I played sports in high school. JV tennis and varsity soccer. But no one I graduated with would call me an athlete.
I'm competitive. I like to play lots of sports but have never been great at any of them. Even after both kids I kept playing soccer...until I was taking my son to his own practices and I couldn't how to figure out how to juggle his games with mine.
I am a member of the best gym in town, but feel silly in those classes and I hate the treadmill.
I do however, love food.
I also have the cholesterol level of a 70 year overweight man who is on an all bacon diet.
And family history of diabetes and heart disease and am about 2 cheeseburgers away from shopping at Lane Bryant.
And the easiest solution to that is to lace up my sneaks, download some terrible music and take a few laps around the block.
And I'd come back home sweatier and with a clearer head.
At some point those few laps became a few miles and even occasionally a few hours.
Back in the fall a friend asked me to do a half marathon with her, to raise money for World Vision. For clean water for children in Africa. I'd only done a half marathon once before. Pre-kids and atleast 20 lbs ago. A few friends had tried to talk me into one a year or so back and I wasn't interested. Too far. Too expensive. Too much training.
But this time I said yes.
And I run for lots of reasons.
For the tshirts and race swag.
For the cupcakes I want to eat later.
For the good kind of sore the next day.
For my head to clear.
For atleast thirty minutes of quiet.
To help me get off the couch.
So my thighs don't rub together.
Because of how strong I feel after a really good run.
Because my pants fit better and I feel better when I do.
Because when else is it ok to put Beiber, Nikki Minaj , and the Zac Brown Band all on the same playlist.
Because I'll never be as fast as most people, but I know I can usually outlast them.
But this weekend I'll be running for all those selfish reasons....and one really more important one.
*nearly half of the world's population lives on less than 2$ a day (ouch. i spend more than that on coffee most days)
*Nearly every day 852 million people go hungry, over 300 million of those are children. (and not just hungry, like I feel most days after school because I eat lunch at 10:30...but real...hunger).
*One in every 5 children living in developing countries do not have access to clean drinking water (...I can just look around my living room and see almost that many half drank juice boxes or water bottles my kids left out)
and there are plenty more scary facts where that came from. (world vision stats on poverty) and I'm totally stealing this line from another one of their videos. "Some statistics you can't run from....but you can run for."
Want to help without getting blisters? Consider making a donation here: http://support.worldvision.org/site/TR?team_id=26640&fr_id=1471&pg=team
and thanks so much for the people who already have.
new do
In other words. She is over the top super-sassy-girly. But she is missing one really important girl accessory.
Hair.
And even though her brother was born with thick full locks, she was bald. Like her PawPaw. People kept assuring me that their little girls were bald too. And that it would grow. Her first birthday came and went. No ponytail. Then her second and we could pull just a few strands into pigtails. And then her third all with very little progress on the hair front.
Right now she is three and half and still can’t really rock a pony tail.
It has grown of course. But slow and stringy and super fine.
Uneven and occasionally matted in the back, well lets just say it is a good thing she has such pretty brown eyes….
I’ve tried bows and hats and clippies and they can only do so much. When I visit her classroom all the girls in her class have shiny locks halfway down their backs with braids and hair accessories to make even Rapunzel jealous.
This morning her hair looked particularly awful and I decided that I’d take her in for a hair cut. I know that the old wives tail about cutting your hair makes it grow faster isn’t exactly true. But I figured it couldn’t hurt. So after lunch I loaded her up and went out to get my girl a new do.
She seemed a little nervous as we pulled up, asking apprehensively if getting her hair cut hurt. “No baby girl”, I assured her. “Your hair can’t feel. It won’t hurt at all.”
But the truth is that losing something you want so badly always hurts. Even if it is for the best.
Someone called our name and she asked how I wanted Tess’s hair cut. I told her it had never been cut and I was just hoping to jump start it a little. Clean it up. She got the apron on her, tried to run her comb through my girl’s fine mess….and might have even used the word mullet. She said that a trim would really make it look better. She said her hair was so fine and brittle that it was breaking off faster than it was growing in. And she suggested taking off a full inch and evening it out.
I was so desperate for her to have more hair that I never bothered to trim off the unhealthy parts. And this was causing it to break faster than it could come in.
Sometimes it is hard to see growth if there is damage.
A good gardener will tell you that plants need to be pruned. The dead and damaged parts need to be removed so the plant’s resources are redirected to other areas.
I used to be an average tennis player. (these days I’m just an ex-average tennis player). But I had a coach once who spent hours re-teaching me how to serve. I had a decent and consistent serve, but if I want to have a good serve…I needed to change everything about how I hit the ball. It meant that instead of usually hitting it in the right box, I was double faulting. But eventually, I started faulting less and getting more aces. Because sometimes, you have to get worse before you get better.
My hair hasn’t been cut in six months or more. And I am desperate for a new do. Because I am desperate to be different. For a little while now I have felt stuck. Like I know the areas that I need to grow and change and I swear I keep taking steps in those directions. But I mostly just feel like I am walking backwards. Probably because I haven’t been willing to get rid of the damaged parts.
And frankly, more than just my hair needs a trim.
Tess sat there while the sweet hairdresser snipped bigger chunks of her hair off than I was hoping for. Gave her a little bit of bang and some cute layers, so that as it did grow in it would look fuller. I tucked a little curl into my wallet and kept telling her how cute she looked.
She said there was so little to cut, that she would only charge me for a bang trim.
We got home and I had to stop her brother short from telling her she looked like a boy. We put in a heart clippie and painted her nails and she pranced around the living room. It is definitely shorter. And when I met her daddy, his mop was easily longer than hers, but it does look better. The stringy mullet-y parts are gone. What is left seems so much healthier. More even. Shiny.
Like it is ready to grow.
And I think I’ll follow her lead and get a new do of my own.
broken
Once I had a conversation with an old friend. It was months ago. And we were hundreds of miles apart but feeling some of the same things. She called while I was on my way into starbucks to meet someone else. But I don’t get to talk to her everyday so I stood outside, leaned against the brick wall and we spoke about how we both felt a little bit broken.
And mostly how we don’t want to be. And unsure how to talk about it with other people. And then I went inside and ordered an Americano and I’m sure pretended to be just fine and together.
Today, like most weekends, we had a kid’s birthday party to attend. Someone in my daughter’s class that I have never met. And unless it is a really close friend I almost always dread these. They are right up there with organize my sock drawer, clean out the fridge and grading papers for ways I least want to spend my weekend. It is just socially awkward, loud, and boring. The only bonus is that it usually ends with cupcakes. I have several coping mechanisms, I often volunteer to take pictures and recently I have even started bringing books. This time, I didn’t have my camera, or a book and my phone only had a few bars left on it.
I found the right party, which is difficult since I didn’t know the birthday boy and the only thing Tess gave me to go on was that he had “grey” hair. ( it is brown by the way). But I found the correct lane got Tess into some super cute tiny bowling shoes introduced myself and found a place on a nearby couch and wondered if anyone would notice if I took a nap.
There was a young mom there with her son who was currently giggling with my daughter and another boy from their class. She had a ring in her nose and her eyebrow and smelled faintly of cigarettes. She smiled warmly and initiated some conversation. I am always intimidated by the mom scene, but figured it must be even more awkward for her, so I listened and talked. Not long into the conversation she mentioned a nasty custody battle. We talked about other things briefly, but eventually it came out that I knew her son’s father. That he used to be a student at the school I used to teach at. The second I said I knew him. She asked for my hand. Which I thought was awkward, but gave it to her anyways.
She pulled it to her forhead. Pressed my fingers into it’s side and said, “Feel that? It is a metal plate from where he kicked my skull in.”
And I said something about being glad that she was smart enough to get away and protect her son. But mostly I felt inadequate. And I pictured this man, whose foot had been where my hand just was, like the last I had seen him. A cocky 16 year old kid that I was telling to get to class. Or watch his mouth. Or to slow down in parking lot.
And the party continued. Our kids threw gutter balls and danced to Justin Beiber. Eventually we were ushered to a party room for pizza and cake and I found myself talking pinterest recipes with another mom that didn’t look like one of my students.
But for the rest of the day, I couldn’t get that image out of my head. My hand on hers.
And shocked. That this woman, that I’d spent no more than 15 minutes talking to, had no problems showing me how she’d been broken.
And put back together.
And that maybe the rest of us moms, had a few things to learn from her.
And mostly how we don’t want to be. And unsure how to talk about it with other people. And then I went inside and ordered an Americano and I’m sure pretended to be just fine and together.
Today, like most weekends, we had a kid’s birthday party to attend. Someone in my daughter’s class that I have never met. And unless it is a really close friend I almost always dread these. They are right up there with organize my sock drawer, clean out the fridge and grading papers for ways I least want to spend my weekend. It is just socially awkward, loud, and boring. The only bonus is that it usually ends with cupcakes. I have several coping mechanisms, I often volunteer to take pictures and recently I have even started bringing books. This time, I didn’t have my camera, or a book and my phone only had a few bars left on it.
I found the right party, which is difficult since I didn’t know the birthday boy and the only thing Tess gave me to go on was that he had “grey” hair. ( it is brown by the way). But I found the correct lane got Tess into some super cute tiny bowling shoes introduced myself and found a place on a nearby couch and wondered if anyone would notice if I took a nap.
There was a young mom there with her son who was currently giggling with my daughter and another boy from their class. She had a ring in her nose and her eyebrow and smelled faintly of cigarettes. She smiled warmly and initiated some conversation. I am always intimidated by the mom scene, but figured it must be even more awkward for her, so I listened and talked. Not long into the conversation she mentioned a nasty custody battle. We talked about other things briefly, but eventually it came out that I knew her son’s father. That he used to be a student at the school I used to teach at. The second I said I knew him. She asked for my hand. Which I thought was awkward, but gave it to her anyways.
She pulled it to her forhead. Pressed my fingers into it’s side and said, “Feel that? It is a metal plate from where he kicked my skull in.”
And I said something about being glad that she was smart enough to get away and protect her son. But mostly I felt inadequate. And I pictured this man, whose foot had been where my hand just was, like the last I had seen him. A cocky 16 year old kid that I was telling to get to class. Or watch his mouth. Or to slow down in parking lot.
And the party continued. Our kids threw gutter balls and danced to Justin Beiber. Eventually we were ushered to a party room for pizza and cake and I found myself talking pinterest recipes with another mom that didn’t look like one of my students.
But for the rest of the day, I couldn’t get that image out of my head. My hand on hers.
And shocked. That this woman, that I’d spent no more than 15 minutes talking to, had no problems showing me how she’d been broken.
And put back together.
And that maybe the rest of us moms, had a few things to learn from her.
pretend
Currently my son is tearing the cushions off the couch.
First he set it up like a TV and him and his sister pretended to watch cartoons on it. Then he set it up as a tent. And when her brother asked if she wanted to go camping, Tess quickly took the clipboard out of his hand and signed up. It didn’t bother her that he really didn’t have a clipboard, nor that she can’t write. Then they pretended to look at the stars on the ceiling.
They slip in and out of imaginary worlds with ease. One minute they are running from monsters or hiking up a mountain or swimming across the living room.
I watched jealously wondering when we lose our ability to pretend.
10? 14? 21?
And suddenly realizing that we just get better at it with age.
We just start pretending about all the wrong things.
We pretend to be ok when we aren’t.
We pretend to have it together when we’re not.
We pretend to have answers when we don’t have a clue.
We pretend not to be scared when we are petrified.
We pretend that we aren’t struggling when we are slipping fast.
We pretend that we are listening when we are really making lists in our heads.
We pretend not to care when we do. A lot.
We pretend to care when we really don’t.
And, all that pretending is exhausting. I do my share, but I’ve never been good at.
Instead, I’d rather look at the stars on my ceiling. Or watch cartoons on my couch cushions.
what is the zipcode for heaven?
And I love homework. As long as it isn’t the kind I am supposed to grade.
But this was a kind of weird assignment.
We were supposed to write a letter to God, describing essentially what we think our “good and beautiful life” (which also happens to be the name of the book) would look like for us.
And this stumped me for multiple reasons.
a) I’m pretty sure God doesn’t have a PO box.
b) It felt something like writing a letter to Santa, a bucket list and a bunch of new year’s resolutions all in one.
c) There was the possibility of having to read it loud. And I am somehow ok with hitting publish on blogger for potentially hundreds to read (ok, a few dozen). but reading outloud to a handful of people that are actually in the same room with me, makes me want to break out into hives.
d) Until rather recently writing (and blogging) used to come easy to me. I could spit one posts almost daily without breaking a sweat. But lately, I can’t even get out one a week. And it isn’t that I’m suddenly busier. I am busy. I was before too. The simple and honest answer is that I’m just not writing anything. And it isn’t the writing I’m struggling with so much as it is the naked. And it turns out I can’t really write without being naked. (don’t worry. I am speaking 100% figuratively. I am fully dressed in pj pants and a sweatshirt while I type this). This girl is sorting through some vulnerability issues.
But I wrote it anyways. Dear Santa, bucket list and new years resolutions and all.
And. I read good size chunks of it outloud. And I didn’t get hives.
So I figured I should get double duty out of it and post some of it here. Fully dressed.
It would be easy to say that I’d like a life of ease. That is the “good life” right? Money. Travel. And a housekeeper. A life where my kids don’t get skinned knees or the flu, my papers are always graded, I only hit green lights and I never leave my fly down (which may or may not have been how I taught the better part of my morning yesterday). And beautiful, sure – I’d like veneers on my teeth, the mole on my face removed, a better haircut and new highlights and to trim down a few sizes. That would be a start. An upgraded wardrobe and pedicure couldn’t hurt either. And maybe I mean all that a little. Who wouldn’t? But something tells me that I’d be bored. A good life is lived. Foughten for. Broken and Renewed. Taken plenty of chances. Knows grace. Sometimes has done without. In other words, a good life is probably occasionally a hard one.
Mostly I think I’d like to love extravagantly. Recklessly. And I’m even a little surprised to catch myself saying that because I know all too well. Over and over, how much that can hurt. Because loving like that isn’t safe. It doesn’t hold back. It isn’t always returned. And it means occasionally being crushed. I want to love anyways. Again and again. When it is easy and when it is hard. Because He does.
And for my kids. Any mom can tell you they want the best for their kids. But. I’m not sure I’d say that. And I catch myself wanting to buy them nice things, but I’d also hope that they sometimes wear hand me downs. Or drive a used car. That instead of being the coolest kid in class that maybe they instead are the one who stands up for the kid who no one else wants to sit next to. I want them to fall down occasionally. To lose. To fail. To get their heart broken. And those things almost feel mean to write, but instead of having kids who get what they want and never get hurt, I’d rather have ones that know how to get back up. How to try again. How to do better next time. How to adapt and change and recover. I want kids who know how to study and to sweat and to save and to serve and to say they are sorry. But most importantly, to never doubt that they are loved. By me and their God.
And the book we are reading, says that everyone wants to be happy. And I can’t really argue with that. But what I mostly want is joy in the times that I am not. Because there are plenty of those. To have a faith so strong that something good within me can’t be shaken. And I want to matter. Not so much that I want to be important, but I want to matter by doing important things for other people. Even if they aren’t the kind so things other people consider important. Noticing them. Feeding them. Looking them in the eye. Asking their name. Whether it is my student. Or the checkout lady at Target or the homeless woman on the corner asking for gas money.
I really like my couch. And have hours of Tivo saved and shelves and shelves of books. But I’m thinking I should spend less time on my couch, and more time playing outside with my kids. Cleaning out my garage. Running a marathon. Helping someone move. Hiking up a mountain with my husband. I think a good life is likely a sweaty one.
When I’m 80, and look back. I hope my husband is still by my side. Holding my hand listening to the same old stories and jokes and rubbing my feet. That my passport has lots of stamps on it. That I’ve seen and served in all kinds of places. I hope I’ve tried all kinds of weird things and made friends with all kinds of unusual characters. I hope I’ve become one of those unusual characters myself. I hope my kids have grown and are pursuing their own adventures and that they always knew I loved them the best. I hope I’ve laughed more than I’ve cried. Given away far more than I’ve saved and that I let very little be wasted.
Specifically, I hope I’ve taken the leap and published something. That I’ve reigned in my mouth and learned when to stop drinking and talking. That I stop letting fear win. To make wiser choices with my words, my money and that I can remember where I put my car keys. I want to stop wrestling with the same sins. To have more of those hard conversations. To listen without interrupting. To pray without falling asleep. To love without expectation. That one day my car won’t look like a fast food trash can. To be better at standing up for myself and to keep standing up for people I love.
So basically, I want the life I already have. But without me always getting in the way.
because it is worth saying again.
Maybe you have noticed that I have been pretty absent here lately.
I'll address that another day. maybe.
But for now, I am going to cheat and post something I wrote a few years ago.
Because it is worth saying again. And mostly because my friend is living it all over again. This time a month sooner. Coming in at only 2 lbs 3 ounces. My kids were both well over 8lbs and I was still afraid I was going to break them. For months. So I can't even really fathom that, except I've seen pictures and when you see past all the tubes they have going into him. He looks pretty perfect. Because he is.
Just Breathe
My sweet Tess is just a few days over 7 months. She has one little tooth. I have yet to see her really crawl, but she can manage her way across a room. I swear she can say momma although some people might say she is too little to know what she is saying. She is at the age where she seems to be learning a “new trick” almost everyday.
Owen is also learning all kinds of things. How to write his name, that blue and yellow make green and how to dribble a soccer ball.
I am amazed at what they learn, but it also leads to expectations. I wonder when Tess will crawl, or when Owen will read, or when Tess will let me get a good solid night of sleep, or when Owen will make it through his soccer game without crying.
I love my kids as close to unconditionally as humanly possible. But all these new expectations means that occasionally I am going to be disappointed. Or wonder if they are ok, or on track, or as smart or talented or ( fill in the blank) as the other kids. I hope that they will grow up to be smart and kind and happy. I hope that they make good grades in school, that they will not get mixed up in the "wrong crowd". I hope that they will graduate from college and find spouses and make me beautiful grandbabies ( in that order).
But just 7 months and 4 days ago ( or almost 4 years ago w/ O) all I was hoping for was that first cry. Just to know that the baby they pulled from my body would breathe. That she was alive.
I loved her perfectly and fully as she sat in the warming tray across the room before I could even touch her and squeeze her and count her toes. Before eating solids, or potty training or algebra.
One of my friends just had a baby yesterday. A little bitty bit of a thing weighing in at not quite 2 and a half pounds. I have seen a few pictures and he is pink and perfect, despite all the tubes that seem to get in the way of his cute face. She was short a few months to prepare. Do all the necessary things like buy a carseat, pack a hospital bag and pick out a name. She didn’t sit around and wonder if he would weigh 8 lbs or have blue eyes or score a perfect 10 on his Apgar test. Instead she skipped straight to the important part. She held her breathe and hoped and prayed for that first cry.
That cry where you instantly fall in love. A love that hasn’t been earned. Love that just is. Love that hopes to steal a glimpse before they quickly wheel him to NICU. Love that impatiently waits 30 long hours to meet her son for the first time. Love that doesn’t need him to sleep through the night, or kick a soccer ball, or clean his room. But the kind that just wants a glimpse or to grab his finger.
My God loves me like this. Not because of what I do or don't do, or how many friends I have or because I go to church. But simply because He created me. 2 lbs or 140lbs*.
(and let's be honest -- I weigh more than 140 lbs. but this is my blog I can lie if I want to!)
letter to my 16 year old self
Dear 16 year old me,
Rap is just a phase that you will grow out of.
That boy you are pining over. He will be bald before he is 30. Move on.
You will never be this skinny again. Or have this metabolism. Eat more donuts. Wear bathing suits proudly.
Don’t talk back so much to your teachers. One day you will be one.
Overalls are only ok if you are pregnant. It is never ok to leave one or both of the straps down.
Stop wasting your money on the cool jeans.
Eye shadow does not need to match your outfit.
Wear your retainer.
90210 will attempt to make a comeback. Skip it.
Please stop adding “and shit” on the end of every sentence. You sound like an idiot.
Don’t worry about spelling. This crazy thing called spell check will do it for you.
There will always be groups that you don’t fit in. It doesn’t end with the high school cafeteria. Stop trying. If you have to try to fit into a group it is one you don’t want in.
Bangs should not be stacked.
Wine coolers are gross.
Read more books and less magazines.
You do not know nearly as much as you think you do.
Sometimes your parents were right.
Sometimes your teachers were right.
At your 10 year reunion, people will talk to you and you won’t remember who they are. And you will wonder if you were nice to them. Be nice. Don’t make your 26 year old self wonder.
Do not, I repeat, do NOT try to pierce your own bellybutton with a safety pin. You will totally regret it.
Hickeys are icky.
You will not look like Jennifer Anniston if you get layers in your hair. And layers take a really really long time to grow out.
Be glad your parents didn’t let you go to most of those parties.
The mall is a really dumb place to hang out.
Eye rolling is not an Olympic sport. Stop practicing.
Shirts should cover your belly button.
Your car will inevitably overheat any time you are somewhere you are not supposed to be.
When you sneak out of your window, you are much less likely to get caught if you remember to put the screen back.
Baby oil is not sunscreen.
Nothing is as black and white as you think it is. Keep that self righteousness to yourself.
You never say this. But you often feel Alone. Afraid. Insecure. Unwanted. Confused. Misunderstood. Guess what. So does everyone else your age .
Don’t let people tell you that these are the best days of your life. They are fun. Enjoy them but it totally gets better.
You have no idea how good you have it.
Those dorky guys sitting next to you in PreCal or in orchestra will get really hot in college.
Don’t waste time matching your socks but listen to your friend Julie who tells you that brown shoes should never be worn with a black belt.
Whatever you think is some huge critical earth shattering critical thing right now…is so not a big deal.
Your shorts are way too short.
One day MTV will not play music videos.
Nothing good happens after midnight. You might as well go home.
That handful of friends you made….you will keep most of them. You chose well.
That boyfriend you had a few months ago. Total loser. Be glad he ditched you for the girl who would put out. Mostly be glad it wasn’t you.
Making a mix tape is an art. Keep making art. (except there will be no such thing as tapes).
Tom Cruise will go crazy. On Oprah’s couch. But feel free to keep watching Top Gun and Cocktail.
Most people aren’t really buying your tough girl act. So you might as well stop acting.
Your friends and family aren’t mind readers. Say thank you and tell them what you need. You should also apply that same rule to your future husband (who by the way is pretty awesome).
You were right. You will never need Calculus again. Ever.
