Breaking down in the middle of the road can turn your day around.

Today, my life felt like a Zen Short of sorts.

When I left work, I was cranky and annoyed and frazzled. It hadn't been a feel-good day. And I was jetting out early to take Kai to the pediatrician—for shots. I needed to take the Escape, typically Jon's vehicle—a shift in plans that had prompted a hissy fit (mine) over mud-caked cupholders, fast food wrappers and abandoned softball snacks (which, this morning, I angrily referred to as "old nuts"). The car also contained toys, preschool papers, a college diploma (not mine) and two sets of skis that someone who was a small child in the 1960s must have worn. I have no idea of their origin.

Before work, I had removed all of these things from the car and tossed them onto the mudroom floor. I rinsed out the cup holder. So as I was pulling out of the parking lot of my employer, the Escape was uncluttered if not clean. It was all good. Turns out, not so much.

About halfway to Kai's school, the radio stopped working. And then started working again. The dash went blank and then flickered back on before all "computer" displays disappeared for good. I started feeling anxious, wondering if I should bail on the kid pickup, feeling lucky that Kai wasn't in the car already. I kept going, pulling into the Hannaford-plaza turning lane to get off the busy road. I glided to a stop. For good. The car was dead.

As for as car breakdowns go, my today's Escape escapade was charmed.

My first response: gratitude. The old Escape had chosen this relatively safe place to throw in the towel; I was by myself. I called the pediatrician and cancelled the appointment. Then I started flipping out. I called Jon and told him I had no idea what to do next (really?) and that I was SO hot (what?) He told me to calm the f*ck down (in much nicer words), call the car insurance and get the hell out of the hot car. So I did. And that's when the magic started happening.

• The Progressive man dispatched a tow truck.
• Someone called the police and two officers came out to investigate the the mysteriously abandoned car/direct traffic/get the car the hell out of the middle of turning lane. They directed me to get back behind the wheel and put the car in neutral and then they pushed me into the Burger King parking lot. 
• Since my car was still sort of blocking a driveway, Officer Jamie stuck by and told me amusing stories about his day, then invited me to sit in his air-conditioned car. He offered to clear off his front seat so I wouldn't look like a criminal in the back. I declined and offered to get him an iced coffee at Burger King. He declined.
• I got my own iced coffee—with real cream because didn't I deserve that?—and parked myself on the curb with the beverage. I posted pictures of my broken-down car and my calmed-down face on Instagram.
• Seeing my post, recognizing my location as one near her home, KIMBERLY FREAKING DROVE OVER WITH A LEMONADE POPSICLE. FOR ME. 
• Blown away by her kindness, I babbled a bunch of nonsense, gave her a hug, snapped her photo (for Instagram!) and vowed to be the kind of incredibly thoughtful person that does things like this much more often.
• Dave from Handy's arrived. He instructed me to get into his air-conditioned cab. He loaded up my car. He asked me what happened and, when he heard, he diagnosed a bad alternator.
• Then he drove me and the Escape with the bad alternator to Darren's shop WHERE OUR VAN WAS READY, after having gone in for a routine service this morning. (Which is why I was driving the Escape in the first place.) What? How lucky is that?
• I switched Jon's softball gear into the Escape—his after-work game was close enough to walk and now he had an awesome excuse to go out after the game and grab a ride home with someone else.
• I was too late—obviously—to get to Kai's appointment but just in time to get him from school. And with plenty of time to drive out to Jules too.

All of this kindness and serendipity had me feeling downright giddy. Lucky. Happy. The only one who was bummed was Kai. "I wanted to go to the doctor to get shots!" he said, crossing his arms and turning away to process his disappointment. 

"I'm sorry, Kai. Sometimes these things just happen. It's disappointing, I know." 

He turned back to face me. "Mama, can we go to the doctor tomorrow morning?" he asked with a trembling lip. 

"We can try," I said. "Maybe we'll get lucky." 

From a nearby curb, I watched frustrated motorists lined up behind this unoccupied vehicle—mine—that did not turn left, COULD NOT turn left, curse and toss their hands wildly into the air. I tried to wave them past.

I rode in the cab of this truck—and Kai was super jealous.
Dave, the driver, diagnosed the problem as a bad alternator before we even got to the shop.

I was super glad I switched into these shoes—from 3-inch-high sandals—before I left work.

Day 12 | 5x5 Challenge | Go for the run.

5 Minutes:
I'm using this post as a palate cleanser—as a way to transition from my overall approach to life from "asshole" to "effective." This finite and optional exercise will ease my fingers into typing what I really should be writing—something compulsory and ill-defined. It knew it'd be a challenging day. That's why I took five minutes this morning to walk through the garden, admiring the yellow flowers that have started to appear on the tomato plants, the tell-tale tops of carrots, the neat row of snap peas. To appreciate where sun intersected with shadows, creating sharp angles, to notice how simple was the swing hanging from the tree—something I never pay attention to when a kid is sitting on it.

I didn't run because I felt like there wasn't time. That might have been a mistake.

Tonight, I totally snapped. The boys suddenly turned starving when it was time for bed. I was too tired to fight it so I made some toast. I topped it with mashed avocado and sprinkled on the tiniest bit of salt. One kid poured himself a glass of milk and got down to it; the other threw himself to the ground and demanded almond butter. I said no, in a not-so-nice way. He peeled himself from the floor and brought it to the table. While the the boys consumed their snacks—one actively and one still in a pre-contemplative stage—I paged through a proposal. I set a timer for the snack deadline. I watched the clock. I became increasingly anxious. The snacking proceeded at a pace slower than the clock but because the pokey kid had moved into active eating, I allowed it to continue. And became more anxious. Teeth-brushing was agony. I raised my voice. I walked them up the stairs. They whined for 3 chapters. I told them it was too late. We started reading. One kid draped his legs over my entire body. I asked him to stop. The other leaned into occupy the little remaining space of my physical being and bonked my head. Hard. I started crying (frustration, not injury) so did he (pure sadness). It broke my heart. What was I doing?

Now they are sleeping and I am counting my missteps. These being the only steps I've taken in 6 days. It's been an exercise free-week. I'm drinking black coffee and pounding salted peanuts. I am basically doing the opposite of what's prescribed in the healthy living program I'm about to propose. Noticing the contradiction seems to only fuel its propagation. But these situations go in cycles. I know this. And, now having finished this reconciliatory post, I will move on to getting shit done, to making it happen.

And, next time, I won't skip the run.

5 Snaps:

 (Sweet card by Scout's Honor Paper) 

Day 10 | 5x5 Challenge | The Secret to Super+

5 Minutes:
I have history of overproducing, making everything more complicated than it could—or should—be. What results are 75-minute recorded interviews with scientists who will contribute a quote or two to a 1,500 word story—and hours wasted transcribing notes that "will come in handy" someday. (Though sometimes they do.)  Or a meticulous organized closet shelf in a room that now appears as if a shit-tossing tornado blew through. A brilliant idea so "perfectly" planned it never gets executed.  But in the last couple of years—thanks to kids and colleagues—I've learned to see the beauty of a MVP. That is, minimal viable product.

Peonies are beautiful—but so are wild flowers. Making a new recipe is fun but chopping up whatever veggies came in the CSA share and boiling rice actually gets dinner on the table. It's OK to sneak a pre-packaged snack into a backpack, and special one-on-one time time doesn't have to be spent at the beach. When you do it well—owning whatever "it" is (a quick, pointed call; a simple chicken stir-fry; a one-on-one walk)—Regular truly can be Super +.


5 Snaps: 

Day 9: 5x5 Challenge | Breakout retrospective

5 minutes:

I'm not sure I'd call myself a creature of habit so much as a slightly over-scheduled parent always seeking efficiency. I do J's pick-ups and Jon does K's because they're on our respective paths. But today the convergence of Julian's first day of camp and K's early school closure left me picking up both boys early—at least by our family's standards.  I was excited to have a date with Kai but when I picked him up all he wanted to do was go get his brother. So that's what we did. I convinced him to hold my hand as we walked on the muddy cut-through past run-down buildings and signs with so many instructions—"no dumping," "please don't block the gate." Past purple clovers with bumblebees and rambles of yellow buttercups. I thought of growing up and the old abandoned elementary school whose brick walls I used for bouncing tennis balls. I felt happy. And nostalgic. Kai was just glad to get to see Jules at his climbing camp.

*** 

There were not parking spots in the street, or on the lower levels of the garage, so I drove the whole way up. Why stop at 4 when you can go just a little more and see the entire city? So that's what I did. Peering down at a town that doesn't feel like mine so much anymore, I noticed the jewelry shop where Olin bought the diamond he presented me in Maine and thought all of the time we spent on these city streets together, drinking coffee down the street and tea right next door. I noticed the Flynn Theater sign and remembered my dancing days. I spun East to see the tops of  UVM halls, that school half the reason I'd come here in the first place. I thought of long summer days spent in a hot Terrill Hall. I thought of lunches at Mirabelle's with my friend Beth. I thought about how this all seemed like a lifetime ago. 

And then I circled down the echo-y stairwell. The heavy metal door slammed shut with a bang. A sound I associate with this town. To this day. 

5 Snaps: 

Day 7 | 5x5 Challenge | Tag-team

Observation: the 5x5 Creative Challenge isn't the only numerically based, social-sharing centered game in town. There is, of course, #100happydays, a initiative in which you're supposed to post a picture (every day for 100) of something that makes you happy. Today, I read about #7daysofreality—proposed by British mum blogger (who, as it turns out, happens to be a friend of my friend). I love both concepts. Which perhaps is why my 5x5 post today combines perfect moments, pictured, and REALITY, the kind that bites. Until you write about it and it turns out to be pretty funny. 

5 Snaps: 

5 Minutes Writing:
The day began mellow, with both boys obsessively writing in the Star Wars workbooks we bought yesterday at The Flying Pig. These things were such a hit that they insisted that we bring them with us (along with a lunchbox full of crayons and markers) to the farmers' market. So we did. They sat and colored, then climbed the big pine, then each selected a treat—a Rookie root beer for Kai; a Stony Loam Farm egg sandwich for Jules—so nicely. Treats were consumed. Kai and Jon did somersaults in a semi-private part of the lawn. It was idyllic. It was not typical. So we went to the library. WITH OUR DOG.

That's when shit got real. And it wasn't the dog. The boys were running and jumping and loudly talking through the aisles; they were in and out of the little outside reading nook. Jon and I were handing them back and forth while the other of us tried to find a book. It all basically could be characterized as a big parenting fail. We left: me, feeling like we're overly permissible parents raising rude young men and lecturing about proper library decorum; Jon, just looking silently agitated. Our next stop: the school playground, to burn off steam, riding bikes.

Except that no one wanted to ride bikes. They wanted to throw a found softball at each others' heads. I dismissed Jon to go for a run with the dog. And tried to prevent the boys from injuring each other. Which mostly worked. Then Jules found a purple marker and I turned my back. I won't go into the details, as the photos above likely make it quite clear.

But I will say this: A lot of good came out of that little purple autograph. Jon and I, on a date tonight acknowledged the solid tag-team parenting/partnering that happened around it (I insisted on going home for cleaning supplies to fix the mistake; Jon insisted that he be the one to drive back with the boys so I also could get in a run). And, as a family, we'd reviewed an important life lesson:

We all do stupid shit and make mistakes. But almost everything is fixable. And, when you're fixing a mistake, it's good to ask for help.

#realhappy

What I strive for isn't necessarily what makes me feel alive.

We are all frail. We all make mistakes. We all fall prey to a thousand emotions and exaggerations... In truth, it is not the tissue of our humanity that defeats us, but rather our refusal to accept who we are and to live accordingly, limitations included.  

Jane, the awesome yoga teacher, read this bit from Mark Nepo's book, The Book of Awakening today at the end of class. It resonated so I looked it up again this evening. Then I bought the book. The purchase is a Compact violation, no doubt, as the copy I ordered is new but... 1) It seems the book could ultimately make me more mindful, less wasteful and 2) I have an Amazon credit—birthday gift from Jon's parents—that, week by week, is being eaten away by Walking Dead zombies. And I don't even watch the show. Actually, I think my second point actually makes the Compact violation worse. So maybe scratch that one.

In any case, I've been spending a lot of time lately thinking about what I'm not:

• A person takes detailed digital notes and files them logically.
• A daughter/sister/friend who sends birthday cards and gifts before the actual anniversary.
• A mom who always remembers when it's snack week in the kindergarten class and bring-a-book-from-home day in the preschool one. 
• Someone who always knows just the right thing to say and the right times not to say ANYTHING.

Definitely not me. But all week, I'm been wishing things like this were true. Wishing I were not the person who scribbles to-dos with purple pens on random scraps of paper and scatters them across the earth. Who is still carrying my mom's birthday card and gift in my purse, 2 months and 1 day later. Who forgets Pirate Booty, and then a pirate book, on two consecutive days. Who blurts out 97% of things that cross my brain.

I can certainly strive to do better; I can stand to evolve. But now it strikes me that I also need to keep in mind what sorts of things most make me feel really happy and alive—like watching brilliant people do things that have nothing to do with order and measure and restraint.* Like Christopher Walken dancing his ass off in basically every movie he's ever made. (And the masterminds who made the montage of him doing it.) Or the OK Go dudes who combined campy choreography and rolling treadmills into one mindblowing video that makes me giddy every time I watch. And that's just what I do when I'm in a really shitty mood: I load up that OK Go video. 

Because that's the kind of person I am. Whatever that means.

*I realize it most definitely took order and measure and restraint to produce this art but you get what I'm saying, right? 

This photo is a screen shot from this video, which you should totally watch. Right now.

Sometimes it's dope to mope.

I am not moving to Australia. Because that simply seems like far too much effort. And I'm not going to claim that I had a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." Because it wasn't really. I know this. Everyone is safe. Everyone is healthy. I have a job. I have a home. I have heat (at least I have this warmth while inside the home, or the office, or the car). And plenty of food. But I'm in a super shitty mood.

Maybe it's because I didn't run this morning and didn't unroll my yoga mat this afternoon or evening. Maybe it's because things feel fuzzy and I like solid boundaries. Maybe it's because one kid melted into a mess of tears when I asked the two of them what "superfun" things they wanted to do this weekend while daddy was away. He doesn't want daddy to be away. And he also doesn't want daddy to have a meeting tonight. I take this personally. But I try to hide it, best as I can. And it mostly works to turn the tides. We three play Monopoly and make static, swirling our straight hair on synthetic fabrics. They "swim" in the jet tub while I urge them to wash behind their ears. We read Chapter 3 of Harry Potter. There are snuggles and back scratches. I pass as a more-than-acceptable second fiddle, I'd say.

And then when they go to bed, I get back to feeling sorry for myself. Olin returns home and agrees it's OK to mope about my rut. In the other room—for just a little bit. So that's what I do. And then I get back to creating order out of my emotional mess: making lists, sending emails, outlining ideas for a short story I'm starting on—in my purple Moleskine notebook with a strange syringe-shaped pen I got at some medical conference.

I feel better already.

Soon it WILL be spring.

Yesterday morning, I wrote this "Haiku to a Winter That Just Won't Die"

Today, sweet bird bands
Chirp cheerful songs in mild skies
Tomorrow, I weep.

Yesterday, at lunchtime, I took a great class with Rachel at Yoga Roots. It wasn't entirely pleasant—there were moments where she asked us to hold the asanas a good bit longer than was comfortable—but it was wonderful for me in all sorts of ways and I knew it.

I looked at these guys a lot today. 

Yesterday, during class, Rachel offered us this piece of wisdom:*

When you resist your reality, you create suffering.
Learn to live skillfully within your reality to eliminate unnecessary struggle. 

Today, I needed that advice.

Yesterday, it was 30 degrees and, for most of the day, beautiful and sunny.

Today, school was cancelled because it'd soon be dumping snow. My reality was that I'd be hanging at home with the boys but getting at least a little work done would be necessary. I knew there would be squabbles. And screen time. 

And there was. But it was fine. More than fine. 

I'm not sure my approach to the snow day was particularly skillful but I shared some sweet time with the kids, got some stuff done—and, overall, managed to keep the suffering to a minimum.

Plus, this week's snowstorm should make for some good riding on Saturday and, truth is, this winter will die soon. It will be spring again.

*I might be somewhat paraphrasing.

I love these people.

I didn't share a childhood with these people. But we've grown up together.

I married into the most fantastic group of tight-knit, solidly awesome grade-school friends. Who all married the most amazing of women. And then spawned a bunch of pretty special kids.

I wasn't there when these guys played video games in middle school or threw parties in their parents' basements after high-school football games - but I was around for Round 2, in the three-bedroom Queens apartment they rented post-college. The one where John and Dan shared a room with two twin beds. The one where I ended up after an evening at the Irish Cottage, one April night in 1999.

Without this crew's acceptance, no doubt, I wouldn't have lasted long. And when Olin left for Cali, these people kept me company: taking me to cooking classes and on bike rides through Flushing Meadows Park, packing my shit into a U-haul and then navigating it through Manhattan. 

We've danced at each others' weddings and celebrated new starts at celebratory showers; knit gifts for fresh babies and and offered tips for dealing with obstinate kids and tricky situations.

Now, on the rarer times when we're together, we eat and drink (far too much) and pass the time with fun and games -kid-friendly themes by day, irreverent ones by night. We laugh. And we laugh and laugh, realizing all the while how lucky we are to have each other. 

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. 

I've got a new mantra.

It all started with a bit of crooked cutting. His goal was to follow the perfectly framed edge of the catfish photo but his scissored slipped, the edge frayed and he flipped out. "I messed up! I can't do this. Mommy, you do it."

"I can't do your homework, Jules. And it doesn't have to be perfect," I told him calmly, offering the very advice I so often can't seem to accept myself. "Plus, we're making a collage [with Mod Podge - and I could barely contain my excitement]. Sometimes it actually looks cooler if the pictures don't all have straight edges."

That he wasn't buying. Jules is a guy with an affinity for angles, straight lines and squares, just like his dad. Maybe it's those engineer genes. But he calmed down and settled back into striving for straight lines. Which went mostly almost perfectly. Lucky for us.

Then he started writing the words. The task was to capture two facts about electric eels and he was pleased by those he picked: 1) an electric eel is not really an eel—it's a fish, and related to a catfish; and 2) an electric eel can put out enough voltage to light up a Christmas tree. Fascinating really. But that "r" starting off "related" somehow made its way to the paper facing the wrong way, the mirror image of a right-facing R. He screamed and threw the crayon. "It's a stupid R. I hate this." Two short sentences containing two words that are off-limits at our house. (Those who know how I speak in the company of adults might find this amusing but I'm pretty strict on this point.)

I showed him another superb benefit of collages: You can just cut off that part. If you want, you can cut all the words apart and glue them down separately. And sometimes that's just the right art effect you're going for. He bought it. We kept going. To great success. From his determined expression, and the chatter-box commentary that accompanied the sketching of Christmas tree clearly illuminated with lots of eel-powered voltage, I could tell he was  proud. And I felt proud, too: I hadn't intervened with his vision, hadn't reached more than once for the sponge-brush to help him smooth the Mod Podge, hadn't pushed him to paint the white parts of his poster with watercolors as I'd envisioned, hadn't suggested, a second time, that he might want to find one more fact—because Ms. E had assigned them to report on "two or three" things.

Pushing "perfect" (unattainable, of course) might be the number-one thing I want to avoid as a parent. Of course, I want to encourage the boys to reach—within reason. But I also want them to feel that they that they can create, or conceptualize something, and feel confident enough to share it with someone else, or lots of someone elses, before they feel like that something is fully figured out. That's how you learn, that's how you grow. That's how you get awesome. And have fun.

But I struggle with insecurity of sharing semi-shaped stuff. A lot. I spent more than a dozen years in a world where things are supposed to be edited to perfection before they leave your desk. Now, I work in a role where things have to be iterative. It's empowering. It's liberating. History aside, it's the way I actually prefer to work: with creative input from all sorts of smart collaborators. But I often need to be reminded to let go. To route what I've got right now. And, on that front, I appreciate the encouragement, the coaching.

Today, I told this to my boss when he told me not to overthink part of a project. "Often, I totally need that reminder and love that you help me with that," I'd said. "But not this time. You'd be proud of me. I'm really keeping things moving, even if it feels like I'm just throwing shit on the walls." He loved that. Truly. He even stopped by my office later to suggest a "Throw Shit" sign for my wall.

I'm thinking about it.

Lowering the bar can make you healthier, happy and richer.

Maybe I've had high standards. Or medium-highish standards that have offered an easy out, an excuse, for accomplishing... nothing. If I couldn't do it "right."

If I couldn't run at least 3 miles, then I might as well not even lace up the shoes. What was the point? 

If I couldn't do runs with my friends, then snowboarding wouldn't be fun. I'll just stay home and make the chili.

If I didn't make a really amazing family calendar then I might as well just let everyone hang the free ones they got from their bank/car dealership/alma mater.  Or just use their iPhones. 

You know what I did in this fancy gear? I remembered, after a 6-year hiatus, that I ride regular, not goofy.
I practiced heelside and toeside turns and perfected hockey stops. On the kids' hill.
And then I had a beer with my riding partner to celebrate our progress. 

But, these days, there's no reaching the bars set where they've been. I can't always find time to run 3+ miles—but I can fit in 2 miles on the treadmill after the boys get off to school, before I shower and leave for work. I'm never going to ride like my past-pro (for real) snowboarding friends—but I can relearn the basics in lessons while my little guys are in their own classes so that I don't dread the family trips to the mountain that inevitably are going to happen for the next decade. 

And my 2014 calendars are going to be filled with the first 12 high-enough-resolution sorta cool photos I can find in the next 24 hours (or two, because then I'm going to bed). I've slacked just the right amount on this one: Shutterfly calendars are 50% off till January 7. 

What I've somehow finally started to learn in the last month or so is this: Lowering the bar is making me happier, healthier and richer. I think I'm becoming wise at 38. 

Angry runs have their place too.

I've written much about the therapeutic effects of a good run. The story usually goes something like this: I'm so anxious I'm about to explode, so I tie on my shoes and run away, music turned loud. I return refreshed, renewed and ready to rejoin the world.

But sometimes—on days when the stars and my brain chemicals clash in the worst of ways—the "run relief" story takes a slightly different shape. It's usually when I'm mopey and teary and snippy and snappy and Jon (bless his heart) basically sweeps the boys up and orders me to run. I don't want to go but I say "ok, 2 miles." Sometimes this compliance takes longer. Today, it took a while. And, today, because it is November and because, today, I hate November, I decided to run on the treadmill. I wanted to run by myself (sorry, Digs), in my dark grey basement. Sorta like listening to Elliot Smith to cheer you up when you're feeling down (ridiculous), it seems now as I write this. But we've haven't set up the treadmill yet and there aren't any outlets where anyone might expect them. Which PISSED ME OFF and made me ask myself, why did we buy this house anyway? I'm prone to overreact. Particularly on days like this.

So then I decided I would not run. I would clean. Until I looked at the piles of papers everywhere and got overwhelmed. I pulled out some yoga pants and the running shirt that makes me look like a speed skater--or a condom, depending on who you ask. I looked for any iDevice that had music and a charge. I snuck out the front door. (Sorry, again, Digs.)

I sprinted up the hill and cursed the neighbor who clearly needs a new invisible fence for her fierce-barking but friendly dog. Then, lungs burning, I slowed to my typical pace. I passed the home we bid on and lost, the perfectly situated house that looks especially fantastic on the outside. I realized I was being a complete ungrateful asshole and just kept at it. I cursed along with lyrics, aloud, until I realized that people were out raking leaves and I looked and sounded like a dangerous crazy person.

At the point where I could make a right turn and tack on another mile or so, I took the path lazily traveled, stubbornly refusing to give in to my body, which was saying, "keep going - you really should do a five-miler, today." I'd said two. And that's what I'd do. On the final stretch, I didn't feel euphoric. I felt itchy (literally), a little guilty for leaving Digs behind and sort of annoyed that I didn't keep going. But, on the bright side, the 20 minutes I'd spent stepping to the beat of Girl Talk had kept me from drinking, eating and saying things that I shouldn't.  And now, writing this, with a glass of lemon water leftover from last night's dinner—a delish tagine made by Olin—I feel grateful. Much better.

"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.

It's time to put down the coffee.

It's not like I was checking Facebook. It happened while I was attending to the little guy—who was shouting through the window to shut the door "so mosquitoes wouldn't get in." Mosquitoes only would have gotten into the mudroom, plus it was 7:30 am, but that's besides the point. I wanted him to feel he was being heard. (And I wanted reinforce this way of thinking, in a house that typically has at least one door totally ajar.) I stood up and shut the door.

It was an awkward half lounge/left-handed door shove, and I was gripping a canary-yellow coffee mug (that I don't even like very much) in my right hand. And what happened as a result was that drops of my cafe au lait showered down onto Julian's Fossils of Lake Champlain coloring page.  My heart skipped a beat. But Jules started laughing (an automatic reaction, it now seems) so I thought we were good. I expected bad—after all, my autopilot coffee-sloshing had ruined his work—but all seemed good.

So I said this: "Let it dry. You'll have tan spots but it will be okay. I'm sorry. It was accident. It was my bad - but totally an accident." 

It was the apology that seemed to stoke the reaction I'd first expected: cry, following by rubbing (which ripped a hole into a yet-to-be colored coral creature of some sort), followed by accusations and demands that we go to back to the museum to get another page to color RIGHT NOW.

We couldn't go now -  the bus was 2 minutes away. He had school. I had work. We would go on Friday when I was taking the day off, when he was off of school. The promise did not placate. Jules was pissed. With good right. I mean we all make mistakes but it doesn't seem okay that a careless coffee-splashing door-slammer should be able to get away with ruining your art in a single sloppy lunge. And without any apparent consequences.

It was a wake up and smell the, um, coffee moment. I move mindlessly from moment to moment of my day, coffee cup in hand. It's sort of ridiculous when you think about it. So I'm imposing a penance: Only 2 cups of coffee today. Sitting and savored. I'm sorry, Jules.

It really is all about perspective.

Tonight, at dinner, we went around the table and—when Julian called upon each of us (the boy is big-time into school rules)—we shared something good that happened to us that day. This is the stuff you read about in books: the warm fuzzy family moments that come together when everybody's good moods and energy levels align.

Jules told us about his two "Terrific Tickets." These are tickets, Julian has told us many more times than once, that you get in Ms. Emily's class for being "terrific"—using your manners, being a good friend, listening well. Today, apparently, he earn a ticket for offering up his spot to a friend and then another for saying thank you when he received that ticket (that second incentive seems too easily earned if you ask me).

Jon shared that he'd had an exciting day cause he won an award for doing good work.

Then it was the turn of the "person... with the white shirt that has black things on it... the person with the black hair... and the blue eyes..." Note: I am the person with the white-and-navy dress, with the (dyed) dark-brown hair and the eyes that are sort of more green than blue. But Jules, obviously, was referring to me. So I took my turn. "I was very lucky today to get the hole in my tooth fixed. Very lucky that now it's all better." And I couldn't resist tacking on a lame lesson: "But my dentist said I need to be more careful: I need to brush my teeth better and eat less candy." Lie: What the dentist said was I need to stop clenching and grinding, or I should buy a $1000 mouthguard, or I should plan to keep coming back for the same missing filling (not to mention the worn-down molars). But never mind that. Kai was up.

And excited to go. "I got pushed down on the playground and hurt my foot and I cried and cried," he said.

Jules, the moderator, points out that we're sharing good things.

"No, no," Kair corrects him. "It's OK, because I'm a tough guy."

God love this boy. Kai had an apparently awesome day despite the fact that his friend pushed him down. And made him cry and cry. (Jon says I can't ask him which friend... Why the hell not?)

And, actually, I had a pretty awesome day too. Truly, I was grateful that the tooth situation was so straightforward, that the dentist got me in this afternoon, that my job is flexible enough that I could jet out and back - a little late lunch if you will. Yes, half my face was numb, I had some sort of rubber dam in my mouth and someone was suctioning away my saliva, but I got to close my eyes, lean back and listen to not-bad jazz for 45 minutes or so in the middle of my workday. It wasn't yoga. But it wasn't half bad.

Now, I sit down to work (quick blog diversion). Tomorrow's dinner is bubbling on the stove—it's got coriander instead of cumin and basil in place of oregano, due to a delayed shopping trip. No big deal - I'll hit City Market soon. Coltrane is playing. Another night, I'd be cranky to be having to work after the boys are in bed. Instead, I feel grateful to have this work—work that I like, work that draws upon both my writing and my nutrition worlds, work that I can do sitting on one of great-Uncle Frank's Barcelona chairs, drinking coffee and then Moroccan mint tea, while all of my boys sleep.

These kinds of good days—days when everything feels just fine, great even, despite "emergency" fillings—are, I think, the best days of all.

I have trouble with steady.

The other day, running (uphill), I launched into "lamp-post" negotiations: when I reach that pole...  I started thinking...  I'll walk. Then I changed my mind: No, I'll run faster. I wanted to keep going, just not at the same painfully steady pace. In this moment, kicking it up, pushing harder, was far more appealing than chugging along.

I'm sure there's plenty of science to explain that tendency but, right now, I'm too lazy to look it up. Pretty sure it has to do with dopamine. And instant gratification. And all the things that make me constantly crave new things. A tricky thing for a mom of two with a full-time job and a mortgage. There's a lot of routine in my world. A lot of Groundhog Days.

On one hand, there's daily evidence of rapid change: Soft buttery bellies have leaned out and are starting to ripple into skinny-boy six-packs. (The adults 'round here are evolving in the opposite direction, albeit much more slowly.) And, still, some definitive firsts. J boarded a school bus for the first time last week. K refused to wear a Pull-Up to bed tonight. (I deferred on that and will probably be paying at 2 am.)  Milestones—yes. But not mine.

I've just come off a big run of years marked by proposals, big plans and pregnancies, promotions and well-received pitches. Major purchases. Attention, recognition, acquistion. All exciting stuff, great for unleashing big hits of dopamine—a chemical that drives us all and me, I have evidence to believe, moreso than others. So that was good. But my cadence these days is different. My world is mostly about maintaining and sustaining, improving status-quo systems—and ones that are constantly shifting. Going with the flow, patiently, with a big-picture focus. Trusting that I'm not messing everything up without the proof of solid analytics.

I'm not naturally wired to lean into that—but I'm trying. Because I can see that "succeeding" at that effort would be a beautiful thing.

I go through phases.

I bought baby carrots today. And wipes that allow me to disinfect a counter without having to exercise a single spray. I've been washing my face with a similar convenience product okay for sensitive skin. This is not typical. Or has not been—until recently. And there's more.

These days, if I invite you over for dinner (which I love to do),  you can pretty much expect to be served hot dogs and burgers, often purchased pre-pattied from the Shelburne Meat Market, just down the street. Corn on the cob might be served on the side. Or potatoes that require only slicing and oiling before they hit the grill. If you ask what to bring, I'll tell you a salad. I appreciate your chopping. If I make it myself, it'll be a compilation of pre-washed greens, baby tomatoes, slivered almonds and olives. If I'm feeling generous, I'll slice up some scallions. Dessert will probably be a couple of pints of premium ice cream—or maybe a "fancy" dessert (see below) made by layering pre-made pound cake around a half gallon of cookie-d ice cream. (Mary McCartney told me to do it.)

If you look closely in the corners, or you help me to clean up the bins of Legos that the kids have dumped around the house throughout the night, you'll notice tufts of cat hair and dog fur (this actually always has been typical). I don't change out of my bathing suit when I get home from the beach (it's not wet). I lost my makeup bag for most of the weekend (nbd).

I know some friends will say that this is the start of a slippery slope but this caring less about little things—letting them drop to make way for more space to fill with people and parenting and work projects, I think, is a good thing. For now. Because I don't think it's the start of anything. I can only sustain this sort of living for a short time, and then I'm back to chopping pounds of (locally grown) plants for new vegan recipes and railing against all of the wasteful paper products 'round the house and wasting time changing my nail polish. It's sort of a seasonal cycle. How 'bout you?

Going with the flow is refreshing.

"Do you have your suit on? We're going to hit the driving range, then go to the swimming hole, then over to Flatbread." 

My skin starts to itch. Do I have my suit on? Um, no. I'm literally just stepping out of the Escape, back from a quick kid-book shopping spree at the Goodwill on the way home from our hike in the woods at Chris and Ri's. (We have separate cars because I had one too many margaritas the night before.) He's loading the van with golf clubs and back packs.

I haven't shaved my legs in three days. What are we going to do with Dempsey? I am shouting things over my shoulder, grumpily, as I run into the house. I don't want to miss out on family fun but I need advance warning of plans. It's not a quality I like but it is. When I pass the dining room en route to my suit, I spy an empty bowl, a dollop of creamy yogurt right on the table. Not even on a placemat. I lose my shit. This isn't a frat house, I scream. The boys, all in the van, waiting, don't hear. I think.

I am a J (as in ENFJ - I can't stop with this Myers Briggs thing). Jon is a P. As I understand it, this means that I prefer things to be planned out in advance, and Jon prefers to take things as they come. It all seems backward, as I am supposedly the creative in this partnership; he, the engineer. Perhaps that's why these opposite tendencies have attracted us to each other, even as they drive us crazy.

So. We go. Cruising along verdant roadways, noticing the bluebird skies and warm rays reflecting on fields and farms and cows, my annoyance fades. By the time we pull into the dusty little lot near the swimming hole, I am actually in a good mood. We meet up with Chris, Ri and the boys. We wade upstream, admiring the shimmering and speckled Mad River rocks, carrying snacks, packs and little boys. We park on on a sandbar. And chill. Splash around. And then—if we are to get a table at dinner—we have to go. We start packing up.

I strip off my skirt and tank—and dive into the water, letting the current pull me downstream. It is fast (but not too fast). It is freezing. Totally refreshing. I can't stop laughing. This is so worth leaving yogurt on the table (though, of course, I'd cleaned it up.)

The dip is quick. We have to keep moving or there'll be no flatbread in our future. But on the trek back I spot the perfect log. This is the wood we can make into the side tables I've been imagining for weeks.

"I want this log," I tell him.

"It's super heavy - but we can try to float it downstream." Jon is always up for adventure. And so we float the log.  And then he and Chris loft it into the mini-van, Jules taking pictures, while Ri, the big guys and I drive into town to grab a table. 

The day turns out perfectly. "Planned" by a P. 

My Perceiving He-Man with our perfect log.

I can live without an itinerary. Sometimes.

August has been amazing: it's the first we've been home with no where to go. And after so many full or partial weekends away, two days of no-real-plans felt luxuriously spacious.

Maybe we should be working on the house (starting with the floor pictured, above and below)... or spending long, epic days on the lake (we've managed to fit in just a few short situations). But all I really want to do is meander and socialize. I want lazy, laid-back days but ones that feel rich. And this weekend, that's just the way things worked out.

A surprise (it'd been raining all day) Friday-night dinner at the truck stop meant not having to cook, running into lots of friends and happy boys.

Saturday morning, Kai and I were scheduled for a date while J & J kayaked. I'd planned to do something, um, awesome (you gotta work hard to stay competitive in the cool-parent game when you're married to Olin) but as it turned out, neither Kai nor I cared about leaving the compound. So we sat around in PJs (and costumes) watching Care Bears on the iPad, reading books, and painting our toe nails. An old friend, in town from Providence, stopped by. I met Ri to run along the water, then we grabbed iced coffees and took a spin around Anjou. We went to Shelburne Farms - twice - during off, peaceful hours. Jules and I made a cherry pie. There were two delicious dinners with amazing friends... ones where the whole fam had fun. And none of this—NONE  of this—was planned by Friday at 5.

It unfolded and we rolled. A beautiful thing.

(Update: I just realized, when I hit publish on this post, that my Grandpa Bill passed away 25 years ago today. I have so many great memories of these sorts of simple-spent days—baking, hanging, talking, eating—with him.)