Living in the future is sometimes a matter of survival.

Most of this cold, windy and rainy weekend, we spent trying not to kill each other—literally exerting great effort to not bark or yell (often unsuccessfully), push, shove, kick or kinesphere-invade (often unsuccessfully). Yesterday, I did a long muddy run (with three fantastic women). Jon and Kai did a T25 workout. Jules wrote a book about it—and, by that, I mean, yes, he recorded the details of Jon and Kai's exercise session in his field "diary."  In which all notes are spelled phonetically. (It's pretty awesome.) Both boys escaped out a birthday party sidedoor. It was not cool—but I get it: they had anxious energy to burn. They were quickly captured. Shortly after, both boys fit in some training runs for the Yam Scram—through the aisles of Gardener's Supply. The employees were very kind. We quickly rounded up the track team, paid for our purchases and left for home. Where we forced the boys to do jumping jacks and lift weights.

Olin's shirt fashion credit: Valerie Kiser Design

This morning, the boys swam at their lesson with Annie. Then, with two friends, they did some more Yam Scram training sprints, down the long hallway of the office building that houses the pool (and my office). Screaming like wild men. Straight past the yoga studio where a Kundalini class was just beginning. They were ushered home. Where they prompted began a game of evading kinesphere-invasions. A game that involves much tattling and crying. One kid was directed to the basement for a private yoga session. Then Jon did a T25 workout. Or maybe two. Then everyone geared up in snow gear and headed out for a sleet hike. (Yes, it was sleeting.) We spent almost an hour striding through slush and ice (me, in slippery rainboots) in an attempt to—I'll say it again—not kill each other. One kid, one adult and one dog loved this. One kid and one adult did not. The not-liking-hiking kid cried—understandably, because his boots and socks were soaked through. The liking-hiking adult carried him piggy-back for the rest of the hike. The liking-hiking kid asked the not-liking-hiking adult for a piggy-back ride, too, because "IT'S NOT FAIR" for only the soaking, sobbing kid to get carried. She obliged, in her slick and slippery rain boots, gingerly stepping over slush and ice and snow, miraculously not biting the mud.

Upon arriving home, cocoa was serving and the formerly crying kid soaked in a lavender-scented jet tub, which turned his attitude right around. For 15 minutes. The not-liking-hiking adult was instructed to go to yoga—at the same studio the shrieking kids sprinted past earlier in the morning. She gratefully obliged, as there was much swirling energy to be tamed.

In other news, we got a bunch of seeds and a new grow light. We are so excited that it's March 30. Officially spring!

This is 15 (together).

In the 15 years Olin and I have been together (10 of them married), we've created various Valentine traditions. We've gifted underwear (which is way less sexy than it sounds - fancy cold-weather first layers, like long johns, are favorite picks for this). For a number of years, we did 7 am breakfasts at Penny Cluse, saving the evening of 2/14 for our Platonic Pancake Lovefest. This was a pancake party for all of our friends - singles, couples, kids, whoever.

The most memorable of these happened 8 or so years ago, when 2 feet of snow trapped most of our guests at home. Not S and A. They snowmobiled over. Right down North Ave. And two single friends made it. Now they are married and expecting a baby. Like I said, Lovefest. Back then, when we were newlyweds. Or, at least, back then, when we were kid less and had more time for dates.

Today, our love looks more like this:

He is driving because the snowy, icy roads are dicey and that makes me super anxious.

He who remembered my mentioning months ago that I love the Vermont hats from Syrup Shop  and bought my favorite one, even I never told him the colors.

He who has been listening to me, for at least a week, obsess about my lower back pain. What if it's a kidney infection and not a snowboarding-induced strain?

He'll give me one of his kidneys, he jokes. And then, noticing real worry on my face, he listens to me read, aloud, a list of symptoms from WebMD.

He who pushes me to get behind the wheel at other times when I'm scared, to head back to the mountain when it'd be easier to just stay home and make the chili. Because he knows I'll be pissed at myself if I don't. 

And he cares.

I am awesome at picking people. (Not to brag.)

As someone who works in the field of behavior modification, I know that social support is a major "predictor of success." A little help from your friends... It takes a village... Cliche-say it however you'd like but I think most people would agree that life feels infinitely easier, and more fun, when you have "a strong social network." And by that I mean things like...

...Your partner doesn't lose his shit (or seem at all surprised, really) when he arrives home 1.5 hours after you do and, despite the fact that the kids have been watching videos since you walked through the door, the van is not packed for your trip. Nothing, really, is packed except the non-perishable food and your glasses and the snowboarding gear, which he stashed in the car the night before. It's not because you are lazy. It's because you're ping-ponging from room to room, over-thinking every item (and periodically pausing to thumb through a pile of pictures). It's because you suck at packing.

This guy.
Also, this guy (and several other awesome peeps) ate that (see below) pasta.

... Your totally selfless friend gives you the jacket off her back to wear so you can sneak in an extra snowboarding lesson after you discover that you left your snowboarding jacket at home for a long weekend of, um, snowboarding. And then another kind friend lends you her ski coat to wear the next day for your regular lesson. And then a third rockstar friend texts you with a choice of Burton jackets for Sunday—she'll cart whichever one you want up to the mountain for you, along with her own ski stuff, her two small children and their ski stuff.

...Your friend turns up after a few hours out with "twice-price" spice packets from the country store, without your even asking, because you forgot all of the spices for the chili you're making on Friday night. This in spite of the fact that, a day earlier, you subjected all of your friends to a painfully granular list of all the food you'll be bringing so everyone will "know what we will are supposed to have." (PS: You also forgot the bagels.)

A strong social support network is also the one that, when the friend who lent you the first-day jacket discovers three small shards of the Ball jar from which she is spooning her homegrown pesto have broken into the beautiful pasta dish she prepared while tending to an infant, rallies to find the bits of glass and puzzle them together. And when just one tiny piece is left missing, someone runs next door to get hotdogs for the kids, while someone else scrapes off the top layer of pasta and a small group huddles at the table to run through a quick risk analysis, arriving at the measured consensus to play "Noodle Roulette." There are only two rules: 1) savor each bite mindfully and 2) keep the conversation dull enough to delay laughter until the danger of ingesting glass has passed.

Recounting a fantastic weekend, I take this away: I may suck at packing (and driving and controlling my anxiety-induced outbursts and many other things). I may not be good at snowboarding, or even know how to ride a lift—yet.* But I am extraordinarily skilled at surrounding myself with amazingly awesome people. And I kinda think that makes me a winner.


*I can, however, now connect turns and ride the Magic Carpet with the best of the 3-year-olds. 

"What it is" is pretty great, really

Planned vs. Actual, Part I: 
Here's how I'd planned it: I'd wake up early and make a delicious breakfast - omelets with lots of veggies and roasted fingerling potatoes, from Pete's share. We'd hang out, rake leaves as a fam, then Jon would go for a long run with Demps. During this time, the boys and I would make thoughtful cards and lavishly decorate a Funfetti cake (not my choice but it's not my birthday) with leftover Halloween candy. We'd hang a birthday banner and balloons. Jon and the boys would toss around a football in the backyard while I prepped chili and pulled chicken for the birthday dinner/football game.


Here's what actually happened: Someone woke us up early to view his incredible candy collection. Then he played with his candy collection. Then he counted his candy collection. Then he added to his candy collection by stealing all of his brother's candy. Drama ensued. Trying to preserve a peaceful birthday for Olin, I scraped up the children, grabbed Demps, and headed to Ri's for a walk in the woods. I figured whatever Jon might do with this alone time would be better than what was happening with all of us at home (I was right). We walked, we lunched, we shopped at Hannaford's—all with the assistance of Ri, my angel. At one point, a child "melted" into the floor of the bread aisle. I hissed. I tugged on the sleeve of a puffy coat. I walked away, did some deep breathing exercises, turned turned back and talked the kid onto his feet, all while struggling not to pop open the bottle of wine in my cart (Predator).

When I got home no one wanted to make cards. They were eager to ice the cake, but the kid who was acting all generous just a few days ago apparently could spare only two candy cigarettes (he called them candy candles)—just one item of his 98-piece candy collection—for the cake. At this point, I was all "whatever" and just let the cake-making happen as it would, finger licking and all.

Friends came, dinner came together, and then this happened:

Indisputable joy.

Planned versus Actual, Part II: 
I'd written "We are grateful for... " on our chalkboard wall the other day and when our friends arrived this eve, all anyone (that'd be me) had come up with was "music." And... so they got to work. It's a bit off from what I'd envisioned but it works. I am, we are, grateful: friends, fun, family...um, music... and one certain handsome, grateful, fantastic Italian-Finnish (American) dude who, today, celebrated turning 37 with a stingily decorated finger-licked Funfetti cake.

Sometimes he just knows.

It started simply. I'd been feeling frumpy. I blamed it on my growing-out hair and too little exercise. And decided that I could turn this all around by buying a new dress for my cousin Liz's wedding. Silly me. 

It was an impulse decision. Up until this point—less than two weeks before the event—I'd been planning to wear the same black dress I'd worn to at least a dozen formal events, and a half-dozen weddings, in the last fifteen years... jazzed up with a new scarf, perhaps, or whatever fun accessories I could steal from my sis. The same black dress I wear to "serious" business meetings with staid corporate clients. I didn't want to wear this dress. I wanted a fun one. 

My day job didn't allow time for actual shopping so my sister advised Modcloth and, there, I  found an instant winner—a turquoise vintage-y frock, if you will, by the (sort of) same designer in a style very similar to the flattering but summery red one I wore to two weddings this summer. I had no doubt it would fit. Perfectly. 

It arrived. I couldn't zip it. And then with the help of Jon and my mom, I could zip it. But barely. And it restricted my ribs. And my lungs just a bit. I flipped. I was angry for deciding to order a new dress at the last minute. Why did I have to be so frivolous!? Why didn't I just wear the tried-and-true-if-boring black dress? I was angry that it didn't fit. It's all that wine-drinking without running, I whined. (Not sure how that would slim me in the ribs but...) But the thing that bothered me the most: I'd have to take the time to return this damn dress. To actually put it back in the box, tape it up and take it to the post-office, less than a mile from work and mail it back. For free. HOW WOULD I EVER DO THIS? Needless to say, I overreacted. A little.  

Somehow, after working through all of this, my mom and I ended up at TJ Maxx just before closing. And I bought this: 

Dance recitals aside, I have never before worn something like this, which means I do not own any shoes one might consider wearing with it. So I went a step further and purchased tall, strappy heels that I would typically never wear in real life. Because I can't walk in them. Mom and I somehow convinced each other that I looked awesome.  I started thinking up the matador-type moves I could on the dance floor. Hell, I might even do a Paso Doble with Jim. Or UB. This was going to be fantastic.

I came home and showed Jon, who simply raised an eyebrow. I sent my sister a text. She did not respond. Jon convinced me to try on the blue dress again. I could zip it all by myself. It was still tight but seemed to have stretched. We agreed that I should take it to the tailor to see if she could let it out, just a bit. And that's just what I did. I pick it up tomorrow. (I also returned the dress above, and the sexy, strappy shoes.)  

In the meantime, Jon surprised me with this sweet pendant to wear with the might-fit, or might-not-fit let-out dress. It's labradorite, a shimmery pale blue-green stone that will look just right with teal. Or black, if that's the way things go. Which will be fine because, as it turns out (Jon had no idea), this gemstone is purported to have a calming and harmonizing effect, "making it a very good stone for quick-tempered people."  

Sometimes he just knows.