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.