The Baker's Daughter

Diamonds

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Thu, 20 Jul 2017 16:21:00 +0000

Dear Liam,

I taught you how to swing a bat in the side yard of Ellsworth Avenue. It was hard for you at first but you wouldn’t give up. Inspired, I turned you around putting your right shoulder forward and that's how we discovered you are a leftie batter. You were four years old. And you haven't stopped swinging for the last 12 years. Tonight, that changes.

Tonight, you play in your last baseball game. The decision to hang up your spikes is all yours and as much as it breaks my heart, I support you. You are ready even if I am not.

Before your final plate appearance, there are a few things I want you to know so that you can carry them with you around the bases one last time.

Liam, so much of how I learned to be your mom happened through the baseball diamond. Watching you play taught me who you are--and who you've become---as a person. You are determined, loyal, patient, smart, and respectful. Knowing this about you has helped me relate to you, guide you, and parent you. Baseball shaped so much of each of us.

Baseball was a gift to me; a gift of time with my son. Our relationship relied on so many of the moments that baseball gave us; driving (often lost), finding fields, watching warmups, taking batting practice, and sitting happily through long games and double-headers. Every one of your at-bats lifted my heart.

Baseball calmed me. With all the uncertainty and frenzy that so often defined our lives, we always had the rhythm and reliability of baseball. Two sides to an inning, three strikes make an out, and nine batters in the lineup. The syncopation and the pace were trustworthy. Like an old friend, I could always find you there.

Baseball brought me joy. When you were younger, while other kids were taking batting lessons with private coaches, you were in the tunnel with me, your mom, letting me pitch to you from behind an L-screen. You always made space for me. I had so much fun playing with you and I hope you did too.

Diamonds are formed under pressure and baseball dealt you its fair share. But you persevered. And now, on your own terms, in your own time, you gracefully part ways. I admire your conviction and your resolve.

Even after you stop playing, I will always carry with me the joy, the peace, and the pride I felt each time you took the field. They were among the best moments of motherhood. I am so grateful to you for sharing them with me.

Let's go, kid. I’ve loved to watch you play.

What I Learned the Week I Owned a Dog

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Mon, 23 Nov 2015 14:48:00 +0000

I owned a dog for one week. She was a beautiful purebred Siberian Husky. Her name was Francesca, and we called her Frankie. We adopted her from a carefully researched breeder and we waited months before she was old enough to come home.

We heard a podcast called, Legendary. We fell in love with the 06 Female gray wolf. I wanted one of my own. I was obsessed with her. I couldn't stop listening to the story of this amazing, powerful, clevel, intelligent, warrior. I loved her before I even met her. It was the most brilliant story I have ever heard.

My younger son has always wanted a dog and I found myself at a point in my life where I finally felt capable of taking it on such a major commitment. My son did the research on breeds, made a formal presentation to me, and even responded to an RFP I wrote for a sole-source contract for a new dog-owner. I couldn't have made it harder. He couldn't have wanted it more.

We brought Frankie, our 06 Female, home on Sunday, November 15. She fit right in. We walked for hours each day, she ran laps throughout our neighborhood outpacing every dog. No one could touch her. She slept in her crate, and rested next to me (in her playpen) during the day while I worked. On day three I started itching, and by day five I couldn't stop. My head, my legs, my chest ... so much itching. I've never owned a dog, never knew I'd be allergic.

We had to return Frankie to the farm where she was born the following weekend. I cried the whole way. When we arrived, and it was time for her to get out of the car, she just looked at me and put her head on my lap (more itching, more love). I like to think she didn't want to leave me. I know that I didn't want to leave her. And that's how it came to pass that I had a dog for a week and it taught me this.

The heart is built to love. It's amazing how much love a heart can hold. For a child, for a friend, for a spouse, and even for a silly dog you've only known for a week. And a heart can break. Because it's the only way to release all the love it holds inside when things don't turn out as planned. And, as I'm trying to tell my son who sits crying on my couch, broken-hearted over his all-too-short love affair with his dog, a heart can heal. It takes time. But a heart can heal. The fissures and the scars that grow during the healing process will forever hold all of his sweet memories along with all of the hope and plans he once held for him and our beautiful Frankie.

There's hope, and there's love, and there's loss. There's moving on into a future that looks different than the one we had planned. I have done it many times. The pain will lessen. Tomorrow becomes bearable. Because the heart is built to love.

Imagination

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Tue, 16 Jun 2015 02:06:00 +0000

I've always associated imagination with mental wandering that results in bursts of artistry and creativity. I'm changing my mind. There's a different version of imagination that has undone me. It's not poetic or artistic or even remotely beautiful. Instead, it's the destructive version of imagination that no one discusses. This is the dirty little secret about imagination.

If you haven't yet, I encourage you to listen to Kathryn Schulz's TedTalk, "Don't Regret Regret". In it, she has this to say about imagination, and it's been haunting me for months.

"It (regret) requires, first of all, agency -- we had to make a decision in the first place. And second of all, it requires imagination. We need to be able to imagine going back and making a different choice, and then we need to be able to kind of spool this imaginary record forward and imagine how things would be playing out in our present."

Through endless studies of human behavior we know that human beings act and feel in accordance with what they believe. But a belief is really nothing more than something we imagine to be true. We act and feel, not according to how things really are, but according to the image our minds hold of how things are. Everything is imagination!

When we talk about a failure of imagination, we are referring to things that the mind couldn't predict, or a future the brain couldn't conjure, or a reality that humans couldn't anticipate. But the real failure of imagination is the way it distracts us from how things really are (or were), how it distorts how much agency we truly had, the regret it generates over the choices we've made, and the way it perverts the consequences of those choices into things that we imagine could have been, should have been, would have been different ... better .... if only .... if only we had no imagination.

I'm thinking about long distance running. I'm exhausted, but it's only mile 12, or 14, or 16 or 22. I'll never finish if I give in to the fatigue. So, where do I put the tired? I have to imagine it isn't there. I have to put it aside so that I can accomplish something better, and bigger, than my fatigue. Regret is like that. Where do you put it? How do you put it aside so you can accomplish something better? You imagine it away.

My imagination is alive and well. It feasts on my memory, and my moments of weakness, and my mistakes, and my constant wishing for a life without blemishes. And that's why I instantly fell in love with Kathryn Schulz's TedTalk. Because, "Here's the thing, if we have goals and dreams, and we want to do our best, and if we love people and we don't want to hurt them or lose them, we should feel pain when things go wrong. The point isn't to live without any regrets. The point is to not hate ourselves for having them."

I can imagine this kind of life. A life in which, "Regret doesn't remind us that we did badly. It reminds us that we know we can do better."

I can throw the full force of my imagination behind betterment-via-regret. Counting Crows said it best, "Regret is a carousel ride."

Time to get off.

Be Light

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Thu, 14 May 2015 01:18:00 +0000

There has been a shift. How things were is no longer how they are. I don't know when it happened, but I know that it did. Maybe it's happened to you?

You awake and realize that you are changed; you are changed in your relationship to the people and the things around you, in your acceptance of the past, in your appreciation of the current conditions of your life, and the inevitable and brilliant truth of your future. You are no longer at war with yourself. And for a moment, you wonder, "How did the battle end? Is this defeat or is it victory?"

You know that it has ended because you are lighter.

The Art of Living, Epitecus said, "Everything has two handles: one by which it can be carried and one by which it can't." Could it be that you switched handles and started carrying smartly, ending the struggle?

Could it be that you realized that the burden weighing on you wasn't yours to carry so you gave it back to its rightful owner, releasing yourself of undue and irreconcilable responsibility?

Or, as in my case, could it be that you realized that sometimes you have to put things down, simply for the reason that they are heavy?

Ask yourself, "What else can I stop carrying?" Put it down and be light.

The Start Line

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Mon, 22 Dec 2014 03:25:00 +0000

Whenever I would hear about someone running a marathon, I would think to myself, "Who could do that? Who could run for 26.2 miles?"

Now that I've done it myself, I know that the actual race is really not the big deal. It's the training. We're talking hours and hours for months and months of discipline and dedication. In preparing for the actual race, I estimate that I ran over 360 miles and invested about 60 hours on the Washington and Old Dominion Trail (W&OD), and that's a modest estimate of a modest training program.

When you commit to something like that, when you spend that much time with nothing but your own thoughts and the rhythm of your own breathing, you can't help but be changed. Every mile-marker brought me a shorter distance from who I was when I started and a step closer to who I hoped to become when I finished. Through the sweat, the heat, the rain, the sunrises, and the eventual foliage you become part of the trail, you find harmony with your thoughts, and your race becomes your friend.

I once ready a quote that helped me understand why I love running. "Running is such a fair sport. There's no interference. It's just me and the road." For me, that's true. I prefer to run alone, and I look forward to the long stretches of time and the gift of hours during which I work out my thoughts, my hopes, my regrets, and my plans. The running is a pursuit of clarity. And I think that's why I found so much friendship in those miles. Every single one became a friend. Now that the training has ended, I miss them. I miss the early morning air, the momentum of distance building behind me, the constant companion of my pace, and the mental calculation of miles to minutes.

Running is the way I learned to understand myself. Being understood requires a level of introspection and honesty that can be difficult to tolerate. It's a reckoning. But, instead of avoiding it and running from it, I ran to it, through it, and to some degree out the otherside. It isn't always comfortable. It wasn't always easy. The path of least resistance was always tempting me; I could give up at any time. There would have been some comfort in quitting. This form of therapy (in my case) was unforgiving. But it brought me peace.

So now, when I hear that someone has run a marathon, I know the accomplishment isn't finishing the race. The achievement is everything invested in getting to the start line, and the strength to release all that was left behind on the way there.

Five Feet

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sat, 06 Dec 2014 04:21:00 +0000

For the past few days, my little guy has been really sick. I'm not the type of mom you want around when you're not feeling well. I can barely operate a digital thermometer, I don't really know the difference between Tylenol and Motrin, I don't keep things like alcohol swabs and band-aids in stock, and I hate messes. So, when you throw up on my carpet--or on me in my bed--I tend to react with something other than warm maternal instinct.

I really don't like that about myself, and I doubt my kids like it about me either. So, when my nine year old came crashing into my bedroom at midnight covered in vomit, I tried to respond with tenderness.

We took our time and got cleaned up, I brought him ginger ale with crushed ice and a straw which is the salve for all things in my home. ("You feel off your bike? How about a ginger ale?" "You're doing the taxes? How about a ginger ale?" You're allergic to cats? How about a ginger ale?") We somehow made it through the night with many more episodes of illness and not much sleep and I called in sick to work when morning dawned.

He spent most of the day on the sofa, fever burning him up, eyes rolling in the back of their sockets, not able to wake him for more than a few moments to force water (or ginger ale) into his system. A day later and it was time to see the doctor. Before we left, I asked him to take a shower, and he said, "Will you help me, mama?" And in those moments of helping him into his clean soft clothes, of powdering his skin, blow-drying his hair, and tying his sneakers, it was like I was his mom all over again. The choreography of early parenthood that you never forget.

When we got to the triage station and the nurse asked him to stand against the wall for height and weight, my little guy turned obediently and just like that, he crested 5"0' for the first time. I had to hold back the tears. My hands had just tied his shoes and zipped his coat like the toddler he used to be. Over the past few days, I had reclaimed so many moments with him, so many of my own moments of motherhood. And it felt like it was all being ripped away from me by that stupid mocking giraffe-shaped growth chart, as the nurse exclaimed, "He's over five feet tall now, mom, too big for the 60 inch giraffe!". It sounded like she was really saying , "He's all grown up now, mom, and your little guy is gone forever."

She could be right. Maybe my son will only carry memories of me as the frantic mom who never had band-aids, was outsmarted by every splinter she ever met, and didn't know how to use an ace bandage. Then again, she could be wrong. Maybe my son will think back on his childhood and remember all of his moments of need like this one, in which his tender and capable mom moved calmly and brought him comfort. And you know what? I don't think it matters. Because in that moment, while he rested on the hospital bed, dozing in and out of sleep, he reached across his IV, held my hand and whispered, "I love you, mama." All five feet of him.

Unsuspecting

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sun, 30 Nov 2014 02:28:00 +0000

There is a lot of hype approaching a 40th birthday. It sits on the calendar like the gateway to your own age of enlightenment. Everyone has predictions: "You'll stop caring about the little things." "You'll gain confidence." "You won't care about the extra 5 pounds." "You'll be more calm." Maybe it takes awhile for all of these predictions about being 40 to seep in, because none of these things have happened yet. At least not to me.

And while everyone has something to say about turning 40, the advice that resonated with me the most was this New York Times Op-Ed published shortly after my birthday: We're all just winging it.

What the doorstep of my 40s has taught me, more than anything, is that the greatest common denominator among all of us is simple. We are all unsuspecting. So many of my friends are divorcing after decades of marriage; relationships that seemed destined to succeed have somehow failed. Other friends are coming to terms with brain tumors, and breast cancer, infertility, and children with terminal illness. Still others are coping with elder care issues, unemployment, living loss, and death. None of those things were there yesterday. Yet they are here today. No one suspected it. We were all unsuspecting.

We need that unsuspecting space. It's the space that allows us to experience great joy, fully and without compromise. Mixed in with that joy we sometimes find awe, beauty, and love issuing their own unexpected gifts; parenthood, friendship, accomplishment, a home-run, a phone call, a warm bed. It's where we hear laughter and feel lightness of heart.

I don't plan to search for that gateway to self-enlightenment and I don't expect my 40s to bring me anything more or different than my prior four decades have. But I do think I'll try to experience them with more awareness; alert that time is mercilessly marching on and what it will bring is unknowable. I am set to be unsuspecting. And there is a freedom and a confidence in that.

Things I Learned in 2013

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Mon, 30 Dec 2013 16:11:00 +0000

Just a list to end a year in which I'm still learning things I wish I already knew.

1) All relationships are best depicted by a venn diagram.

2) "You're either with me or you're against me" is a very combative way to approach the world.

3) Reducing the world to black and white works well for people who lack the intellectual or emotional bandwidth to otherwise negotiate the complexity of the human condition. And also, they're morons.

5) Telling me that I "just have to see it your way" is not entirely true. I actually don't have to see it your way. Ever. (but I'll still try).

6) Trying to strengthen a relationship by uniting against a common enemy only works when the enemy cooperates. Don't cooperate.

7) Some people disguise alliance-building as friendship. That hurts. Walk away.

8) You're never going to do it all right all of the time.

9) You should still always try.

10) This too shall pass.

Lift Don't Lean

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Tue, 24 Dec 2013 18:42:00 +0000

Here's an idea. When it comes to women, work, and the will to lead-- or life for that matter--instead of leaning in, try lifting up. Lean implies force. Newton's third law of physics is simple; you can only lean into something that is opposing you. What's the sense in that? Why give your energy to something, anything (anyone), that is refusing you?

Leaning puts you off balance. Leaning compromises your height. Lean long enough and you'll fall over.

Whereas lifting brings you higher. Lift requires strength and lightness. There is more to be gained in lifting ourselves, and those around us, up rather than leaning in to (and against) a system that doesn't serve us.

Lift implies an element of grace, a generosity of spirit, with a reach towards something higher.

How do you want to get where you're going? Lean and you'll topple. Lift and you'll rise.

Thank The Pastry

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Thu, 19 Dec 2013 00:48:00 +0000

There are times when people disappoint me. Situations let me down. Expectations fail me. There are times when my hard work does not pay off and when outcomes inflicted on me are both unfair and inexplicably unjust. Because I am someone who over-invests--in people, in my work, in my relationships, in all that I do--these times are hard for me.

I have limited coping skills when it comes to being let down by people for whom I have deep trust. As someone who is usually so strong, I simply disintegrate under the weight of disappointment and crumble into bitter little pieces. It's hard to put myself back together. I'm not quite the same.

I think commitment and loyalty deserve reciprocity. It hurts when you don’t get it. It hurts deeply. But lucky for me, I have a talent for storytelling. And even on my darkest days, I can spin a tale of my woe into epic entertainment. I will tell my stories.

Others, on whom we count to do the right thing, may get it wrong. They deserve our forgiveness. We are all human and mistakes come naturally. Even so, I struggle to be gracious in my disbelief. I am blind to grace when I feel slighted. I am deaf to excuses when I am wronged.

I own my reactions. I own everything that has happened to me. And now I own these stories. They can’t be given away by anyone but me. That's how I comfort myself today. The day on which the pastry platter was the star of the show and we all applauded. It's just a story now.

The Absolutely True Story of My Citizen of the Month

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sun, 15 Dec 2013 21:10:00 +0000

This week, I had the distinct pleasure of attending a ceremony at which my younger son was awarded a prestigious citizenship award. As the "Citizen of the Month", Eamon was recognized with the following citation.

"Eamon, you are being recognized for this citizenship award for being an outstanding student inside and outside of our classroom. From Day 1, you have impressed us by showing incredible helpfulness to your classmates. You are the first one to offer a hand to someone in any situation. Whether we are in class, on the playground, or at any special, we notice all your great choices come naturally to you. Your responsible personality has made you a fantastic leader and role model. We appreciate how you are so agreeable and genuinely don't mind being our 'go-to-guy'. Discover Elementary School is a better place because of you!"

If you're just meeting us, you may be surprised to learn, that Eamon and I have been engaged in a battle of will since the moment he kicked me so hard that he broke one of my bones -- in utero. It's been a constant test to see who can gain, and retain, control in our relationship. As his mother, I both fear and admire his strength of character. And although our battles are too many to chronicle here, I'll share one absolutely true story from the morning of April 18, 2008.

Although I wasn't sure then if it was all worth it, I can say now with absolute conviction, "Indeed it was." There is no person who loves, and challenges, me more than my younger son. And as his pediatrician once encouraged me, "Channel his energy. He has a spirit that will one day rule the world."

My passionate spirited son, I am so proud of you. You were blessed with many talents, and you are using your powers for good. This December, you are the Citizen of the Month in Discovery Elementary School's third grade, and you will forever be the Miracle of Every Moment in my life.

April 18, 2008 (Eamon, 3 years old)

This morning, Eamon pooped in his pull-up. I told him to take off his shoes and his jeans and sit on the potty and I would be with him shortly (I was doing my hair). He screamed in my face, "I WON'T DO IT!!!!!!!!!!!" so in my slip and my hot rollers, I calmly took him by the hand and walked him to his room, told him he could come out when he was ready to be nice. I shut the door and locked him in.

He proceeded to scream bloody murder for about ten minutes, which was perfect timing because it allowed me to finish getting dressed and coordinate my jewelry.

I knocked on the door that he had not yet broken down and reminded him that he could come out as soon as he was ready to be nice, and also, that he needed to take off his shoes and his pants and sit on the potty OR he was going to have to go to school with poop in his pants. It didn't matter to me, it was his decision.

He responded by telling me, "That's stupid!" and threw a stuffed animal at my face. So, I shut and locked the door and proceeded to pack Liam's lunch. All the while listening to the gentle soundtrack of fists beating a wall and the tune of "Mama, let me out of here RIGHT NOW!!!!!" This melody eventually turned to, "I NEED A TISSUE RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!' to which I replied (via intercom this time, to avoid projectile objects being aimed at my face"), "As soon as you calm down I will give you a tissue."

Well, things escalated when when Liam and the neighborhood girls started playing in the driveway. Eamon climbed onto his dresser to holler out the window to them, "GUYS, stop playing without me!!!!" Now, my heart was breaking a little bit, but all the experts say that you musn't give in to the temper tantrum, so I left Quasimodo in his belltower and finished doing the dishes.

Alas, for fear of missing the school bus, I gathered all of the backpacks and encouraged the other children to pick up their scooters from the driveway and get in the car. I then went and asked Eamon to hold my hand while we walked to the car.

This quickly turned into a World Wrestling Federation match, whereby I had him in a full nelson, strapped over my shoulders, every bit a lady, not raising my voice or breaking a sweat. I gently jammed him into his car seat and turned on my very high heel to close the garage door. Eamon seized this opportunity for escape, undid his seatbelt, opened the car door and ran up the driveway, across the cul-de-sac and into the woods behind my neighbor’s house before I had even turned around.

I was not going to be foiled by the great Houdini, so I calmly meandered in my Ann Taylor dress across the lawn and into the woods (aerating the entire cul-de-sac lawn as I went with my heels), peeled back the branches so as not to disturb my carefully coiffed hair, and reached in to pull out my thrashing, screaming banshee of a three year old.

This shortly became a unilateral shouting match of "Put me down, you're CRAZY!!!!!!!!!!" with flailing arms and a few sneakers to the mouth. Determined to not fall out of character and remain every bit the loving mother that I am, I simple hastened the child to my breast and carried him across the lawn, quietly calculating the amount of money I just wasted on dry cleaning my perfect-for-any-occasion little-black-dress. I made a mental note to write to the marketing team and ask if "chasing your three year old into the woods" was among the occasions for which they considered this dress perfect.

Eamon was now safely man-jammed back into his carseat with the door adequately locked. I proceeded to round the car in order to enter the driver's seat when I heard a thrash and a scream and an "I HATE SCHOOL!!!!!!!" only in time to turn my head to see the great Houdini escape once again, this time over a retaining wall, across my backyard, over the garden, and under the deck behind the swimming pool.

Unsure how to retrieve my child without damaging my new high heels beyond repair, I simply decided to get in the car and drive away. As I started the engine, the little demon emerged from beneath the shadows of the pool and came running towards the car screaming, "Open my door!!!! You can’t leave me here!! You’re CRAZY!!!!" So, I exited the vehicle, opened the car and attempted to assist my toddler's ascent to his car seat. This turned sour on me very quickly when he swiftly bit my forearm, and screamed into my face "I HATE SCHOOL!!!!!!!!" This earned him a good heist in the seat of his drawers and a good slam of the car door in his face.

All of the other children, now seemingly terrified and uncertain who was more crazy, this Houdini-like Quasimodo with the stinky pants or the Ann-Taylor modelesque woman who was manhandling him across all of Mallard Drive. I have my opinion, but I will keep it to myself.

Down the street we go and due to some divine intervention, we do not miss the bus. The children grab their backpacks and run to Bus #9 while I calmly lock Eamon in the car, engage the parking brake and remove the keys. His harmonious screaming can be heard through the entire town via my open sunroof. Many of the other bus-stop parents cast knowing glances in my direction, but this moment of commiseration is precluded by the incessant blaring of a car horn. I turn to see my angel child bearing down on the steering wheel of my Subaru, drowning out the lyrics of his most common refrain, "I HATE SCHOOL!!!!!!!!! THIS IS STUPID!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I run back to the car (a good 100 yards in my sling back heels) pressing the unlock button on my remote control as I go.

I realize my mistake a second too late, for as I frantically rushed to unlock the car door to remove my child from atop my blaring steering wheel, I also provided him the perfect opportunity to escape, once again, through the now unlocked driver's side-door. In a flash, he was out of the car and running, this time up a newly mulched hill (three cheers for landscaping!) and into the woods .... again.

My calm, cool demeanor now nothing more than a thin, shattered veneer, I lean forward and charge the hill to retrieve my offspring. I manage to grab hold of but one of his arms, which throws both of our bodies off balance, and our descent from mulched mountain becomes nothing more than a well-dressed, tumble of recently-tanned legs and elbows.

Don't give in!, I repeat to myself as I softly shove Sir Handsome back into his car seat, lock the doors, round the car, unlock my door and swiftly enter the vehicle. I have no choice but to deliver this child to his daycare now. I cannot reward reward these atrocities by giving him what he wants (a tissue and a popsicle ... I think?)

I begin the short drive to Route 111 during which time my son unbuckles his car seat and attempts to escape through the open sunroof, all the while screaming, "YOU CAN'T MAKE ME GO! I WON'T DO IT! IT'S STUPID!!!!!!!! I HATE SCHOOL!!!!" I yank him down my the leg and promptly close the sunroof, saying a silent prayer of gratitude to the genius who placed these power buttons on my steering wheel.

Eamon will not be deterred. Realizing that a sunroof escape is no longer a viable option, he proceeds to climb into the front seat to grab the steering wheel, all the while screaming, "TURN MAMA!!!!!!!!! TURN, GO BACK HOME!!!!!!!!!!" I attempted to reason with the boy, "Eamon, the policeman is going to send Mommy to jail if you don't get back in your seat." but my calm, rationale voice could not derail him from his mission. Using my right hand, I swept him into the back seat. He took this opportunity to cleave to my forearm with his formidable incisors and gnashed on my arm until I released it by pinching his nose.

Mind you, this is very difficult to do without driving off the road, but I am supermom, and I can do many things at once. Seeing that devouring my perfectly sunless tanned arm was not going to be my breaking point, the boy began to beat me about the neck and face with his fists. I admire his tenacity.

After this ride of terror, I exited the car and tried to lovingly retrieve my son from the backseat. This was more like chasing a rabid dog around a very confined kennel and I met no success. Frothing at the mouth, Eamon removed himself from the car by crashing out of the passenger side door and onto the pavement. He quickly returned to an upright position and ran off across the parking lot. I managed to get one slippery grip on one of his arms, which led us through a circular dance of entanglement and violent despair across the parking lot, until he crashed through the door and lay on the floor, a heaping pile of snot, poop, sobs, and screams. I brushed myself off, kissed him on the head, told him I loved him, held my head up, and walked away.

Now, I ask you, was this worth it?

Better

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sat, 22 Jun 2013 01:17:00 +0000

I've stuttered, started, and stopped for about a few months now. Feeling ever urgent. That something is different, has changed, and wanting to express it. Give it shape, breathe it life, and make it real with my words. Testify.

But the have words escaped me. They've slipped over my tongue, fell out of my thoughts, and failed to form in my mind. And still this restlessness persists. I can't shake it. Start, stall, stop. Stuck.

I've taken an inventory. I've crossed all the known and familiar emotions off of my list. I'm not any of them. I can't name this new thing I am.

Among other new things in my life I am now a tennis player. I started taking lessons after reading this quote in a New Yorker article:

Atul Gawande, professor of surgery at Harvard Medical School, was watching the Wimbledon tennis tournament on television when he saw star Rafael Nadal's coach urging him on from the sidelines. If one of the world's greatest tennis players has a coach, Gawande asked himself, why shouldn't doctors and teachers?

I was so taken by this observation that I went on to read Gawande's book, Better. It may may have changed my life.

I started taking lessons because I wanted to become a better learner. I wanted to teach myself to be coachable. I wanted to see what could happen if I stopped resisting instruction. I wanted to experience how good I could become if I knew how to hear advice as guidance rather than criticism. In short, I wanted to become better--not just on the tennis court, but in my life. And maybe that's what is happening.

I'm working on my serve. My coach has told me to throw the toss, coil, arch my back, and then shift my weight through my hips, until all of the momentum in my body pulls me forward. It sounds complicated. It sounds like a lot to do in a short moment of time. And in the past, former versions of Jeannette would have backed off probably. Resisted. Stopped before trying. But I'm learning. And I'm getting better. And I'm forgiving myself when I miss. And I'm trying again. And again. And again. And maybe that's what is happening. Approach. Toss. Lean. Shift. Hips. Hit.

Exactly three years ago, in my professional life, I started something new. And today, exactly three years later, I stopped doing it. Powered down, stood up, walked away, and badged out. Good-bye to this space, farewell to this time. I'm on to something different. I'm off to a new challenge. I'm letting the momentum I've built pull me forward. I'm learning to learn. I'm learning to lean. And the hips won't lie.

Over the past few weeks, many people have asked me if I am excited for what's next. Am I nervous about where I'm going? And I'm not. I'm neither of those things. And until this very moment, I didn't know how to describe what I am or what emotion has been swirling for the past few months. But I know now.

This new thing I am. It is not excited. It is not nervous. It is ready. This is what readiness feels like. I am both humble, and assuming, enough to believe that I can be better. And I am ready.

Eulogy

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 20:45:00 +0000

Good morning, and thank you for attending this service to honor my grandmother. As the Pastor introduced me, my name is Jeannette, and I am Alyce's older granddaughter. On our drive here to Ohio, I told my husband that I wasn't sure what people would expect to hear from me during these remarks. He replied, "People will just expect to hear how you feel." So the remarks I'll share here today are just that and nothing more; how I feel about my grandmother.

... long pause for deep sobbing at the lectern ...

I think every little girl should benefit from the magic of a grandmother like mine. I really though that my grandmother was a Queen. She lived in a faraway land, and she would arrive from the west, in these big cars chauffeured by my grandfather, and it was like she was traveling in a chariot. I remember waking up one year at Christmas and they had arrived while we were sleeping and we couldn't even see the sofa anymore, it was piled so high with gifts. She wore these long flowing bathrobes, and satin slippers, and blue and green eyeshadow, cateye glasses, smelling always of perfume, and carrying a bottomless supply of breath mints in her change purse. My grandmother embodied all of the things a little girl adores.

To me, she was like a goddess. My older son Liam, who is here with me today, has been studying Greek mythology, and I've had the pleasure of learning with him. And my grandmother reminds me most of Athena. For those of you who don't know, Athena was Zeus's favorite child. So favorite in fact, that she was the only child allowed to play with his weapons, including his thunderbolt! And that's who she was to me. As a little girl, she was Athena, with her gentle laugh, costume jewelry, cosmetic mirrors, and the world's softest hands.

Yet, as I grew older, I stopped seeing her through the eyes of a little girl and started seeing her through the eyes of the woman I was becoming. As I learned more about her life, instead of shrinking in import, my grandmother's goddess stature increased with each passing day and she truly became my Athena. Athena, the greek goddess of wisdom.

My grandmother's maiden name is Weisheit, which when translated from the German means wisdom. And if ever there were a person who valued wisdom, it was my grandmother. She was uncommonly educated for her time, and she was unquestionably committed to a lifetime of learning. Over the past week, my brothers, sister, and I have all shared fond memories of sitting at her tiny kitchen table and vigorously debating just about any topic with her. One second she would be challenging my father on the legal ramifications of immigration reform, and the next moment she would be asking my sister about Demi Moore's new haircut. She was an ample conversationalist, and truly, an encyclopedia. She knew just about everything about everything; how to turn a collar, bird species, biblical history, fashion, western civilization, pop culture, medicine, gem stones, opera, and most recently, yoga poses. "Oh come on, Nettie, show me that Warrior 2 again."

In perusing her final scrapbook, I even found an article, with a letter my older brother had handwritten to her, about glacial deposits in the Ohio River Valley. Her mind knew no boundaries. And if it did, she didn't acknowledge them.

In that regard, she was such an enigma to me. She committed the last seventy years of her life to living in a small, rural, town. Without ever learning to drive, it would seem that her world would have gotten smaller and smaller as she aged and her mobility decreased. But to the contrary, her world continued to expand, as she tuned in to the opera, subscribed to the Smithsonian magazine, and collected the world through the travels of her children and grandchildren through postcards, slideshows, and stories. She relentlessly pursued wisdom in whatever form it presented itself.

The other way she was an enigma to me was her SIZE! I found her legal ID card this week, and she was only 4"10'. And, as you can see, my family is a bunch of giants. I mean, we are huge and she was just so small. I just don't understand how such a little person had such a big impact on the world around her. She was truly a giant. She used to joke that she was going to put bricks on our heads to keep us from getting taller than she was. Well, she lost that battle, but she was really, truly, larger than life, bigger than her body ever gave her credit for.

She was such a source of strength and inspiration to me as I tried to find my way in this world. I learned so many things from her. I probably should have told her, but I guess I never did. Through her I learned that a mind must be exercised, and that an active mind is a healthy mind. I also witnessed through her that will must be exercised, and that a willful woman is a force of nature. Through her I observed the tender, and often misunderstood difference, between determination and stubbornness. She taught me how to remain committed to my ideals even in the face of insurmountable odds. She also taught me about commitment.

My grandmother was so committed to her life. She was raised a Pastor's daughter and wore the distinction as a badge of honor. She was unfailing in her commitment to her church and to her faith.

She was committed to her family. She was the Weisheit and Thomas family archivist, collecting photos, newspaper clippings, and other heirlooms dating back to 1872. She loved her husband, and remained committed to him as a young bride while he served in the Pacific Theatre in World War II,as a Marine. She wore her wedding bands every day since his passing in 1984, committed to him through the almost 30 years she spent as a widow.

She followed him to Ohio with her young family in the mid-1940s, leaving behind the only world she ever knew: the bustling metropolis of Pittsburgh during its heyday as the steel city. Her commitment to this land and to this place held her here for another 70 years. Even after her home burned to the ground, she remained. Every now and then she'd get a faraway look in her eye, and say wistfully that while she was gardening she often thought that she might turn over a ring, or a fork, or some piece of her former life, buried in the soil. She'd catch herself in the moment of nostalgia and hope, and slap my knee, laugh it off, and say, "Well Nettie, no sense sitting around here feeling sorry for myself." And that would be that.

She was strong. She was determined. She was committed. And she was never harder on anyone than she would have been on herself.

As a professional woman, I credit my grandmother with bestowing on me those very same character traits to which my success is largely owed. I credit her with blazing the trail that made my life and my career possible. I believe that I am made in my grandmother's image.

To anyone who has ever commented, "Gee Jeannette, has anyone ever told you that you have a really strong personality?" Or, "You're really opinionated." Or, "You're difficult to lead." Or, "You know Jeannette, once you set your mind to something you're like a dog on a bone." Or, "You're a real kick in the pants." I simply smile and reply, "Really? You should meet my grandmother."

In addition to her indefatigable pursuit of knowledge, her dogged determination, and her sense of commitment, my grandmother was also tirelessly devoted to duty and service. When I think of my grandmother, I think of a proud graduate of nursing school in 1933 who dedicated the next 80 years of life to nursing. To my grandmother, nursing was not a degree, it was not a career, it was a calling. A full lifestyle devoted to the caring for, and service of, others. I remember so often being a young girl walking through downtown Coshocton, and so many people would stop us and say, "Oh Alyce, you delivered my children." In fact, it happened this morning in the church kitchen, with two of the volunteers here crediting my grandmother with bringing their children into the world. She always seemed famous in this part of the world; the place where all life began in Alyce's hands.

I have often wondered how many lives she birthed, healed, or improved. And in thinking of her life, I am humbled. I am humbled by what she accomplished and the legacy she leaves. Her influence can't be disguised in my life and in the lives of those I know the best and love the most.

Her sense of duty was passed on to her children, who served in both the Army and the Air Force. Her sense of service lives on in my uncle who, as a volunteer, beautifies and safeguards trails for hikers in America's southwest. Her Promethean nature lives on in my mother, who has served for decades as a nurse, and has given life to countless souls through her position as the manager of the blood bank at Massachusetts General Hospital.

Her full commitment to her family is evident among her four grandchildren; upon whom she bestowed, on each of us, a unique piece of herself.

Her passion for learning and unquenchable thirst for knowledge is in the custody of my older brother, who exercises it everyday as a Professor at one of America's best small colleges, enriching the minds of our nation's next generation of thinkers and problem solvers.

Her healing hands and compassionate heart are hard at work through my younger sister who has brought healing to cancer patients and better nutrition to hospital kitchens throughout Boston and its north shore.

She bequeathed to me her honest curiosity and critical mind, two talents that helped me arrive at a place I never though I would be, the United States Central Intelligence Agency.

Her courageous spirit and fearless commitment to service are staring out from behind my baby brother's night vision goggles through the cockpit of a US Army Black Hawk helicopter.

With these gifts, she's single-handedly made our nation smarter, stronger, safer, and healthier. And rather than be humbled, I want to be proud. I want to feel proud that her legacy is alive and well, and carrying on as she would want. I like to think of her spirit silently and invisibly moving us all towards greatness, fully empowered by the wisdom she carefully deposited in each of us.

She truly was my version of Athena; a beautiful and powerful woman, a protector of wisdom. Her given name was Alyce, meaning noble truth. And hers truly was a noble life, both in her intent and in her actions. Hers was a life well-lived with a full commitment to Christ and service to others. These truths are simple and she lived up to the letter of each word. Alyce Weisheit, the noble truth of wisdom.

Whenever my grandmother would hear something she considered particularly incredulous, she would laugh out loud and exclaim, "Well good night nurse!" I suspect she would scoff at me and say the same thing today, uncomfortable with such a public display of emotion and praise. But today, I get the last word. And I am going to use it to say these final things.

"Grandma, we promise to take good care of these gifts that you gave us. Your father's house has many rooms (John 14:2), and you have picked the finest piece of real estate among them. We'll look for you in Orion's belt, just like you always said. We hope you're together there now with Grandpa. Know that while you were here, you were adored. Know that now you are gone, you are missed. And as you sleep this longest sleep, one last time, I wish you good night, nurse."

This Is Room Tone

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 19:48:00 +0000

I’m not looking my best. It’s been weeks of travel this summer, culminating in one massive trip with a video crew to film my very first documentary. I’ve been living out of a suitcase since June 28, indulgently eating whenever I get a moment, sleeping at odd hours in whatever time zone I find myself, and rebounding from a terrible haircut. All told, you might see me and say, “Hey friend, you don’t look so good.”

But let me tell you. I might look my worst, but I am at my best. This last seven days have helped me to reclaim everything I have professionally lost since that fateful Tuesday morning in May 2011. The meeting in that office when I saw myself losing my religion, felt my passion for my work seeping from my body, puddling on the floor, while my spirit looked on, crushed. But listen up. I'm back.

Last week, I had the opportunity to see things, learn things, hear things, and experience things that I never considered possible. I met people – smart people, passionate people, creative people, kind people, and people who challenged me, inspired me, and dealt me hope in spades.

But most importantly, I worked with a team of master craftsmen. I was able to observe them, witness them, and was invited into the sanctum of their expertise. I learned about lighting, reflection, sound, frames, color, distance, room tones, warmth, depth, lenses, staging, motion, reflection, and vision. Watching, listening, I felt an immediate kinship with these unapologetic colleagues, to whom the details matter, and for whom getting it right is a non-negotiable.

We spent hours and hours talking about the end product, united in an endless pursuit of excellence. We wrote interview questions, shredded them, started over, reworded them, pinched them, polished them, and perfected them. We lit rooms, wired people, tested for sound, combed hair, mopped sweat, and adjusted collars on people we barely knew. A professional intimacy bred from a shared goal. We filmed interviews, nudging conversations towards answers, reworded responses, solicited for more, better, different ways to get to the perfect sound byte. And when we got it, and tape was rolling, you might have heard the director say, “Jeannette, I can’t see you but I can hear you smiling.”

And later, when I momentarily forgot where I was, and what I was doing there, chattering on about my next bright idea, you might have heard the director say, “Someone tell Jeannette to shut up. We're rolling.”

We chased the perfect shot by climbing ladders, lying under windowsills, perching on top of palettes, and crouching in corners. We waited out delayed flights, ate airplane food, woke to catch trains at 04:00, jammed ourselves into taxis with jump seats, and walked endless miles through warehouses and grasslands. We slept, sitting upright, in vans and trolley cars. Split the bill, pay the taxi, grab the gear, set the wake-up call, fall into bed, meet you in the lobby in the morning. Don’t be late. Look sharp.

It is uncommon to work on a team that shares the same, unspoken, commitment to precision; a team on which it doesn’t need to be said -- our best is the only option. My best. Your best. Nothing less. We couldn’t let each other down, because the shame would have been too great. We work this way because we can, not because we must, and in choosing that, we free ourselves to pursue nothing but our own expectation of brilliance. It's a privilege.

In my professional life, I have so sorely missed this combustion of energy when unrestricted creative minds collide with unencumbered technical expertise. It was a perfect storm. The passionate simplicity of design for total effect.

Last week, I was reminded that work can be fun. Last week I was reminded of the enviable exhaustion that results from a fully engaged mind, and a happy spirit, working in service of something greater than itself. This is why we work.

So, to John and Terry, I thank you. Thanks for including me to the fullest extent possible. Thanks for being patient with my curiosity. Thanks for letting me interrupt your every sentence. Thanks for trusting me with your work. Thanks for not getting angry with me when I walked into the frame by accident. Thanks for listening to me talk about my husband all week. Thanks for not making me sit in the jump seat while I was wearing a dress.

Thanks for making me laugh. Six filets eight buns. Undoubtedly, there should be more weeks like this.

Because You Can't Make It Up (3) August 7, 2012

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Tue, 07 Aug 2012 02:16:00 +0000

All things overhead. Because you can't make it up.

1. "I don't think we're going to have a problem unless you bring the duck into the bedroom with you. In which case, pretty safe to say, that we're going to have issues."

2. "Well, my grandmother finally graduated from college and moved out, so that stress is over."

3. "That yogurt looks so good, I wish I could have some but I can't eat sugar."
"Really? That's kind of hard to believe because you're standing in front of me right now sucking on a pixie stick."

4. "How much would you pay me if I came to class tomorrow wearing rubber boots?"

5. "Guess I won't be dancing on your glass ceiling in my stilettos anytime soon."

6. "Jeannette! JEA-NNETTE! Get back in the car! It's rolling away from the drive thru window."

7. "You can now tell people you've been beaten with hot bamboo sticks."

8. "Oh right, like the two of us are gonna want to go a topless bar with you."
"What!? Not a topless bar! A tapas bar, you moron."

9. "Wow! You work a death job? I never heard anyone say that before."
"No. I said I work a desk job - a desk job, not a death job. Come to think of it, there's not much of a difference actually ..."

10. "If I leave now, you will never see me again - never."
"Is that a promise?"

Who Else?

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 02:41:00 +0000

There's a moment, you know. A moment when everything snaps into focus. A moment you know you will never quite forget, with all your senses captivated, your mind busy memorizing every sensation. A moment when time literally stands still and you can feel it, see it, and you reach out and grab it, claim the moment as your own.

"Do you want to do it, baby?" he asks me.
"I'm not sure," I reply. Hesitant.
"Come on, it will be fun. Ok?" he encourages.
"Ok, but you're driving," I say. Obstinate.

He hands over the credit card and it meets the machine. My eyes, younger, take the receipt, read the tiniest, faintest print, approve the charge, and sign. My hand takes the waiver and signs our names. Both of them. We'll pay for any damages. We won't go out too far. We understand that they are not responsible in the event of accident, injury, or death. Copy all. Yadda yadda. Here's a used life jacket. It conceals my beautiful bikini and I instantly look like a tourist. A dreadful turn of events.

We walk out. My husband in the lead. Always in the lead. Seaweed catches my ankle. I watch him. Easy. He swings one leg over. I approach. He's taller and stronger. I can't quite swing my leg over, so I grab the arm rest, push down, and leap up, springing out of the water, both feet at once, landing on the back of it, like a gymnast sticking a vault.

"I could have pulled it into shallower water for you," says the attendant.
"Why would you do that? I got this," with an air of offense I toss the remark at him, over my shoulder.

My husband, he knows how to operate the equipment. He doesn't need a lesson, but he suffers through it, for the sake of compliance. He isn't listening. I can tell. As soon as the attendant is back on the shore, he pulls the accelerator. Caution be damned. And it begins.

Speed. A throaty roar. A tightened grip around his waist. You were right, baby. This is fun.

We tear off towards the flat line of the horizon with amazing and confident acceleration. Is it any wonder that Columbus thought the world was flat? It's just a continuum, just a flat line that you can never reach. Catch us if you can.

All around us is turbulence. We cut figure eights through the water, we jostle around in our own wake, we straighten and we accelerate more. Holding on tighter. It's time to jump waves.

Picking up speed, we approach, faster faster faster, louder, the engine, and then a roar, and we lift. We rise up as my stomach drops, my body lifts off of the seat, still holding on, silence but for a second, and we're airborne -- until we aren't any longer. And we come crashing down, bouncing off the surface of the water, bouncing and ricocheting, but still holding on. Loud melodious laughter. That laugh that comes from deep in his chest that no one, no one but me, gets to hear. Echoing off the water. And then we're still. Pull the kill switch. Cut the engine. Shhhh.

There isn't anyone else. No other watercraft. No other people. Nothing. Just us. And time stands still. Look around us. Everything is of our own making. The turbulence. The chaos. The adventure. The thrill. The calm. The peace. The partnership. Just the two of us with nothing but salt water as far as the eye can see. And an endlessly flat horizon, tempting us. Inviting us.

"Ok baby. Now you drive," he says as he stands up, steady now, balance, and moves behind me.
"Me?" I ask. Incredulous.
"Yeah baby," he says, "Who else but you?"

I scoot up. I pull the accelerator, lean forward, all in. Determined. Here we go. We race towards the waves, picking up speed, and we're airborne again.

Switching seats one last time, we go faster than ever and we almost dump it. Too far too far too far to the left, and I'm almost thrown off the back. I don't release my grip, so I feel his weight coming with me, but we correct, somehow, without words, we balance it back, and we course correct, and we steady it. And we're still again.

That's how I'll always remember us. That's the memory I choose to keep. Just the two of us, leaping waves and sitting still, drenched in salt water and happiness unrestricted.

Metaphorically, those thirty minutes could be have been our entire lifetime together. Propulsion, force, speed, confidence, arrogance, encouragement, chaos, peace, partnership, balance, and strength. You, me, and an innocent, unsuspecting, jet ski. We gave it the ride of its life.

"Yeah, baby" she smiled, "Who else but you?"

The Carousel

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Mon, 11 Jun 2012 15:26:00 +0000

In the final episode of Mad Men, season one, Don Draper talks about nostalgia as translated from the Greek, meaning, “the pain of an old wound”. A delicate but potent emotion, the twinge in your heart that is far more powerful than memory alone. And I can’t agree more with the sentiment.

I have an unrelenting nostalgia for early motherhood. That twinge pulls hard when I think of both my boys learning to walk. I would get down on my knee and open my arms real wide from across the room. They would come toddling towards me in their soft shoes, arms up, gaining speed and then toppling into me. So proud to have arrived at their destination! So proud of their new tricks!

I look at them now, still young but not babies, and I can’t reconcile their growing bodies and lanky legs, the ways in which they move, swagger, and saunter. One wants to be in a garage band. One wants to play Texas hold’em. They both want to learn to cook. And a twinge pulls.

Maybe it’s made worse, as I stand by and witness my adult stepson, embarking on his own great adventure, and my husband so infinitely able and full of grace, as he lets it unfold. All as it is meant to be. He’s calm and confident. And I watch him and I swear that just by taking the phone in his hand he gets larger than life, and while I listen to him talking to his son, I hear his words building strength in us all, so that we don’t collapse under the weight of the nostalgia. And instead of sadness, we are calmed by the inevitability of this next rotation on the carousel. We spin. We spin together from wherever we may be standing on this great wide world.

And so I learn (because he teaches me) that every moment since they first learned to walk, every moment has been a tiny spinning carousel. More about my getting down on one knee and opening my arms, and turning my boys, one degree at a time, so that they can run, move away from me and towards a different destination, arms up, into the great wide world. And on these tiny carousels that we create out of the safety of our arms, there are ups and downs, other passengers get on and off, but it never stops moving. Tiny motions, ever turning. Here … let me show you the way, point you towards it, ease your condition, guide you, love you, release you, protect you, honor you, welcome you home. The motion is delicate, and with each potent degree turned, the nostalgia lessens and confidence replaces pain, the twinge pulls less as the pride swells, and the carousel spins.

In the same episode, Don Draper says this about the carousel, “It’s a place where we ache to go again, to travel like a child travels, around and around and back home again to a place where we know we are loved.” And with that, I am hopeful that my children -- all of them -- know that as their carousels endlessly spin into infinite adventures, at its center, unmoving and steadfast, is home.

Because You Can't Make It Up (2) June 8, 2012

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 01:34:00 +0000

I had to leave some great quotes on the cutting room floor this week. I'm trying to keep the list to a maximum of ten, all of which were overhead, spoken directly to me, or arrived in conversation via text, email, or Facebook. They're all real. Did YOU -- or someone you know -- make the list?

1. "We want to show you something we've been working really hard on for the past three weeks. We're really psyched about it. Here, take a look. What do you think?"

"Oh, you'll have to explain it to me. What is it?"

"Um, it's a bingo board."

2. "The zombie apocalypse? Ha ha ha."

3. "Liam, I'll worry about cleaning up this room while you worry about cleaning up your act."

5. "Why aren't you texting me back? Are you asleep?"

6. "And a little later, we'll do a propane torch demonstration."

7. "This is what happens when you do it wrong; bad things, not good things."

8. "I trusted you because you're foxy."

9. "They're just going to collapse under the vast weight of the future anyway."

10. "I'm sorry. Her hair is simply beyond."

"One word. Sideburns."

"I know. Aren't the called lambchops?"

Because You Can't Make It Up (1) June 1, 2012

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 21:35:00 +0000

If I thought I would have the discipline, I would say that I would run this feature every week. Alas, let's settle for when the mood strikes me. Here are my favorite quotes of the week. Can you claim any of them as your own?

1. "Clearly, she did not go back and check her work. You always got to check your work. Just like math class."

2. "I would be about as proud of doing business with them as I would be of my wife if she were a circus clown."

3. "White socks and white sneakers with shorts. It's guy code for, "I've got nothing left to lose."

4. "Seriously? One more time and I will come to your house and cause a storm on it. You think things are rotten in Denmark now? I will do that. I would not be scared to do that to Denmark."

5. "Eamon, the cable just went out so probably the shower isn't working either."

6. "Exciting things are just not going to come in here and happen to us while we're sitting on the couch!"

7. "Just because they cannot reach the bar, does not mean you should keep lowering it."

8. "Well, the fact that we're sitting here with a Project Manager, a Program Manager, a Product Manager, and a Production Manager and no one can explain why is kind of funny, but it really isn't funny at all. Actually."

9. "You might be an unstoppable force but I am an immovable object."

10. "If I were you, I would have leapt from that window a long time ago. A loonnggg time ago, sister."

Reflecting on Eleven

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Tue, 08 May 2012 02:20:00 +0000

I just picked up my son at baseball practice. Is it possible that this is the boy who was not yet born eleven years ago? Eleven years ago when his due date had passed but the doctor was not yet willing to induce labor. Yes, that's the boy. He was worth the wait.

With lights high above the field, I watched him pull fly balls out of the air, like he was stealing secrets in the dark. He darted, and shifted, and lunged, and caught. His skinny legs in his baseball pants. So much my child. Those long lanky skinny legs. Standing still they look just the like the number 11 - two long parallel lines in the sands. His legs:my legs. He's a Munroe after all.

And he's just like me with that hint of over-assuredness, yet his is measured by a gentleness I never quite mastered. And he's just like me with that cocky swagger, yet his is softened by an occasional retreat into anonymity - a path I never traveled. And he's just like me with his hungry mind, yet his is satiated by sleep - a remedy to which mine has always been immune.

I have made mistakes in motherhood. Many. But I have not failed. And I know that much is true. For as my son climbs into the car, he talks to me, and he says words that I say to him when he is feeling sad. He encourages me in the same way that I encourage him when he needs hope. It's like an echo. I can only hear myself but I'm not speaking. And I check the rear view mirror and all I see is a witness to every brilliant moment of motherhood I never knew I had.

And he's just like me, because he wants to be better - and he's not afraid to try. (He also loves the Beastie Boys. #Word)

Happy (almost) birthday to my boy. Let's "turn it up to eleven" this year.

Effort, Hope, and Love

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 22:41:00 +0000

I've been thinking a lot lately about some distinct memories from my earliest days of motherhood and what they might say about hope, love, and effort.

When my boys were little, just 4 years old and 6 months, they attended a small childcare center about 1/4 mile from my office. I was guilt-ridden about working and not being with them during the day (but I didn't have the option to stay home with them). Tough days even now, to remember. I can still feel the pain in my heart of dropping them off each morning, and the tingle in my nose and my cheeks as I choked back the tears in defiance of the advice, "It will get easier, trust me." It doesn't get easier. Trust me.

I didn't take a single vacation day for three years. Instead, I spent all of my leave time taking longer lunches to visit them during the day. Sometimes I would get there at nap time and be able to lay on the mat in the nursery room floor with my 4 year old and rub his back until he fell asleep. Sometimes, I got there in time for lunch, and I would get to squeeze into one of those teeny-tiny preschool seats and enjoy a string cheese or a GoGurt. But it was never enough time. I always had to leave again. Every interaction was in anticipation of the leaving.

But the two memories that I can't escape are these.

1. For the fall festival during their first year at daycare, I volunteered to make a zucchini bread and an apple pie. I bought all of the ingredients on our way home the evening before the festival. By the time the babies were fed, bathed, read to, and tucked in, it was already late. I had some work to finish up, so I did that too. I didn't get started on my baking until close to 9:30 PM. I pulled out the recipes and started making my pie crust (from scratch), sliced the apples, and prepped the pie filling. It wasn't until then that I realized that I had no rolling pin or counter space to roll out the dough. So, I spread out some wax paper on the linoleum floor in my miniature kitchen and grabbed a bottle of olive oil. I turned the cap on tight, and started rolling out the crust. Sitting on the floor, with an olive oil bottle, wax paper, and my homemade pie crust.

I got that in the oven, and set to work on the zucchini bread, and realized all too quickly that I didn't have a shredder. So, I sat back down on the floor and started shredding three cups of zucchini with a paring knife. It was late, or rather early morning, by the time I got that in the oven, the kitchen cleaned, and into bed. I was satisfied. My children would know how much I loved them because of how hard I worked on these homemade delicacies from my imperfect, ill-equipped, kitchen.

We got to fall festival and I proudly entered with my beautiful, homemade desserts. I approached the table, behind another mom, just as she dropped two giant bags of Wendy's cheeseburgers on the table in front of me, and proclaimed, "The drive thru is the best! I only spent $20 and I got 20 cheeseburgers, my kitchen is still clean, and I'm not late. Phew, best investment I ever made."

I still don't think I have recovered from that experience. Watching that lazy pile of cheeseburgers disappear into greedy hands and happy mouths, while I stood there beside my untouched monuments to maternal effort. Seriously, wouldn't you rather have a Wendy's cheeseburger than a slice of zucchini bread? I just wanted my boys to know I was trying. I wanted my effort to be visible, unmatched, and demonstrative of my commitment to my children who I sensed I was failing daily. In that life where I could never find balance. For whom was I doing this? For them or for me? What would have happened if I had never rolled out that pie crust on my floor with a bottle of olive oil? Probably nothing. Surely nothing. The world would have continued to spin, whipping my maternal guilt around with it and my children's happiness would have been no greater and no less. So the question remains, "For whom do we try?" How does our hope mingle with effort, as we try to manufacture the outcome we so desperately want?

2. Here's another memory I can't seem to shake. Same apartment. Boys are slightly older by a few months and it's our first Christmas together. I was broke (both in the financial sense and the spiritual sense), but Christmas was on our doorstep and time waits for no man. Driving home on an evening in December, I pulled into a lot to buy a tree. We picked it out together, me carrying my younger son who was certainly big enough to walk (but reluctant to do so), and holding my older son's hand. We strolled through the rows of trees on display and settled on one that was a suitable size for our apartment and our lifestyle. It cost $15.

We tied it to the roof of my Subaru and when we got home, I cut it off and carried it all the way upstairs to our second floor apartment. All by myself. And you know what, I can still feel that tree in my hand. And that feeling of doing something for the sole purpose of creating happiness for someone else just flooding over me. And the amount of effort I poured into creating the illusion of prosperity for my boys, all revolving around that fifteen dollar Charlie Brown tree and the snowflakes we cut out of typing paper and taped to the windows. What other mother hasn't done these things? The endless effort fueled by the hope that others will know they are loved.

Effort, hope, and love. They can't be untangled. And when I think about my husband, and my big kids and my little kids, and my family, I think that is all there is to say. It's not perfect, but with a generous dose of effort, and inextinguishable hope, love will always find its way.

Shaping Space

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 05:18:00 +0000

Have you ever considered the space between? The space between any two people and how it gets there, or how it dissolves, or how it expands and contracts, or how it shifts, or how it establishes its own rules of engagement? Or how the balance of power sometimes simply hangs in the balance. Or how it grows warmer or colder, or lighter or darker. It's nothing more than space, and it sometimes seems that everything, all of it (whatever it is), is all trapped in there. Sometimes it is suffocating snared in confinement. Sometimes it is free-floating lost in vastness.

And it's a constant negotiation. Who we let in to it. And on what terms. Who we keep out of it. Any why. And for how long. The price we make them pay. The determinations we make about what debts to forgive in exchange for proximity again. The debts we create to fortify our own indignant convictions.

The imperfections we accept in people just to have companionship. The demons we create in others just to force them out. However you configure it, one axiom remains. The space is the guardian of the truth. This in-between space is the only space in which the truth can be tolerated. The space where the truth is pure. The space between.

Perhaps Peter Senge is an odd man to quote a time like this, but he said it best-- There is no enemy out there. You and the cause of all of your problems are part of the same system. It's all the same. Because wherever you go in this great spinning world, there you are. And the space remains. You can never leave it. You are always half of it. You own that much. You just drag it around with you. And all of its truth, however inaccessible, however unknown to you, are forever in your shadow.

So, how do you enter it? Do you dip your toe with guarded caution, stand in rigid self-righteousness, or immerse yourself in that space in hopeful promise? How do you shape it? Do you pour in anger, build around your self-manufactured drama, or sculpt it with grace? How do you interpret your own intentions? What do you want from the person on the other side? Are you trying to pull her closer or push him further away? Do you want it more than he does? Will you look with more than your own eyes, will you feel with more than your own heart? Or will you strand yourself in your own reality, unable to connect, compromise, or consider an alternative? Your truth is just one version of many. Can you accept that?

And we're all in it together. Turning to face a new space with a different stranger, turning to shape an old space with an intimate ally. This imperfect world on which we spin. Trading space for emotion, bartering for control, dealing out of pity, making withdrawals out of vainglory, or exchanging out of need.

One day you might turn and find me on the opposite side of your space. One day I might turn and find you. What will happen in that space at that moment? In what currency will we deal? What tools and what materials will we use to shape that space? And what emotions and expectations will we bring to bear on it? And when the truth emerges between us, will we know it when we see it?

"The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough." ~Colum McCann

2012

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 03:12:00 +0000

"Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

~Frank O'Hara as quoted by Don Draper

Suspension

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 20:41:00 +0000

If you have ever driven west out of Pittsburgh, past the airport, and through Weirton, West Virginia, you'll find yourself on the most magnificent feat of civil engineering: the Fort Steuben Bridge. It will, quite literally, take your breath away. I haven't been on it recently, but I passed over it many times to visit my grandmother while I was an undergrad at Pitt. The amazing thing about that bridge, is you pass from one state to another, and all the while, you're suspended in mid-air. Suspended. Like a tightrope walker.

The word suspended finds its origins in Medieval Latin, meaning uncertain. And is there any worse sensation than uncertainty? Indecision, stumbling anxiety, lacking confidence, absent conviction. The honest response, "I don't know. I'm not sure." Uncertainty is everything I despise. To me, uncertainty is akin to despair.

And yet, suspension is the only way I can describe it. Nothing is as I had hoped. Expectations failed, failed beyond any shadow of recognition. The last 18 months feel like a ride on an eternal suspension bridge. No border crossings, no progress, just endless linear movement, sometimes in reverse. And I don't know. I don't know if I keep going, pressure on the accelerator, eyes on the odometer, and just go. And hold steady: commitment. Remain committed to my expectations, and refuse to be disappointed. Is that within my control?

And I don't know. I don't know if I stop, force on the brakes, eyes on the speedometer, and just go. And walk away: commitment. Remain committed to what I believe to be possible, and refuse to accept anything less. Is that within my reach?

What is the line between patience and stupidity? What is the statute of limitations on effort?

I can do a lot of things. But I can't answer these questions. I feel just like I am sitting on that suspension bridge, desperately trying to get to the other side, but I can't get there, and people are counting on me. I am more frustrated than I have ever been. And it's all so ... pointless. Isn't it?

Most days, I distract myself with music. I find some tunes to make me smile, a soundtrack for my days. I always start with All Along the Watchtower (Dave Matthews version), and from there, it's anyone's guess. This Saturday, suspended in time, working on a holiday week-end, it was no accident that Florence and the Machine invited themselves into my space. When she was finished, she left her lyrics behind, little drops of wisdom suspended in the air, within my reach, and for a moment, I left all of those unanswerable questions unanswered. Let them wrestle with themselves for awhile.

Sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough
And things go wrong no matter what I do
Now and then it seems that life is just too much
But you've got the love I need to see me through

Thanks Florence. You're right. I could stay on this suspension bridge all the livelong day. I am not patient. But I'm not stupid either. There's a way out of this, or a better way to be in this, or for sure a way through this. My view is good. My soundtrack even better. And the company I keep, well, the company i keep is second to none. But, I don't want to brag.

Inventory

noreply@blogger.com (~jeannette) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 21:17:00 +0000

Medical History and Permission to Treat forms: Check.

PTO forms and PTO dues paid: Check.

Family contact information submitted to school directory: Check.

Baseball sportsmanship forms (one for each child): Check and Check.

Baseball Parental Conduct forms (one for each team): Check and Check.

Baseball Permission to Treat in the Event of an Emergency form (one for each child): Check and Check.

Soccer sportsmanship forms (one for each child): Check and Check.

Soccer Parental Conduct forms (one for each team): Check and Check.

Soccer Permission to Treat in the Event of an Emergency form (one for each child): Check and Check.

School uniforms purchased, washed, pressed, folded, and put away in new hanging closet drawers, organized by season and size(one set for each child, spring classroom, winter classroom, spring PE, and winter PE): Check, check, check, and check. Don't forget you haven't bought the PE socks yet. What's another $20?

Hair cuts (one for each child): Check and Check.

Sunscreen permission forms (one for each child): Check and Check.

Sunscreen purchased (one bottle for each child, and labeled): Check and check. MFR: Do not buy Water Babies brand because it is too embarrassing.

Extended Day Medical History and Emergency Contact Forms (one set for each child): Check and check.

Art supplies, including smocks, fine point markers, and baby wipes packed (one set for each child): Check and check. MFR: Do NOT purchase the baby wipes with the picture of the baby's bum on the front because that's too embarrassing.

Soccer uniform purchased and embossed with correct jersey number: Check.

Baseball pants, belts, socks, and shirts purchased (one set for each child -- color coordinated): Check and check.

Cleats! Soccer and baseball (one pair for each child -- color coordinated): Check, check, check, and check. (Thanks Duke!)

Soccer shin pads, socks, and shorts (one complete set for each child -- color coordinated): Check and check.

School supplies purchased, labeled, and packed for each child: Check and check. (Let's not forget labeling each and every crayon and colored pencil. It took an entire bottle of wine.)

Notebooks covered with contact paper, single-handedly the most frustrating task in the history of school supplies: Check and check. (Coming in at a record 12 notebooks this year, could not be done while drinking wine because it requires too much dexterity and concentration).

School lunches ordered and entered into mom's master schedule (a different selection for each child, each day): Check and check.

New NIKE backpacks purchased and labeled (one for each child): Check and check. (Thanks Duke!)

Water bottles purchased and labeled (one for each child -- color coordinated to their sports uniforms and backpacks, of course): Check and check.

New this year! Athletic supporters purchased and presented to each child (one of whom thought it was a computer mouse -- not so fast, buddy.): Check and check. (Duke, this one is all yours next year).

Google calendar updated with every sports practice, game, skills training, husband's travel, board meeting, hair appointment, medical appointment, holiday travel, visitor agenda, and Patriots/Red Sox game: Check.

Team Mom duties performed on behalf of son's U12 soccer team: Check.

Director of Marketing duties performed on behalf of childrens' youth baseball league: Check.

Babysitter secured for PTO Parents' Night Back: Check. (I might never come home).

Let the games begin, boys, because Mama's got to get back to work.