MYLESTONES

Swallow the angst and sing

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 28 May 2012 11:08:00 +0000

I'm cooked. Spent. Done. Toast. I got up at 5 a.m. to run 10 this morning. Then showered and shuffled everyone to church, then lunch, then the playground, then the pool, then dinner, then the park, all in an effort to make the day fun for the kids while giving Dad some time to catch up on work. The boy was so jacked up, exploring the outer edges of obnoxiousness as only a seven year old can do. They simply couldn't be quiet to save my sanity.

Sometimes it's just too much noise, shouting, bickering, whining. Too much turning everything into a soccer ball, too many shoes that need finding. It's wet towels and tangled hair and stubbed toes and time outs and talking back.

I wish I could breathe it all in without swallowing so much angst. The impatient words rise in my throat like an ugly belch. I let them rip and feel far more regret than relief.

::

I scribbled the above last night while I was sitting at the park at the end of the day. It's morning now, and in this light, I can look back on the same scenes and see beautiful things. I seem to have slept off the irritation. Calli sits at my feet, straining her ears to hear the geese. (She's always on high alert after breakfast.) The kids are in bed; the coffee's in hand.

With sleep comes perspective; with perspective, gratitude. Once again, gratitude becomes the balm, the antacid, the way to swallow the angst and sing.

The Dance (Just Write)

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 22 May 2012 04:53:00 +0000

I stretch out my hand, ask him to dance, the boy in the green button down shirt and khaki pants. He has on his "fancy shoes", the ones he asked me to buy so he could dress more like his daddy. I am half expecting him to decline again, to say he's too busy playing with his best buddy Max, or that he'd rather continue the search for wedding cake.

But he says yes, nods his buzzed head and flashes his crooked grin, his two front teeth no longer missing, but not quite halfway in. I scrunch down a bit, feeling too tall in my strappy wedge heels, and he stands as high as his 48 inches and fancy shoes will allow. We dance like mismatched old timers, dipping our joined hands dramatically. I spin him in, then out, and back we go to making exaggerated motions with our outstretched arms. His intermittent giggling probably has something to do with the silly dancing faces I keep making while I mouth the words to "I've Had the Time of my Life."

And I can't stop smiling. My inner commentary begins: This is what it feels like to be completely happy. You must remember this forever. You have to write about this so you remember it forever. Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how perfect this is?

Yes. Of course I know. I know it from the top of my frizzy, rained-out red hair to the red painted tips of my toes. I feel myself floating up, looking down in that weird filmmaker/ narrator way where I see the whole scene in my head, the scene where I am dancing with my son and having the time of my life.

Out-twinkling the angels (Just Write)

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 15 May 2012 01:38:00 +0000

Dani, you never met my Grandma, your Nana's mama. You were still growing in my belly when we hugged her last in the shadeless Palm Desert heat. But really, it's not accurate to say we hugged Grandma. Rather, she hugged us. She could squeeze so much love into a single embrace. There wasn't anything frail about her.

She wasn't the sort of grandma who went to the salon each week to set her hair. She was the feisty sort, the one who never wore a skirt, not even to church. (But you'd love her anyway, Dani, I know you would.) I'll picture her forever in a mid-80s puffed-sleeved sweat suit, her black hair ever short in tight wiry curls. She wore freckled skin, just like you and me; and her eyes could out-twinkle Santa's.

She knew what it meant to love people exactly where they were, without demands. She didn't make them move an inch to meet her, no probationary period required. She lived with her arms wide open, reckless with compassion. I've only recently come to understand how much courage it takes to live the way she did--to give the benefit of the doubt so freely, to throw every chip in every time, to love "all in". But I doubt she would've called it courage. She would have tossed up her hands and shook her grinning head side to side and quipped, "I guess your grandma's just crazy that way!"

Speaking of crazy, I should tell you about the time she took my mom, my sister and me to Yosemite. I can't remember how old I was, maybe 10? Anyway, it was snowing up a storm that day, and there was talk of closing the park. But we were halfway from Fresno to the park entrance before we got the warning, and she wasn't the sort to turn back on account of a little precipitation. When the sign popped up requiring chains for further travel, Grandma simply put on the chains, and on we went. We made it into the park just before they closed the roads into the valley. I clutched the inside of the car door and held my breath in fear as we slid and skidded down that steep, switchback of a road. I can't imagine how she even saw the road in front of her with the snow so thick in the air.

We passed one car hanging off the side of a cliff, another wedged into the side of the mountain. When we finally (miraculously) reached the valley, we nearly fell out of the car in relief. We walked a few steps in the direction of Half Dome, stretched our arms wide, threw our heads back and looked at the sky in every direction, watched as Mother Nature sewed the thickest, most spotless quilt of snow a mountain range could wear. Never have I felt a stronger sense of awe and wonder than in that moment, on that day when Grandma and I stood in that silent valley and looked up.

For 88 years Grandma lived this way, undaunted by treacherous roads, unhindered by convention, always looking up. She died this morning, "born into glory", as we crazy Christians like to say. And I'll tell you, Dani, these are the days when I'm never so glad to believe in heaven. I picture Grandma there now--still in her 1985 jogging suit--laughing her belly laugh, hugging anyone who comes within three feet of her, out-twinkling the angels.

For the moms who fake it until they make it

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Sun, 13 May 2012 11:51:00 +0000

This one's for the moms who fake it until they make it.

The moms who trudge, not race, when the six year old cries out at 2:00 a.m. He can't sleep, needs a drink of water, and now he's scared. Will she cuddle? Just for a minute. And only that. Because sometimes even just a minute in the middle of the night feels like too much.

The moms who only grudgingly say yes, you can "help" when the four year old wants to empty the dishwasher and mix the pizza dough. The moms who don't delight when the flour spills everywhere, the measurements are off, and the forks rest where the spoons should be.

The moms who linger at the lunch table long enough to supervise the carrots' disappearance, then sneak off to the computer to read or write for five minutes. Just five minutes! Is that too much to ask? Apparently it is.

This is for the moms who fiercely love--but don't always like--their children.

For those who know what a gift it is to spend time, to soak in the early years, but don't always like the way that gift is wrapped--in dirty diapers and dishes, in isolated hours of simultaneously feeling like the loneliest girl on the planet and wanting just one moment of peace to herself.

This is for the moms who fake it until they make it.

You aren't alone.

You can be a good mother and not swoon every five seconds at the way your baby's head smells.

You can be a good mother and still jump at the first opportunity to run away for a few hours.

You can be a good mother and still be supremely annoyed when the toddler tosses squash from the highchair, the preschooler whines about the sandwich you served, and the second grader takes an-ever-loving day to grab his backpack and put on his coat.

You might not always feel that "mother's high", that surge of love, the what-I-wouldn't-do-for-these-children goosebumps. You might want to scream (frequently). You might want to hide (often). And you might want to give up entirely.

But what separates you from a bad mother and makes you a good one is that you don't. You don't give up. You don't let how you feel at any particular moment dictate how you act (at least not every time). You muster up patience. You dig for perspective. And you keep on trying.

You keep on loving, feeding, bathing, hugging, training, cuddling, listening, even when--no, especially when--you don't feel like it. So that when those rare mother's high moments come, when those goosebumps finally rest on your arms--you know you've made it.

You've made it through those long and thorny valleys in between the mountain-top moments of motherhood. And if you can make it there, my friend, you can make it anywhere.

Happy Mother's Day to the moms who fake it until they make it. This one's for you.
::
Since new content seems to be eluding me, I'm reposting one of the favorites from the archives.

If a cowbell rings on Jupiter (Listening: 5 for 5)

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 12:50:00 +0000

We were listening to Fiest on
the way to soccer practice (by
his request--because her voice reminds
him of a certain second grade
girl--and he swears it's "nothing
mushy"--but a mama knows a
first crush when she sees it).
And I asked whether he heard
the piano in the song, and
I said he could play like
that someday if he kept practicing.

He said yes, he heard it,
and he heard the cowbell too.
Then he made what was meant
to be a cowbell sound. And
I only stopped laughing about the
cowbell long enough to tell him
you can never have enough cowbell.
(The fact cowbell has been introduced
in music class is just one
more reason to love his teacher.)

Later on, I listened to her,
the girl who doesn't go to
"big school" yet, reciting her older
brother's solar system report in its entirety.
"Lo, one of Jupiter's four largest
moons, has active volcanoes on it.
Jupiter rotates much faster than earth.
A day on Jupiter only lasts
nine hours and fifty five minutes."

So if a cowbell rings on
Jupiter, does it make a sound?

I admit I don't always listen.
I zone, tune out to them
and into my own little world.
But today I was listening. And
I heard enough to keep me
smiling, to keep me singing, to
keep me sighing the thankful sighs.

::

Well, I managed to show up for four out of five in Momalom's 5 for 5 week. That's four more posts than I probably would have written otherwise. And it was kindof, sortof, okay alot of fun. So apparently this will not be the week I give up blogging.

Today I'm also linking up to Six Word Fridays, hence the attempt above to fit what I had to say into six word lines.

So rest easy, Fancy Poetry People.
The above is not, in fact,
an egregious butchering of your fine
art form. It is just me
babbling on in six word intervals.

What are you hearing these days? What sounds, words, songs make you sigh the thankful sighs?

On buzz cuts and unforgettable Maine

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:57:00 +0000

He'd been growing his hair--straight up--for six months. (See Exhibit A)

Exhibit A

When I took him to get it trimmed last night, he surprised me by announcing he wanted to buzz it again. "Are you sure?" I asked, trying to conceal my delight at the prospect of eliminating his ever-losing battle against bed head.

"Yeah," he explained as the stylist grabbed the clippers, "because I was looking at my old pictures, and I saw how I used to look, and well, it just reminds me of summer in Maine."

It took all of five minutes, and while we looked at the piles of hair on the floor, I asked him whether he felt four pounds lighter. "Oh no. Probably twenty pounds lighter. That's my guess."

"Well, I think it makes you look younger, more like my baby boy."

He swung upon the door and turned to hold it for me and his sister. "Yeah, I practically feel like I'm five again."

::

It doesn't take much, not for my boy, not for me, to be reminded of summer in Maine. The trigger might be a buzz cut, an old picture, or a cool breeze carrying the faintest scent of saltwater. If you ask me, it's unforgettable. But we hold on to plenty of pictures, just in case.

Linking up again with Momalom for 5 for 5. Today's topic: Pictures.

Cocoon (Just Write & 5 for 5)

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 20:15:00 +0000

My girl came home from school today with a praying mantis cocoon. I'm told they're good for the earth, eating the "yucky bugs" and all that, but they creep me out to no end. When her brother got off the bus, she greeted him with a bouquet of dandelions, grabbed his hand and ran with him to the shrub where she'd stashed the cocoon.

I heard her say, "When the baby p'aying mantis's are born-ded, they will grow and we can say hi to them EVERY day. So, will you help me think of girl names and boy names for them?"

"Sure," he said.
And then, "Hey Mom, what's for snack?"

::

I wish I could outrun the melancholy, but I can't seem to shake it, not even with a five mile tempo run. Sometimes I wish I could go back, just for a day or two, to being young and idealistic instead of old and jaded. I wish there was room somewhere in a mom-sized cocoon for me to grow into something new and useful and amazing, and just in time for summer.

::

Just Writing with Heather, and using my Words with Momalom's 5 for 5.

Around the corner: Confessions of a Changeaholic

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 20:08:00 +0000

"There is one thing which gives radiance to everything. It is the idea of something around the corner."
-G. K. Chesterton

I scribbled it wide and diagonal across the entire college-ruled page, all caps, all exclamation.

I CAN'T WAIT TO GET OUT OF HERE!!!!

It was 20 years ago, and "here" meant a little town not too far from where I live today. I didn't know then what hid around the corner, only that it would surely be better and much further west. In the twenty years following graduation, it seems only the end of the "I can't wait to..." line has changed.

I can't wait...

to graduate.
to get a "real" job.
to get married.
to have our own place.
for him to get into med school.
for him to get through med school.
for deployment to end.
to start a family.
to quit the "real" (but too stressful) job.
to have a second baby.
to get a bigger place, with a garage this time.
to get through residency.
to get through residency. (That's not a typo. He really did residency twice--on purpose. Because we're seven shades of crazy.)

I am very, very articulate when it comes to lecturing myself about being "all in and all there" in each stage life brings. I am very, very inept when it comes to actually doing it.

And what's scarier is when I read that old journal, the one from two decades past, once I get beyond the cringe-worthy stuff, I am writing about all the same themes. I am giving myself all the same lectures. I am battling the same loneliness, melancholy, disappointment with life, disappointment with people, lofty ideals versus jaded reality, and (drum roll please) the infatuation with what might be around the corner. I believe we grown ups call this restlessness if we're being kind, discontentment if we're being honest.

We've been in Ohio for 21 months, and we have 16 months left. (Oh lookie there, someone's counting!) And dammit if I'm already thinking about what's next, that blasted corner holding all the possibilities, all the mystique, the key to endless happiness. This magical turn where promise and hope pool, right on the brink of change, it gets me every time. I constantly fight the temptation to wish my life away, to strain so hard to see what's next that I'm blinded to what's in front of me.

But this isn't the way to live, is it? Of course not. And do I really want to waste this year wondering about the next? Not on my life. So I'll add just one more thing to my I can't wait list: I can't wait until I finally figure this living in the moment thing out.

::
Well look at that, last week I decided to give up blogging, and this week I'm participating in a write-five-posts-in-one-week challenge. As Walt would say, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes." (And I would add to that profundity that really, I'm just fickle and indecisive. But the "containing multitudes" crap sounded so much fancier.)

Holy Moments

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 23:00:00 +0000

Yes of course it would happen this way. First I say I've lost enthusiasm for writing here and I might never be back. Then not 24 hours later I go to hear Anne Lamott speak, and in her self deprecating way she finds that middle ground of being wondrously inspiring without being even the slightest bit annoying or sing-songy. What really got me was when she shared how her son Sam is so thankful for the book she wrote about his first year of life--that he appreciates the capturing of those "holy moments" in between all the screw ups and mess and disappointments and drudgery.

And now everywhere I look I'm finding more of those holy moments. And more than ever I want to write about them. I want to write about them for these treasured little people who grow exponentially before my eyes, who inhabit these holy moments.

::

Right now, under the kitchen table I see a yellow balloon, a sparkly pink pom-pom, and a scrap of flame-colored paper that used to be attached to a space shuttle made of toilet paper rolls. Out on the dandelion-dotted lawn I see my children riding bikes, weaving through the trees as they pretend to fight the "monkey army."

Today I found myself playing Sorry at 8:00 in the morning. I told my girl we could play a "quick game", but I'd forgotten how impossible it is to throw a game of Sorry. I made all the wrong moves and still, she won by just a few spaces and it took an ever loving 20 minutes. While we played, she told me what titles she would choose for the books she'll write "just like Laura." The first one is "Ohio on the Prairie." The second, "Maine is the Funnest." And finally, "I Love my Parents." That last one is going to be a must read. (And yes, I'm writing this holy moment down if only for the sake of reminding her 10 years from now that she admitted to loving me oh so much.)

Just now, the aforementioned Sorry game winner came in whining about how she has too many things to clean up outside and how her brother won't help. I redirected her to clean up one thing at a time, and she continued to whine. I gave her a choice between cleaning up or going to lay down on her bed. She continued to whine. I moved toward her to "help" her go to her room, and she decided very quickly to go back outside to clean up. As soon as she shut the door, she screamed her angriest, most demonish scream for all the neighbors to hear. I probably won't count that one as a holy moment. (And there goes all hope of her ever finishing the "I Love my Parents" book.)

But putting the appearance of Crabby McScreamerton aside, the past few days have been full of these small, blink-and-miss-it moments, these sacred glimpses that manage somehow to loom monstrously large in the equation of beauty outshines mess. It's a miracle, isn't it, how the ugliness and drudgery and colossal failure diminish in the face of flat-out love?

Holy moments appear even at the pizza place, when it's just me and my girl

I'm just not that into this

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 11:59:00 +0000

Things I have enthusiasm for right now:

reading books
writing on paper
running
zumba
dark chocolate peanut M&Ms
guitar lessons
mojitos
Pandora channel custom mix: Of Monsters & Men, Vampire Weekend, Rogue Wave
algebra (did you see that pig that just flew by?)
making random lists, commas and double dashes

Things I have no enthusiasm for right now:

reading blogs
writing online
flossing
politics
bathing the dog
anything by Bon Iver
yoga (I've tried, I really have; but it still feels like a chore I do only to stay injury free so I can run.)
keeping the house clean
proper punctuation

I left the family off ether list because it goes without saying they are my entire world and can't fit on a list of any kind. And because the things I do for the love of them could wind up on both lists-- like watching seven year olds play soccer (into) or watching seven year olds play soccer in the pouring rain (not into). Or like seeing their massive Lego creations (into) or stepping on remnants of aforementioned Lego creations (not into). You get the idea.

So I have no idea whether I will be gone from here for a while or for good. Or maybe I'll be back tomorrow. (That would be a classic Jo move--to announce I don't feel like blogging anymore and then start blogging prolifically.)

So, what are you into right now? Or not into?

Dollar store easter crap: No enthusiasm
Little boy wearing dollar store easter crap: So very much enthusiasm

In which my own deep thoughts are on backorder, so I give you links instead

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 12:08:00 +0000

You might be surprised to learn that I don't think about deep things all day long.

Yesterday at the dinner table I lost my stern mom composure laughing at second grade fart humor.

Last night I dreamed we were moving to a new rental house with walk-in closets and a two-story great room. I woke up disappointed and inexplicably angry at the loose handle on the dark and dated oak cabinet housing the coffee mugs.

Today during my early morning algebra review (long story for another day, but yes, I'm relearning math via Kahn Academy), I tuned out of the moving train word problem to peak at Facebook on my phone, which prompted me to ponder and then half-heartedly tally how many states and countries I've visited and how many foods out of the 100 I've tried. Of course I didn't click on the app to take those tests because I didn't want people to think I was wasting my time on stupid quizzes, and at 5:30 a.m. no less. But whatever respect I preserved by abstaining from the quizzes, I just lost by telling you about it using a sentence that desperately wanted to be a paragraph. (Note to self: commas do not solve everything, especially not run-on sentences and moving train word problems).

I've been getting up early because Larry goes to work at o'dark-thirty, and I want five minutes with him before he goes. And because the health of our marriage hinges on the one selfless act I do without fail--getting up to make the coffee. I'm kidding. But not really. Because whenever we get into ugly fights, the faithful all-hours-of-the-morning coffee-making is the only thing I can consistently pull out of my points jar to prove how unselfish and wonderful I am. Sad, but true.

So all that to say that I don't think about deep things all day long. But I do appreciate when other people think them. And since my Delicious feed is no longer working on the sidebar, I figured I would share a few articles and posts that made me think, made me sigh with recognition, made me say "amen", and made me want to spend less time almost-but-not-quite taking Facebook quizzes.

On waking to endless morning hugs

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 12:32:00 +0000

He shuffled into the kitchen wearing wild morning hair on his head and a bewildered, wounded look on his face. I said good morning before I recognized his eyes were puffy not just from sleep but tears.

"Buddy, what's wrong?" I asked, pulling him in for a hug.

His shoulders started to shake and he sobbed, "I dreamed you left me all alone, and I was still just a kid."

He went on. "All I had for food was my lunchbox. And you took it away. And I asked for it back and you said no. And then I didn't have anything, and you made me go."

"And there were these clues to help me get home, but I was only four, and I didn't know how to read them..."

By now I'd picked up all fifty pounds of my seven year old, carried him to the couch as he wrapped every limb around me like a koala to a tree. "I'd never ever leave you, Buddy. Never. And I'll always take care of you. Always."

"It felt so real. It was so awful. I didn't know what to do. And I didn't understand why you made me go away all by myself." He started to cry again.

I squeezed him tighter. His little sister came closer, added herself to the morning embrace. "I dreamed that same one too, Mom, and it made me sooo sooo sad," she said. "And then I had another dream about a pirate chasing me, and that's why I didn't sleep in, and why I need extra extra morning hugs."

"Extra morning hugs!" I sang. "Step right up and get your extra morning hugs!" This time his shoulders shook with a giggle.

We three held on tight until the sun came up, until the light of a real morning slowly replaced the dark of nightmares.

::

I intended only to write this out for my own memory sake, not to draw a conclusion or make a point. But it's hard not to draw a parallel when my son wakes up on Good Friday feeling forsaken, abandoned and alone. It of course reminds me of the nightmare Christ endured on the cross. And of the joy in that third morning when by His waking, we were offered a new reality--to escape the nightmare of defeat and despair, to awake in His enduring embrace (not just extra, but endless "morning hugs"), to live new in His limitless grace.

Shades of Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 19:04:00 +0000

"One of the deepest and strangest of all human moods is the mood which will suddenly strike us perhaps in a garden at night, or deep in sloping meadows, the feeling that every flower and leaf has just uttered something stupendously direct and important, and that we have by a prodigy of imbecility not heard or understood it. There is a certain poetic value, and that a genuine one, in this sense of having missed the full meaning of things. There is beauty, not only in wisdom, but in this dazed and dramatic ignorance."
-G. K. Chesterton

The longer I live, the more comfortable I become with mystery, ambiguity, wonder--this "dazed and dramatic ignorance" that comes not from burying my head in the sand, but by gazing over it and into the sea. If I have one complaint about the culture of my Christian faith it would be that we insist too often on wordy black and white answers when what we really need is to quietly embrace these brilliant shades of mystery.

The Prairie Princess

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 11:17:00 +0000

She leads a pink and purple life, wears dresses every day, save the occasional skirt on casual Friday. Extracurricular activities include impromptu (yet always fully costumed) ballet shows and reciting the Disney princess storybook player in its entirety while riding her pink bike up and down the driveway. The reach and clarity of her princess radar is astounding, and a bit troubling for this mama who is far from the princess enthusiast. (Yeah, Cinderella, that's my nice way of saying I despise you and your prissy little friends.)

So you can imagine my relief and delight when my five year old started asking me to braid her hair to be just like Laura's. Or when she told me she couldn't fall asleep because she needed Pa to play the fiddle. And then there was the time last week when she said she'd changed her mind about a career in costume design for ballet shows. "When I grow up, I'm going to write about all the stuff from when I was a kid, like Laura did, so that kids can read the stories, and they will love it. And I'll paint some pictures to go in there too, like an artist, but mostly I'm just going to be a writer 'xactly like Laura."

She added, "The only thing is, I wish I could have golden hair like Mary's. But probably my hair could turn golden when I get bigger, right Mama?" (Yes, Darling, anything is possible for a girl like you. You just have to ~~dream and believe~~ dye it.)

Whatever the case, whether blonde or brunette, it seems my daughter and I have finally found a role model we can agree upon, our very own prairie princess.

So keep your tiara, Cinderella. These sun bonnets will suit us just fine.

Gift {Five Minute Friday}

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 12:58:00 +0000

I woke up this morning not caring that it's too cold to open the windows, not longing for the smell of saltwater, not missing the feel of the soft looped carpet under my feet, not wishing for the sight of the sun reaching into the windows to touch my favorite green wall in the old master bedroom.

I woke up this morning, padded over the dingy old berber and down the stairs, let the dog out into the cold. Then I sat on the couch nearest the door where the dog would come back barking for warmth and breakfast. I pulled a child under each of my arms, looped my hands tight around their middles and squeezed good morning. What is there to miss and what is there to wish for when the air inside is warm and the heart is full?

Last night I talked with a dear old friend. Two hours went by while we toggled between tears and side-splitting laughter. My old same, she is the one I call when limbo and rootlessness begin to sabotage the present joy. First we commiserate. Then we remind. We have so much--we have right now. Live your story, and live it well.

Even now, the sun pours through the office window on its way to the top of the sky, and I see how it hits this ugly green and peach floral carpet. I feel a ray resting on my forehead, highlighting a 27-year old scar. When the right kind of light is cast, when I look with grateful eyes, I begin to see the day as a series of small miracles. I begin to believe that anything can be beautiful.

In which I discover the magical cure for skinned knees {Just Write}

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 02:52:00 +0000

She runs ahead of me, hair waving like ribbons on a kite, flip-flops smacking the sidewalk, every limb moving in her watch-out-world way. I open my mouth to tell her again not to run in her flips, and oh for the love, girl, could you please be careful?

But I close my mouth, don't say a word. I could go hoarse calling her to caution while she hears only the wild in her heart. I'm trying to let go, to let her make mistakes while the stakes are still low. Not a second later, she is face down, flat on the ground.

I make that sound--the panicky breath-in-oh-no-poor-baby-are-you-okay sound--the one you're not supposed to make because it only makes things worse. I scoop her into my arms like an infant, cradling her shoulder and head with one arm while her skinned knees and shins dangle over my other arm. She sees the blood and heightens her cry.

We have a short ride home, eight minutes and counting before we get the desperately needed princess bandaid. So I ask her, "Is there a song I could play for you, a song that would help you feel better?"

"The Me and Daddy song," she says in between gulps.

I find "Father and Daughter", turn it up. She still believes it's her own daddy singing--just to her--and I haven't the heart to tell her otherwise. One day she'll discover her father doesn't sing like Paul Simon, but not today.

The tears are gone before the chorus, but as soon as the song fades, I hear her welling up again.

"It still hurts, even worser!" she whimpers.

"You must need another song," I say. "What would you like to pick next?"

She doesn't hesitate. "I Was Made For Sunny Days."

I see in my rearview mirror her face still wet with tears, smiling wide. By the time we reach the driveway, we are singing.

In which we ran for their lives: a race recap almost as long as the actual race

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 04:08:00 +0000

When I made non-refundable arrangements for Larry and I to run the half marathon in DC, I worried. I worried that one of us would get sick, that the kids would get sick, that I'd get injured. I held my breath and doubled up on vitamin C until the very last day before we were supposed to leave.

"What are the odds of it happening twice?" I'd joke whenever I talked to my friends about my plans and my less than stellar track record.

The odds were apparently pretty good. Because as soon as I began packing Thursday evening, Dani spiked a fever. A fever that needed to be gone by Friday morning in order to leave her with my sister as planned. Being the laid back and easy going gal that I am, I promptly commenced freaking the freak out. I'll skip the part about how I couldn't sleep AT ALL Thursday night, how I tried to get myself to calm down and breathe deep and pray and count backwards from a thousand, but how my brain and stomach conspired against me with a hells no and a when life hands you lemons, we make an ulcer.

I checked her temperature every hour, all night. The poor girl probably had nightmares about bugs crawling in her ears or being probed by aliens. Don't worry, little one, it's just your mother being neurotic again. Go back to sleep, darling.

The amazing thing was, her fever was gone by midnight and she woke up feeling great. Which is more than you can say for me. (See above re: neurotic lady sabotages pre-race sleep with pointless anxiety).

So, as it turns out, I made it to the starting line on Saturday. (Adjust the headphones and cue the angels.)

It was crazy crowded, but we miraculously managed to meet up pre-race with a few of our wonderful friends and Run for their Lives team members -- Dale, Sue, and James. My brother Aaron ran the half marathon too, but I didn't find him until after the race. (And after he'd beaten me by two minutes. Stink!)

The course was amazing, the crowds were great, and the music was rockin'. But did I appreciate any of it? Nope. No. Non. Nein. Why, you might ask? Because I was too busy looking at my watch, feeling fatigued, wondering why it felt SO. MUCH. HARDER. than the last time I ran a half marathon.

Runner's high? Yeah, notsomuch. Muscle cramping? Oh yes, indeed, with a side of stitches. I skipped my Shuffle back to Eminem's "Not Afraid" on at least four occasions--apparently because I wanted to completely and forever ruin my favorite inspirational running song. I also overdid Kelly Clarkson's "Stronger (What Doesn't Kill You)". Footsteps even lighter? This is clearly not a song about running. Because what doesn't kill you doesn't make you step lighter or stand taller. It makes you pass out, double over, hobble, limp, or curse yourself in languages you didn't know you knew for voluntarily agreeing to this torture.

What I didn't realize was how much the warmer temperature would impact me. You see, I've been training in 30 degree weather, which makes me pretty badass in an Eskimo sort of way, but is no help whatsoever when it comes to running nearly two hours while the sun beats the heck out of you. It was (to use the very precise temperature) too damn hot.

Anyway, I've concluded that the only reason I felt great during my first half marathon last year in Cleveland was because (a) it was a perfect cloudy 58 degrees and (b) I wasn't trying hard enough.

Speaking of trying hard enough, I can safely say I gave it everything I had, as evidenced by bonking in the last tenth of a mile and having to slow to a crawl/jog to make it to the finish. And as evidenced by a new PR of 1:47:10. Now, about that cheeseburger and chocolate shake? Because what doesn't kill you makes you hungry.

But let's jump back to around mile 10, where my husband was on his way to completing his first half marathon right on goal pace when a runner passed out in front of him. So off came his runner hat and on went his emergency physician hat. Nothing like a bit of emergent care practice in the middle of a race to make things exciting. He stayed through the hand-off to the EMTs, and resumed his race about 15 minutes later. So what did you do this weekend? Oh nothing much, just ran a half marathon, saved a guy's life, and advocated for victims of human trafficking. Stinkin' overachiever.

But seriously, and I know I sound like Corny McCheeserton right now, but that guy is my hero. I'm so, so proud of him for all that he did--finding time to train in the midst of his rigorous work schedule, encouraging me to get the Run for their Lives initiative off the ground, running the race, and responding with a quick mind and caring heart to the needs right in front of him.

Speaking of the Run for their Lives initiative, I am thrilled to announce that as of race day, we've collectively raised $1000 in direct support of Love146 and the fight against child exploitation! And we're not done yet. I'm not sure what shape our awareness and fund raising efforts will take next, but we're going to keep running with it, hopefully for the long haul.

And now, a few race photos (a.k.a. the anti-glamor shot) of our DC Run for their Lives team. Thanks to Danielle and Laura for the pictures and course support, and to Aaron, James, Sue, Dale and Larry for tackling this event with me. You're the best!

My brother (who I vow to beat next time) and me post-race

Top Left Photo, L to R: James, Sue & Dale; Bottom Right Photo: L to R: Larry, Me, James

Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful {Just Write}

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 13:36:00 +0000

We're wide awake at 3 a.m. The girl keeps kicking me, tossing and turning and asking in a too loud voice whether the "fireworks" are coming closer. The boy keeps burrowing closer, and when I ask him for a bit of room, he blames the dog. He can't move; she's in his way. I'm sandwiched good and tight between these two flannel-clad little heaters, and a king sized bed never felt so small.

For two hours, I'm awake. First she needs a drink. Then he's scared. She can't sleep. He can't pull the covers up because the dog is on them. She doesn't like the thunder. He doesn't like the lightning. And I don't like any of it.

The last straw lands on my side in the form of a little girl's arm. She's reaching over and touching her brother's face. On purpose. "Stop it!!" he yells (right in my ear). "MAAAWM, she's TOUCHING ME!"

Groggily, I lecture myself in a chant. Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful. I try to name the good, things like the dry, warm house, the soft bed. The fact that the soft bed is too crowded, is that really a problem? Of course it isn't, and I know that. But I want to sleep in peace, and I want to snap at the children who refuse to accommodate me. But they are my treasures, and this is my privilege. Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful....

The alarm interrupts a dream in which we have lost the backpack, the lunches aren't packed, no one has had breakfast, and we're late for school. Also? I'm supposed to be in DC already, and they're waiting for me at the starting line, but I don't even know where my shoes are, and I never picked up my bib.

Morning arrives, mercifully, miraculously. We aren't late for anything, not yet. Only a bit tired. The sun streams so bright that even the mud puddles glisten. Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful.

It's Monday Morning

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 15:00:00 +0000

It's Monday morning, the first after "springing forward". (Could this time change be more inappropriately named? Take an hour of precious sleep away from us, and we're hobbling sideways, at best.) Dani woke up so late she only had time to put a sweatshirt over her PJs and slip into flip-flops for the ride to Caed's school. When we came home, she declared today was a great day for piggy tails, one purple and one pink. I couldn't agree more.

After we started in on the piggy tails, I discovered she slept the whole night with toothpaste on her neck and hair. No wonder she smelled like bubble gum when I tucked her in.

It's sunny today, and warm by Ohio standards. I am toying with the idea of putting away the winter boots, at least for the week. I don't know, I guess the sudden spike in Vitamin D makes me a little more optimistic, or maybe just delusional.

::

It's Monday morning, the last before the half marathon. When Larry and I signed up for this race late last year, we did so with a cause in mind: to join the fight to end child sex slavery and exploitation, to run for their lives. We partnered with Love146, an organization we respect both for the tremendous work they do in prevention and aftercare, as well as for their long track record of financial stewardship and integrity. If you'd like to support us in our run by making a donation to Love146, you can do so here.

We've been overwhelmed by the support and interest you've shown in an issue that continues to press hard on our hearts. Thanks so much for joining with us as we run for their lives.
::

It's Monday morning, the only Monday, March 12, 2012, that you and I will ever have. I'm always tempted to think of my days in terms of firsts and lasts and almosts. To think of life as a series of how many days until (fill in the blank)... But I'm not going to do that today. It's Monday morning, and now not 30 minutes after I called it sunny, it's raining and my fingers feel stiff with cold. I might have been so busy expecting the rain that I missed the sun. But I wasn't and I didn't. It's Monday morning, and I saw the sun.

Delighted

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 14:51:00 +0000

I got a haircut a few days back, and then I ruined that perfectly styled, fresh cut look by putting on a hat and running twelve miles. I had just a few minutes to wash up and change before my next taxi shift began (school, piano, dinner, homework...). It's probably true I looked a mess; but when I leaned over his spelling paper to check his work, did my seven year old really have to tilt his head back and scrunch his eyebrows and say, "Wow, I can tell you're having a baaaad hair day!"?

Speaking of hair, the five year old has decreed that she will "not get another hair cut for the rest of my kid life." I asked her what would happen if it got so long that she stepped on it, and she didn't hesitate: "Well, let's just wait to worry about that when we get there."

In social studies yesterday, the second grade held mock elections. Caed ran for president on a platform of better sports equipment and procuring desks that open from the top. He squeaked into office just two votes ahead of his opponent. He told me all the kids "who didn't want to do anything" were made congressmen by default. That sounds about right.

That picture above, it is my visual reminder to delight in the grass I'm given (no matter how green). (Or in the snow and the mud and the wind of Ohio spring). It is my reminder to laugh and giggle instead of yell and nag. It is my reminder that life has the potential to be amazing if only I kick off those too tight heels, throw my arms up, my head back, my whole heart in.

Ache (Five Minute Friday)

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 15:04:00 +0000

Red and black ribbons loop around mailboxes, pillars, doors, trees. Flags wave at half mast. Church signs spell condolences and a promise to keep praying. We hear it in the halls of the YMCA, the school, the library, the post office. There is always a connection, some way the lives taken have touched ours.

On the way to ballet, I drive by the cars gathering at the church for the funeral, every antennae tied with red. I ache in this unsettling realization that I am not in control. Not at all. We can choose our next home from the list of Forbes best towns to raise a family and still wind up burying a child.

A grieving mother speaks of grace and forgiveness, and I think: Yes, this is the lunacy we call the gospel; this is the grace we call amazing.

May this amazing grace find us here. And may it lead us home.

Just breathe {and Just Write}

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 05:30:00 +0000

I hear the ringtone, Just Breathe, and it's coming closer, up the stairs. It stops just before she hands it to me. "Daddy called," she announces.

I put down the eyeliner, the brown pencil I didn't begin writing with until two months ago after the make-up artist at the wedding told me I was crazy to never wear eyeliner. I didn't want to be crazy, so I bought my first eyeliner at the ripe old age of 37. And now I'm still crazy, but with fancier makeup.

I dial him back as I walk downstairs. "Did you say you were going grocery shopping?" he asks.

I grab my coat. "Yeah, we're leaving now. Why?"

"There's been a shooting at the high school in Chardon, and it sounds like a bunch of areas are blocked off, including that shopping center."

Shocked, I pepper him with questions he doesn't have answers for, hang up and head for the computer. It's been barely more than a half hour since the shooting, and even within the major channels, rumors fly. Two shooters, no make that one. Not yet apprehended, wait--no, now he's in custody. Four students wounded. No make that five.

I want to cry. I want to race into my son's second grade class and hug him until my arms fall off. I want to erase it, rewind, turn it into a drill, a false alarm, anything but the tragedy it's shaping up to be.

Of course I can't find a way to do any of these things, not even to cry. I know better than to try to make sense of this sort of thing. And I know how little good it does to add my lifted fist to the thousands already shaking at the sky. So what's left, then, except to pull the ones I love closer, to write my way back from anger to gratitude, to pray my way back from fear to faith, to breathe.

I love the view from here

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 22:21:00 +0000

Where cousins and scientific curiosity meet.

Where you can jump higher than imagined, and still land safely.

Where you can climb halfway to heaven without leaving your front yard.

Where you can go out on a limb for what feels like forever and still make it back for afternoon snack.

Yes. I love the view from here.

The Internet and the Lost Art of Introspection

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 18:36:00 +0000

Long before the explosion of social media and its underlying technology, I wrote nearly every day. As in writing on paper, with a pen. I copied down quotes I loved, wrote (stupid) poems, and generally poured my heart out in the typical cringe-worthy way of a teenager or young adult. Even to this day, I've shared very little from these volumes with anyone. I wrote for catharsis alone, to find out what I was thinking, uncensored, unedited, fearlessly, knowing I had no audience.

Now I very rarely write without an audience in mind, whether it's for the blog, an article pitch, a book idea. And then I wonder why I feel stifled, fearful, cautious, why my writing feels stilted and contrived. It has become less about what's in my heart and more about what image I want to project. Less about personal catharsis and more about connecting with the reader. And there's nothing wrong with connecting with the reader, but I'm wondering whether in this culture of pervasive technology and chronic over-sharing, that this lived-out-loud life is robbing us of something precious. Have we lost the capacity to feel without texting or calling or telling someone how we're feeling? To form opinions without sharing (and defending) them online? This practice, this art of introspection, staying within ourselves long enough to process thoughts and emotions, have we written over it entirely in our clambering to be heard above the constant clatter of social media?

In her book Alone Together, Sherry Turkle shares anecdotes and quotes from interviews with teenagers growing up in the age of hyper-connectedness. She reflects on how two high school seniors, Claudia and Julia, rely on texting as a nearly exclusive way of experiencing and validating their emotions. She writes:

"What is not being cultivated here is the ability to be alone and reflect on one's emotions in private. On the contrary, teenagers report discomfort when they are without their cell phones. They need to be connected in order to feel like themselves. Put in a more positive way, both Claudia and Julia share feelings as part of discovering them. They cultivate a collaborative self."

I reluctantly admit that this resonates with me. When I read a beautiful passage in a book, my first reaction is often to wonder where I might share it, whether in a blog post, on Twitter or Facebook. When I have a breakthrough in perspective, I begin crafting a post in my head, plotting how I might explain it to whoever is listening. When I see a beautiful sunrise, rather than letting the moment envelop me and getting lost in my own thoughts as I once would, my first thought now is to take a picture with my phone.

This constant deciphering whether a thought or moment or a scene is worth sharing (online, with friends or readers) becomes a distraction from the moment itself. And if it seems worth sharing, then immediately, I am gone from that moment of introspection and beauty, and fidgeting with my phone to text or post or snap a picture. But if I stay in that moment, stay in my own head and never share it, I miss out on validation. It feels "less real" somehow.

Now I realize that I am more engaged with social media and more dependent on technology (and by technology, I mean my blasted iPhone) than the average 30-something. In contrast, my husband and many of my closest friends do not blog or read blogs, rarely look at Facebook let alone update their status, and only use their phones for good old fashioned calls. What concerns me isn't necessarily the way my generation has or has not adapted to the internet age and embraced a tethered-to-technology way of living. I've lived more than half of my formative and adult years without this hyper-connectedness, and I know how to contrast it to the way I live now. I can catch myself in the error. I can correct my thinking, set limits as necessary, eliminate distractions, go back to the purity of journal writing.

What worries me is the generation growing up now, coming of age in a world where they don't know what it means to be "out of touch" with family or friends, even for an hour. Where life is lived as a series of status updates and wall posts and texts, all providing endless ways to compare themselves and feel inferior, endless ways to project an image while ignoring who it is they really are.

If I, with the confidence and wisdom that accompanies middle age, having had a host of life experiences and meaningful relationships, if I still struggle with feelings of inferiority (in the online comparison game no one wins), with feeling as though experiences are only validated if they are shared and seen, then how much more must a teenager struggle? I fear we have heaped upon them an impossible task, to come of age with a constant and cruel audience, leaving no room at all to cultivate the lost art of introspection.

With this in mind, I'd like to explore how we might rise above, be it as 41 or 14 year olds, to move beyond the distractions of this clattering, clambering online culture and to cultivate a quieter sense of self. I welcome your ideas, advice and perspective.

::

Do you identify with feeling more distracted and less free to be truly introspective given the permeation of social media and technology? If so, what steps have you taken or considered taking to find a place of balance? As a parent, how have you approached the issues of phones, internet use, social media with your children and teens? Any words of wisdom or advice to share on how we address these challenges with those coming of age in this everything-online generation?

Sometimes neither of us get our way {Just Write}

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 23:08:00 +0000

I know it was because she was tired, worn out from the 1-2-3 punch of a packed 3-day weekend. And I know it was a power struggle I shouldn't have engaged in. She asked me to bring the baby dolls down for "the big show" and declared that she would get the chairs. I told her no, that whatever she wanted for the show she needed to bring down by herself, and to be prepared to put it all away by herself too.

"But you HAVE TO bring the baby dolls. I am ASKING YOU TO GET THEM RIGHT NOW! And now the show is going to have to be cancelled because YOU didn't bring the baby dolls!"

"I'm happy to watch the show when you have it set up how you'd like, but I'm not going to help you bring things downstairs."

"No, Mama. LOOK AT MY EYES. You are NOT followin' my in'tructions! And I'm waiting for you to make it right wid me!" She crossed her arms and popped one hip to the side.

I started to laugh. I knew laughing would make things worse, that her frustration would only grow. But I was tired too, tired of the whining and the demands and her insistence on having her way.

And the truth is, I didn't say no to carrying the baby dolls because of some grand wise master parenting plan. I simply didn't feel like going upstairs to bring those blasted baby dolls down to the family room. And I didn't want to help with the stupid show. I didn't even want to watch it. Is it too much to ask to get my own way? Isn't that one of perks of being the parent?

Even after I laughed, she didn't let it go. She asked me over and over to get the baby dolls so she could set up the show. I told her (calmly) over and over that I wouldn't. After what felt like a hundred rounds of this, she stomped her feet and started to cry. I sat down and pulled her onto my lap.

She buried her face in my neck and curled her body close. "Let's just cuddle for a minute," I said, brushing a tear from her cheek, kissing the top of her head.

"Alright," she said. "I think that's a good idea."

Sometimes neither of us get our way. And then sometimes, we both do.