A Sappy "Farewell"

My dad often accuses me of being too sappy in my blog posts.

Don't get me wrong; he's probably my biggest fan.

But he says, "Why do all of your posts seem to end with little tidbits that could make you misty?"

I like to write about things that make me sentimental, because if I'm being sentimental, then I've probably learned a lesson.

I've probably been forced to reflect on something that happened, in a way that I've changed, how much I've grown.

That's a lot more pensive than I think most people are.

In my yoga classes, I generally say something to the effect of, "If you're just aware of where your mind is wandering, or what parts of your body are tight and sore, or what your breath feels like, that's more than most people ever do. Even if you don't do anything with that knowledge, you are aware."

I like to be aware.

I'm a few days from thirty-three. Last year, I sent out thirty-two love notes to people in my life I felt needed to hear their value. Or maybe an apology. Or maybe just a memorable moment that would make them smile.

I recently took the Myers-Briggs personality type test and although I had had a few glasses of wine, and I have no recollection of my letters, I remember reading my summary of being a people-pleaser and putting others' happiness before mine and thinking "Bingo."

And really, I think I've always been this way.

I remember an incident in second grade where our class was too loud and we made the music teacher mad. And so our second grade teacher made us write notes of apology to the music teacher.

I can pretty much guarantee that I was not being any kind of loud, but in my note I said, "I would give my whole life away to tell you how sorry I am."

My teacher scoffed and said, "This seems rather dramatic," and dismissed me.

(We can save her ridiculous dismissal for another post.)

Well duh, it was dramatic, but I wanted to make sure that music teacher knew how sorry I was. She needed to know I was going to do what it took to make her happy.

There are some people who might argue, "If you are spending so much time making other people happy, how can you possibly be happy yourself?"

Valid.

But I am.

I'm not happy all the time. I'm human and have terrible days and right now I can't breathe out of my nose and I didn't sleep well and my nose is red and owie, and I just finished two hours of junior high lunch duty.

So I'm not comfortable. It hasn't been great.

But I'm happy. Content.

Bumps in the road never darken the whole journey.

I've found myself doing mindless activities lately and being suddenly overwhelmed with extreme gratitude for the people that I have in my life; and this gratitude is the deepest and warmest love--for friends and family, colleagues, and students who have come and gone over the years.

It's a feeling of gratitude for being loved and being able to love in return.

One of my students recently said that feeling loved is like a warm sweater and a hot cup of tea on a cold day.

Yes. That. All of that. So much that.

This is probably my last post here for awhile, as I begin this new blog project adventure, and so I wanted to offer this:

I am not always present. My light is sometimes dull. And my happiness can be clouded.

But when you practice these things--good, positive things--you attract them into your life.

Like begets like.

I offer up so much gratitude for the opportunity to share my words with you in this format; for allowing me to reflect and grow in such a public fashion; for letting our paths cross; for loving and being loved.

My heart is full.

Stay in the moment. Smile. Shine.

(Now go get your kleenex, Dad.)

the honest mom project

This weekend was bad.

Really really awful terrible bad.

It was one of Will's worst weekends--regressing to the terrible threes it seemed.

And although we road tripped north to spend some time with friends (and commiserate over children's behavior over glasses of wine and gourmet home cooked food), and we totally hyped up the sleepover we were having on social media, the truth is...

...our kids were terrible.

I blame Halloween, and the candy, and the lack of sleep, and the sugar crashes that followed each eaten lollipop.

I blame Halloween so much that I threw all of my kids' candy away. Two buckets worth are now resting peacefully in our trash can.

It was, in fact, so bad, that on Saturday, Will cried more than he didn't in his waking hours. There were "My tummy hurts" followed with "I want more candy" which led to "You guys are meanies" and sobs, and hysteria, and kicking, and spitting, and throwing things like socks, and shoes, and books. Even his Peter Pan costume sword was brandished as though he were going to attack me.

At lunch, he crumpled up a piece of pizza as though it were a piece of paper and threw it angrily across the kitchen.

Seriously. Insanity.

On the bright side, as I type this, we are both sipping some apple cider (his watered down, mine spiked with rum...wait, maybe it should be the other way around...wait, I kid, mine is not spiked with rum. It's three in the afternoon on a Sunday...I went with brandy, something stronger) after spending the better part of the last hour engaging in a full-on leaf war.

I even took a rock to the head.

I snapped some pretty fantastic photos of him in a rare joyous moment of the last 48 hours, and I wanted to 'gram them in all of their happiness.

               

Only it'd be a lie, right? A total lie of what this weekend was really like.

For this very reason, on January 1, 2014, I'm rolling out the honest mom project.

It isn't enough to want to see change; sometimes you have to actually be that change.

I have assembled a fantastic team of writers--and even better, down-to-earth, humble, brutally honest parents.

This team, we have lofty goals. We've been brainstorming, and meeting, and having conversations, and it has all led to this one very simple, but very special project.

To be honest. To stop the mom wars. To stop competing--with each other and through our kids. To laugh and cry and give each other virtual high fives and hugs and "I've been there, too"s and to start to build a community where we celebrate and embrace and support one another in this incredible and wild and crazy journey that isn't just about our kids but about us.

I can't wait for you to see what this holds, and for you to be a part of it.

So much more to come!!!

For now, we need you.

Yes, you.

Share this project with your friends--moms, dads, parents-to-be, grandparents, anyone who takes care of kids!

Email us at honestmomproject@gmail.com. And tell those you share it with to email us, too.

Introduce yourself to us. Say hello. Tell us what you want to see, need to hear. Maybe you want to be a part of this project? Let us know that, too.

As we introduce ourselves to the world on January 1, we will be pulling from the emails we receive and making a few parents verrrrrry very happy. :o)

Can't wait to meet you.

Ruminations on Parenting

I ate most of my lunch with a baby spoon today, which got me thinking about what I've become really good at doing since I've had kids...thought I'd put it out here and see what else you, dear readers, can add to this list.

• Resourcefulness: This morning I was late, the dishwasher was dirty, and all that was clean in the silverware drawer were baby spoons. I'm glad no one saw me eat lunch today. For full effect, I may have airplane-sounded a bite. 
• Bribery: I know my kids love me, but I'll be damned if I can't get them to leave day care. I pick them up and it's like I'm dragging them to a doctor's office full of needles. "Nooooooo!!!!" is generally what I'm met with. My secret weapon is candy. I'm not ashamed to tell you my kids eat candy at least once a day. Sometimes m&ms; sometimes dum dum lollipops; Will often gets sugar-free gum; and sometimes, you know...they have all three!! 
• Peace Making: Oh, you both want the Batman action figure? No worries...we have FOUR. And we have two super hero capes, two super hero masks, multiple dump trucks in a variety of sizes, three Batman vehicles, three copies of Green Eggs and Ham, two tambourines, two harmonicas, four maracas, two drums, and two sets of fake food and dishes for the play kitchen. Oh, you both want the ONE random yo-yo at the bottom of the toy chest that no one has played with in months? You're on your own. It's good for you.
• Acting: I've read the superhero anthology so many times I could sing it in Italian, opera style in my sleep. For some reason, the villains always have deep voices, and I give the super heroes high-pitched voices--like they just sucked the helium from a balloon. I've decided this is an accurate portrayal. Have you read the super hero background stories? They are generally whiny little things before they become superheroes, and then in the process they are usually pumped full of so many radioactive chemicals it's a wonder they even have skin! High-pitched and whiny it is. 
• Operating like a well-oiled machine: This would include multi-tasking. I can fold a shirt and wash a kid's hair at the same time. I can run, push a jogging stroller, unwrap a lollipop (that's right, my kids get candy when we run, too), and find Scooby-Doo on YouTube all a the same time. I can cook mac and cheese with one hand while the other holds someone, pulls someone out of a cabinet, opens juice boxes, etc. Before dinner is even served I get out all of the various options I know will be requested: ketchup, applesauce, yogurt, ranch dip. Just line 'em up. They'll be asked for when they cry out "but I don't LIKE tacos!" even though they ate them no problem last week. That's right. Tacos. Two weeks in a row. 
• Feeling guilty: This one I'm not proud of but I feel it multiple times a day: I should have said this differently, I should not have said that, why did I react that way, I've messed him up for life, his therapist will help him through that when he's 30, why wasn't I there...

We are all doing our absolute best with our kids...with ourselves...at any given moment in time. We've even acquired new skills along the way, brains working in overdrive with all of the new things to think about. 

This video has been circulating lately, but I thought I'd post it here. 

Remember your talents, your newly acquired skills, the good stuff--your kids (and mine, too) so appreciate what we do.

(I hope they remember that tonight when we trick-or-treat in a monsoon.) 

Happy Halloween. 

The 973rd time

I spend a lot of time between the hours of 6 p.m. and 7 p.m. on Wednesday evenings telling large groups of people to "let go."

In fleeting moments outside of that time slot, whether in a quick meditation, a practice of my own, or even just a deep breath out, I tell myself to "let go."

Sometimes my own intention is specific, and other times it's just a general shake off the day, the week, the stress du moment.

I usually feel better--and I hope that the people in my classes do as well--but for me, quite often, it never feels totally gone.

There's still that little nagging something; an "ugh, I wish it would just release." I can feel it clutching in the pit of my stomach, or the back of my mind, or deep in that space in my heart that lies a little bit dark and unresolved.

But I know, each time I actively let it go, that someday it will be gone.

I say in class, at least once, "Let it go, whatever 'it' is for you. You may need to release 'it' 973 more times, but eventually, it will leave you free."

When I woke up today, one of my own dark nagging emotions was not there. I tried to get upset about it and even actively sought out the "ugh" emotion--I did, in fact, really try so hard to do that. It was like looking for the wallet you know your kid dropped in the parking lot at the last store. I knew it was gone, but I still wanted to find it.

But I was free.

And instead of being sad or upset, as a lost wallet might make me, this loss...well, it made me smile.

It's not the first time this has happened, and every time it does I wonder why. I wonder what pushed it out, once and for all. Was it a particular yoga pose from a few days ago? A good night's sleep? A visit from the Sandman who told me to release it? Was it what I ate? Healing properties of sun dried tomatoes?

The truth is, there is no one magical thing anyone can tell you to do to really, truly let "it" go.

But one day, just maybe, on the 973rd time, that little-dark-nagging-unresolved space will be gone.

Who knew a Monday could feel so good?

(Added bonus: my favorite yoga poem, by Danna Faulds from "Go In and In: Poems from the Heart of Yoga.")

"Let go of the ways you thought life would unfold: the holding of plans or dreams or expectations--Let it all go. Save your strength to swim with the tide. The choice to fight what is where before you now will only result in struggle, fear, and desperate attempts to flee from the very energy you long for. Let go. Let it all go and flow with the grace that washes through your days whether you received it gently or with all your quills raised to defend against invaders. Take this on faith; the mind may never find the explanations that it seeks, but you will move forward nonetheless. Let go, and the wave's crest will carry you to unknown shores, beyond your wildest dreams or destinations. Let it all go and find the place of rest and peace, and certain transformation."

The best we can, part 2: Fall

I wrote this crazy whiny blog post last night that I published but never posted to social media and somehow, thirteen people still found it, although twelve of those may have been spam bots from r-e-f-e-r-e-r.com...weird.

I'm keeping it up because even though it lamely attempts to be present, happy, and bright, it's really just me whining, and I think it's important to show that I am not, in fact, present, happy, or bright all of the time.

You can read it here.

But I can also summarize.

It was all about how we did nothing memorable on a glorious fall day, and I dress my kids horribly un-trendy, and they often refuse to eat vegetables and I was tired of watching my news feed showcase only the stuff that made me feel like crap.

Because I totally compared myself to those news feed posts. And I shouldn't. But I did.

Human.

So fast forward to now, where yesterday's whine (although I wish it were wine) carried over to a case of the Monday blarghs and it's a full moon and technology messed up those dreaded SLOs and the kids were cranky and.

Blargh.

Now press pause.

Deep breath.

Resume play.

This moment.

I just finished my fourth chocolate chip cookie (yes, fourth!) with a cool breeze blowing on my face from that glorious fall weather while I sit and type and wait on a plumber to arrive who will allow me to take hot showers without flooding the finished basement.

And in my news feed was a post by a photographer who I don't know, but who, in a general photo of a cup of coffee said, "Expectations from others have the ability to destroy you, but only if you let them." (Follow thedefineschool on Instagram, and you can view such wisdom yourself.)

Like a good Language Arts teacher in a stream of consciousness writing assignment, I carried myself away from this desk chair and computer, and I found myself here.

At the risk of sounding like a crazy person, this tree calls to me, and has since we first moved in. We have an amazing acre of woods right out our back door, and this strong, enormous gem catches my eye every time I scan the yard.

Spring is for dragging our roots up out of the earth, dusting off, and beginning to tread lightly. Summer is for floating through air, whimsiscal and light. Winter is for hibernation, for burrowing and finding warmth.

But Fall. Fall is for letting our roots seep again. For grounding ourselves and settling into something solid and tangible and safe.

Safe from the expectations of others that we think exist--of the "What will they thinks" and the "Who even cares" and the "Why do I put myself out theres."

Fall is for the reset button; the trees shed their leaves and we watch them let go with grace and freedom.

We let go, too.

I'm letting go.

I choose to let go of my own expectations of myself as a mom, a wife, a teacher, and I certainly let go of what others' perceive to be ideal and fabulous...what is ideal for one is not for the other, and who are we to judge (ourselves or others) in saying what ideal looks like. It changes. Every day. Maybe even in each moment.

I acknowledge where I faulter and I know that no one area of my life can ever be equally as strong as the next at the same moment in time. It's this beautiful dance of give and take where we waiver one day and shine radiantly the next.

How we let go is of little importance; run, yoga, dance with wild abandonment, cry, sigh, laugh with friends, sing, scream, whine, or wine.

Shake it out, Florence and the Machine.

I'll go ahead and take all of the above, please.

Once we've cleared, we dig deep and settle in and we feel better. Free. Strong.

Even big trees bow with the wind.

What counts is that we find smiles and giggles and love in as many moments as we possibly can.

And if that means eating four chocolate chip cookies on a perfect fall day while setting my roots alongside a magical tree, then so be it.

Happy Fall.

The best we can

I feel like I do a pretty good job of telling myself that I do the best that I can when it comes to raising my kids.

When Will was a month old, and we would turn on Nick Jr. for him (okay, for us--we were so ready for kid shows...little did we know then...) there would be a spot between shows about the parent website and their slogan was, "We're not perfect; we're parents!" And it wasn't until much later in this gig that I realized how true it was.

Still...I can't help but feel like crap when, for example, today, I saw how every family under the Western Hemisphere sun was enjoying the most perfect fall Sunday afternoon EVER (according to social media), and all my kids did was go to Target and watch Finding Nemo.

Or when Will picks the t-shirt with screen print super hero characters all over it, and the other kids at the play date/school/birthday party have on their finest Polos and Gap Kids pull overs.

Or those little zingers here and there: "My little guy just LOVES vegetables!" as my kids shun peas with faux gagging noises and dramatic choking sounds.

It stings a little because I can't help but think, "I messed up."

My poor little vitamin-deprived, festival-deprived, couch potatoes.

And I know--I absolutely know--that no one posts their kids in super hero t-shirts even if they wear them the 364 other days out of the year, nor does anyone post the candy corn meltdown that may have occurred post pumpkin patch hay ride (it's not even October yet!?!), or in the throws of hot dogs for the fourth dinner in a row.

Because "no one wants to see the bad stuff."

Except me.

And probably you, too.

Give me honesty, people. Give me your good, glorious, Rock Star parenting moments, because those moments are awesome--I absolutely know. I want to like them and give you social media high fives!

But give me your human moments, too. Those are what make us feel connected.

Which is why I'm going to share the following--it's a little Rock Star, a little "Ugh I messed up somewhere."

#honestmommy

Will has this bucket called "Our Love Bucket," that a friend from high school made several months ago. In it are photos of ten relatives, and I have had every intention of having Will pick a person at bedtime, and think good things about that person...every intention of doing this since it came in the mail...eight months ago.

Today, while cleaning up his room, I decided it was time.

So I called him in.

I explained these were all people we loved very much, and we were going to pull one person out without looking and think about all the reasons we love that person, and maybe something we would like them to experience, like a good night's sleep, or a fun day.

"So we don't call them fat or anything like that?"

#honestmommy Will is fixated on people who are overweight--only not just people, but cartoon characters, and animals on a game, and pillow pets! I was told he asked one of his preschool teachers why she had a fat belly.

There. Honesty.

After assuring him that this was not the time to dwell on the size of people, he selected Greg's dad and his friend, Mary.

"I really like Grandpa," he said. "And I hope he has a good day at work, and I hope Mary has a good day at work."

Never mind they're both retired.

"Can I do another one?"

We selected my dad.

"I really like Grandad. He's wearing a hat in this picture from his birthday party when we set off fireworks. Why did Uncle Jon like the fireworks?"

Sidetracked.

"Can I do one more?"

He picked Greg and I.

"I like my mommy and daddy. They're nice."

"Why are we nice? What kinds of things do we do that make us nice?"

"You let me have popsicles."

And fat comments and popsicle bribery aside, I rest easy.

I am doing the best that I can. And it's always always enough.

Workin' Together

Happy Labor Day, folks.

It may be ninety-five degrees outside, but when I see the date "September" on my phone, my mind goes to crisp fall days...even though those are still several weeks away.

I may or may not have beef and barley soup in the crockpot...and a cinnamon candle burning...while the only thing outside that is crisp is my very brown lawn.

Speaking of lawns, we've owned ours now for two months exactly, and we have been wrapping up projects here and there, so I thought I'd let you in on what we've done. Prepare yourself for a big ol' bomb of photos.

I may have mentioned before that DIY projects are sort of our "thing;" some couples go to concerts, some ride bikes, some try new restaurants. Greg and I bust out stuff on our house.

And although we've never DIY'd while on a bike, we have definitely shared a few beers and listened to good music while working (well, it depends on who you ask if the music is "good").

We never really documented too much of our old house, aside from the photos on old computers that were never transferred, etc., so as we put our stamp on this house, we wanted to make sure we were keeping track of our sweat equity.

Before we begin, let's answer two frequently asked questions.

"Where on earth do you find the time to do this?!" 

Well, my mom moved back to town recently so...our kids LOVE their grandparents! And we do this and that when they are sleeping. I've painted enough rooms now that I can knock one out in just over an hour! 

"Where do you find the energy?!" 

I don't know...we love doing this stuff, and you always find the energy to do the stuff you love. That and sugar free orange caffeine packets you can get at Kroger. :o) 

So. Let's begin--in no particular order.

Greg hated the faded tomato-y red door and forest green shutters (I suppose I did, too, but they didn't bother me to the same degree). So last weekend, after the line at the barber shop was too long for the boys to get haircuts, we looked at each other and said, "Let's paint the house!"

Before. (We suck at taking most "before" photos, so I had to steal this from the county auditor's website--you can still see the hideous bushes...and a car that is not ours, duh, we didn't live here in 2008.)

After. (Black shutters, brighter red door.)

We've also ripped out all but a few original bushes. There are great deals on plants this time of year, so as long as you cross your fingers it all comes back in the Spring, I say take advantage! We decided to forego most of the suburban round shrubs and create a bit of a "butterfly garden" with great color in the planting bed to the right of the house, so maybe next summer that will fill in and make for a good post.

Let's head inside.

As soon as we had signed the paper work, we got into the house and ripped out all of the carpet on the second floor, and painted both boys' bedrooms (Behr's Cosmic Quest for Will, Behr's French Colony & NYPD Blue for Reid).

Will's room before.

After.

Reid's room before (pink!).

After.

What I love most about Will's room is his art, including this etsy find: a Batman print on vintage French dictionary paper (hello!?):

And this etsy find--you know, boy stuff:

(The choo choo names were a gift from a friend, but can also be found on etsy here.)

The laundry room was our next project (day three of having moved in) because we I couldn't handle the original white--and very stained--linoleum floor. This would be the room we walked into after long days, so I felt it important to be somewhat inviting.

We purchased a newer product on the market--linoleum tiles you can actually grout. So, for the look and feel (but not price!) of ceramic, and only about three hours total installation (walkable the next morning!) we got this:

Before.

After.

With a coat of our general first floor paint (Benjamin Moore Moonshine), and some brighter paint (Behr Ultra White) on the trim and door, coat hooks, a magnet board, etc., it looks like this:

Other things I'd like to do:

• new light fixture (maybe recessed lights instead?)
• art work somewhere
• backsplash around the utility tub
• hide things on the shelves with baskets
• new door hardware

The dining room was my next big project, and I was super excited to use this wall stencil I got on etsy. I went bold in color (Stuart Gold by Benjamin Moore), and the final product became this fantastic French farmhouse feel.

Before (a mess always makes for a better "before," eh?):

After. 

I turned my old half-door garbage pick find from the old house into a chalkboard and carried that Frenchy theme with a little menu from the city the Puntenneys hailed from.

(Sorry for the instagram copy but hey--wanna follow me on instagram? There you go!)

The family room was next. Dark blue scared me but this color turned out fantastic (it's Behr Andirondack Blue). (I also love how in this photo you can see the green of the office, the gray of the hallway, and the still khaki walls in the kitchen, which actually fit into the color family nicely.)

The mantle provided a challenge, but for now, this strikes a nice balance.

More things we want to do in here:

• We've got plans for another "Ikea hack" (details below) entertainment center 
• Eventually this room will be hardwoods as well to complete the entire first floor. Lulu, sweet girl, had a hard time adjusting to the new house and made this room her personal, well, potty. Gross. Stinky. #smellslikedogpee #thankgoodnessforsteamvacs
• Lighting. Recessed lighting. 

The foyer has been given a coat of Moonshine, as has the upstairs hallway. Need to paint the spindles (hello, time consuming project) and add a little chest to the front (it's currently holding the TV in the family room). 

And our last project--probably what I'm most proud of so far--is the office. 

Completely empty (well, except for that pretty girl who is confused about the potty).

To this.

The color is starting to grow on me (Benjamin Moore Stormcloud) as we've hung artwork, curtains, and styled the bookcases. 

After finding inspiration online here and here (definitely check out that second link, young house love; we have gotten so many great ideas and tutorials from them!), we decided to do our own "Ikea hack": take the cheap Ikea stuff, and customize it to make it look, well, custom! So we went from cabinets with cubes and a lumber top...

...to cabinets that look custom made with Greg's carpentry additions, and a walnut stained top.

 

Things I'd still like to do in this room:

• hang pendants above each desk area
• get some sort of loveseat for the back of the room
• hire someone to paint all of that dental molding (holy cow is it annoying and time consuming)
• acquire some upholstered desk chairs (those are our old kitchen stools as the unit is more bar height)

We haven't spent much; that office was only the cost of a gallon of paint, two additional Ikea cabinets plus drawers, the shelves, the drawer hardware, and the lumber for the top. We had everything else!

We are on a ridiculously tight budget for at least the next nine months as we become accustomed to things like, oh, a new house payment, etc., so we are picky about where we spend money. Most of our changes have been paint--which, if looking for inspiration, should inspire you to spend $35 and create your own makeover! This winter we may only be tackling the half bath, which is covered in wallpaper and a very outdated sink and cabinet--which (I say) can be made over on the cheap...oooo, or maybe we will paint the basement (the amount of toy storage and play space down there is ridiculously awesome).

Doesn't matter...so long as we are workin' together!

P.S. Like all those links throughout? They take you to the stuff we bought! Go crazy!

Ironic oxymorons

Last week, I went to the doctor because I thought I was dying.

No, seriously. Legit--I thought I either had a mass on my brain, or I was having a heart attack.

You can laugh. It's funny now. Those two things aren't even slightly related.

I started back to work last week--new everything--and I felt anxious and nervous and overwhelmed, but nothing that gave me a full on panic attack...

...only I was totally having them. I sat in meetings last week and suddenly my heart would race, I would start sweating, and it felt like all of the blood was draining from my head. My legs would get tingly and I'd have to grip something to keep from falling face first into my coffee.

I had a migraine daily. I had so much Excedrin migraine coarsing through my veins that I was like Jessie Spano circa 1989...

"I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so...so...!"

Once my Russian doctor (I feel like I should tell you she's Russian because her accent is awesome) was sure I was not, in fact, dying, and I just needed to find my groove--"and relax!" she said (with her Russian accent)--I felt a bit more at ease. Pun intended.

In fact, I haven't had a panic attack since.

It wasn't until Sunday, when I unrolled my yoga mat in a class, lay down in the toasty room with that familiar and soothing China Gel smell, and exhaled with much gusto that I had this thought:

"The yoga teacher had panic attacks."

Shit. Seriously?

I was am a walking oxymoron.

My morning commute isn't nearly as long (I swear, I'll stop talking about this new job eventually), but since it's the place I do my best thinking, and I've had a few days to sort this out, I thought I'd share my conclusions.

1. It isn't enough to just practice breathing on my mat. When I practice, I am there. My mind is a one-track-inhale-exhale-flow machine. Why can't I stay in that flow when, say, my kids are climbing into drawers and sitting in them with the toaster and throwing raisins on the wall when I'm cooking dinner (because yes, that happened. Recently. Ok, last night)? Where does my breath go and why can't I stop and say to myself, "Breathe"? My conclusion is because it's not part of my daily practice--my drive to work, pick up kids, go home, make dinner, give baths, bedtime routine. At no point do I say, "Inhale as you put the car in drive, exhale as you roll down the window." And while it doesn't need to be as black and white as that, well, maybe it does. And so post-its are helping me. I wrote out a whole bunch at work today, and they're going in special places around my house. "Breathe you idiot" happens to be my favorite. Kidding. Not very yogi like to call yourself and idiot. But maybe it would get the point across.
2. Remaining in the moment is hard when your mind is organizing and categorizing and processing a thousand files a minute. My mind was on overdrive. I was overthinking everything: every lesson plan, every word, every idea, every movement, every new name on my roster, every new person I met. I analyzed and overanalyzed and rethought each movement I made. I relived it all in my head, hashed it out time and again, and then I anticipated the next interaction or idea or thought with so much anxiety that my heart had nothing to do but race, and my head had nothing to do but hurt. Duh, Russian doctor. Textbook panic attack. Now that I've established a routine, I'm giving myself deadlines. "Things don't feel awesome now, but they will by Friday...or next week...or October," and that seems to make my mind shut itself up and calm the fuck down.
3. Sorry for the profanity in this post. It's not very "bright" of me.

Why share all of this with you? Because a friend reminded me this week that sometimes a blog is the one thing that makes us feel normal and say, "Gosh, someone else out there lives through and feels the same things I do!"

And also, yoga teachers aren't perfect. Yogis aren't perfect. You can count on me to stay positive  to anything that's going on in your life...but I often struggle to remain in that bright spot with my own.

We're all on a journey, doing the best we can. Every morning we wake up and it's a new opportunity to grow.

Healing

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about how we each have the power to heal one another in various forms--words, the act of listening, prayer, and touch.

Think about how much more significant something becomes when it's said with even the slightest touch--even an introduction is more powerful when a handshake is firm.

I have a friend I was lucky enough to live with in France, who, every time she shared a laugh with you, would look you straight in the eye and grab your forearm.

It was so powerful for me that when I think of her thirteen years later, that is what stands out. Her grip was so full of a shared love it just made you feel good, laugh harder. The energy we share and transmit can be just as healing as it can perhaps be depleting.

Last night, at the end of the yoga class I taught, I apologized for my wrist cracking and popping as I gave people head and neck adjustments in savasana. We all laughed, but I was especially taken by the woman who said, "It's such a bonus, your touch, that I leave feeling even better than I thought I could."

When I first began teaching yoga, I had to accumulate Karma Yogi hours--time spent teaching yoga for free (because, well, you know, you can't charge people when you're terrible).

I had a bank of guinea pigs in the staff at my school, and a dedicated ten of them allowed me to guide them through asana and pranayama (fancy pants words for poses and breath), but really, they came for the head and neck adjustment at the end.

And that was all fine by me--I wanted to heal and help in anyway I could, and for them it was always the power of touch.

One of those ten was a woman named Trish, who taught across the hall and down from me for five years before she decided to take an early retirement to do, well, the fun things retirees do. For her, it would be time spent with kids and grandkids, and helping her daughter run her cupcake truck business.

(Duh...cupcakes all day or stinky sixth graders? Um...cupcakes!)

In January of this year, she emailed and asked if she could still come to the yoga classes I was holding in my classroom. She needed a good head and neck adjustment. :)

She brought her check book to her first class back in my stinky classroom, which I promptly told her to put away. She then offered to pay me in cupcakes. How could I refuse?

I led her and a few other teachers through poses and breath, and then everyone's favorite part--the healing power of touch and the coveted head and neck adjustment.

I didn't see Trish again.

Two weeks after her return she was diagnosed with inoperable brain tumors.

She passed away this morning.

And for me--what I can't seem to let go of--is that the last place I touched so lovingly and with such good mojo...was her head.

My first few years teaching I was lucky enough to have a principal I adored.

His name was Mark, and he had the biggest heart, kindest soul, and softest demeanor.

After his departure, I was told the story about how Mark, a devout Christian, would arrive well before the staff and walk the halls, praying at each teacher's room--for strength, and courage, and confidence, and patience, and anything else he deemed necessary.

That building needs Mark.

For the second time this summer, they will bury one of their own.

I went for a run this morning without my kids--I needed to, for lack of a better word, cleanse. It is really hard to run and cry at the same time, so it was good to not focus on the sadness.

My mind kept repeating lyrics to one of my favorite yoga songs (Om Narayana) by Wade Imre Morissette, and I end this blog post with them because they embody the absolute sweet spirit of Trish...and the spirit of our ability to heal one another--maybe not in the medical sense, but in the much more powerful sense of healing emotions through touch, prayer, words, love.

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 on the inside and accepting the outside,
Shining on the inside and shining on the outside.

Shine on, Trish...Shanti Om.

To the moon

It has been almost exactly a year since I wrote a post about the astronaut we were welcoming into our lives.

Reid's toritcolis/plagiocephaly diagnoses were not earth shattering, world ending, terrifying issues to deal with.

They were little teeny tiny bumps on our road, blips on our radar.

And they were totally fixable.

After four and a half months in the very stinky astronaut helmet, which more than anything made me cry because I could not cuddle my sweet babe, our physical therapist wasn't seeing the result she wanted to see with his neck stiffness. In December, she recommended we put him in a "tot collar," and that's when I said, "Thank you, but no thank you," grabbed Reid, and called a craniosacral therapist a friend had recommended to me months earlier.

Her name is Cathy, and she did beautiful things for Reid. Using her energy and the healing power of touch, massage, and manipulation, she would relax Reid to the point of sleep, and he literally became modeling clay in her hands. She was able to manipulate the fascia in the skull to pull everything to where it should be, and she released all of the tightness on the right side of his neck. After four months, Cathy released us from her care, and we were left with a now-toddler who had a loosey-goosey neck, a full head of hair, and a beautiful skull.

Reid at 6 months, just after starting helmet wear. You can see how flat his head is in the back.



Reid today, at 16 months, with a very pretty head.



My mom shared recently that she had read something crazy like 75% of babies today have some degree of plagiocephaly due to the "Back to Sleep" campaign that has reduced the risk of SIDS. The article also went on to blame "lazy" parents who refused to put their babies on their tummies.

No comment on that one from this mom, baby "experts."

There is something to be said for following maternal instinct, mother's intuition, whatever you want to call it.

There is also something to be said for alternative medicine and therapies.

But that is a topic for another day.

Today, we are just happy to have our astronaut, who took us on quite the journey into the unknown.  We will keep shooting for the moon.

Love Letter

Dear CMS Family,

(I seem to be writing a lot of letters via this blog these days.)

I just left most of you at the calling hours for one of our colleagues.

Did I really just type that?

During this time, I hugged all of you; we stated our shock that we were even there; you said you "heard the news" and offered your congratulations; and then we guffawed at how much shorter my new commute will be, as though making this move to a new district was a no-brainer.

Did we really just talk about that at a funeral?

(And for my non CMS readers, I accepted a position at another school district.)

I walked out to my car with one of you, saw some former students on the way, and got into my car.

As I merged on to Ronald Reagan Highway, Landslide came on the radio.

I ugly cried from Ronald Reagan all the way to 71--and you know Landslide ain't that long of a song.

I nearly had to pull over as mascara flooded--and stung!--my eyes.

Now, part of this could be that I've decided to change nearly every aspect of my daily life in a very short period of time; part of this could be that I was mourning the loss of our Angie.

But more than anything, I was mourning the loss of all of you.

I have been feeling for the past few days like I just broke up with a boyfriend, and although I was done with the boy, I wasn't done with his family. I didn't want to lose the physical or emotional connection that I had developed with them.

I keep using the words "loss" and "lose," and to be honest, social media will never ever let me lose any of you.

What I will miss is the daily interaction...the smell of coffee in the office; the copy machine jammed at 7:05 a.m.; sneaking goodies left on the counter; begging the secretaries for another pack of post-its, or white out, or poster board, or five minutes of sanity; talking to my neighbors in the hall between bells about the ridiculous class we just had, or the latest glitch in ProgressBook, or what we are doing on Spring Break (because there is one this year!); the sign-up sheet for the holiday luncheon...and check out days; and the annual kick line to the Hallelujah chorus down the center hall on the very last day.

What I won't miss is the smell of onions on chili days.

Or waiting to pee between bells.

Or the roaches.

And there will be new coffee smells, and new neighbors to gossip with, and new secretaries to beg for supplies from, and new copy machines to curse at, restroom lines to wait in, computer programs to abhor, and holiday luncheons to make spinach dip for.

But there will not be your faces next to these things.

To say this CMS family has been dealt enough tragedy to fill an NBC dramedy (because we are a bit comical as well) would be absolutely accurate.

And what holds each one of us up is the heart and soul we don't just pour into our classrooms, but into each other.

Because that's family.

So many faces at Angie's funeral tonight that have long retired and moved on, and they come back because it's what you do when it's family.

I don't know that any other profession, or even building in our district, could possibly understand how close we are.

That connection...well, I'm going to miss it.

On a personal note, yet related, I'm not dealing well with leaving you. This is mostly because I don't take kindly to change, and I'll be the first to admit it. Little things, like a change in manicure, or a change in type of car, I can handle. But this whole life upheaval is freaking me out.

As you know, Greg and I left the first Kauffman homestead this weekend. We went back on Sunday to grab a few outdoor items, and to mow one last time, and laying in our (now former) side yard, was a dead cardinal.

The irony wasn't lost on me (non CMS people--Colerain's mascot is the cardinal).

One day later, we were running home from the gym back to my dad's house (where we are staying temporarily), and some of the neighbors stopped us.

"Look at this baby hawk," they said. "She fell from the tree. She seems to be doing okay...just trying to show her the way back home."

And again...my new school's mascot? Well, although not a hawk, a bird of prey: Eagle.

So when the Universe played Landslide as I left the funeral--and all of you--behind, the irony in how I was feeling in that moment was so palpable.

I've been afraid of changing cause I built my life around you.

I'm taking my heart with me, but I'm leaving every last bit of love for my cardinals.

Take care of each other.

Then again, it's what you we know how to do best.

Kristin

So long, Longbourn

Dear Z. Family,

I suppose this is a bit unusual, to a.) leave any kind of note to the new owners of a home and b.) to just go ahead and post it on a blog, too, but for me, this is essential closure on the walls and the roof that we have called home for the last seven years.

It's also a bit like writing a "Things to Remember" note to the babysitter...

...not to worry, there are no bedtime rules attached, nor emergency contacts, "no snack" lists, or remote control instructions.

Rather, I am leaving you the pertinent stories that these walls hold--the ones they'll never tell that should  be shared.

Let's just get started.

First and foremost, you must know about George.

We purchased this house from the McDuffies (George and Patty), who owned this home for a good fifty years before we did, and George was a biology teacher. The reason they converted the laundry room into a garage? George kept little alligators in the basement--one chased Patty to the steps and she told George if he wanted his laundry done ever again, he'd move the washer and dryer upstairs.

George also had a pet boa constrictor--Louise--whom he let have full roam of the house. He would start baths for Patty, and she'd go to get in, only to find Louise had made herself quite at home in the tub of warm water.

When we excavated the backyard a couple of years after moving in, we expected to find all kinds of wild animal skeletons. It was actually really exciting to start digging.

The best we got was a horse skull. In a garbage can. In the shed.

Not to worry, we've removed that for you.

George also collected license plates (aside from animals). When we initially looked at the house, every wall of the basement (and I literally mean "every") was covered in license plates. One was inadvertently left behind. We've left it downstairs for you. (We already checked--not worth much.) But it's a part of this house and its history.

George passed a few months after we moved in. Every once in awhile you'll get a note from a doctor's office that he's long overdue for a check. Have a chuckle that someone's not very good at record keeping, and don't worry about passing along.

There are also some miscellaneous items--highlights, really--that you should note:

• Spend as many summer nights on the back deck as you can. You can hear just about every Riverbend concert--especially when it's just a little bit overcast--and it is fantastic free entertainment.
• Reds fans? You can also hear the home run and game winning fireworks on about a 10 second delay as they carry down river. 
• The neighbors behind you in the little green house throw a spectacular Halloween party--we were never invited (I don't even know their names) but you should definitely befriend them because it always looked like fun (we're talking huge tent, tons of kids carving pumpkins, beer, bonfires, and fireworks).
• While we are on the topic of Halloween, you should probably only buy one bag of candy...unless you really like candy. We had about eight trick-or-treaters last year...including our own kids...so don't overbuy. 
• We have loved on nearly every inch of this house. Very few things are still from the various eras this house was built and added on to. As we rehabbed, we cursed poor George and Patty for making everything "custom." You just can't rehab custom...cheaply. So as you go and make your own changes, please know we made every effort to make your life a little easier. 
• Our street is always the last to get plowed when it snows. Cambridge is always fine--so don't look out the window and think, "Oh my gosh I'll never make it out!" You will. Just get to the end of the street. Also, Mr. Jim next door is pretty handy with a four wheeler. Not only have we seen him plow snow with it, he's also excavated front yards. He's pretty nice, too. He'll do anything for a six pack of Budweiser. 
• If you turn left out the street and walk to the end of Cambridge, there's a horse farm and a huge pond for fishing. Who knew? Probably not you, which is why I'm sharing. 
• Every once in awhile you'll hear what can only be described as an angry donkey sound. There's a guy up the hill who owns some pretty cool animals, including a zebra that he has tamed. Befriend someone who knows him so you can go check it out--go pet a zebra!
• The HGTV master is pretty spectacular, right? We've revealed secrets about our show in the paper attached to the DVD copy we've left--we decided you should see the full before and after process! 

Lastly, and perhaps most sentimentally, you are reading this on June 24th. In three days, Greg and I will be celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary. 

We used the wedding money we were given to do much of the work on this house...the kitchen you are standing in while reading this, and that amazing backyard.

As a result, we held our wedding reception here.

All of our nearest and dearest friends and family filled this house and its outdoor spaces with love that night. They celebrated us and we celebrated love.

(The AC unit is also five years old...as wedding luck would have it, it died. On our wedding day. Before ninety people came to pack themselves in.)

As Greg and I pack our belongings, and I find myself tearing up on a daily basis, I hold in my heart that home is not so much the walls and foundation, but a feeling we carry inside ourselves wherever we are.

So in addition to that license plate in the basement, we left you a little something else in the fridge.

Crack it open on June 27th. 

Toast us.

Toast you.

Toast this house.

Welcome home.

The Kauffmans

Nemo

It's the last day of school over here, and while my classroom is ripe with the scents of Clorox cleaners, sweaty kids, and Sharpie markers as yearbooks are furiously passed around and signed, the sound that has filled the room is Finding Nemo.

One of my favorite Disney movies, it's what I chose for background noise this year--my sort of "You have to be quiet because someone might be trying to watch!" Namely, me.

And it wasn't until bell three that I realized the timeliness of showing this movie and my current emotional state.

About a month ago, Greg and I randomly chose to put our house back up for sale.

Daily vaccuming, dusting, scouring and toy-putting-awaying, and within a week we were sold, a far cry from our predicament last year.

We found ourselves excited about the potential of all that was available to us: do we go here or there? Build brand new or renovate an old farmhouse? Or something in between? Do we try a new area?

And then my questions got a bit more panicky: what about the schools? Will we ever find a gym like our current one? (I know, it's so silly--so silly--but it's our social hub, our kids love it, and I can't bare to part with it!) What if our new grocery store doesn't offer marinated sun dried tomatoes in an olive bar? What if we pick the wrong suburb? What if we pick a place and Will is bullied at that school but he wouldn't have been at the other one?

How can I possibly know that we are doing the right thing?!

And here's Finding Nemo: Marlin and Clara find the perfect anemone, and they love the neighborhood, and the next thing you know, a big fish ate all their babies.

I don't want a big fish to eat my babies! 

Why do I feel like someone might judge me for preferring manicured yards and pretty flower beds in the same suburb in which both Greg and I were raised?

Why is it not okay to love where you came from?

When I first started my yoga teacher training many years ago, and everyone was going around in a circle doing introductions and sharing things they loved, I shrunk a little with each answer given: I did not love kale, definitely not in smoothies; I didn't have a background in massage or fitness; I had never considered living on a commune; and I had no desire to even think about something called "vegan mayonnaise."

Instead, I sheepishly confessed that I shower twice a day and read People magazine and celebrity gossip websites and have an addiction to gummy bears.

That, really, is who I am.

It is that moment I come back to again and again to remind myself that it is more than okay to love where you came from.

To love who you are.

To be afraid of making "wrong" choices, when really it's not wrong so much as it is just difficult.

To embrace everything that makes you you, gummy bears and celebrity gossip, and manicured lawns, and hardwood floors, and plantation shutters, and flower beds full of tulips in the spring, impatiens in the summer, and mums in the fall, and PTA bake sales, and sending your kids to the same place you went to school.

Who is anyone to judge what we love, where we are comfortable?

So that's what Greg and I did: we embraced our roots, realized how much we love them, and we picked an amazing house that becomes ours in July.

And I keep the gym. And my olive bar marinated sun-dried tomatoes.

In the end, whether we made the "right" choice is irrelevant. "Right" is where our family is.

And a big fish can't eat us if we're together.

New Space

Y'all know I like to make lemonade out of lemons.

Our basement was like rotten squishy moldy lemons that may have even dried out.

In an effort to make our home more marketable, and to get a few toys out of the upstairs, Greg and I took on the task of finishing up a room in our basement. I told him it would only cost $150.

I went a little over (but not too terribly much--price breakdown at the end).

A little determination was all it took to get a fantastic new space (that, subsequently one day after finishing, my parents moved into).

Here's what we were dealing with in the "before" stage:

• painted concrete floors
• primed wood paneling covered in sticky tack (previous owner hung some of his hundreds of license plates on the walls)
• a hole in the paneling about the size of a dinner plate from when Greg checked a few years ago for a water leak
• mismatched crown molding and base trim
• seriously dirty stairs
• horrible lighting from two rickety, falling apart lights from 1982
• oh, and this room used to flood with heavy rains until we fixed the drainage issue two years ago

Dark, dirty, blah. And no daylight! We had our work cut out.

So, here's what we did:

• painted walls a fun robin's egg blue (cost: free--it was an unopened extra can of paint from a bedroom that I purchased four years ago; I just took it to Home Depot to have it shaken for free)
• put in four new can lights to make the room feel less like a dungeon basement (cost: $90--and labor was free; glad I married an engineer!)
• painted all the doors and trim, and the stairs, and added new door knobs to the two doors (cost: $61--$17 for trim paint and $14 for door hardware, $30 for porch and patio paint on the stairs)
• laid what is essentially a giant wall-to-wall area rug, with carpet off the big roll at Home Depot--no pad underneath, but soft enough for Reid to crawl around on (cost: $199. I won't go into the detail about how Greg and I laid that carpet down like a bunch of idiots who had never done home improvement before...but in our defense, the entire house is hardwood!)
• hung curtains to frame a mini "art gallery," which also conveniently covers that hole in the paneling (cost: $35 for curtains and hardware at Ikea)
• moved the upstairs play room down to the basement--all the cute furniture, easel, train table, art supplies, etc. (cost: free!)
• Total: $385

We have a few things left to do, namely hang the family guitars on the wall (Greg's idea) and move the cubby storage down there for the bins of toys (which are currently just under the train table). 

As I said before, we finished this project last Sunday, and my mom and stepdad moved in with us temporarily but indefinitely the next day. The futon is down there, and there is still tons of space for them and their three dogs, and Will and Reid to go down and play. Money well spent. 

My favorite part is the little art gallery--those curtains are so fun! It's such a cheery room now! 

Be Kind

Across the state of Ohio this morning, sharpened pencils and thick test booklets were handed out; stock rose in bulk sales of mints and pocket sized kleenex; granola bars were consumed in the thousands; principals joked that we had, in fact, reached "Def Con 1."

State testing began.

But this is not a blog post about the unfair money-making biased teach-to-the-test schemes of big government testing.

This is about a girl.

Since I am not a "core" teacher (math, science, social studies, language arts), I am generally given a small group of students to administer the state tests to: kids that need extra time, the test read to them, etc.

This year I was given one student.

Eighth grade girl, pale, freckly, should be a red head but she prefers jet black.

Loves bling-y jewelry and her hot pink cell phone.

Tall, slim, with an affinity for glitter-fied or sequined clothes.

Currently in the foster care system.

Be kind; for everyone you meet is fighting a battle.

This has been my mantra for her all semester.

She talks back, she murmurs unkind things, she is demanding, unreasonable, and she doesn't give a flying pie about French, let alone math or reading or history or anything outside her immediate need to feel loved, accepted, and to survive.

But she's fighting a battle. A life I know so little about.

During the practice state test about a month ago, when she was finished, I asked her about her life.

The details she gave were painful, and although I'm not sure they were all true, even if only moderately embellished, my heart still broke.

I thought maybe I'd softened a little.

And then she pulled out her old antics and I felt myself grow rigid.

She does more than just tap dance across her teachers' patience--she stomps on us.

This morning she walked into my room, and even though it was just me and her and two and a half hours of quiet, it turned into a little more.

My maternal instinct took over, and I spent those two and a half hours nurturing.

The heat was turned off this morning, so our students tested in classrooms that were about forty-five to fifty degrees.

I got her a blanket.

Her hands were getting numb.

I heated up hot water for her to wrap around a mug.

She looked at me half way through and said, "I don't want to do this anymore."

So we took a walk. She ate some fruit snacks.

And back to work.

When she finished the test, she did a few missing assignments for me, which didn't go far in the gradebook because she hasn't turned in anything this quarter.

And then, one hour left, no academic work to be done. What to do?

We talked.

And talked.

I asked her about food she loves, and her face lit up like a sunny day as she described what she was good at making (fish sticks and chicken nuggets).

I learned she just tried shrimp for the first time--pan fried without the breading--and she loved it. If she wanted to eat cheap she'd go to Steak-n-Shake, and if she wants a really fancy meal she would go to Red Lobster.

I discovered she loves steak and mac-n-cheese, and triple chocolate cake, but she doesn't care for rice, unless it's plain white rice with ranch dressing poured on top.

"My grandma taught me to eat rice that way."

A rare familial connection.

My heart didn't just soften; it melted completely, to watch one child full of so much anger and pain forget for a moment and beam. I think, for a brief moment, her face expressed a joy I haven't seen in the  four months I've known her.

I think, in that moment, she felt accepted, and loved, and cared for. All of her basic needs met.

At least, this is how I hope she felt.

The little assignment she did for me after testing was finished?

A rising sun.

She is my constant reminder to be kind.

Ode to the Burpee

People carry themselves into a hot and sweaty yoga class for a variety of different reasons.

Mostly those reasons tend toward asana--the physical poses themselves.

Maybe sometimes it's pranayama--forcing oneself to breathe, and stick with the breath when they want to hold it in--a metaphor for dealing with life's "tough stuff" off the mat.

There are six other really legit reasons to start a yoga practice, to walk into a studio, to unroll your mat and be present.

Four months ago, a teacher and friend I came to know through yoga opened up a studio literally a song and a half's car ride away from my house.

And here I found my mat again...reunited with my breath...reignited my fire and strength. 

And here, my teacher and friend introduced me to the yoga burpee. 

Burpee: noun. popular form of torture in boot camp style fitness classes across the globe. generally involves quick movements, elevated heart rate, and testing of stamina.

In other words, it kicks your ass.

Put a burpee in a yoga class, and you think, "Yeah, pretty sure Patanjali didn't intend for that to be a part of any branch of yoga." 

Oh but yes...it is.

When I request it in the class I regularly attend, or I hear her announce at the beginning we are going to do them, I get really excited--like, big-grin-can't-be-wiped-off-my-face I am so excited. 

I look around the room and the reactions of other students are more...smoosh-face-crinkle-nose-audible-moan-of-terror. 

But here's what a burpee does for me--for all of us. First, it's fun. It's like flying on a trapeze: jump back, rise up, jump forward, leap, repeat. You feel light. I feel free.

Second, it's a total in-the-moment thing. There is no room for your chitta, your shit, your bad day, or guilt, or stress. It's you and the next jump, the next breath.

Which brings me to three: you absolutely have to breathe. You inhale through power and exhale through release and you find the rhythm and move. 

And that's number four: movement. Moving is fun. Jumping and leaping are things we haven't done since we were five. You release expectation and you move. And when there is no expectation, you find yourself in a moment of pure joy. You smile. There is absolutely nothing serious about yoga...and good grief there is zero seriousness in a yoga burpee. 

Finally, at the end of a yoga burpee, you pause. Your breath is moving rapidly, but it's fire. And your heart feels like it's going to pound right out of your chest.

"Feel that?" my teacher friend says. "Feel that pounding? That's your reminder you're alive." 

Eight limbs of yoga or not, I come to my mat to feel alive. 

Toddlers & Teens

I am fortunate enough (although in the eyes of many, perhaps unfortunate) to be with children all day long.

I leave teenagers at the end of the day to go home to toddlers.

Two extremes, neither of which a parent will tell you is a "golden age."

I beg to differ.*

For every eye roll and heavy sigh and groan I may get from a thirteen year old, I can go home to Will singing, "You are the BEST mommy in the world!"

Even when I feel like I'm not.

For every arched back crying tantrum I get from Reid during a diaper change, I can walk into my classroom and hear, "Thanks for the help Mrs. K." (Because oh yes, teenagers can be polite. I promise you.)

For every time I bang my head against a wall at wrong verb conjugations and sentence order that makes no sense in any language including "Jibberish," I can go home and babble in Jibberish with Reid and sing songs about the moon with Will and feel my heart tell my head it's okay.

For every Will meltdown, complete with harsh words spoken by a little mind who is repeating and not understanding--meltdowns that test my patience, strength, and heart--I can look at the faces in the seats in my room and know that he'll probably turn out alright.

For every face in those seats that I know has seen pain unlike anything I will see in my lifetime, I can go home and squeeze those little ones and tell them how much they are loved.

And always will be.

Teaching--like parenting--is a job that can swell your heart so big you feel it will burst in one breath and then pull on the strings that hold it together in the next.

There is always a yin to the yang.

Choosing these roles in my life--best decisions I've ever made.

Sometimes when you're in a good place, you just want to share.

*at least today...I haven't been home yet to pick up Reid only to have him scream when I put him down, nor have I been witness to any Will meltdowns, and in my classroom today things went okay. So...there's that.