Rox and Roll

Parents: let kids grow, part one

This is the first post in a series in follow-up to Parents: Let Harvard Go.

For quite some time now, I’ve pondered this follow-up piece to “Parents: Let Harvard Go.” As college admissions decisions roll in, now seems to be both the perfect time and a most imperfect time to offer a follow-up piece. For high school seniors who’ve applied to selective colleges and universities, what’s done is done. Application decisions will be admit, deny, or wait-list. Hopefully, kids will have some decisions to make from those results. And in the meanwhile, the cycle is starting again. A lot of high school juniors will spend their spring and summer breaks touring colleges and perhaps even interviewing. They may know their “lists” already and likely have given some thought to courses for their senior year. They, as much as the seniors, are waiting to hear this year’s admissions decisions, for this informs them of their peer context. They will take it all in, and they will respond. This series of blog posts is about supporting our kids as they prepare to embark on this next chapter in their young lives.

Though in some senses this blog is for a general audience, I direct it toward parents because that’s what I know best. Combining my significant experience as a higher and post-secondary education expert with my own parenting and leadership with youth in our community, I seek to offer some ideas that will further our conversations in home, at school, and in our communities. I don’t pretend to know everything. These are all my own opinions, cultivated from a combination of skills and experience – but most of all, I write from my heart. I care very deeply about how kids live in our community and in our world, especially teenagers – those kids from whom we seem to expect the worst while simultaneously expecting them to become the best adults once the last school bell rings. Teenagers just plain fascinate me, and I seek out opportunities to interact with them. In a perfect world, they would feel as though the world is their oyster. My own teen daughter announced last week, “I feel like I could do so many amazing things!” I hold that close to my heart and pray that she never ever loses that feeling.

Yet … I know she doesn’t always feel that way. She’s wrapping up her freshman year of high school, and there are times when her cheery nature is buried under a to-do list that I’m not sure she should even have. She sat down to plan her four years with her advisor recently, an exercise that, while necessary, troubled me a bit; there seems to be so little room for changing her mind or for pursuing passions organically. While kids need to meet requirements for graduation, they also now have to meet perceived expectations of a university system that has become so esoteric that a translator, in the form of a college counselor, is required for access. To me, this is like the work of a good poker coach: they can help you to increase your odds of a win, but they can’t predict the cards you’ll be dealt no matter how hard they try. Parents pay thousands of dollars for answers that no one can give. I mean, read this piece by an anonymous “tutor” in the New York Post for an example. In fairness, a good college counselor can help with a lot of things. But a parent cannot buy, or plan, or arrange a kid’s college admissions. It’s like I said in my last blog post on this subject: that’s all up to our kids.

So, let’s talk about this idea of our kids authoring their own life story. Let’s talk about how to grow kids who will transform from troublesome teens into responsible adults. Let’s talk about how to grow kids who actually enjoy high school. Who feel like they have options. Whose achievement of their dreams isn’t tied to a brand or a measurable outcome like a bank account but, rather, is tied everyday – including right here, right now, on this day – to how they feel about themselves and their place in this world that they are making.

I know – it’s a crazy idea, right? to expect teens to feel – gulp – good? But they’re so emo! and hormonal! and incomprehensible! I mean, being disaffected is what being a teen is!Well, for goodness sake, one would think many parents and community members were never kids at all. Teens are a whole lot of things, that’s true – they can be emotional, and difficult, and obstinate … just like their parents. And also just like their parents, they kinda just want to be happy. They actually don’t get off on their upset and stress. They crave the same things we all crave: stability. wellness. friendship. Starbucks. Let’s start by treating them like the people they are rather than like aberrations, and let’s focus on how they grow.

It’s intentional that I use term “growing” kids rather than “raising” them in part because it just feels like “growing” is a little more out of our control. After all, our kids grow in height with no intervention from us; so, too, do they grow inside with minimal intervention. We can “raise” all we want, but, at the end of the day, their growth is their own. When I was born, I came home to a large farm in rural West Virginia and spent my most formative years barefoot in that dirt, surrounded by cousins and family and a whole lot of growing things that needed the same stuff I did in order to thrive: Sunlight. Water. Good nutrition. Rest. Fruit trees are no different from vegetables or cattle -- and no different from children, really, not when it comes to the bare necessities. So let’s double-click on one of those things that all living things need, and one that is most amorphous in teenage years: rest.

How much sleep does your teen get? The Mayo Clinic suggests they need nine solid hours. Is your teen in bed by 9 pm to wake at 6 am? in bed by 10 pm to wake up at 7 am? No? Whose is?! Well .. this is a problem. Adam Strassberg, MD, a psychiatrist, recently wrote a guest piece for Palo Alto Online addressing, head-on, the question: “What can we do right now to decrease the risk of suicide in our children?” His #1 answer? Make your teen sleep.

The sad fact is that we have had far too many teen suicides in my community. And after each of these tragic, horrific, desperate acts, our community comes together in some form. We grieve. And we can’t pretend to know what happened, what factors contributed, why, why, why. So, we talk. We host forums. We propose later start-times, and block-schedules, and talk of homework reduction. We look to a whole lot of places to make change. But I don’t hear a lot of talk about tending our gardens at home – about growing our kids and our role in that as parents. I can write about “letting Harvard go” all I want to, but our kids have to be alive and well to have a shot at Harvard. Some irreplaceable children have been lost. Too many others remain unwell. The time for systemic change everywhere, perhaps especially in our homes (because that’s what we parents can, to some extent, control), is right now. We need to make our kids sleep. Beyond that, we need to help them get real rest.

What does that mean? Well, to continue the farm metaphor, sometimes fields have to go fallow in order to produce a good crop the next year. Our kids, they have no downtime – not even in summer. We have packed summer with internships, service missions, enrichment classes. In my community, I know very few kids who do paid work in the summer, but sometimes, that’s a factor, too. You know what I don’t see? Kids doing what I did during the summer: resting. Reading books. Swimming with my siblings and friends. Riding my bike to the library to get more books. Watching VHS tapes with friends during massive sleepovers. Maybe babysitting a little to earn money for more movie rentals or candy. And we were always available for these sleepovers because no one did anything. Summer meant doing nothing. But summer also meant everything to us. We all did the competitive library summer reading program because for every 5 or 10 books we read, we got a free ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. We didn’t let our brains rot. But we sure as hell weren’t inside all day every day in a lab working a 40-hour week so that we could convince a school that we’ll make great doctors. We weren’t doing math worksheets every day to keep our edge. There was a general assumption that summer was for downtime, for play. That was the stuff of our childhood, one that was not governed by what we may or may not do at age 18. In fact, we never talked about college much at all. We just … played.

So here’s the thing: at this point, a lot of parents are nodding along, maybe even fondly remembering their own childhood summers. But at some point, they’re going to shake their heads sadly, thinking “my own kids don’t have that luxury. They have to stay competitive.”

You know, when crops compete, they fail. Something chokes something out. There isn’t space for everything. Tell me: is that how we want our kid to grow? or would it feel better to make space in our gardens such that all of our living things can flourish? so that there isn’t pressure to be closest to the sun? so that the competition wanes as we encourage our kids to spend time on things they actually care about in the summer rather than on some mythical checklist for college admissions? Kids enjoy so many different things. If we give them time to choose and the space in which to do so by unscheduling them, what might happen? Why not ask your kid?

Perhaps I haven’t convinced you, and it’s true: the days of kids doing nothing are, indeed, probably gone. But we parents can force balance, and we can give our kids a vote. If we feel strongly that our kids need to “do something,” let’s counter that by giving them at least half of a summer, or half of a break, or half of a weekend. When they have no downtime – when they have no rest – they are destined to fail. And the chance of catastrophic failure from lack of rest and the potential for related depression is too damned high. I can’t promise that our kids are going to fare better or worse in college admissions if they work all summer or half or not at all because it’s one piece of a bigger puzzle. But I can share that the college applicants for whom I felt the saddest – the kids for whom making a decision greatly challenged me – were the kids who were never kids at all, who spent full summers interning even before reaching high school. Some of them enjoyed it, but, for most, the lack of passion – the idea of “I had to do this to get into your school” – shone through more than you might think. As a lowest-bar standard, there should be no kid whose vacation is less than what we can take from our own jobs. Kids need breaks in order to avoid breakdowns.

On that note, let’s circle back to sleep. Your kid has too much homework to go to sleep by 9 or 10 after sports practice and dinner. Let’s assume, say, an 8 am – 3 pm school day and sports or drama practice from 3:30 – 5:30, home by 6, dinner, homework started by 7. Yep – 2-3 hours doesn’t seem like enough time, does it? So what’s your strategy going to be? Shut off the internet router at 10 pm? (I’ve done it!) Just put up with it? This is where the conversation needs to head. Schools have implemented hosts of solutions. Later starts. Reduced homework. (Howard Gardner thinks it’s a good idea.) Packets given out before a weekend. (This, I think, is bullshit – kids shouldn’t have weekend homework, period, because they. need. to. rest.) And yes, I hear the hoardes of parents who wrote in last time and said “my kid doesn’t want to go to bed; she wants to finish her work, else there will be consequences. She feels her own pressure to keep up with her peers.” Well, this is where you parent, by doing a few important things: sending a message to your kid that her health matters more than her grade, teaching her how to stand up for what she needs, and partnering with the school to find a better way. Note: this does not mean battling teachers, but it does mean talking with them – even in high school. I haven’t found a teacher yet who would not welcome a conversation over a parent’s concern that a kid is sacrificing sleep for their homework.

And frankly, this is where you have to rewind the clock a little, too: if your kid feels like staying up all night to achieve an outcome (usually finished, A-grade work) because she thinks doing so assures her success, defined as admission to a great college – well, who set her up with that idea? what gets lost in that mess, especially given admissions statistics these days? She will compete with her peers no matter what you do, but if the tone in your home is one of “do your best” – not “be the best,” not “we only accept straight-As,” not “why’d you get that C” – then yours is the voice she will hear. Her friends will change many times in high school; you are her only parents. She knows you love her and are there to stay. She will hear your voice the loudest if it is one of unconditional support for her to become a healthy human being and if she knows that is tied to absolutely no expectations of academic performance at all.

Let me emphasize that last point the most: If you haven’t had that conversation with your kid, you really need to have it. I heard from an unbelievable number of our own local teenagers that the gift my “Parents: Let Harvard Go” post gave to their families was a vehicle for that very conversation. Dozens of children said to me “I’d never heard from my parents that I don’t need to be perfect” and “they said they just want me to be happy, and I’d never heard that before.” We can blame our schools and homework and peer pressure all we want to for the state of teen mental health, parents, but we need to look in the mirror, too. If we’re not telling our kids that we love them as they are, that we want the best for them but that “the best” isn’t defined by an outcome on a test, well, we’ve failed. We can do better. We must do better. This doesn’t mean that we give them a free-pass to blow off all of their schoolwork, but this does meant that we need to think about our approach to those moments when they will falter. That response can’t be “you screwed up.” It can be “let’s look at this together and see if we can make some corrections and learn from them.” It means that we need to be gentle with each other. Isn’t gentleness pretty much always the best path in life, anyway?

So if do all of this, if we reexamine our priorities and want our kids to grow healthfully, and we prioritize rest (some downtime, not expecting kids to work year-round) and sleep (not expecting kids to sacrifice it for grades or for anything else), and we tell our kids that they’re good enough … well, then, how do we get our kids into college?

That was a trick question. We still don’t get our kids into college, parents. They have to do that themselves. And some ideas for that will be forthcoming in the next post.

Sometimes, it's the little things

Recently, I've been writing a brochure for our local public garden's spring tour. I joked with them from the very beginning that I may know a little bit about farming, but plants and flowers? Well, I could learn. And learn, I have. Each garden of the five featured homes is distinct, of course, and somewhat complicated; that's part of the reason why they're featured on a tour! And what I've found most amazing about these places is how very much I've enjoyed taking time to stop and smell the roses as part of this job.

I don't slow down. I can't slow down. It feels like if I look away for a moment, one of the 17 balls which I juggle daily will drop. My work is contract-based, requiring that I always hustle for the next gig as I continue to seek full-time, in-house writing work. Parenting time is nearly 3/4 mine. I'm trying to learn how to run (literally) with an eye on adding some serious swimming and biking in the coming year, too. And I have a social life, and a community life, and blah blah blah... we're all busy. The difference between this year and past years has been that I'm busy alone, without that extra pair of adult hands to catch a dropping ball. Maybe this is why I'm so motivated to run: I have to move faster to keep up with myself!

Yet sometimes, life hands us different plans. I took my kids on a mini-vacation two weeks ago, and simply being present together without a set schedule was so refreshing. I feel like I drank them in a bit extra, for they are growing up so very fast. Then, we came home, and they were off to to the races -- and, soon after, to their dad's house for the weekend as I spent a few days fighting a cold. To make sure that it didn't go to my lungs, I hit the brakes -- hard. I spent three straight days not getting out of bed much, just rest rest resting. A friend bearing DVDs came over for takeout, and, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I let myself just be cared for, which felt amazing. I gave myself permission to go nowhere and do little for an entire weekend. I slept when I wanted, and I snuggled my dog, and what do you know: I got well pretty darned fast.

Coming out of that, I realized something: I've been going too fast. I'm only 40. There is no race to the finish. Whatever I want to get done, well, there's plenty of time to do it. Think about it: if I live until I'm 90 or beyond, which is likely given my family history, I have over half of my life left. That's a lot of time to finish writing my books, or to plant my own garden and watch it grow -- even if that's a metaphorical one, with another partner and life we build together. But none of it has to happen tomorrow, or next week, or even next year.

What does have to happen now, though, is that I have to be mindful about stopping to smell the roses every so often, literally and figuratively, even after this garden tour ends, because it is so very restorative. Appreciating the beauty that surrounds us, whether it's the first buds of spring's wisteria or the gorgeous full rainbow I spotted yesterday, isn't something to miss because we're busy. Being sick made me have some flashbacks to the time when I didn't think I had a long and full life left, when my lungs were are their worst and when the future looked not just bleak, but absent. I am well aware that each day is a gift. It makes me sad that, sometimes, I'm so busy that I forget to stop and acknowledge that there is grace in the everyday -- in fact, there's grace in just being alive everyday.

Today, a stranger, now a friend, drove home that grace as I toured her garden to prepare for writing about it. My eyes nearly teared up as I smelled daphne, my very favorite fragrant plant; it smells kind of like Froot Loops, actually. I chose daphne to plant near the front door of my last home, and that smell, well, it made me so happy; and yet, I spent so much time on my front stoop smelling that smell as life crumbled all around me that it now reminds me of what is no longer there in ways both good and bad. She noticed me pausing to drink in the smell, and she broke off a sprig and tucked it into my hand. "At least for today," she said, "it'll stay fragrant for you to enjoy." I carried it for the rest of our tour before placing it in my car, and every time I opened the door today, that old familiar smell hit me. The nostalgia got to me a little bit, but what settled in my heart a little more was the kindness of this new friend to give me a gift that means more to me than she'll ever know, because today, I took the time to drink it all in. I picked up that daphne and smelled it probably twenty more times, and, with each breath, I remembered something important: sometimes, it's the little things that matter, like being kind to each other and opening our eyes to beauty that we don't really see as we hurry by. It's noticing the colors, textures, light, shadows, and fragrances of a garden, but also the very same about the people who create them. Part of the beauty of participating in this project has been interacting with the creators of these spaces. Oh, how their eyes dance and how their hands become animated as they describe their labors of love! They thrive in their element, just as their flowers do.

And that is what brings me to where I'm going with this: the garden within. Roses are beautiful, and so are the hands that tend them, even when they require so much work. So, too, is true of our lives. We all work so hard to create this thing called "life," and sometimes, it gets away from us, far too out of control. If I can pause on vacation and marvel at my kids a little extra, maybe I need to take a few minutes of vacation every day to do the very same thing while not urging them to hurryupandgettothenextthing. If I can stop and rest when I'm sick, because I know my very life may depend on it, well, maybe I can just stop and rest sometimes because I'm tired -- or, better yet, maybe I can stop and rest with a friend and DVDs and takeout because I want to, and not just because I'm sick and forced into downtime. Maybe I can structure my life a little better so that instead of running on my treadmill at 10 pm after the day's long list of work and chores is done, I am running with a friend, perhaps even through a garden, placing care of myself as a higher priority on the to-do list. It feels like there is always too much work and too little time, but, really, isn't the opposite the case? All we have is time, and some of that time needs to be spent tending our gardens so that they grow. Beautiful things require maintenance, and so do beautiful lives.

2014 FTW!

I have been writing for days: writing for work, writing to audition for more work, writing some belated holiday greetings, writing this blog post -- for days.  I had some serious meat in a post reflecting on 2013.  Deep, chewy, reflective, raw meat.  And ... I just scrapped it. 

If there is one feeling I have on this first day of 2014, it is that I do not want to look backward.  Or, as one of my favorite movie characters of all time, Edna Mode of The Incredibles, said, "I never look back, darling. It distracts from the now."

The Now.

Oh, how long I have waited for The Now!  The feeling I had as this day began is in some ways comparable to the feeling I had the first time I held my firstborn: that feeling that I have waited all of my life for this moment, and I did not even know it until it arrived. 

This is the first year I begin as a truly single person since the New Year of 1990.  Wrap your head around that with me for a moment: this is the first year in over half of my life that I start as Me.  Wow.

But I do not declare this another Year of Me.  Instead, I welcome 2014 as the Year of Now.

What does that mean?  It means that this year, I invite you to join me in grabbing life by the balls.  In saying "why not?" more often.  In taking risks, and in welcoming adventures, and in chartering new waters, even if a bit scary.  In making mistakes, and more mistakes, and in learning from them.  In not beating yourself up about that but, instead, in embracing the imperfection (or, as my son would say, wabi-sabi) that is a fact of any life being well-lived.  In being unafraid to redefine one's paradigms -- or, in saying "screw paradigms" altogether. 

I will be doing some housekeeping this year, throwing out (as in, getting rid of) a lot of things: Expectations. Aiming for perfection.  Trying to be somebody I'm not.  Faking it.  Judgement, most especially of myself.  Excuses. 

I will be making room for some new things: Self-acceptance.  More adventures.  Rich experiences.  Deeper connection with good friends.  Dating.  Travel.  Meaningful work that I enjoy.  Increased commitment to my health and fitness, not because I am not fine how I am, but, rather, because I want to be in top form for these my second twenties. I need energy for all of these plans!

And I have to make more dedicated time for the things I have always loved: Beyond the obvious (my kids), this list includes the beach, at which I do not spend nearly enough time, reading great novels, finishing the writing of my own novels, making art, cooking great food to share with friends, and fireside snuggles. 

Whatever you are making time for in 2014, please do me the favor of remembering this long-held mantra of mine: nothing is worth more than this day.  Nothing is worth more than this day.

And in this Year of Now, I plan to embrace every loving minute of it.  Life is too good, and too fleeting, to do otherwise.

Happy New Year! xo Rox

Be Here, Now.

Soon, I'll offer a post on my recent trip to SoCal with my kids.  The closest thing I can compare it to is a visit to Oz -- not that I've been there, but, if I had been, I'm pretty sure it'd look a lot like a combination of Ocean Beach and Coronado.  (Chew on that mash-up, ye who have been there.)

While that's percolating, though -- and while I'm inundated with work from my "day" job, which is really a "day and night" job for the next couple of months -- I want to share an observation borne from our trip, the first one ever during which I did not take my laptop.  In fact, I went a whole 12 days without opening my laptop at all -- on purpose.  Our trip took only nine days, but I took an extra three to revel in Real Life, which actually exists without the internet.  (In writing that sentence, my Silicon Valley resident card may be yanked for good.  So be it.)

I decided that this trip would be full of intention to be in the moment, every moment, with my kids -- to notice where their eyes look when we're exploring a new place, to hold hands more, to engage, deeply, in conversation about new things, to spend a little more time immersed in new surroundings, and, perhaps most importantly, not to rush it.  That last bit infuriated Dash from time to time, like when we were on our forty-second minute at the gorilla enclosure (I can't help it -- there was a baby to watch, plus a silverback's 41st birthday...) -- but then, at the lorikeet feeding enclosure, after about an hour and a half of zipping in and out to buy more nectar to feed the birds, Dash had finally had enough.  Petunia's giggle at the sea lion and otter show will ring in my ears for quite some time.  We all had our fill, especially of animals and nature-immersion, and that was the thing -- we made the time for it.  We decided that several rounds of bird-feeding nectar at $3/pop was worth it, because where else will you get to feel the light weight of a bird on your arm, that then, if you're Petunia, will climb up your hair when it's through eating? 

When we'd go "home" to our rented converted garage in the evening, we'd make some hot chocolate, and we'd read a book aloud together before piling up together in some form to sleep.  The TV barely went on.  We just enjoyed each other.  And I didn't even have to Google how to do a thing.

Returning home, the last thing I wanted to do was to go on-line.  I had stayed current a bit on my phone with e-mail and such -- but opening a laptop, a device on which I can't use the "I don't want to touch-type" excuse -- involved a whole different commitment, and one that I was loathe to make.  I dreaded the kids' return to school; beyond the non-stop fun, sleeping in and keeping a schedule that was wholly our own was pretty delicious.

But my work is on-line, and so, I sit here, procrastinating a bit, decrying the internet age for the time-sink it is -- a hypocritical statement in the moment, but a sentiment that won't die when I get back to work.  What to do about it is the question?

I figured out the answer, and, after a couple of weeks of experimentation, it continues to work for me.  With little exception, I check e-mail on my laptop only morning and night, using only my phone in between.  I took Facebook off of my phone so that I'm not tempted to scroll through updates around my kids.  I have permission to use it all when they're asleep or otherwise occupied (like at school).  But when they're around, from dinner until bedtime especially, I'm in the moment with them.  I always was -- don't get me wrong -- but I was more distracted, especially because I often felt like my time was not my own (partly the nature of my work, really).  Now, I feel no pull into my bedroom, where I store my laptop, to see if so-and-so got back to me yet.  So-and-so can wait until bedtime.  As well, I'm suggesting more togetherness activities, building on our SoCal experience during which each of us found fulfillment in something we did together.  We're playing more board games, doing more crafts, reading more books, and spending more time talking. They have such big things to say, these little ones. 

So, as a meme goes 'round the internet in which my friends are picking up a "word" for the year, I'm picking up a phrase instead.  It's "Be Here, Now."  It's intentionally participating in every conversation without distraction -- whether with my kids, or with a dear friend.  It's a new focus on listening well.  It's shutting down the devices that make all of that difficult.  And it's noticing things, from the peace on my son's face while he fed the birds he's always loved to the pinkness of my daughter's cheeks as we visited an off-leash dog beach, perhaps her personal future-vet heaven.  It's the way they look at each other when they haven't squabbled at all for days because their needs are met, they're well-rested, and they're truly happy.  It's the way I look at myself in the mirror, realizing that I put way too much pressure on myself to try to check all of the right boxes when, really, there is no checklist, no endgame, no race, or prize for winners -- and no finish line.  What these kids will remember, and what I will, is the way we felt about each other as life unfolded just as it should as we love each other and pay good attention.

Be Here, Now. 

Except for right now, because they're asleep, and I have to get back to work...

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

How many times have I grabbed for my laptop over this past week, only to being writing a blog post and then to cast it aside, for my words have lost their meaning and my feelings cannot be described adequately no matter the font or the intonation.  What does a mother say about twenty lost children?  Oftentimes when my own mother would hear of a tragedy, she would remind us that she regularly asks God to take her five minutes before He takes any of her children.  She did not feel that she could live through that kind of loss.  I understand her fear.  Birthing children is like removing part of one's heart, sticking arms and legs on it, and trusting it to walk about the world unharmed, still beating, still a part of what gives a mother life.  Yet I cannot live in fear for my children's safety.  I have to believe that they are safe in order to keep breathing myself.  I know that they know how deeply they are loved.  I know that the twenty children lost in Connecticut knew that, too.  And I know that, like mine, some of those kids were probably rushed out of the door in a harried fashion with cries of "we'll be late!" and "hurry up!" and that things were probably just so normal that morning, and that is what aches my heart he most.  When I have mornings like that, I always think: "we'll do better tomorrow," because I believe that tomorrow will come.  I cannot imagine a life with no tomorrows, no more chances, no more life. 

I have set my alarm to awaken me at 6:25 a.m. PST tomorrow, five minutes before the national moment of silence for Newtown.  I plan to spend those moments in quiet, meditative prayer, for the children, for their mothers, for their siblings and fathers and families and friends ... For the adults who lost their lives, including the shooter's mother, and for those in this country who are so ill that they could do this sort of thing.  I will pray for peace.  I will pray for an end to violence.  I will pray for love to conquer hate.  And I will pray for all of the tomorrows yet to come, that I will be patient and kind and loving and that I will not live in fear nor let my children do so.  I will pray for the peacemakers.  I will pray, because I can do that.  I cannot go to Newtown and hug and hold people, which is what I am inclined to do.  But I can hug and hold the people closest to me here and live for tomorrows that are better than these recent yesterdays.  I can pray for that.  I will carry on, trying to live a little better and love a little harder.  I will welcome my tomorrows, cherish them, and try to make them signify something. 

***

The title of this blog post is from Macbeth's final soliloquy, which has been raging in my head for this past week.  It is in response to hearing of Lady Macbeth's death, and some think that he shows some indifference toward her in this speech.  I think not.  I think that Macbeth is raging against the passage of time that he cannot stop, the do-over that he will not get.  In any event, this is far from a fitting tribute to Newtown in many ways -- and yet, it reflects, I think, the outcry of a world with too much violence handled in too little time and costing too many lives.  It is distress.  It is what I feel, even while I hunger for peace.  Here is the passage:

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

In the quiet moments

Lately, I've felt like the old Maxwell ad.   While it's nice to go with the flow, ease with the breeze, the Maxell effect is something different: kind of like being in a wind tunnel, blown away, holding on for dear life, else I'll end up somewhere in Kansas. 

There is so much going on around here.  I'm presently working for two amazing places, and it keeps me on my toes.  The toes of my left foot are immersed in my lifelong passion -- education -- and the toes of my right foot are immersed in my newfound excitement -- the startup world.  Writing about what folks are doing in mobile development these days is mindblowing.  "There's an app for that" is an understatement.  There are apps that are really saving lives: cancer detection apps, for example.  Life is getting easier and easier at the touch of some buttons because of the ingenuity of mobile developers.  I'm in awe. 

Watching CNBC yesterday, I saw Maria Bartiromo interviewing Twitter and Square co-founder Jack Dorsey, whom I've long admired, gushing about how both of his tools offer simplicity of connection with humankind.  His description of his focus not on when to IPO, but, rather, on how to invoke systemic change over generations had me on my feet.  Yes, I thought, I drink that Kool-Aid!  And I'm meeting those people, the folks changing the world like that.  To quote my teenaged self, it is so cool!

And then, I'm also home, wearing my other hat: Mama.  Oftentimes after school, that Maxell effect continues a bit: Dash's soccer practice, Petunia's game, meeting here, picking that up there, etc.  But somehow in the early evening, we make it home, and ahhhhh.  The wind stops blowing.  The lights dim a bit, and we sit around a table.  Lately, we've been enjoying our fireplace -- something we hadn't used in 4 years -- and it's been magical to curl up with a dog and a book and two kids eager to hear about the adventures of The Genius Files kids Coke and Pep.  (All Dan Gutman books are great -- can't recommend them enough!)  And then they go to bed, and I give myself half an hour before I burn the midnight oil returning to one of my two work-from-home jobs.

In that half an hour before the fireplace, I focus on the good in the world.  The kids who say the darnedst things.  My girl on the cusp of becoming a woman and so fiercely independent.  My boy determined to stay little for as long as possible and so fiercely snuggly.  The friends who have become family.  The family whose help has exceeded expectations.  The hope I have to love and to be loved again.  The reflection of the flames on the piano I didn't used to play enough -- the instrument at which I now sit daily and play my heart out in memory of a time in my life when I was something else, someone else, someone whole and certain and filled with curiosity about the next note, the next tune, the next chance to perform in my own right. 

In the quiet moments, I remember what I used to be and think about what I might become.  I could focus on my fears, but, instead, as the flames die out and my attention shifts to the night of work that lies ahead, I focus on my dreams.  I get to have some new ones now, and that's something about which to be excited.

The Maxell effect returns, and my quiet moments fade into another harried day, but I carry that peace -- that hope -- with me now in a way I never did.  One day blends into the next, and I carry on.

The Bloggable Update

It's been quiet here on Rox and Roll ... too quiet.   So I'm offering a quick, somewhat boring (sorry!) update on how things are going in the Life of Rox.

I'm back to work at my seasonal, part-time gig, October-March, and I've been tasked with some new, special responsibilities therein.  Life is good in that regard.  I wasn't sure how I felt about the job last year, when it was new to me; especially working mostly from home, I wasn't sure how the in-office crew valued my performance.  Especially now that I know that I did well and was recognized for that, I feel pretty good about returning to work.  (The paycheck sure will be nice, too!)  Meanwhile, I've done some contract writing for a mobile start-up recently as well.  I so badly want "writer" (or something like it) to be my job title that I sincerely hope that I've exceeded expectations there, too.  Working two jobs in a week while being an at-home parent is not for the faint of heart.  I've been glad to have my dad here to help me (and to change the lightbulbs that I can't reach, and to fix the sink drain...) and am reminded of how much I miss being closer to family.  I gained a lot from growing up near my grandparents and am sorry I wasn't able to recreate that for my kids -- yet I feel super-lucky that my parents are willing to travel a lot to lend a hand and to see their awesome grandkids.  I'm not sure if I've thanked my parents adequately for how much they've shown up this past year, so let me offer this very big, public THANKS!!!

In any event, there's obviously a lot more going on, but I'm not going to be writing about that stuff, not for a long time, if ever.  I'm trying to focus on my new life path as a single mom in the most positive sense possible.  I'd be lying if I didn't note that it's exceptionally hard to do that at times, but, all things considered, I'm doing pretty well.  I feel great about myself and know that I chose the right (and the only) path for me.  I feel great about my work.  I feel great about my kids, especially when they pile on me at night for our half an hour of read-aloud family time.  I think we all cherish that closeness a little extra these days.  I try to focus less on the uncertainty of the future -- where we're going to live, how I'm going to make ends meet -- than I do on what is certain: that I am doing my best to craft the best possible life for my kids and myself given this set of circumstances. 

And so, with that, I leave you this ... yawn ... post.  Soon, I will regale you with tales of raucous laughter related to Petunia's and Dash's antics, but, for the moment, I am mellow ... and overwhelmed ... so I'm going to sign off with yet another Mary Oliver poem.  I love her work, and this one really reaches me these days, as I -- finally -- have started waking up grateful again for the blessings and the challenges of each new day. 

'Til next time, and the many times after, may you wake up grateful every day, too. ~ Rox

Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

~ Mary Oliver ~

La Belle Dame Sans Regrets

The title is from a Sting song, and, translated, it means The Beautiful Woman without Regrets.  He sings it in French, and, in any language, it's kind of a dark song.  He doesn't understand her, this woman without regrets; and he cries: "tu brises mon coeur," which means "you break my heart." I've always been a bit enchanted by the song, thinking that la Belle Dame may have no regrets, but the man singing to her probably does. 

"No regrets" has always been one of my mantras; it's an essential part of what, to me, is living a good life.  It's a theme that I fixate on in songs like Sting's, and in books and movies.  For instance, there's this beautiful scene in The City of Angels [spoiler alert!] where Nicolas Cage's character, in reference to Meg Ryan's late one, affirms that it was worth giving up his angel status to fall to earth as a mortal even just for one whiff of her hair in real life.  I have loved like that, and I totally get it.  No one wants to reach the end of their life and wish they'd have lived it differently.  Heck, no one wants to live a day like that; yet the inertia brought about by life's minutiae -- getting the kids to school on time, meeting the deadline, paying the bills, bedtime again -- sometimes makes changing course kind of hard.  If one seeks, like I do, to live life with no regrets, one has to be very brave and sometimes say: I want things to be better than what they are.  And it takes even more courage to actually be different -- to make the change, to be the person we'd like to be, to prioritize living a good life over living the life we're living -- the one we think is right for everybody else, or the one that looks right to the world.

If you were to live the best life you could, what would your playbook look like?  What would be your core principles, your guidelines, your affirmations and mantras and promises to yourself and to others?  I've been ruminating on that a lot, and here's the start of my list, in no specific order:

• Find the funny in the everyday, and laugh out loud at it, even if everyone thinks you're nuts.  After all, it's not the years of life that counts in the end -- it's the life in those years.  Make them ridiculously fun.

• Be a friend to all, the kind of friend you'd like to have, to your actual friends, but also to your spouse, to your family members, to your kids. 

• Likewise, choose friends wisely.  Over time, friendships change; give yourself permission to let go when necessary, and be brave enough to invite someone new out for coffee.  Friends chosen and kept well become family in time. 

• Prioritize open family communication, even when it comes at inconvenient times that kids often pick.  Drop everything when that happens and engage.  If you want kids who will listen to you, listen to them.  Same deal with spouses: talking early about uncomfortable stuff may help you to avoid big problems down the line.  (Same deal with parents, siblings, and pretty much anybody...)

• Make mistakes, and learn from them; but when they affect others adversely, say you're sorry, and mean it.  And don't make the same mistake again.

• Remember that it's always okay to push the reset button.

• Say no when you really don't want to take something on.  Say yes when it's the right thing to do for yourself and for others -- in balance.  Martyrdom is for losers.

• But: help when it's unexpected and most greatly needed.  Notice the elderly, especially, and teach your kids to notice them, too.  Hope that other kids have learned that respect when they're older.

• Find a way to serve others.  The day will come when you need help, and it flows most easily to those who've given it readily.  (And if that day never comes, what a blessing!)

• Prioritize yourself.  Everything else is easier to take care of if self-care comes first; and much harder if self-care is the last priority.

• Remain future-focused, and not mired in the past.  Let it go.  Move on.

• Love is not a boomerang.  Give of it freely, but know it doesn't always come back; and accept that.  Self-love, however, reaps greater rewards than any love given to someone else.

• Don't lose faith: not in oneself, one's God, or one's fellow man. 

• Believe that people are inherently good; and be a good example of that.

• Bite your tongue.  So many things are better left unsaid. 

• Be patient.

• Learn something new everyday, however you can; bonus points for sharing it.

• Soak in the beauty around you: in nature, and in people -- especially in people.  Everyone is beautiful in some way.

... and yes: try hard to have no regrets.

To be clear, I've failed at this whole list multiple times over.  But, I'm trying -- trying to live life with an intention: to get to the end of it and know that I've loved hard, laughed much, and lived as well as I could have.  I may not be La Belle Dame Sans Regrets, but I aim to try hard -- and to not break any hearts along the way, most especially my own.

Tell me: how do you go about living a good life?

The Wonder of It All

There is a lot going on in my world these days about which I am not writing a lick.  Few have ever seen me speechless, but those closest to me know that my thoughts and my feelings emerge most clearly from these keys at my fingertips.  I've kept it all in long enough.  I am a writer.  This is how I let my insides out, and I know no other way.  In the spirit of getting back into writing about this so-called "real life," I'll start with this post about The Wonder of It All.

I wear rose-colored glasses.  I believe that people are fundamentally good, and I find the good in pretty much everything and everybody.  If I'm 1% happy and 99% unhappy, I'll still tell you that I'm happy.  That's just how I roll.  It may seem a naive outlook on life and on the world; perhaps it is.  But I've recently felt what it's like to live differently from that -- to focus on those dark places, on the down-side, on the less-than.  And I say, f*ck that.  I'll stay in my land of unicorns and rainbows, and there's not a person who's going to bring me down from my Truffula Tree.  I can deal with the ups and downs of life from a vantage point of presumed happiness -- because if I'm not happy, I can find a path to happiness rather than fester in something that's less than that.  "Choose to be happy" has been my life's mantra for as long as I can remember.  I forgot that for a while.  Shame on me.

I didn't get back here from nothing.  I drew inspiration from friends who are living examples of what is "right" in this world in the way they give of themselves, and they've given so much to me: they have reminded me of my character, of my value, and of what I bring to the world -- much of which is the belief that I have something to share with people, something that's bigger than me, both through my writing and through hard work with my hands through service.  And I also returned to my "home-base" by drawing inspiration from some bloggers, especially Kelle Hampton who writes "Enjoying the Small Things."  The way that Kelle both photographs and writes about her life with her two daughters in Southern Florida is so moving to me that, when I'm down, just looking through a few of her posts reminds me that there are, in fact, people in the world who are just like me: people who wear their own rose-colored glasses proudly and with great effect.  Please take a moment to read Kelle and wonder with me: is her life, as she portrays it, too good to be true, or is it, in fact, what life would be like if we just lived it without any worries other than caring for each other and making the best out of the everyday? 

Spring has sprung here in NorCal.  My favorite wisteria (which my kids deemed to have a name "like a disease" last year) is starting to bloom.  Tulip magnolias are dropping their petals, and the sweet scent of various blossomings dogs me on my increasingly-frequent walks.  I got lost for a while this winter, brought down by weighty matters that deserved my time and energy but not the soul-sucking, mind-numbing incapacitation that I gave up too easily.   I'm walking back from that now, cautiously, but with my rose-colored glasses back on as I stroll toward the sunshine.  There is so much real beauty in this world, so much graciousness, so many people and places and things that deserve to be examined in the best possible light for the goodness and truth and realness that they have to offer.  Winter was hard, but spring?  Life begins anew; such is the message of Easter, too, for those who Believe.  'Tis the season for a restart, and I invite you to walk with me on a new path that takes at least a minute each day to focus on some magic in the everyday.  There's so much of it that I drink it in with reckless abandon on sunny, fragrant days like today.  This is a pretty good way to live, soaking up the Wonder of It All.

 

On Finding Neverland

Yesterday, my kids and I snuggled together for a family movie night.  Our selection, Finding Neverland, won a whole bunch of awards and nods half a dozen or so years ago.  Since it was PG and Peter Pan-related, I figured it was child appropriate.  And, to some extent, it was -- a beautiful movie, one that you can't watch with dry eyes.  It's heartfelt and heart-capturing, the tale of J.M. Barrie's writing of Peter Pan and the life story of the family who inspired it.

But. 

[Spoiler alert ahead.  Stop now if you haven't seen this great movie and wish to watch it.]

But the mom dies.  Correction: the mom appears to have chest cold after chest cold, a cough that worsens and worsens and won't go away, a cough so bad that, at times, she can't breathe.  A cough that takes her life.  A cough that was just, as my youngest, Dash, pointed out, like the cough I used to have. 

"But yours went away, Mama," he said.  "She wasn't lucky," he noted, pointing at Kate Winslet.

Lucky.

I did what I had to do in that moment, and I held myself together.  We watched the rest of the movie, all wiped away a few tears -- for, as beautiful as it is, needless to say it does not have a happy ending -- and went upstairs for our bedtime routine: a couple of dozen Shel Silverstein poems, a lullaby or three (I love that they still want me to sing to them), and then I went out on my front porch and just sat on my ski bench.  It's been about a hundred degrees here, so it was surprising how pleasant it was outside.  I sat, looked out at my forest, listened to the bullfrogs croaking in my vernal pool, and took in the last few sounds of the birds on their way to sleep.  I had anticipated a good cry, but, instead, I found myself smiling.

Lucky. 

There's a great Tennessee Williams quote that reads: "Luck is believing that you're lucky."  For a couple of years, there, I had some quite bad luck.  And I do think that a large part of wellness is believing that you can be well.  It took a while for me to find that belief.  Luck may be believing oneself to be lucky.  Life is believing in one's ability to live it.  Before I got sick, I used to get so caught up in the little stuff of life, especially when it came to parenting: making sure I checked the right boxes, doing my best to get it right the first time, trying my damndest not to screw up.  And then, I screwed up, in many ways, because I got sick, and I couldn't check the boxes anymore; I filled myself with even more self-doubt, and, for a while, I even gave up.  I thought about the "last lecture"-type letters that I should write to my kids: one for when they hit 13, one for 16, one for high school graduation... college, graduate school, wedding, baby... thinking about how I should write these missives, make them meaningful, words by which to live.  And the advice I'd impart would have been grand and unexpected, things like "Fly by the seat of your pants every so often."  "Take risks.  If one doesn't pay off, try another."  "Welcome the blind turn." and "Above all, be a good person.  Nothing else matters."  I would've inspired them to think grander, to live bigger, to be better. 

I never wrote the letters.  But I mean the advice.

We all spend so much time caught up in the pursuit of things: the ever-elusive happiness, perfection, in the attainment of goals that will make us bigger, better, more right, more awesome.  We forget the here and now.  We forget that sometimes, we screw up -- we need to screw up -- in order to redirect our course.  We forget that life is as simple as we want it to be. And Neverland?  It's right outside our door, beckoning us to make the time just to be, just to play, forgetting about all of the crap that weighs us down, remembering that we can't please everyone but that we do owe ourselves pleasure.  We can't write an IOU to ourselves when it comes to being happy.  We can choose it, just like we can believe we're lucky.

I close this post from my front porch, deep in the woods of Vermont, likely my last dispatch from this Neverland for quite some time.  I've made a lot of mistakes over the last few years, and I've taken quite a few course-corrections, some forced on me by health and circumstances, some by my own hand.  And where I sit right now, I am healthy, I am strong, and, indeed, I think grander, I live bigger, I am better, and I am much, much happier.  And yes, Dash, I am one more thing:

Lucky.

What does an American look like?

Today, we're celebrating the 4th like many Americans do: with family, cramming in loads of fun, too much food, and some swimming to burn it off.  And based on a couple of conversations this long weekend, I have a burning question: on this day, when we celebrate what it is to be American, I wonder: what does an American look like?

Does she look like me, your typical WASP?

Do they look like my many friends and cousins in my native West Virginia, also WASPs, working hard in mines and mills and factories making "stuff," like steel, that is the backbone of America?

Does he look like my husband, first-generation American, descended from European immigrants?

Does he look like my friend, W., of Chinese descent, who's running for political office?

Does she look like my friend, S., a Muslim of Pakistani descent?

Or like my friend, B., a gay man who, finally, achieved civil rights in New York and can marry his partner -- yet not have that marriage recognized state-to-state?  (How American is that?)

As I travel this great country of ours, between two homes on coasts both West and East (Left and Right?), I'm struck by several hard truths -- among them, that I don't see a lot of people who make me wonder if, because they're different from me, are they somehow out to get me?  (I, certainly, was raised specifically not to think that way, which may have a big something to do with that.)  How much judgment do people continue to face because they're "different" in America, whether because they're women, gay, of a different ethnicity, from a different place ... And how odd is that, really, for a place in which I, myself, technically descended from illegal immigrants, since, after all, I'm not a Native American?

And what about those people?  The many undocumented people in America, what *are* they?  And what about their children, who were born here?  Aren't they American?  Aren't they the products of parents who, like my (legal and now naturalized) husband's immigrant parents, sought the American dream of a better life for their children?  What about the many people who bear another country's passport but who come here to work; can they claim America as their home?

Otherwise said, to whom do we -- almost all of us immigrants -- pay this debt we owe just by virtue of being here on this great, free soil?  Who gets to decide who gets to say they're American and -- gulp -- who doesn't? 

When I pass people on the street, I know that I'm not wondering who has a right to be here or not.  Especially because I live in places where I hear other languages frequently (in CA, Spanish, and in VT, French), I'm not wondering who's American and who's not because of what they speak.  If I see a hijab, or a turban, I'm not wondering if those people belong here, because I have friends who wear those vestements and who are American.  No matter what their ethnic group, their house of worship, their political leanings -- I'm not inclined to worry if they belong here or not.  Perhaps it's because I consider myself a liberal that I simply don't care.  If they're poor, huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, well, I say, come on in.  Abide by our laws, and live here if you wish.  I do think you should do so legally.  If that's a hurdle for some people, we should help them over that hurdle.  Isn't that the American way, helping our neighbors?

For if there's one thing I know, it's that there is no One America.  One can't assume that one person has a natural *right* to be American, and another doesn't.  This is a huge melting pot, and no one can assume that someone is or can be American, or not, just because of a look, or a zip code, or even a country of birth.  It's why I love it here.  I know people from everywhere.  And isn't that lucky? 

Isn't that the essence of America?

 

The Great Do-Over Begins

I'm officially giving myself a blogging time-out.  Not a time-out from blogging: rather, a time-out in which I have to blog.

Between looking for jobs, a couple of interviews (!!!), and preparing to spend a few days away with hubby, sans kids, while also preparing to decamp for much of the summer (maybe, possibly, depends on those interviews!) ... life has gotten a little crazy around here.  Throw in a couple of big, huge pizza parties, a handful of other big commitments, soccer, baseball, etc. etc. ... well, you know how they say "spring has sprung?"  Spring jumped me, Brooklyn-style.  And it beat me up, and, when I woke up from that coma, I was all like "what the heck just happened?"  And it was gone.  The?  Yeah.  That about sums it up.

So ... summer, FTW!  11 days of school left.  11 days until my "babies" are in 6th and 1st grades, respectively.  11 days left to be in school together, likely for the last time in their lives, as Petunia heads to an all-girls middle school while Dash continues his quest to be the next Derek Jeter.  ("Maybe they teach us how to be real shortstops in first grade!" he adds.)

And, of course ... 11 days to get all of the crap I've been meaning to donate all. freakin'. year. out of my house.  Wait!  Adding in weekends, it's more like 17 days -- that's found time!  17 days to find the guinea pig summer sitter ... 17 days to finish cleaning out my closet, and my office, and the basement (a trio also known as "the final frontier") ... 17 days to pack and repack ... 17 days to finish up everything and get the heck out of Dodge. 

I can do a lot in 17 days, and there's also a lot that I can't do.  I'm at the point in my reality where I have to take a deep breath, pour a glass of wine, and type out a blog post ending with the most important word in my vocabulary these days.  No matter what happens, no matter what doesn't happen, no matter the state of my closet, my basement, my office, or my guinea pig, I have 17 days.  No matter what the outcome, I'm leaving it all behind, even if only for a while: the stress, the stuff, the exciting but daunting job hunt.  In 17 days, even if only for a little while, I get to say: whatever.

On personal space

Recently, Petunia, Dash and I travelled to sunny Florida to visit their grandparents and aunt in their gorgeous home by the beach.  Flying coast-to-coast with them is increasingly easy as they age; just download a couple of new movies in their iPod Touch devices, give 'em a pack of Starburst each, and they forget they're cooped up in a 737 for six hours. It used to be that Dash would ride primarily on my lap, but, now, he sits by the window, Petunia between us, and I can veg out with my iPod or a good book.  Everybody wins!  A few rows ahead of us, a morbidly obese man had a quick but noticeable exchange with a flight attendant about the empty seat beside him; there was a long list of standby passengers, but the guy had bought two seats so that he could fly without encroaching on anyone else's personal space.  I found that thoughtful of him, 'cause some people aren't so kind.

You know the ones I'm talking about: the lady in line behind you in line at the pharmacy, literally breathing down your neck because she has absolutely no concept of personal space.  (This always happens to me at the pharmacy, for some reason.)  Recently, I asked one such lady to step back and give me some space, and do you know what she said?  "This is a line in CVS; this is how it works."  When I said, "I'm here to pick up medication for a highly contagious illness, so it's in your own interest to keep your distance," she didn't budge, though we were literally toe-to-toe.  So I used my best Simon-Says voice to ask the entire line to take several steps backward because those toward the front were getting squished.  Still ... no response.  Suckers learned that when you're a frequent flyer at CVS like I am, what this effort gets you is called to the front of the line to pick up your suddenly-ready script, even though it's been sitting there for days.  Pharmacy tech has my back, yo.

But what about when no one has your back?  Recently, we hosted several events at our house; and during those events, I close our dog in our master bathroom and post a sign on our master bedroom door reading: "Dog inside -- please do not open."   Well, once, I forgot.  I forgot during the party for which I had run out of time to tidy up the master -- which I usually do, even though no one ever opens the "dog, do not open" door.  Except I forgot the sign that time, so my bedroom, into which I threw all of the stuff I didn't have time to tidy up before the party, saw some traffic.  How much, I won't know ... but my dog even got loose from confinement, so that someone or someones even used my bathroom.

My problem with that?  I might have forgotten the sign on the door, but my bedroom door was c-l-o-s-e-d.  Do you ever enter a room at someone's house without permission?  I think not.  I felt like my personal space was violated, and I wonder if people now recognize me from that episode of Hoarders, 'cause my room was really that bad.  What can I say?  I have two kids and no household help, so I do the best I can and am steadily improving in that arena, but we still have too much stuff and not enough places to put it.  I'm working on that.  But I don't even know to whom I need to explain that because I don't even know who was in my private bedroom.

In any event, such as it is, I've realized that I have personal space "issues," as in, I don't like anyone in it -- not the pharmacy line-lady, not the stranger-in-my-bedroom, but, beyond that, not even my kids as much as before.  Our first night in Florida, my little guy wanted a Mama-snuggle, which I failed to read as code for "I don't want you to sleep a wink, oppressor."  Finally, I shoved the dude to the other side of the bed, put a pillow between us, and declared it to be the Berlin Wall of sleep.  There are some times and places where a person just needs her space.  I'm figuring in bed, in bedrooms, in bathrooms, and, yes, even in line at the pharmacy are reasonable claims.  It'd be nice to always have it on airplanes, too, but most people aren't as considerate as the guy in 11D and 11E -- like the 50-something lady in the handknit yellow sweater who, as she turned aside while waiting in the bathroom line to let someone pass, let rip a loud and pungent fart about two inches from my face, and then had the gall to lean in and tell me that The Fighter (which I was watching) is a terrific movie.  I briefly thought about giving her an example of exactly which type of blow I thought Micky Ward landed best, but, instead, I pulled my t-shirt up over my nose, turned to my son in the window seat, and asked if I could hold him for a little bit, at least until the Farting Lady could get to the bathroom and back. 

Fortunately, the kid didn't mind a bit.

Stuff and such

So.  What's up?

Here's what's been up around here, in rambling, random order, since the best I can muster at this point is a list:

Home organization: The Guv bought an elliptical, so our "sleepover room" in the basement is now half an exercise room.  We may be adding a Pilates Reformer to it soon.  Because of these changes, we're purging loads and loads of stuff.  It feels so good to get rid of stuff!  Less is more, indeed, when it comes to home organization.  I asked Petunia what will come of her Barbie castle, and she didn't even suggest selling it; she asked if I'd contact Ronald McDonald House to see if they'd like it.  Best. Kid. Ever.

Exercise: I'm getting stronger by the day and in every way.  I'm in love with Pilates Reformer training, and I can now see my abs developing.  I'm really, really proud of that, and I'm doing daily Pilates exercises (series of 5, 100s, etc.) to make sure they keep developing so nicely.  The whole philosophy of Pilates -- core strength, internal and external balance, flexibility -- it's all great, but my favorite part is the pairing of physical and mental health.  The mind controls the body; and a fit body makes for a fit mind.  I feel like I worry less, walk taller, feel better about myself, and feel better about the world around me with this training supporting me.  I titled my college thesis "Stronger and Thus Saner" (after a Senda Berenson, the mother of women's basketball, quote).  I feel like that now.

Health: My lung disease is well-managed and steady-state, though still a bit worrisome as my doc thinks I have an underlying autoimmune or genetic issue.  Time will uncover whether or not there's more to deal with.  Meanwhile, Dash may need new ear tubes, so the focus can be on him for a while. (He's fine.  Ear tubing is really no big deal.)

Cooking: I'm trying to cook more, and I just made my friend Carmen's cream cheese chicken for the first time.  WOW.  It's amazing!  For the Superbowl, we're going to watch my Steelers trounce the Packers, and we're going to eat cheese in celebration (and not cheese from Wisconsin, either).  Fondue, cheesecake ... we'll have some fun with it!  For my book club on Monday, I'm making granola clusters from The Earthbound Cook.  And sometime next week, I'm going to whip out my huge new Lodge cast iron wok and start experimenting with stir-frys.  Hungry?

Coaching: I love my 5th/6th grade girls' basketball team.  With a roster of 14, my hands are full, but blessedly so.  They are an amazing group of girls who are teaching me as much as I'm teaching them!  Watching the shy one blossom into one of our best defenders ... watching the one who struggles with confidence own the ball for the first time ... heck, watching my own kid fearlessly play defense in a way that reminds me of John Starks (she uses that booty!) ... it's all good.  I feel so lucky to know these kids.  I hope that when they look back on our time together, they remember that it was about more than basketball, that it was about building confidence, connectedness, teamwork, self-reliance and team-reliance, friendships, and, yes, a bit of basketball skill too.  Go team!

Gratitude: It strikes me how much better 2011 has dawned for me compared to 2010.  I haven't spent enough time singing the Guv's praises, but I wish y'all could meet him and see what a great guy I have on my team.  To be loved so much, so deeply, and so richly every day is something that I do not take for granted and am very grateful for -- and do my best to return in kind.  He helps me to be my best self; and, together, we work hard with our kids so that they're becoming their best selves too: little people with a strong moral compass, a solid bedrock of faith, and a knowledge that brains, hard work, and a good attitude will yield a richness from life that can't be bought or attained any other way.  For their presence in my life, I am so blessed.  For the family that surrounds me with love and shaped me as I'm shaping my own kids, I am lucky.  For the friends who'd bury a body with me, bail me out of jail -- or, better yet, be sitting there with me planning an escape -- I am overwhelmed with good fortune.  May good things come to all who touch my life in such a special way, and may I have the opportunity this year to give more than I take from all of these amazing people. 

That's what's up around here.  Good things.  Isn't it nice to get an update like that after 2010?! 

May your year be off to as good of a start.

A Dispatch from the Land of Perpetual Summer

Driving the mom taxi service today, I found myself feeling something unexpected: hot.  Looking at the thermometer, it read 67, but the sun was shining brightly with nary a cloud in the sky.  My jeans-and-sweatshirt winter uniform felt quite out of place.  I rolled the windows down a bit and wished that I had my husband's convertible for the day, except that wouldn't have fit the playdate-soccer carpool-fest.  When we arrived at the field, I lingered for a moment, closed my eyes, and smelled flowers blooming.  This was yet another day -- one of hundreds each year -- where I pinched myself to make sure that really, truly, I was here, living the dream in Silicon Valley.

Oh, and what a dream it is!  I met my husband for lunch today and pitched him my lastest start-up idea: a life-improvement "ecosystem" akin to Google's campus, where families committed to education live, are employed, required to send their kids to school and to tutoring if minimum GPA requirements aren't met, offered the opportunity to attend parenting, nutrition, and other helpful classes, and, most importantly, prevented from ever viewing MTV.  After reading about the teen pregnancy epidemic in Memphis, frankly, I'm surprised that no one has had the sense to take Teen Mom (and the other, like shows) off of the air.  Gone are the days of "My So-Called Life" -- and here are the days of the glorification of the Bart Simpson "why try?" society.  I'd like to build these "ecosystems" in each of the poorest towns in America, maybe starting in Memphis.  Am I being extreme?  Of course!  But don't extreme times call for extreme measures?  Think about this: do you think that in Memphis, there are 100 families who want better for their kids than teen pregnancy and appalling high school drop-out rates?  I know there are!  Do you think they want better jobs, better access to healthcare, better education, and better results?  I know they do!  So why not try a social experiment -- a boarding school for families, of sorts?

The likelihood of this idea ever getting traction is about zero, but I'm just distraught these days: distraught, most significantly, over the death of one of my personal heroes, Sargent Shriver.  The dude lived to be 95, so, really, I should be less unsettled, but I heard him speak back in 1994 -- speak of how he wishes he were young with the world full of opporutunities that lay ahead.  He spoke of a world where peace was raged rather than war, and where kids believed in things so fiercely that we would do whatever we could to guard those beliefs 'til our own deaths.  And the sad thing is that the world Sargent Shriver envisioned then is so, so far from the world we're in almost 17 years later.  We're in the land of Real Housewives and Teen Moms and the Jersey Shore.  We're in the land of American Idol and The Apprentice.  In other words, we're in the land of Everyone Wants to Be Famous for Nothing.  Our schools suck yet more, which I didn't think was possible, and, instead of doing something about that, Republicans are focusing their efforts on repealing healthcare reform.

I think Republicans need to go to my "ecosystem" and learn a thing or two about what "normal" people want.  They want jobs.  They want healthcare (ahem).  They want better education.  They want a future for their kids that's better than what they have.  They want to be part of the American dream.  Repealing healthcare is a colossal waste of time since it's guaranteed to fail.  They'll spend weeks attempting to break something and lack the balls to actually fix what's broken.  Shame, shame, shame on the collective lot of our do-nothing politicians.

So anyway, I'm not pitching my idea to VCs or to angels or even to my friends.  They'll think I'm batsh*t crazy (and already, probably, do).  I realize that my "family boarding school" is but a pipe dream, but I do so wish that someone else could tell me how we're going to get communities to commit to education.  It can be done, but it is so very hard.  The worst schools are in the worst economic environments (but, as we saw in Waiting for Superman, many even in good neighborhoods kinda suck).  How do we make it better?  How do we stop more Memphises (which was Marbleheads just a few years ago)?

I'm not going to get discouraged.  I'm going to polish my rose-colored glasses and get back to the important task of scheduling my kids for summer camp.  I've signed Petunia up for one called "The Nature of Food," a camp in which she can study the localvore movement in agriculture.  She'll plant a raised vegetable garden, visit a large-scale farm, learn about cheesemaking, and bake some bread.  I've signed Dash up for three separate science camps, "Earth Explorations," one about habitats, and something else that involves hiking.  And I'm overwhelmed by the feeling that I am so lucky, and so are they.  I know how to scout out camps that are going to complement their education.  I'm going to invest in this enrichment with money that I'm lucky to have.  My kids attend top-notch schools, have amazing summer experiences, and are surrounded by a community that values education above much else.  And in the back of my mind, I think: what about the kids who don't?  Here in the land of perpetual summer, it's easy to be duped into thinking that everyone is living the dream.  I always will feel grateful, lucky and oh-so-happy to be here in this dream world, but I won't be fooled. 

To Sargent Shriver, and to myself, I made a commitment long ago, and that is to stand by a certain few of my beliefs until I die.  I believe that the War on Poverty needs to be waged again in America, and I believe that it will only be won through education.  I believe that education in Memphis should be as strong as it is in Palo Alto, that it should be as solid (and as funded) in West Virginia as it is in New York.  How I'll channel those beliefs into action, I have no idea, but I'm ready to try.

Resolved

In the past, I've blown off New Year's resolutions as easily as I've blown off Lent.  (Hey, I'm a good Christian, but I'm a mom, too, which means I've given up my life as I know it for decades -- really, giving up chocolate is going to matter to the Big Guy???)  Anyhoo, this year, I have some real commitments to make because last year was the year of High Drama in just about every respect.  My health was all out of whack, and so were a whole lotta other things that I just won't go into, and, well, suffice it to say, I just wasn't too thrilled with 2010 -- except for the way we ended it, with an absolutely breathtakingly beautiful family vacation in my beloved Green Mountains of Vermont.  Nothing says "start fresh" like freshly fallen snow, and lots of it, in a place that reeks of peace and self-determination.

So this year, I have some resolutions, and they're more like life resolutions -- not just for this year, but commitments that I make with intention to live better.  I would love to hear yours, too.

I resolve:

To let it go.  What does this mean to me?  It goes way beyond "don't sweat the small stuff."  It means that I'm not carrying any "baggage" this year, or ever again.  It means that I have to accept that there are situations I cannot change, despite my best efforts.  It means that I have to accept that there are people whom I just cannot be around.  It means that I will not beat myself up over every mistake, second-guess decisions made from my gut, and fret over every move I make that may not be in perfect accord with someone else's universe.   I will be me.  I will be decisive.  And no matter what happens, I will move on.

To achieve peak fitness.  My life depends on it.  (To some extent, everyone's life depends on it, actually.)  While I've always been a gym member and aerobics groupie, I took my body for granted until part of it stopped working; I'll never do that again.  I'm focusing on strenghtening my core most of all this year, as that's the area right around my busted lung, and it feels right to encase it in something strong and protective. 

To eat with intention.  I am not a dieter, nor will I ever be.  Frankly, I eat pretty healthfully as it is, and my BMI is normal, so diet is not a huge concern.  That said, I sure do end up eating a lot of crap that I don't want to eat.  Especially running from practice to practice with the kids, it's easy to fill the void with taquitos.  (I'm convinced Mexican food is my undoing.  Have you noticed how there are rarely any veggies in Mexican cuisine?)  This year, I eat with intention.  I will fuel my body with food that belongs there. (And yes, occasionally, with things I just want -- I'm a firm believer in "everything in moderation.")  This means that I have to pay more attention to meal planning and cooking, but I have family support for that; we all want to eat out less, especially since I cook a lot better than much of what we eat elsewhere.  So, this is the year of "homemade."  My sous-chef, Petunia, is pretty fired up about that!

To get out more often.  With two kids in school, the Guv and I are relishing breakfast and lunch dates, which require no babysitter.  But we still need to make more time for things we love: concerts, movies, dinners with friends that aren't hosted in our backyard.  Whether it's with the Guv or with girlfriends, I have some awesome dresses that I need to wear somewhere.  Let's make some plans!

To be true to myself.  Wrapping up this list is something I lost a lot last year and need to regain: just plain being me.  I've always had self-confidence, but I had a heck of a lot of something new last year for the first time: self-doubt.  Part of this is fallout from the whole eff-up that was 2010, and part of this is where I am in life (in age, in friends, in income, in parenthood, in everything).  I got lost in who I was supposed to be versus who I am.  And that hasn't really changed much.  I'm a jeans-and-t-shirt gal who is never going to wear eyeliner and the perfect flats just to meet girlfriends for coffee.  Most of my girlfriends are okay with that.  I need to remember that I'm okay with that and get back to the things I love to do: wife-ing, mom-ing, writing, exercising, cooking, and, generally, living the dream.  (And maybe getting an out-of-home job one of these days...)

And that, my friends, is my wish for you in 2011: may you and yours live the dream this and every year. 

 

 

Glee! And ... not so much!

Where in the world is Rox this week?  Rox is in her minivan: goalie training 2x/week, practice 2x/week, games 2x/weekend.  Girl Scouts just about every week.  Newspaper on Fridays, followed by community service.  Guitar lessons.  And that's just the kids' stuff.  Then there's library duty x2, "centers," taking the dog in for Petunia's "VIP" presentation, taking Dash to the nutrition clinic, church, farmers' market ... cooking, cleaning, laundry, and more laundry.  This does not feel like the life of a Rox star.  This feels like the life of Cinderella pre-ball.  Rox is never home.  And Rox is tired.  But... it's like 80-and-sunny here in Silicon Valley every afternoon, and one of my flower bushes just decided to have a fall bloom, so Rox'll just stop complaining right now and get on with things.

Somewhere in between soccer and sleep, I had little fun on my other two sites, and I'll give you an I.O.U. for some heartwarming kids' stories in the near future, like Dash's letter to John Williams and Petunia's girl drama.  Wait, that's not heartwarming, that's claw-sharpening.

Anyhoo, here's what's up with me elsewhere:

On Good Stuff Rox, I have a Glee: Season One giveaway going.  I'm giving away Modern Family next, so stay tuned if that's your cup of tea.

On Rox on a Soapbox, I wrote a silly little ditty called "'Twas the Night before Election."  I'll be following that up soon with a piece on why Democrats need to abandon the teachers' unions.  Trust me, it'll be more gripping than a murder mystery, 'cause I just watched "Waiting for Superman," and I'm on a warpath.

And I'm reading one the best books I've ever read for my next book club, "The Good Daughters" by Joyce Maynard while I'm waiting in my minivan.

So y'all go and have some fun on my other sites, and I'm going to sleep, for tomorrow's another day of driving myself crazy kids around. 

My do-over/do-better year

During my first trip to NorCal in 1999, we attended one of my favorite weddings ever.  An absolutely breathtaking event from start to finish, a highlight involved the bride's brother's band playing the first dance song.  Brother was nervous, though, and totally flubbed the tune and the beat not even thirty seconds into the song.  The bride, one of the constantly-happiest people I've ever met, threw her head back laughing and announced, "Do over!  Do over!" -- and the song and the dance restarted.  It was a moment so full of love, love between the married couple and love between the siblings.  I bet that her brother never lived down that screw-up, but I also know that the bride didn't mind his mistake one bit.  If anything, that scene made the moment and the dance to follow all the more fun, enjoyable and memorable.  I've felt lucky for over eleven years to have shared that occasion, and that do-over, with them.

I think of that moment often because I've felt a lot like yelling "Do over!  Do over!" over the past year.  I screwed up a lot of things, including, especially, staying with the wrong doctor for too long before finding the courage to say, "No, that's not good enough!" -- and finding someone who cared to identify and manage my illnesses.  (Yes, illnesses is plural, and that's a boring medical subject into which I won't delve at this point.)  I also didn't readily accept help as early on as I should have.  I didn't make clear to friends and to family what I needed, because "needing" is "weakness," right?  I said "yes" to the wrong things and "no" to the wrong things, too.  I didn't stand up for myself enough and, when I did, stood up at the wrong times.  I felt like the star of "The Truman Show," part deux, but I wasn't nearly as funny as Jim Carrey.  In fact, nothing about life was funny last year.  Nothing's quite as unfunny as being unwell.

But now, I'm feeling much better, and, as my 37th year dawns, I'm realizing that there are a lot of things that I can, in fact, do over -- or, at least, do better.  For example, I can come back into my faith, which was all but lost last year.  I always thought that, if I were to face The End, my faith would empower me to embrace the change, knowing that greener pastures awaited me -- and who doesn't want to go to heaven anyway?  Well, I learned the answer to that question last year:  not me, yet.  But faith can give me a lot of tools to face what is shaping up to be an ongoing battle.  It can give me a place to turn when I'm feeling weak.  It can serve as a reminder of the goodness in the world that was and that is.  Most importantly, it can help me address the question of "what kind of person do I want to be?"  Goals do, indeed, change when you realize that you can have a lot of do-overs -- but only one life in which to do it.

There's a long to-do list ahead for me, and the first item in order is clearing away the wreckage of the past year.  Today, I feel that I've done that, as much as I can.  I have done a 180 on my life, choosing to view the time I have ahead as love-filled and positive, strengthening and empowering -- which is much better than the measuring out with coffee spoons that I was doing last year (with apologies to my favorite poet T.S. Eliot).  Kind of like the Ikea wine glass we broke into a million shards on our patio a few months ago, I'm well aware that jagged little pieces of the past year, health or otherwise, will occasionally come up and hurt me at the most inconvenient and annoying times; but I am ready to say, "I'm stronger than that."  And I am moving on from that time of darkness into a time of light.

This is my do-over, do-better year.  I am 37, happier indeed than I have ever been, and I am ready for even greater things to come. 

Things About Which I Do Not Care

So much for vacation brain ... My question tonight is: WTF is going on in the world when the most sweeping financial regulations since my grandparents were babies just passed Congress, an oil spill still is being mitigated, we're fighting two wars, and the headlines are about Sarah Palin's kid??? 

There aren't enough swear words even in my rather expansive lexicon for that.

Inspired by the media blitzkreig of Bristol Palin's engagement to her baby-daddy, I am writing a list of things and people about which I do not care.  And I mean, I do not care about these things and people at all.  No, I do not care that you do not care about whether or not I care about these things.  (Yeah... I don't know what I just wrote, either.)  Truth be told, I am outraged, and that's why I issue forth this list.  I do not wish to raise my children in a world in which more people know who Paris-Skanky-Ho-Hilton is than who their Congressman is.  It's disgusting, and it's shameful, and we must demand better from our media and from our educators; especially, we must demand better coverage of issues that impact our children's future, things like changes in education (did you know some school systems in California just had their school year shortened because of budget shortfalls?), agriculture (how have almost half a million dairy farmers gone out of business?), war (what the hell is going on with those?) etc.  I'm tired of having to dig too deep on these interwebs trying to find answers that I don't even know are true.  Truth is all relative, right? 

So here's what I know to be true: my sh*t list.  Please append to this list in comments if you wish.  Let's kick things off with the people (and their TV shows) about which I do not care:

• Sarah Palin or any of her progeny, or their progeny
• Lindsay Lohan
• Paris Hilton
• Mel Gibson or his wife
• The Osbournes
• Tiger Woods or any of the nasty skanks he screwed, or the details of his divorce settlement
• Kate Gosselin's hair, her self, her progeny, or her ex-husband
• Those people with 19 children
• Any "Real Housewives"
• The Jersey Shore
• Any other reality television personalities
• Any TV show that has anything to do with vampires or ghosts (I got over that at, like, age 12)
• Pretty much any movie or TV star, with rare exceptions, as you've probably already surmised
• Anybody who makes a living just by being famous
• Hillary Clinton (it's not that she's in the news or anything, I just never liked her)
• Al Gore and his divorce details
• John Edwards and his divorce details

I also don't like:

• Gay-bashers, Muslim-haters or any other kind of bigot
• People who insist that Obama isn't American
• Wall Street bashing by those who have no idea how this country's financial system actually works
• Horrorcore
• Blowhards
• Arrogance
• Envy
• Grudges
• Liars
• Whiners
• Judgment
• Fear
• People who fake food allergies in a misguided attempt at weight loss
• People who are rude to service people, especially restaurant waitstaff
• When people answer their phone and have a long conversation during a scheduled meeting (even if it's just two moms sharing coffee, it's rude!)
• Road rage
• Ear grommets
• Blogs that are funded by swag-pimping
• Anybody who makes my kids cry (doctors and nurses excepted; coaches aren't)
• The focus on the professionalization of childhood
• Ayelet Waldman's commentaries on motherhood
• Extremism
• Humidity
• The Big Lebowski (I fell asleep each of the seven times I tried to watch it...)
• Drama (no, not theater -- the kind of drama people manufacture to make themselves feel important)
• Gardening
• Fashion that hurts
• Cleaning

I'm sure that this list could grow and grow, and karma is probably angry with me for not balancing the negative with the positive.  Oh, but I will, I will ... and fortunately, the list of things about which I care is much, much longer.  But tonight: FTW, get that BS about Bristol Palin's engagement off of the news and move on to things that matter! 

[end rant]

A special kind of tired, but happy

There is a special kind of tired one gets when one is world-weary, which happens after days like today: days when all I want to do is go to church and find some peace on this (theoretical) day of rest, but, instead, I spend the morning cleaning my kitchen for the Girl Scouts, who will arrive at noon so that I can teach them to cook mystery ingredients over a roaring campfire built in my backyard hibachi.  Then, after the Girl Scouts leave, I help my daughter prepare for a school trip for what seems like hours.  (Wait, it was hours; have you ever tried to help a 9 year-old pack for what she's sure will be the greatest experience of her life to date?)  Then, I author my high school class notes, due last week (extension granted).  Finally, I attempt to polish a newsletter for my job on which I've spent hours, only to be thwarted by buggy software rendering me unable to finish.  Somewhere in there, the Guv whisked us out to dinner.  I can't even remember what I ate.

On the one hand, this is the stuff of life.  On the other hand, I'm tired... tired of being tired because I'm still not 100%, tired of not finding the balance in life, tired of never having enough time for anything I want to do anymore... things like reading the book for my book club on time for once.  (It's "Little Bee," and I'm 1/3 of the way through and enjoying it, a page at a time.)  I feel like I'm doing a whole lot of things for a whole lot of people -- things I value, perhaps, but they're of service to others and not, necessarily, for me.  Somewhere in there, despite successful attempts at scaling back earlier in the spring, I'm at it again.  I've overcommitted, and I've lost myself.  How do I return to that place that I knew two months ago, the one where I wasn't this out-of-whack?

But just as I'm feeling most sorry for myself (and really, I loathe self-pity, so it'll end with writing it down), I look in on the kids, who've been bunking together for a few weeks now after Petunia has decided she isn't such a fan of the loft bed, which she thinks has "seismic safety issues" among other things.  I look into Dash's room, and I find his sister lying next to him instead of in the top bunk.  Her arms are around him, and he's lying right on her heart.

This, I think, is why all of the other schlock in my life doesn't matter.   I've bitten off more than I can chew on too many occasions, over-promised and under-delivered at others, and yet: look.  Can you picture them?  He wears his favorite hand-me-down blue monkey PJ's while she sports her pink monkey nightgown (they don't plan to match, they just do); they hold on to each other, needing each other and loving each other so fiercely and protectively that, already, we fear the day when one will leave for boarding school or college.  His ear is to her heart; he needs the comfort of the sound, and she needs his nearness to her.  They can't get married someday, as Dash insists they will, but I do want to freeze this moment when he believes it, especially after a day when it seems like all they did was annoy the living daylights out of each other.  It all comes down to love, after all.

Tomorrow, I'll wake up and greet Monday with joy.  Most of my "work" is done for now, and, while I'll continue to do my various jobs, I won't raise my hand and take on anything else extra before the school year ends.  Not that it wasn't fun to try to teach a bunch of little girls to cook over a hibachi fire I had no idea how to build creating food I'd never before cooked ... but, yeah, I won't be doing that again.  My happy place is pretty far away from that, no matter how helpful I want to be.  My happy place is under the covers with my own sweet little kids, listening to their heartbeats, which echo, "love you, love you, love you." 

High-Fives from 2009

At first, I didn't want to remember 2009 at all; after my lung issues that started last June and are ongoing, it's a year I'd rather forget in some ways.  But I like to put a positive spin on things (plus geekymummy tagged me with this great meme) so here are my 2009 high-fives:

1. My kids gained independence

The one good thing that came from my being sick is that my kids learned to self-manage on an all new level.  At no point were they ever unsafe or unsupervised under my care, but, especially in Vermont over the summer, I wasn't bouncing around doing tons of things with them; I was lounging on a chair, couch or bed while they played.  And play, they did.  When I felt too tired to drive them to the pool or wherever, they grabbed fishing nets and caught frogs in our vernal pool.  They climbed trees.  They played tag and chase.  They did somersaults.  They drew pictures.  They laughed together, had a summer-long sleep-over and became the best of friends to each other -- not an easy feat for kids over four years apart in age.

In other words, for one brief summer, their childhood mirrored mine at Dash's age, when I was on a farm, surrounded by few toys but lots of nature and some other great kids (in my case, cousins) with whom I'd play.   I love that my childhood was so carefree, and I love that my kids had a taste of that this summer -- and love that we've kept our house in Vermont so that they have a direct contrast in lifestyle compared to their always-on Silicon Valley one.

2. BlogHer

I perked up this summer just long enough -- barely long enough -- to make it to my first BlogHer conference in Chicago.  I had seen a pulmonologist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center who gave me some super-strong, amazing drugs that almost saw me through the whole conference, until I started reacting to them halfway through.  Yeah, that splotchy girl at BlogHer?  That was me. 

But oh, was it fun.  It was a giant party.  (I posted about it here, here and here.)  Yes, I learned some valuable things about blogging/writing; most valuable to me was a session on op-eds given by Katie Orenstein.  But mostly, I just had a blast, meeting bloggers from my Silicon Valley Moms Group sisterhood, a whole lot of funny ladies, and I slept (not much -- these gals party late!) in my own hotel room, totally on a vacation from my real life, for three whole nights.  It was heaven.  Next year: BlogHer in NYC!  Start spreading the news!

3. Unpacking the last box

In our seven years in NJ, we never unpacked all of the way ... perhaps a sign that we weren't meant to stay there.  (Of course, it could also be a sign that I had two kids and, at one point, a full-time job and full-time graduate school.)  In late-2009, we unpacked the last box in our Silicon Valley home.  I think it was our declaration that we're here to stay!  We all love it here ... the weather, our tons of friends, proximity to Stanford and to a great downtown, the Guv's five-minute bike commute ... Life is good here in CA!

4. Experiencing Tahoe

We are used to snow; after all, we live part-time in Vermont!  But I've never ever seen snow in my life like that in Tahoe.  Wow.  We spent a couple of nights there and, on one of those nights, slept through an eighteen-inch snowfall.  Unlike New England or New Jersey, it didn't shut down anything; you just put on your big-girl panties tire chains and deal.

The tire chain fiasco is worthy of a whole separate blog post, but, in short, we did it, and the kids skiied Sugar Bowl.  Dash could've cared less about skiing and, instead, wanted to throw snowballs all day, every day.  Petunia, however, could handle intermediate runs there.  Apparently, if one has learned to ski on "asphalt" (what Tahoe folks call Vermont's snow), one can ski rather well.  We watched our girl go over some light jumps at the end, reach the bottom, and pump her arms in the air.  I always wanted my kids to ski because it's something that I couldn't do and felt left out sometimes because of (those high school and college ski trips didn't accommodate non-skiers with fun stuff like tubing in my day).  Mission accomplished!

The bummer of it all was that I would have loved to snowboard in Tahoe.  Oh, how soft those landings would've been in all that fresh powder!  But, alas, I couldn't breathe.  2010 is the year my bum lung gets fixed, because I have to get back up to that mountain and ride. 

5. Last but definitely not least: the puppy

I never thought I'd be dog-less for as long as I've been, but the timing never seemed right.  When we decided that we're almost definitely positive that we weren't having any more kids, I started researching dog breeds (pretty much immediately after Dash's birth).  Criteria: small enough to ride inside the cabin of a plane with us, fun, kid-friendly, non-shedding, no-dander.  We ended up with our Havanese puppy Lola, and she is just the best dog ever.  She doesn't bark unless someone comes to the door.  She has ways to tell us when she needs to go outside.  She doesn't bite, and she loves to play.  Our favorite thing is to take her to the beach or to a park where the Guv chases her in circles; she runs super-fast.  We all love her to pieces, and she loves us right back -- and even the Guv, never a dog lover, will be caught letting her lick his face.  Lola's addition to our family was the highlight of 2009 for me.

Thanks again to geekymummy for tagging me with this meme!  It was lots of fun!  Have a great 2010 everyone!

In the Live Free or Die state

Rox: "I don't get it.  New Hampshire doesn't have a seatbelt law [for adults], but there are signs everywhere you get on and off the highway that turn signal use is required.  What gives?"

The Guv: "I totally get it."

Rox looks at the Guv quizzically.

The Guv: "It's like the saying 'your right to extend your fist ends at my nose.'  You can choose not to wear a seatbelt and might very well die because of it, but that only hurts yourself.  If you choose not to use your turn signal and take someone else out, well, that's just not right."

Rox: "I thought that this was the lawless state.  No cell phone/texting laws, no seatbelts... the turn signal thing seems kind of arbitrary."

The Guv, shaking his head: "Not to me.  Thank God this isn't another Nanny State [blah blah blah blah blah blah blah]."  [end rant]*

*Apologies; the Guv's rants against the Nanny State are so frequent these days that I just tune them out.  He probably said something worth repeating, but he has his own blog for that audience.  LOL

Greetings from our 54 hours in the Green Mountains

At long last, we arrived in Vermont at 3 am on Friday; but, by 9 am on Sunday, we'll be headed south to New Jersey via a visit with the Brooklyn in-laws.  We will have had 54 hours in verdant Vermont before heading back to a place to which I have mixed feelings returning.

On the one hand, I am excited to see our former NJ neighbors and friends, and I am extra-excited for Petunia to see her old schoolmates.  But on the other hand, I really don't want to see how the new owners of our fomer home have completely bastardized our house.  For the first year we lived in it, I called it the Stein's house, because we bought it from the Stein family -- but then I brought baby Dash home to it, and it became our house forever.  Yet, of course, it's not our house anymore, and some people who were a real hassle to deal with bought it and changed it immensely.  I think that Dash is probably going to have a world-class freak-out, but I probably won't notice because I'll be having my own while Petunia bitches in my ear about those awful people who ruined our house.

And then there's the matter of health -- which is a funny thing for me to chirp about while I'm recovering from pneumonia.  (Did I mention that I have pneumonia?  Yeah... probably should've posted about that diagnosis, but I've been too damned tired.)  Aside from my horrific illness at present, a lot of my memories of NJ are of Dash's 3+ years of ill health.  Coupled with the multiple bouts of bronchitis I had there and Petunia's and my asthma that totally disappeared in California, I'll confess: I'm scared of the air in our former home state.  I have a bag full of inhalers, and we'll be using them as a precaution.  In all fairness, I've heard from plenty of people that their health/allergies/asthma is worse in California; but for us, well, we're well.  (OK, we're all well except for me, right now, but that's my own running-myself-into-the-ground fault.)  Dash gained seven pounds within five months of living in California; a year before that, he'd been failure-to-thrive.  Hence, California is good for our health; New Jersey was not.  And we're going back, and I'm a little scared.

But I have so many happy memories there, too, that I'm going to have to focus on those.  Worry won't make me well any faster, but I'm thinking that a five-day stay in a super-nice Westin might help me along.  No cooking, no cleaning... a vacation from vacation!  I like it.  I can do it.  And I can also take my kids to their former favorite Vito's pizza, and to Sumo Sushi, and to climb on the tigers at Princeton... we can play on Petunia's former school playground, and, best of all, we can visit our old friends, some of whom we've missed terribly. 

So tomorrow, we're off, for a wonderful visit with grandparents and a very special aunt and cousin, and then with good old friends.  I wish I had more than 54 hours in Vermont to sort out all of these mixed feelings, but it is what it is.  It's been a long and wonderful year away, but it's time to see our old home again -- and to accept that places change, but friends remain.  See you soon, NJ.

On karma

For me, this new year has dawned full of happiness and exciting possibilities.  I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to be here in California, enjoying a high-quality of family life with healthy children -- things that eluded us during our New Jersey years.  I feel a joy so deep that the little things that used to wreck my days (such as still being awakened every night by a toddler) don't matter so much anymore, as the big things are under control.  And the big things -- having healthy kids, the Guv being happy in his working world, my fulfillment through hobbies and friends -- those are what matter.  We've found some good karma here in CA, and I'd like to keep it coming.

To that end, every single day I stop in my tracks at some point to hear the message of Luke 12:48: "For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required."  Sometimes, when I think of that phrase, it is hard not to crumple to the ground and cry for joy because of how happy and well we all are right now -- much has been given to us, indeed.  I am close enough to the time in my life when things weren't this way -- those endless drives to and from Children's Hospital of Philadelphia to figure out why Dash was so sick and so little, for example -- when it strikes my heart keenly and sharply that we have emerged victorious from a very dark time.  And every time I have that realization, I also realize that not everyone is so fortunate. 

So how, then, can I put my good karma to use to balance out some of the bad karma in the world?  Especially now, when the economy has hit so many so hard, there must be a way for me to reach out my hand to someone who is not in the same, good place and say, "I can help."  Our family has long supported domestic charities like Habitat for Humanity and the Salvation Army, but I find that writing a check -- even to a fabulous organization -- isn't the same as giving a little of myself to a cause.  And here in Silicon Valley, the causes of homelessness and hunger, at least, are very much in my face every day.  I remain shocked, in the land of Jobs/Page/Brin, that the homeless have to be on the streets at all.  Nine churches in Palo Alto spend nine months of each year in rotation, each opening their parish halls in the evenings for homeless meals and night sleeping for one month -- so, aside from summer, there is a relatively safe space for these folks, but they are still here and in increasing numbers.  I'm one of those strange folks that doesn't isn't afraid of or disgusted by the homeless, though; I just feel sad for them.  Perhaps some of these folks need medical or psychiatric treatment that they're not getting.  Perhaps some of these folks served our country and, as vets, are due something greater than an itinerant, uncertain life.  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.  At the end of the day, just because I am educated and live in a house doesn't mean that I am more American or more a child of God than someone who has no home; indeed, the lesson of the Christ in whom I believe is that the "least of his brethren" should be cared for as we would care for Him.

It would be highly unacceptable to me for my children to grow up here in this Golden State (and believe me, here in Silicon Valley, sometimes it does indeed feel like the streets are paved with gold!) without being sensitive to the haves and have-nots of this world.  I want them to know how good they have it.  No, I don't want them to feel bad about having a home or "stuff" or food -- but I don't want them thinking that those who lack those things are somehow "less than."  Above all, I want them to have empathy, and I want that empathy to be bias for action.  And If I want that for them, then I had better set a darned good example. 

To that end, the Guv and I are hatching a project to do something about the many needs our own backyard on a larger scale; we plan to answer Obama's call to national service (though, lest anyone should worry, from within the confines of our current jobs and life).  Until then, we're doing some smaller scale things.  We just signed up to sponsor a family living in rural poverty through The Box Project.  Family to family, we can make a difference.

At the end of the day, I hope that someone someday can say about me that I gave more to this world than I took from it.   And hey, maybe by giving, I can keep the good karma coming; indeed, if "to whom much is given, much is required" is not karma, I don't know what is.