A follow-up to 32 Notes

A month ago today, I sent out 32 notes of love to friends and family in an effort to spread love, kindness, and joy to others.

I received so many notes in return--grateful for the love that was exactly my intention.

If you recall in my post, I sent a note to a friend with whom I had lost touch, and had not spoken to or seen in nine years.

I sent the notes on a Friday.

That Sunday, while going through the madness that is getting a family of four dressed after swimming lessons in the family locker room at the gym, I walked out of the dressing area and right into that friend.

It was insane, it was crazy, it was madness. What were the freaking odds?

We exchanged greetings, met each other's families, she thanked me for the note, we tried to sell her on joining the gym (they were on a tour), and then we--very awkwardly--said goodbye.

She emailed me the next day.

"I know a sign from the Universe when it slaps me in the face like that. We need to get together before I rear end you on Beechmont Avenue!"

And so tonight, over margaritas and mexican, we got together.

We re-connected.

We laughed so hard there were side stitches, and cheek aches, and tears.

I've had multiple conversations lately about how "midwest" it is to stay connected to the people you knew in high school.

Tonight, we talked about it again.

"There's just something so easy and so comforting in a friendship when that person knows everything about you from so young--that ground is covered and you just move on with the now," she said.

And *now* is a great place to be.

Even if you aren't much for resolutions, maybe resolve to reconnect with someone this coming year. Reach out, extend a note, an email, a phone call.

Nothing to lose, and nothing but love and friendship to gain.

Imagine your year filled with that.

Happy New Year, indeed.

32 Notes of Love

Over the last three weeks, I have written thirty-two love notes, thirty-two thank you notes, thirty-two little bits of joy.

I have written them to friends I've had for twenty years. I have written them to co-workers I see every day. I have written them to family members, teachers, and acquaintances. I wrote one to a person I lost touch with and haven't spoken to in nine years. I wrote one to a person I wronged three years ago--a long overdue note of apology. In fact, there were a few notes of apology...the silly things we do in our twenties seem even more absurd as we age.

I wrote one note addressed to both of my boys, an exclamation of their profound impact on my life.

Each one is a simple statement of appreciation, written on a bright yellow card with the silhouette of a dog.

And this morning, on my thirty-second birthday, I dropped all thirty-two love notes in the mail.

What better way to spend a birthday than smiling ear to ear, knowing that thirty-two people are going to  smile, too. 

(And for the record, this blog, these notes, they aren't about bragging. They are here to inspire. It isn't praise that I seek--but if it inspires you to do anything even remotely similar, then woot! hooray! yip yip yippee! That is what it's all about!)

A Gratitude Post

I had planned it perfectly.

Three days ago as we did our weekly shopping, I knew precisely what I was making for Thanksgiving--my side dishes assigned the day prior--and I exited the grocery store overly boastful that I wouldn't have to step in it until next Sunday.

And then I forgot the French's onions.

And we needed more coffee.

And oh, could you pick up some wine for tonight?

And yes, I should make pumpkin bread for breakfast.

Two extra trips in as many days, and all of the ingredients stared at me on the counter.

"Cook me! Stir me! Put me in a bowl! Bake me!" they called.

But the kids would not nap.

Guests arriving in two hours and I hadn't started a thing. In fact, I spent more time looking for a pumpkin bread recipe and checking email while simultaneously being Captain Hook and building things with blocks for the baby to knock down.

And then I read an email from a friend that went something like this:

I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family. Greg and I will be driving to Cincy very early on Thanksgiving morning. I've never done that before...travel on Thanksgiving. I'm actually kind of looking forward to it, to the quiet roads, to some one-on-one time with my love. 

I'm nervous too. To come home to that house w/o my mama standing in the kitchen. But I'm grateful for the 27 perfect years I had with her. For 27 well-stuffed and well-fed Thanksgivings. 

I closed my email.

I walked into the kitchen and I set Reid at my feet. I pulled the flour out of the pantry and the measuring cups from the drawer.

Will wandered in upon hearing the clanging and said, "Hey mommy, can I help?"

We baked; we dusted Reid's head with flour; we giggled at egg goo dripping to the counter tops; we tasted our pumpkin bread batter and Mmmmmm'd about its deliciousness.

We created memories--because what else could possibly matter more?

In honor of my sweet friend and her mother whom she misses so dearly.

This is the time of year when we count our blessings and declare our gratitude for things like Starbucks holiday drinks and pretty paint colors on our walls. And it's so important to recognize the beautiful little things that are around us every day that make our individual worlds glisten.

But the big picture stuff makes us whole.

Today, I am grateful for memories--old and new--and being a part of lives that are so completely beautiful.

Be bright.

When I ended the ol' blog and started this here new one, and I contemplated what it should be called, I brainstormed all the "Be"s that I love.

The three most important--present in each moment, seeking happiness, and sharing the warmth and light that I can muster--are the ones that speak to me daily (even if I'm not baring all right here every day).

A few weeks ago as I snuggled into bed, I said to Greg, "There is something missing. I go from A to B to C and somehow blur straight to Z by 8:00 at night. Something in my soul is missing. My light is seriously dim."

"What do you think it is?" he asked.

"I dunno."

I pulled the covers up a little more so only my eyes were peeking out.

"I think it's yoga," I said.

"Then go," he replied.

Ah, if only it were just that easy, to drop it all and stroll into a studio and downdog like I never stopped.

Cue me taking the class (that I seriously cannot stop talking about and I encourage you to look into because it will make you a better human being).

Awakening the spark.

Suddenly--either because of manifestation or because I became acutely aware of the word "spark," everything around me was fire.

I even heard "Come on Baby Light My Fire" twice on the radio. Totally random.

And Will even painted this picture at preschool.

And a million other sparking, fire lighting, warm things started to come my way...

...including an opportunity to teach a beginner's yoga class to a whole bunch of very eager teachers and secretaries in my school district as a part of our wellness initiative.

Was I ready to go back? In my mind, teaching again meant minutes spent and energy spent not on my kids. It seemed unfair.

Mommy guilt.

But I needed to spend the energy on myself.

So this afternoon, as the sun was starting to set, thirty-six people crammed themselves into a music room and I taught them how to breathe.

And sigh big heavy weight releasing sighs.

And move.

And fall in love with the very thing that makes my soul shine.

As I left the class, a friend texted me: "I'm on the other side of town and I can feel your energy."

And then I got home, and that sweet husband of mine had this waiting.

"Reminded me of you," he said.

Warm. Shining.

Bright.

What makes you beam? What makes our soul sing? What makes your heart happy? Are you stuck in a rut and need to get back to something?

Do Good

Sometimes I crave vanilla milkshakes. Other times I just want a big ol' pile of french fries with ranch dressing.

Sometimes I crave coffee.

Probably because I'm freaking addicted.

But today I craved something completely bizarre:

Beauty.

Without regurgitating everything I've absorbed in the last month, I think my reasons are obvious (and probably the same as yours).

So after Will and I got kicked out of the pediatric dentist this afternoon (a story for another time, really), and I was pulling two incredibly cranky children out of the car, our elderly next door neighbor shuffled out of her house with cravings of her own: interaction with my kids. I let Will chat with her (okay, he stared at her blankly) while I stared at the windows of my car, now smeared with ice cream splatters and finger prints--my "holy crap I can't believe we got booted from the dentist" consolation prize--and I thought to myself, "I don't think I could possibly be more irritated in this moment."

We entertained the neighbor for thirty more seconds and I stormed into the house.

For the next half hour we decompressed.

And just so you know, that involved ScoobyDoo (for the kids) and Halloween candy (for me, duh).

Then, epiphany. I was tired of all the ugly--all of it, from Hurricane Sandy to the kids' dentist and all of the events in between.

I'm in the last week of that class I am taking, where making art every day is required (and welcomed by my soul).

I looked at Will and I said, "Let's. Make. Art."

Crayons, watercolors, and glitter were pulled out. We brushed and glued and wrote and sprinkled and dusted.

Then we admired.

And we delivered our beauty

to our neighbor.

If good begets good, let's all spend a little more time focusing on what feels amazing.

Do love. Be beautiful.

Connected Souls

Will has not yet mastered the art of speaking in the future tense, so everything always happens now, in the moment, or in the past, or in some strange combination of the two.

For example, "When I was a grown up, I will be big and strong."

Yesterday morning, in the middle of playing blocks, with Jake and the Neverland Pirates squawking in the background, we were discussing as a family that Will should make good choices.

Like...taking that block away from your brother while he's chewing on it is not a good choice.

And he made some strange declarations.

"Daddy, when you was a baby, you couldn't make choices, but when I was a big kid I will make good choices."

We sort of nodded, not really comprehending that specific train of thought, but nothing unusual. Personally, I squirmed, but didn't correct, the improper use of "was" in that sentence.

He continued. "Daddy, you was a bad guy before, and I was the good guy."

"Do you mean when we were playing Captain Hook and Peter Pan?"

"No, when you was a big kid and I was a big kid, you was a bad guy and I was a good guy."

Greg dismissed it as more ramblings. But I couldn't help but think my little old soul Will was sharing secrets again.

It's not a belief that everyone shares, but it happens to be mine: we are connected. Our souls choose their company from life to life. Never mind that we return again and again to keep learning; we choose to surround ourselves with the same people.

Like your very best friend who so often feels like a sister.

Or that one person who always gives you the heebie-jeebies.

These feelings could stem from past life interactions.

And immediately, I thought to my friend Denise.

After revealing last year that we were expecting again, Denise called to tell me that she has sensed this soul hanging around for awhile, chomping at the bit for us to make up our minds about a second child so he or she could join our family.

So excited was sweet little Reid, that he jumped head first. A little bump on the way down, a little helmet to fix him up. :o)

At lunch this afternoon, I stared at Will, peanut butter and honey all over those fingers, milk dribbling down his chin, big goofy grin as he sang some variation of the word "Mommy," and then Reid, piercing blue eyes that seem to give away his mood before he can verbalize it, soggy goldfish cracker on his shirt.

And all I could think was, "You picked us."

This week, as you tend to your Reese's Peanut Butter Cup hangover, and you spot treat vampire blood out of costumes, it will probably be November 1st, All Saint's Day, or All Soul's Day. In traditional Catholic faith, it is a time to pray for and honor loved ones who have passed.

I will be honoring my connections, undoubtedly grateful for those around me, present and past, comforted in knowing we keep choosing each other.

Go with what you know

I signed up for my one-month online class at thedefineschool.com because I felt I needed fresh perspective--I thought this blog needed a more clearly defined label, that what I wanted to write about wasn't flowing. I seem to spend most of my time writing about mom things, and kid things, and the little moments in between my "mom" label and the label that is "balancing work and being a mom."

Mom mom mom mom mom.

Ugh. I'm a mommy blog.

It wasn't the direction I wanted to go.

Turns out, it's the direction to go. In this moment, it's what I know. It's where my heart and soul are. If you are submerged in a submarine underwater for an extended period of time, it's where you are. Go with where you are. Be here. Now.

The class has taught me--mostly reminded me--of the following, and I think it's important enough (in that I find myself nodding my head and saying "YES!" all the time) that I share. First, the stops:

• Stop defining yourself. In every capacity. You can cook a gourmet meal one night and heat up Spaghetti-Os the next. You can go to 189 Dave Mathews Band concerts and still break out your dance moves every time you hear an Usher song. You can take the most beautiful photograph with your awesome amazing professional camera on Monday and take something equally as meaningful with your iPhone on Tuesday. You can work and be a mom. Or a dad. You can get every sort of degree and certification and title money can buy, but it means nothing if it's not what your soul truly longs to do. 
• Stop seeking approval. Your kids are beautiful--you made them. The meal you cooked was delicious--your tastebuds told you so. You can do absolutely anything--you made up your mind to try. Your garden looks lovely, your significant other is awesome, and you are, in fact, brilliant. No one needs to tell you this for it to be true if you know it's true. And it is.  
• Stop second-guessing yourself. The original thought, word, idea, answer, picture, moment, phrase, song, response was all perfect. It came from that place deep down inside that whispered, "Yes. This is right." All you need to do is pause long enough to listen to it. 

And now, the doing:

• Make. time. for. yourself. And don't feel guilty about it. This has by far been the hardest for me to tackle, as most days there are moments I feel like I'm a robot programmed to go from 5:30 in the morning until 8:30 at night when I fall into bed. Even if it's five stinking minutes, close the door to the bathroom and sit on the floor and breathe (or cry, whatever). Or journal (this class has forced me to do an art journal, complete with my own fabulous stick people, glitter, finger printed ink dots, and lots of words, usually done while I eat lunch--but it's time I spend on me). Or sit in your car for 30 seconds before you go pick up your kids. Have plenty of time? Go do the things that you long to do: run, paint, meditate, sculpt, photograph, yoga, read, sing, play, get dirty, work in your garden, dance, curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and watch your DVR. Go ahead. Do it. If you can't focus on you, you can't possibly be there for the 974 other things that demand your attention.
• Say no. Say no to your boss, your co-worker, your spouse, to the people you've been wanting to say "no" to for a long time; say no to remaining in something that no longer serves you a positive purpose; say no to feeling anything but happy, and that comes in so many different forms that no one can define it for you; say no to the things that bring you down on a daily basis--it is time to let them go once and for all. 
• Be selective in social media. It's so easy to get caught up in comparing our lives, thoughts, ideas, etc., with everyone. Ev. Ree. One. Unplug. It's okay to not know what that one person you knew in 3rd grade had for dinner. Or what that one blogger you totally admire and compare yourself to wrote. :o) 
• Surround yourself with people you love who love you back. There simply isn't room for anyone else. 

And that's where I am. Here.

Good place to be.

Perspective

I'm tired of writing about the helmet.

I'm bored with coming up with catchy names for the new Ohio teacher rating system (although, teachers, how about "Meh" instead of "Proficient"? I think it has a nice ring to it).

I'm inspired by my students, my kids, my family, my new family room rug (it is pretty awesome).

But my writing is, well, "meh."

I'm beyond excited to take this class at The Define School.

This spark needs awakened.

The Define School is technically for photographers, and I am definitely not that (um, I don't even own a camera anymore--hello? Instagram?), but I read this comment on the description of the class:

"I took this class with Michelle Gardella and I'll say it changed not only me as a photographer, but as a mom and a wife. Definitely a class for writers too! You won't be disappointed if you take it!" 

And I was sold.

You can check out The Define School's two minute mission video here (and see its super cool founder whom I randomly met via our HGTV experience).

My hope is my next blog--even if a month from now--is refreshed.

Time to go within and find some new perspective.

Dear Helmet

Dear Helmet,

You stink.

I know, I know. He's smiling. He appears to be relatively happy, and apart from you waking him up in the middle of the night most nights, he seems to be fine with you living on his head.

But I don't like you.

You really do stink.

Like the shoes of a thirteen-year-old boy.

And worse, you are a cuddle barrier.

This weekend I watched a mom nuzzle her nearly-the-same-age baby. She buried her nose in his neck, and cuddled him up close.

There's nothing cuddly about your hard, plastic outer shell.

Even when I go to kiss those oh-so-chubby cheeks, I inevitably bonk my nose, or bridge of my nose, or forehead somewhere on you.

So I did something about it.

Reid spent the weekend without you. His stuffy nose and cough were making him miserable enough and he actually reached up and tried to brush you off his head.

Oh those cuddles...I savored every single one.

The truth, my friend, is that you provide this sad disconnect between me and my baby. And I don't know that I would have understood that there could be such a thing unless I had experienced this.

I felt incredibly close to Reid this weekend--more than I have since August when you arrived to the party.

Blue helmet buzz kill.

And so just like that, I'm over you.

Tomorrow we go to the lady who said you were necessary. It's like the trip to the orthodontist where you pray he says your braces can come off. You think your teeth are straight enough--why can't he see that too?!

I know Reid has made great progress, but he still has a ways to go.

So I look on the bright side: a kick ass Halloween costume is just around the corner, and you Mr. Helmet, will be the star of the show.

Until then, take a bath, will ya?

Sincerely,
Reid's mom

Everything happens for a reason, Part 397

It occurred to me today that the majority of my posts for the last six months have dealt with change.

I've been craving it, personally and professionally, which is why I've revamped all of my classes this year and tried like the dickens to sell my house.

Confession: we just took the house back off the market a few weeks ago.

We tried again, July and August. Even had an offer. But it just wasn't...right.

For the 397th time, everything happens for a reason.

My epiphany--which happened in the car this morning--is that many times, it's not a change in scenery or place or location, but just a change in the way we think about our current one.

So we changed it up in our current house--makeover for the family room and the playroom: new paint, new furniture, new accessories. I've fallen back into that state where we finish a room and I just want to go and sit in it and admire how pretty it is.

And then there's our neighborhood.

Greg and I have been slacking in the half marathon training department. Just a month to go, and we are slowly building the miles. We've had to pay babysitters to complete these longer runs, but it is such a connecting opportunity for us. Some couples go out to dinner; we run long distances.

The thing about these long runs is that we are doing them in our neighborhood, and I am beginning to redefine what my ideal neighborhood is--at least temporarily. I value the friendly waves of the elderly faces on their turf-covered porches, and the familiarity of young families pushing strollers and walking dogs. The overgrown lawns and weeds and peeling paint I haven't quite come to accept, nor can I fathom appreciating the drug dealers, but I'm thinking this is a baby-step kind of thing.

And it may not have been a Neighbor Lady Night Out, but we socialized with our neighbors for the first time, well, ever (minus the sweet surprise baby shower they threw when I was pregnant with Will--so absolutely sweet and lovely minus the braunschweiger).

I've got a couple more Springs to watch my garden bloom, and at least another Summer to run around our backyard with the kids, and a Winter or two to enjoy our fireplace.

I appreciate this epiphany because it has drawn me back into the moment. No more looking ahead and worrying about schools, or what the four sides of our future house may look like.

Home is where I'm present enough to appreciate where I am.

Just a much-needed change in thought.

Crying in yoga is always okay

Change really is in the air.

Yesterday, Will took his first yoga class (with an oh-so-sweet yogi, Michelle) at his school. She was able to wrangle ten little toddler bodies into fun poses so that Will came home yelling "I am a WARRIOR!" and doing warrior pose all around the house.

And today I wrangled forty 11-year-olds into the same poses. We even yelled "I am a WARRIOR" in warrior pose. (For the record, we are studying India.)

They loved it.

Even though a particularly clumsy kid fell on another one and created a scene full of tears and a trip to the nurse.

Crying in yoga is always okay.

We talked about chitta, the thoughts in our mind that make us stress out.

"My mom says I have to clean my room or I'm grounded, and my best friend is mad at me, and I have soccer practice tonight and three tests tomorrow!"

We have to quiet the chitta.

So we did a little guided relaxation for savasana. We laid on a big fluffy cloud. We felt the warm sun. We looked around and took in beauty, in whatever way the beholder defined it.

We breathed.

And when it was all said and done, kids were in tears again.

"I saw my dead grandparents," one said.

"Did they look happy?" I asked.

"Yeah, they were smiling."

"Then that is the most beautiful thing you could see," I replied.

"My mom was there on the cloud with me," another said.

And now I was starting to get teary.

"Was she smiling?" I asked.

"She was."

Little parts of them were healing; their minds were opening ever so slightly to something greater than themselves. They tried new things, allowed themselves to feel silly and then learned that it's okay.

The chitta settled; the tears flowed.

As we go through this rather tumultuous time (elections) in a culture and climate that makes passions fire up, and tempers boil, take a few moments to quiet your chitta. Shed your anger, your fears.

You are a warrior--strong, and ready to stand up for what you believe.

But warriors are open-minded, and warriors are absolutely allowed to cry.

Welcome Change

Every September, yogahOMe co-owner Katy Knowles sends out an email about the fall schedule, and every September email she mentions the feel of change that is in the air--more than leaves changing, weather moving to cooler temperatures, and schedules returning to routine--it's also a general shift in the planet; all beings, all cultures, all attitudes.

Do you feel it?

I do. And not just because Katy told me it exists.

We spent this nice long holiday weekend potty training Will. It's a topic that you just don't understand until you are nose-to-nose with the kid and the strong desire to not purchase another box of diapers for giant people.

There really isn't any sweeter victory at this age.

And the victory was ours.

My Bobcats beat Penn State; Will conquered the potty.

(Raising my fist in triumph, throwing in a little running man victory dance, and singing a made up song about v-i-c-t-o-r-y on the p-o-t-t-y.)

Change is good.

And then there's my sweet little Reid, who's head shape is rounding out and looking oh so beautiful. It's only been three weeks and the change is significant. His neck is getting stronger and more flexible and we are well on our way to a helmet-free future.

Because of his "future astronaut" helmet, we get a lot of stares, and this has forced me to do some changing of my own.

Most of us enjoy drifting through the grocery store anonymously, grabbing our goods, dodging other carts, and sneaking in those potato chip impulse buys.

Wearing Reid in the front carrier only attracts attention--the uncomfortable kind when people whisper to one another and stare.

So after fighting off my first instinct to run, hide, and never go back, I decided to educate.

I start with, "He's a cute astronaut, right?"

(And since the passing of Mr. Armstrong, I explain that no, we didn't put him in this to commemorate the icon.)

This then invites questions. Oddly enough, it's always the men that ask the questions. "Is there a reason he's wearing it?"

At first I was sarcastic. "Nope, just fashion." But men didn't get that answer.

So now I explain, in layman's terms, why he's in it. Some people chime in that oh yes, they have a friend who had a kid in a helmet.

But my favorite response was from the dairy stock guy at Kroger. I could tell he was probably a grandpa, because he didn't talk to me.

He talked right to Reid.

"You gonna take me up there with ya one day son?"

Reid cooed and kicked his legs.

"I'll be long gone by the time you get up there. Say hey to that moon for me."

I'm enjoying the shift.

Happy yeah-it's-still-ninety-degrees-but-the-air-smells-different-like-campfires-and-pumpkin-spice-lattes-are-back-almost fall.

Enjoy the change.

80 miles an hour

I don't know what I would do without my morning commute.

Some people have genius ideas in the shower; my great thinking time is at 80 miles an hour on 75 north.

I car dance, I sing, I drink coffee, and I think.

And last week, I cried.

Seriously, I'm not competing here, but...I think I win for "ridiculously bad week" last week.

I said see-ya-next-summer to spending all day every day with my boys, said good morning to 5 a.m. alarms, said "Are you kidding me?" to a bout of hand-foot-mouth disease, and oh yes--said goodbye to my first and favorite dog.

And that morning commute was for pity parties.

But I didn't stop.

No.

Life didn't stop.

Like the next breath, the moments just keep coming, and you just confront them and what they contain.

Joy? Laugh. Beauty? Smile. Sadness? Cry. Anger? Fume.

And you never deny the emotions. What good is denial?

So in the middle of last week's chaos, I concluded that going back to teaching yoga at a regular time slot in a studio with candles and music was not in the cards now, and I'm not sure when it will be again.

And this epiphany happened in the car.

The most beautiful thing that has impacted my life (and probably helped me survive last week) needs to go on the back burner.

My energy (what's left after teaching smelly teenagers in non-air conditioned classrooms that feel like pea soup) needs to go to the two little people who call me "mom."

Will I go back? Yes. When I actually am ready.

But here's the truth: I don't need to be standing at the front of a yoga studio with my iPod plugged in and candles all around to be a yoga "teacher."

Yoga is so. much. more. than that.

Today an email popped into my inbox and declared a local yoga studio in Cincinnati is closing.

I only took one class at Shine, and I very much enjoyed it, but hOMe is convenient, and, well, home.

But the owner of Shine expressed where her energy needed to be--with her growing family--and she expressed that yoga goes beyond the walls of a studio.

And that's how I feel.

It's patience in raising my kids; it's creativity in my everyday job; it's offering positive words when everyone else is negative; it's choosing to speak kind words, think good thoughts, and find quiet space; it's remembering to breathe when life seems overwhelming; it's setting the example--living truth--in hopes that others say, "Yes, that's how I feel."

I haven't given up entirely though...

At 80 miles an hour this morning, I knew what I needed to do (great ideas! Yes!).

So I sent out an email to my co-workers, and I offered them free yoga, once a week, in the four walls of my classroom.

It's energy too good not to share.

And then the time I would miss my boys while at the studio on a weeknight I reinvest in furthering my yoga studies--workshops, classes, retreats--to continue being a student and to become a better "teacher."

So I push pause. And I watch my studio "teacher" self stand still--at 80 miles an hour, she looks completely at peace with her thoughts.

To appreciate the good.

Because it was just one of those days

4:30. Wake up to old brown dog peeing the entire Mississippi River on duvet. Throw duvet in trash. No. Watch husband throw duvet in trash.
4:40. Jump into scary episode of Law & Order.
5:30. Late. Blame a second episode of Law & Order.
6:45. Get to school early to work. Can't log into computer. No one to fix it until 4:00.
8-11:30. Begin graduate level course work Inservice. Lament that there are no donuts.
12:00. Choke on soup. Screw up vocal chords. Commence talking like a Wookie.
1:00-3:01. Continue graduate level course work Inservice.
3:36. Spend 6 minutes in standstill traffic because someone spilled gravel.
4:24. Eldest son removes seatbelt three miles from home. Begins dance party in back of car.
4:26. Arrive home to AC repairman, who is approximately 35 minutes early. Greet him in Wookie voice.
4:28. Open door to find Mississippi River tributaries in laundry room. Cringe when eldest declares "It smells like pretzels!"
4:35. Replace snack. Tell eldest to not feed this one to the dogs.
4:36. Listen to AC repairman talk about his divorce.
4:39. Mop up dog urine round 1.
4:45. Call vet.
5:00. Conclude that yes, I do have hand, foot, and mouth disease and good grief it hurts.
5:10. Mop up dog urine round 2. Use vinegar. Listen to eldest declare "It smells like ketchup!"
5:45. Head to gym. Exercise day away.
7:20. Drink a Christian Morelein OTR. Marvel at its ability to make Wookie voice disappear.
7:30. Make dinner (Mexican quinoa? Yes please.) Watch husband feed youngest. Be entertained by eldest. Resolve that these days are necessary to appreciate the good ones, and that no matter what, life is good--stinky and owie, but good.

Beachy.

It was just like old times.

Except this time, there was alcohol.

Cue our first family vacation in seventeen years. Our gift to our parents for their twentieth wedding anniversary and sixtieth birthdays was a summer vacation reunion. We put ourselves back in Myrtle Beach, brought the rafts (and boogie boards, which didn't exist seventeen years ago), grandkids, board games, and significant others; ate at a few ancient restaurants that are still there; and survived a tiff or two.

But my most favorite parts...there were three:

1. My mom and stepdad arm in arm on the beach, while all four of their kids splashed in the ocean, completely overjoyed that they had everyone in the same place to gaze upon and love on.
2. Cooking incredible meals in the kitchen with my equally incredible sisters. 
3. Sitting around with my family after those incredible meals, playing games, and watching them all play with our kids. 

It was the absolute best way to end the summer: sunshine, warmth, love.

Future Astronaut

I miss being able to just nuzzle his head into my neck and kiss the top of his head, especially since currently the helmet smells like the cologne of the man who put it on him yesterday.

But I didn't cry. He looks pretty darned cute, and he's tolerating it so well it's not really sad at all.

So time to decorate.

Here's the thing.

I wanted superhero theme. I was going to put on there, "Protecting my superpower," and there would be Superman and Spiderman and Batman stickers on it. And Will loves superheroes.

And a Halloween costume would be easy peasy--just add a cape.

But wouldn't you know...three different stores and not a single superhero sticker.

What we did find was a plethora of astronaut stickers.

When we stumbled upon the Mickey astronaut stickers, well, jackpot.

And so, without further ado...here he is.

And since everything works out for a reason...here's a little symbolism.

Many moons ago (summer of 1995 to be exact), Greg called me and asked me to go to Kings Island with him three times, and each time I made up some excuse--only because I was afraid of holding his hand (I know--I mean, really?!).

On his fourth call he changed his tactic: movie.

His mom drove us to the Eastgate Showcase Cinemas, where we saw Apollo 13.

Greg always wanted to be an astronaut.

On our next date--a school dance (because we move fast, eh?), his mom drove us from dinner to the dance, and she opened up the moon roof of her Toyota minivan so that we could look at the stars--she did cater to her little astronaut.

When it was obvious Greg would not be venturing to space anytime soon, we named our first dog, Cooper, after astronaut Gordon Cooper.

Greg's mom passed away in 2001. Sometimes relatives make their presence known from beyond. Greg swears he hears her on the baby monitor from time to time.

Me? I think she hid all of those superhero stickers. I think Reid is her next little astronaut.

This morning, Will, Reid and I dance partied to one of our favorites: Fly me to the moon.

Fly me to the moon,
let me play among the stars.
Let me see what spring is like
on Jupiter and Mars.
In other words, 
please be true.
In other words, 
I love you.

Helen Keller

"The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart." ~Helen Keller

This quote hangs on a plaque in my classroom.

Next week I'll pull it out of a box I feel like I just packed up, prepping my room to welcome a hundred and fifty new souls for the year, reminding myself while glancing at it that I mustn't judge my students by what comes out of their mouths (anything you can imagine) or what they smell like (pretty stinky, if you're curious). I must always strive to go deeper--they're all beautiful, in their own way (my teacher friends are snickering).

In the meantime, I'm trying hard to savor the last moments of this summer--a summer that eight weeks ago I didn't think I'd survive.

But we found our routine, and we know longer cry as a unit of three--mom and two boys--in fact, this mom feels pretty capable these days.

Part of our routine is monday afternoon at the library.

As soon as we walk in, Will asks the same question.

"What is that smell?"

It's sweat and yuck, from the folks escaping the heat of the summer mixed with old books that haven't been checked out in years and a dash of dust and must.

"Unpleasant," I reply.

Will considered the library his own Blockbuster store--good for movies and not much else. We head straight for the DVDs, grab a new Mickey Mouse, and then I steer him to the books.

At the beginning of the summer I had to force him into the books, selecting one for him about dinosaurs, bugs, hamburgers, or Mickey. Today, he ran there himself, and even picked out his own.

Helen Keller: The World in Her Heart

"Really buddy?"

"Yeah, I want that one."

"No dinosaurs today?"

"I want that one mama!"

We snuggled in tonight to read.

As I read the last page, he grabbed my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine, as we often do when he and I pretend to be scared during summer storms.

Only this time, he didn't pretend to be scared. He just held it. And listened.

"What is love? Helen spelled.
Love is here, Teacher wrote as she held Helen's hand to her heart.
Helen looked confused, so teacher tried to explain. Love is . . . she began.
No, she corrected, swiping across Helen's palm with her hand.
She started again.
You cannot touch love, but you can feel the sweetness that it pours into everything. Without love you would not be happy or want to play.
Is that love? Helen asked as she pointed to the sun, with its warmth shining down on the day.
Love is here, Teacher wrote as she held Helen's hand to her heart."

My teacher, who took my hand and taught me patience and strength this summer, so that I may go and teach others.

Time to fight

I drew out the fighter in me yesterday, and she's here to stay for a bit.

Reid has been diagnosed with right torticollis (which is essentially a tight, weak neck on the right side) and plagiocephaly (baby flat head).

Yep, it's all pretty common, and indeed totally fixable.

Fixable with lots of stretches--1,000 seconds of stretching per day minimum--and a helmet. Like this one.

I'm suddenly reminded of the Carlos Mencia bit, where he says "I wear the helmet but I don't wear the hat." Some of you are giggling right now; others are googling. It's funny. Go look it up.

So my baby is going to wear the helmet.

Nope, doesn't help to hear that you know lots of babies who wore helmets and now have beautifully spherical and symmetrical heads.

Was it your baby? Okay then.

Because this is my baby, and seeing my baby in a helmet might just break my heart.

And I'll fight like hell to fix whatever it is that needs fixing.

But this is a lot to take in.

I sat on the mat in the infant physical therapy room. The therapist was very kind, but she spoke to me like I was an infant myself.

"I can see you're probably overwhelmed," she cooed.

No, not overwhelmed. Just taking it all in.

I saved overwhelmed for the car.

Overwhelmed because I have friends with kids who have bigger issues to tackle than this--I chastised myself for my sadness; overwhelmed because I watched a 3-year-old girl in the waiting room maneuver her own wheelchair, Barbie Princess braces on her little legs; overwhelmed because when you have a baby, you don't think there will be any issues.

And then there are.

So yesterday I stayed a little sad, a little pity partyish, a little on edge as Reid screamed through our stretches.

We may have only hit 500 seconds.

But today, I'll be damned if he didn't start to turn his head to the right just a bit.

And if he can smile through it, then so can I.

Pity party be gone. Mama Bear is ready to fight.

Under a microscope

Bloggers: dissected.

I've said before that blogging has helped me overcome fears of opening myself to the world. I put it all out there (for an entire year at that): my writing, my choices, my fears, my triumphs, my failures, and you, dear reader, dissected it.

And while I've hoped that maybe I've inspired one or two people along the way with my own posts, I know that reading other bloggers is often what inspires me.

The handful who I regularly follow invite the world into their own with such ease that you immediately feel like you know them.

One such blogger I find myself rooting for, nodding in agreement, and sharing tears--happy and sad--all from a blog reader's perspective: behind the computer screen.

Her name is Jessica. I met her via internet stalking.

No really. I totally did.

Last year when we found out we were going to be on that HGTV show, Greg googled the show, stumbled upon the keyword in one of her blogs, and then realized she lived about two miles from us and was going to have the same thing done.

I emailed her, just to say "Hey, we're going to go through the same thing, isn't that crazy?"

Our families met for brunch.

And a little acquaintance-ship was born.

Jessica is an amazing photographer. She's a phenomenal writer. She is incredibly crafty and has excellent DIY taste. (You should definitely click on all of the links to check out her stuff.)

What impresses me the most about her, though--what I find absolutely down right inpsiring--is her heart, and her faith.

When she and her husband struggled with conceiving a child of their own, they put it all in God's hands, and let Him guide them.

He led them to Charlie, they're beautiful oldest daughter.

And a year and a half later, He led them to Lola.

Her faith is extraordinary--the fact that she just took herself out of it and gave it up to a higher power is what I think a lot of us struggle with. We want to let go of the situation, we know we can't control it, and yet it's so difficult to take that step of removing ourselves.

Faith: found.

As I said before, her photography is amazing, and recently (like two months ago recently) she started an online photography school. (You should definitely click on that link, too!)

And you know what she did with the tuition people submitted for the first set of courses?

Well, you can read about it here, but...I'll go ahead and spoil it for you: she paid for medical care for a child in foster care. An entire year's worth of medical care.

And then she purchased five water filtration systems for an African village that will last them a lifetime. That means forever.

Oh and then? She paid for education for an entire year for a student in Haiti.

I don't know that she kept a dime for herself.

Heart: enormous.

I am inspired by her drive and determination; her love for all human beings; her warm slight southern accent and penchant for "y'all" in her writing; and putting herself--her entire life--out there for the world to view.

I can't think of a more beautiful life to read and follow and smile and cheer on.

Doodlebugs

Childhood.

A million moments put together that in one backward glance from adulthood can conjure up joy or sadness.

For me, it's joy, and with it a sentiment of feeling safe and secure and at peace.

Those moments aren't ever specifically important.

Riding bikes with my brother and pretending we were running errands, the gas station and grocery in various people's driveways--totally lame, but totally happy.

Those times I'd fall asleep at family gatherings and always hear the adults telling stories and laughing in the background, the smell of after-dinner coffee lingering in the air.

I was feeling sentimental this afternoon as I sat outside in the driveway with Reid in my lap and Will next to me, turning over rocks looking for doodlebugs.

Doodlebug. (n) 1. Official scientific name of the gray roly poly bugs that live under rocks in the garden as defined by the Kauffman household; 2. Term of endearment for children in the Kauffman household (ie; "Come here doodlebug!").

It was one of those moments I found myself going, "Remember this, remember this, remember this," because it was so unimportant in the history of moments and yet so significant at the same time.

I mentally dog-eared the page, to savor years from now when even mentioning the word "doodlebug" will invite crimson into my boys' faces. I'll come back to this page again and again and remember that girly-girl me, who has an obsession with high heels, perfume, and pink nail polish, sat on blacktop (where ants crawl-ew) to find slimy gray bugs (ew) in the mud (ew).

For the boys, it was just another day that I fed them mac-n-cheese, chased them around the gym, found the batteries to the remote so that Mickey Mouse's voice could project through the TV, did the hot dog dance, bounced them around, cuddled them up, and sat on the driveway to look for bugs.

But maybe one day when they look back on their childhood, those will be the moments out of millions that stand out for them; the moments that make them feel safe and secure, peaceful, warm, and happy.

Little Buddha

Out of the mouths of babes.

When we really stop and listen to what our kids are saying we are usually left laughing at their logic or simply stunned at their incredible memories.

Last night I shared on Facebook that Will, when told I was going to be teaching yoga that night, asked if Buddha was going to be there.

Will's first Buddha experience was at a yoga studio--one of the studios I teach in (and the one Greg and I were married in) has a larger than life-sized Buddha statue or two hanging out. Will liked to give him a high five.

My nephew had a Buddha statue in the bathroom we crashed during HGTV filming last year, and Will would poke his belly and say "Buuuudhaaaaaaa!"

And finally, he has this tiny little Buddha key chain hanging out in his room, a gift from a yogi before Will was born. Sometimes when he's belting out "Baa Baa Blacksheep" American Idol style, Buddha is his audience

This morning, while eating oatmeal, Will asked, "Who's Buddha mommy?"

For the umpteenth time, I gave him the two-year-old's version of Buddha.

"Buddha was a great man who sat under a tree, and while he was there he thought and thought and thought, and he had this idea that people could be really happy if they could just relax and quiet their minds."

"What's relax?"

"It's like taking a deep breath--"

"--and taking a nap?" he interrupted.

"Yep, just like that."

Will continued to eat his oatmeal. After a moment, he said, "Buddha didn't eat oatmeal. He didn't have water. He didn't have coffee. He didn't have juice. He had nuffin'."

I just sort of stared at him and he went right on eating his oatmeal.

Not once have we ever talked about Buddha's fasting, or anyone's fasting for that matter.

I'm pretty sure there isn't any fasting on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

His old soul shining through once again.

Just as I was getting rid of my goose bumps, he looked at me and said, "Mommy, Buddha liked to fight!"

And then I knew not to read too much into his vast knowledge. As much as Will would like there to be a Batman-Buddha smackdown duel to the death, well, that wouldn't be in Buddha's repertoire.

Being a parent is a constant yoga practice--no need to set foot in a studio--our teachers are pint-sized, covered in dirt, and addicted to apple juice.

Unplug, Recharge

It was so the opposite of everything the world intends for us to do these days.

Unplug to recharge.

I deactivated my Facebook account for about a week. For the first 48 hours, I realized touching the icon on my phone was just a habit; in much the same way my brain is programmed to pick up my shampoo, facewash, conditioner, and bodywash in that order, I touched my email icon, my internet icon, and then my Facebook icon. It didn't even matter that I had deactivated it and knew it--I still touched it.

And then I stopped.

And it was bliss.

I didn't find myself missing or even thinking about what someone else's kid did at the pool that day, or what someone made for dinner, or whether or not someone should try the new sushi restaurant.

The mundane details of everyone else's life that social media provides became just that--mundane--and the beautiful thing was that I was able to submerge myself into my own.

I received emails from people that I hadn't heard from in awhile, wondering where I ran off to.

I just ran off to...me. My world. It seems a little selfish to say that, but that's what unplugging does. And isn't that where I should be anyway?

I took photos of my kids--because it was funny and I wanted to capture the moment--just for me. And I didn't share it with the world--just my husband, and of course Will, who has the patience of his mother and who demands to see any and all photos immediately after they are taken. On a side note, it just occurred to me that our children will never experience the anticipation of waiting three days to get photos back and ripping open the envelope in the car to see what they look like. They will forever be able to take the perfect photo and instantly transform it to make the lighting better and retake if someone blinked, or photobombed, or God forbid had whale arm. This would have made my box of college photos less painful to look through.

And then I plugged back in, just long enough to say hello, invite friends to my first yoga class back, and see what I missed in a week's time--gender reveals and weddings and new homes--all things I was unable to "like" and send best wishes for so...congratulations to all!

I also missed photos of kids at the pool, photos of dinners, and debates on whether or not friends should do this or that: sushi or italian? tacos or enchiladas? bangs or no bangs? pacifier or lovey? Paris or London? love it or list it? Oh wait--just a really awful, drawn out TV program on HGTV. And on another side note, next time you're perusing that channel, pay attention to the Valspar commercial; our bathroom has a starring role (and by "starring" I mean it's one of ten rooms that appear on your screen for about a blip).

Fact is, unplugging felt amazing.

I mean, the first command of this blog is to be present. How can we be fully present when we are submerged in moments that belong to other people, or concerned in how our own moments appear to others?

It felt so good I might just unplug for the rest of the summer.

As soon as I take full advantage of social networking and make a post with a link about how good it is to not post and read posts. You know, irony and all...

Could you do it? Have you done it? How'd you fair?

Healthy Kids Equals Happy Kids

My first week home this summer, Will had Spaghetti-Os and Chef-Boyardee ravioli every. single. meal.

And then I tasted the meatballs in Spaghetti-Os and the ravioli in that can and I spat it out. No really. I just used the word "spat," too.

Have you ever tasted that stuff? Canned dog food. 

How can that possibly be good for my kid? For anyone's kid?

What I needed to do was get back on the DIY kid food. I don't want to make Pinterest inspired beach scenes with broccoli palm trees, quinoa sand and cheedar cheese suns. I just want to make good food for my kid.

Besides, Reid will be eating solid foods in (gulp) just one month. (That, my friends, is crazy.)

Rather than bombard you with an enormous post of my Toddler Staples, I picked the four I've done the most of in the last couple of weeks, and divided them into two categories: "Takes as much time as the pre prepared crap" and "Takes five minutes longer."

With childhood obesity such an issue that it's the First Lady's undertaking, and my own frustrations in people complaining that the healthy stuff is too expensive, I'm hoping that just one little blog reader takes note and tries something fresh for their kids. 

Here we go.

Takes As Much Time As The Pre Prepared Crap

Mac-n-Cheese. Ah yes, it is revered in this household by kids and parents alike. Pick your favorite noodle--you can even buy them in fun shapes like wheels and stars and Woody and Buzz--and then make a basic cheese sauce: 1 tbsp butter, 1/2-1 tsp flour, 1/4-1/3 cup milk. Mix over heat. Add about a cup of your favorite shredded cheeses and let it all melt into a delicious cheesy sauce that won't send your blood pressure sky rocketing from the sodium. And it takes just as much time as the boxed stuff!

Pizza. Rather than throw those pizza bites/pizza bagels/Tony's pizzas in the oven for a half an hour, have your child spend 20 minutes putting sauce, cheese, and other toppings on a pita, tortilla, or little Boboli crust. Ten minutes in the oven, and like Will, they will proclaim, "This actually tastes like pizza." 

Takes Five Minutes Longer

Chicken Nuggets. Yes, dumping the bag of frozen nuggets onto a tray is, in fact, easy. These are healthier, and take no time at all. Dice up chicken breasts or chicken tenders into two inch pieces. You can either dip them in egg, or brush them with brown mustard. Roll in bread crumbs or corn meal seasoned with onion powder, garlic powder and a bit of salt, and then bake at 375 for 10-15 minutes. Done. 

Snacks. Are you kidding me with the bags of pre-cut up apples? They've got crap in them to keep them from browning! Cut up your own and entice the kids with a smear of peanut butter, Nutella, Biscoff spread, or apple butter. 

I'm always reaching for plain roasted almonds to snack on, but Will, despite trying them every single time, hates them. So I take two cookie sheets and put a handful of almonds on each sheet. I sprinkle a little vegetable oil onto both piles of almonds, and to one pile I add just a sprinkling of sea salt and garlic powder, and to the other I sprinkle just a bit of brown sugar and cinnamon. Mix them up, spread them out, and pop them in the oven at 400 degrees for about 15 minutes. Let them cool and then keep them in airtight containers for up to two weeks! 

Freedom

I ran on the track at the gym this morning and my first thought in mile one was, "Screw sky diving--real freedom is the first run weeks after solely running with a 40 pound kid in a stroller!"

And then I started thinking about freedom in general, being the week for picnics, pool parties, and fireworks of Independence Day and all.

I thought I'd share my list.

Freedom is...

• when you stop complaining to anyone who will listen and actually do something about it.
• ending your criticisms of everything: presidents, health care, heat waves, Ann Curry, your job, other moms, Wal-Mart, your in-laws, last night's dinner, and people who read Fifty Shades of Gray. 
• beginning to see the good in all of those things. Baby steps.
• realizing that regardless of your opinion on Obamacare, you--yes YOU--have access to the best medical and holistic care in the world; that you won't die from a disease that is prevalent in other countries; that the government insisting you have a means to pay for this top-notch care doesn't mean they are going to go all North Korea on you and control every last aspect of your life. 
• embracing the multi-cultural population that is the United States; raising your kids to speak multiple languages and understand diversity instead of being afraid of it.
• having the option to leave and live elsewhere if you just can't take it.
• letting go of fear.
• accepting that maybe deep down inside, there's something you've never addressed.
• addressing it.
• when you halt the thoughts in your mind that tell you you aren't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, rich enough, whatever enough.
• when you stop comparing yourself to everyone else.
• setting a goal and achieving it.
• setting a goal, drifting away from it, and then coming back to it.
• being all Jessica Simpson circa 2004 and singing about chicken wings and Nick Lachey: that's right--being comfortable in your own skin.
• safety; in surrounding yourself with a support system of like-minded people.
• laughing so hard your cheeks ache, you hyperventilate, your abs feel like they just finished a P90X workout, tears form in your eyes and maybe--just maybe--you pee your pants. It's laughter without reservation.
• that feeling of taking back your body after growing a human for nine months.
• keeping some aspects of your life to yourself.
• choosing to take a mental health day.

A few more miles and this list may have been a little longer. Embrace your freedoms this week. Give gratitude to those who brought them to us, and to yourself for upholding them in the way you see fit.

Mantra

For the last few weeks, I've been listening to my beautiful yogini friend, Kristin Luna Ray, sing mantras on her latest album One Shared Heart, which you can find and listen to here.

Mantras are like prayers, and it's fun to hear Luna describe a mantra.

Quite simply, "Mantras are powerful shit, man."

They can be in English or Sanskrit, sung, spoken, chanted, or silently run through the mind.

You say them over and over and over...and over...again. And you start to change, you start to open and see with more than your eyes. Often you select a mantra based upon something you need.

So the one that has been on repeat in my head is Sri Ram Jai Ram Jai Jai Ram.

You can't translate a mantra like you could a Chinese take out menu. Each word has a million meanings, it seems, and depending on what additional words you add, the meaning can change.

My interpretation of this mantra is truth seeking.

Ah yes, truth...

For me, it has been to be true to myself and who I am; to find honesty, and to see true colors; to be truthful in speech.

I find myself humming the tune that Luna put to these words--humming constantly. The words sometimes flow, while showering, while making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; it's the beat I use to sway and rock Reid; it comes out and vibrates within the space, and within me.

So I wasn't entirely surprised when today in the car, while sipping a Capri Sun, I hear Will chanting, "Jai Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Ram."

He is my truth--the truest reflection of who I am.

Shanti Om.

Superheroes

Curse you Batman.

And Joker.

And Aquaman.

You've taught my kid to hit, punch, and shoot.

You've taught him to go "Pow! Pow!"

With sticks. And blocks. And harmonicas.

So today we had to have a talk.

"Hey Will? I don't like it when you say 'Pow! Pow!'"

He thought for a second.

"But Batman does that mommy."

"Yep, he does." You got me there, Will.

My turn to think. I didn't like my response.

"Hey Will, Batman is a superhero, right? Well only superheroes are allowed to hit and punch and shoot."

"Only superheroes?"

Shoot. Now he's going to think that that's all a superhero does. He'll grow up and not realize that anyone can be a superhero--we are heroic in our actions, in caring, in responsibility, in helping others.

Shoot shoot shoot.

I mean, Pow! Pow! Pow!

"Yes, only superheroes."

He seemed okay with my answer.

A few hours later we went to the park, the kind with a little water playground within it. After slipping and hitting his head on the ground and a little rest to feel better, he was ready to go back at it.

He ran to the button that turns on the water. He wanted to push it. He wanted to turn it on.

And so did some other punk little kid about his age.

I saw it coming. They were saying "Nooooo! Miiiiiiine!" and their little hands were grasping for the button and pushing and then whack!

That punk cracked Will on the head with a cup.

Tears. Oh dear. What was he going to do?

I scooped him up, tried to calm him down. I stared down the punk and his mom, who of course wasn't watching.

A sip of juice, a few grapes, and lots of hugs, Will calmed down. He stared at the boy who was still playing in the water.

"I ready to play now mommy."

He walked cautiously back to the water playground, went right up to the kid and he said, "I didn't like that! No thank you!"

He used his words. He didn't hit him back. He didn't Pow! Pow! Pow! at him.

Tonight at dinner, I brought up what happened in front of Greg. I said to Will, "You know how mommy said only superheroes hit and punch and shoot?"

"Yeah mommy."

"Well you used your words today, Will. That's even better than a superhero."

He beamed.

"And kids who are even better than superheroes? Well they get marshmallows for dessert."

And marshmallow is the magic word. So I got to be the superhero for a moment.

Mommy Blogs

It occurred to me this morning the reason why there are so many "mommy blogs" in the world.

It's simple really:

Being a stay-at-home mom, especially to more than one child, is hard. 

Working moms have it easy.

And I'm allowed to say this because I do both.

I've broken down my rationale into categories, so let's start with breaks.

There are no breaks.

Sometimes, when Greg is home, I pretend I want to do the dishes just so I don't have to watch Batman again. During the day, if I get a half an hour total when both kids are sleeping, I don't really know what to do with myself, so I sit down and spend twenty minutes figuring it out, and then I go and fold laundry or clean up lunch or a half a dozen other things. 

At work, if I need a break, I sit down. I check email. I give the kids a worksheet that takes ten minutes so I can breathe. And it happens to be mandatory that I get a plan bell, and my plan bell happens to be during the nearly two hour lunch period which means I really do get an incredible break in my day. 

It's hard to make friends.

Those other moms--the ones who are at home 365 days a year--they are hard to penetrate. 

We went to the park last week and there was a clique of them sitting on top of the rock climbing wall as though they were reigning over their park kingdom. 

At gymnastics class every monday, I scoot Will in the direction of the moms' kids who I know are all playmates. I interject an "Oh he's so funny!" here and there, but my lack of outgoingness is totally a disadvantage.

I compared last week's park experience to walking into the high school cafeteria as the new kid in school, which I never had to do, and I'm incredibly grateful for that.

At least at work there is always someone to talk to, to avoid the awkward being-engrossed-in-something-on-my-iPhone moment. 

You would think this is an incredible club, "Moms," with new members always welcome to commiserate with and swap crock pot recipes and teething advice with.

But no.

There's no time for anything beauty related.

At least while working my 5 a.m. alarm insured a peaceful shower and the opportunity to not only do my hair but to apply makeup.

My showers are currently a multi-tasking one minute in length so I can hop out and make sure the loud thud wasn't my own little Batman launching himself off the back of the couch at "the enemy"ie; his baby brother.

I don't dry my hair. Ever. That's just asking for disaster.

And I now carry mascara in my car so that I can apply it while backing down my driveway (not to worry--I use the mirror that has the rear camera so I'm still multi-tasking and not putting lives in danger...totally).

I would ask how the moms at gymnastics class have time for full make up, if only they'd let me in their group! 

Things that used to be fun have lost their allure.

Shopping at Target.

Driving in the car and singing to songs.

Drinking a cup of coffee.

I love Laurie Birkner and the Wiggles. I do. But my Britney-esque dance club car moves just aren't the same to "Rock-a-bye your bear." They're just not.

And coffee. God where would I be without it. I wish I texted this to my friend more often, but I don't. "Just got the coffee made and had five minutes to enjoy before both boys were up."

Instead, "Cleaned up poopy diaper explosion before I could get any coffee this morning. Poop before coffee. Something wrong," is more common.

I know this will all get easier. I know that my kids are both at really difficult ages right now. And the fact that a trip to Target just isn't the same doesn't make me love them any less. 

I simply felt like blogging the truth. 

Apparently lots of moms do.

Thank goodness for each and every one of them.

Being a stay-at-home mom is hard.

But it's a cool club to belong to. 

Now if only I could figure out how to get into the cool groups...

Captured

Life with two is crazy hard.

Crazy funny.

Crazy good.

How Lucky

On Friday afternoon, around 1:30 p.m., I texted a few friends the same text:

"This stay-at-home-mom thing is harder than teaching. I need a nap. When is happy hour?"

Today, at 1:30 p.m., I collapsed into my big green chair in the family room just as both boys had gone down for a nap and I thought, "Good grief, 1:30? Where did today go?"

Even teaching has more downtime than this.

I chase, wipe, change, feed, dress, scrub, wash, soothe, pick up, rock, sing, pour, stir, fold, watch, yell (yeah, I yell), scold, help, bake, rush, clean...and repeat...non-stop.

And now here I sit.


I crossed that out because it became a non-truth. Reid woke up as I typed that sentence, and an hour later Will was up, and we were off to the library and here I sit again at 4:00, although I'm surrounded by The Wiggles and iPad games and I think Reid may have a dirty diaper.

But I'm persevering.

And this post suddenly needs to be about something else, because downtime is certainly not it.

At gymnastics class this morning, and again at the library, I had some thoughts, and they can basically be summarized by this:

How lucky are my kids? How lucky are the kids of the moms who are reading this blog? Think about it: they get to run around on play equipment, and play games on cool technology, and have moms who take them to the library and help them pick out new movies and books.

Not only that, our kids have parents who just this past weekend alone took them swimming, rented bounce houses for their birthdays, picked strawberries at a farm, spent time on the beach, and taught them how to ride a bike (thank you Facebook for allowing me to collect data so quickly).

When they wear out a pair of shoes, we go and we buy them a new pair.

When one day care provider doesn't work, we spend hours researching and interviewing new ones.

When they beg to have pizza for dinner every single night, we keep their health in mind and only give in one out of, oh, ten times.

A wise Hindu teacher told me when Will was born that when a soul chooses to be born to parents in America, it's like picking Heaven on Earth.

I'll smile at this as Will continues to watch Mickey Mouse Club House...on YouTube...on the iPad...in Russian.

I'll continue to smile as I pick up Reid and chase, wipe, change, feed, dress, scrub, wash, soothe, pick up, rock, sing, pour, stir, fold, watch, yell, scold, help, bake, rush, clean, and start dinner...

...lucky kids.

Luckier moms.

Surrender

"Good things fall apart so better things can come together."

That's my motto these days...

My last day of school is today. In about 30 minutes, I'll be joining my colleagues in a kick line down the front hall. It's one of my most favorite traditions, as the "Hallelujah" chorus plays over the intercom, followed by the "na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey hey hey, good bye."

Teachers do it up right, yo.

And I'm clinging to that exhilarating feeling today--that knowledge that a few months of freedom await me starting at 2:30, and that I get to spend my days working my favorite job as mom--because a little bit of sadness sits in my heart.

Maybe it's more than a little...

We took our house off the market yesterday.

We broke our contract with the builder.

This

is no longer our future home.

Maybe it wasn't mean to be our dream home.

Maybe it fell apart because something else completely amazing and wonderful is waiting for our little family.

"Someone is trying to teach you a lesson in disappointment, huh?" a friend said.

But I don't think so.

If this were a lesson in disappointment, I'd walk around being gloomy and glum like the Pout Pout Fish in this book.

If this were a lesson in disappointment, I wouldn't want to talk about it. I would roll my eyes, cry, sigh, and otherwise stomp around like, well, my toddler.

And that's not me. It's not this blog.

But it's okay to be sad. It's okay to mourn it for just a bit.

Then it's time to move on.

We have lots of exciting things planned: trips to the pool, vacations at the beach, gymnastics class, library hour, and cuddling! I'll be redecorating the dining room, purchasing a new couch, and making my space feel refreshed.

Sort of like me.

With all of the stress that has been selling the house behind us, it's time to rejuvenate.

Surrender to happiness.

Smile on my face. Deep breath. It's time to dance.

Mr. Show Off

The last few pick-ups at school, Will's teacher says, "Will had such a good day today!"

It's almost as if his little ears perk at that moment, he hears it from way out on the playground, and he thinks, "Oh really? Well I'll show them!"

Today, he took his squirt gun and threw it at poor little Evie's head.

Last week, he pushed Jonas over in the red car--car and all.

The week before, he just ran around and hit all of his friends in the face.

And it was with a sad realization today that I accepted the teacher's explanation that he is showing off. Greg and I were (and still are!) such people pleasers. We would put on our best manners to show off: clear tables, help pick up toys, give hugs.

But Will hits his friends.

With tears I fear: Is my kid a bully?

Now yes, he's two-almost-three. And I think he knows better, as hitting doesn't fly in our house. Greg and I aren't exactly violent people, and we explain that Mr. Incredible only hits the bad guy because the bad guy hurts people.

So what gives?

I was retelling my bully boy fears to a friend who said, "At least you don't have the kid who sits there and lets other kids steal his toys."

In my mind, wouldn't that be better?

I worry about my kid not having friends because he's weird, not because he's mean.

Ten years from now, will my son be the one the teachers look at when talking about what a bully is?

After a time out from the teacher, and helping Evie get an ice pack for her forehead, I put Will in the car, informed him there would be no playing outside, and no iPhone games--the two things he lives for--because of his actions. "If you hit your friends, then you don't get to do the things you like."

"Do you understand?" I asked.

He looked at me, reached for my face, and planted a kiss.

No, he doesn't understand--not completely anyway. Eventually he will get his emotions in check. Eventually he will use his words and not his actions. Eventually this mom will stop worrying about what will happen in the future and start rectifying the present.

And until then, we will work on our show off techniques.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Lately, I feel like a robot.

I feel like I've been programmed to do the exact same actions every single day.

Wake up. Get ready. Chug coffee en route to work. Report for morning duty five minutes late (I like to be fashionable). Take attendance. Teach crappy kids, rowdy kids, super sweet kids, just okay kids. Lunch. Gossip. Catch up. Breathe. Sit in main office air conditioning to dry sweaty work clothes. Teach smart kids, how-did-you-make-it-into-this-class kids. Herd cats. (That's what afternoon homeroom is like.) Sit at desk. Stare at computer. Make copies. Breathe. Drive. Pick up kids. Home. Feed screaming baby. Say "NO" repeatedly to toddler. Kiss Greg hello. Run/Walk/Spin/Play or some combo thereof. Make dinner. Eat dinner frantically. Bath. Books. Make coffee. Shower. Bed.

Maybe I deviate every once in awhile.

Like opening the fridge and reaching for a juice box to find Woody riding Bullseye into a Gladware container of corn.

I feel change coming on. I feel it in my gut--that feeling you can't shake that you know you should trust.

But I don't know in what shape or form this change is going to come.

It's a little bit scary.

And a little bit exciting for a robot.

Any other moms out there feeling a bit robotic?

Hope & Love

In the back of my mind, my next blog was going to be "How to Successfully Fail at Selling Your House," because every sign was pointing to us absolutely falling down a black hole of despair.

I was going to make it funny--those of you who know me know that doom and gloom aren't really my thing (minus the above mentioned black hole of despair...that was just a weak moment).

I even bought a Saint Joseph to bury in the yard. His shipping was more than his price. Will helped put him in the garden.

Maybe he was facing the wrong direction...maybe he wasn't placed close enough to the sign...maybe he should have been right-side-up instead of upside-down.

And we forgot to pray, mainly because we aren't the praying kind.

We were 24 hours from calling our realtor to take the house off the market for good. I was perusing websites to find my consolation prize--a new couch--and preparing myself to be happy watching all of my plants bloom this summer; those plants that I have loved back to life so many times in the past six years would make me fall back in love with this house.

Friends and family were consoling me with my own words: "It happened for a reason." I was trying to convince myself that this was, in fact, true; that we weren't supposed to move now, yet; that we were meant to stay at 1611 a little longer.

And then Hope sprung.

Isn't that just like Hope? She shows up when you thought you had zero left.

So that's what we are clinging to, one more time.

I was perusing Pinterest today. In addition to renewed Hope, I find myself ogling beautiful spaces and pinning them to my "For the Home" board once again.

I came across someone I follow, who I worked with oh so long ago at the Gap.

In the last few months, I know from that other social media site worth 100 billion dollars that she has found herself in a seriously amazing relationship. There have been weddings they've attended, and vacations, and awesome dinner dates that have left her swooning.

I always read her status updates and smile.

Today on Pinterest, she pinned a wedding invitation on her board she named "Future!"

I smiled.

There was Hope again, planting herself in a happy heart.

Something tells me she is spot on with this one, that this girl I met while folding and refolding denim and sweaters has more than Hope.

She also has Love.

So should my dear Hope decide to desert us again, I know that I'll still be left with Love.

It doesn't matter where my home is; Love is always in it.

Let's meet in your dreams

May has been busy, and it has shown me no signs of slowing down.

Breathe, Kristin. Breathe.

So I do. In little moments.

This is one of my favorite:

When it's my night to read books with Will and tuck him in, and he clings tight, arms flung around my neck and stalling pleas of "Mommy! Mommy! Don't go yet!" I say to him, "Let's meet in your dreams."

"Mommy will go to her bed and close her eyes, and you'll stay here and close your eyes, and we will meet in our dreams. What would you like to do tonight?"

We have played trucks, blown bubbles, built towers, and I'll have you know that tonight I'll be playing drums.

But not in the house, because "Mommy says no drums in the house."

If you'll excuse me now, I have a date.

A Tribute

Teachers come across many students.

There are kids who make you cringe; kids who drag you down; kids who make you laugh; kids who break your heart; kids who you wish would find their way to a boat that sails for a deserted island; kids who you wish you could scoop up and protect forever; kids you never want to go on to the next grade so they can stay with you; kids you want to move to the next grade tomorrow.

They throw every single one of these kids into a classroom and their little eyes stare at you and plead:

Teach me.

Help me.

Let me grow.

Love me.

Some you remember.

Some you don't.

Faces are often ingrained but names forgotten.

Neither escaped me today.

She had a purse--it was really more of a shoulder bag. It was blue and pink striped. The Yo Gabba Gabba characters were printed all over it. "There's a party in my tummy" was written next to the little green one.

"What in the world is that?" I asked.

"You don't know who Yo Gabba Gabba is!?!" she replied.

Clearly, I was out of touch with the youth of the world.

I was pregnant with Will. It wasn't long before I did know who they were; but she introduced me to them.

She would come back and visit. Her mom married her friend's dad. It was the same situation as my sister and I, Mindy, who I don't ever refer to as my step-sister anymore. She is my sister, as much as anything I've known.

I wished for her to have that.

In my class, she got As, she got to go Europe, she stayed after class and talked about all of the things teenaged girls want to talk about, with an underlying message for me.

Teach me.

Help me.

Let me grow.

Love me. 


I saw her in the fall, as our 8th graders visited the high school. She looked so cool, so put together, so sure of herself--confident and just...lovely.

"Mrs. Kauffman! Hi!"

We exchanged how are yous and the like.

And today she is gone.

According to the article, she didn't see the semi when she pulled out.

According to the article, she'll be buried in her prom dress. It's blue and pink--like the purse she carried when she was in my class.

So for the rest of this morning and afternoon I've been preoccupied. I've been thinking all the usual stuff you think: so young, not fair, too short.

And I think about the role I played in this beautiful girl's life. Small. Insignificant maybe.

Of all the eyes that stare at us, it's haunting to think that something like this would happen. So we don't.

But it did happen.

I apologize for the debbie downer post. I'm just...sad.

Stay present. Give the moment to the people in front of you. Let them be your "now."