Stamina...

I am consistently on the hunt for a new fitness class.

When I was younger it was step aerobics, endless hours of grapevines combined with steps and awkward turns. This led to a Latin dance aerobics class where I always stood in the back so as I learned to samba and cha-cha only a few people could see my silly missteps. There were usually brief moments where the music, my hips and my feet all aligned and I was one hot Latin dancer. At the end of class we would do extended stretches, I was able to effortlessly touch my nose to the floor. Those were the days.

I’ve also enjoyed weeks of fitness boot camps. Enjoyed? NOT! Running, jumping, throwing, push-uping, sit-ups…. I’m not sure I ever felt like I looked any different, but I definitely felt different. Sore. Everywhere.

The soreness of boot camp sent me on my way to a more soothing environment – yoga. Instead of constantly being yelled at to move faster and push harder, I had a pretty little lady calmly encouraging me to do my best. I never did respond well to yelling.

My latest attempt at organized fitness was a Zumba class. At heart I think I was meant to be a dancer, it’s just the rest of my body that seems to be confused about my true calling in life. During this fateful hour I realized something, my stamina sucks!

After about thirty minutes of focusing on the upcoming steps and using all my energy to stay with the instructor – things started to break down. I was consistently one step behind the beat, when the teacher would have us turn to the back wall – I ended up facing everyone who seemed to know all the moves. It was at this point that my self-talk began to decline.

“Why can’t you keep up? Did you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror? You look nothing like the instructor. Some of these ladies are twice your age and they can keep up.!”

There were attempts at more positive internal dialogue.

“You can do it. You look fine. It’s just a little longer. It’s ok if you are completely out of step, you’re exercising!”

As my mental stamina began to break down, so did my physical strength. By the end of the hour I was one big puddle.

My Zumba experience has caused me to reflect on the rhythms of my life. During the summer months I get up and go for a quick walk before Mike leaves for work. I typically have between twenty and forty minutes. It could be longer, but who wants to get up to an alarm on vacation. If I get to the gym during the school year I have about forty minutes, if I’m lucky.

It’s not just exercise that requires stamina – writing does too. I am a morning writer. Not surprising, I like to do most everything in the morning. I would be perfectly content with an eight to two (maybe three) o’clock day. If I was a night owl it would make writing so much easier. We could put the children to bed and I would have almost two hours of uninterrupted writing time. But I’m not. After the boys go to bed, I typically crumble onto the couch and spend my remaining waking hours watching fun shows like Design Star.

As I review some of my past Saturday mornings, I see that I do actually have a couple hours to write. The problem is that these hours are chopped up into little bits of time.

“Mom! Can I have breakfast?”

“Boys – stop shouting!!”

“Yes. You can watch cartoons.”

“Time to turn off the TV.”

“Mom! Can you tie my shoes?”…..

You get the idea.

So, I’ve been left wondering – How do I find time to do all the things I want do? Where does the time for building stamina fit into my life?

I’ve been working with first grade writers for about the past month. Every day I enter the classroom and they are all sitting on the tan carpet learning a new writing strategy from their teacher. They can barely contain their excitement. Hands pop up all throughout the lesson, desperate to share their connecting idea. And then, once they have this new nugget of writerly knowledge – they go and write. Book after book. Day after day. Talking with their friends about their writing. Writing and illustrating. Setting writing goals. Every day they practice and refine their skills as writers.

I’m jealous.

I don’t get to go to writing class, for an hour, every day. I don’t have a daily chunk of time to work out. I don’t have a quiet morning routine that allows for a sit down breakfast and time to read and reflect. I don’t have an art studio to go and paint in. I don’t have a standing lunch date with my friends. I don’t have a weekly date night with my husband or a consistent play date time with my children.

I am left instead with the job of finding balance. Snagging time to write, between distractions, on Saturday morning. Heading out for a quick walk with a coworker over the lunch hour. Making a special Sunday evening dinner, after the boys are in bed. Talking with friends, on the phone, as I make my daily commute home from work. Participating in a painting class with a friend. Or playing a spontaneous game of hide-and-seek with the boys.

I’m not sure that these things actually build stamina for any one thing – but they do seem to increase my overall endurance for the reality of life. And so, even though I am still jealous of the little six year olds in first grade, I must concede that balance does bring a bit of spice to my life.

Weekends Are For Seeing Beauty

Weekends are for seeing beauty. This was the title of a blog post I just clicked on and the reminder I needed today.

The work week can be filled with so many tasks that beauty is often missed by the naked eye. Sometimes the crazy “to do” list carries into the weekend too. I woke up this morning and realized I had forgotten to pay a bill; which lead me to reviewing the bank account and wondering where all the hard earned dollars went this month. Ugh!!

So, to combat the icky heavy feeling that comes with managing money I began my Saturday morning routine (see previous posts for the sacred process). As I worked my way around the kitchen, I opened my computer and clicked on a favorites blog, A Holy Experience, and up popped the blessed title along with a lovely picture of a young girl with flowers nestled in her basket filled shirt. Beauty. This idea of beauty is essential to the survival of my soul. I love those unexpected moments when beauty appears in my ordinary everyday world.

On this average Saturday morning I have been delighted with beauty:

·         I opened up Pandora, my iPod radio station, and realized I had started a new station but hadn’t had a chance to listen to in weeks. Colbie Caillat had me dancing with my refrigerator.

·         I had a creamy white egg for breakfast that didn’t have to travel thousands of miles in a truck before arriving on my plate. My coworker, James, gave me eggs that came straight from his chickens. Delicious!

·         On my balcony, I have auburn mums that catch the sunshine and embody the essence of fall. I look at them and am immediately immersed in the season.

·         My living room is filled with boxes. Boxes that signify change. Boxes that signify a new stage in our journey. Next week we will place our home, the one we’ve lived in for the majority of our married life, on the market. Beautiful.

Weekends are for seeing beauty - this will be my weekend mantra. I will peak around corners, lift piles, and extend my gaze – all in hopes of snagging a glance at beauty in the ordinary.

Stream of Consciousness

i have a coworker who writes her emails in one long stream of thought....connecting each idea with little dots...and half thoughts. i'm in need of just such a purge...it's saturday once again...you can picture the scene...me. kids wrestling around me. pile of dishes...blah, blah, blah.

i've spent the past half an hour enjoying other people's blogs...all the while itching to add something magnificent to my own...i could finish the post i started last weekend...oh, that would take some real brain power. i still can't figure out how to end it...i'm not sure i can concentrate for that long with the boys pulling for my attention...i could let them watch endless hours of tv, but that would cause the mother guilt to nag at my insides...which would then drain my creative juices.

even though i was with it and wrote a long "to do" list...it's still all swimming around in my head...the must dos are competing with the wants...i can't seem to find the balance...

i woke up pondering an incomplete creative project...making a growth chart for my children....so i got out of bed and looked at my paint options...after picking out ones that might work...i put them back on the shelf.

while the boys played angry birds i paid bills and balanced the checking account...trying to bring peace to a layer of household chaos...finished....deep exhale.

and yet still...chaos

my children will only have so much patience for mommy sitting at the computer...i've made a decision...clean...bring order to the disorderly home...hopefully providing me space for something more enjoyable & possible even inspiring

knock...knock...knock...that's my signal...the neighbor boys have come to play...time to end my stream of thought and take full advantage of the welcome distraction....

author's note: writing without consistent punctuation and capitalization is not for me...i know...shocking!!!

Leave Room for Margin

As my children ran toward the gurgling fountains, I paused and allowed my soul to take in the scene. It was an unusually cool June evening and the Old Towne Arvada fountains were surrounded by the weekly Farmer’s Market. Young children shrieked with delight as the surges of water forced them to dance their way through the maze. A young mother lounged on a bench, munching on fresh blueberries and reading a book she probably picked up at the neighboring library (just as we had done moments before).

After plunking down our towels, the boys peeled off their shirts and sprinted into the cool water. I took this moment to meander through the market’s booths. Earlier in the week I had made it a goal to visit a farmer’s market, and was pleased to be soaking in the experience (without any research or effort on my part). I started by surveying a local farmer’s array of fresh vegetables, moved on to sample deep red juicy cherries from the friendly man a few booths down, and finished the semi-circle by smelling the pots of lavender neatly displayed along the long white folding table.

My trip around the fountains was not without its tears over a skinned knee or a mad dash to the bathroom at the library; but oddly these seemed to only enhance my internal exhale. The week had felt like one long stream of summer activities; tennis lessons, vacation bible school, drive-through lunches, play dates, and gatherings with friends. All wonderful summer fun; but just a bit too packed for one who likes to move at a pace that allows for seeing beauty in the ordinary.

If you’ve ever talked with a teacher about summer, the days are often filled to overflowing with expectations and “to do” lists. It is the time of year that is meant to catch-up on every book not read (professional and leisure), every home project left undone, and every neglected friendship. We sign up for every fitness class we’ve missed, plan every family vacation we can afford, and resolve to write every day (ok, that might just be mine). Basically, we try and realize every dream not yet lived during our eight short weeks away from school. It’s no wonder therapists see a spike in their workload during these early months of summer, we teachers need someone to talk us off the ledge and remind us what reality looks like here on planet earth.

 

Fortunately for me, I did not need to pay a therapist hundreds of dollars to remind me of the beauty of summer; I just needed my friend Jenny. Earlier in the day, she shared her new favorite word with me – margin. Her desire for summer (and probably life in general) was to leave enough margin in her life to be able to enjoy the spontaneous nature of this season. That her family’s life would not be so packed with activities and plans that there would be no room for the impromptu summer barbeque or play date in the park.

Margin. Her word resonated with me. It spoke of intentionality; a deliberate choice to leave space in our days to play with our toys, read books that consume our attention, or to find adventures along our favorite Clear Creek Trail. It conjured up images of freedom; the ability, at the last minute, to gather up my family and spend an evening laughing and drinking a lovely glass of wine with friends. It left me with a contented feeling of joy; a feeling that envelops me on Saturday mornings while I write and my children happily play Legos in their room. This word, margin, was the reminder I needed (even during the leisurely months of summer) to create balance in my life. To plan outings and activities that fills our need for relationship and adventure; but also to leave space to enjoy the simple things of summer.

 

Before leaving the market that evening, I purchased a half bag of veggies for five dollars from the farmer (quite a steal) and three avocados, two packages of strawberries and four plums from the pleasant man at the fruit stand. The boys had never tried plums before, except maybe in baby food, and were unusually brave in taking a bite of these foreign fruits. Zak was in love with them, so much so that he ate the rest of my collection and begged for me to buy just a few more for the ride home. A deliciously sweet pleasure of summer.

Ahhh, the beauty of margin.

The Process has Begun!

Process. What process? My writing process. Oh! That process. I didn't really know I had one, I thought it was me staring at the blank page - terrified of the nothingness, hoping an idea would formulate and brilliance would fling itself onto my void of a document. The reality is my process starts days before the blank page. Someone (a.k.a my sister, Hannah) asks when I'm going to post again. I panic. Then I begin to ponder. To really get the juices flowing, I read through every blog I have listed in "my favorites". The list is quite extensive, and takes a good hour to work my way through it. Sitting on a rainy Saturday morning, reading posts, is so relaxing. It's inspiring to hear a myriad of voices and ideas coming through my computer screen. There is something magical about this process. I still have no idea of what I might write, but these bloggers make me want to write. So, today I will keep my eyes peeled and my heart open to a possible topic. Let the process continue!

Nostalgia

Synonyms: homesickness, longing, melancholy

1.       Big yellow smiley face mug filled with change (or was the mug white)

2.       Empty oatmeal cylinder filled with grandma’s neatly stacked cookies, the ones that were always best eaten with a thin layer of peanut butter

3.       Rod iron bed facing  aunt pep’s red bon voyage poster

4.       Walking to the neighborhood grocery store

5.       Walking to church

6.       Walking to the pool

7.       Walking, walking, walking

8.       Love Boat and fried bologna sandwiches with chips

9.       Laughter

10.   Dying Easter eggs

11.   Jelly bean hunts & bags of money

12.   Riding grandma’s big blue tricycle

13.   Spending the night alone at grandma & grandpa’s house

14.   Red velvet cake

15.   Giggles

16.   Delicious lefse that my grandma never thought was quite right

17.   Collection of pencil sharpeners & decorative spoons

18.   Camping in the popup & eating fried fish

19.   Camping – getting all dolled up & promptly deciding to go swimming (all the hard work undone)

20.   Trip to California

21.   Silliness

22.   Grandma washing baseboards for graduation

23.    “Hang up. I’ll call you right back.”

24.   Her forever prayers. Who’s praying for me now?

25.   Eating at “Art’s burgers”

26.   Grandma’s soft skin

27.   Cool basements, toys, dress up clothes, mini piano

28.   Bible

29.   Peterson special on Christmas eve

Tonight I made this list. A list of all the things I loved about my grandmas. All the memories I have that fill my heart with joy. It was a year ago today that my Grandma Peterson passed away. She was my last living grandparent. I miss her. I miss both of my grandmas. They were such an integral part of my childhood. In many ways they were my symbol of simple unconditional love.

I started my evening by writing, deleting, writing, deleting… I wanted to create some lovely story about my grandmas, but what my heart really longed for was to reminisce. To be reminded of all the things I miss now that they are gone from this earth. My heart ached, my soul needed to pause, to cry and to remember. No story. Just a quiet space to embrace them. To love them.

"Butt Flip"

Earlier this week, after a long day of household projects, my testosterone rich family sat down for dinner. Hours of painting had left little energy for anything more than quesadillas. No fruit, no veggies, no tortilla chips – just quesadillas, with a side of soda. While we ate we discussed gymnastics. It started as a simple conversation about cartwheels and backflips. I retold tales of childhood round-offs and back-walk-overs. Although I tried to describe my graceful moves, they were disappointed to learn that I no longer had the gift of flip. Between bites, each child displayed their very best cartwheels. Mike and I praised their techniques. After cajoling them back to the table to finish their dinner, Greyden informed us that he was capable of doing “butt flips”. It was at this moment I should have known that things were going to take a swift turn south. Literally.

In the blink of an eye, Greyden bolted to the middle of the open floor. He whipped down his shorts and underwear. Dropped to the ground. Laid on his back and flipped his little legs over his head. Thus producing a—leave nothing to the imagination—full moon. A “butt flip”.

I’m sure a mother of girls would have politely informed my mooner that sharing your butt with people at dinner is impolite and a bit rude. But, I’m the mother of boys.

I laughed right-out-loud. Not the polite chuckle of a proper lady, but a long and loud guffaw matching the sidesplitting laughter of my mate and sons. Our hysterics spurred Greyden on, thus causing him to repeat his acrobatics multiple times throughout the rest of our meal.

There was something delightfully magical about our family’s chorus of laughter that refreshed and nourished my soul. Even now, as I write, I giggle and smirk at the carefree (and totally inappropriate) antics of my four year old son. This is a story that will someday horrify him, and will bring amusement to our family for far longer than he would like. I gotta say, I never thought a full moon would bring such sunshine to my day.

What Deserves Praise?

“Self-love takes practice. It’s new behavior. We can begin to measure what we are doing, rather than what we haven’t yet managed to do, and praise ourselves.”

The end of spring break often leaves me with a slightly defeated outlook on life. Spring Break is meant to be the time of year that every “to do” and “can’t wait to do” is completed. There is no holiday to interrupt the flow of the week, so it seems perfectly realistic to get caught up on everything I didn’t get to at winter break. However, the week is never long enough to truly accomplish all that my head and heart can dream up. So, I have a tendency to feel a little blue as I consider returning to work. I can’t seem to remember what I’ve filled my week with and my current “to do” list is longer than the pink notepad paper that hangs on my refrigerator.

As I ponder this idea I realize, sometimes that’s how we feel about life in general. Our wish list outweighs our accomplishments, we tend not to keep a running list of what we’ve done with our lives and our memory isn’t good enough to remember it all. And so we forget, and only see what we haven’t managed to do yet. We rarely take time to celebrate; we rush on to remind ourselves of all that we must do before we die. Depressing. And rather unhealthy, if I do say so myself.

So, in the spirit of celebrationsJ

1.      put pen to paper (or posted) more times in March than I did in all of 2011

2.      became a non-paid non-professional face painter for my niece, Leah’s, 2^nd birthday – so cute I just want to eat her up

3.      confidence and craft are improving because of my March challenge

4.      two nights at Mt. Princeton hot springs (not mentioning I forgot sunblock and had several red faces)

5.      visited grandma & grandpa – came home with two more (thankfully small) stuffed animals that the boys just couldn’t live without

6.      painted our bedroom – 3 different neutral colors, one being a white ceiling. (Painting a ceiling should be on its own separate list of accomplishments.)

7.      escaped home repairs to discuss writing & life with friends (more than once)

8.      identity as a coworker has expanded because of the March challenge

9.      painted boys’ room – one color (Grey thought it looked purple, fortunately dried a nice shade of tan)

10.  gave kisses, read stories, and settled into a pleasant family routine

11.  managed to reassemble bedrooms with only one living room slumber party

12.  visited football games, parks and swimming pools (few more red cheeks – I’m just not prepared for this weather quite yet)

13.  tiled the boys’ bathroom (really not my accomplishment, but very happy it’s being done)

14.  finally got to eat a quiet breakfast and writeJ

Mighty fine list of accomplishments! I’m just going to take a minute to sit with this list, before turning over with my current “to do” list and moving forward.

You’re valuable and worthy of a little celebration too. What are you doing that deserves praise?

Update: My friend, Gina, is doing well. The initial report indicates that it is scar tissue, but official results will not be in for another week. I was standing in the paint aisle at Home Depot when I got the word; cried like a baby. She is out of the hospital and beginning her recovery process. Thank you for your continued prayers and well wishes! I’ll keep you posted.

At the Edge of It

Today as I write, my dear friend, Gina, lays on an operating table with her brain exposed. We are all praying that the surgeons find scar tissue and not a new tumor. As her family sits in a cold sterile waiting room, we are at home entertaining the neighbor boy and preparing to paint our bedroom. My life continues status quo and theirs comes to a halt.

And then there's my neighbor, Anna. She lost her sister in a ski accident in January. Anna and I have been friends for almost eight years. We met after the birth of our first sons. We announced our second pregnancies to each other on the same day. We live in identical homes, except flipped - her kitchen is on the right and mine is on the left. Our husbands each drive Honda Accords and work for HIV organizations. We both teach and are a consistent source of sanity during our long summer breaks. We make time for play dates and mommy dates. When Shooter, with Mark Wahlberg came out, we were first in line to see it. Anna and I live similar lives, except now her sister is gone and mine are not.

Anna's story is unique because there are thousands of people grieving the loss of her sister, Sarah Burke, the athlete and Olympic hopeful. But, I did not know Sarah - I know Anna. I grieve for Anna and her loss. A life that will no longer be lived with a sister in this world. The world grieves for Sarah, the skier; Anna grieves the loss of a beloved sister. Her pain is private. The knowledge of others grieving does not change her process. Grief is hers and hers alone.

Living at the center of grief is very different than sitting at the edge of it. The pain is there, but on the edge you can move closer to it or step away. Life can go on as normal, painting and play dates, without being overwhelmed and immersed in it. At the center, the grief is ever present. Gina's family cannot escape the pain and fear of her surgery. It surrounds them. I sit at the park, birds singing, a cool breeze diffusing the bright sunshine - I am aware of the ache in my heart but can be distracted by the carefree imaginative play of my children.

Grief. It seems that life should stop for all. And yet, it does not. I suppose this fact is a blessing, but today it doesn't feel like it - even out here at the edge of it.

Slippery Slope

First I was too emotionally spent
Then I was plain old tired
After that I decided that writing in my head was practically as good as putting pen to paper
Saturday I forgot about my writing challenge all together
Yesterday I  headed up to the mountains to relax and get away from my responsibilities
Finally I realized that I had gone five days without typing a single word
So, I am now officially back on the "writing" horse
Each day
For the next five days (at least)

Where is Perfect?

“We are not perfect. Perfection is not expected in the Divine plan. But we are expected to take our experiences and grow from them, to move beyond the shame of them to celebrate what they have taught us.” – Anonymous

Life is a confusing mystery. Some days we are comfortable living in the adventure of the mystery. And other days we sit in the mire of this reality. Some days we are filled with wonder and delight at all the possibilities that life holds. And other days we become paralyzed by imperfection. Our imperfect selves, imperfect relationships, imperfect lives… There is a part of us that longs for perfection. But, as we look around it is nowhere to be found.

Daughters lose mothers and fathers.

           What’s perfect about that?

Relationships are painful.

How did this happen?

Friends find out they have brain cancer.

           Why?

Sisters lose sisters.

           How will life go on?

Marriages fail.

           Was that the plan?

Dreams of youth are unfulfilled.

            When will mine come true?

And the crazy part is that it's usually the small stuff that more regularly sends us to this dark and painful place. The difficult conversation. The less than perfect evaluation. The nasty self- talk. The dirty dishes. The day filled with unmet expectations. The unkind word that came out without thinking.

                                                                                                                

Today, I sit in this space.

Fortunately, I have lived enough life to know that tomorrow may be different.

Stubborn

Sometimes I can be stubborn. It usually rears its head at odd times. When Mike wants to turn up the heat and don't want to, or when my boss tells me we might need to move rooms and I don't want to. I can feel it deep within me, this small little girl stomping her feet and screaming, "NO! I don't want to! You can't make me!!" That's how I feel tonight. I don't want to write and nobody's going to make me. I want to sit here and watch Dancing With The Stars, eat food I shouldn't eat and do nothing but judge them for wearing scantily clad clothes on a family show. "See, I was writing and I missed Melissa Gilbert!" I told you I did not want to write. I have nothing of any real value to say. I feel cranky and probably tired and I do not want to write. The great thing is, I'm an adult and I can choose not to write. So, I am making a very adult decision - I am NOT writing. The End.

Distracted Growth

I’ve noticed, that since starting the writing challenge, I am quite distracted by all the writing I am doing in my head. The other night I was leaving my writing group and almost took a wrong turn and ended up in Loveland instead of Arvada because I was busy thinking about how I might end my latest post. As I swerved across traffic to right my wrong, I wondered if I was too mentally impaired  to drive. Today, as I was coming home from the grocery store, I became lost in processing how I might craft this percolating topic into a blog post. I’m not really sure how long I sat in my car before remembering that my chicken might be thawing in the back end.

This weekend I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, the subtitle is Some Instructions on Writing and Life. My intention in visiting this wonderful oasis was just to have some one-on-one time with a friend. I had no intention of buying anything. I was in denial. I left with $45.00 worth of books and somehow my friend escaped with spending barely $5.00. It was her idea in the first place. Just not right! But, I couldn’t not buy this book. I have heard so many great things about this writer, and I read just enough that putting it back on the shelf was out of the question. So - now I can fill my head with more ideas about writing. Good thing spring break is coming; I may be in a walking writer’s coma by then. I’ll need the vacation to either lose myself in writing, or recover and find balance again. My problem is usually starting the process, the blank page scares me. Either way, I am noticing that my ability to sit down and get to writing is improving. Yay me!

Now, I’m off to write another letter of recommendation. Not my favorite writing, but writing none-the-less.

Alone

It’s been an unusually busy week. I’ve seen friends almost every night this week. Oh so fun! But, I can only take that pace for so long, and then I need to be home. Tonight, I was given the gift of an evening, alone, in my house. God bless my mate! He took the kids and headed off to spend the night with a group of our friends. When I told him I would love to stay home, he said, “Go for it!” It took me a few minutes to decide that being home, alone, would be good for my soul. It’s amazing all that one can accomplish and enjoy without children clamoring for attention!

Natalie’s Night - Alone

1)      Took a nap

2)      Straightened the entry way

3)      Made dinner – for oneJ

4)      Watched “Worst Cooks in America” and ate dinner

5)      Cleaned my kitchen

6)      Threw in a load of laundry

7)      Went for a walk

8)      Put clothes in dryer

9)      Vacuumed

10)  Folded boys’ laundry

11)  Put laundry away

12)  Wrote a blog

God bless my husband!! I hope his evening was as enjoyable as mineJ

The Life of A Hallway

I am conflicted. As I walk up the short flight of steps to our small condo, nestled between two other little abodes, I am conflicted. I long for more space, for a yard to call our own, for a bathroom that does not double as a bike rack, for children’s bedrooms that aren’t constantly explode with toys when the door is opened.

And yet, it is our home.

It’s the place where my mate and I painted, hung light fixtures and purchased items to make it our own. The place where we started and completed our family.  The place that has been accumulated memories for many years. Eventually, when we pack our belongings and move to a new house, it will be bitter sweet.

One of the spaces that I will miss is our hallway. It’s a short hallway that connects our living room to our bedrooms. On one wall there is an 8x10 photo of my baby and toddler, their cute little toes peeking out at me. As the children have grown we’ve added a simple wood-framed bulletin board that overflows with art work and special papers from school. At Christmas we take down all the clutter and transform the board into a construction paper nativity scene. Each day we add a laminated figure to the setting, impatiently counting down the days until December 25^th. When I remember, there is a little treat, in the present box hanging next to Bethlehem. More often than not the boys have to remind me to add the surprise, thus losing the mystery of how these gifts arrive each morning.

At the end of the hall is a mirror, a kind and loving mirror. When we moved it from our last home, something happened, and now it has a slight bow that causes the image (me) to look thinner than reality. It’s a beautiful gift to my ego. Everyone should have such a mirror. Now-a-days the bottom half is forever covered in small handprints, as it is a common place of entertainment.

Most nights, as I travel to bed, I stop to pick up random toys that never quite made it anywhere. Masks that have been discarded for a better costume, Nerf darts that were used for the impromptu attack, teeny-tiny Legos that hide in the corners of the carpet, and socks that lost their way on the trip to the hamper.




 

 When Greyden was a baby the hallway was a bedroom. Each night we would wheel his little bassinet from our room to the hall. His baby noises kept me from sleep, and I just couldn’t bring myself to put my fragile infant in the ginormous crib in his bedroom. Last summer it became a climbing wall, as Zak learned he could shimmy himself to the ceiling and back. Over the weekend (instead of playing in the warm sunshine) we threw an orange and black foam football up and down the hallway. Our time together was marked by shouts of congratulation for the perfect spiral or effortless catch. Daddy “horse” has galloped many miles, down this hall, with young cowboys on his back.

 It’s amazing how memories can settle into the most mundane spaces, like a hallway. Even with these precious memories, I still dream of more space. I wonder what memories our new hallway will hold. Will my boys plunk themselves down on the floor as they nervously call and ask a sweetheart for a date? How often will our teenagers sneak out after curfew, paying close attention to the squeak on the third floorboard?  Will they stop to adjust their tie in the mirror before venturing off to their first prom? How many tears will I cry as I watch them pack for college and take their final box to the car?

And so, I am conflicted. I dream of more space, but wonder if I’m truly ready to say good-bye.

Choice: Free Money or Blog?

Tonight, I chose to write a grant instead of write on my blog. I'm excited because it is a grant to purchase non-fiction mentor text and professional writing books that support non-fiction instruction. It felt very rewarding to press submit. I will know by May 15th if they accepted my proposal.

So sad about not being able to blog. As I walked the rows of testers, I came up with a great topic. I even started formulating the words in my head.

Now it's a choice between sleep and blogging. I choose sleep.

Hopefully the inspired post will still be lingering in my head tomorrow.

Need to Breathe

Last night I went outside
my normal Monday routine
I traveled to Cherry Creek
for dinner at the Kona Grill
shared some Red Velvet Cake
almost more delicious than sex

Piled into a Mercedes
with six of my friends
giggled and chatted
our way to the Ogden

Stood for three hours
lost all personal space
swivelled my hips
shook my bootie
to the beat of the drum

So tired I'm delusional
but the memories
make it worth the trip
out of my normal routine

Dirty Little Secret

…It is of immense importance to learn to laugh at ourselves.

-Katherine Mansfield

Last night we traveled to Castle Rock to attend a fortieth birthday party. It was a special party. Our friend wasn’t expected to live to forty, or thirty, or even twenty. It was a special party. We went to see his pregnant wife. His pregnant wife who never thought her dream would become a reality. It was a special party.

As we stood in their kitchen, we reminisced about our first meeting. It was a meeting that sealed our friendship in laughter.

It was several years ago that we met on a cold winter evening. We had decided to meet at church and then go for a pleasant dinner at the Chart House, but Zak’s smashed finger changed the direction of our evening. We needed to take Zak home but we didn’t want to miss a chance to be together, so we invited them instead to our home for take-out pizza.

There was one big problem with our great new plan, our house was a disaster! It’s ok if long-time friends see our day-to-day living, but new friends should see the best side of us (at least once). I guess there was one other slight problem, when we decided to alter our plan – we weren’t actually home to fix the chaos.

After a private “what are we going to do” conversation, Mike and I sprang into action. It was decided that he would leave ahead of us, in hopes of having a few minutes to return our home to some semblance of order. It was a risky move, but the only viable option. I tried my best to stall, before piling us into cars and making our way to our soon-to-be clean home.

As I opened the door, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and marveled at all he had accomplished in such a short period of time. The toys were neatly stacked in their basket, the assorted piles of junk that had been living on our counter had disappeared, and the most masterful piece of all was the kitchen. The stack of dishes that had taken up residence in the sink was gone. I was in awe of my mate’s magical powers. Truly impressive. The thought that ran through my head was, “Who knew he was so gifted at the art of clean-up. If he’s such a magician, why doesn’t he do this more often?”

Mike went to settle Zak in for the night, and our guests and I delved into getting to know each other better. As we chatted, I entered our little kitchen. They leaned against our tall counter as our effortless conversation continued. I began pulling glasses from the cupboard and filling drink orders. It didn’t take long to forget the stresses of the evening and settle into a natural rhythm of discussion. Before the pizza arrived, I realized that we had nothing to serve for dessert. A good hostess always serves dessert. I mentally ran through the items in our pantry and refrigerator. Since serving graham crackers and peanut butter to our new guests was out, I decided on the pie I had been keeping in our freezer.

I turned on the oven and continued preparing for our meal. It was when my new friend pointed out that smoke was seeping out of our oven that I remembered Mike’s little secret.

“Don’t turn on the oven! I crammed all of the dirty dishes in there.” Mike had whispered to me before leaving the room.

Horrified, I had to open the oven – thus revealing our dirty little secret to our fresh new friends. I tried to discreetly peak into my appliance, but it was official, my dishes were on fire. We were busted. There is no faking perfection with flames bursting from your dinnerware.

Our reminiscing has caused me to I reflect on who I have become since the day of flames. At the time I was a perfectionist, now I’m a recovering perfectionist. Fortunately, for everyone around me, I am recovering cause being around a true blue Mary Poppins (fairly perfect in every way) can be a real downer. Who wants to be with someone who tries so hard to do everything perfectly, who often times thinks their way is the perfect way. Being a perfectionist is exhausting. It’s much more fulfilling to make mistakes, to take risks, to be honest and tell the world (or at least my faithful followers) your house is a mess, or set your dishes aflame – and laugh. So, thank you to all my imperfect friends who are brave and authentic with me. It calls me out, keeps me out of hiding, and reminds me each day to be me, imperfectly human – me.

Author’s Note: My goal today was to bust out a story and post it. I'm insecure about being a storyteller. I have another story I started over a week ago, but I’m struggling with wanting the “perfect” piece of writing. Ironic isn’t it? So, here’s my attempt at slice of life storytelling.