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Cookie Moments

I consoled a sobbing 9 ½ year old this morning .  In between high pitched wailing explanations, I gathered enough information to know that it wasn’t at all about a “boring summer” or “summer going too fast and before we know it, it’s gone.” It was about change.

Her single digits waning, she’s feeling her age.  Her older sister doesn’t want to play American Girl dolls or build a couch fort or a plan an adventure outside.  She doesn’t want to play the games they both used to love.  “All she wants to do is read or talk to a friend or go to town for ice cream.”  After her 354^th something-fun-to-do suggestion to her sis was turned down, my daughter lost it.

Her sister is heading to Jr. High.

My little one’s cries unexpectedly summoned the whole family to my office where she had wilted.  As I moved her hair from her wet face and gently stroked the sobs back down to normal breaths, I found my mind in another house, in another time, consoling my first daughter as she was beginning school – 4 year old Kindergarten, to be precise.  I told the story as the four of us sat there, getting older.

Her big sister loved learning, she loved her backpack, her teacher, the idea of a school bus, but it was all change.  It was all different.

She had a cookie in front of her that had fallen from her hand and broken into a few pieces on the table in front of her.  She wasn’t a whiner kid, and so when she too fell to pieces over this broken treat, I sensed something more.  Instead of my first instinct, to tell her that it was ridiculous to mourn a broken cookie… that she still got to eat the WHOLE thing, I listened.  I hugged.  I gathered her into my lap, close to my chest, and let her sob.

“It’s okay, Honey.”

“No, it’s not.  It’s broken.  The cookie will never be whole again. I wanted it whole.  I liked it whole.”

I silently cried with her, knowing she was so right.  It won’t be the same again.  Not ever. It might still taste like a cookie and there will be thousands of other cookies in years to come that might even taste better, but that cookie will never be the same as it was a moment before it broke. 

When my eldest was at school, her little sister stayed home and napped, or had “mommy time” and she wasn’t there to witness or participate.  We rushed more, we met new people and saw them more and others less. We did new things, we learned new songs. Before too long, we moved where there were no fences around the yard, and now, those boundaries just keep getting bigger.

As my littlest reached for a tissue, signaling that she was done with her tears for now, I noticed the soggy eyes of my eldest staring out the window and down at her lap and I remembered the last sweet detail of the broken cookie moment.

While my eldest was cozied in my lap 8 years ago, still lamenting her cookie loss, I asked her if she was ready to eat her cookie.  She said, “no Mama, there’s still more sad in me.”  So I let go of the rushing, of the dishes, of the laundry, of the idea of a “big girl” and of moving on to the next thing.  I held her and her sadness, rocking us both gently, until it was gone.

My girls found common ground in a Wii game, giggling and jumping around. The day moved on.  There will be more (Lord willing), but not this one.  

Enjoy every morsel.

"My Kids Are Too Little To Contribute"

Often, I hear from parents, “I wish I had helpful kids.”

Others will see my kids making a sandwich and say, “My kids won’t do that.”

My first question is, "What have you allowed them to do for themselves?" At a year and a half, they can pull clothes from the dryer to a basket. There begins their contribution. Kids learn quickly that Mom and Dad are "supposed to" do it all if Mom and Dad are doing it all. Begin by relinquishing safe tasks.  Ask yourself, “am I willing to let go of the consequences (the possible spill, the imperfection of the job done) so that I might teach a life lesson here?  Is the child going to get hurt?” If you’re willing and the risk of injury is low, go for it.

“Would you dry this plastic dish for me?”
“Please bring that box of wipes to me so I can change your sister.”
“Would you put the books on the shelf for me, my helper?”

Positive reinforcement, consistency, and most of all, assuring them that they are a big part of the whole, will go a long way if taught early.  When they are really small, overemphasize their contribution…  “That was GREAT!  Thank you so much, Big Helper!!” As they get bigger, call out their ever-growing abilities and teach them things that might be a stretch. With supervision, we taught our daughters how to make salad (chopping veggies with a chef knife) at age 8. Now they respect blades in the kitchen and elsewhere rather than fearing them.

It does take time, but sometimes it takes time to make time.

A few Christmases ago, I wanted to make an apron for my youngest daughter, but instead, I decided to have her older sister learn how to sew it.  It took 3 hours to make the “jiffy” project.  At the end she said, “Mom, aren’t you glad I did this WITH you? We’re almost done and it only took 3 hours.  Imagine how long this would have taken without my help!!”  Indeed.

It would have been worth 6 hours for the pride and joy I see every time she tells someone that she made the apron her sister is wearing.

Teaching Contribution to Kids (and Building Confidence as a By-Product)

Chores.  This is a laborious topic isn’t it?   

Each year, we discuss chores at our house.  We believe in contribution from all members of the family as soon as they have the ability to pinch their thumbs and forefingers together.  Summer chores are different from school-year chores given our changes in schedules, so now is the season to revisit. 

Since “chore” is a horrible word in our house with connotations that inspire groaning, slumped shoulders and the anticipation of sweat, we’re changing it.  We used to have “chore charts” and we’re moving to “task tallies” or “contribution charts.” Sometimes semantics rule the world. 

When the kids were younger, we started by providing checklists that could be marked with a wet-erase and wiped off (using the fun laminated card was reward enough for a while.)  We moved to monetizing tasks (nominal allowance), providing a baseline that was expected of each of our children without monetary reward (since they are part of this family - eating, sleeping, dirtying clothing and dishes with the rest of us!)  As our kids got older, basic things fell off the task list (get dressed, brush teeth, make bed, get breakfast for yourself…) and tougher things went on (empty dishwasher, sort laundry and start the white load, prepare dinner on Tuesday, weed the flowerbed…)

Now that they are 9 and 12 and learning motivated by both money and consequences, neglect of the baseline results in lost privileges. Going “over-and -above” results in extra privileges or extra payment. In order to “qualify” for the over-and-above rewards, one has to first do what’s expected (baseline tasks.)  They are goal-oriented (I'm saving to buy a new bike... I'm earning a sleepover party for me and 3 friends), so this works for us.  Any mix of this expectation/reward system may work for your family depending upon the motivations and the ages of your kids.

Really, we’re just setting expectations and consequences, but I’ve found that there are more rewards for our family than that.  Often stereotypes and limitations begin really early and unintentionally at the family level when we aren’t paying attention.  Mom makes dinner (“Dads can’t do this.  Only Moms do this.  Therefore, boys don’t work in the kitchen.”) Dad mows the lawn and takes out the garbage (“Girls can’t mow the lawn or operate smelly machinery.”)  We may unintentionally project other limiting ideas as well.  “Only adults manage money, make grocery lists, plan parties, clean the house, make doctor’s appointments, talk to a teacher about a problem…”

The benefit of delegating isn’t just for you, it’s for your child.  They BEAM when they know they can do a “hard” task.  And when friends come over and I ask them to do something that is a bit challenging (“why don’t you make some quesadillas for your lunches?”), they are overjoyed to be the Lunch Yoda and to empower their friends with a frying pan and a chef's knife.  The confidence, independence and self-sufficiency these tasks build is invaluable.

So what do you give them to do??  When listing tasks for myself and debating delegation to a child, I’ve used the “why not” theory.  Why not delegate this?  Other than a task truly not being age appropriate (my 12 year old cannot borrow my car to fetch groceries), two primary and disputable reasons give me pause:

TIME - Sometimes, I have a very specific way of doing a task (put your freshly folded t-shirts on the bottom of the stack so you aren’t tempted to just wear what’s on top over and over) so I tell myself that I don’t have the extra time to teach them how to do it properly.  It takes just a few extra minutes and a few times repeated to get it to sink in.  I’m then afforded the luxury of leveraging that new task.  And, if it doesn’t sink in, some tasks are better half done that not done at all (the clothes are in the drawer, right?)  So it’s not really time, but laziness or…

PERFECTION – I am a recovering perfectionist.  I often approach finished work (my own and that done by others) and the first thing I notice is how it could have been done better.  While continuous improvement is lovely, it can discourage your helpers and generally defeat everyone when talking about the day-to-day tasks.  If towels being folded “properly” is a deal breaker, then you can either not delegate that task or, better yet, learn to delegate and let go.  Again, Done is better than perfect in many cases.

Success factors for increasing the contribution in your home:

• Keep it simple, keep it visible (kids’ ages will dictate what this looks like)  
• Follow-up DAILY with praise, constructive criticism, and accountability (consequences/rewards).  I won't lie.  We set a calendar alarm for follow up each evening.

Failure factors:

• System is too hard to manage
• No accountability
• No follow-up on consequences and rewards
• Tasks heavily depend upon adult for supervision or supply (may not be age-appropriate)

Let us know what has worked in your home!   Tell us and we’ll send you our Weekly Contribution Tally sheet and a list of task examples.

You Don’t Scare Me - Even if You’re a Horse’s Ass.

Sage advisors have often noted that it’s around highly careless people that one should be most cautious.  One would think that it’s the cunning and clever among us that would pose a bigger threat, but it’s the unpredictability and thoughtlessness of horse’s asses that can lead to danger quickly.

I had this notion challenged recently.  I’m now quite a fan of horse’s asses. The real ones. 

In October, I hugged a horse’s behind (literal, not figurative) and it was amazing.  I was kicked as a child after being placed at a dangerous distance from a pony’s back end (by knowing, older girls whom I looked up to greatly, but who found it funny when I was kicked.)  Although I've sat in awe and fascination of horses my whole life, admiring their beauty, being astonished at their keen intuition, and overwhelmed by their incredible lip dexterity, I have kept an overly safe distance between myself and their hooves – most especially their hind hooves.

With “horse people” present, I have approached their faces with care, and at times, delight, so I could gently touch my formerly favorite parts of them – their fuzzy ears, their velvet noses and their smooth, warm faces.  When it was just me staring into the batting eyelashes of these giant creatures, I was fine.  No pounding in my chest.  No flashes of hot fear in my inner ears. No nausea.  No fidgety feet at the starting line waiting to bolt.  There was a connection.  As long as I was nowhere near the feet, there was a connection.

My October weekend was different.  I was ready to expose myself to this creature.  I could hear him speaking to me in the silent shed full of watching women.

I cleared my mind and centered myself by breathing deeply into my belly and staring out into the pasture at a large tree.  I focused on the tree as the workshop facilitator helped me do a body scan, encouraging me notice the energy and tensions in each part of my body as she slowly traveled from head to foot.  I imagined the energy in the tree all the way to its threaded roots, holding it fast against the wind.  As I watched the specks of dust twinkle like glitter in the sunshine streaming through the shed door, I breathed in the calm and out the anxiousness.  

I was asked to turn to the horse and tell him my heart’s desire without any words.  As I turned, so did he and then he stuck his head out the back door into the sunshine.  I silently asked for courage and he walked out of the shed, into the sunshine, and then out of sight.  For a moment, I thought he was done with me.

I didn't have to go into the gated area of the shed with the horse (the activity could have been done through it), but I chose to walk in, taking a “horse lady” with me.  With cautious confidence, I stepped passed the opened gate, and stood where I was told.  As I did, the horse slowly, rather intentionally, clopped in from outside.  He gave me some space and when my mind and body were still, he came right up to my face with his own, immediately covering my cheeks with his visible breath.  I had no fear.

He moved slowly, giving me the left side of his face, of his neck, of his shoulder, his belly, and then he stopped with his left hindquarter staring me square in the face.  My breath caught as I was stabbed with fear.  I reached my left hand to touch the trainer and extended my right hand to touch his left butt.  He knew where I was and what he was doing.  I breathed.  In with the calm and out with the anxiousness.  In two breaths I was weeping.  Each inhale finding the fear within and each exhale pouring it onto the dusty floor in the form of tears. 

I let go of the trainer.  He turned more slowly, giving me his right hindquarter, pushing against me as I touched his fur with both hands.  He leaned into me, firmly but gently.  I did not back away.  I rested my head on his right rump and cried. There was no fear, only trust and gratitude for this loving connection. I won’t hurt you. Lean. Rest. It’s okay.

And then he farted.  This guy was definitely the horse for me, knowing exactly when comic relief was necessary.

He let me stay there; processing my fear and my triumph as I covered my mittens with fur and horse dust.  When I was ready to reemerge, he knew.  He took mellow but faster steps so that he was facing me once again, but he had moved me away from the comfort of the trainer.  I thought he was leading me to the gate, facilitating my exit like a gentleman opening the door.  No.  He had another challenge.  He again presented his fuzzy rear and stopped as if to say, See? Still not going to hurt you.

I smiled with immense gratitude.

The next day, I boldly placed myself in an arena full of horses having shed a heavy, unwanted layer that I’d worn for far too long.  We danced.  The horse ladies said that I wouldn't see a horse the same way again.  I trust it’s mutual.  

Fashion Conscious in Subzero Temps – A Public Service Announcement from my Digits to Yours

If there is one thing I regret from my youth, it’s my choice of fashion over function during February of my senior year of high school.  I was invited to a college fraternity formal in downtown Chicago ("The Golf Ball"). I was in a sleeveless, silk dress, hose, leather heels, and a Volkswagen Rabbit in subzero temps with even further subzero wind chills exacerbating the brrr. 

I did have sense enough to wear a coat (a thin, fancy, wool dress coat with a silky scarf covering the stylish v-neck).  I did not have boots (neither on nor with me), I did not have a blanket in the car, I did not have mittens (only very cute gloves that went well with my ensemble), and I left my good judgment somewhere between my hometown and the suburbs where I met my friends and my blind date who decided that I would drive. 

The car overheated due to frozen coolant, the engine block cracked, and the VW seized up and died on I-294.  There were no cell phones. It was so cold that four of us piled in the back seat, formal attire and all.  I stopped feeling my toes and fingers a half hour prior to this clown car move.  I took my arms from coat sleeves and my put my hands in my armpits after I saw that they were white.  After putting my gloves on my feet, I tucked them under me and sat fetal.  The police stopped but wouldn't give us a ride.  They said they’d call a tow truck and said there was a service station just up the exit ramp behind us. 

I can’t recall exactly how we got the car to the service station, but I know it involved pushing.  I do recall, however, the blazing hot sensation as my fingers and toes flamed back to life, and the pain and tingling that wouldn't cease for hours thereafter.  I was lucky.  I had 1st- 2nd degree frostbite.  Any further than that and I would have had blistering, permanent loss of feeling, and possible amputation.  That would have been a price far greater than the new engine I had to purchase for the VW.

I share this because to this day, it takes no more than a few minutes in just the right conditions (AC too high in the car, barefoot on the kitchen floor in the morning, more than a minute sorting through foods in the freezer, holding a gallon of milk by the handle with an un-gloved hand) and my digits turn white and go numb.  Gloves are only for temps greater than 40 degrees in my world.  Mittens are a must.  Slippers are an always item from fall to spring.  Boots are in the car regardless of snow.

Look, we both know you’re cute in that outfit.  If you’re going out, even to the store, pack a bag with the right warm gear.  The temps are going to take your breath away this week, don’t throw in your fingers and toes to boot. (Pardon the pun.)  And stand fast on this one when convincing the young people in your life to do the same.

Driving in Fog

As the weather changes and the earth is still catching up, fog happens.

It blankets the surface with a dense, often menacing, lack of foresight.  When I shine a brighter light, hoping to give myself more comfort or illumination on what’s to come, the fog is brighter, thicker, more impenetrable.  I could choose to stay in, not move at all.  But I have obligations, places to go, things to accomplish. 

So I drive in fog.

I go slowly, low beam my way through, taking each turn as it comes, hoping to stop at the signs and go on the greens, hoping that fellow drivers don’t swallow us up from behind, hoping for no wandering Bambi or Woozle in the road.  I accept that there’s more out there than the 1760 feet of road ahead of my halogens, but I can’t look now, can’t afford attention elsewhere.  Focus on the road.  Allow only memories of each turn and curbside landmark to waft into the mind’s eye to guide me.  Move forward, only a few more miles to go.

When the sun finally triumphs, slowly burning away the specs of water (they were, after all, only specs), and the breeze wipes away the rest like a ½ sheet of Bounty, the Earth is shining again, in colors brighter than before. 

And I can see things.

Things I want to do, things I want to be.  And they stack in front of me like shelves upon shelves of juicy novels and movies, ever-filling, ever-begging for me to stop everything and play.  Every time I reach for one, I break a nail and stub my finger on the glass.  I’m yanked back into the safe fog of begging laundry, schmutzy dishes, and tedious 1099 tasks, accomplishing each necessary job one tiresome minute at a time.  I watch the ever-greening possibilities through the glass, but do not touch.

And then the flowers bloom.

There is growth and change and sporadic flames of vibrant color.  Birds I can name suck the middles out of each bloom, boldly flaunting their own blooming bellies in the tentatively warm breeze. Three have stopped at the window this week, almost staring at me, daring me to fly along and stuff my beak in a bloom for a sip.  I’m thirsty.

So I will pour my own.  And drink.

I toast to the warm. I toast to the gifts. I toast to the dance and to the flight and to the symphony of the spring peepers and toads. I thank the sky for being visible and the earth for sipping and soaking it with me after so long being on the rocks.  I thank the front stoop and toast the deck for inviting me.  With my arms in the air, lungs full and curls fluttering in the wind, I fuel up.

And I drive with the top down.

Death, Birth and Arthur Andersen

10 years ago this month, Arthur Andersen, then my employer, died in vain. Three years later, the indictment that killed it was overturned. You can't reverse a death sentence.

On my last day, April 4, 2002, my dad called to congratulate me on receiving a promotion. I was confused (and pretty irritated, actually). "What promotion?" I asked. "To motherhood!" I was 9 months pregnant with my first child. I knew he meant well, but it took more than half of this decade to truly own that he was right.

I placed much of my value on my earning power. I judged the success of my days by the checks on my to-do lists. I spent too much time daydreaming about the accomplishments of my days in business casual attire.

Had the cavalier shredders not done their evil deeds, I've often wondered how long I would have waited to do the entrepreneurial things I dreamed about in my air conditioned, coffee-and-yellow-banana-providing, impeccably technically supported, ergonomically-equipped cage at Andersen.

Would I have begun one-on-one coaching full-time, written a book on habits, and a children's story or two or made a video of myself speaking to a group if I had stayed after the birth of my first child? Would I have had a second? Would they have let me telecommute more than two days a week? Would my daughter have been reading at age 3? Would she have called someone else, “mommy”? Would I live on a tree farm today? Would we live in the burbs or, Lord forbid, own a minivan?

But mostly I wonder… would I be as grateful for what I have?

As much as I lament AA's death, I am grateful for being pushed from a comfortable cliff and being forced to bounce and roll, while reaching and clutching for something solid to hold tight. The view from halfway down the cliff wasn't bad and the climb back up from the bottom gave me skills and insights and confidence that the cage may never have provided. No matter how great it felt to walk down the hallway in grown-up clothes and know that my check would be greater each year, I’m sure, in retrospect, that I would not be as grateful or fulfilled as I am today.

I’m grateful to have seen and recorded my kids’ milestones. I can tell them the stories first hand and in vast, personal detail.

I’m grateful for being able to weed my flowerbeds without yanking the good stuff, to know how long it takes to thoroughly clean my own house and to be able to neatly fold a fitted sheet even in a stiff breeze while taking it from the line. I appreciate the job of others when, on occasion, I’m fortunate enough to choose to have help.

I’m grateful for my gift of thrift and turnip-squeezing. Making it isn’t the largest part of the battle. Stretching it takes real talent. I still shop at Aldi and buy a great deal of our wardrobes at Goodies. I’m grateful for the thrill of good value.

I’m grateful for lunch with my husband several times a week in our own kitchen or helping him drive a Bobcat out of a field.

I’m grateful for attending the 2:00pm pre-lims for 2nd grade forensics, performances of Johnny Appleseed, and popping in unannounced to be the star grown-up in the lunchroom. No one can compensate the feeling that follows the words, “Mommy, you came! I’m so glad you’re here.”

I’m still grateful for the ground laid by Arthur. His integrity, “Think straight. Talk straight” philosophy, and the priority he placed on continuously and deliberately educating his people are all values I refused to leave in the empty metal drawer when I said goodbye and waddled out.

Today, I've found opportunities that wouldn't have been likely without having been part of that organization and the great people who made it so. I’m grateful for not losing sight of what the death of it also gave me so that I may keep my new opportunities in perspective.

Too Many Verucas, Not Enough Charlies

Just watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, inspired by Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory... but ironically, they changed the title simply to sell chocolate upon the movie's opening.

It's ironic because the message of the movie is about having nothing, being grateful (and far better behaved) for it and later reaping the rewards of being rich in character. It's about gluttony – for treats, for sweets, for having one's own way, for technology, for being first, for being the best.

Veruca, the incredibly well-played brat (seriously, don't you just want to wring the kid's neck??), wants everything and she wants in NOW! Sounds a lot like folks in our society and their intense need to have the latest and greatest, smartest and bestest phone or gadget in hand. They'll trade their time, energy, blood, and consideration for others just to have it first. (Have you seen the mobs lined up for the debut of the whatever-ma-gadget at Best Buy?) Twenty minutes later, the thing is obsolete and the hunger continues, leaving behind a pile of not-so-biodegradable bi-products of greed.

I look around the stores or listen to the children in school and I see and hear the bi-products of the Veruca-like parents. Whining yields results and then the adults make excuses to other adults to justify themselves. “Well, I just had to get him the whole set, all the other boys in his class have them...” “The seventh grade just has to go on a non-educational, yippie-yahoo fun field trip because the eighth grade went on one and we feel bad for them...”

Oh dear. They are certainly carefully taught.

On the other hand, is Charlie. Not truly jumping for joy about eating cabbage water every night for supper, but he's willing to do something about it. This boy has a paper route and uses his first paycheck to buy bread for the family (mom and all four bed-ridden grandparents). He gives the leftover change to his mother, save one coin he gives to Grandpa Joe for tobacco. Even knowing that there are golden tickets to be found in Wonka chocolate bars, he doesn't splurge on himself while his family is in need.

Of course, through some kindness and some chance, he does get a bit of chocolate and then he does end up with a golden ticket. Still, he's ever-concerned over the well being and fate of the naughty kids around him. He has a sound conscience and only disobeys one rule after Grandpa Joe gives him the go-ahead to swipe a sip of soda.

In the end, when Grandpa is ready to flip Willy the bird since he won't deliver on Charlie's lifetime supply of chocolate, it's little Charlie who steps up, returns his Gobstopper to assure Mr. Wonka that he won't divulge any trade secrets and to apologize for breaking a rule.

Wonka gives Charlie his chocolate, the factory and the whole shabang. It's an amazing fantasy, I know. But wow, we could sure use a few more Charlies in this world, couldn't we?

Aldi – From Armpit to Bicep

I haven't always been an Aldi Shopper. In fact, I must confess that due to my very few experiences in a Northern Illinois Aldi in the 1990s, I used to frequently refer to it as “the armpit of grocery stores.” Back then, it was dirty, dimly lit, poorly stocked with very few freshies (and the ones available were wilted and withered) and they only took cash (which I very infrequently carried.)

I wondered, when they first moved in right in front of the county's only Super Wal-Mart, why on earth we'd need an armpit store in front of the mega discount Wally.

Then a friend (and the sour economy) changed my mind. Now, both in my Wisconsin shopping area and in Illinois, they've brightened the stores up, stocked them well (with even some pretty cool gourmet items) and their produce is fairly plentiful in variety and the prices send me throwing my arms up in “wow-look-at-my-deal” victory.

It took a few trips and the consent to make two lists and two stops (they still don't have EVERYthing I need), but Aldi is almost always part of my grocery shop.

Besides the prices and the better atmosphere, I've found that it's a representation of real world people and it really exemplifies quite a bit of what I value.

On any given day, one might find in the parking lot, several economy sedans, a 1980 VW Rabbit, a beat up pick-up, a 2011 Mercedes, a few mini vans and a Corvette (of any vintage.) What I will report is that I've yet to see a shiny Hummer in the lot. (Why someone needs one of those in a country filled with paved roads is beyond me, honestly.)

Inside, you will find someone pushing a cart filled with nothing but spaghetti dinner fixings. You'll find an elderly couple with calculators out. You'll find a mom reading labels, a teenager asking for pizza puffs and a toddler reaching WAY over the cart to snag a box of cereal.

You'll also find a dad who knows his way around the store like the back of his hand and you'll find a lady in a fur coat and heels with about 11 “staple” gourmet items, giddy at the deal she just scored. You'll also find a man with no cart, three cans of food on the checkout belt and a hand not-quite-full of change.

What a love about Aldi is that, unlike most places in our country, it expects a bit of accountability. You need to pay a quarter to “rent” your cart. When you return it from the weather and dust in the parking lot, you get your quarter back. You need to bring your own bags or find an empty box within the shelves or buy your bags at check-out, or just unload your loot from your cart into your trunk.

You also bag your own groceries. If your hamburger buns arrive home squished or your eggs are broken, it's on you – not the infamous “they” we love to blame.

You can't put your groceries on credit either. Charge-it and owe-it won't fly. It's cash or debit card – a smart way to roll if you like to live within your means.

I find that most people are friendly and there is a mutual understanding that this may not be easy (buying food on a budget, knowing what to buy, going to multiple stores) but we're all here together. We all have to eat.

The first time I saw someone I knew, I felt the same way I did during the only time I walked into an unemployment office – small, defeated, and pretty ticked off at the hand I'd been dealt. Now, I bounce in that place with this wild pride like I've been accepted into a prestigious secret club.

We know what's up. Prices everywhere! We've found a few solutions. One of them is the bicep of grocery stores. They keep it real.

Time to Spin

You know, there are times when one has to be serious. I mean, seriously hunker down and get to the tough discussions. Politics, ethics, putting it out there for mulling over and then taking a stand. Learning about what is really “up” in the world around us.

I live in Wisconsin. There has been a lot “up” here. No matter where you live, I bet you know what I’m talking about.

My husband and I have been into learning more. We’ve been talking with others, calling legislative offices on all (notice I didn’t say “both”) sides and doing an inordinate amount of Facebook-ing. There have been some great, informed discussions and of course some passionate rants.

Since our discussions get loud sometimes, our 8 ½ year-old has caught on to what’s happening. We know this because she’s asked very intelligent questions on the matter. She’s even questioned a teacher who let the kids know that “our governor won’t be our governor for long because he isn’t doing a good job.”

After she sheepishly admitted that she challenged the teacher, we assured her that it was okay and that, as long as she was respectful, she could state her own opinion. We asked her to explain what she thought.

She did (in vast and intriguingly intelligent detail) and along the way, again asked more questions. We answered, giving as much of each side as we could and looked up information when we were stumped. We were surprised by the length of time she remained engaged. It was about 30 minutes of not-very-watered-down political discussion.

Then, she began to spin. Literally. She put her arms out like a helicopter and spun in the kitchen. This was the “I’m now done” cue.

She had soaked in quite a bit and it was time to move on.

I relayed this story to my dad, who often gets WAY sucked in to nothing-but-politics discussions, and he very wisely stated, “We could learn a lot from that girl. Sometimes, you just gotta stop and spin.” I’ve been noticing more joke posting on FB and have definitely indulged in a few complete “cyber vacations” myself.

Sometimes, you just gotta stop and spin. I'm off to a comedy club (one way to spin!)

Balancing on Contingencies

Often I get a plan together and even when it has multiple contingencies, I'm back to the drawing board. I've learned, over time, to make certain plans extremely flexible- sometimes to the point of simplistic and vague.
This is outside of my comfort zone. I'm a planner. It's taken a lot of time for me to be okay with "I have no idea what's next" situations. Currently, I'm on the cusp of embracing this wild, wonderful sea of choice rather than looking at it as a major abyss of aimless unknown, but I still have moments of major angst about plans going awry.
It's helped me to look back at unplanned successes. I never aspired to be a divorcee, but without going through that ordeal, I wouldn't have the marriage and family with which I'm currently blessed. I also gained tremendous empathy for others having weathered that storm.
I never hoped to be laid off from a great job while I was 9 mos pregnant, but being forced into taking a leap and starting my own business years ago was a tremendously unexpected positive consequence. It forced me to really examine what type of work-life I prefer during motherhood.
Recently, my plan to get back to my graduate work was underway. I slogged through the red tape and was in final stages of "good to go." I've had a few wrenches thrown at my plan to fund the endeavor. There's one more contingency left before "Plan F," ("back to the flippin' drawing board") goes into affect. I'm not overjoyed. I've had my angst moment about it. And fortunately, new and different opportunities are coming to light... so, if need be, it's back to making new choices.
This weekend I experienced a cool tool. The balance board. Mine is a tapestry-covered board with two half-moon rockers on the bottom. I can stand on it, sit on it, do crunches or even hand stands on it if I felt like a fun ER trip. The key is to balance your weight through continuous adjustment.
I've often taught this in workshops, but something about this board gives me permission to do this goofy-feeling exercise daily. We need movement. We desire centering and knowing that we each have the power and skill to balance given just a moment to focus.
It's time to be creative and flexible.
Being the analogy queen, I'll transfer this refreshed learning to my current (and I'm sure future) set of contingencies. Time to take off my socks, dig my toes into the tapestry and find center again.

Who knows, by summer perhaps I'll have mastered the handstand without a cast.

Digging In (February 8, 2011)

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After the blizzard of '11 (or snowmageddon, as some called it), it took about 3 days to truly dig out of the drifts. My own “digging out” may well take weeks.

I'm not buried in snow. I'm buried in an office filled with unfinished business. Five months ago, my steady contract work ended with a great company. I had been consulting with members of the ever-growing jobless population, helping them recharge their resumes and spirits. It was a great steady stream of interesting people who were more or less in the same boat of “what next?”

That was 5 months ago. Just today I recycled a whole stack of useless paperwork from that endeavor. It was as if a spring breeze swept through my office when I let the chunk of paper plunk to the bottom of the bin.

After basking in the freshness, I sifted through folders of obsolete information about groups to which I once belonged. Newsletters from my eldest daughter’s pre-school teacher (my daughter’s nearly 9), out-of-date directories from church, old school newsletters and obsolete sales catalogs - dumped. Ahhh.

I now have a stack of things to be filed, but am pleased to report that the recycling bin received far more paper than what remains in that stack. I'm still reeling from the tornado aftermath, where I often ask myself, “would it truly matter if this had been sucked up and blown away in that cyclone?”

I consolidated various lists of unfinished business, dividing out separate lists for business, home, kids, health and now school. (I’m finishing up there, too!)

Great ideas are everywhere, it’s often hard to choose what to give up and what to begin. There are only so many hours…

I’ve been observing that the act of finishing is a huge value of mine. It’s much stronger than I’d given credit. Satisfaction lives within it, win or lose. I’m also noticing to be cautious about the guilt that ensues when I’m faced with ongoing unfinished business.

Can laundry every truly be finished? Or recording children’s growth in words and photos or letter writing or giving gratitude or learning new things? Heavens, I’d hope not. It's not possible unless we wear the same thing daily or never take notes or correspond or give thanks, or heaven forbid… we think we know all there is to know!

So today, I dig in after digging out. I savor this moment and vow to finish what’s important and be more loving and gentle about that which will hopefully remain unfinished for years to come.

Where will you start finishing?

Learning Journey (from January 31, 2011)

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Seventeen years ago, I began a master’s in English Education. Fifteen years ago, after a change of heart, I stopped pursuing my degree to join the corporate world. Nine years ago, I started my family.

This past December, I started studying to “recertify” the hours I’d taken so many years ago. I’m amazed at just how differently I learn after been immersed in reality. Although I’m admittedly still distracted by household things, much like I was in my earlier college years, I’m so much more focused than I was at age 25.

It was also striking to see how deeply committed I’ve become to seeking out more information about the authors so I might suppose what formed their styles. I longed to climb into their minds. With a raging fire in the woodstove and a laptop propped in front of my book, I devoured poet after poet, joyfully this time, rather than painstakingly as I did when I was an undergrad. It was made so much simpler by not having to brave a colossal library to answer the million questions.

During a recertification exam, one of the professors and I remarked about how different grad school would look if every student was required to take 10 years off to first “be” in the world. (She suggested more like 30!)

Some students experience incredible learning the first time around. I wasn’t one of those. I’m sure I had some wonderful instructors, but for me learning required either a connection of some kind or an evident application. Not many struck that chord.

I wasn’t ripe, fertile soil ready to take in their knowledge and grow with what they were planting at the time.

As the snow melts from the fields and my brain, I’m excited to see what happens next.

Weather Proofing (from December 27, 2010)

2010-12-27

I’ve been working hard not to let things, people and situations squish my spirit. It’s so easy to fall prey to the negativity that lurks both outside and in during Christmas.

I find joy in this season. The preparation. The good secrets. The giggly anticipation. The confirmation of grateful faces and wishes fulfilled. The hope.

I steel myself with traditions we’ll continue and new ones we’ll begin. I simplify and create to avoid feelings of lack and temper the yearning for commercial crap. I light the room with hundreds of tiny twinkling lights, to gently usher in the cold nights. I wrap myself in an armor of cozy blankets by the warm fire, silently singing (loudly in my mind) to tune out the passive aggressive sounds that threaten my calm.

Yet often, the armor isn’t thick enough for the prickly conversation that judges with “kind curiosity.” The cold night slams into my world with minus 20 degree winds and wakes the calm night with the power of 500 watts of overhead lighting in my sleepy eyes.

The oneness I feel with my season disappears like the rings of smoke from the chimney.

Next season, I’ll need a heavier blanket and a louder silent song, apparently.

Perfectionism Can Be Contagious

I’m the proud mom of two really talented and bright girls. Earlier this year, I sought a bit of assistance from a great advocate of the gifted at their school. She lent me a few books on the subject of perfectionism. As secretly suspected, I have a knack for perfectionism myself. Apparently, it's contagious, so I'm working on it in service of my self and my observers.

I’ve been sitting on some posts I’ve written because they weren’t “just right” or didn’t seem to fit or weren't "appropriate" for the world. I’ve been encouraged by several readers to knock it off and just post.

So, in you’re honor (you know who you are) the following posts are a mish-mash of my imperfect brain. The are dated mostly for my convenience and to give some context. I hope you enjoy.

Blown Away

Thankfully, I wasn’t. My family wasn’t either. But on Monday afternoon, I stood stunned as I watched a tornado cross in front of me and then (I learned minutes later) travel on to destroy neighbors’ houses.

Before it hit, I was banging away at my keyboard trying desperately to finish a volunteer project that had been looming for some time. I’d been at it all day to avoid the feeling that I’d forgotten to add that “one great bit of info.” (This typically happens after I hit “send.”)

We live in the country. Can’t hear any sirens unless I’m outside, the wind is perfect and I cup my ear (a lot.) It was nearly 70 degrees in November. The sky had been a tumultuous mess all day, so I’d been pretty calm about it. I knew conditions were perfect, but this is often the case here.

I was focused. That day, I didn’t even bother to have wunderground in the background. I wasn’t listening to a radio, I just typed.

My cousin called. “Are you in your basement?”
“No”
“Get there. There’s a warning. It’s heading toward the state line.”
From my driveway, a person could throw a ball to the state line. (Not me, but a person with a good arm...)

I looked out at the sky. Not great, but not much different than much of the day. I saved my work on all 4 pages. I silently warned Murphy not to take my computer in a funnel and fly it into Lake Michigan (that would be just like him… after all, I was almost done.) I called to the basement to see if my hubby was in his office. (He’s always on one weather website or another and calms me down when I freak about what’s out the window.) No answer.

Phone still in hand, I went downstairs, now with greater speed. I live in a house of glass with a walk-out basement. I wasn’t even completely certain of the “safest” place to huddle. I opened the front door. It was pouring. Our German Shepherd shot in like, “Thank God! Have you SEEN it out there??” (He’s typically keen to remain outside no matter how inclement.)

His reaction escalated my fear. “C’mon Sully!” Grabbed flashlight while calling husband’s cell. Ran to basement, checking out windows. Sheets of rain, dark clouds. Trying to get on wunderground downstairs. Fingers not working, then can’t read what it says. What does a pink triangle mean? What’s that noise? It’s our heater fan. Shut it off so I can hear! Ran upstairs. Shut it off.

Husband was at the bank. Children were hopefully still at the school (it was dismissal time.) Faster yet went my heart. Why do tornados like 3pm??
Sully followed wherever I went. (Even to a quick stop to the john, which is in the room he gets bathed. Not typical dog behavior. I peed turbo fast.) Opened door to small room of safety. Basement floor. Dashed out.

Flashlight, phone, dog. Pillow to sit on, blanket. Radio? Dashed to family room, stopped.

Looked up.

A charcoal gray column about 200 feet wide was in front of me, just beyond our pond. The rain had stopped, the air just outside the giant windows in front of me was calm. I mouthed, “Oh, dear God. There it is.” Mouth and eyes agape.

“Sully come!” We huddled on the floor of the little room and he licked my face while I sobbed, thankful for redial since I couldn’t see. “I just saw it… I saw the tornado.”

“You saw it?!” My husband was still at the bank, but now outside watching the storm as it had passed. “It’s passed. You’ll be okay. I’m coming home.”

We agreed he should check the school to be sure the kids were still in it, rather than en route. He did. They were.

I called my dad, still huddling, still sobbing. Still wrapping my mind around what I’d seen. Still wondering all the “what if’s.”

The phone kept ringing. We still had power, miraculously. As I emerged from my huddle, I could see no damage.

Three homes and two barns were hit and sustained devastating damage. One couple was still heading to the basement when it hit, peeling off the top of their ranch house like a sardine can.

Sheet metal and insulation everywhere. Cattle killed. The people were all fine.

Just after I saw it, it must have leaped my neighbor’s house (sparing it completely) and then traveled down her wooded driveway, snapping and uprooting mature evergreens as it did. Two of her full-grown trees were found in the field across the road.

After we gratefully received the kids from the 1 hour late bus, we assessed the damage in our fields. We could see the path in the matted grass, but it must have lifted (or simply didn’t like eating less-mature evergreens!) as it went over the nursery stock. All of it was fine. Deciduous trees in a few of the fence lines and a giant willow tree in a creek bed were shattered. Our neighbor to the north of the fields lost chunks of roof and had shattered windows and downed trees.

Our bus driver hunts our land. He’d taken the day off to hunt. Chores and other distractions kept him from getting to the field, and then the rain came. He was waiting it out before heading here. Had he been in his tree stand when the tornado came through, he’d have been wrapped in a tangle of metal. We found the stand 200 yards from where it had been anchored. It was mangled.

As I thank God over and over for sparing us and our home and trees, I still can’t help but wonder how the tornados choose. It was a question uttered by my youngest the day after the storm. How do we know the next one won’t miss us? She internalizes a lot and after she simmers a bit, we’re careful to give her a release valve so she doesn’t explode.

We acknowledged that her fear is logical and real and it’s natural to be scared of something so powerful. All we can do is be aware and prepare as best we can. Only the wind can truly know. Until then, we just go on and continue to be grateful for doing so.

(And any time life blows us away, we can ask our mommies to rock us and hug the tears away.)

A very happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

Refresh.

Written 11/5/10

Refresh.

I’m not really sure about all the techno ya ya that happens when I hit that magical button on my browser. Somehow, though, it makes the old, unneeded stuff go away and brings me the new, fresh stuff. Ta da!

I’ve been refreshing. My office, my house, my website, my career, my thoughts. There was (and still is) a lot of garbage in all of it. I recycled a stack of magazines yesterday. Some were never even cracked open. I moved them, more than a year ago, to my new office where I’ve tripped over them, moved them from this corner to that and have let them silently suck energy from me. They would whisper, “Aren’t you going to read me? Oprah has a lot of great gems to share and those nice people from Family Fun are filled with great ideas as well. And there have to be some great tips on living more green and healthy in the yoga mags… C’mon, stop and read us!”

Do you have talking stacks of stuff like this? Admit it. Laundry and extraneous projects have spoken to you, begging to be completed (or at least given a second glance!)

I took about 15 minutes to look at the covers, rip 3 articles out of the whole stack of O. I then allowed myself to keep the old WonderTime magazines that are now out of print. (They’re that good and they still make me think and smile.) The rest of them made it to the curb. Liberating.

I resisted posting the lovely periodicals on freecycle, asking friends if they wanted them and the like. Sometimes, you just have to choose and purge.

After making quite a few decisions that weren’t my finest, I’m consciously choosing who gets my energy and time. I’m choosing what will remain and what needs to GO in regards to relationships, attention, stuff, money, projects, ideas and events. While I realize that this will not be a series of decisions as easy as dumping Oprah in the blue bin, I’m keeping my eye on the end.

When I look back, whether it’s a day or years, I’d like to be proud of my actions. Living on purpose and thriving, rather than reacting and surviving.

I can already feel the energy in this “refresh.” More updates to come.

Speed Dating

Last night, in a long-awaited gathering of friends, I was reminded how important it is to find community. We are all alone in many aspects. We may be around people all day, or not. We may talk to people constantly, or not. We may have plenty on the social calendar, or not. None of this really accounts for how alone a person may feel. Isolation comes in many packages, most especially for extroverts who work from home... alone.

We chose to “speed date” last night (or some warped version thereof for all of us aged 30-40 something wives/moms.) Our dilemma has always been that our evenings together as a group are few and far between. While we enjoy the time out together, we never feel completely caught up or “in tune” with what’s going on in the lives of these women we call friends.

We’re all busy. We’re all caught up in our own junk. So we’ll chat a bit about the tooth fairy incident to one friend, a bit about the job search to another, and on a rare occasion, we’ll get into some of the meat of our challenges. Sometimes, if we eavesdrop, we’ll catch a 2 for 1 conversation and learn about what’s happening with two other gals, but then it’s time to go, leaving so much left unsaid and unheard.

There were 12 of us. The first hour is filled with greeting each other and discussing what delicious things are on the countertop buffet. Once we had our group, we sat in a circle with our loaded plates and touched on what’s been happening of late.

There were losses, there were gains. There were updates on things we knew and surprising news of things we’d not yet heard. There were admissions, confessions and some therapeutic monologues that solidified self discoveries for us all to bear witness. There has been healing as well as disrepair. There was laughter, silence and tears. New jokes were made that are sure to last.

We heard, “my life is boring, nothing really going on…” more than once. (Even in the assumed mundane we can feel isolation.) Yet, everyone had struggles and learning and triumphs that were inspiring. I gained something from every woman there. I felt seen, heard, loved and a tiny been more known. I have a better idea of how I might support each of my friends. I can keep an eye out for resources to help her, lend an ear or a hand, spread the word about her skill or products. Or I can just hold the space for her success.

We’ve decided to speed date once a month, but I think we’ll need a better name…

Weeds - from May 5, 2010

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I've been weeding a lot lately.
Our new house has nine flowerbeds. Sizeable ones. Lots of cool perennials.
Last summer they received little to no care. The house was vacant. We were changing the inside so we could move in and chose to neglect the outside for a season simply out of necessity.
The weeds were loving it. Last fall and this spring, we've been in reparation mode. De-uglification. Big time.
I'm just starting to identify the good from the evil in this mass of green and bloom. Sometimes, it's evident right away (grass, thistle and dandelions are a no-brainers, creeping Charlie is a give-away as well). Most times, though, I have to wait until there's been some substantial growth (or a flower!) and then I can identify it. I hear that sometimes waiting until then it’s too late. Often the "bad" has then taken over and wound around the good stuff, so when you pull, you pull it all up- good and bad alike.
Sitting in the grass on the outskirts of my tiny jungles, I've been deep in thought about my business over the last year. It's been through some "inside work" as well, while the outside has seemed to get a bit vine-covered.
I've been retooling and gathering new skills, touching the lives of a slightly different clientele. During the last year, while rolling with the economy’s punches, I’ve helped people transition through job search while contracting out as a career management consultant. I rework their resumes, show them the job search ropes and generally coach with them through the process. (And if you’ve ever been unemployed, it can be a truly daunting process.)
Many of the over 300 job candidates I’ve worked with this past year have been working moms and many have not. But each has had his or her own share of chaos which I’ve had a hand in mitigating.
As I “worked on the inside,” often I lamented the flowerbeds of coaching that I left to wait for me. It’s been more than a year since my last Chest newsletter. I haven’t offered a new teleclass or live workshop since then either. It’s easy to call Julz of Life “abandoned” yet I’m reminded by my plants (as well as comments from my current clients) that it’s far from the truth.
My life's work, my passion... is so embedded in who I am that no prolific vine of doubt or false sense of reality could choke it out. I’m ready to get back outside with even more to offer for having been inside for a while.
What have you been working on "inside?" Where does your work get choked out? What needs a bit of weeding (and some PREEN to keep them from creeping back in)? Drop me a line.