I Go Before You

When I look back,

I think I ran my brains out...or maybe, my heart.

I'm not sure, but for almost six years, I got up at 4:30 in the morning, and ran and ran.  I curated play lists, scouted routes--independent of anything except my kicks and ear buds, I ran through neighborhoods, parks, races, and I was happy...really happy.

Until one day, I wasn't. 

I couldn't get myself up and out...not even with really witty Instagram motivational quotations.  Instead of feeling free, I felt angry about leaving the house when it was dark.  It probably doesn't help that simultaneously, I started teaching graduate classes, cultivating my private mediation practice, and working at my kiddos' school.  Maybe, I was burned out.

And then, for some reason a few months ago, friends started asking me to run races, and instead of looking at my squishy mid section and flabby legs and politely declining, I said yes.  And now, I have four races on the books. 

In preparation for a summer race, I've been trying to run five miles every day--which is going to be the death of me.  On one walk to the park, my 11-year old daughter Kate said, "sometime, can I run with you?"  To which, I instantly responded, "absolutely!" It's kind of like the coveted talk where I dream that she asks to drink coffee or wine or write poetry with me....all of which have yet to happen.

Staring at a big hill she said, "can we practice now?  I mean, like on this, and be done at the top?"  I gulped, "sure."  Half way up, she backed off, and huffing and puffing,  I said, "do you wanna stop?"  "Naw, keep going," she screamed.

And so, I did, slow and steady up the incline.

When I got to the top, I cheered for her as she ran/walked the remainder.  I told her that she was strong and brave and that if she could do this hill, she could do anything.  Hills are hard, but rewarding.

To which she retorted, "I knew I could, because you did first."  I got big tears in my eyes. 

The following morning on a solo run, I hit a hill.  Ill prepared without water and salty sweat streaming into my eyes, I thought of Kate.  I pretended that she was behind me watching what I did, noticing how hard I wanted it.  And I promised myself that I would go before her.  I would do it, so that she would know that she could too.

There are countless shitty components of motherhood.  Discipline, back talk, hormones, incessant whining, homework, sibling fighting, entitled shenanigans, bitchy attitudes...but in the midst, you realize that someone very, very important is watching.  And that ultimately, your actions speak infinitely louder than the gibberish coming out of your mouth. 

In that moment, for a brief second, it becomes incredibly clear, that you have the opportunity to influence another more than anyone else in the world.  And you get to choose whether you'll go first and make positive change, or whether you'll squander the privilege. 

I've made my share of mistakes, but in that moment, I climbed the hill...and so did she.  And someday, she'll go before someone else, and hopefully, she'll climb, even if it's hard...I guess, especially if it's hard.

Here's to climbing...gradually, intentionally knowing the importance of going before another.

Your Voice

September 21, 2016

Dear Kate,

Last night, you curled up next to me in my bed with your latest Golden Sower book, excited to do all the voices, and to introduce me to a character that you can't get enough of.

I was so--so--so tired.  I awoke at 4am, only to discover that going back to sleep was not in the cards for me, worked the day at school and then spent the evening shuffling to and from activities.

I kept my eyes open as long as I could.  I just kept looking at you and listening to you.  Your whole face stood animated, alive, engaged--up until the point when you HAD to turn to garner one more delicious bite of chocolate ice cream.  You're so, so, so beautiful.  Really.  It astounds me.  The way that you say, "Wait, mama.  This--THIS--is the best part!" and then you tell me about hugging your sister because she got really hot on the playground and how you're worried that Sam just seems to be doing homework all the time and that you'll have pizza tomorrow, so I don't have to worry about making a cold lunch and that you really liked my polka dotted dress today.

So, when I woke up and saw that you were not there and realized that I had fallen asleep during your reading, I felt like a terrible mother.  I sheepishly, made my way into your room and apologized to which you retorted, "I was trying to ask you a contextual question and your mouth was open, but your eyes were closed.  You took away my voice."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

It was late.  You were tired and hurt and I was tired and hurt and so, I didn't get to say this.

If there is one promise, aside from fostering your faith on this earth, I will never, never, never keep you from finding, speaking, and nurturing your voice.  You have my word.

There is nothing more important than discovering who you are, what you care about, your lines in the sand, the places that you will show up to and the hills that you will die on.

I know what it feels like to be a young woman who is not recognized for her voice and it is a small, humiliating place to visit.  This land of power mongers is not for you.

You, my daughter, will have the support to grow your heart and your lungs and your mindset and your tribe, so that when the time comes to go to war, you will be on the field prepared for victory.

I will never squelch your voice or your dreams or your possibilities.

I am your advocate.

I am also human and tired and stretched and learning and trying.

So, forgive me when I need to refuel.  As you'll discover, most women are still trying to nurture their voice and the things that matter to them, well into their lifetimes.  And this forty one year old mother is no different.

I love you.  I believe in you.  And I'd love a second chance at hearing your voice tell the tale tonight.  I promise to keep my eyes open.

Love, Mama xo

Two Sides of Me

I am blessed to be the mother of a son and two daughters.

From the beginning, my son has always been the perfect amalgamation of his own thing.  Vintage Sam, he is a hand-crafted brand of his own being in the world.  And while once in a while, my husband and I see glimpses of ourselves in him, for the most part, he is custom awesomeness on its' own.

My daughters are another story.

From the time my oldest daughter, Kate came out of the womb, she was instantly a carbon copy of me, except infinitely kinder and much sweeter.  We look like each other, share the same sugary voice, over-enunciate our vocabulary and value language as though it's the hottest commodity on the face of the earth.

From the time that Kate was three-years old, she was reading multi-syllabic words and calling out her preschool teachers for skipping sentences in the stories at circle time.  Fiercely independent, our middle child has never needed anyone to entertain her.  She is the epitome of creativity and can often be found re-purposing twine, cardboard, leaves and safety pins into a masterpiece.  A fantastic piano player, beautiful ballerina and prolific writer, she spends most of her life dreaming smack dab in the present.

At the tender age of five, my younger daughter, Claire is the feistiest, most self assured, would-be pole dancer that you've ever had the privilege to meet.  On the day of her birth, ten minutes before my last push, I started crying profusely and when my OB screamed, "Look at me!  What's wrong?!" I just retorted, "I don't know, I'm scared.  Something's coming."  And sure as fuck, she was hell-bent to be in the world.  When she emerged with absolutely no scream, my OB un-lassoed the umbilical cord from her neck four times and then whisked her away to get an APGAR score.  She was off-the-charts healthy.  A fighter, hard core dancer, consummate singer and lover of all things sparkly and forbidden...she is a force to be reckoned with.  Unafraid or encumbered by the fear that often holds me back, Claire's motto is that life is for the living and that much like Dylan, you should get busy doing that or get busy dying.

Which is why it is crazy to me that the past few weeks, Claire has been stuffing anything and everything up her shirt, signifying that she wants to be a mother.  After shoving three beanie boos up her dress, she asked, "How old do I have to be to be a mommy?"  I told her that she had to go to college, graduate school, study abroad and then maybe at the age of 30, we could talk about it...her hopes seemed undeterred.  "Well, I'm gonna have 29 babies and I don't need a husband."

"More power to you, " proclaimed Kate from the kitchen, "I'm going to art school in Paris."  And in both moments, I was over-the-moon elated for both of them.

Little versions of me wrapped up in both of them...the girl who yearns to live in a high rise contributing to her industry while also breastfeeding a babe and reading Dr. Seuss at night...except I could never figure out how to do it.  Such a beautiful, hard thing to make work in the world.

I suppose at the end of the day, all you want is for your kids to be happy...but man, I hope they get to experience professional adventure and personal peace and that Claire comes to her senses about the 29 babies deal...or I may have to flee the country as the grandmother.

Kate, Claire and Me

I'm not sure how it happened, but on the last weekend of a February leap year, the heartland received a huge gift...70 degrees and sunshine.

And I received the gift of caring for my two daughters while my better half took our son on an epic Boy Scouts camping trip.

Admittedly, I went into the excursion feeling tired.  Drained from a full week, I was praying that the Vitamin D would give me the extra boost I needed to hold down the fort.  With a steaming cup of coffee in hand, a deep inhale and exhale, pink tulips on my table, I decided...no agenda.  No getting the laundry caught up or the groceries bought or the clothes donated or the house picked up.  Instead, we would go where our hearts took us.

Kate (8) and Claire (5) decided that their hearts wanted to paint fairy houses and sew pillows and curtains to go inside.  This lasted a short while before Kate's inner servant kicked in and she decided that it would be a better use of time to paint rocks, sell them, and give the money to the poor.

This took us through a good chunk of the morning, until Claire decided that it was time to blow this boring, altruistic pop stand and set out onto the open road.

Equipped with their bikes and a backpack of supplies, we found our coveted path and traveled to the park. 

While I was pushing them on the swings and they were screaming, "Higher, higher, all the way to the tippy-tops of the trees!!!" I couldn't stop beaming that I almost started crying, until Claire jolted me out of my "What a Wonderful Life" mini-movie because she was afraid to jump.

Because it was an unusually hot day, gelato was a given.  Peanut butter chocolate for Kate, plain chocolate for Claire and Espresso for me.

While eating the yummy goodness, we decided that it wouldn't be the perfect day, until we blew bubbles.

Watching them travel high into the sky, headed on an adventure of their own made everything right with the world.

After a bath, stories and a few songs for good measure, we started to pray and this is what I heard...

"Thank you God for this fun day and the best mama.  Thank you for painting rocks and toe nails and digging in the sand and chocolate.  Thank you for riding bikes and sunshine.  Mostly, thank you for the money that our rocks will bring.  May every child feel loved."

I quietly closed their door and went into the kitchen to work on the dishes. 

This little life of mine is a good one. 

Assemble Your Tribe of Misfits

The other day, my daughter, Kate (or Katherine as she now likes to be called) bounded home from school and belted,

"My favorite people are the ones just like me."

I paused and felt queasy in my gut. 

I've always been a fan of difference and have encouraged my children to gravitate toward people and experiences outside of their comfort zone.

Concerned, I began to probe.  "What do you mean?"

"I like kids who like art, read books about dragons, eat apples with the skins on and share their lunch."

With a huge sigh of relief, I replied, "Me too."

And then, I began to really think about what she was saying. 

I like people who are like me too.  My favorite beings on the planet are those that let me be me.  The ones who I can curse around, share a glass of wine with on my couch and who tell it like it is with no lessons learned just because life is not always easy, even with a positive spin. 

My friends come in every shape and color and some have more years on this earth than I do, but many have less.  They are kind and real and not afraid to say that they don't know.  They show up even when I mess up.  They don't keep score and in general, their cups are more than half full.

Assembling your tribe of misfits gets a whole lot easier when you realize that your energy is finite, there are only 24-hours in the day and the goal of living isn't to impress every last person you know.  Rather, the journey is to find your people and then to nurture them. 

My people have morphed over the years into a varied band of crazy kind, insanely generous, uber creative, hugely plain, lovely people who are trying just as hard as I am to go to the bathroom by themselves and not warm their cup of coffee 4.8 times in a day.

And so yes, I agree with my 8-year old.

My favorite people in the world are just like me.  And honestly, I could give zero fucks about trying to gain admittance into anyone else's tribe.  I like mine.  We're quirky and weird and deeply lovely. 

And most of us like the skin on our own apples.

An Afternoon Reflective Siesta

The past few afternoons, I've given myself permission to close my eyes and take a nap.

I curl up in what our family fondly refers to as the "reading chair" with a cream colored afghan, a breeze blowing through the window, a bright orange cup of tea and I...fall asleep. And, it's bliss.

When I was studying abroad in undergrad, I remember thinking how crazy it was that every afternoon, banks, businesses, cafes and open air markets all shut down in honor of the roughly 1-3pm siesta.  But they did.  And so, we too were forced to follow suit.

We let our bodies just slow down.

And this is what's happening to me...it's what does happen to me.  As fall makes its face known with changing leaves and cooler temperatures, shorter days and plants that slowly die, it's a good reminder to gradually choose a different pace...one that welcomes the seasons and honors the cycles of life.

While I was slumbering the afternoon away yesterday, I had this vision of my children grown calling each other to secure details about returning home for the holidays.  I remember feeling happy that they were close as adults and that they were excited to return back to where it all started. 

And then, I started counting.  Sam will be 11 in a few months which means only 7 years left before he heads off to college.  Kate is 8...a decade more for her.  And Claire is turning 5...so 13 more years and they will all be gone.  Is that possible?  Do you ever play this game with yourself?

At that point, I will be 53.  I can't even imagine what that will feel like or what I'll be doing or if I'll have an opportunity to take a blissful afternoon siesta.  Will I still be writing, running, reading, teaching?  Maybe I'll be in Tuscany taking a real siesta in a foreign land.  Either way, at that point, I will not be the only adult...my children will be as well.  Maybe they too will be writers, runners, teachers.

Regardless of who any of us are at that point in time, I hope I will always remember these serene moments of one blanket, one cup of Chamomile and three hearts beating outside of my own that feel very much just like mine all wrapped up in the changing of the seasons.

Stroke After Stroke

Are you a swimmer?

Are your kids?

I can't even remember how young I was when I learned how to swim...it was back in the 70's when your dad threw you in the pool and gulping water you learned to tread water and eventually how to make it to the side.  Over time, you dared your friends to see how long you could hold your breath bobbing along the surface desperately hoping that you would hear them pop up first gasping for air.

Later, I learned basic strokes and spent some embarrassing time in middle school with my best friend in synchronized swimming lessons...the coolest part of that deal was the PA system in the water.

On the flip side, my husband has been a fish his whole life.  Swimming from the time he was little eventually competitively and then life guarding for five billion moons before becoming a dad.

So, when it came time for the kids to learn how to swim, he threw them in and then told them that they would all have a stint on the swim team.  Sam abhored it.  Much to his chagrin, the coaches not only make you swim until your arms fall off, but they also make you run prior and do push-ups after.  So after one season, his response was, to hell with that.

This year, Kate was old enough to give it a go.  And she fell in love with the water.

Definitively not the fastest or the strongest...but what she lacks in speed, she makes up for in heart.  She's like the little Rudy of the group resolute on taking the Elementary Backstroke as far as it and she can go.

Last night was their last practice and she was in Heaven.  They spent the whole time racing each other.  We watched her keep going and going and going, never giving up, seemingly tired, but continuing to kick her legs and pull her arms through the water.

And when she finished, I said, "Kate, you were amazing...I'm so proud of you.  I have no idea how you kept going and going even when you were wiped out."

To which she said, "It's just what we do, mama, we're the swim team."

While she was showering, I couldn't get it out of my head..."It's just what we do."  She's decided that she's a swimmer.  No bother how fast or how slow.  She has a responsibility to do her best for herself and the team and so she shows up and she does her thing.

I have this nasty habit of second guessing my legitimacy when I feel like I've fallen off the wagon...with, well, really any component of my life.  When I'm impatient and yelling at my kids too frequently, I fear that I'm not a good mother.  When I don't reach out or follow-up with friends in a meaningful way, I worry that my relationships may be in need of repair.  When I'm not running decent distances with consistency, I don't feel like I have the right to call myself a runner.  And when I'm writing spottily, well, you get where I'm going.

Not Kate.  She's a swimmer and a member of the team.  Period.

So many beautiful lessons learned watching a sweet little girl with Pippy Long Stocking braids, glitter goggles and a big heart go to town on the back stroke...

Go Above Your Nerve

I'm in the process of reading Cheryl Strayed's memoir "Wild"... the documentation of her 1100-mile sojourn on the Pacific Crest Trail during the summer of 1995.  She begins her journey on the Mojave Desert and hikes through California and Oregon before completing ninety-four days crossing the Bridge of the God's in Washington state.

With each stop along the way, she signs the trail log book with her name and a literary quote pertinent to what she's endured to get there.

One of my favorite quotes is her first...

The concept of pursuing the unknown in light of fear has always, always fascinated me.  I see it playing out in my life and the lives of those I love, all of the time. Most recently, we were on a family bike ride and my 7-year old Kate was desperate to stay on her bike while climbing a steep hill.  Watching her 10-year old brother do it with ease was both motivating and infuriatingly frustrating.  Riding alongside her on my bike, she kept saying, "I can't do it.  I can't balance.  It's too hard.  Just go."  And so I did.  I slowly and sadly biked up the hill.  As I was turning the corner to head onto my favorite bridge, she passed me with a HUGE smile on her face.  "I did it!" she screamed, sweat beating down her face. "I did it!"

In that moment it hit me that confidence of any sort only comes in the doing...there really is nothing intellectual about it.  Nerve comes from testing the boundaries and conquering.  It's visceral...physical...garnered through experience, especially, when you're really, really scared.

The ability to do something extraordinary that you've never done before comes in leaving your ego at the door and recognizing that you can fail at anything in life...so why not risk failing at something you really, really want instead of the safer choice.

That's when I stumbled upon this quote...

I later told Kate that she not only can bike up any hill that she wants but that really anything is possible when you're willing to go for it.  And the more you try, the more you fail, the more you learn and eventually, the stronger you become...until one day, you're so strong that you say to the world...here I am, I'm not afraid.  I want to experience all of it...even if it hurts and even if I never arrive.  It's worth being unbalanced, stumbling, falling off and looking up to see that the top of the hill is really far away...but if you surrender, one day, you just might get there.

Best Version of You

It's a few days away from Easter and a few weeks away from my Kate's First Holy Communion.

So, this past weekend, we continued talking about the transformation that occurs when receiving the eucharist.

Simultaneously, a group of my soul sisters and I celebrated an amazing experience of sharing mass with a Jesuit priest at sunset at the Holy Family Shrine...an unbelievable glass walled chapel where you can feel God's presence in the water that runs through the floor and the sun that floods through the windows.

And while I was praying, I remembered a conversation that I had with Kate about sin.  She asked me if there are some sins that we sin our entire life and in particular, since I was the mommy and have lived for so much longer, are there some sins that I've sinned my whole life.  I thought about it and had to answer, yes.  She followed-up with, "Well, then why should we pray to have God take them away, if we'll never get there?  It seems silly."

Not long after that dialogue, I had a conversation with my girlfriends about living the best versions of ourselves and more specifically, asking if they were living their highest truth.  All of them almost instantly said, no.  It's not that they were disappointed in their current life station, it's just that their vision held something different, richer, more authentic, deeper.

And so the overwhelming question became, why do we try to posit change?  If at the end of the day, we find ourselves repeating patterns, behaviors, actions we know aren't helpful...why do we keep trying to behave differently?  It's something I've been struggling with this Lenten season.

What I'm landing on is that guilt doesn't work.  It only serves to send us spiraling back into the same spinning cycle of status quo.  Instead, what I'm drawing closer to is the Ignatian Examination of Consciousness...which in it's most basic form is a daily reflection of our deepest hearts desires prompting three powerful opportunities to discern...Where today did I experience profound joy?  Where did I feel deep sorrow or pain? And the extension of the invitation to God to help you along the journey.

And what this prayer screams to me is drawing deeper and closer to your truth...to exploring and unfolding the purpose that God has for your life and trusting in His grace and peace to help you uncover it.

And so are their actions that I have committed my whole life that I wish I could change, absolutely.  But I won't get closer to the highest version of myself by steeping myself in them.  I draw closer to the purest parts of me when I move towards that which brings me joy and when I apologize to those I've wronged along the way and ask God to guide me toward a deeper uncovering of my purpose and His vision of me.  And no matter how painful or how exhausting, it's a journey worth enduring.

This is what I shared with my Kate...who looks adorable in her initial try-on of the First Holy Communion dress...

Here's to finding our way toward the best versions of our beings.

Cascabeles Christmas

This is very much par for the course.

Right around the holidays, everyone gets bit by some form of the flu bug.  This year, it happens to be a yucky fever that lasts a couple of days...Kate had it last week, Sam had it over the weekend and now Claire.

I don't mind taking her temperature, administering ibuprofen or placing cool wash cloths on her forehead...the part that makes me sad is that she's been preparing for weeks to sing in her first Christmas program tomorrow, that may or may not happen.

So, if it doesn't, I promised to get her voice heard on a larger platform than just her preschool.

Here she is singing, "Cascabeles"...the Spanish version of "Jingle Bells" and a bit of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."

Mind you, she has hot cocoa on her face, her hair is in a bit of a rat's nest, she's still wearing her pajamas, trying not to show her underwear, but she's happy.  And she knows exactly which red dress and white polka dot tights that she wants to adorn during the celebration.


Listening to her sing reminded me just how much that I love the season of Christmas, the anticipation of Santa and the hope of both giving and receiving during this magical, sacred time.

To that end, here is a picture of Kate writing her special letter to Santa with all of her hopes for packages and reasons why she's deserving.

If only Christmas and Cascabeles lasted all year.

For the Love of Kate

Most everyone who meets her knows that she is my daughter and I am her mother.

This is Kate.

 And this is us.

We are literally two peas in a pod...similar voices, mannerisms and communication styles...there is no denying that we belong to each other.

Except when we're trying to get things done and my house sounds like this...

"KATE....K.A.T.E....where are YOU?  Have you brushed your teeth and laid out your uniform and grabbed your shoes?"

Oh yeah, mama...don't worry...I'm coming.  (ensue singing or humming or reciting of a prayer or a talk between two fairies.)

"For the love of all that is good and holy, Kate...where are you and why haven't you done what I've asked?  We're going to be late."

That's right, mama...no problem...I'm on it.

And this is the story of my life with her.  I live 99% of my life in the future and she lives 99.99% of her life smack dab in the present.  She is a budding artist, a constant repurposer of every material she can get her hands on, a dancer, a singer, an illustrator, a lover of color and fabric and a thinker of really big, really bold ideas.

She is not a multi-tasker, a strategist, an activist or a do-er.  No, she is in love with every detail of every moment exactly right now and the concept of time or projects to be completed alludes her.

How can this be?  We're cut from the same cloth.  She's my mini-me.  We're two peas in a pod, right?

And so it was last night as we were trying to finish up a First Reconciliation workbook that I lost it.

"You're not paying attention.  Focus on what we're doing.  You don't need to spend so much time drawing the pictures.  It's the words that matter."

And then I stopped.

I looked into her eyes and she was deflated.  Crushed.  Exhausted.

And I was so upset with myself and my response.  How cruel of me.

Kate's entire world is pictures, color, moments, details.  My world is words.

I turned to her, grabbed her arms, held her and said, "I'm sorry.  I promise to stop rushing you.  Show me what you're creating."  And her face lit up.

Laying in bed last night, I realized that God brings us the people we need on purpose.  While Kate might look like me in many ways, she is Kate and I am Kelly.  She teaches me to appreciate the beauty and the miracle of the here and now.  And maybe I help her to organize the beautiful mess along the way.

I love her to pieces and have to remember that God gave her to me for a short time not to mold in my image, but to help foster her own. 

Because of who we are individually but also interdependently, I see many "show down" moments in the future.  I just have to remember at the end of the day that a hug, an I'm sorry and the belief that it's most important to be who you are trump the necessity to be controlling over another, especially someone you love so much.

Sacred Time

I picked up my middle child sick from school yesterday.

She came down with the dreaded flu that her younger sister most likely gave to her or any of the other kiddos in her class at school.

High fever, chills, no appetite, exhaustion.

After a night of alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen, we both woke up tired.

I turned on the coffee and she grabbed a blanket and the couch.

Wringing out the wash cloth with really cold water, grabbing the Gatorade and making the toast, I thought, I can't run, not for 10 miles.

My phone said that the temp was 41 degrees.  Perfect. The sun was masked but only slightly by the clouds and I had new songs on my playlist.  And I only had a short window, my son had a flag football game, so I had to be back in an hour and a half.

Scarfing down a banana and grabbing my gear, I left.  And I ran and I ran and I ran.  Never stopping until I made it home.  It was glorious.  There really is nothing better than running in the fall.

But then, I came home and Kate's fever had spiked again and she was miserable.  We laid down together and took a long nap, but right before we fell asleep, she said, "Thanks for taking care of me, mama."

Always, I love you.

"I love you too.  And when you get sick, I'll take care of you."

To which, I instantly transported myself to end of life thoughts and thought about my daughter putting cold wash cloths on my head until I could no longer bear it.

This time is sacred.  There's no question that pop up illnesses are inconvenient and detour us from the plans we've made, but they are brief, gentle reminders to slow down and to serve those we love. It really is one of the holiest things we can do for each other.

Here's to her fever breaking and hot coffee in the morning.

The Perfect Fall Day...Kinda

There's really nothing better than waking up knowing that you have nothing you have to do on a Saturday.

I decided to sleep in and postpone my long run until tomorrow.

My husband offered to take our oldest to get his haircut and watch his flag football game, so that I could have some fun one-on-one time with the girls.

We made an instant beeline for the park.  Claire brought her American girl doll.  Kate grabbed her scooter.  I packed the granola bars and water bottles and before we knew it, we were on our way.

And it was glorious.

The leaves were falling in all of their yellows, oranges, reds and greens from the trees.  The girls were singing "A, B, C's." The breeze was blowing.  And every fiber of my being felt rejuvenated.  I love autumn.

Immediately, the girls ran for the slides.

And then the swings...

And then the exercise thing-a-muh-jigs...

And while we were being silly and having fun, there was another boy goofing around as well.  All was on the up and up, until his dad said to him, "Are you being a little flirt with those cutie pie girls? I don't blame you, buddy."  WTF....are you kidding me right now?  Put off, I turned the other direction, until the little boy threw sand at Kate and she whipped around and said, "Knock it off or I'll cut you!!"  WHAT?? Did my daughter just say that?  And then she turned back and said, "I'm just kidding."  The dad turned with his son and headed toward another part of the playground.  Sweet Jesus.

Back to the swings we go...I've got both girls going as high as they can with their tippie toes reaching for the tree tops when Kate shouts out, "Wow!  That makes my vagina tingle."  Holy Mary Mother of God.  To which Claire replies, "Mine too!  Vagina tickles...Vagina tickles."  And now, they're saying it in unison and I am mortified.  Why did I insist that the children learn the anatomically correct names of their body parts?  We should have just called it a Daisy.

As I convince them to leave the park and head for a nice long stroll through the golf course, we make a pit stop at the bleachers.

The girls climb up and down the stairs squealing and singing swishing water in their mouths and then spitting it into the dirt.  And then yes, they stumble upon a condom wrapper.  Thankfully, there was no actual condom inside or around the premises. Kill me now.

Deciding that we might just do better to start making the trek home, we decide to go on a treasure hunt for leaves, acorns, pine cones, and twigs to make a collage at home.

On my favorite bridge, the mail lady graciously agrees to snap a picture of us to remind me that it's always an adventure being a mama.

Happy Fall Day...Kinda.

She Was So Beautiful

I remember that I wanted to be her, in every way.

Her beauty was remarkable. 

She didn't wear make-up or thick black eyeliner like the other girls did.

I don't even think she shaved her legs.

She wasn't into Guess jeans or Esprit or Swatch watches.

She played the violin.

She was really, really good at Algebra.

And she was nice...which, when you're 13 and you stumble upon a nice girl, well, that's a rarity.

And still, to this day, I remember her.  Because she talked to the cool kids and the nerds and the cheerleaders and the band geeks and the kids who smoked and the ones who never dreamed of it and she didn't care who you were...she'd sit next to anyone at the lunch table.

So, I started paying attention at the dinner table while my middle child, my second-grader, Kate was talking about the girls in her class.  I was mindful that these are girls that she'll be in school with from now through the eighth grade...so, for another 7 years.

And I think, although, I'm not positive, I think she might be the "nice girl" that I remember from junior high.  She talks about sitting next to lots of different girls and boys at lunch.  She makes mention of those kids who are alone at recess and counts herself in the bunch from time to time.  She's aware of the kids who treat others poorly and she says that it hurts her heart.  I'm bias as every mama is, but I think she has a natural beauty that shines through from the instant that you meet her.  And I'm aware, that she's not aware of her beauty or her intelligence, which makes her even more loveable.

If there's anything that I want for my children, it's a heart that is kind, compassionate, and giving to the world.  And, I'm not sure that's something that can be taught.  I think it can be modeled, but there's no manual for really pouring the love of your being into the world. 

And when you've felt the authentic kindness of another person, you really never forget them.  For me it was a beautiful middle school girl...who knows who it will be for my little ones?  I just hope that they can be light and love along the way to others.

To Use the F-Bomb or Not

I have a love/hate relationship with the F-bomb.

Let me begin by saying that the proper parts of me have selected to raise my children in a home where it is not acceptable to use language like "shut up," "fart," "hate," or "My God." 

I prefer that you say, "be quiet," "toot," "strongly dislike" or "My goodness."

My grandmother once told me that those who use expletives are crass and have a less sophisticated vocabulary upon which to draw from to adequately describe their current state.  Don't be one of those, people, Kelly.  We didn't raise you in a barn.

Consequently, I am diligent about not cursing in front of my kiddos and you'd have to kill me before I did it in front of someone else's child.  It's just not appropriate.

But there is another very big part of me that loves the shit out of calling people ass hats, mother fuckers, deusch bags, bee-yatches and twats.  Yep, my blood pressure elevated even as I typed that.

It just feels good.  Most of the time, it's the only language that does adequately and sometimes, perfectly nail the situation or the person's character.

And so, it was with disdain and humor that I found myself in my daughters' bedroom last night in a precarious spot.  Kate (7) and Claire (3) were busy making bead bracelets to share with friends and as I was putting away laundry, I slipped on some of the straggling beads and landed on my back.

"Jesus Fucking Christ!!!" I yelped.

Oh dear God...Hail Mary Full of Grace, the Lord is With Thee...Bless me Father for I have sinned.

I stood in utter shock and what I had done...only to hear my 7-year old say, "Mama, you should never take Jesus' name in vain.  That's a really bad thing." Insert the dialogue window of my thoughts, "I knew I should have never sent those kids to Catholic schools.  Damn it."

"Mama, words matter.  You need to spend some time thinking about what you say."

And just like that, I was fucked.

Kate was and is right.  Words do matter.  They carry gravity and power.  We must be diligent about what we choose to utter to the universe.  But, fuck, that hurt. 

And so, I'm stuck.  Do I teach my kids that sometimes, a good, "Fuck you" is appropriate?  Or, do I do what my parents have done which is to teach me that you should poke yourself in the eye before you ever curse around your elders.  And that cursing is for those who don't know better.

There's got to be some happy medium, right.

Aw fuck it.

Just Listen to Me...I Love You

This morning, I ran 12 miles.

The evolution of the run was pretty typical.  My first two miles are always the hardest.  The music starts to pump, my feet hit the pavement, my breath is choppy, and I spend what seems to be an inordinate amount of time trying to find my groove.

I start to fuel and hydrate.  I exhale and then it happens, I get lost.  I know my training course so well that I could probably run it blindfolded and this morning it served me well.

I was able to really think and clear my head.

It's been a long week.  An intense week with my husband out of town and all of the last minute summer festivities unfolding before school starts on Monday.

So, it was with a big smile on my face that I remembered Kate, my little girl getting ready to start Kindergarten.  It was the night of her Open House and for some reason, I was distracted and not paying attention to her.  All of a sudden, she grabbed the sides of my face and said, "Just listen to me, I love you."

It caught me completely off guard and captured all of me immediately.

With all of the hoopla and anxiety surrounding my trip to Chicago to run a half marathon race, I've been clinging to my faith.  Praying that the logistics will take care of themselves.  Hoping that the weather will hold out on race day.  Trusting that my legs, heart, and spirit will get me through.  Believing that I'll feel connected to the friends that I haven't seen in years.  And feeling secure that the time, the energy, and the agony will have been worth it.

And strangely in those moments, I hear God saying, "Just listen to me, I love you."  I'm with you...each step...each moment...each memory.  This is a gift.  Enjoy it.  

The Gift of Mother's Day

I remember when two lines came up on the test.

I had just turned 29 and was recently married.

I took test after test wondering, is this possible, could it really be true, I'm going to be a mother?

I remember the labor and delivery of each of you.  I remember the breathing, the pushing, the praying and the counting of all 10 fingers, all 10 ten toes, and brief pause before you screamed and cried and we knew that you would be fine.

I remember fumbling my way through nursing, pumping, taking your temperature, and trying to get that damn front carrier to fit just right.

I remember countless times of reading "Goodnight Moon" and singing the A,B,C's and You are My Sunshine and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

I remember fevers, ear infections, sleepless nights, exhaustion.  First steps, first teeth, first smiles, first words, first sentences, and the day you learned to read and write.

I remember being so angry because you would not listen the first time and being so tired of repeating myself over and over and over again.

I remember cuddling with you in the chair when you first woke up from your nap and you weren't yet ready to greet the world and still needed time to adjust.

I remember hearing the word "mama" uttered from your lips and thinking that's me...and no one else.

Today Sam, you are seven.  Kate, you are four.  Claire, you are 16-months and I am 37.  You are my children and I am your mama.  Thank you for blessing me more than I could have dreamed possible and for teaching me that love in all of its forms is what matters most.  I love you beyond words.

My Kate

It's funny how the things your parents said come back to haunt you.

When I was growing up, my mom use to incessantly remind me that she was the mother and I was the daughter and that I should pay her a little respect.  As I got a bit arrogant in my teen years, I told her that she needed to earn my respect first.  I spent a good chunk of time being grounded mostly for my cocky attitude and my equally spiteful tongue.

And now, I have a four-year old daughter who is giving me a run for my money.  She started reading at the age of three, which means that I can no longer spell words aloud that I don't want her to hear.  She mimics my verbage and enjoys telling me on a regular basis that she's not interested in engaging my questions.

Most recently, we were at Target and she asked, "If I'm good while we're shopping, can I get a toy?"  To which I replied, "Not today." and she followed up with an immediate, "That's jacked."

She's also been fascinated with anatomical body parts.  She's known from a young age that she has a vagina and has no problems asking questions about it in public or making comments in front of her friends.  When she was three, she asked me why I had a spiky vagina and then asked her friend if her vagina tickles right before she goes potty too?

Kate is a magical, remarkable, beautiful, handful of a child...which is exactly what I'm sure my mother must have thought of me.

As she grows and discovers what is most important to her, my hope is that she never loses her strong sense of self while at the same time curbing her acidic approach.  I have a feeling that we have many battles ahead of us.  I hope we can battle intelligently, kindly, and ultimately, lovingly.  Because right now, I sort of want to kick her ass...in the most loving way.

Blessings

There are moments that if I'm really quiet, I can feel the blessings in my life.

This morning at the grocery store was one of them.

The cupboards were getting bleak, so Kate (4), Claire (1) and I went to grab some essentials.  Nothing unusual, Kate held the pen and checked off the items on the list while Claire gummed a short bread cookie and I gathered the loot.

Part way into the ritual, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kate kissing Claire on the top of the head and whispering "I love you."  Claire was all smiles and I started to tear up.

Kate asked me in the car if we would always live in our house.  "Like forever, " I replied.  "Yes, in our home," responded Kate.   "Well, Papa and I might live in our home forever, but you, Sam and Claire will one day have your own homes with your families," I tried to explain.  "Oh, well, that's okay, I'm fine at our home, " declared Kate.

I'm grateful that for now, our children want to hang with us, even if their love is a little overwhelming and exhausting.  Because the truth is, somewhere between their tween and teen years, we won't be cool.  And they probably won't be kissing each other on their foreheads and they'll threaten to move to Mars because we're so unfair and ridiculous with our expectations.

Blessings abound.  I just have to remember to pay attention and soak them in.