A Day in Paradise

There's nothing worse than being the sick mother of a well child. Today I am heartsick. I miss my dad. Twenty-four years ago at the age of 40, he died.

Every right of passage has been met with a deep sigh because he wasn't there. He missed every one of them. The loss felt especially personal because my dad died by suicide. In one agonizing moment, he made a decision that he couldn't take back, destroying his life and what was once normal for those who loved him.

So, what's a broken-hearted mom to do on the anniversary of her father's death? Go to Santa's Workshop. My husband, child and I made our second annual pilgrimage to the Lark Toy Store, which we like to call Santa's Workshop. Lark is the world's largest independent toy store.

Here's the setup. We are going to Santa's workshop for a preview. He and the elves are too busy, so we won't be seeing them. However, I will make a list and pass it along to Santa. He'll take it under advisement while deciding which gifts he will deliver on Christmas morning. In actuality, Santa will bring whichever toy received the most sustained playtime, plus a couple little things.

My job is to write it all down without judgment. I was having a tough time. I caught myself telling the kid that this toy wasn't that great: "I don't know, I think this is kind of cheap."

I heard it. I heard myself metaphorically peeing on the good time because I felt sad. I have seen this kind of mood go on indefinitely in the past, dangling precariously close to depression.

But today it didn't. I did what all moms do when we don't feel good - whatever is in front of us to be done. Kiddo indicated what was cool in word and deed. I made note.

In the end, we had some fun. We played with everything in the store, and rode the hand-carved carousel. We bought Jelly Belly's, licorice and all-day suckers.

I had a bit of a cry in the car on the way home. When we got home, I hugged the kiddo and said, "You are Larry's grandchild. Do you remember meeting him in heaven before you were born?"

"Yes," said the kid, "he told me he loved me."

Of course he did. I would have expected nothing less.

Numero Uno

My kid likes to win. We have races to the car and back to the house. We have drinking water races. Bike races. Shower races. Sometimes, I learn that am the loser in a race, and I didn't even know I was competing.

"How could our child be so competitive?" my husband and I have asked each other. The kid does not participate in competitive sports, just swimming lessons and Cirque du Soleil-type circus class. My husband and I have scratched our heads for at least two years.

And then, there was Uno.

We began with open hands to learn the basics. We were having a blast, and then it turned. I started saying things like, "Let's stick it to Daddy."

As I'm certain you are aware, when you have one card left in your hand, you have to shout "Uno" before your fellow players catch it or suffer a penalty. Well, the kiddo forgot, and I shouted, "Uno," and pointed aggressively as if to say gotcha.

I made my child cry.

In that moment, I got it. The competitive thing comes from me, and possibly Dad. I will leave him to contemplate his own dark side.

We have talked a lot about being a "gracious winner or loser." When we win, can we thank the other team for being so on their game that the level of our game rose up to meet it? If we lost, can we be happy for the victor and know that we did our best?

We all need to experience the thrill of victory and agony of defeat and know how to move on to the next moment. Can we trust that we will get another chance to play and that it could be different?

Clearly, I need some more practice.

Butt Crack is Whack

I have been surrounded by crack lately - not the powerfully addictive form of cocaine. Rather, I have been forced to witness an endless parade of butt cracks. At every school event or activity, there is at least one mom who while kneeling or sitting criss-cross applesauce on the gym floor shares too much information.

I assume this epidemic began when jeans were on the low rise. Moms everywhere watched fashion experts who told us not to wear the mom jeans. You know, the ones with the waist that sits just under your ribcage with the small pockets that make your backside look like the broad side of a barn.

So as not to be caught in the mom jeans, we gave them up in favor of the boot cut, low rise jeans that were the rage. We traded the wide seat for muffin tops.

I tried the low rise jeans after I had the kid. Every time I wore them, I was reminded of the extra roll of baby weight that had appeared where my lovely waist used to be. The low rise waist sliced right through the worst of it. What's more, I was always on hyper alert for a change in temperature so that I could pre-empt any plumber moments. Find me a sleep deprived new mom who has the brain capacity to diaper, feed, bathe and entertain a newborn while keeping tabs on her pants. I went straight to yoga pants and stayed there for 3 years. I did have one pair of what I formerly referred to as my fat jeans that worked; however, I tore the seat out of them in a freak movement class accident which resulted in my mooning the entire community center. See previous post, You Can't Save Your Face and Your Ass at the Same Time. Ladies, I do feel your pain.

I completely understand that times are tight and that clothing, shoes, boots and winter gear for kids who are constantly growing is the financial priority. It certainly is at our house. Thankfully, there are lots of mid rise jeans available in every price point. I found some at Target last year for $16. They are not the designer Not My Daughter's Jeans, but I don't have to fret about the muffin tops or plumber's smiles. I figure I have at least one more season before the Target jean's seat warranty expires.

Until mom's rise to the mid rise occasion, let's have a moment of silence for the still suffering mom caught in low rise hell and agree to avert our gaze from the potentially distracting derriere's while seated in the gym.

Walk the Vote

I am a patriot, and today the kiddo and I walked the walk, literally. Together, my 5 year old and I knocked on doors to encourage folks to vote for 4-1/2 hours. Most of our neighbors had already gone to the polls early this morning. I am not surprised because we live in Minnesota, the votingest state in the union.

In our precinct, every identified voter will receive 3 visits reminding her to vote. We were the first wave. Every home received a door tag. If the residents had already been to the polls, the kiddo left a green door tag, indicating that no one need visit them again today. If they were not home, the kid hung a blue door tag. The blue tags on the homes let the afternoon and evening volunteers know to knock again with and neighborly reminder to get to their polling place. We were prepared to inform them where to go to vote or offer a ride if they needed one.

When our work was finished, we voted. I cast my ballot, and the kid got to cast one as well. I am proud to say that in Minnesota, the children have an official ballot with the pictures of the candidates so they could identify their chosen candidate. The kids got to vote for our 3 referendums also.

Every time I vote, truly, every single time, I am filled with such gratitude for the privilege that I cry. The tears typically start flowing as soon as I get in line at the polling place. People have worked tirelessly and even died so that I can stand in line and be heard.

As a stay-at-home mom, I often feel that my voice isn't important because I am not out in the working world, mixing it up, lobbying for my values. I don't bring home the big bucks so there are some people who really don't care what I believe. However, on this day, what I think counts just as much as a billionaire, but not more than someone who is living in more desperate circumstances.

On the other hand, I have 6 hours to devote to my country today. Today, we were heard. We made a difference.

I am a patriot: a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion. I am also a parent. All you have to do is substitute the word "child" for "country," and you've got my job description.

My parents taught me that you must vote. It is your duty as a citizen. I am proud to say that my kid has accompanied me in voting every year of her life.

Thank you to all the patriots with whom we walked today.

Alan Greenspan says, "I dunno."

"Hey, Alan Greenspan, what happened to the economy? I dunno," chirps my 5 year old, with a wink and a very authentic looking Alan Greenspan shrug.

Such is the economic discourse in our kitchen most mornings. We listen to the morning news while getting ready for our day. The economic news is frightening, but when I heard Alan Greenspan's response to legitimate questions about the results of his economic care and direction, we had to laugh. It also reminded me of a recent conversation I had with my kid.

"Why did you throw balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while I was driving? Have you lost your mind?"

"I dunno."

I have to say I believed it. There are times in one's life when, upon reflection, the only possible response is - well, it seemed like the thing to do at the time. This line of thinking sums up virtually every decision I made during my first two years of college.

Maybe why did this happen isn't the question. I rephrased, "Was there any part of you that thought that throwing balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while she was driving on 35W South in rush hour was a bad idea?"

"Yeah."

"So, you had a small feeling that maybe throwing wet Kleenex's at Mommy while she was driving was a bad idea?"

"Yeah."

"Then that is why there will be consequences. When a very small voice tells us that maybe what we're about to do isn't a good idea, we must listen to it. When we go against what that still, small voice is telling us, we suffer. We could have driven right into the ditch, but we didn't. We were lucky this time. Obviously, you need some regulation to make sure that you practice listening to that small voice within you."

The regulatory action taken was to remove the Kleenex box out from the back seat. If the kid needs a tissue, I'll distribute accordingly. Water is now served in bottles only, no cups. The kid's needs are met, but in a way that does not threaten the safety of all the passengers in the car.

Perhaps I will loosen these restrictions when I see evidence that the kiddo is listening to that small voice.

Over the last couple of months I have wondered if anybody associated with this financial crisis had even some teeny, tiny inkling that maybe what they were doing was not a good idea. I suspect the answer, if folks are like me, is no. Success happens, it's exciting and you want more. Things get moving really fast, you get tired, lose perspective. It's there, but you're so busy and so out of practice in listening to the voice that you really don't hear it. Eventually, there will be a crash. When the crash happens, it doesn't just affect us, it touches everyone around us.

Some regulation is necessary. When a kid steps out of line, parents provide structure to give them a chance to listen to the voice within. If the voice is telling us, this seems like a bad idea, it probably is.

I can tell you that I haven't been pelted with wet Kleenex since.

Happiness & Health Care are Sexy

My husband and I have an happiness agreement. We each need to do whatever necessary as individuals to be happy. My husband works long hours and I miss him. I tell him, "Do what you must do during the day, and then come home happy." Happiness is sexy.

This way, we bring our best selves for our time together. Also, since we show up serene, there is no reason to rely on the other person to make you happy, which has never worked for us.

If one of us is unhappy over an extended period of time, the other asks, "What do you need to do to be happy? Can I help?" We trust each other to figure it out and ask for help when necessary, knowing that when we ask, help will be there.

My husband has the privilege making a living with his passion and it shows. Getting paid for what you would do for free anyway rocks. And it is sexy.

However, there is a shadow. We were married in June of 2001 and by November 2001, he was laid off. When the economy goes south, the creatives are the first to go, even if they are gifted. It's just what happens. It's the economy, stupid.

Here's the thing, companies still need identity, logos, ad campaigns and websites so the creatives are always hired back, but as freelancers.

My husband would be happy doing freelance work, after all, it's the same work. But we have a problem. Freelance means no medical insurance. Yes, plans can be purchased, but I have a chronic illness. No one would provide me with a plan that we could afford. Thus, my husband has had to limit some of his career choices because we have to have medical insurance.

If we had universal health care in this country, he could do exactly what he wants to do. His business would sink or swim, but we wouldn't go broke because of a medical catastrophe or the medical appointments that I need to keep my illness in check.

I have a theory that if medical care was universally provided that entrepreneurs and small business owners would be set free to do what they do best. This would be true liberty. People could apply their creativity to unknown areas and create new as yet unknown facets to our economy.

People with families, especially women, could start small businesses because they wouldn't have to worry about how they were going to get through cold and flu season.

Business owners could hire workers to grow their companies.

The fear is that the care wouldn't be as good. A sick person would have to wait 3-4 months to get an appointment.

I have news. Over the last few months, I made appointments with 4 new providers. I waited 3 months for every one.

None of these providers accepted my primary insurance. If I didn't have secondary coverage, I would have been out of luck. One of my doctors is from Germany. He told me that he patients can't pursue the recommended treatments because even folks who have insurance have high out-of-pocket costs for durable goods. "In Germany, we do not deal with this," he said.

With the economy as it is today, more and more folks will be laid off and hired as freelance with no benefits. The creatives are the canaries in the cave.

I believe health care is a human right, like clean water. When we all have it, we all have more liberty to pursue happiness, and that is sexy.

Everything I Needed to Know About Scraping a House, I Learned at the Nail Salon

I have never scraped a house, but I didn't think I was going to like it. I was in charge of scraping 50 years of old paint from the cedar shake siding and cement blocks from our two bedroom bungalow with a walk-out basement. At first, I figured this job would probably be a demoralizing waste of several weekends.

Then I thought, it could also be an opportunity to offer my work as a gift to my creator much like the ceaseless prayer of the ancient monks. I set my intention to infuse each scrape with all the love that I could muster. I gave myself over to the scraping.

Turns out, I am a natural. I was able to penetrate through the decades right down to the bare brick.

As I scraped in silence, I asked myself, How is it that I intuitively know how to scrape like a pro? Was I a painter in a past life?

No. Well, maybe, but I don't remember.

I mindfully observed myself expertly shimmy my scraper into a subtle crevice - with the same delicate aggression that the nail technician applies to a beautiful hand.

At once I knew the truth, I have been trained by the nation's most gifted scrapers.

I have sat before the hands of the masters all over these United States. These capable women have stripped the old, dead acrylic from my fingertips and returned to me ten gleaming jewels.

I have sat in awe as chips of red acrylic flew through the air with each fearless flick of a virtuoso's wrist. They each had a sixth sense as to where the acrylic was not adhered to the my own nail, attacking the weakness as if in trance. One tech worked in such ecstasy that she didn't even realize that one of the nail bits had caught on her lower lip.

And so it was with me. I scraped for 14 hours over the first weekend. I never got tired. I never got bored. I never complained. It was as if I was scraping on the wings of the angels.

As a mother, I almost never get to focus on one thing at a time. Multitasking is a serenity buster. Thus, moms never get to enjoy a sense of accomplishment. We're always on to the next project. With my kid at grandma's, I made significant progress on a major goal.

I no longer have those perfect acrylic nails. They gladly went bye-bye in favor of organic baby food and diapers.

I admit, I have felt embarrassed that I spent at least a couple grand over the years that ended up on the floor of the salon, like spent peanut shells after the baseball game. However, I now understand that I was investing in my education, to prepare for my future home.

Heaven in Question

Mommy, what does heaven feel like?

Heaven feels like peace all the time, no matter what. Also, you never have to be reminded that you are God's kid, you just know it. You know you belong to God. You never forget.

Can I watch H.R. Puffnstuff?

Maybe later.

I have never minded my kid's questions. If I have an answer, I give it. If I don't, I say, I don't know.

What a beautiful thing that a person can ask a question without being judged. All questions are equal. Heaven and H.R. Puffnstuff have the same value in the exchange.

When a question is just a question, it is a simple exchange of information. No strings. No tests. No expectations. No fear. No right and wrong. Giving and receiving.

Kiddo asks about heaven. I answer. It seems like the kid is receiving, and I am giving. However, I get to think about heaven for a moment instead of the yellowish brown juice that has pooled in the vegetable crisper now that the tomatoes have come off the vine. I have to consider heaven to be able to answer. What a lovely gift that turned out to be today.

A few minutes later, kiddo opined,
Heaven is behind the clouds. Do they eat dessert there?

Yes, while watching H.R. Puffnstuff.

Good, I like Witchie-Poo.

Trip the Dog Shit Fantastic

Today I stepped in dog shit. I came to this realization after I saw it on my living room carpet. I just stood there with eyes rolled up into the back of my head. I hate dog shit; ergo, I don't have a dog.

I had planned to meditate and then head to the gym. Instead I meditated on dog shit and carpet. This mantra was followed by - we need a wood floor, who can live like this, I hate this house, etc., ad infinitum. The thinking continued this way, a giant, negative run-on sentence to hell - all the way to the gym.

I can only assume that I am experiencing some sort of karmic payback for all the times that our former dog got loose and spread his love throughout the neighborhood. He was a very small, quick dog. He would make a break for it whenever I opened the front door.

Hopefully, after today's installment, I have burned off this bad dog shit karma so I can get back to being spiritual.

Putting the Fun in Fungi

The doctor said it straight. If you want to get rid of these infections, you have to stop eating sugar. You can choose molasses, maple syrup, or honey, but even that is really too close to sugar.

She continued, I am putting you on a major course of antifungal treatment. We can kill the yeast, but if you keep feeding it sugar, we'll never get anywhere.

This is not news. I have been dealing with imbalances and infections since I was 2. It's just that after 29 or so years of guilt- and shame-filled restricting and overeating, I was really enjoying having all of the food groups on the table. I was sort of hoping for a pass.

Nope.

Typically, when I get news of this type, I try to do everything perfect, black or white. Please the doctor. Get her approval by being the model patient. Send in my entry form for Ms. American Patient. My answer would have been, Fine, no sugar ever. But when I go to the white or dark side, I start to Show Out, loudly. It's just not peaceful.

There has to be another way.

So I asked her. What are my options? This won't work if I feel deprived. That's when she threw me the molasses bone. She said, I usually have my patients work with dieticians who take a hard line with them so I don't have to.

Been there, done that.

I called my dietician. She is no food Nazi. She is meeting me next week with a macrobiotic cookbook. I might not be able to eat sugar, but I will eat dessert, dammit.

I choose to believe that this situation is workable. I am not sure exactly how. I did find some sugar-free, vegan cookies tonight. My kid liked them. So did I.

I started taking the medicine. I can tell it's working because I feel sick and tired. That is, my body feels sick and tired. The real me is soaring.

I Drink Tap Water

I have begun a radical new practice. I have begun abstaining from plastic water bottles. I now drink tap water in an aluminum bottle.

My family has gone through at least one case of plastic bottles of water per week for at least a year. The habit started innocently. I'll just have one today. I'm thirsty, and I don't want to drink tap water.

This rationalization didn't really work. Every time I took a bottle out of the case, I felt guilty about contributing to the destruction of the environment - what with all of the resources used to make the bottles. I also felt concerned about loading myself and my family with unknown leaking chemicals.

Rather than change, the rationalization got more aggressive. Screw it, I told myself. I need fluids. I can't wash a bottle every day. Plus, tap water is full of junk too. The fight between the loud, aggressive, selfish, ego-part of me and the small voice that speaks my core values was on, again. The loud voice seemed to be winning.

I would see lots of folks carrying the aluminum bottles. Every time I saw one, a small voice said, other people fill bottles and seem to have reasonably happy lives. Why not you?

Forget it. I can't think about it right now. I'm thirsty, the voice snapped.

The guilt started to take root.

I started noticing countless TV news programs and magazine articles denouncing bottled water. The still, small voice gathered steam. You can do it, it said. You feel so much better when you live according to your principles.

The final straw was an article I read about the nuns who were protesting bottled water because clean, safe water is a basic human right which should not be limited to those who can afford it.

I have been flat broke twice in my life. At age 15, I lost my dad, and he had no life insurance. We made it with a lot of hard work by my mom and outside help such as the local food shelf. Later, in my twenties, I got a chronic illness and couldn't work. Food and shelter were the primary concerns. I would never have survived if I had to buy water too.

Can I afford bottled water? Sure. But, my concern is that if those of us who can afford bottled water just give up the tap entirely and ignore the need to have keep up the safety standards, what is going to happen to the people who can't afford to buy it? Most folks who don't have enough money to buy water, also don't have money to hire a lobbyist to get the water clean and keep it that way. I don't want to live in a country or a world where people have to worry about water in addition to everything else.

The way I see it, drinking tap water is a way of experiencing unity with all the other citizens in my community. It's one area where we are all equal. We all need and deserve clean drinking water.

The ego voice had heard enough. Okay, okay. I'll try it. Get off my back.

I bought aluminum bottles. We wash them and fill them. It's not as big a pain in the neck as I thought it was going to be. I really appreciate not having to engage in the internal battle every time I reach for a drink. Just like everything human, I won't do this perfectly. I'll drink from a plastic bottle again. But just like everything human, progress is what counts, not perfection.

Be Yourself, Just Not Right Now.

"Noooo, no vacations," shrieked my child. Until this summer, when we said were going on vacation, what we really meant was, we have a family obligation. We had never taken a summer break that was not centered around a wedding or a funeral. For a 4-year-old, these kind of vacations are tough. There are almost no other children. All a 3 foot tall, 4-year-old can see is an endless series of backsides. Would you like to stare at butts for hours?

Further, it's easy for me to see why a kid would find it challenging to mingle with relatively unfamiliar relatives. They expect hugs. Some want kids to act like little adults. Many expect immediate answers to probing questions. How old are you? What grade are you in? What's your favorite color? Do you like cake?

I get it. "Wait, we're not taking a vacation," I said, "we're taking a trip." Between the lovely wedding of our dear niece and the funeral of my step-brother, our family went on our first trip. We went to family camp. Not our family camp. Lots of other families camp.

The first day, I was pumped - a real Minnesota vacation with a lake for swimming, water-skiing, tubing, and jet skiing. They would have putt-putt golf, a giant slip 'n slide, and inflatable obstacle course. We could do crafts, eat ice cream on the beach, visit the Judy Garland museum and sing goofy camp songs.

I expected the kiddo to be quiet and maybe hide behind me for the first day or so. After all, the butt-wearing, question-asking adults were strangers to all of us. I suppose the pressure was high.

We tried to redirect. Would you like to play putt-putt golf? Would you like to go swimming?

I didn't expect to hear the kid shout through tears, "I will never go to the craft barn - EVER."

I confess. I might as well have said to her, Be yourself, just not right now.

It's true. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to fit in, right away. I wanted the kiddo to feel comfortable right away or at least suck it up for the team.

I prayed to accept and not make excuses or justify my child's behavior. I didn't do this perfectly.

Over the next few days of intense and tiring camp experience, the kids who acted perfectly were starting to show out more and more. Show out is a term that my friend, a preacher's wife from Valdosta, Georgia, used to describe my behavior when I raised hell with the cooks at eating disorder treatment because they overcooked the mixed vegetables. (I was having a bad day at the psychiatric hospital, and the vegetables were mushy.) She said, "I just knew you were gonna show out." To show out is to show your true colors as being out of control, obnoxious.

The kids would show out and the parents would cringe. Over and over, parents looked at me in the same helpless way I had looked at them when our kid showed out. Then they looked at their kids as if they could say, "How could you act this way in front of this stranger? You are making me look bad."

I began to snort with perverse delight each time I observed the Show Out ritual. I felt at home with everybody. Also, each incident affirmed my theory of the unspoken family camp motto. Be yourself, just not right now.

Truly, real kids scream No!, don't want to share, don't like radishes, and don't want to wait their turn. They change their minds, throw sand, and say they hate their siblings.

Real teen boys dive from the very top of the gigantic inflatable slide while the real teen girls giggle. Showing out is a major turn-on for teenagers.

What's more, none of them want to talk to adults, even the ones who think they are cool. I tried to bring them out by telling them, "When I was your age and my parents were my current age, 38, I thought they were old. But I am here to tell you that I am not old." They smiled and continued to treat me like one of them, Mrs. So-in-so.

Most parents I know want their kids to be themselves. They don't want to squash the spirit of their children or shame them for being kids. They want them to be free to express themselves, to be themselves, just right now.

Alleged Olympic Whining

My father taught us many of our life lessons on the ball field. He showed us how to be team players by cheering and encouraging all the players on his team, even the ones who weren't natural athletes. He insisted that you run out onto the playing field and then you run back to the dugout so that we would know how to show pride for our team. We avoided anything he called "bush league" behavior such as throwing the bat or talking smack about the other team. Anybody who behaved in a "bush league" manner was benched. We learned how to mess up a play, shake it off, and start fresh with the next batter. We learned to be gracious winners and losers.

Growing up in a family of gifted athletes, I have watched thousands of hours of televised sports, especially the Olympics. Every time an athlete from the U.S. competed, my father would put our flag out, even in our sub-zero temperatures. In 1980, we screamed "U. S. A." while watching the young Olympic hockey team. After every game he would say, "You see that, you see that! Never, ever give up." When they finally won the gold medal, my father pulled our flag off of the side of the house, stood on the porch and proudly waved it around until his feet got cold.

Those athletes and their coaches were our heroes. They were from the U.S.A. They were the best. And, since they were the best, we were. I understood why my father stood out in the cold and waved our flag. We were the U.S.A. The best.

Every 4 years, the champions inspire us. These men and women set aside most of their lives to achieve greatness. I wanted to be them. Just watching them set their eyes on the prize, do the work and get there made me want to be better in school, sports, dance, all of it.

When I was in high school, I went the volleyball camp. One of the coaches had just competed in the Olympics. She didn't talk much about it, but we all knew: she was a champion.

In the last few days, I have heard rumors of athletes griping that they were competing against gymnasts that were too young and that's why they didn't win gold. I also heard someone allude to the fact that the Chinese officials were messing with the schedule so that the U.S. athletes were caught off guard and, therefore, didn't medal.

I know there is more whining, I just can't listen.

Champions do not complain. They go out and get the job done. It would be a beautiful thing if the playing field were always equal and fair. Get real. By the time they get to the Olympics, athletes need to have a plan for the these moments of poor sportsmanship or just plain evil. Everybody wants to win. When you are the best, you rise above it all.

A true champion is all action and no talk - with the possible exception of saying how blessed she feels to be able to represent the U.S.A.

More than most sporting events, Olympic athletes have honor. They represent us. They sacrifice everything for the privilege. When they start whining and crying about the laces on their skates being broken, I lose respect. It's bush league.

Everybody wants to win. We love to count our medals and feel superior. A champion leaves it all on the court or on the field or in the gym or in the pool. Whatever the results, what happened was the past. A champion accepts what is and moves on keeping the focus on what's important - what can be made of this moment.

When I was a kid, these people were my gurus. They were the perfect combination of grace and effort. If we could apply a bit of what bring to their sport, we'd see greatness too. They represented the best of who could be.

No more excuses. We need champions, not whiners.

Open Letter to the Media

This blog is an open response to the barrage of comments that I heard upon returning from vacation.

Dear Media Personalities,

Please stop speaking of John Edwards' marriage and infidelity.

You have consistently made the point that he and his wife misrepresented themselves in public and, therefore, lied to us. I disagree with this assessment. Most of us present the best of who we believe ourselves to be. The Edwards' are just like the rest of us. We are basically good people who make mistakes (regularly) and are doing our best to find ways to work with them and make amends. All of us deal with our shortcomings in private first. We cannot share perspective until we have had the opportunity and time to achieve understanding of our part in the situation. The Edwards' have not been allowed the time to sort through this family crisis.

Further, in every marital situation, both parties have a role. Perhaps the person who has not cheated has a very small part in the situation, say 10% responsibility. Maybe he or she was distracted and didn't tend to the marriage. Even if the distraction was righteous, without full acknowledgment of that 10%, there will be no moving forward for him or her. He or she will remain a victim. Both parties must attend to the marriage and their part in creating and maintaining it as healthy.

The Edwards' have suffered from life circumstances of grief and disappointment that would overwhelm any mortal. Coping with these losses is an ongoing process for individuals, and we don't ever do it perfectly. Thus, we don't come together to support each other perfectly. In trying times, we have a hard time asking for what we need and then providing our partners what they need due to our own confusion and pain.

Finally, you seem to indicate that the fact that the mistress became pregnant makes Mr. Edwards mistake worse. From a moral standpoint, I disagree. Was it wrong to participate in an extra marital affair? Of course. Is it worse because the mistress became pregnant? Again, morally, I don't think so. While it is true that an additional mistake was made by not using adequate birth control, Senator Edwards was not alone in this mistake either. Ultimately, what will be challenging for the Edwards' is that they will have an ongoing reminder of this mistake. They will have to find a loving way to treat this child and each other as they move forward.

Please move on. I find it painful to listen to your criticism of the Edwards'. Your reaction seems very extreme, perhaps indicating that your strong feelings have more to do with your pain. As an Edwards supporter, I feel sad. I always feel sad when a marriage is threatened because I believe in marriage. I feel sad that we get into situations where the pain is so great that we make mistakes. My own marriage was put to the test due to illness and grief that led to mistrust. While there was no affair, my husband and I have had to go to great lengths together to set things on a loving path. I am madly in love with my husband today, but I can also see how easy it would be for folks to make mistakes similar to the Edwards'. We all have to continue to learn new ways of being kind and loving with each other.

I would gladly vote for Mr. Edwards if he can demonstrate thoughtful attention to the situation. I believe he and his wife are as capable of self-searching as anyone. I want a person of humility in leadership position because I admire the strength it takes to overcome ones own humanity. It inspires me. Also, a person with humility will have enough self-honesty and perspective to be effective when making decisions because this person has enough compassion to understand how his choices deeply affect others. If John Edwards is the leader that I believe him to be, he will rise to this situation and transform it. We will all benefit.

I Was Wrong About Play Dates

Last week, I walked into the preschool room to pick up the kid. Kiddo greeted me at the door and asked me, "Please, Momma, can my friend come over today? What time can my friend come today?"

"Sure," I said, "let's ask. Where's your friend?"

We walked over to the friend and friend's mother. I introduced myself and asked if they would like to come over and play. "Being an only child," I explained, "the kiddo gets kind of lonely. We really would love to have you come to our house or we could go to the pool at the park in our neighborhood."

The mother looked stunned for a moment and said, "No one has ever asked my child for a play date." She seemed surprised since no one had ever asked them to play. Her kiddo has special needs.

At their preschool all the classes have a blend of children with typical needs as well as those with special needs. All the children do their thing, learning to work with what's happening. They interact and treat each other with kindness and respect. They are happy.

I wanted that for kiddo. We look different, but we're all the same. I want my child to see the person, what we share as beings, instead of his or her disability or whatever seems to separate us.

I looked at her and thought, I know how it feels not to be included. I also know how it feels to think you are going to be left out and then you get an invitation anyway. It's tender, the feeling of the heart opening, just as it is about to close.

"Oh, well, we have swings or we have a sandbox and pool in the backyard. What does your child like to do?"

Meanwhile, the kiddo was bouncing up and down my leg and saying, "Today, Mommy, can my friend come today? Today Mommy?"

They had plans on that day, but we agreed to speak later and work out the details.

Our new friends left. The teachers stared at my kid with big moist eyes, smiled and told me that the kiddo had approached the mom before I got there and told her, "[Your kid] really likes me, can you come play at my house today?" They told me that the mom just kept saying no one ever asked her before.

I squeezed my kiddo, my child of the light, and cried on the way home. God put this strong desire on the heart of a 4 year old and the love touched open our hearts.

We are all children of the light. We transmit grace and our hearts are healed.

I was wrong about play dates. I thought they were for the kids. Turns out, they are for the parents.

Bored in Minneapolis

My whole philosophy about boredom is that if you feel bored, you must be boring. Most of the time, I can think of tons of stuff to do. I consider rest an appropriate action as well.

I also thought that boring was the opposite of stimulated. Again, there is much in my world that I find interesting. My preferred type of stimulation is usually mental, emotional or spiritual. Conversations about emotions or spiritual things when there is a sense of shared adventure rate highest, but I also love books, TV and movies. Most recently, I discovered the miniseries, John Adams. I also find the AMC channel's Mad Men compelling. In both cases, the characters are complicated with flaws and ego demands. I can relate. It's fascinating to watch my inner experience outside of myself.

Stuff that has obvious meaning is most interesting to me. Activities such as weeding and housework mostly have little meaning for me; thus, I don't like doing them. I am still praying to experience the meaning in these things.

I have fought the idea that mothering and homemaking is boring because thinking of my jobs in those terms seems unbearable. Why would I spend my day doing something that in the end is just boring?

Yes, I know that raising a healthy, functional grown-up who is spiritually aware is important, but I find it hard to maintain this attitude in moments say, when the kid calls out, "Mommy, wipe my bottom, please." The larger intention gets muddied.

In my search for meaning in my relatively new job, I started this blog. Writing about the adventure of being a mindful mother who is seeking unconditional serenity helps keep my focus on what it means to be of service in this job. When I start to think that I work for the kid, I can return to the truth that my true boss is a loving God. God thought I was up for the job so I was hired.

A few nights ago, we joined some friends for dinner. I realized, this stuff is boring, truly mundane. It's not them, it's the stuff. So, now I have to admit that yes, I feel bored; therefore, I must be boring. I really don't find typical discussions of helpful hints for child rearing interesting. I mean, I could get those answers from a number of sources at the library or the internet.

I want to know, how does it feel to be a mom? What is it like for you at 3:00 a.m. when the kid wakes up? How do you know when you need to take a break? How do you take care of yourself? How do you show up as an example for your family? How do you nurture your marriage in the middle of all the to do's?

My favorite part of the entire dinner conversation had to do with sex toys. I have some knowledge of the such things. Quality is essential. The cheap ones are made with the same unregulated, toxic plastic that they make fake worm fishing lures. Those worms turn into a ball of melted chemicals after a while and so do the cheap sex toys. We don't want that poison in any environment.

When the topic of sex came up, I perked up. Sex is interesting and important. Staying satisfied as a human being at all levels is crucial for this mom. This topic feels a little edgier than the merits of stainless steel v. plastic water containers.

The rest of the conversation was pretty forgettable. The saving grace was that we were together. Somehow, the boring stuff is workable when it is shared. Working in the yard, cleaning the house, tending to that which needs care is best shared. When I feel I have to do it all myself, want to run screaming.

Finding a way to do these chores with love may be the answer. When I start to feel like this maxed out Swamp Mother, I have lost perspective. I need a break.

The kid's grandparents are taking her to the zoo on Thursday. God bless grandparents and anyone who is willing to love my kid enough to give me a chance to catch my breath and gain some perspective. I bet the same old will seem a lot less boring.

I have a feeling I just getting started on working with boredom.

There Is No Such Thing as Balance

I hate when these moms talk about balancing their lives, like we ever do. Just when I get into a nice groove, the seasons change or my grocery deliver service closes. Or, I get excited about writing and stay up too late blogging.

I think balance is too strong a word. At it's most centered, my life is a plane. It goes up or down, and then seeks to level off. Whenever I fly, be it in a small engine plane or a large passenger plane, I usually fall asleep on take off. I can't help it. Usually, by the time I get to the plane, I am so exhausted from planning and packing for the trip that I just pass out as soon as we start to taxi.

Perhaps I have body memories of my hours on the commuter trains in Southeastern Pennsylvania. The R5 would rock me to sleep in less than 10 minutes. I always checked to made sure there were no greasy head prints on the window from earlier passengers. Once the window checked out, I'd wedge my bag between me and the side of the train as a softer arm rest, and zonk out for an hour. I am all in favor of public transportation.

Another reason that I sleep on takeoff is that I find it really stressful. I dont' like to surrender my liberty of movement. Being plastered against the seat barely able to move my head or my arms with ears popping during the thrust of liftoff is just too much for this control freak. Further, the thought of being hurled off of the big, blue marble in space makes a blackout seem very attractive. Finally, the plane is too loud and I always end up on the wing.

I used to create chemically induced blackouts, but I had even less control over that state of being than flying. Blackouts whilst flying are a sure introduction to the air marshall. It's easier to clutch the armrests and pray, until sleep overtakes me.

I always come to when I feel the plane start to level off to it's cruising altitude. Flying becomes civilized with drinks and snacks, even if I have to bring my own. I find it incredibly reassuring to have a bathroom available to me within a few steps.

Same is true for my life. When in the process of change, I start grasping at tangibles. For this reason, keeping the kid in same preschool schedule during the week is crucial for both of us. We otherwise have general schedule with flexibility. We do it in one or two hour blocks. Meals and snacks usually break it up.
Oddly enough, every major change in my life has yielded terrific results, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Yet, I am trembling during takeoff thinking, this change is going to launch me into a state from which I shall never return and it's going to be bad. If I don't acknowledge this line of thinking in the presence of a sane friend, it gets louder and louder. Eventually, the fear seems like absolute truth.

I have seen this drama more than the sum total of episodes of the Monkees, Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch and Bewitched put together. I never seem to tire of any of these.

Somehow, every time things begin to level off, I remember the truth. Oh yeah, all is well. I forgot. Again.

I suspect the kid is going to have this same drama. I hope I can be more patient and reassuring for her than I usually am with myself.

The only reason "fasten yourself in you're in for a bumpy ride" is at all comforting is knowing that the other passengers are sitting right with you. Usually, there is at least one person on the plane who has kept the peace for the rest of us. Occasionally, that person is me. But not, as yet, today. Luckily, I have six workable hours left.

My House is Just Fine, June

My new barometer for cleanliness and order in the home is "as long as there is no trash lying around it's fine." I am quoting a very sensible friend of mine who has an extraordinary gift for not giving a rip what anyone thinks of her. I covet this attitude. Since I have very little experience with this way of being in the world, I will throw little scenarios by her just to hear how a sane person would respond.

For example, I said, "You know, I don't know one mother who is comfortable with the state of her home. It's like we all think our homes should look exactly how our friends homes look when they are having a party. It's just impossible. I mean, if you are at home, it's just gonna be a mess. My husband calls me the hurricane."

Instead of giving me tips about organization or describing how her house was worse, she served up the aforementioned ideal.

I love this. House fine.

I have spent years making a mental house scorecard. Actually, it's more like a list of reasons why I suck as a homemaker. Of course, the homemaker's main function is to create a perfect environment for a family to enjoy their being. I will walk through my home on the lookout for any home detail that doesn't meet the "ready for an open house" standard. Each infraction is carefully logged in my brain.

The end result is that I feel totally overwhelmed, and, perform thusly. I don't do anything. I feel victimized by my own home. I have occasionally allowed this morbid reflection to escalate to the point that the only solution available to me is to move. But then you have to really clean. There is no escape to this insanity. It's an infinite loop of unkindness toward self.

If I am really gone mentally, I'll decide that this critical voice in my head sounds a remarkably lot like whomever. Whomever is anyone who might have made one critical comment to me that I have played over and over in my head until I have convinced myself that whomever never, ever said anything nice to me. Therefore, whomever is to blame for my low self-esteem. It's their fault I have messy home.

For the last two days, I scan my home and repeat the question, "Is there any trash laying around?" No? House fine.

It is rarely that simple. What is trash exactly? I have had to define trash as anything that belongs in the garbage, that is, something I won't need later.

Scattered library books are not trash unless they have been read or overdue.

Opened mail is not trash if I think I might need it later, but the envelopes from which the mail came, that's always trash.

Is a half drunk glass of water trash? Not if it is in the kitchen by the sink. I might use it to take a vitamin or something. If it is in the living room, well, that is disgusting.

I am puzzled over how to categorize the kid's "bug home." A bug home is a styrofoam cup filled with old, dead leaves and decorated with foam art and glitter. Evidently, this setup is the bug home is the insect equivalent of the Taj Mahal. Okay, it's not trash - my baby made it - but do I really want to encourage bugs to settle in and enjoy the view from the coffee table?

You'd think this new low standard I have set for my home would otherwise be easily met. Alas, just one hour ago, I sat down to write, gazed out my front window and noticed two mood rings in the shade of happy and relaxed. Then I realized they were two grapes, half eaten, and deposited by the kid. No, really. It wasn't me.

I used this discovery as a teachable moment. I told the kid to throw them out. I am so proud. I am teaching the kiddo the meaning of House fine.

There certainly are some kinks to this new way of taking the cleanliness temperature of my home, but so far the best thing is how quickly I can return to acceptable status. Grapes on the window sill? Throw them out. House fine. Junk mail on the table? Toss it. House fine.

I like this kinder, gentler way of relating to my home and my homemaker status. House fine. What a concept. Take that Mrs. Cleaver. There is a new homemaker in town, and her house is just fine.

I Don't Have Erectile Dysfunction

If I had erectile dysfunction, all of my medical problems would be solved. Doesn't it seem that the medical community nipped that whole mess in the bud while other public health concerns go unattended. Makes you wonder what the priorities are.

For years I have held the naive belief that if you didn't feel good, you could go to the doctor and they would fix it. Not so much.

A while back, I had unexplained, chronic low-grade fevers for a year. I dragged myself to doctor's offices alternately dripping with sweat or trembling with chills. I went to specialist after specialist. They would read my questionnaire, look at my throat and listen to my heart and say, "We can't help you. It must be your mental illness."

Finally, in desperation, I went to see the doctor who took care of me when I was 7 years old. When I met him, he was the young hotshot just out of Yale. He had kids younger than me. Now he is bald and his kids are out of college. He looked at all of my labs and said, "You have too much thyroid hormone. Your body has corrected the thyroid problem and you no longer need to take it. Stop the synthroid. That should take care of it."

It did.

After 1 year of all these genius specialists telling me that the problem was in my head, a simple General Practitioner got it - without blaming me.

I wish that experience had been isolated, but no.

I went to see another sleep doctor today. I had really hoped that she would shed some light on my situation and offer me some alternatives. She didn't. Instead, she stomped out of the room. When she returned, she sketched a simple chart for me, which she wrote upside down, of what the possible causes of my fatigue could be. You don't have this or that or that or that. She basically told me how wrong I was because I didn't fit into her lab normal diagnostic tools. Plus, she didn't come close to listing all the possible causes of fatigue that I know about.

I got the distinct impression that she felt powerless to help me so she blamed me for it. She also blamed my doctor for not knowing how to help me and then, in her opinion, pushing me off onto her. She said that all of my future sleep needs should be addressed with my psychiatrist. The one she just said doesn't know how to help me.

Once when I was upset with someone else's behavior, a wise person asked me, "Why did you pick up the lizard?" He explained. A person has a lizard, a really heavy, stinky one. Not a nice lizard. She looks around, asking herself, "Who could I get to take this lizard so I don't have to deal with it?"

She approaches her target. "I have this horrible lizard. I can't take it. I don't know what to do. Here, you take it."

Or she says, "Would you hold this lizard for me please?"

Another variation: "This lizard is so great, I couldn't possibly share it with you."

The target takes the lizard. She doesn't know she has a choice. She picks up the lizard because she thinks that if someone offers you a stinky lizard, you always have to take it.

I left the sleep doc's office pretty shaken up. Here we go again. I was about to jump off of the ledge of sanity into my own litany of blame and unfairness. I reached inside myself to look for the lizard that lives inside of me.

Then I thought about it. Even though the information was presented in a way which I found condescending and rude, the news was good. Most of Western medicine seeks to rule things out. I don't have narcolepsy, or restless leg syndrome. I don't have hepatitis. I don't have AIDS. I don't have chicken pox. I don't have tuberculosis. I don't have halitosis. I don't have ring-worm. I don't have athlete's foot. I don't have lice. I don't have mange. I don't have erectile dysfunction.What a relief. What a blessing to not have those things. I don't need to pull a lizard out of my butt and carry it around all weekend.

Nor do I have to pick up a lizard from anyone else. That doctor was carrying the lizard of frustration over her own powerlessness. She obviously doesn't deal well with not knowing what to do. She tried to hand her powerlessness, frustration and pain over to me.

I will not carry it. I do not have to pick up that smelly, heavy lizard she drags around to throw at folks that she says she can't help - folks who are already hurting.

I will deal with my own sense of powerlessness and frustration. God has given me all the tools necessary to sit with not knowing. I don't have to like it, but I don't need to force a solution, even though I sometimes wish I could.

On the drive home, I called a friend. She listened. It didn't take away the discomfort, but I knew I wasn't alone. I got home, took a nap, and made dinner. Then the family headed out to Liberty Custard for dessert. I had black cherry Italian ice which turned my tongue black, no foolin'. I hit a couple really solid line drives in the back yard with my husband. Hit a couple foul balls into the neighbor's yard too.

I reviewed a couple things that I do know.

Specialists are great and even necessary, but, the body doesn't know that it's systems are separate and specialized. A girl's got to have someone who can see the big picture too, like my wise old doc from elementary school.

I know that prayer and meditation sustain me even when I can't sleep. I can be serene and happy even when I don't feel good.

I know that my current supplements have allowed me to be productive all day long. What proof? I'm writing at 11:00 at night.

Exercise makes me feel strong and confident. It also clears my mind.

I feel more rested when I use my oral appliance at night.

Writing works. Friends help.

God loves me like I am an only child. God loves everybody else as if they were only children too.

I don't know why I never feel truly rested and refreshed. But I do know I don't have erectile dysfunction, and neither does my husband. We are richly blessed indeed.

Slurring My Words

I had a smallish car accident yesterday. A spacey 20-year old hit me in the dietician's parking lot. Kiddo wasn't in the car, thank God. My back is sore so I am taking a muscle relaxant for a few days plus ice and physical therapy.

Due to the medicine, I am prone to unplanned naps and slurring S's. My goal is to have enough clarity tomorrow to write.

I am told that if I can't clean the house in 8 days, the insurance company will send someone over here to help me. This idea had never occurred to me. Have a car accident = someone to clean my house. Blessings abound.

You Can't Save Your Face & Your Ass at the Same Time

We were running late for my then 2 year old's movement class at the community center.
We ran out the door, and I tossed the kid into the car seat. I couldn't wear gloves because you can't secure the car seat with gloves. It takes too long. Better to freeze your hand for a couple minutes than stand in the cold for several.

I slipped around to the driver's side, and flung open the door. I turned my back to the car. In a move carefully choreographed by my physical therapist, I fell backside first into the seat, and scissor-stepped over the ice that had caked under the door of the car.

As my body made contact with the seat, I heard a squeak. What was that? I asked myself. The car seat must be frozen.

I surfed through the snow drifts that had yet to be cleared from our neighborhood streets until I got to the community center parking lot. I got out of the car, grabbing the kid. We skated into the main area of the building to wait for class to start. I took off our coats, hats, and the kid's gloves, and set them on a sofa.

As we walked around the crowded room, I pointed out what was going on. "Oh look! The big kids are playing foosball. Do you want to watch?" In a few minutes, the teacher showed up and let us into the classroom. We took off boots and put on dance shoes. I encouraged kiddo to stand next to the teacher until the rest of the class arrived.

I confidently nodded and smiled at the other parents as I found my seat on the sofa next to the crowded foosball table.

I was ready for some adult conversation. I was about to say hello to one of the mom's when I felt something scratchy on my seat. I was wearing my favorite jeans. These were the only ones that fit me since having the kid so they were soft and comfy, almost like sweatpants.

I reached around to my left side. I felt a slit. I thought I should assess the damage before I blacked out, so I just barely leaned over to follow the length of the tear. I continued to lean farther and farther as my fingers traced the split down to my leg. Then, I backtracked all the way up to the bottom of my pocket.

Oh my God. There was a spit in my pants big enough to put my head through.

Worse, since I was in a rush to get to class, I had traded the pajamas that I had been wearing all day for the sweatpant-like jeans. I had forgotten my underwear.

A woman approached me and said, "I think there is something wrong with your pants."

"I know," I said, cell phone in hand.

I called my friend and whispered, "I just mooned the entire community center, including 10 teenagers, countless adults, and 2 babies."

He howled loud and long. I laughed so hard that I cried.

After class, I put my coat on seated. I walked into the classroom, and helped the kid switch the dance shoes for boots without bending over. I casually mentioned to the teacher, as if I was in on the joke, "I split my pants."

"I know," she said.

I had mooned not only every parent and teenager in the community center, but also twelve 2 year olds and their dance teacher. The humiliation was complete.

After that, the kid switched to circus class in St. Paul.


This story was answer to today's class assignment: tell a story about something that evoked a strong reaction in you. I did work on some fiction, but that's not ready yet.

Puking Cheap Drama

Gather enough cheap drama and puke it on the page. This has been my approach to living the writer's life for the last 30 years. To give myself credibility, I fully committed myself to living intensely with as many people as possible. Then I'd understand myself and others and really write some juicy stuff. Tomorrow I will write the way I want.

But I have to write. It just has to come out. I gathered all of these memories, bits of dialog, threads of stories and kept them in my head. I was waiting until I was ready. But stuff would slip out. I wasted some of my most inspired material in long conversations with people who didn't get it. I created a test. If my friends and family didn't think I was funny, clever, etc. Why would strangers?

When they wouldn't get it, I would use this evidence to reinforce my frightened story. Since I wasn't writing stuff down, I started writing a story in my head about not writing. It was a long and elaborate tale, a story that had neither a beginning nor an end.

For example, I told myself that I didn't write anything down because I didn't want to waste it, a writer's version of pre-ejaculation. Tomorrow I will write.

I believed it was arrogant to think that I had something to say in my 20's. Who am I to think I know anything? In this drama, I'm unworthy, worthless. Tomorrow I will write.

The reverse was also true. I also thought I had to be recognized as the best at whatever I am doing. So, I usually didn't do what I really wanted to do. When I tried, the fear gripped me. I just couldn't deal with being a mediocre writer. It would kill me. What if I really can't write? What if God gave me passion to do something and then I sucked at it? I'll write tomorrow.

Enough. I could spend the next 50 years working with my fear and never write a word that really meant something to me.

The thought occurred to me, maybe if I could write fiction, I wouldn't have to create such an intense life. I could just make it up and not go through all of the exhaustion of actually living the whole thing. Maybe I could stop writing this awfully boring story about my writing career that was going to being tomorrow.

On Saturday morning, I will be attending a writer's workshop for beginning fiction. Even though I know I can make up a story about not writing, I don't know if I can create a story that does not revolve around me. Tomorrow will soon be today.

I'm writing this blog to empty my mind. Maybe God has something else to say. I want to find out. My plan is to be a new student. I'm gonna be a 2nd grader. I plan to show up the way my friend the 2nd grade teacher tells his class every morning, "Sharpen your pencils and use the bathroom so we can get to work."

Dear Gentle Readers

I am so grateful to you for taking time out of your busy day to read my blog. I changed my settings so you can leave a comment anonymously, whenever you like.

jodysatva

Quantity Time in the Swampy Marsh

Everybody talks about having quality time with their kids. When Al Franken talks about his childhood, he says that he didn't have quality time with his dad, he had quantity time. They did everything together. They did nothing together. His point was that he didn't have ski trips or any elaborately planned quality time with his dad. He and his dad did stuff like watching comedians on TV. No big plans. Just time together. Being together. A lot.

I liked that when I heard it. First, you never know when your kid is going to want to actually talk to you. He might not want to talk during quality time. But, eventually, with quantity time, he'll have to talk to you.

I also like the idea that parents don't have to create a festival of stimulation every day. Seems like kids don't get much time seeing dragons in the clouds. I think everybody has to figure out their own answer to realization, I'm bored.

Okay. That's the theory.

In the last few weeks, my husband, kiddo and I have spent 11 glorious, quantity time days which included a 9 hour one way trip to a lovely wedding. When not with relatives, we were together, just the 3 of us, all weekend and then 9 hours home in the car, all day long.

Yes, quantity time.

After that, kiddo had preschool for 4 hours and the remaining 6 days were, you guessed it, quantity time. Just the three of us, with no real plans. 6 days of virtually unstructured time with a preschooler.

This quantity time sounded really great in theory. Time to do whatever we wanted. Time to enjoy ourselves, relax after the trip. Be tourists in our own town.

By day 8.5, I started to smell a swamp or what we would call in Minnesota, a marsh. In the summer, not too deep water that stands around in the sun with stuff growing in it, starts to smell. More fuzzy stuff grows. You can't drink this water. Nothing moves but the birds and the bugs, maybe a fish. If you get near the marsh, grateful, blood-starved mosquitos will feast on your flesh through your clothes. Fresh water might get added, but nothing is taken away. It just sits there, cooking like a stew in the hot summer sun.

I never understood why Minnesotans would call a swamp, a marsh, and think it was cool. They study them, watch the sun rise and set over them. We even have a fancy health club called The Marsh.

I assume the swamp, I mean marsh, becomes an important body of water when the ocean is half way across the country, either direction. For Minnesotans, marsh is the glass half full version of swamp.

We do have Lake Superior which is the largest lake in the world. You can't see across it so it feels like the ocean. However, the rest of the lakes and swamps have that same water standing around problem, if you ask me. Here, also, the mosquito issue.

So, my life is starting to smell like swamp. Things are getting added, but nothing is circulating. We are all just together most of the time. We did some fun things, and I think this sort of schedule is really terrific when you are vacation or staying somewhere different, a new pond. But, when you are going back to the same old marsh, day after day, even though you got a break, you're still going home to the place where this is nothing really circulating, the old swamp.

This is why God invented grandparents or babysitters or cousins. Crucial ecosystem stimulation to make quantity time, better quality.

Stay at home moms need to get out by themselves, even if it's just to go to the gas station. I forgot. I was having a lot of distracting feelings. I just forgot. For a week.

I didn't really just forget. All of the grandparents were out of town. All of the babysitters were out of town. Everyone went to visit someone else, somewhere else. I was grieving. I didn't really want to be in a crowd. I didn't realize it, but all of the conditions were right for seriously stinky swamp water. This was no marsh.

Today, kid and I went to visit the cousins. We had a ball, not doing anything special. Quantity time with some healthy supplements. We laughed, hugged, and kissed. The cousins rode bikes. I showed them my "Around the World" trick with the yo-yo. We told stories from when my brothers and I were growing up. My kid got to play with some different toys. At one point, kiddo dressed up like a priest in a white pillowcase and vestments and offered us all communion. Body of Christ, Mommy?

Amen.

Discouraged

Today I felt discouraged. When I sat with it, the discouraging feelings came straight from my heart, heavy and warm. Oh, that's what discouraged feels like. I am learning a lot about what different emotions feel like in my body, since I am not distracting myself with busyness.

What was kind of cool is that I wasn't trying to make it go away or figure it out. I just noticed that when I felt discouraged and I cried, my exhale was long and hot.

So, the next time I feel my heart heavy and my exhale long and hot, I'll think: oh, this. Yes.

One day last spring I was receiving a massage. I felt this wave feelings pass over me. I thought, oh, this is sadness. I wasn't trying not to feel. It was more like savoring. Oh yes, this is sadness. I have felt this before. Be with it.

After I felt discouraged, I remembered that I often feel discouraged right before something inside shifts. Maybe discouraged is an element of surrender. I hope so.

It's time for a change of mind.

Keeping Up with the Jones's

We are surrounded by Jones'. When we moved into our home, our side of the street was lined with one-level bungalows built in the 1950's. Every house on the block was a two bedroom, walk-up, and yet each was distinct, some with shutters, or bricks, and painted all different colors and only one was beige. Ours was painted the color of gangrene, most likely lead-based. We painted it.

The seedling trees planted when the homes were built now tower over high above, shading the roofs and housing tons of fat Minnesota squirrels and birds. We found out that the roots of our tree were pushing in the cement wall of our basement. One day, before we moved in, a toothless tree-murderer, chopped down our tree, but left the stump. It looks like the severed legs of a grown man plunged right between our house and the neighbor's.

Our neighbors had grown kids. Their children rode their bikes up and down the sidewalks when they were straight and flat. I almost launched our child out of the stroller when we hit a huge crack in the sidewalk from the roots of the now huge trees that line the street.

I prayed. I had faith the block would turn. The older couples would downsize. I just knew that God would send us neighbors with young families so that the kiddo would have playmates. They would learn to ride bikes, and walk to school together. Later, they would play kick the can and spin the bottle. We got the neighbors. See earlier posts: No Put Downs, Just Put Ups and The Witch is Dead.

We are blessed that 5 new families have moved onto our block. Young, energetic families who want to make the homes that they purchased their own. The young couple next door transformed their bungalow into a two-story McMansion. I used to breakfast while gazing at the clouds and blue sky. Now I enjoy my breakfast while meditating on an HD Direct TV Dish.

When they told us that they were adding a second level to their home, I responded, "Oh, you are our Jones'."

Tonight, I had the pleasure of touring another neighbors home. They have transformed it from a smoke-saturated, shag-carpeted cave into an Ikea-inspired, comfortable home. I am happy for them. Really.

My husband and I had all of these fantasies. It's a starter home. We'll fix it up. We'll sell it and get something bigger. These ideas were fantasies because neither one of us really wants to fix anything up. We want to come home to something finished. We don't want to spend the weekend remodeling the kitchen. We want to spend the weekend riding bikes and hanging out with my brother's and their families.

So, as I toured the neighbor's lovely home, with a forced, smile. I had to ask myself, "Is this the green-eyed monster?" Am I jealous of what they have worked for or is this odd, empty feeling "house shame?"

I heard recently that if you want to have a truly joyous life, be happy for the successes of others. This is the flip side of jealousy. Be happy for them. You know what, I am. They have worked for exactly what they wanted. Good for them.

But is this what I want? No, well, yes, but not here. I want a finished home, not in the city. I want to open my kitchen door without being able to spit in the neighbors kitchen. Not that I have actually spat on their kitchen, but we are so close that with practice, I probably could do a big spit-take and sprinkle their windows.

This house matched who we thought we were and what we wanted, but we learned more about ourselves. Sometimes I am disappointed that we aren't the Jones', but it is what it is.

And so, we'll change enough to move on. As Dr. Phil says, "We have to earn our way out of this house." Until then, God bless the Jones'.

Choices

I kicked off the day by losing my credit card somewhere between the gas station and home. I was already a stressed because I tried to make physical therapy appointments for the month, wash breakfast dishes, empty the trash, speak with the central air repair man, encourage kiddo to get dressed, compare my purse and kitchen calendars, and listen to the radio from 8:30 a.m.-8:45 a.m.

The kid and I had plans to take the High Speed Rail Line into Downtown Minneapolis for the Farmer's Market. Part of me was thinking, abort, abort. Go home.

I was so upset last week that I was sort of bossy with the kid. I wanted us to have some fun. Kiddo did not want to go. I said, "In all the times that I have told you we were going to do something that was going to be fun, did any of those times ever turn out not fun?"

"No."

"Then let's roll."

Sometimes, road blocks pop up making it clear to me that the current plans need to be aborted. I will often pray for roadblocks to help me discern God's will for me in a situation.

But today, I decided to lead with the assumption: just because things are hard or inconvenient, doesn't mean the original decision was wrong. I figured, if things continue to devolve, then I'll know that I should have gone with the abort plan.

Plus, today the temperature was 70 degrees with no humidity. If this field trip to the Farmer's Market was going to work, today was the day. Meandering through the lunch crowds on Nicollet Avenue when it is beastly hot is not fun for 4 year olds or their mothers.

How nice it is to have a choice other than black or white. I used to think things had to be a Mardi Gras or they weren't worth doing. We had a nice lunch. We bought some homegrown strawberries & sugar snap peas, flavored honey, and a mint chocolate chip gelato. I left with some money in my pocket.

I had the choice to withdraw. I had the choice to start over. I had the choice to make the whole thing a big deal. At any given point today, I had a ton of choices. Remembering that I had choices made the all the inconveniences workable.

Later, I spent 20 minutes with the neighbors. I was very peaceful; I didn't talk much. Mostly, I realized that even though they hadn't really changed, offering unsolicited advice, etc. I have. So, it worked. A miraculous change of mind. They don't have to change. I'll be serene in their company when I change. Still, I can't see us having a barbeque tomorrow.

The Veteran, part 3

When I think of that Marine and the evening we spent wandering around the Mall, I am struck at how much we had in common. We were both trying to recover from a war. His was obvious, as he had just returned from Iraq. Mine was recovering from the effects of alcoholism, eating disorder, and the suicide of my father.

We both found ourselves in very rigid circumstances which were very stifling. Yet, we both had made choices that led us to look for security and stability outside of ourselves.

For me, our brief meeting was an oasis. It allowed me to have perspective. I was stuck in me, me, me. My whole focus had been on proving myself and becoming a success in the worldly sense so that I would feel safe no matter what. I was looking for something tangible in which to place my faith. I didn't know that I was building my life and faith on sand. In time, I began to see that the answers are never outside of myself; the answers come from within.

Further, it was as if the Holy Spirit was saying, you think that the reason you are in Washington, D.C. is to begin your career in the Oil and Gas Industry, but that's not the real reason. Let go of your cheap drama, and jump into the real Drama of life: love and accept someone exactly as he is without any thought of return. Listen respectfully. Make this person believe that they matter.

Isn't that what we are all looking for really? To know we matter.

The Veteran marched in the victory parade and met me, along with some of his friends and some of mine, at a comedy club. We all laughed a lot. Every one of those Marines was respectful and honorable toward us. Maybe not all Marines behave this way, maybe these guys didn't behave this way all the time, but on that night these Marines were gentlemen. We said goodnight, and I never saw him again.

I served my six months at U.S. Marketing and Refining. I did receive a Rehire status from all of my supervisors. I respectfully declined, returned and finished college in a year and a half. Then I began a career in an industry that hadn't even existed while I was working at U.S. Marketing and Refining. I never found the security I craved in my career.

I learned a great many things about myself and about life in the short time I lived in Washington, D.C. which dramatically affected my values today. But, I believe the most important thing I did while I lived there was to look into the eyes of a returning soldier and say, "Thank you. I'm so glad you're home." And meaning it.



Thank you to all my friends who so graciously prayed for my good friend and for me last week. We are both well.

The Veteran, part 2.

He smiled. "Do you have plans tonight? I have to get back to the hotel. They let me go visit my parents in Virginia, but I have to have dinner with the guys. Then I might be able to get away, but I have to be back by 11:00. Could I meet you?"

"Well, I'll be busy for an hour or so. If you want to hang out, meet me outside the building at 8:00."

"Will you meet me?"

"If you are here at 8:00, I'll meet you."

"I just have to go back and tuck the guys in and then I can meet you. Will you be here?"

"I will be here at 8:00."

For an hour, I wondered and hoped that he would show up. I couldn't think of anything else. I was physically sitting in a chair, but inside my mind, it was blastoff. My brain was a giant firecracker bouncing off the walls. Will he? Won't he? Oh my gosh, he was cute.

Finally, it was time to find out. I walked up the darkened steps slowly. I took a deep breath and told myself, if he doesn't show up, you'll be okay. I pushed open the heavy door, and looked up. He smiled.

I smiled. "You made it. I wasn't sure."

"I had to make sure that my guys were covered. They aren't allowed out tonight because of the parade."

"How come you got to leave?"

"Because, believe it or not, they put me and my buddy in charge."

"Why wouldn't I believe it?"

"I started out at art school in New York and I failed out. My parents made me join the Marines."

He reported this information in a very matter of fact way. There was no blame. His parents didn't know we were going to war when they pushed him into the Marines. I suspect he got distracted by parties, and got carried away. I found parties and boys very distracting in my first year of college too. At once, I could see the person that he had been: a handsome, cocky, disrespectful, Animal House fraternity brother-type. But the person who stood before me looked and sounded humbled. He had a right-sizedness about him. He knew who he was and what was important. There was no ego-driven urgency like, I'm going to show them, but I am going to make this work.

We had a moment of quiet understanding. I was struck with a sense of gratitude that I didn't have to go to the Marines to straighten out. Of course, I did end up at U.S. Marketing and Refining.

"I really want to go back to school, as soon as I can. Are you hungry? I have to be back by 11:00 p.m."

I looked at my watch. It was 8:00. The sun was setting. The city was clean and the buildings and statues gleamed underneath sparkling streetlights. I grabbed his hand, "No, I'm not hungry. We don't have any time to waste. Let's go be tourists." We headed for the mall.

I guess I felt like a one woman USO. I wanted him to have fun. We walked through the city, hand in hand, smiling, talking, not talking.

I tried to keep the conversation light. I didn't ask him for any details about what he had seen or done. We talked about stuff we liked to do. I told him about my job. Where I was from.

He told me that he didn't talk to his dad anymore. He had gone to visit his mom in Virginia. His dad wanted to reconnect, but he didn't want that.

We ran up the stairs to the Lincoln Memorial and gazed at the Reflecting Pool and the Washington Monument. Then we walked over to the Tidal Basin overlooking the Jefferson Memorial. He kissed me among the trees. It was a tender and toe-tingling kiss.

And then it was time for him to go.

"Do you have any girlfriends? I have to march in the parade, but I have some friends maybe we could all meet and go out after that."

"I have the cutest girlfriends ever. I'll call them. Why don't you call me after the parade? I live between the Iwo Jima Memorial and Arlington Cemetery. Are you marching by there? I could look for you."

"I have to go. I wish I could take you home first."

"I'll be fine. Call me tomorrow."

The Veteran

This week, I met a former Marine who reminded me of a spontaneous encounter I once had with a returning veteran.

The war was over. We were victorious in the Persian Gulf. Washington D.C. was crawling with twenty-something military veterans who were marching in a victory parade.

In 1991, I won the coveted position of Advertising and Sales Promotion Assistant for one of the largest in the oil and gas companies in the world at their corporate headquarters in Northern Virginia. I had six months to show my stuff, working on all facets of national advertising and sales promotion campaigns. If I earned rehire status from all eight of my upper-middle level managers , I'd leave with an offer for a full-time, coveted marketing rep position.

After five months at corporate, I felt like a veteran myself. First, you had to have the required uniform: navy blue, black or gray suits with skirts only, stockings and heels.

Your desk was to be tidy or spotless at all times with no personal items, except a coffee mug. You were allowed to work with one of two files at a time, as long as they were neat. Everything else was to be out of sight. If you looked too overwhelmed with your current position, you would never get promoted to a higher one.

Corporate employees were required to begin their day no later than 7:30 a.m., but, if you were looking to get rehired, you got there before everyone else and were the last to leave.

Because we worked at U.S. Marketing and Refining division, everyone was required to drive to work separately, no car pooling. The only exception to this rule was the people who were transferred to Virginia from New York. They were so accustomed to public transit that a special shuttle was provided for them from the Metro to the office. The higher-ups overlooked my lack of car ownership because I was still enrolled in college in Philadelphia, where, like New York, it was a detriment to own a car.

Lunch was to be purchased at the corporate lunch room. The food was fresh and cheap, but eating lunch in the cafeteria was the best way to network with the VP's. You could get noticed and invited to join one of them at any time. This type of invitation could alter the trajectory of your entire career.

The U.S. Marketing and Refining division was comprised of various levels of middle to upper-middle management. Most had been with the company for more than thirty-five years. They were hired as marketing reps after the World War II. They had all begun their careers in the infantry as marketing reps. They were hardened by the politics of their service. They were all men.

As an attractive blonde, I got a lot of attention at corporate, simply because there were so few of us. The only women employed at U.S. Marketing and Refining were secretaries. Since they were getting pressure to promote women, they would have to hire some at the entry level. When I went out into the field, I noticed that the women marketing reps all looked like me. Blonde hair worn in the big, organized mess-style of the day, perfect makeup, well-fitting suits and very high heels. Basically, we looked like we had just walked off the set of Murphy Brown or Designing Women. We were all hired by the same guy. He was into blondes with big hair.

After I had assimilated all of these corporate rules and morés, I was supposed to be creative. I was so worried about blowing this opportunity that I was a nervous wreck. I thought that if I didn't do it perfectly, that I would lose.

My favorite thing to do was ride home from work on the Metro. I'd go exploring around town, meeting people and then inviting myself to join them socially. I didn't know anyone in Washington D.C. so unless I wanted to spend all weekend working or obsessing about work by myself. I fell into a group of three other women about my age. We were the Sex in the City girls in training.

I rode the subway to meet my friends the Friday night before the victory celebration parade when I noticed a very cute guy with short hair. I had become accustomed to introducing myself to strangers, but girls, not guys. Still, I had this strong feeling that I would deeply regret it if I didn't say hello. I prayed for the courage to talk to him, but he was sitting on the other side of the Metro car.

Then we exited at the same stop. We stood next to each other on the long escalator up. I took a deep breath and said, "Nice weather we're having," or some equally lame line.

He looked relieved that I had said something first. He smiled and said, "Yeah."

"Are you in school here?"

"No, I just got back from Iraq. I'm a Marine. We're marching in the parade tomorrow."

I gasped happily and said, "Really? Oh thank you so much. I'm so glad you are home."

He smiled. "Do you have plans tonight? I have to get back to the hotel. They let me go visit my parents in Virginia, but I have to have dinner with the guys. Then I might be able to get away, but I have to be back by 11:00. Could I meet you?"

"Well, I'll be busy for an hour or so. If you want to hang out, meet me outside the building at 7:00."

For an hour, I wondered and hoped that he would show up. I couldn't think of anything else.

Emotional Constipation

I am feeling emotionally constipated. I have some things on my mind. A good friend of mine is in the hospital. The next two weeks mark the losses of my dear grandmother, and my first baby. I will be attending the wedding of my niece whose sister was killed last October.

I think I want to cry, but I'm not ready. Mostly, I am reminding myself to breathe. I have been affirming that I rest in God. I am almost able to recall that God created all of the people involved here and that God's love is eternal, and, therefore, so are they.

I miss my family and I want my friend to come home from the hospital and have coffee with me like we do every Monday. I really want this all to be resolved tonight. This is perhaps the biggest source of pain - wanting to be in control of the schedule, of the whole thing really.

When I feel emotionally constipated, I don't want to breathe or pray because when I do, it hurts worse. I feel like a little kid who is not getting her way and so I am holding my breath until things resolve the way I want them to. In other words, I am having a sorrow-induced temper tantrum.

Just writing that is helping the whole thing seem more workable. I think I'm going to set a goal of breathing deeply and feeling whatever comes up for the rest of this evening.

If you feel like it, say a prayer for my friend, oh heck, and for me too.

Mulch Your Neighbor

We hung Tibetan prayer flags on Kiddo's swing set, sending blessings of love and compassion and some other stuff in Tibetan that I can't read. The kid says, "The wind is blowing the prayers through the whole neighborhood. Push me, Mommy."

Blessing the neighbors while pushing the kid is a cool meditation. I considered this for about 30 seconds, then I thought hard about herbicide and mulch.

Change or Die

Suffocation is not the way I want to die. Not at all. I have not always thought this way, but in the last few years I have gotten very clear about not wanting to die by suffocation. But why do I feel this way, I wondered.

Turns out, I have been suffocating a little bit every night in my sleep. I have sleep apnea. I had the sleep study and I have seen the printouts recording me not breathing several times per night. I also have records of my oxygen levels which drop very low.

I must have this belief because I know exactly what it would feel like to suffocate. I don't like it.

I tried the CPAP machine. The hose slapped me in the head every time I moved. Also, my room is cold at night and the humidity gathers in the top of the mask and rained on me every night. I also know a little bit about what it would be like to be water-boarded. No thanks.

I was told to try an oral appliance. I found an oral surgeon with terrific credentials who makes such things and accepts my insurance. They actually only accept my secondary insurance so I went into this process knowing I was going to pay for 80% plus other stuff that wouldn't be covered at all.

And so began our relationship.

They made me the appliance and it worked pretty well. Then we started fine tuning. There were some major lab errors, miscommunication, and misunderstandings. At one point, my jaw was so messed up that only my two front teeth would touch. Despite all of the challenges, the appliance did help some so the worst part of the pain was that I couldn't wear the thing. Those nights were just like most of the last 20 years, sleepless, except now my body had a taste of a good night sleep. My body was demanding rest.

After two or three nights without adequate rest, I became desperate, overwhelmed, and frightened that I would be sentenced to live out my days without rest. So, I did what I do when I feel frightened and powerless. I tried to control.

I started building my case. I watched all the bills come in and lamented how the charges were adding up with no solution. I gnashed my teeth and wrung my hands over the wasted gas. And they still couldn't get it right. The self-righteousness kicked in big time, and I was getting really angry.

I walked in there demanding that they fix it. I felt resentful every time I had to go to the office for them to try and fix. So basically, I had my right foot to the floor on the gas pedal, and my left foot to the floor on the brake pedal. I was totally revved up, wasting gas and stuck.

Since I walked into the office demanding a solution, everyone in the office stopped looking me in the eye. I could see and feel their pity. I hate pity. Pity says, "I'm better than you, you poor pathetic thing. Your situation is just terrible, awful. I wish there was something we could do for you, but you are beyond human aid."

The dentist called me a problem child. I'm sure he was joking. I wanted to press his throat.

It seemed to me that they did not know what they were doing. They were ruining my teeth and jaw, depriving me of sleep, and charging me a couple thousand dollars plus travel expenses. And, they were making fun of me. I had lost perspective.

I had to admit; I didn't know what to do.

I lost confidence in them, and I lost confidence in my ability to avail myself good care.

I prayed for a miracle.

Then, I called the insurance company to find out about filing a complaint that would result in me not having to pay for this experience. I found out that I can file a complaint, but then I will have no sleep and a long, drawn out hassle with no guarantee that I could get out of paying for what had been done so far.

I also called a couple of other offices who had doctors or dentists who do this sort of thing. These other people said that they made this appliances, but they did not specialize in making them for sleep apnea. Plus, the others wouldn't take my insurance.

I thought about it. Treating sleep apnea with dental appliances is what he does all day long. He is a diplomate for the professional academy of folks who treat sleep apnea with dental appliances. He does accept my insurance.

I figured, I am already into this mess. Let's see what happens.

I called my guy, left a message. He actually called me back. I prayed, and told him how I felt when he called me the problem child. I told him I was concerned about the rising costs. I told him that since acrylic was chipping off of my appliance into my hand, I wasn't so sure it would last.

He apologized. He told me his plan to help me. Then he told me he would make me a new appliance for free.

I thanked him, but I still didn't know what to do. I hate that.

I asked myself what my part in this situation really was. I was blaming them. I needed to stay in the office until I felt comfortable with the changes they had made, even if I felt like I was taking up too much of their time. I wasn't communicating either.

I set aside the case I had been building. I went over there having made the decision that I would show up believing that we were going to work this out together. I knew I couldn't force the solution, but I brought my best attitude.

I got my miracle.

The entire office staff was so kind to me. They listened and spent extra time with me. They answered my questions. They talked to me like I mattered. They told me that they hadn't given up on anybody yet. The doc said that he would make me a new appliance and then he would fix the old one to match the new one. Yes, I am paying more than I thought I would, but I am getting a $2000 appliance for free.

As she was making new molds of my teeth, the assistant shared with me that she had experienced a miscarriage one month ago. I got it. I understood why she was offering me pity. She was having her own sorrow and pain. Pity was the best she could do under those circumstances. She probably couldn't be confident because her confidence had just taken a huge hit. She was powerless too.

I have heard that we should be kind to others because every one of them is fighting some kind of battle. Having experienced a miscarriage 12 years ago, I knew a bit about what she was going through. I was devastated when it happened to me.

I talked a little about my experience of losing a baby. I didn't pity her at all. I just wanted her to know that I knew what it was like. We were equals.

When I left, I felt like I had been to a completely different office. The only that had changed was me and my attitudes.

I felt so happy and grateful. I can change. I have other options beside cut my losses and run. For the longest time, I had two choices in stressful times - fight or run. It felt so good to have some other choices. This way of thinking makes every disagreement a crisis. What an insane way to live.

There is no guarantee that the new appliance will work better, but I know that I can take of myself while being respectful. I don't have to feel resentful about going to the office. I can be as serene as I decide to be.

I could have created a huge dramatic mess of this situation; I was on my way. Instead, I got proof that my new way of thinking and acting works. Sanity has returned to my life because today I can learn from my mistakes and try something new.

I feel like a grown-up. My kiddo has a grown-up for a mother. Aren't we lucky?

Beat the House

I spent the day beating on my house - with wiffle balls. I bought my kid about 30 wiffle balls for batting practice. As with many of the toys I purchase that I think the child will love, I end up have more fun playing with it than the kid does. I started smacking them around the back yard, and it was very satisfying. Tossing the ball, swinging, and connecting so that it flies across the yard and bangs into the house is inspired. It really feels good to hit something and experience "cause" and then watch it crash into something (without breaking anything) "effect."

Watching it crash on the neighbor's house is just exhilerating. I feel like I am being sneaky, breaking the rules, being bad. The ball bounces off of the siding and into a planter. I giggle. Then, I have to run over, and let myself into their yard to collect it. I feel silly. So, here I am with the 4 year old who is enjoying the swingset, and I am the one who is acting out. What fun.

It's a great way to work out some of my aggression about the neighbor's "perfect" house and yard. I drop my ball into their yard and think, it's not so perfect now is it?

I truly believe that I have an inner 8 year old who likes to cause trouble. She is a lot of fun. She body surfs in the ocean at high tide. She cracks my bubble gum in public places. She likes to fart, and blame someone else. She laughs at dick jokes, and bathroom humor. She is snotty. She is nasty. She likes to be dirty, and tell everyone that she smells. She burps loudly. She flips off inadament objects because they are annoying. She runs naked past the picture window, hoping to grab the clean clothes before the neighbors see her. She uses the men's room if the ladies' room is occupied. She picks her nose. She picks fights, just because. People find her annoying, and she doesn't care. She whines. She makes fun of people she likes. She swears as often as possible.

Finding an opportunity to have fun with my inner 8 year old while hanging out with my 4 year old is a challenge, and, today, I found a way: batting practice.