Those who don’t know me well would be surprised to find I have a whimsical side. Hidden from all but close friends and family, this quirky trait only emerges on rare occasions. This past summer, when I was feeling uncharacteristically lighthearted after a couple of medical scares proved to be benign, I created a little elf home in the large pine tree in my backyard. Signified by a little wooden door draped in moss with a little stone path and—the piece de resistance—a little Weber grill (with real charcoal ash in the bottom: Stormy knows the devil’s in the details).
Home Sweet Home
We were hosting a graduation party for my youngest, and I thought my great-nieces and -nephews would find it intriguing. I showed it to a few of them at the party, and they marveled over the tiny door and what might be inside the tree.
Fast forward to late fall. I took a day off work to tackle some neglected yard work and was clearing an overgrown mess of dead weeds from my garden when I happened upon my elf home. The grill was knocked over and the path had broken in two. I considered bringing in the grill, to keep it from rusting or getting lost in the mounds of snow imminent in a Minnesota winter, but instead I set the grill upright, carefully pressed the two halves of the walkway together and left it in place. The next day, I was hosting a small family party that would feature chili and a bonfire, and I didn’t want any of the kids who had seen the elf’s home to wonder what became of him.
“Every girl needs a bit of whimsy to remind her that life is a game and it’s all about having fun.” ― Candace Havens, Take it Like a Vamp
The next night I had forgotten about the elf and was talking with my sisters when my great-nephews ran into the house buzzing with excitement, “Do you have a flashlight? We found a little grill! And a little door!” asked Caleb. His cousin, Sean Ryan was jumping up and down with unconstrained enthusiasm, while his older sister looked on with skepticism.
“Oh,” I responded nonchalantly, “you must be talking about the elf’s home. Don’t harass him too much. He likes to be left alone,” I warned as I handed Caleb a flashlight.
The boys ran out the door to investigate. Later, Caleb’s sister came in to report that, “I don’t believe an elf really lives there, but the boys sure do!”
I think the thing that made their encounter so magical was that they discovered the elf’s home themselves—literally stumbled upon it in the dark. No adult had led them to it, pointing out the details carefully constructed to help support the illusion. Therefore it must be real, right?
“Those who shun the whimsy of things will experience rigor mortis before death.” ― Tom Robbins
The kids’ reaction reminded me of some things I’d forgotten during a very busy year: 1) Creating joy is a very productive way to spend one’s time. 2) You may discover magic when you least expect it, and 3) It’s more fun to believe. This is a timely reminder given that we’re entering what is generally regarded as the most magical season of all—because my “very busy year” doesn’t show any signs of letting up. So, I’ll make sure to appreciate the little pockets of whimsy to be found amidst the holiday hustle and bustle. Heck, maybe I’ll even create a little myself. Does anyone know where I can find a teeny tiny wreath? 🙂
The year I turned 40, I instantly became more self-conscious about my clothing choices. I had always liked fashion, but I didn’t want to be one of those women who looked like she was trying too hard to hang on to her youth (aka: “mutton dressed as lamb”). Plus, with two adolescent girls, I didn’t want to embarrass them by trying to look like their peers.
At the same time, I like clothes. I like to be comfortable. I like what I like and I don’t like to be subjected to “rules” that are determined by my age. Over the last several years, I’ve become more comfortable with determining what’s right for me. And I think I walk that tightrope between fashion and appropriateness pretty well. But if I start to lose my balance, you can bet that my now 18- and 21-year-old daughters will extend a hand to save me from making a serious style misstep.
Case in point: Last year, I was obsessed with a leather sheath dress from Banana Republic. It was a classic style in soft brown leather—more polished and unexpected than the predictable black—so I thought I could put a professional spin on it and wear it to the office. More expensive than my usual wardrobe choices, I watched the website for a sale. First it was in stock, but not on sale, then on sale, but out of stock. Finally the planets aligned: It was in stock and on sale. I ordered it and waited impatiently for my new purchase to arrive. A few days later the package was delivered. I rushed upstairs to try it on. It really was a lovely dress, with buttery supple leather. But when I tried it on and looked in the mirror: Meh. Despite the sizeable investment, it didn’t transform me the way I’d hoped. And at my age, I can’t afford to let my fashion dollars sit idle. Or was I just being too critical because of the hefty price tag? Looking for a second opinion, I walked downstairs and modeled my new purchase. “Whaddaya think?” I asked my husband and daughter. My husband (ever the diplomat) answered, “It’s nice.” My daughter—on the other hand—responded, “Mom, you look like a couch.” With that appraisal, I had to face the cold hard truth: I wasn’t fashionable, I was furniture. Needless to say, back went the dress…
A fashion miss is one thing, but I take other “don’ts” more seriously.
Ummmm. “Don’t” (Photo credits: Michael Tran/FilmMagic)
For example, the fine line between “attractive” and “suggestive.” Having a rather delicate décolleté (i.e., the “girls” are truly “girls,” not full-grown “ladies”), I don’t have to worry about excess cleavage. But is this skirt too short? …this dress too form-fitting? …these heels too tall? I always struggle with finding the right balance.
Years ago, when KitKat and I worked together, if we were trying to evaluate whether something was inappropriate for work we had a foolproof test: The Bob Miller Axiom—named for a somewhat salacious coworker. If you were wearing anything borderline, you could rely on Bob to compliment you on it. And then you knew beyond a doubt that you probably shouldn’t wear that outfit to the office again.
In fact, when my husband and I ran into Bob and his wife on the beach as part of a work incentive trip, he even complimented me on my bikini. Now everyone knows that if you’re among coworkers in swimwear, you should assume a Cloak of Invisibility. That is, you do not acknowledge the aforementioned swimming attire, you don’t take candid photos and post them on Facebook, and most importantly, you don’t compliment the 30-something coworker’s taste in swimwear while you’re standing there with your 60-something wife.
With all these perils, you’d think it would be easier to just choose a “uniform” and stick with it (and as someone who spent her formative years in parochial school, I’ll admit to still having a bit of a thing for Black Watch plaid). Yes, while playing it safe would certainly be easier—and shave some time off my morning routine—I know I’ll continue to walk the tightrope. Because fashion is fun. Fashion is expressive. And when you’re in Marketing, you can justify spending more than you should on clothes by telling yourself your chosen field requires a stylish career wardrobe … at least that’s the creative rationalization KitKat and I employ. After all what better way to subtly underscore your keen grasp of pop culture and trends? Hey, whatever pays the (shoe) bills! 😉
Anyone living in Minnesota has felt a bit unlucky this year. As KitKat and I have mentioned several times, we’ve had unprecedentedly lousy weather this spring/summer. In addition, work has been relentlessly busy. It’s all a bit wearing on the spirit, so in early June—when a brief break in the rain allowed me to get to some long-neglected yardwork—I found this:
Power of the Clover!
We were preparing for my youngest child’s graduation open house and our home really isn’t large enough to host her many family and friends, so when I found the clover, I was excited. I may not believe in gambling for the big jackpot, but finding such a lucky token surely must mean something, right?
Feeling a bit beaten down and daunted by the task of getting my house and yard into tip-top shape for the party, I decided to embrace the power of the clover. No matter what transpired in the coming week, I was going to view it as good fortune. I believe that our outlook is mostly a matter of attitude, so if I used this symbol of good fortune as a reminder of my blessings, it would bring about a change in attitude that would ultimately benefit me. Well, that was my theory at any rate.
I started the week with my attitude adjustment firmly planted. I was lucky! Good things were going to happen at every turn! I just needed to keep my outlook positive and my eyes open. The previous three months may have been a bit—well, sucky—but the tide was a turnin’ now and everything would be going my way!
Despite my positive outlook, the week was inauspicious. While nothing terrible happened, it wasn’t exactly like Lady Luck was smiling upon me. I was a bit disappointed in my botanical harbinger. Then, at the end of the week, things took a decided turn for the worst. We had a system issue at work. This wouldn’t be terribly catastrophic except that we had just had a similar problem—one that cost our company time and money and our clients considerable disruption—a mere month earlier. We hadn’t experienced such a significant disruption to our business before that, and the thought that this new incident might mirror the earlier one was weighing heavily on our minds as we sought to troubleshoot the situation. “Power of the Clover!” I invoked. Maybe this was the situation for which the luck was intended? Well, the problem was resolved much quicker than previously, but it didn’t feel so much like good luck as just an avoidance of really bad luck.
Disenchanted with my clover, I turned my attention back to other matters. My daughter’s graduation was troubling me and not just because we were hosting a big party and the weather wasn’t cooperative. This was my youngest child’s graduation from high school. I would soon be an “empty nester.” Moreover, my birthday was looming ahead. So, combine bad weather/party stress/empty nest/mid-life crisis/anxiety about getting older and you get a stormy Stormy.
So on my long list of to-dos, was my annual exam. I was telling my nurse practitioner about all of the things going on in my life and she was nodding sympathetically. At the same time, she was telling me that I was in great shape. My blood pressure—great! My lungs sounded good. Pressing on my abdomen, she commented on my muscle tone and said I was in the best shape of anyone she had seen that day. I have to confess, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Maybe turning 48 wasn’t that big of a deal. Then it came time to do my breast exam. “There’s a lump. Feel it?” Sure enough. How did I miss that? (Maybe because I do a half-assed job at breast self-exams when I remember to do them at all?) “When was your last mammogram?” she asked. It had been 2 ½ years. Shit. “You need to get that checked out.” Next was my pelvic exam. “Your ovary is enlarged.” Double shit.And I had made an outrageous statement about cancer being more suited to my temperament than Parkinson’s in an earlier post. How stupid could a person be? I was just asking God for another big slice of humble pie! Even if neither were indications of cancer, it would likely take a while to get the all-clear report and the specter of doom would be hanging over my head all weekend—tainting my daughter’s party, Father’s Day and my birthday. Boo.
Fortunately (luckily?), my doctor’s office was able to line up diagnostic tests quickly: The mammogram would be later that afternoon, and an ultrasound of my ovaries would be done the next day.
Stormy freaking out.
I have to confess, I freaked out a bit while waiting for the tests—after all, I was facing TWO diagnostic tests for two DIFFERENT kinds of cancer, one of them highly fatal. I wasn’t sure of my odds, but they were doubled, right? It was like a frickin’ BOGO! Suddenly, the status quo looked pretty attractive. Preparing for my daughter’s open house seemed very insignificant. So did turning another year older. After all, it’s a blessing to tear another page off the calendar, right? A lot of people don’t get that privilege. What was wrong with me that I had been so absorbed with such petty matters?
Well, if I ever needed to invoke the Power of the Clover, this was it. And I’m happy to report that my little four-leaf friend came through for me. Both abnormalities were harmless cysts, not malignant tumors. Afterward, I was much more enthusiastic about the fact that I had a wonderful accomplished daughter whose graduation we were celebrating. (After all, this is a good thing, right?) And despite an ominous forecast, it was even sunny for her party. Yay! So lucky! And so what if I was turning another year older—that’s better than the alternative, right? And I was certainly another year wiser as well. Sooooo lucky!
My dad always says, “It’s better to be lucky than good.” And while, I can’t determine who coined that expression, there’s some truth in it. However, the part that’s not explained is that luck isn’t something you “find”—like a clover—it’s all around you, hiding in plain sight. Rather, it’s something you need to RECOGNIZE . In the end, the clover was just a lens through which I gained some much-needed perspective. I don’t expect this realization to last (it never does) but maybe I can come back and read this at a later date and that will help me remember the good fortune that surrounds me. And if it helps you keep a little perspective, too, then it’s all been worth it.
Sometimes after a long day at work, one of the worst commands I can hear is, “Play with me.” Worse yet, it is often self-inflicted from having snapped about no more electronics or instructed them to go find something to do. To balance my guilt from not seeing my children enough with my exhaustion of work and family schedules, I have become a master at creating lazy parenting “family fun times.”
This game is great if you have a few balloons handy. All you need to do is pour yourself a drink and plop down in your favorite spot. Once comfortable, then challenge your kids to keep a balloon in the air. If it touches the ground they get a point. Kids can move and run around. Parents can’t get up (best rule of the game).
If it seems like you’re losing momentum and you still haven’t finished the magazine you’re flipping through (yes, you can play, drink, talk to your spouse and comb through a magazine all at the same time), simply add more balloons. How many can they keep up at a time? Not only does this game keep my kids happy, it lets me interact with the kids and be lazy all at the same time.
Some may be shaking their heads, sad at the fact I am not enjoying every precious moment with my children. Perhaps someday, I will look back with regret, nostalgic for the days of young children. But while in the midst of it, there is an unending amount of moments, so if I can grab a few for myself all the better. Plus, I figure it’s better than setting the clock ahead and pretending it’s bedtime.
The best testament to this lazy parenting tip: My kids went to sleep tonight talking about our fun family night and asking when we can play again. I like finding ways to be considered an awesome mom without much effort!
I have finally seen the light! If you read Stormy’s post on winter in Minnesota, you will have an idea of how long we wait each year to see the sun break up months of grey. This year has been an especially brutally long winter as it trailed into April and just kept nailing us with more snow. This extra month has had a negative impact on everyone. It was as if we all almost gave up hope. My daughter, the optimist, seemed to be the only one holding out as she would walk out of the house each day, look surpised and sigh, “oh no, there is still snow.”
Five days ago
I thought I was getting through it admirably. Biting my tongue and telling the kids how fun it is to be able to make snowmen in April … trying to be a Pollyanna, which is not my forte. But, I knew I needed to fight the anger and resentment brewing inside me. Everything was bugging me more than normal. Plus, the long dry winter was having ill effects on my looks and this was not a mood helper. My husband finally asked, “are you okay … are we?” I snapped at him that I wouldn’t know anything till I could actually see the sun. And that if it didn’t come soon, I may just head for the airport instead of home one night and send him a postcard from my tropical get-away.
Well this weekend the temperatures jumped. In fact they doubled and hit the ’70s and ’80s overnight. At first it was almost like waking up on vacation. You barely recognized the place. Everyone had on smiles. All the neighbors came out. Restaurants opened their patios for dining. People multiplied on the streets and around the lakes. No one complained about the crowds because we were all so happy to be out of hibernation. All concerns took a backseat to enjoying the moment. I even started to look better instantly. It was a sunny miracle!
You could even see the positive effect the sun had on kids. I might go as far as to say they were a delight. They spent hours outside playing ball, bike riding, jumping on the trampoline, heading off to the park and for ice cream. Simply enjoying the freedom summer seems to bring to everyone. I didn’t do a thing that needed to get done. Cleaning, errands, grocery shopping, and bills all got pushed aside for just soaking it all in.
Instead, I spent my days doing nothing. In fact, on Sunday I spent the whole day with a girlfriend sitting on the deck, sharing too much wine, flipping through magazines, and getting fake tattoos from my daughter. It was heavenly.
Yesterday
I am hearing horrible rumors that we aren’t completely over with winter and temps are going to fall just as quickly as they rose, so I am making the most of it in the meantime. Today, I left the office right a 5:00 p.m. (unheard of), took a walk with Stormy, brought the kids out to play when they should have been heading to bed, and now we are going to go sit out on the deck and enjoy a nightcap.
This blog post was also on my to-do list that was pushed aside this weekend, so I did take a break from the great outdoors to get it written since I couldn’t ask Stormy to cover another turn for me for purely self-indulgent reasons. I’ll be back in a few days with a real post as I am forced back into hibernation.
I hope rest of you are doing some fabulous things to enjoy this very deserved weather.
A few weeks ago, a Facebook friend posted about a traumatic parenting incident. With a toddler at home and a job that requires working odd hours, she had dozed off while her toddler napped and forgot to meet her other young daughter at the bus stop. A conscientious mother, she felt terrible and was beating herself up a bit over her all-too-human lapse.
I sympathized, but inside I thought, “Oh honey, if that’s the worst you can come up with you’re doing pretty good…” Which leads us to our next True Confessions topic: Bad Parenting
Stormy: The little nipper –As a brand-new mother with a brand-new son, I decided to clip my newborn’s long fingernails. With 20 nieces and nephews, I was no stranger to taking care of babies, so I took out the tiny nail clippers and “CLIP!” snipped the end of my son’s thumb. He wailed, I cried, and I quickly handed him off to my husband who finished the job. A half-dozen years later, as a frugal young mom, I was giving my son a haircut once when I very cleanly snipped the top of his ear. It was one of those moments where I immediately registered what I had done but there was complete silence for about 10 seconds as my son scrunched up his face and I braced myself for what followed. He wailed, I cried. After that, I was willing to “cut my losses” and pay the Children’s Barbers for future trims.
KitKat: Just shake it off – I took pride in the fact that as a first time mom I didn’t get panicky over every little bump or fall. My son would take a tumble and I would tell him to “shake it off” instead of running to his rescue. This worked well for awhile. My son didn’t dramatize every little bump. Like most two-year-olds, he loved to run. Though still would trip over his own feet quite a bit. One day, pretending to let him win a race we were having down the sidewalk, he fell over (like many other times). He got up, I said shake it off and he took off running to win the race. Proudly, he turned around with a huge smile and blood covering his face.
Stormy: No really, I’m sick – My older daughter has an unusual relationship with pain. She has a crazy high threshold for physical pain: Shots when she was a toddler, broken bones, acute appendicitis, all hardly elicited a wince. At the same time, she has a low threshold for emotional pain or drama. So in grade school, when she told me she was sick and wanted to stay home, I chalked it up to “school-itis” and insisted she go. An hour later, I got the call from the school nurse. My daughter had thrown up in the hallway on the way to class. Discomfort and embarrassment. Way to go, mom.
KitKat: Full moon – As an over-scheduled family, we are often running out the door in a panic to make it to different events and activities. My kids learned early that they better be able to fend for themselves to get ready for anything they deemed important enough to show up on time. For the most part, they show up presentable. One Saturday after arriving at gymnastics class, I learned my daughter didn’t have on her required shorts over her leotard. She just turned five so I do usually check her out before leaving the house, but it was an extra crazy morning. It might not seem like a big deal. I didn’t think so as I sent her in with a quick apology to the teacher and took my spot with other parents to watch from behind the glass. I saw my sweet daughter run out. As she turned to face her teacher, all of the parents were faced with my daughter’s now-turned-thong leotard. I spent an hour listening to the giggles of the other parents as my daughter mooned us in a variety of positions.
Stormy: Bad day on the playground – My newly adopted Chinese daughter was 5 years old when she had an unpleasant encounter with a wood play set. We picked her up from day care and my usually sunny girl was crabby and whiney for the next hour or so (but whining in Chinese, so we didn’t really know what she was complaining about). Finally, at dinner she was scowling and wincing and gesturing to her bottom, so I took her into the bathroom and made her “drop trou.” There, embedded in her rosy little behind was a 2×4. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but only slight. It literally was the equivalent of half a toothpick. I yelled for my husband (do you see a theme here?) who extracted the offending splinter from my grateful daughter’s delicate derriere. In fact, after removing it and washing it off, we taped it to a piece of cardboard and labeled it, for posterity. Or for posterior-ity, if you will.
KitKat: Time to learn a lesson – My son is careless with his things. Off our watch and at school it is even worse. His desk and locker is a disorganized mess. We have missed conference appointment times, homework, and teacher notes that were crumbled in his desk. Numerous water bottles and clothing items have left for school and never returned. It is a constant battle we have with him. Take care of your things. Be responsible. When it was time for a skating session in P.E. class and he wanted to bring full hockey gear, we sat down and discussed that his equipment is valuable and he has to bring it home each night. Sure enough by the fifth day he showed up at home with no gear. Instantly he started his defense, how he put it nicely away after class and someone must have stolen it. He did look for it. It wasn’t his fault. That is when my tirade started about how careless he is with his things and always had an excuse. After making him sit through a lot of talk about responsibility, telling him he could help pay to replace it and adding on the dreaded no electronics punishment – I stormed off saying maybe he would finally learn his lesson. It was a long weekend. Then, the following Monday, we got a call from school saying they had found his equipment. It had accidentally got moved by a janitor when moving some tables around and they were sorry for any inconvenience. They had found his nicely packed bag, safely tucked into the other classroom. My lesson ended up in being how to say sorry when you are wrong.
Kool-aid for grown-ups
Stormy: Putting the teeny in Martini – And my greatest shining moment, my crowning achievement of parenting, was the time my family and my sister’s tried to escape the relentless winter with a hotel water park getaway in downtown Minneapolis. After several hours in the water park, my husband was in my sister’s room watching the hockey game with my brother-in-law and the kids were in my room watching Nickelodeon. I jumped in the shower to wash the chlorine off of myself and came out to find the kids huddled around my youngest who looked positively green. “What’s wrong?” I asked my son. He responded that my petite 5-year old daughter had poured a glass of Kool-aid and wasn’t feeling well. I looked at the plastic pitcher no longer full of the bright, colorful liquid inside—not Kool-aid, but premixed Cosmopolitans. Nearly 100% booze. I panicked for a bit: How much had she drank? How would I explain this to the paramedics? I spent several minutes debating the lesser of two evils: Having the Department of Human Services questioning my obviously neglectful parenting or having my daughter experience alcohol poisoning. When I looked at my little girl, her skin was pale and her eyes were glassy–this wasn’t good. Then, she promptly threw up the bright pink poison. Immediately, the color came back in her face and her eyes brightened. Crisis averted. I could keep my terrible parenting a secret. Well, until now. But since my daughter is now a beautiful, happy 18-year-old, I managed to get her to adulthood in spite of myself.
KitKat: On the rocks – Stormy isn’t the only mom who inadvertently provided their child with a taste of liquor well before appropriate. In the summer, often after work I go up on my balcony to enjoy some fresh air, a VO Manhattan and page through a magazine. Once in awhile the kids will follow and my daughter would always ask for ice. I’d grab one from the glass and suck off any lingering whiskey (or so I thought) before feeding it to her. This would keep her quiet for a bit, which was a big deal at three. One morning, she asked for ice and my husband grabbed one out of the freezer. We were quickly told his ice didn’t taste good like Mommy’s. No wonder she was quiet! From then on I remembered to bring a cup of pure ice out with me.
Okay, it’s clear that neither of us are going to be getting Mother of the Year anytime soon. Does anyone else have a good story to share? After all, this whole parenting gig is Easier Said Than Done…
Well, I am back, and not too happy about it. As Stormy mentioned in her last post, I was off enjoying Spring Break with my family. Now usually, I would say “enjoying” a family vacation is a bit of a stretch. It usually means whiny kids out of their element, too much together time and expectations set way too high on the quality memories we would create together. Plus, family also includes my parents who we stay with in Arizona. This adds to my personal stress of keeping my children from disrupting their calm lives and of wanting to show off how great my children are turning out due to our fabulous parenting skills. (This usually is when my parents witness all of us at our worst, as I try to force the unrealistic image of a perfect family which then turns into a complete family meltdown.) Toward the end of vacation, I usually start dreaming about my escape back to work. But, this trip was different.
Perhaps my children have reached a new stage. Now they are old enough to also appreciate the difference the warmth of the sun and relaxed schedule can make to them and their parents’ mood. Nor, do they need the same strict routines to function like somewhat tolerable human beings. Or, it could be that I have
View from my throne
relaxed a bit and decided if my five-year-old daughter wants to do her normal nonstop morning chatter to her grandparents, instead of me, there is no need to intervene. Instead, I took the selfish approach of picking up my book and enjoying the morning quiet. After a couple days, it became the morning routine and household joke as I stumbled through the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, waved to all (without a word) and headed outside to my lawn chair to read. “There goes Mom again.” I’d be joined a couple hours later as the kids jumped into the pool. Which leads me to another great stage, I didn’t have to be in the pool morning till night watching the kids play. They both can swim on their own now. I could pretend to watch (with my sunglasses masking my gaze) all the “look at me” and “watch this” tricks poolside. Once in awhile I would make my appearance as the special guest jumping in and getting lots of excitement and applause for it.
Aside from a few outings, we pretty much just hung out, relaxed and enjoyed the setting. (One outing was on horseback, a favorite activity since childhood of mine that I will post about in more detail later.) I didn’t even check in at work more than filtering through emails once a day. Pretty impressive with a new website launching the day I returned. I do have to give my unplugged-from-work credit to my great and completely self-sufficient staff, who told me (and meant it) to STOP whenever I tried to check in. It was the only time I actually liked being told to “STOP” and I paid attention and took the advice to quiet my rambling thoughts. For ten days, I truly relaxed. I won’t get into full boasting of all of the luxuries and other tidbits that made this trip so perfect, but it was simply a fabulous escape from reality.
What goes up must come down. And I realized this up in the air, just before midnight on Sunday and about 30 minutes away from landing back in Minneapolis. I had planned the late return thinking the kids still had the following day off to catch up on sleep and after all of my rest, certainly one day short on sleep wouldn’t be too hard to handle in exchange for taking full advantage of my vacation time. But on that last leg of the plane ride it suddenly all hit me. Tomorrow, instead of leisurely walking outside groggy from so much inactivity, I would be running to a work in 30-degree weather after only four hours of sleep. I would be faced with issues from a website launch, a frantic pace of catching up on all that sat idle waiting for my return, and to top it off, it was my birthday. Yes, I was turning 44 up in the air and I certainly didn’t see it as a something to celebrate. As I mentioned in a previous post, I had lost an entire year and only recently realized it wasn’t my 43rd birthday. With midnight looming, it looked like I was facing my own Cinderella story.
It was no fun realizing I was right. I kept a good face on at work but inside I was miserable. All of the things that had made me so happy had been swept up and taken away. I kept trying to be mature and told myself I was lucky to have had that time to enjoy, but the more rational I tried to become, the more irrational I felt. I wanted my fairy tale back.
It would be a shame to end the post that all was lost and it was a horrible, no good, very bad day (I loved that book as a kid!). There was a slight happy ending that I made for myself. I did what any mature working woman/overstressed mom would do. I came home, put on my pajamas, and hid in my bed with a bottle of wine. Under the birthday disguise, I claimed a free night and wanted my servant children and husband to bring me food as needed. After spending my night with hours of T.V. (all favorite shows I had recorded but never time to watch) and a few too many glasses of wine, I finally dozed off, content.
Looking at the forecast ahead, the temps are rising so hopefully my mood will follow. Onwards and upwards! I won’t give up hope on for my own happy-ever-after ending though.
According to our blogging schedule, it’s KitKat’s turn to write a post. However, she’s on vacation with her family, enjoying the sunshine and warm weather. Rather than drag her away from the fun, we’ve decided to mess with our sequence and have me post instead.
Coincidentally, this is an excellent lead-in to my topic. Some of you may be able to relate to this, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that I’ve settled into a few routine “tendencies.” For example, let’s consider the subject of direct-selling parties. As you probably gathered from my previous post on the topic, if I get an invitation to one, I have a tendency not to attend.
Other tendencies include:
Not helping my kids with school fundraising. (I would perhaps buy something myself, but I wouldn’t go to any lengths to promote the fundraiser du jour among coworkers or family like some parents might.)
Disregarding charitable appeals that don’t fall into my selection criteria (which is fairly narrow) unless it happens to be a case of supporting a friend’s cause (in which case, it’s actually about supporting the friend more than the cause). The fact is, there are millions of worthy organizations out there competing for the same buck and giving it any more thought than that would cause my head to explode.
Not buying any white bottoms. That’s an easy one to explain. I’m a klutz and buying white pants or a white skirt is just asking for trouble.
Only watching “non-taxing” movies on Friday nights. These would be romantic comedies, slapstick comedies, classics I’ve seen 20x before, etc. Nothing with a complicated plot or that otherwise requires full attention. After putting in a full week at work, I simply don’t have enough brain cells left on Friday night.
And last, but not least:
A policy against having policies. I’ll call these tendencies “preferences,” or “guidelines,” but I don’t like to think of them as “policies.” While these kinds of rules can form a code of conduct that simplifies decision-making, I’ve seen a number of people apply their preferences too rigidly, disregarding the consequences of their inflexibility or its effect on others. As a result, you might say that I have a policy against policies.
Surprised by that last one? Here’s an example from close to home: My dad won’t wait in lines—which he is quick to point out if he encounters one. Like most of his Greatest Generation peers, he enlisted for WWII as soon as he could. Dad left for basic training the first day after the end of his senior year in high school, and at the age of 17 he was immersed in a new world—one that apparently included a lot of lines. As he explains it, “The guys would have to wait in line for hours to go through the chow line for breakfast and then after eating would get back in the line again for lunch. I swore when I left the service, I’d never wait in line again.”
And as far as I know. He hasn’t.
Wasn’t Stormy adorkable?
That’s an exaggeration of course. Realistically, I’m sure my dad hasn’t been able to avoid every long line he’s encountered during the 68 years since this “policy” was formed. But I’m sure he did if he had any say in the matter. Which is why—when my family went to Disneyland in the late 70s and the line for Space Mountain was “too long”—we skipped what was then the hottest ride in the theme park. And I still remember the omission 30 odd years later. (You’re probably thinking here that I need to learn to let things go—and I do—but that’s a topic for another post.)
Today, my dad’s policy is usually cited when my mom wants to eat at a popular restaurant. Would it kill him to wait it out once in a while? No and doing so would make my mom happy. So I try to keep this in mind whenever I find myself clinging a little too stubbornly to my own “tendencies,” and remember that every rule has its exception. Because knowing when it’s okay–or even necessary–to bend the rules is key to living a balanced and exceptional life.
“The wind does not break a tree that can bend.” – African Proverb
As my previous post might have implied, I’ve had a worse-than-usual case of cabin fever/winter doldrums due to a worse-than-usual winter. In fact, I was seriously considering finding a last-minute airfare bargain, ditching my family and leaving town for someplace warm. I mean, I was SERIOUSLY considering this. But it smacked of “running away from home” (admit it, you’ve wanted to do this at times) and seemed…well…just a wee bit…unbalanced. So, I resisted the urge and dragged myself into work, as a responsible middle-aged woman should do. This may have been the same day I texted KitKat the line that prompted her recent post, and apparently great (though rebellious) minds think alike, because I decided to do what any defiant teen would: Play hooky.
I had learned a few days earlier that my middle child—a junior in college—would be coming home for a few days over spring break and knew seeing her would lift my spirits. I decided to “seize the day” or more accurately “the next day” to spend it with my darling daughter.
Okay, here I confess that I am—at heart—an extremely conscientious person with a self-detrimental work ethic. So, I didn’t fake being sick. But since I had no pressing meetings, I scheduled a spontaneous vacation day.
I skipped out of work that evening feeling a bit lighter than I had when I dragged myself in. When my daughter arrived home, we discussed potential options for our mother-daughter outing the next day. Now, my daughter is attending college in the Fargo-Moorhead area, where fewer trees dot the landscape to offer a break from the cold and blowing snow, and the fierce Minnesota winter I complained about in my last post has been magnified. So for our Cabin Fever Play Day, we decided to seek out green plants, blooming flowers, chirping birds, tropical fish and exotic animals.
A Sea Dragon at the Minnesota Zoo
Our first stop was the Minnesota Zoo. Since it was a school day, I think I was the only mother there with a child over the age of five. I had not been for a zoo visit myself since the kids were…what? Preteens? A long time, anyway. Several new attractions had opened since then, and we walked through all of the indoor exhibits. Kids on field trips swam by us like schools of fish, and we saw plenty of real ones in the large aquarium (fish that is, not kids).
When is lunch?
After a couple of hours we had exhausted our options for indoor exhibits, but not our desire to stay in the warm, green surroundings. So, we decided to hit another zoo in town—a favorite destination of my childhood: Como Zoo, which also has a lovely conservatory.
Not a bad role model for a pope!
First, though, we needed sustenance, so we made a detour for lunch in St. Paul. As we dined, the announcement that the new pope had been chosen was breaking news. As the major stations showed coverage of an empty balcony for an hour (seriously!) while waiting for the new pope to make his appearance, we discussed the challenges he would face and speculated on what name he would choose. I guessed John Paul III would be the choice (to build an association with the more popular of the recent popes), but my prescient daughter thought St. Francis would be the best choice, as that was her favorite saint–exemplifying peace and humility.
Afterward, we headed to the conservatory to bask in the humidity and sunshine, and when we got to the wing with all the spring flowers, I was struck by two things: 1) The explosion of color, which was almost an assault on my color-starved eyes. In the dead of winter, the Minnesota landscape is white and gray and its residents follow suit, clothing themselves in black, gray and other dark, drab colors. 2) The intoxicating fragrance. Winter has no smell. Well, actually when you live in the city it smells a lot like car exhaust. Yuck.
The sweet smell of spring in the Marjorie McNeely Conservatory at Como Zoo
We headed home feeling a bit more optimistic. Spring would return, we just had to wait a bit longer. I also realized that I had spent a full day with my daughter—the longest time alone together I could recall—and I genuinely enjoyed every minute of her company. Not just because she’s my daughter and I love her, but because she’s a genuinely cool person. The flowers were a lovely bonus, but I was more enchanted by the girl who had blossomed before me into a confident and compassionate young woman.
It turned out that my day of playing hooky was just what the doctor ordered. For as KitKat pointed out, one of the privileges of being a grown up is deciding when it’s okay to act like a kid.
Easier Said Than Done 