’s going? Did he have any delays? Did he wake up at the crack of dawn and that’s why he’s so sleepy and must snore so close to my shoulder.  I wonder. Maybe I should ask. But he's sleeping so I don't. I just sit and wonder. 

Breaking Ball Jars Vs. BPA

Newsflash—You shouldn't give this to your kid:

The glass. (Seriously? C'mon now.)

YOU go ahead and drink your wine out of a Ball jar (wine enthusiast friends: you might feel a little better to know what's in there is Three Buck Chuck). And you go ahead and use that photo-ready, budget-friendly juice jar to pack your yogurt parfait or that perfect portion of oats to make at work (both brilliant ideas of friends). Or screw on a Cuppow! and call it a trendy vessel for your green smoothie or iced latte. Bake preciously presented sweets in your Ball jars. But don't hand them to your 3 or 5-year-old who suffers restless leg-and-arm-and-hell-it's-the-whole-body syndrome. 

The first time I become aware of the dangers of Ball jars was via email—a note from Julian's teacher informing me that the 4 oz. glass jar in which I'd sent grapes, possibly even halved so he wouldn't choke (the ridiculous irony - he's FIVE), had broken. Jules was devastated because he thought I'd be mad. She'd sent the note so I'd make sure he knew I wasn't upset with him (man, I'd better lighten up if this is what he thinks). Really, what I think she'd really meant to say was this: "What the f*ck is wrong with you, sending glass jars in backpacks with a kindergartener?" But she's a super-nice person so she sent what she sent. With a smiley face—to make me feel better. Thing is, the dangers of glass shards hadn't even occurred to me. I've produced two magazine features on how BPA kills (or something like that) and, thus, have a complicated relationship with plastic. I shared this story with a (kidless but apparently far more sensible) colleague who nodded knowingly and, a few days, later handed me some stainless-steel canisters. (Thanks again, B!)

You'd think I would have learned from this lesson. But no. I've continued to give my children beverages in Ball jars, "tightly supervised," of course. So when Kai carried his water cup (glass Ball jar) with him from the table to the bathroom to brush his teeth last night, I thought nothing of it. When he set it on the back of the toilet so he could stand on the seat to look in the mirror while he brushed, I thought "gross." And when got into a tiff with Jules over who got to squeeze the toothpaste first and swept the glass to the floor with a flailing limb, I was all "oh SHIT" (silently and for that I give myself much credit) and whisked them both out of the room so I could clean up the scattered, shattered glass. I did a thorough job, I thought, with wet paper towels and all. I meant to go back to double vacuum after bedtime. I forgot.

Tonight, Kai, refusing to be corralled for bed, ran into the bathroom and wedged himself between the toilet and the wall (again... gross!)—then pulled out a bloody foot. Slashed, with a shard. We bandaged him up and he seems to be just fine. I'm a tad traumatized. Guilt-ridden.

So if you see my kids in the next few weeks, or months, or years, out, sitting at a fancy table sipping from stainless-steel water bottles, eating their halved grapes, you'll know what's going on: I'm overcompensating. 

Ode to The Angry Run

I've written much about the therapeutic effects of a good run. The story usually goes something like this: I'm so anxious I'm about to explode, so I tie on my shoes and run away, music turned loud. I return refreshed, renewed and ready to rejoin the world.

But sometimes—on days when the stars and my brain chemicals clash in the worst of ways—the "run relief" story takes a slightly different shape. It's usually when I'm mopey and teary and snippy and snappy and Jon (bless his heart) basically sweeps the boys up and orders me to run. I don't want to go but I say "ok, 2 miles." Sometimes this compliance takes longer. Today, it took a while. And, today, because it is November and because, today, I hate November, I decided to run on the treadmill. I wanted to run by myself (sorry, Digs), in my dark grey basement. Sorta like listening to Elliot Smith to cheer you up when you're feeling down (ridiculous), it seems now as I write this. But we've haven't set up the treadmill yet and there aren't any outlets where anyone might expect them. Which PISSED ME OFF and made me ask myself, why did we buy this house anyway? I'm prone to overreact. Particularly on days like this.

So then I decided I would not run. I would clean. Until I looked at the piles of papers everywhere and got overwhelmed. I pulled out some yoga pants and the running shirt that makes me look like a speed skater--or a condom, depending on who you ask. I looked for any iDevice that had music and a charge. I snuck out the front door. (Sorry, again, Digs.)

I sprinted up the hill and cursed the neighbor who clearly needs a new invisible fence for her fierce-barking but friendly dog. Then, lungs burning, I slowed to my typical pace. I passed the home we bid on and lost, the perfectly situated house that looks especially fantastic on the outside. I realized I was being a complete ungrateful asshole and just kept at it. I cursed along with lyrics, aloud, until I realized that people were out raking leaves and I looked and sounded like a dangerous crazy person.

At the point where I could make a right turn and tack on another mile or so, I took the path lazily traveled, stubbornly refusing to give in to my body, which was saying, "keep going - you really should do a five-miler, today." I'd said two. And that's what I'd do. On the final stretch, I didn't feel euphoric. I felt itchy (literally), a little guilty for leaving Digs behind and sort of annoyed that I didn't keep going. But, on the bright side, the 20 minutes I'd spent stepping to the beat of Girl Talk had kept me from drinking, eating and saying things that I shouldn't.  And now, writing this, with a glass of lemon water leftover from last night's dinner—a delish tagine made by Olin—I feel grateful. Much better.

My Favorite Halloween

It started as I would expect Halloween eve to start: I encouraged bites of burritoes and broccoli while Jon rushed around setting up the candy station for the trick or trickers and looking for the various glow devices grandparents had gifted for the occasion. When we finally located the luminescent accessories in a random drawer with dish towels, placed there "so I wouldn't lose them," we cut our losses and hit the road.

Jules was dressed in the awesome werewolf costume my mom designed for him but refused face paint. "I look cuter this way—not scary—so I'll get more candy." Kai had already dissed his werewolf on his way out the door this morning.

*** 

"I want to be Wolverine," Kai had pouted, tossing the furry hat to the floor.

"Werewolves have big claws too," I reasoned.

"NO!"

Knowing how important it is for three-year-olds to be dressed like all of the other superhero three-year-olds at school, I quickly located the Batman costume. In the laundry room. Soiled with something that I hope to be chocolate (good chance: it was on the chest). Batman's cape/mask was missing but I managed to find some Spiderman headwear. Kai was thrilled. Success.

It was windy and rainy. I missed our old hood: Ri stopping by to see the boys, the sidewalks, the streetlights, the Jastatts. But the boys' excitement was contagious. They wanted candy—loads and loads of it. I'd expected this. What I didn't expect was everything else. 

Jules would charge up to each new door and shout: "Trick or Treat for Unicef!" and push the tiny cardboard collection box out for quarters, often before taking a piece of candy.

And Kai... Kai was just taking in the night. I'm pretty sure that strolling the (dark, dark) streets with Kai, aged 3 1/2, will remain in my top ten cherished-moments memories of our "young family" days.

About halfway through our trick-or-tricking, we caught up with some friends. Jules would run with the pack up to a door and I'd hang back with Kai, who continued to mosey along at his own pace. As the other kids were already racing up to the next house, he'd climb the stairs of the one everyone else had just left, carefully keeping his balance as he clutched his plastic pumpkin in one hand and glow sword with the other. 

When the door swung open, he'd shout "trick or treat!" and leisurely select a piece of candy. Often he would drop his glow-sword and his bucket to grasp the new treat with both hands and make a very theatrical (but sincere) show of smelling it. "It's peach," he told one neighbor, of the lollipop he'd plucked from her bowl. At another house, he told a Skittles-proffering woman that he "LOVED SKITTLES" and he'd already gotten some... and started digging around to find it as evidence. "But I like to have two." At the next home, he insisted on showing the man giving him a Reese's Cup a box of candy he'd received it because "the superhero on the box turns into a rock." At every stop, he made sure to wish everyone a "Happy Halloween," sometimes following that up with a "and have a good night." He took plenty of time to admire the Halloween decorations. Each and every one. 

And as we rounded the corner for home, Kai slipped his tiny hand into mine and whispered, "those last candies - there's two in there - I saw the picture on the box. One for you and one for me." My heart exploded. 

Back at the ranch (converted into a contemporary home with no categorical style), 5-year-old Jules engaged in the expected candy counting. Moving at a productive pace, he'd managed to accumulate more than twice the loot of his younger brother but was acting relatively generous about it all. On a quick FaceTime with my parents he even promised save some candy to share with them when we visit at Thanksgiving. But Jules' tear-jerker moment came later, when I was hounding him to brush his teeth "after all that candy." (Cliche parent, I have become.)

The kid was sitting at the table shoving coins and dollars from his little wallet into the Unicef box. Jon joined us at the table and Jules asked him, and then me, for more dollars. Carefully folding a five-dollar bill into the slot, Julian explained: 

"We need to get lots of money so we can help people. Look at the things we can get for them with this money..."

He pointed to the illustrations on back of the box.

"You can get fruit bars."

(Protein bars.)

"Or soccer balls. And they die early. So you can survive them. if you get them shots. But I want to get all the way to the water. They have to walk REALLY far to get water."

His eyes were wide. His face was flushed. "They have to walk as far as it is to get to my school," he said. "And when they get there it is MUD. They drink mud. I want to get them clean water." 

I get teary—again—writing this. That kid is getting an extra piece of candy tomorrow. 

It's Not Always About Proximity

The memories are vivid yet totally random. Aunt Cora leading us through the dusty trails behind the Bessemer quarries. We were looking for fossils and spotted a "bear" - a big black garbage bag. A visit to their old Toronto house, the one with the awesome pool patio. Parts of this memory are so clear I can almost feel the cool linoleum against my feet in the book-packed basement that was my bedroom during that stay. Pretty sure it was the visit launched "The Mickler News," the short-lived family newsletter, copied for distribution by my dad at the steel mill.

I remember the trip to Houston to see the Marcums when I was in, I think, 8th grade. The air pressure on the airplane messed with my ears so badly that I couldn't hear right for two days. I read a book at the Astros game that Uncle Steve had so sweetly planned for us. I hated baseball. It was during my total-asshole period. And another trip to Houston, many years later, for Liz's high school graduation. The girl cousins went shopping. The boy cousins got shirts that said "security" and wore them for the party. There was plenty of pool time. We mostly all drank too much. I'd gotten the flight on Priceline at the very last minute. Fuck the budget. Family trumped finances. It was so worth it.

Still today, I can hear Aunt Mini rapping brilliant nonsense on a kid microphone in my mom and dad's basement after Angelo's high-school graduation in 1996. Hanging with Uncle John and Aunt Mini at the Johnson Club after Teta's funeral more than a decade ago. Mini was wearing my grandmother's fur coat (the one no one could bear to donate after she died) and a Rastafarian wig hat with dreads. Costumes, on this side of this fam, are a theme.

UB is always in costume—so I'm not sure why anyone was really surprised when a werewolf turned at Liz's wedding this past weekend, mid-reception. There are so many UB memories, new and old. In addition to costumes, most involve aggressive driving, chocolate, wine, dapper attire, gourmet food, relaxing jazz, runs and coffee. (In no particular order). Many involve surprise appearances. All involve multimedia recording devices. He's the family paparazzo. And the bon vivant. He's also the one with the crazy eyes—and the coffees—pictured up above with Aunt Mini.

Except for my Uncle John/Aunt Janet/Cousin Sam, the members of my mom's immediate family have always been at least a six-hours drive away. Yet my connections with this crew are incredibly close. Is it effort? (Probably not - I'm not that good at keeping up, honestly. UB gets the award for effort. Sister Kate comes in a close second). Must something else, like, we all got big chunks of the same DNA. Or something.  I wonder. For a bunch of people who grew up on all different corners of the country, we seem to share a lot in common: there are a bunch of talented musicians (I am not one of them) and another group of people who work in helping fields (nurses, therapists, etc.). There's sizeable group of  loud, like-to-dance types (I fit in there). Overall, we're an emotional bunch. Maybe that's it. I just don't know. But we really, really like each other—or so it seems to me.

Maybe we're just lucky.

An Even-Better MVP

MVP doesn't mean Most Valuable Player. Not anymore. Not in my new world. 

These days, MVP stands for Minimum Viable Product, a simple solution that can be deployed quickly. It's not perfect. It is attainable. It's what you can produce right now to fill a need, to solve a problem. Feedback welcome. 

This aiming for what's attainable is a new approach for me. Oh, I've tried it before. In fact, I'm a big fan of

Anne Lamott's school of shitty first drafts. In theory. I've never been one to stop myself from over-editing. Overanalyzing. Over-thinking. To the point of paralysis. Because I have a problem with perfectionism. (Which, by the way, never leads to doing anything perfectly.) 

Anyway, lately, I'm realizing perfect isn't the point—and reaching for it doesn't pay off. I'm learning this at work but I'm applying it at home. When I'm packing J's lunch, I ask myself a very corporate sort of question: 

What's the low-hanging fruit here?

And I'll tell you: it's the fresh already chopped pineapple that I picked up at the EatingWell farmer's market (free giveaway from the test kitchen), the leftover lasagna that simply needs reheated. It's a pumpkin chocolate chip cookie that I made from a tube of Cookie Love batter. 

It's good enough. Because, in the end, nobody cares about who played things best. Just get in the game. Focus on your best assets. Keep evolving the rest. Am I right? 

Homework is Superfun

"Did you like homework when you were a little girl, Mama?"

I love the way he says girl—his R's are still the little-kid kind, articulated in a way that's not quite right but entirely age-appropriate, according to my sis, the speech-language pathologist.

Under my watch (read: restoring him to a seated position every time he cartwheels off the chair) he's completing his first homework assignment, one that prompts him to write in little squares things about himself: what he's good at (digging rocks), what are his hobbies (puzzles, museums and hiking), what kind of ice cream is his favorite (maple and vanilla) and what places he's visited (Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Cape Cod). His responses to this assignment seem to lend evidence to my theory that this  little guy is going to dig school.

What sort of makes sense. I did. And so did his dad.

"Yes, Jules, I liked homework. I still like homework. Learning things is super fun, don't you think?"

"Yes!"

What I didn't always like was sitting in a chair, still. What I didn't like was being quiet. Memorizing and regurgitating facts whose importance I couldn't really place in the real world. Focusing on information that felt static. Having to try to concentrate in a silent space. I still struggle with these things. And I think someone else might too.

I've heard amazing things about our community school—and I hope they're all true. I think it's important to know things, a lot of things. But I think it's even more important to be curious enough to explore the space all around the stuff that's known and imagine how you might fill in what's missing, to seek out the synergies that allow for evolution—and to know when it's time to shut the books and play music in your underpants.

How Do You Get Grace?

Tonight, after good many moments of anti-grace, I opened up an Energizing Green Yogi tea packet (it took all I had not to uncork a bottle of wine), and got this guy: "Grace brings contentment."

Teas readings

Awesome. Wise. But how the hell do you get grace? Is it something learned? I bet maybe if you practice really hard you can acquire grace. And I don't seem to have much time for practicing things. (Though I'd better start practicing my  dances - cause rumor has it, I'm spaced front-and-center in two pieces at the Flynn showcase performance next Monday night... and I'm still trying to learn some of the choreography we covered when I was sick. And find a fedora. Anyone? Anyone?)

But actually I've been working hard at keeping calm(er) while carrying on - and I do think it helps. Sure, I may still be showing somewhat subtle signs of freak-outs: biting my lip while reviewing a to-do list ... pretzel-wrapping a kid - who socked me in the arm and refused to sit in time out - in my legs (not one of my proudest moments, for sure), sobbing ... Right: subtle is just sometimes.

...  but when I work hard, the effort of staying calm creates awareness somehow. I notice how others are keeping their shit together. I feel the solidarity and see the silent (or not-so-silent) shows of support of others who've been there, or who are there with me now.

And knowing that we're all in this together... that makes me calm. er. Calmer. And a little more content.

The Power of Red

Swipe on bright-red lipstick.

Paint my fingernails poppy.

Slip on a pair of scarlet cashmere socks (that one's Olin's).

Pour a glass of pinot. 

Apparently my most common strategies for embracing the day with a sense of empowerment—and powering down happily (er... the wine)—center around the color red. 

It's funny how little rituals (of all colors) can boost your confidence, instantly enhance your mood...... like how drinking from my DanmadeNinja monkey mug makes me feel like I know how to pick out awesome things and truly appreciate them... Or how writing with an Ink Joy pen makes me feel organized. 

... like how continuously framing a potentially hive-inducing work project as a  fantastically exhilarating opportunity (and being lucky enough to be working with people who reinforce that idea) keeps excitement from dissolving into anxiety.

... and like how celebrating sparkly new snow with two wide-eyed little boys, I forget about slippery roads and scraping windows and really start to feel what I was trying so hard to sound enthusiastic saying...  "Isn't it beautiful?" 

Because, really, it is. 

"Vegan Till Thanksgiving” Takeaways

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the official end date of my first my "Vegan Till Thanksgiving" experiment, which has been a totally enlightening and fun challenge. Before I list what I learned in the process, a couple of confessions (my Catholic upbringing has raised me to reveal these sorts of transgressions): 

• I splashed real milk into my coffee on three occasions.

• I ate many, many bittersweet chocolate chips (which I assumed were vegan and then learned that the brand I bought were not).

Now, what I learned: 

• I can live without ice cream and cheese pretty easily. This came as a major shock to me.

• I'm not a huge fan of non-dairy "milk" products, particularly in my coffee. The coconut milk creamer was acceptable; soy lattes (purchased only out - I only bought almond milk and coconut milk creamer at home) were good.

• I drink less coffee and more green tea when I'm not doing dairy.

• I eat more and less healthfully when I'm following a vegan diet: more vegetables and beans and far fewer saturated fats (and fatty "junk") but probably more carb-y snacks, like tortilla chips and Triscuits.

Also... 

• Homemade vegan cookies taste as least as good as non-vegan ones.

• For me a vegan diet is not a way to shed pounds. I didn't weigh in (weight loss wasn't a goal) but suspect I stayed the same or gained, as I ate loads of avocados and nuts - which are staples in my diet typically anyway - and extra servings of higher-cal carbs (wild rice, say) in place of fish.

• Speaking of fish, I missed it a lot - particularly when we went out for sushi. (I ordered a sweet potato tempura roll - again, not as healthy as my typical yellowtail scallion... but perhaps comparable to a spicy tuna).

• Eating out wasn't as hard as I thought it'd be. At even the "super-meatiest" of restaurants, I had the most amazing meal... just requested that my roasted beet salad come without the cheese and the dressing and that they leave the smoked bacon butter off the pickled tomatoes on toast. Which were AMAZING.

• I should have been better about taking a multivitamin. (I did OK with the calcium supplement and somewhat OK with the omega-3s but didn't pick up a multi till last week). And when my arm broke out in hives the other night after prolonged content with a wet sweatshirt sleeve (incurred during bath-time duty) I was convinced I had a vitamin B12 deficiency and would soon start seeing signs of irreversible nerve damage. Ridiculous given that I'd had my fair share of fortified veggie products.

• I have such respect for the commitment it takes to follow a 100% vegan diet, 24/7/365.

• I thought even more about where my food comes than I normally do. The other night, when the boys didn't want to finish their milk at dinner, I found myself saying, "it's fine if you don't want to finish but next time let's not take so much. The cows work really hard to make that milk."

Tomorrow, I will eat on turkey and likely lots of buttery sides. Yum! After that, I will live on a little more vegan than I was in October - "veganish,"  a la Mark Bittman, as a friend pointed out. (Here's what's definitely coming back: milk in my coffee, fish, non-vegan foods served by friends, probably yogurt, definitely "good" cheeses.)