Here We Go Again

I hear them from down the hall, in Julian’s room. K is singing, “and I try… and I try and I try…”  J is sighing, exasperated. He’s exhausted. And wants to go to sleep but Kai—who took a monster nap this afternoon—is wired. “Where are you going?” “I’m going to see Mom.”

Now he is here. No, he is there. At the top of the steps, talking down to me—except that I’m in my room. On my bed—which is covered with piles and piles of clothes. Mine. Pulled out of baskets but not yet put into drawers. It’s this dumb thing I do. 

“Mom, i’m not tired.” I know that this is probably true because when I tried to wake him at 4:30 this afternoon—asking him to play soccer, or to draw with me, he said no. He said he needed space. He said that he wanted to keep sleeping there on that couch. And so I let him—because the weekend was long and busy, with T-ball and swimming and birthday partying and grandparents. He’s awake and now I need space. But I tell him to sit here with me and he does, so sweet, so quiet. And he puts his head on my lap. This silence won’t last, I know.

“That’s a LOT of words.” He’s totally engaged in my typing. And now it’s time to  stop. And time to put this dude to bed. Again. Here we go. 

What Pure Joy Looks Like

Everywhere, everyone is tense. Schedules and budgets. Planning and execution. Too much and too little. Communication snafus, snippy exchanges. High stakes, limited resources. At home, at the office, generally around town. I know experience is all about the lens. But it seems everyone's lenses are kind of cloudy right now.

Nearing the end of the kids' evening routine, 30 minutes later than was ideal, Kai disappeared. Then there was giggling coming from the guest room. I opened the door and there he was jumping up and down, up and down—making swirling 360's, oblivious I'd even entered the room. I started to make him stop, demand that he brush his teeth RIGHT NOW but the look on his face—pure joy—was something I hadn't seen all day. So I just let him keep going. Then I grabbed my phone and snapped this shot (and also more, many more). Then I let my feet slide out from under me and slumped down,  next to the bed, watching him. Julian came in and joined me. A few minutes later, we three went to brush teeth and then upstairs read books. Then Julian went to bed. Then Kai ripped one of Julian's Tibetan prayer flags and chaos ensued. Then, Kai was taken to his own room. Then he escaped. Then on and on and on (Two hours later—like RIGHT NOW—Kai is asleep. I think. UPDATE: He's NOT.)

After all of this, I logged into Facebook to see so, so many photos of rainbows (some double) and groups of adultsexuding the same sort of joy that registered on Kai's face earlier. Their joy was more hard-won, I know, but pure and sweet, nonetheless. The Burlington School budget passed! Woo hoo! Phew! Perhaps the tide is turning. Perhaps smiles will spread.

There's a Momentum to Mastery

He comes in to J's room, from his own, wailing:

"I waaaaant a piece of paper. I want to write."

"No. It's bedtime. Either go back to your room, or climb up there.

I point to the top bunk.

"Well Julian has papers."

"He does. But we're reading them. Do you want to listen to Julian read equations?"

I choose my words carefully, picking a sarcastic string, for the benefit of Olin, who has come in to retrieve Kai.

"whhAhhh...."

Kai sorts of fake cries. Jon walks out of the room, half smiling. Jules, who is reclining with his head on my sideways knees, turns toward Kai and generously offers:

"Do you want to hear math? It's so fun."

 Julian has been reciting every character of every worksheet he completed in kindergarten this week (and then stapled together into a "book"). He seems to find this book enthralling. Kai, not interested, climbs up to the top bunk. His whining eventually settles into the sound of thumb-sucking.

"5 + 5 = 10. 10 + 0 = 10."

Seven or eight pages in and Julian is still immersed in this book. I, on the other hand, am immersed in his face—and its sweet, focused expression. It's a mix of curiosity and confidence, pride and passion. It strikes me that if we held all of our conversations face-to-face and truly observed others when they were speaking, we might be that much more empathetic and engaged and interested. I think about how much I distract myself with my phone, text when I should call, call when I should meet. I make a note to remember this.

Lately, the pace of Julian's mastering new milestones is sort of blowing me away: riding on two wheels; starting to swim underwater; beginning to read; hitting line drives—and not off a tee. Every time, it seems that one day something just starts to click and—BOOM—he's got it.

Kai too. Until just recently, he had no interest in writing his name. Then, Friday night, he came home from a BBQ with Jon and Jules, obsessed with writing "K's." It was 9:30 pm—but he was insistent and getting him into bed seemed like a losing battle so I just let him go. He did a bunch. And then drew some a's and i's—an a random-yet-artful pattern. He decorated an entire envelope full of "his letters." (The envelope was a card for Maria's baby shower—which made it that much sweeter.) He was so proud.

I have a theory: Summer is accelerating this milestone crushing: the bike riding, the swimming, the line-driving. Our fair weather is so fleeting here  in VT that you have to jam as much stuff as you can into the short season. And then, when you're in the practice of mastering, you just keep moving. You make letters. You calculate equations. You persevere at sounding it out. Yes, I think that must be it. Momentum.

Even Breast Pumps Bring Back Good Memories

I'm in the airport cleaning up my notes from a most amazing work conference. A baby is crying. I glance up to see a shock of dense dark hair. With a barrette. It's a girl - and she's strapped to her Mom's chest in an Ergo, brown, just like mine was. The mom bounces and sways, to quiet the kid. Neither looks particularly upset. I feel a pang. Nostalgia? For traveling with a baby? WTF?

Yesterday, I saw a different young mom setting down a breast pump on a shelf, in a public bathroom, at a hotel hosting a largish conference. "Ah... That brings back such memories for me." Umm... Not great ones... I'm not sure anyone enjoys milking herself in an unsanitary space and making inconvenient arrangements to cart a cooler full of breast milk across state lines. Still, a pang.

That baby phase is gone, and the toddler one too. Now, the struggles are how to handle reports of tussles on the playground, how to stay present when a little big boy is asserting his independence, how to go with the flow when life feels packed beyond my comfort zone. I can leave for a few days and no one REALLY misses me. I get to sleep all night long. I won't have to race to nurse a hungry baby at the finish line of my 1/2 marathon in two weeks. There's lots more freedom in my life, which I like. And there's still a lot of chaos - more, actually. The "cats" I am herding now can talk. They have things to say. And they run faster.

And, in 4 years from now, I will look at the mom in the airport with two loud, rowdy little men, running in two directions - perhaps punching or elbowing each other - I will long for these days too. You can quote me on that. 

But for now, I'm just gonna try to soak them all in. 

Will You Wave to Me From the Window?

"Will you wave to me from the window?"

He grins wide and runs over to wait, pumping his arms like a real little racer, as I turn to walk out. I move through the piazza, past the colorful kid art and padded gym-mat wedges. I cross through the new wooden gate,  down the small flight of stairs. I grab the old EatingWell calendars I brought in for art-projects, set down when Kai and I came in because it was heavy, and tell Tracy Christina is expecting them. I hurry out to the van, fumble around in my bag and pull out two checks, one I've been meaning deposit for more than a month. I already feel accomplished, productive.

For whatever reason, I look up, out the windshield. At the building. The window—which is framing the saddest little face. Kai is sobbing. Somewhere between here and there, I'd totally forgotten about the wave. My heart stops, and then drops into my stomach. I fling open the door and sprint back into the building, up the stairs, through the gate, past the colorful art and padded mats.

When he sees me back, he rushes right over and I apologize again and again. He laughs through tears. I tell him that I feel lucky to get a bonus hug from him. He hugs me tightly and shouts, a bonus hug. He's over it. I'm not. I'm so pissed at myself getting so caught up in my to-do that I forgot to say goodbye to my sweet, little expectant boy. That I'm always so in my own head that I overlook the significance of what's going on in my kids'. 

The other night, a friend mentioned that another, mutual friend remarked how Jon always seemed so "tuned in" to our kids. He is—and the comment wasn't meant to imply that I'm not. But it's true: that often, I'm not. I'm no in tune with anything. I'm rushing and running and reacting. And I don't like it.

Every year on my birthday, I make some resolutions for myself. Every year, in the first week of May, both of my boys have another birthday. I've decide to use this time to create, renew and review my parenting resolutions. The first one is to set aside full chunks of time where I'm fully focused on my kids. No phone, no lunch packing, no check writing, no reading while we sit and watch a show together. Wish me luck

Interview With a Six-Year-Old

"I'll just stick with fruit tonight." 

"You don't want any of your birthday cake?"

Granted, the cake was an oddly shaped remnant of a chocolate volcano leftover from yesterday's party, impaled with a blue candle that Jules had just extinguished and a icing smeared "flame" that, in its prime, flared from the top of the volcano.

"Nah... I ate too many sweets yesterday. It wouldn't be good for my tummy." 

And with that, he headed into the other end of the room and started paging through the instructions of his new Hobbit Lego set, the one designed for 9-13-year-olds. Skipping the fruit all together. He zoned into his building, while the rest of us dug into messy, second-day sweets.

"Do you think he's sick?"

I ask Jon. I'm not kidding. Earlier in the evening, when Kai—newly four and newly obstinate—had whined and banged and yelled that HE wanted to help excavate the triceratops from Julian's new dinosaur dig set, Jules invitingly offered, "sure, I think I need some help brushing right here." He'd sounded more like a parent—or a patient preschool teacher—than a big brother. Minutes later, when Kai tossed the tiny Ikea table to the floor, sending the plastic (or clay) ball flying across the room (in a crazy-angry-entitled way that made me think of Leonardo DiCaprio in Celebrity) Jules calmly looked at me and said, "did you see what he did?"

I did not remain calm. I raised my voice into an almost-yell and I told Kai... well, I told him that he could not have any cake later. (Which turned out to be a total lie. But this blog post is not about my bad, weak, parenting choices; it's about Jules—and the maturity he's seemed to have developed overnight—so never mind.)

Fast-forward past the dinosaur-dig-ransack, past dinner and no-cake, past the Lego-making and the showers. Now Jules decides that he would, indeed, like some birthday cake—a bit of chocolate and a bit of vanilla. "Tiny, tiny," he says, like a 40-year-old woman. I serve it up, set it on the table and sit across from him. With my phone. Because I'm going to interview him. On his 6th birthday. Because that's what a whole bunch of posts on Pinterest suggest that a good parent should do. And conducting interviews is something in my wheelhouse, unlike most other things suggested on Pinterest. 

"Can I interview you?"

"No." 

"Why?"

"Because it's annoying."

And so it begins... But he doesn't actually sound annoyed—just honest, and mostly kind. And so I keep going.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A dinosaur digger," he tells me.

"A paleontologist?"

"Yes." 

"You don't want to be a cake maker?"

It's my attempt at a lame joke because I can't think of a next question. And because I'm looking at him eating cake.

"Mom. That's called a baker." 

"Ahh... yes."

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Mom?"

"Um, a mom?"

"No, what do you want to BE?"

I tell him that a mom is most definitely a thing to be, all by itself, but that I guess I could also say a writer. He likes that answer. So then I go on to tell him that this is what writers do—or what some writers, the ones who are also called journalists, do. They interview people. 

"What if you don't want to be interviewed?" he asks.

"Well you just decline. You say, no thank you."

Julian nods and continues to savor his cake, silently, while watch him—so big and so little and, to me, so beautiful—silently. Olin comes around the corner. "Julian just declined an interview," I tell him. "Oh, I always decline her interviews," Jon tells him, laughing. 

"Well some people find my interviews charming." I say this feigning that I am offended—and am pleased that Jules picks up on this nuance. He knows I'm kidding. As for the charming part, I'm not actually sure this is true. 

"What's 'charming'?"

I love that he asks when he doesn't know the meaning of the word. Every time. 

"It means nice... fun."

I'm not actually even sure if this is the most accurate definition. 

"Oh, I think they're fun. But sometimes I just don't feel like talking, Mom."

Well played, Jules. Well played. You're growing into a pretty cool little-big dude, my boy. 

When May Day is also Labor Day

It smelled of worms when I walked outside. At 5:22 am. We'd agree to go, even if it was raining. Which is wasn't and then it was. May 1. May Day. It felt like spring. I started jogging. I met Michelle. It started raining harder. She took off her glasses, shoved them in her pocket. There was talk of half-marathon training, of our boys and our husbands, how lucky we are. There was talk of T-ball and school. There was a bit of strategic planning (we work together). There was puddle-jumping, some of it unsuccessful. There was a family of 5 white-tailed deer so close I wasn't sure they were going to move, until they suddenly started sprinting perpendicular to our path. There was the long gradual hill that I always forget is there, until it is. There was labored breathing and then the sweet relief of the path flattening out again.

Four years ago today, 40 weeks, 1 day pregnant with Kai, the first pangs of labor started. There was the recognition that this was probably "it," given the timing—and the second-guessing that it might not be, because that's how things go. There was rejoicing that I'd made it this far (which started when I hit 36 weeks), there was mild preparation and lots of playing with Jules. When the contractions settled into a predictable pattern, there was the bizarre decision to go to Q-Tees for one last Blizzard-but-not-Blizzard before the baby. There was piling in the car, Maria squeezed between Jules in his car seat and the empty one waiting for Kai. There were more contractions, accompanied by Jack Johnson and Us Weekly. There was a call to the doctor who suggested juice when I said I wasn't sure if they baby was moving. Which wasn't a good idea, given that I was further along than she thought. There was the ride to the hospital. The greeting of the doula. The monitor hook-ups. There were  the contractions that got stronger and stronger until—when I determined that natural childbirth was indeed harder than running a marathon, about which I'd been curious (and Jules was delivered by emergency C-section)—I asked for the epidural (no shame!). There was the sweet relief that allowed me to relax and just marvel in the awesomeness of knowing that, within hours, we'd be four. A new beginning. 

They Can't Wait to Be Bigger

"Mama!"

Kai yells to me from upstairs, from the top bunk. It's 9:30, long past the time he should have gone to sleep. I rush up, not-so-secretly thrilled that he's summoning me. I've observed that boys in this house—at age three—tend not to prefer me. They want Olin. All the time. The first time around, the rejection was unbearable. Physically painful. But after seeing Jules circle back to me in the last year, I'm handling the Mama-disses better. Taking them (slightly) less personally. Still, when Kai calls for me, there is a joy-surge. No matter the time. Even if it's because he's peed the bed. But that wasn't the case tonight.

Turns out, Kai called me up to tell me that he's going to be four. On his birthday—which is on Friday. Blows my mind. (Cliche.) I want to freeze time. (Super cliche). In part because when I snuggle in close with him like I did tonight, he wiggles his little chicken-wing shoulders in an exaggerated show of contentment. In part because he tells me—slurring, thanks to the left thumb he sleepily still sucks: "You're the best mamma in the whole, wide world."

But mostly because he says funny shit all the time. Like today in the car when I ask what he wanted for his special birthday dinner and he answered, "Broccoli. And water. And cauliflower." This from the kid who loves dessert. And starchy carbs. And, well, it's true: vegetables and water.

Or like yesterday, when I returned home from a friend's baby shower, and he greeted me at the door.

"Mama, you're not wet."

"Huh?"

"What?" "You said you were taking a baby shower."

OMG. It's the stuff you read on the back pages of parenting magazines—but even funnier, live in the moment.

Jules, who will be six on Monday, has been cracking my shit up lately too. I'd almost go so far as to call his comebacks witty. (Six-year-old "witty.") And eavesdropping on his conversations with Kai are the BEST. Tonight in the tub:

"Kai." [He's very bossy. Read all of the punctuation properly to understand his delivery.]

"KAI. You can't drink the bath water."

[Kai says nothing.]

"KAI. You've been sitting in it. With your butt. [pause] Crack. [pause] That's where poop comes out. [pause] So don't drink that water."

Perhaps I shouldn't admit it in the context of that just-shared convo, but I totally want these days to keep repeating again and again forever and forever (cliche, cliche, cliche). Do all parents approach every birthday with feelings of bittersweet that parallel the kids' party-pinata-and-cake excitement? And do all kids just "want to get bigger and bigger and bigger"—as Kai told me was his wish, as I nostalgically tucked him in tonight?

I'm gonna guess yes.

Investigative Commuting

I basically moved to kill my commute. Now that it's significantly shorter—and the part with the kid(s) is just as long, it's become one of my favorite parts of my day. Partly because I've been trained as a journalist and, when I have a captive interviewee in the car, I do some of my best work. Like today. Through some skillful investigative journalism, I uncovered two important facts.

Fact #1: My kid got kicked out of gym class. 

Interview transcript

Me: How was school?

Kid (unnamed): Great.

Me: How was gym?

Kid: Good.

Me: So you listened to Mrs. O.? (hint: question asked because the answer isn't always yes)

Kid: Yes.

Me: What'd you play?

Kid: We played relays.

Me: Like running relays?

Kid: Yes.

Me: Did you pass a baton or tag hands?

Kid: What?

Me: How did the next person know when to go?

Now, I will spare you the entire transcript of discovering who was on his team, where he fell in line, some other minor details. I will just jump to the good part.

Kid: And E and I visited Georgine (if your kid goes to my kids' school, you may know who Georgine is) for the gym class. And we played puzzles after we wrote our apology note to Mrs. O.

Me: What? You went to the Planning Room?  Did this happen at the end of class?

Kid: No.

Me: I thought you did relays in gym class today.

Kid: It was at the second gym class. We just visited Georgine and, after we wrote our apology letter, we played puzzles while the other kids went outside.

Me: What was the apology note for?

Kid: It was for an apology. (Said with absolutely no sarcasm. Completely earnest.)

Me: No, I mean what did it say?

Kid: It just said I apologize; we didn't say for what.

Me: Well why did you go to Georgine's?

Kid: Because we were looking into another gym class.

Me: Through a door?

Kid: No. We were laying on the floor, looking through a crack.

Me: Oh. Could you see anything?

Kid: Yes, we could see feet.

Me: And was this really worth it? To see other people's feet—if it meant you had to go to the Planning Room instead of playing outside?

Kid: We had fun, too. We got to play puzzles.

Note: We did have a conversation about being respectful—but only after my interview yielded all of the information I need for the complete (albeit one-sided) story. Also, if you want to provide an unpleasant consequence for my child, don't offer an excused absence from physical activity.

And speaking of one-sided stories...

Fact #2: Julian's class is covering nutrition.

Opinion: I may need to volunteer my services.

Interview transcript

Jules: Oils are are bad for your body. (This on the heels of him telling me last week that "if you eat fat every day it's bad for your body." Which I corrected.)

Me: Actually, Jules, some oils are healthy. Like the olive oil I use when I cook vegetables is actually good for your body. Are you talking about nutrition at school?

Jules: Yes!

Me (now playing the part of a nutritionist as well as a reporter): Do you know what the healthiest foods are?

Jules: Um...

Me: What about vegetables and fruits?

Jules: Yes! Those are good for your body. What about cheese?

Me: Yes, cheese has some things that are good for your body. Do you know what?

Jules: It's made with milk.

Me: Yes! And milk has calcium. And calcium helps make your bones strong.

Jules: There's good calcium and bad calcium and sometimes the good calcium kills the bad calcium.

Me: I think you might be confused. Who told you that?

Jules: Teachers.

Of course, he's only 5. It's easy to confuse nutrition science. But it seems I have some further reporting to do.

75 Degrees and Sunny

We came home from work and school, and it was light. It was warm. We ate a dinner quick to prepare: cheese omelets with shredded zucchini sautéed in garlic; roasted potatoes made yesterday, rewarmed; vinegary coleslaw. All veggies CSA sourced. And, in that way, our dinner selection was somewhat forced. (I am ready for summer's bounty—or at least more spring spinach.) 

We cleared the table enough to put dirty plates out of reach of the pets (not that the cats haven't ever jumped on the counters) and went outside in flip-flops and bare feet. We flew planes, pushed swings, dug dirt, played lacrosse and acted out Power Ranger situations. We chatted with neighbors on both sides of the fence. It was a sweet evening, light and warm.

Tomorrow, I hear, it may snow.

Simple Pleasures

I've been a cranky bitch lately but I gotta give myself credit where credit is due: I'm a lot more grateful for life's simple pleasures than I was, say, 10 years ago. Three examples:

I felt lucky as hell to have a private yoga session at lunch.

I wasn't going to go to yoga today—too much to get done—but a meeting was wrapping up just a few minutes before I had to run down the hall (how freaking lucky is that) to the class, if I was going to do it. Then I realized that today was the last day for my unlimited pass (read: "free" class) so I went for it. And—no doubt because it was 50 degrees and beautiful today—I was the only student who showed up. Jane read an piece by

Pema Chodron

(it included  "dog poop" - awesome) and then led us through a invigorating flow. She  helped me figure out how to get into a headstand, balancing on my forearms instead of my hands. It was super fun.

My friend Holly bought me the sweet vintage apron (hanging over my face) a decade ago.

I wear it to wash dishes because I'm super messy. 

I was totally psyched to get my hair trimmed.

When to comes hair changes, I'm usually not satisfied with subtle. (This once led to a major hair disaster 2 weeks before my wedding.) Again and again, I grow it long mostly so I can lop it off into a pixie. Total makeover. Dopamine rush. Before that I started that cycle, I used to have Nathan streak it with shades that varied from high-contrast blonde to crayon red. I aim for a high-impact change. But right now I'm  growing it out so all I got was a trim—which usually just leaves me bored. Tonight, I was just happy to hang with Hannah. And I do have less of mullet than I did at 5:59.

I'm actually digging an evening work session.

Even though I generally love what I do for work, second-shift sessions can be a drag. Tonight, though, while I type in this room (taking some time to procrastinate by writing this post), Olin is working on his computer in the next one. The Clash is on the radio. I'm sipping chai and eating chocolate. He's drinking Dogfish. We took a time-out so I could show him my new headstand—and he could one-up me with his fancy side crow. Whatever, dude.

Living in the Future is Sometimes a Matter of Survival

Most of this cold, windy and rainy weekend, we spent trying not to kill each other—literally exerting great effort to not bark or yell (often unsuccessfully), push, shove, kick or kinesphere-invade (often unsuccessfully). Yesterday, I did a long muddy run (with three fantastic women). Jon and Kai did a T25 workout. Jules wrote a book about it—and, by that, I mean, yes, he recorded the details of Jon and Kai's exercise session in his field "diary."  In which all notes are spelled phonetically. (It's pretty awesome.) Both boys escaped out a birthday party sidedoor. It was not cool—but I get it: they had anxious energy to burn. They were quickly captured. Shortly after, both boys fit in some training runs for the Yam Scram—through the aisles of Gardener's Supply. The employees were very kind. We quickly rounded up the track team, paid for our purchases and left for home. Where we forced the boys to do jumping jacks and lift weights.

This morning, the boys swam at their lesson with Annie. Then, with two friends, they did some more Yam Scram training sprints, down the long hallway of the office building that houses the pool (and my office). Screaming like wild men. Straight past the yoga studio where a Kundalini class was just beginning. They were ushered home. Where they prompted began a game of evading kinesphere-invasions. A game that involves much tattling and crying. One kid was directed to the basement for a private yoga session. Then Jon did a T25 workout. Or maybe two. Then everyone geared up in snow gear and headed out for a sleet hike. (Yes, it was sleeting.) We spent almost an hour striding through slush and ice (me, in slippery rainboots) in an attempt to—I'll say it again—not kill each other. One kid, one adult and one dog loved this. One kid and one adult did not. The not-liking-hiking kid cried—understandably, because his boots and socks were soaked through. The liking-hiking adult carried him piggy-back for the rest of the hike. The liking-hiking kid asked the not-liking-hiking adult for a piggy-back ride, too, because "IT'S NOT FAIR" for only the soaking, sobbing kid to get carried. She obliged, in her slick and slippery rain boots, gingerly stepping over slush and ice and snow, miraculously not biting the mud.

Upon arriving home, cocoa was serving and the formerly crying kid soaked in a lavender-scented jet tub, which turned his attitude right around. For 15 minutes. The not-liking-hiking adult was instructed to go to yoga—at the same studio the shrieking kids sprinted past earlier in the morning. She gratefully obliged, as there was much swirling energy to be tamed.

In other news, we got a bunch of seeds and a new grow light. We are so excited that it's March 30. Officially spring!

I Choose Cheap Thrills

Sometimes trying really hard just doesn't cut it and trying harder just makes it worse.  Some days, you question every choice you've ever made. (Every. Choice. Down to what you ate for breakfast.)  But they're all good. No regrets. You're just in a pissy mood.

You should go for a run, take a yoga class, make a date with a fun friend.

I've suggested all of these solutions at one point or another in a story for this women's magazine or that one. Unfortunately, you can't squeeze this sort of stuff in between meetings or in the middle of mediating a wresting match between two small people dressed in costumes.

And that's why, tonight, I painted my nails. Specifically, I painted them Essie's Chinchilly. Tomorrow, when I feel like a total trainwreck who has nothing at all under control, I can look at my fresh manicure and say, "damn, girl, you got your shit TOGETHER!" Instant boost.

And, now, allow me to introduce a list of five more low-investment ways to turn a shitty mood around, no physical activity required:

1. Make a cup of coffee from the "fancy" "espresso" machine at work.

2. Scroll through photos of people and things who/that amuse you (for me, it's often the two small people, perhaps in costumes, probably not wrestling).

3. Watch this video.

4. Play this song.

5. Text your sister. If you have one. And she's as cool as mine.

How I Strive vs. What Makes Me Feel Alive

We are all frail. We all make mistakes. We all fall prey to a thousand emotions and exaggerations... In truth, it is not the tissue of our humanity that defeats us, but rather our refusal to accept who we are and to live accordingly, limitations included.

Jane, the awesome yoga teacher, read this bit from Mark Nepo's book, The Book of Awakening,  today at the end of class. It resonated so I looked it up again this evening. Then I bought the book. The purchase is a Compact violation, no doubt, as the copy I ordered is new but... 1) It seems the book could ultimately make me more mindful, less wasteful and 2) I have an Amazon credit—birthday gift from Jon's parents—that, week by week, is being eaten away by Walking Dead zombies. And I don't even watch the show. Actually, I think my second point actually makes the Compact violation worse. So maybe scratch that one.

In any case, I've been spending a lot of time lately thinking about what I'm not:

• A person takes detailed digital notes and files them logically.

• A daughter/sister/friend who sends birthday cards and gifts before the actual anniversary.

• A mom who always remembers when it's snack week in the kindergarten class and bring-a-book-from-home day in the preschool one.

• Someone who always knows just the right thing to say and the right times not to say ANYTHING.

Definitely not me. But all week, I'm been wishing things like this were true. Wishing I were not the person who scribbles to-dos with purple pens on random scraps of paper and scatters them across the earth. Who is still carrying my mom's birthday card and gift in my purse, 2 months and 1 day later. Who forgets Pirate Booty, and then a pirate book, on two consecutive days. Who blurts out 97% of things that cross my brain.

I can certainly strive to do better; I can stand to evolve. But now it strikes me that I also need to keep in mind what sorts of things most make me feel really happy and alive—like watching brilliant people do things that have nothing to do with order and measure and restraint.* 

Like Christopher Walken dancing his ass off in basically every movie he's ever made. (And the masterminds who made the montage of him doing it.)

Or the OK Go dudes who combined campy choreography and rolling treadmills into one mindblowing video that makes me giddy every time I watch. And that's just what I do when I'm in a really shitty mood: I load up that OK Go video. 

Because that's the kind of person I am. Whatever that means.

*I realize it most definitely took order and measure and restraint to produce this art but you get what I'm saying, right? 

This photo is a screen shot from

this video, which you should totally watch

. Right now.

Sometimes It's Dope to Mope

I am not moving to Australia. Because that simply seems like far too much effort. And I'm not going to claim that I had a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." Because it wasn't really. I know this. Everyone is safe. Everyone is healthy. I have a job. I have a home. I have heat (at least I have this warmth while inside the home, or the office, or the car). And plenty of food. But I'm in a super shitty mood.

Maybe it's because I didn't run this morning and didn't unroll my yoga mat this afternoon or evening. Maybe it's because things feel fuzzy and I like solid boundaries. Maybe it's because one kid melted into a mess of tears when I asked the two of them what "superfun" things they wanted to do this weekend while daddy was away. He doesn't want daddy to be away. And he also doesn't want daddy to have a meeting tonight. I take this personally. But I try to hide it, best as I can. And it mostly works to turn the tides. We three play Monopoly and make static, swirling our straight hair on synthetic fabrics. They "swim" in the jet tub while I urge them to wash behind their ears. We read Chapter 3 of Harry Potter. There are snuggles and back scratches. I pass as a more-than-acceptable second fiddle, I'd say.

And then when they go to bed, I get back to feeling sorry for myself. Olin returns home and agrees it's OK to mope about my rut. In the other room—for just a little bit. So that's what I do. And then I get back to creating order out of my emotional mess: making lists, sending emails, outlining ideas for a short story I'm starting on—in my purple Moleskine notebook with a strange syringe-shaped pen I got at some medical conference.

I feel better already.

Gurus and Groups

One of the studies I cited in my master's research found this: even people who predicted they'd lose more weight with individual counseling were more successful at shedding pounds when they were assigned to group counseling. I don't remember exactly how the scientists explained this (and I'm too lazy to look it up) but it totally makes sense. And, for me, a major theme of 2014 has been that a good group, and a great guru, helps you get better. Some examples:

The five little guys below are spending part of their Sunday mornings Swimming with Annie. Annie (the guru) speaks to them like the small people that they are—tiny little men with hopes and fears and lots of energy. It's obvious she knows what she's doing. They're responding. In just two sessions, every single one of these boys has made marked progress. The one who was more comfortable sticking by the steps on Day One was paddling through the pool and jumping off the side on Day Two. Another who'd resisted getting his hair wet in the first class was repeating dunking himself in the second. A third suddenly started kicking and scooping under the water, unassisted, this past Sunday while his dad shouted, 

"He's swimming! He's swimming!"  in disbelief.

Much of this forward movement has to do with Annie knowing her shit. But some of it, I'd say, has to do with the fact that these small dudes are a solidly supportive crew. They're clapping and shouting encouragement for each other—and they're also fostering a healthy sense of competition.

Same thing happened during our Saturdays Smuggs: no doubt, the "Team Eagle" Mini Mites Snowboarders pushed each other... to the point that all of the littler shedders were on the lift and riding an actual green run by the end of the 8-week session.

And I've also been benefitting from accountability and social support that comes with a crew:

At the mountain, I hit the jackpot with Gaby, my guru. In 8 weeks, she patiently talked me down (and listened to my verbal diarrhea often focused on fear) Sir Henry, and then a bunch of green runs and, finally, Snowsnake, a blue. But pairing up with Laurie definitely made me a braver, better rider. When she jumped at the chance to take the next step—hop on the bigger lift, pick up the pace—I didn't want to be left behind. Or hold her back. I'd take a few deep breaths and go.

For the last couple of months, I've been working on writing—things beyond this blog and content on weight management and diabetes. It's because, every Monday, I sit around a table with a group of intelligent and insightful new (and old) friends who offer me deadlines and smart suggestions for refining first drafts. Plus, their  writing—all so good—inspires me.

Back in January, I recruited a bunch of friends who could rally each other to run. I promised Kate I'd do the VCM 2-person relay in May and knew I'd need a posse to push myself through the half-marathon training. I'm only up to 5 miles but, so far, it's working. And it's fun. Friends make you better. This—at least for me—I know is true.

When We Resist Reality

Yesterday morning, I wrote this "Haiku to a Winter That Just Won't Die"

Today, sweet bird bands

Chirp cheerful songs in mild skies

Tomorrow, I weep.

Yesterday, at lunchtime, I took a great class with Rachel at Yoga Roots. It wasn't entirely pleasant—there were moments where she asked us to hold the asanas a good bit longer than was comfortable—but it was wonderful for me in all sorts of ways and I knew it.

I looked at these tulips a lot today. 

Yesterday, during class, Rachel wisdom something along the lines of this: When you resist your reality, you create suffering. Learn to live skillfully within your reality to eliminate unnecessary struggle.

Today, I needed that advice.

Yesterday, it was 30 degrees and, for most of the day, beautiful and sunny.

Today, school was cancelled because it'd soon be dumping snow. My reality was that I'd be hanging at home with the boys but getting at least a little work done would be necessary. I knew there would be squabbles. And screen time. 

And there was. But it was fine. More than fine. 

I'm not sure my approach to the snow day was particularly skillful but I shared some sweet time with the kids, got some stuff done—and, overall, managed to keep the suffering to a minimum.

Plus, this week's snowstorm should make for some good riding on Saturday and, truth is, this winter will die soon. It will be spring again.

A Many-Milestone Day on the Mountain

It was a little slick, a little snowy, a little scary and a lot of awesome. It was our 7th snowboarding lesson, and Laurie* and I ticked off some semi-major milestones on our learn-to-ride list:

1. We did a bunch of new-to-us green runs.

2. We made our way down a slightly more difficult green/blue run. 

3. We rode with no hands (holding on to the bottom of our jackets) and did some fancy arm signals to work on our form. And, yes, we looked like tools. Which was fun. Silly offsets scary.

4.

 We hit a box. (Go ahead and giggle. I'm ahead of you.) Also, a more accurate account of this milestone goes like this: Gaby lifted us up off of the box and held our hands while we dropped off and glided into a heel-side stop.

5. We fell hard - really hard. We did not cry. We got up again. And kept riding.

*So grateful to have such an awesome partner (and a kick-ass teacher) on this 8-week ride. 

Living Lighter—We'll Start With the CSA

Two years ago, two of my favorite BTV people suggested that a bunch of us band together to support each other in an initiative (The Compact) that would help us all to reduce crazy consumption, cut clutter and waste and simplify our surroundings. It sounded really hard, but Jon and I were game. No, we could not commit to making our own laundry soap but, yes, we'd try really hard to not buy any new "things" for a year. With some exceptions. The effort was somewhat successful. (You can read about it here). 

Fast forward almost exactly two years to a couple of weeks ago when I started feeling super overwhelmed by "stuff." There were 9 kinds of snack crackers in my cabinet. The shelves in our basement and guest room were (and still are) stacked full of packed brown boxes never opened after our move. Which occurred 10 months ago. My closet and drawers contain loads of clothes I don't necessarily like anymore, jackets that I don't wear because they have missing buttons and ripped pockets, underwear from 2001 and two pairs of jeans that will never again fit unless I stop eating carbs, start nursing an 8-month old baby or begin running a half marathon each day. And I plan on doing none of these things. Our kitchen is overrun with potatoes from our CSA because we can't keep up. Because we keep going to the store to get the ingredients for recipes that "sound good." 

I wanted all of that extraneous stuff to go away. I craved The Compact. Or, at least, a Compact Lite. I* am planning to start again on March 1. 

I'm still nailing down the details—including "am I in for a whole year? 3 months? 6?"—but, so far, here are some of the things on my list of to-do's for March:

1. Start meal planning with food we get in our CSA; supplement with grains and, a couple of times a week, fish (sustainably sourced) and/or meat (local or organic). Buy in bulk. Slow-cook beans instead of buying cans.

2. Clean out drawers and closets: donate, repair, swap. (Don't buy anything new—at least for myself—for defined period.)

3. Ditch crappy old cosmetics, toxic cleaning products, paints, etc. (disposing of them properly, of course). Use more natural cleaning products, making them whenever possible.

4. Stop buying convenience items like counter wipes, face cloths, etc.

5. Establish plans for a 2014 garden.

6. Switch from a credit card that encourages unnecessary spending on "things" to one that provides kickbacks that can be used toward experiences.

Tonight, we started planning what meals we'd make from tomorrow's CSA pickup, and Jon made carrot/parsnip soup and roasted beets from previous Pete's Greens bounties. Our shopping list for the week is quite small. 

How do you simplify? 

*Jon, who has far less trouble with accumulating "stuff" than I do, is supporting but not necessarily fully participating in this effort.