This weekend has been 48 hours of reconnecting.
It began with friends, margaritas, and my husband--and no talk of kids for three hours.
It ended tonight, on my mat, in a beautiful studio, to the music and voice of people I love.
If you've never practiced to live music, never participated in a kirtan, it's magical. Put it on your bucket list.
The message tonight was simple: connect to your heart. Invite in whatever it is you need. Send it back out there. Connect to the people in the room. Connect to what moves you. Find what is beautiful. "When you do what you love, love is what you do." Oh how I love that lyric from Luna.
Tomorrow I go back to work. As I moved and sang tonight, I didn't feel torn, as working mothers often do (and as I have felt many times before). My heart is in a good place.
The last words we sang, "It's good to be home," aptly describes how I feel: I love my kids, I love being home with them, but I love my work kids, too. I love my work period. I feel at home in both places.
So even though my baby snuggles will decrease, and Matt and Ann and Al will no longer be my morning company, I'll fill up on welcoming my other kids back into my heart. (And fellow teachers, rather than think, "Yeah, until she comes across so-and-so or hears about the latest schedule change, etc." come by tomorrow and recharge yourself with my renewed energy!)
It'll be good to be be home tomorrow. And to be welcomed home tomorrow night by the smiles of my boys.
Love is what you do.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
NLNO
The average age of my neighbors is sixty-five.
Tonight, I watched one of them pull her Honda out of her garage and wait patiently in the middle of the street while the other two emerged from their houses and hopped in.
I shouldn't say "hopped." That action implies they are lithe and limber.
So I watched them saunter to the car and slowly fold themselves in. One was missing; she hasn't been the same since her stroke several years ago, and although she was probably invited, she politely declined, I imagine citing something like "just not feeling up to it."
It's NLNO--Neighbor Lady Night Out, and no, I wasn't invited.
This makes me sad for one reason only: I want neighbor ladies--around the age of thirty--to have NLNO with.
They are probably going to Olive Garden, where they will probably get tipsy on white zin and probably fill up on the free breadsticks.
They will talk about the one lady's long days at Bigg's bakery, and the other's grandson who just died all too young, and they'll discuss the driver's goal of quitting smoking, and electronic cigarettes, and all the redecorating she's doing to keep busy in the meantime.
And they will definitely, without a doubt, gossip.
And no, it's not enough that I have girls' weekends with my sorority sisters, and high school friend reunions at the holidays, and co-workers to have book club and margaritas with, and yogamamas to breathe and drink wine with; I want neighbors, who's houses I visit to play Bunko and get drunk on Bartels & James wine coolers (do they even make those anymore?) while we talk about the trials of working moms and stay-at-home moms and gossip about the new people down the street, and maybe even while we attempt to make costumes for our kids' school play or arrange snacks for the soccer team.
Someone--please--buy our house.
I'm ready for my invite to NLNO.
Tonight, I watched one of them pull her Honda out of her garage and wait patiently in the middle of the street while the other two emerged from their houses and hopped in.
I shouldn't say "hopped." That action implies they are lithe and limber.
So I watched them saunter to the car and slowly fold themselves in. One was missing; she hasn't been the same since her stroke several years ago, and although she was probably invited, she politely declined, I imagine citing something like "just not feeling up to it."
It's NLNO--Neighbor Lady Night Out, and no, I wasn't invited.
This makes me sad for one reason only: I want neighbor ladies--around the age of thirty--to have NLNO with.
They are probably going to Olive Garden, where they will probably get tipsy on white zin and probably fill up on the free breadsticks.
They will talk about the one lady's long days at Bigg's bakery, and the other's grandson who just died all too young, and they'll discuss the driver's goal of quitting smoking, and electronic cigarettes, and all the redecorating she's doing to keep busy in the meantime.
And they will definitely, without a doubt, gossip.
And no, it's not enough that I have girls' weekends with my sorority sisters, and high school friend reunions at the holidays, and co-workers to have book club and margaritas with, and yogamamas to breathe and drink wine with; I want neighbors, who's houses I visit to play Bunko and get drunk on Bartels & James wine coolers (do they even make those anymore?) while we talk about the trials of working moms and stay-at-home moms and gossip about the new people down the street, and maybe even while we attempt to make costumes for our kids' school play or arrange snacks for the soccer team.
Someone--please--buy our house.
I'm ready for my invite to NLNO.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Cook. Happy. Love.
I love to cook.
It's so much more than following a recipe; it's experimentation; it's creativity; it's love. Pull stuff together and nourish someone's soul? Yes please.
Some day when I become a Mom Taxi, I may find cooking burdensome--in fact, it may not be cooking at all, but heating and reheating and mindless eating on the way.
So until then, I want to enjoy it.
My dad always gave me the crap jobs in the kitchen--seeding the peppers, shucking the corn, and of course--the dishes. But I was allowed in, and I watched him express himself through the food he made. To this day, I love standing at the stove while he cooks; we talk among the aromas. I ask to stir, and then I sneak a taste.
Eager to expose Will to similar experiences (ie; the crap jobs), the other night I handed him a pastry brush and some melted butter, and I asked him if he wanted to paint the dough for our croissants.
The kid loves to paint. He loves paint brushes.
And he wanted nothing to do with it.
But he wants to taste everything.
I've started mixing the dried spices and herbs I use with a little bit of salt on the cutting board. I mash them with the back of a spoon. He licks his finger, presses it into the spices, and takes a taste.
Tonight, inspired by Will's favorite food (cheese) and his toddler taste buds, I allowed myself to get creative and invent a new (to us anyway) recipe. Had to share. It's spicy. Will loves spicy, too.
I just love him.
Southwest Quinoa Stuffed Peppers
4 large red/green/or yellow peppers, tops cut off, rinsed and seeded
1 cup cooked quinoa
2 tbsp. butter
1 cup diced mushrooms
1/2 cup diced red onion
2 cloves minced garlic
2 cans Rotel tomatoes, drained
4 oz. cream cheese
1/2 cup hot pepper cheese, shredded
While quinoa cooks (according to package directions), melt butter over medium high heat in a saute pan, and saute mushrooms and onions with a bit of salt until they are soft and take up about half the space in your pan. Add your minced garlic, and saute another minute. Add Rotel tomatoes, and reduce heat to low. Allow to simmer for 5 minutes, just to heat through.
Heat oven to 325 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, combine quinoa, mushroom mixture, and cream cheese. Stir until cream cheese is gone and mixture is creamy.
Place your peppers in a baking dish. Add mixture to peppers half way, and sprinkle one tablespoon of hot pepper cheese on top. Add more of your mixture until you are at the top (and maybe a little more). Top with one more tablespoon of cheese.
Bake for 20-25 minutes.
It's so much more than following a recipe; it's experimentation; it's creativity; it's love. Pull stuff together and nourish someone's soul? Yes please.
Some day when I become a Mom Taxi, I may find cooking burdensome--in fact, it may not be cooking at all, but heating and reheating and mindless eating on the way.
So until then, I want to enjoy it.
My dad always gave me the crap jobs in the kitchen--seeding the peppers, shucking the corn, and of course--the dishes. But I was allowed in, and I watched him express himself through the food he made. To this day, I love standing at the stove while he cooks; we talk among the aromas. I ask to stir, and then I sneak a taste.
Eager to expose Will to similar experiences (ie; the crap jobs), the other night I handed him a pastry brush and some melted butter, and I asked him if he wanted to paint the dough for our croissants.
The kid loves to paint. He loves paint brushes.
And he wanted nothing to do with it.
But he wants to taste everything.
I've started mixing the dried spices and herbs I use with a little bit of salt on the cutting board. I mash them with the back of a spoon. He licks his finger, presses it into the spices, and takes a taste.
Tonight, inspired by Will's favorite food (cheese) and his toddler taste buds, I allowed myself to get creative and invent a new (to us anyway) recipe. Had to share. It's spicy. Will loves spicy, too.
I just love him.
Southwest Quinoa Stuffed Peppers
4 large red/green/or yellow peppers, tops cut off, rinsed and seeded
1 cup cooked quinoa
2 tbsp. butter
1 cup diced mushrooms
1/2 cup diced red onion
2 cloves minced garlic
2 cans Rotel tomatoes, drained
4 oz. cream cheese
1/2 cup hot pepper cheese, shredded
While quinoa cooks (according to package directions), melt butter over medium high heat in a saute pan, and saute mushrooms and onions with a bit of salt until they are soft and take up about half the space in your pan. Add your minced garlic, and saute another minute. Add Rotel tomatoes, and reduce heat to low. Allow to simmer for 5 minutes, just to heat through.
Heat oven to 325 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, combine quinoa, mushroom mixture, and cream cheese. Stir until cream cheese is gone and mixture is creamy.
Place your peppers in a baking dish. Add mixture to peppers half way, and sprinkle one tablespoon of hot pepper cheese on top. Add more of your mixture until you are at the top (and maybe a little more). Top with one more tablespoon of cheese.
Bake for 20-25 minutes.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Technology (and Tantrum) Free Evenings
Last Monday we realized that our evenings were neither happy nor bright.
After Will chucked his ketchup smothered cheeseburger at Greg and proceeded to whack him on the arm, and he ran from time out so many times (despite my best Supernanny attempts) that we resorted to a quick bath and early bedtime (7:00), we sat in the family room staring at each other.
"Where in the world did we go wrong tonight?"
And honestly, our evenings had been like this for more than just a night.
It didn't take long in our rehashing of events to realize that we were sucked into technology instead of our kids. Phones, computers, TV--in our attempt to relax and let our brains veg, we were actually making our lives far more difficult.
So it was decided: starting at 6:00 until after bath time, we will spend the hours technology free, every evening.
What. A. Difference.
Seriously, it was like night and day with Will (thank goodness Reid isn't to temper tantrum stage yet). It's like the first rule in parenting: if you give your kid positive attention, he won't seek it in a negative way. Our evenings are, dare I say it? Pleasant. If Will does end up in time out, he sits there until the timer goes off, apologizes for what he has done, and we move on with the evening.
This isn't to say our evenings are now perfect.
But it took a huge commitment to acknowledging we sucked at being present to make the change.
Could you turn off all technology for a couple of hours every night? Do you already do this? Do you notice a difference in yourself and your kids?
After Will chucked his ketchup smothered cheeseburger at Greg and proceeded to whack him on the arm, and he ran from time out so many times (despite my best Supernanny attempts) that we resorted to a quick bath and early bedtime (7:00), we sat in the family room staring at each other.
"Where in the world did we go wrong tonight?"
And honestly, our evenings had been like this for more than just a night.
It didn't take long in our rehashing of events to realize that we were sucked into technology instead of our kids. Phones, computers, TV--in our attempt to relax and let our brains veg, we were actually making our lives far more difficult.
So it was decided: starting at 6:00 until after bath time, we will spend the hours technology free, every evening.
What. A. Difference.
Seriously, it was like night and day with Will (thank goodness Reid isn't to temper tantrum stage yet). It's like the first rule in parenting: if you give your kid positive attention, he won't seek it in a negative way. Our evenings are, dare I say it? Pleasant. If Will does end up in time out, he sits there until the timer goes off, apologizes for what he has done, and we move on with the evening.
This isn't to say our evenings are now perfect.
But it took a huge commitment to acknowledging we sucked at being present to make the change.
Could you turn off all technology for a couple of hours every night? Do you already do this? Do you notice a difference in yourself and your kids?
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Meditating
I rolled out my mat this morning.
I've lived in this house for six years, and I've never found the perfect place to practice. Oddly enough, it came to me today, and so with Reid napping soundly and dogs snoring loudly, I found myself in my pajamas, flowing through a few vinyasas.
As happens for me often, I had no specific intention to set. I just wanted to hear myself breathe, the only sound in the otherwise silent house.
I opened up iTunes and let one of my old teaching mixes play softly in the background (okay, so maybe the house wasn't silent).
And then this song came on, and I dropped to my seat, palms open on my knees, and I knew I had to meditate. It was instantaneous. There was no need for any other pose.
Om narayana shanti om...I was seeking peace from the highest Divine source I could find as Wade Imre Morissette's voice guided me from my laptop.
The peace wasn't for me; the peace was for a few friends who I think are going through some of the most terrifying, difficult life experiences.
There are only so many meals you can make, so many bottles of wine to offer; there are only so many cards to send, so many "I'm sorrys" to speak; there are only so many flowers to brighten a room--and a spirit--and so many hugs to give.
So today I gave my energy. It was yellow and bright, peaceful and joyful, deflecting the blue and darkness of their sadness. It combined somewhere in the middle to make green. I could see it behind my closed eyes, a bright beautiful green, hoping that I could neutralize their grief and fear, if even just for a moment. That moment.
I felt my chest raise, my heart answer what they needed.
Wade sang:
Joy on the inside and peace on the outside.
Loving on the inside and laughing on the outside.
Kissing on the inside and healing on the outside.
Flowing on the inside and thriving on the outside.
Clearing all the inside and accepting the outside.
Shining on the inside and shining on the outside.
Shanti. May they have a moment of peace today. And you, too.
I've lived in this house for six years, and I've never found the perfect place to practice. Oddly enough, it came to me today, and so with Reid napping soundly and dogs snoring loudly, I found myself in my pajamas, flowing through a few vinyasas.
As happens for me often, I had no specific intention to set. I just wanted to hear myself breathe, the only sound in the otherwise silent house.
I opened up iTunes and let one of my old teaching mixes play softly in the background (okay, so maybe the house wasn't silent).
And then this song came on, and I dropped to my seat, palms open on my knees, and I knew I had to meditate. It was instantaneous. There was no need for any other pose.
Om narayana shanti om...I was seeking peace from the highest Divine source I could find as Wade Imre Morissette's voice guided me from my laptop.
The peace wasn't for me; the peace was for a few friends who I think are going through some of the most terrifying, difficult life experiences.
There are only so many meals you can make, so many bottles of wine to offer; there are only so many cards to send, so many "I'm sorrys" to speak; there are only so many flowers to brighten a room--and a spirit--and so many hugs to give.
So today I gave my energy. It was yellow and bright, peaceful and joyful, deflecting the blue and darkness of their sadness. It combined somewhere in the middle to make green. I could see it behind my closed eyes, a bright beautiful green, hoping that I could neutralize their grief and fear, if even just for a moment. That moment.
I felt my chest raise, my heart answer what they needed.
Wade sang:
Joy on the inside and peace on the outside.
Loving on the inside and laughing on the outside.
Kissing on the inside and healing on the outside.
Flowing on the inside and thriving on the outside.
Clearing all the inside and accepting the outside.
Shining on the inside and shining on the outside.
Shanti. May they have a moment of peace today. And you, too.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Mother of the Year
Will ran into a brick wall.
He was hop hop hopping on the front porch, lost his balance, and the brick wall caught him.
It's not a big deal (well, I suppose his nose could possibly be broken), but he took all the skin off the tip of his nose and it's a huge scab with a nice little bruise across the top.
This little booboo makes me feel like Mother of the Year, especially at Reid's one month checkup today, as the pediatrician immediately asked why he looked like Rudolph.
A friend of mine had her infant laying on a sofa cushion on the ground. Due to his superior rolling ability, he barreled himself right off and onto the floor--maybe a two inch drop.
She texted me, "Worst mom ever."
It's become the mom joke. Your kid does something that kids have done for ages, maybe or maybe not gets hurt, and regardless, you instantly feel like you have failed at parenting. And even though maybe you know you aren't the worst mom ever, and the sarcasm is heavy in your acceptance speech of that annual mom award, a little bit deep down you think, "Man...I suck."
It used to be we would compare ourselves to other women's clothes, hair, figures--superficial stuff. Now I judge myself as a mother in the form of who's kids look happiest in the photos on Facebook.
And since we know people only post the good stuff on Facebook, at times, it can make it rather difficult to feel like we are adequate.
But are we really the "Worst Mother Ever"?
Last I checked I didn't leave my infant and toddler home alone to go buy drugs.
But, last Christmas, I also didn't make the Elf on the Shelf do something fantastically creative with flour, mini footprints, lipstick, and a Barbie Dream House.
So where do I fall?
Nick Jr. (oh yeah, because my kids watch TV, and sometimes, it's the most amazing babysitter ever, and I don't care what you think about that) advertises its online parent forum. Their slogan is, "We're not perfect; we're parents!"
In the eyes of Will and Reid, at least for the next few years, I am the best mom--for a thousand reasons ranging from the way I cut a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to the way I do the voices in the Little Pea book. And you reading this? You are your kids' best mom--for a thousand different reasons. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if you Spring Break with your kids in Hawaii or in Hawaiian shirts on your staycation; it doesn't matter if your kid eats Jell-O for dinner or a well-balanced meal with all the food groups and a full glass of milk (although I would high five you for that); it doesn't matter if your kid speaks three languages or none at all.
I'm not judging myself for it.
And you shouldn't either.
At some point, our kids are going to make us little posters. These posters will not have pictures of scabbed knees or noses, nor will there be photos of couch cushions, or that one temper tantrum when they screamed and shrieked and hit you on the head repeatedly in an attempt to escape your vice like grip to prevent them from throwing themselves down in the middle of the aisle at Target. No, on these posters, written in crayon or marker or paint, with some letters backward, some lower case letters and some not, there will be just three little words, maybe hearts, maybe rainbows, maybe a portrait of you with legs that start at your shoulders. It will say "World's Greatest Mom."
In that moment, you'll know that you really are.
Best Mom Ever. Mother of the Year.
He was hop hop hopping on the front porch, lost his balance, and the brick wall caught him.
It's not a big deal (well, I suppose his nose could possibly be broken), but he took all the skin off the tip of his nose and it's a huge scab with a nice little bruise across the top.
This little booboo makes me feel like Mother of the Year, especially at Reid's one month checkup today, as the pediatrician immediately asked why he looked like Rudolph.
A friend of mine had her infant laying on a sofa cushion on the ground. Due to his superior rolling ability, he barreled himself right off and onto the floor--maybe a two inch drop.
She texted me, "Worst mom ever."
It's become the mom joke. Your kid does something that kids have done for ages, maybe or maybe not gets hurt, and regardless, you instantly feel like you have failed at parenting. And even though maybe you know you aren't the worst mom ever, and the sarcasm is heavy in your acceptance speech of that annual mom award, a little bit deep down you think, "Man...I suck."
It used to be we would compare ourselves to other women's clothes, hair, figures--superficial stuff. Now I judge myself as a mother in the form of who's kids look happiest in the photos on Facebook.
And since we know people only post the good stuff on Facebook, at times, it can make it rather difficult to feel like we are adequate.
But are we really the "Worst Mother Ever"?
Last I checked I didn't leave my infant and toddler home alone to go buy drugs.
But, last Christmas, I also didn't make the Elf on the Shelf do something fantastically creative with flour, mini footprints, lipstick, and a Barbie Dream House.
So where do I fall?
Nick Jr. (oh yeah, because my kids watch TV, and sometimes, it's the most amazing babysitter ever, and I don't care what you think about that) advertises its online parent forum. Their slogan is, "We're not perfect; we're parents!"
In the eyes of Will and Reid, at least for the next few years, I am the best mom--for a thousand reasons ranging from the way I cut a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to the way I do the voices in the Little Pea book. And you reading this? You are your kids' best mom--for a thousand different reasons. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if you Spring Break with your kids in Hawaii or in Hawaiian shirts on your staycation; it doesn't matter if your kid eats Jell-O for dinner or a well-balanced meal with all the food groups and a full glass of milk (although I would high five you for that); it doesn't matter if your kid speaks three languages or none at all.
I'm not judging myself for it.
And you shouldn't either.
At some point, our kids are going to make us little posters. These posters will not have pictures of scabbed knees or noses, nor will there be photos of couch cushions, or that one temper tantrum when they screamed and shrieked and hit you on the head repeatedly in an attempt to escape your vice like grip to prevent them from throwing themselves down in the middle of the aisle at Target. No, on these posters, written in crayon or marker or paint, with some letters backward, some lower case letters and some not, there will be just three little words, maybe hearts, maybe rainbows, maybe a portrait of you with legs that start at your shoulders. It will say "World's Greatest Mom."
In that moment, you'll know that you really are.
Best Mom Ever. Mother of the Year.
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