Molly Fulton
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My girl asked me to make her a top on Saturday. It was semi-urgent in that she really wanted something to go with a skirt she wanted to wear the next day. My children get about as much home sewn goodness as the cobblers kids get new shoes. They always get pushed to the back of the line unless it is a very big event (like the Homecoming dance). So I asked her if she would be satisfied with a modified pillowcase dress design (because I can whip up one of those suckers in about half an hour) She agreed this would be fine so I sent her down to my fabric stash to pick what she wanted.
She came back up with a purple and white print with flecks of gold that I brought back from Liberia. I was so pleased she chose this one because I remember rummaging through Bea’s stash of fabric and thinking of Frances specifically when I found this piece. Frances is not a frou frou girl. She does have a very distinct sense of style and I am not 100% successful at predicting what she will like so I considered this a WIN.
As I discussed the details with her, Frances held the fabric so that the pattern was horizontal. I had not seen it this way in my mind - I was thinking vertical - but I really do like the way it looks. I love when something I make surprises me. We added a ribbon drawstring to the hem so she could cinch it in – per her request. She really didn’t like the volume of the blousing, but I made her go with it and I think it looks great. She is one of my more demanding customers, but she makes a dang good model. I guess she’s worth it.
So there were 3 moms and a dad at the bus stop this morning – that sounds like the beginning of a bad “guy walks into a bar” joke, doesn’t it?
Anyway, I had walked to the bus stop in my running clothes . One mom said, “You look like you’re getting ready to do something really impressive.”
I said, “Not so impressive. I just need to get out and move.”
The dad said, “Move what?”
“This”, I said broadly gesturing down the length of my body.
He still looked confused, so another mom chimed in pointedly, “She means that she needs to lose weight.”
Uh, actually what I meant was I was just going for a little run. I’m not marathon training or running Olympic qualifying trials today, just an easy 30 minute run. No need to be impressed, but really, no need to blurt out the obvious either: I need to move some flesh down the road and hopefully leave a little of it out there.
The dad shrugged, “Oh, I just thought you ran every day.”
Aren’t other people’s perceptions interesting? And as it turns out, completely irrelevant? I have been struggling to get back on my game. This will require more miles and fewer pounds, but to my neighbors I am a running machine, albeit a fat one. So at the end of the day I guess it doesn’t much matter what they think, because I have to know the truth about myself for myself.
I read a quote attributed to Andy Stanley on another runner’s blog this week that went something like this: Every decision you make today is a story you will tell tomorrow. (This is good news for a writer.) Don’t let the decisions you make today, make you a liar tomorrow.
Does that mean that every decision we make will be the seed of an epic tale of glory? No. Despite our best efforts to do the best we know how to do, we’ll make mistakes (repeat mistakes) and do dumb things and wish we had been wiser. The challenge is to be honest with ourselves now and when we look back on where we’ve been.
So I decided this morning to run. I ran my old standby “easy” 30 minute run. Well, it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t 30 minutes. I’ve done this route many, many times – mostly at right around 30 minutes. I’ve done it in as little as 27 and a half minutes (I distinctly recall being really mad at my husband that morning) and in as much as 32 minutes, which is, er, what I did today. But I didn’t feel bad about it. It just felt like feedback, a data point or mile marker in my own epic road story.
What kind of story will you be telling based on your decisions today?
I really had to fight for it today. I talked about how hard it is to get started in this post yesterday, and that was put to the test today.
I had a little extra time this morning since I was going to a school event before heading to work. That should have made finding time to get a walk in easy, right? Well, I immediately heard from that voice that tried to convince me that I would be a lot happier if I used that time to load the dishwasher or do a load of laundry or do any one of a thousand things that needs to be done around the house. So I puttered unproductively until I decided to go ahead and get into the shower. This usually signals case closed.
But I got out of the shower and couldn’t put away the nagging feeling that I still had time to get a workout in, so I did that self-talk thing I do when I’m trying to coax myself into action. I figured a nice 40 minute walk would be better than nothing, I wouldn’t have get all geared up in my running paraphernalia, and I wouldn’t need to shower again.
So I popped my ear buds in, put my audiobook on and set off. I am currently listening to The Memory of Running, which I LOVE (and BTW, doesn’t have anything to do with running like I expected). I walked alongside Smithy Ide as he biked across the Arizona desert, and before I knew it I was back home – not quite in pristine condition. I guess all the rain dialed up the humidity factor, so I was gushing sweat despite the ϋber pleasant temperature.
As usual, I’m glad I talked myself into doing something – anything - other than nothing. My mantra has become this simple phrase: More miles, fewer pounds. This is the sole focus of my efforts right now. I am trying not to get bogged down by anything other than moving 6 days a week and increasing my mileage. If I start to psych myself out with the dread of a run, I go for a walk. If I’m walking and I feel like running, I run. I’m trying to kindly respect the rhythms of my body as I get up to speed again because I have my own memory of running that I’m trying to get in touch with.
For some reason, I have really had a hankering for a new night gown.
While my normal sleepwear would belie this fact, I am pretty picky about pajamas. I usually sleep in some form of pant – sweatpants, track pants, yoga pants or capris – depending on what the temperature dictates. On top it’s a t-shirt or cami. Ironically, all of my sleepwear would actually be found in the “active” wear department of any department store.
What I’d really like is something pretty and comfortable that I could wear on vacation or on a visit to my parent’s house, something that wouldn’t be grossly unflattering or immodest or pathetic (the category in which I am most likely to find myself).
My dear family got me a new robe for Christmas this year because they were sure I was desperate for one. I wasn’t, but I’m pretty sure they were desperate to not see me in my dingy off-white, hair color and coffee stained shameful disgrace of a bath robe any longer. The new robe is super plush, baby blue, full length, zip up the front, high collar. It is warm and cozy – pretty dreamy, in fact – but I look…I look like…well - if Pillow Pets made a monk model – that’s pretty much what I look like. So any visions of me sitting on my ocean front deck with coffee and a good book and the wind in my hair looking like this:
But that’s what I aspire to, so I am hunting for a new night gown in a category known as “loungewear”. I find loungewear an alien concept because I rarely lounge, but I really, really want to. So perhaps the answer is to get out of the active wear department for my loungewear. I still have some challenges to overcome - two specifically: my breasts.
The girls are big and boisterous and require some taming. I don’t like to sleep in a bra, so whatever I wear has to have enough coverage so as not to be obscene or endanger a passerby. When I was in Liberia and knew I’d be living communally with my fellow travelers, I did buy a sleep bra because it was just too stinkin’ hot to sleep in much more, but this isn’t the ideal for me.
Most of the cute night gowns seem to have either empire or surplice styling like this, this or this. My unfettered bosom is a little, uh, low for these styles to be manageable. (Hey, what can I say? I am a woman of a certain age who has birthed and breastfed three babies. It just is what it is.) The alternative is usually something like this
that skims the bust – and everything else. I’m sorry, but this style just says, “Screw it, I give up!” But I don’t give up. Not yet, anyway. And when I do find a cut that I think will work, the fabric is often too clingy and/or flimsy to comfortably go braless. Oh, and I don’t do pastels. Ever.So the hunt is on. I’ve come across a couple possibilities: This is cute and could probably camouflage the girls, but I’d need a whole lot more camouflage downstairs than a G-string. This looks comfy and the price is right, but I don’t love the color. This looks promising, but she is strangely elongated. I fear the Photoshop hijinks may be giving me a false impression of how this will look on my distinctly not elongated, non-model figure.
I’m thinking I need to put my friend Jen on the job. She’s particularly good at scouring the interwebs for these sorts of things. Or I’ll have to design it and make it myself. Necessity is a mother.
I think it is no coincidence that this verse appears this week in my scripture memorization series:
A gentle word turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. ~Proverbs 15:1
Hoo boy! If that ain’t truth, I don’t know what is. This week I have been engrossed in the slow motion train wreck that is our county budget process. In a move that took many sleepy citizens by surprise, our county board of supervisors voted for a very slight tax increase, one that is significantly lower than the one anticipated and advertised. Sounds like good news, right? Turns out that this move forced a substantial cut to school funding that will have deep and far reaching consequences.
If the board of supervisors was going for shock and awe, they got that plus fear, rage, and grief to boot. I’ve seen a swell of nastiness that rivals national politics, and I am disgusted.
I used to love politics. Even as a child I enjoyed the robust exchange of ideas coupled with an idealistic view of public service and the desire to be a force for good in the world. Eventually my tender heart could not abide the language and the spirit of political discourse in this country, so I withdrew as much as I could while staying responsibly well informed. I stopped listening to talk radio and watching the news, commentary and Sunday morning shows. The result? I have not only gained some more productive time that used to be spent in front of the TV, but I have a much more peaceful spirit. Ignorance is bliss – but I am not ignorant. I find that I am still reasonably well informed without feeding at the trough of the 24/7 “information” dispensers. But I digress…
Given the current situation and the fact that I have skin in the game – my own flesh and blood offspring, specifically – I can’t sit idly by hoping it will all work itself out. If nothing else, I have to stay informed, show up at meetings and be a part of the block of visible and audible citizenry that opposes this decision. It takes effort, endurance, and discipline to stand up with both conviction and grace. I hope I am up to it, because frankly, I’m tired.
Over the past year or so, I’ve held on for dear life through the turbulence of upheaval and change at my workplace, my church, and now my local government and school system. Is it any wonder I feel such empathy in a desperate, war-torn country like Liberia?
Everyone keeps calling for civil discourse, yet a spirit of offense runs deeply through us. It doesn’t take much to get our mad on and turn petulant, snarky, and arrogant – demonizing anyone who disagrees and painting those of a certain political persuasion or belief system with a very broad brush. I suppose nuance and personal complexity are too delicate to survive the crush and rush of judgment. Where will it end?
Yesterday I wandered around in a fog. After a sleepless night of worry over a friend with a teenager in crisis, I was both sleep deprived and heartsick and extra sensitive about my own children who were hurting from the difficult news.
I was also angry and frightened. I’ve seen the woeful lack of mental health resources available to teenagers in this area and I just can’t understand it. There is much I could say on this topic, but I’ll refrain for now to protect those who are still too painfully close to it. I mention it now merely as the context of a very dark day.
Later in the day I was informed that the neighbor that just moved in a few doors down is accused of some pretty heinous crimes including rape and sexual molestation of a child under the age of 10. His partner in crime? The child’s mother. The story is too repulsive to bear. It appears he’s out on bond, but I spent yesterday afternoon searching out information online about him and going through the sex offender registry. Let me tell you, that is no way to lighten one’s mood.
He’s now presenting himself as a youth minister. Dear God.
I’m going to have to talk with my children about personal safety in a very concrete way while trying not to terrify them. I hate that. I hate that this charmed little suburban life we’ve enjoyed has been breached. My children and I often choose to go into difficult places to reach out to difficult people, but is it hypocritical for me to want a safe place for us to retreat?
Then I read the news of the county board of supervisors’ decision to cut a huge chunk of the education budget, a decision that could have dire consequences for the coming school year.
I’m trying not to become hysterical. I’m a sane rational human being, but I’m having some pretty dark thoughts right now. I feel like my children are under attack. I am in the watch tower on high alert for real bad guys, incompetent institutions and the demons within.
I’m never quite sure if it is helpful or creepy the way websites try to predict my behavior and preferences. I go to Amazon, and they think they know what I’d be interested in reading next. I’m on Facebook, and they suggest people I might like to be friends with. iTunes thinks it has my musical tastes pegged.
Sometimes these suggestions are helpful, and I’ve found great new books, artists or long lost friends because of them. What I really don’t care for is the super targeted advertising. If I Google a product – say, silver ballet flats – then I see ads for silver ballet flats on EVERY stinkin’ website I visit.
I also don’t especially appreciate seeing ads for teeth whitening, flab busting, fat melting, wrinkle smoothing or mature singles in my face at every turn. I know that I fall into a certain – ah – demographic, but does Facebook really need to rub it in? And speaking of Facebook, I’m not sure how they determine what my “top stories” might be, but I can assure you that our priorities (mine and Facebook’s) aren’t the same.
Now, I mostly find this amusing - if somewhat humbling on occasion - and I get that this is a price I pay to inhabit the digital world. I did, however, come across a lovely example of where Google really got it right today.
In my Gmail, Google uses colored flags to code items in my inbox as important or not. I happened to notice that the big G kindly informed me why a particular email was flagged as important. This is what it said: Important mainly because of the people in the conversation.
Indeed. I had received a wonderful email from a very dear friend. She is important to me, so her message was important to me. So no matter how smart devices, websites or marketers might become, it's still the conversations - not the guessing, predicting or analyzing - and most especially the people in the conversation that count. I guess that's why I hang around the web so much. I love all the conversations I get to have and all the people I get to have them with.
So I hit up the fabric store on Friday with the express purpose of having a new article of clothing on Monday. The fabric store is a dangerous place for me. I tweeted that I had spent the grocery money on fabric, and I wasn’t joking. We’ll be eating mac and cheese until next payday…
I’ve had a project in my head for some time now. I have made a mini-career of the pillowcase dress, but I had this vision of the same basic design in a super soft linen - tunic length – that would be effortless summer chic. Instead of gathering and binding the front and back top edges like I typically do with the pillowcase dresses, I imagined a long sash that I could thread through a casing.
I bought one yard of fabric, stitched it up the selvedge edge, and cut the underarm curves free hand. I dug up a bit of bias tape to bind the underarm curves and then I stitched up a wide casing (about 1 ½ “) across the front and back. I wasn’t sure how long I wanted my tunic to be, so I made a sash out of a piece of polka dot fabric in I had in my stash so I wouldn’t have to cut any off the linen yet.
I just sort of eyeballed how long I wanted it to be, finished it up and threaded it through the casings. Then I went to try it on to mark the length. Once I got my sash tied and the gathers arranged the way I liked, I realized I really quite liked this as a simple shift dress. Unhemmed, it hit right at the top of my knee. I felt like a million bucks without a belt, but (truth be told) this is probably not the most flattering look for me - so I belted it and loved it even more. Belting did shorten it a bit, tough. I could probably get away with the length if I didn’t have to hem it, but this coarse hopsack linen would unravel in a New York minute. Fortunately I had just enough black bias tape to bind the bottom edge – problem solved!
I wore it to church on Sunday with a (sadly necessary)little black sweater, ginormous earrings (kinda my style trademark), and black peep-toe espadrilles. It worked very nicely, and I hardly miss those groceries!
For 9 years I was a mother of girls. I love girls in all their sparkly, emotive, fabulosity. My husband and I were content to have girls, only girls, only two girls, but we were surprised (and eventually pleased) to learn that there was more in store for us.
Until I had a boy, I was genuinely sexist. I considered the male of the species distinctly as other. (I am still often confounded by them, but I no longer classify them as alien.) Now that I’ve had a front row seat to the growth and development of this form of human, I see that he’s more human than I originally believed. My boy and I have a relationship that is often more like a wrestling match – pushing, pulling, rolling around on the ground, crying “uncle!” – but I know there’s no one that loves me like him. He’s smart and funny and unbelievably kind. He’s also sensitive - a fact that my husband remarked upon recently. I asked my husband if he was like that as a child, and he said yes, he probably was. What a revelation to learn how tender hearted the men in my life are – not that they have ever treated me in a way that made that seem unlikely – it’s just that now with that knowledge I feel much more responsible for the words I say, the love I express, and the respect I pay.
A friend shared an article today: 10 Ways to Respect Your Son. It’s a nice article for mothers of boys, solid parenting advice, but this line just dissolved me: “Mothers have an awesome responsibility to pray for the intimate details that she knows about her son’s heart.”
Oh, how true it is. When the rest of the world expects him to be strong and brave and tough, only I know how tender he really is. I know what hurts my boy’s feelings, his disappointments, his fears and his dreams. Not that this doesn’t all apply to our girls as well, but as a recovering sexist, I understand better now that if I want him to be the man he’s made to be, I have to see all of who he really is now and lift him up.
I think this up close and personal lesson has application beyond my home, of course. It’s has tendered my heart towards boys and men I would have formerly viewed only as predatory and opaque. It is both a relief and a burden.
Aaah… Easter Monday! As I recover from my chocolate hangover, I’m reflecting on my Lenten sacrifices. There’s good news and there’s bad news.
As you may recall I had a pretty ambitious list which was quickly narrowed to giving up sweets. I also decided that I would not weigh myself (which is my daily practice) until after Easter. I wanted to try and put as much distance between my sugar-free discipline and weight loss/body image as I could. My objective was to try and keep this a spiritual practice rather than another scheme to lose 10 pounds.
So the bad news is that after 6 weeks of deprivation, I have gained weight. It’s too soon to tell exactly how much (since my weight can fluctuate up to 4 pounds from one day to the next, I’ll need a few days of data to know really where I stand), but it could be nearly 10 pounds.
So what’s the good news? Well, this can only mean that giving up sweets is counterproductive my battle of the bulge. Woot! OK, so it may be coincidental or co-relative rather than causal, but let me have this small morsel of hope, will you?
Back to that extra weight. I can see how I could gain a few pounds after a prolonged period of inattention (as could the inverse with my checking account), but I don’t think this is the case. When I had my physical recently, my weight was stable at its pre-lent level. I’m pretty sure I gained the weight last Thursday. I am not kidding.
I had been humming along, feeling pretty good, plugging away at my renewed run/walk routine until Thursday morning. As I dressed, my clothes didn’t feel the same. I suddenly felt like my body was very unfamiliar. It was such an odd sensation, that I was unnerved for a couple of days by it. Then this morning when I weighed in, I managed to be surprised by the outcome I expected.
I suspect a couple of things here: 1) I am likely in the midst of my monthly binge and bloat and 2) I replaced my sugar cravings with salty carbs. I’m quite sure I upped my caloric intake by soothing myself with more chips, crackers and bread. I have an little entitlement problem – if I can’t have something, then I think I deserve extra of something else. I think I have dusted off a character flaw that might require more serious attention.
My son brought home a library book last week on Easter traditions around the world. He has really enjoyed reading it to me, and we've learned some interesting things. For example, did you know that in Sweden girls dress as witches and go to people's houses with their little cauldrons expecting to receive candy? Hmm...sounds like a completely different holiday to me.
My son's favorite tidbit, however, is from Easter in Mexico where (among other things) they practice the "Judas effigy". You might recall that Judas is the disciple who betrayed Jesus, and apparently Mexico can really hold a grudge. So what happens is they create a larger-than-life Judas pinata - but instead of beating it with a stick, they fill it with firecrackers and set it on fire. It's very exciting and exactly the way a boy would like to celebrate almost anything.
We tend keep our Easter celebrations a little more low key.
I’ve always been deliberate about not making a big fuss about Easter baskets and bunnies and stuff. I’ve known people that have made Easter just a springtime version of Christmas, and I don’t much care for it.
As the children get older, I do less and less. We don’t decorate. I don’t make fancy Easter dresses for the girls. We don’t even color eggs anymore, mostly because they are usually away with my parents for spring break around Easter time. We do have a little Easter morning egg hunt before church, and I do take this time to break my Lenten fast with generous amounts of chocolate. Mostly we’re just grateful for a little extra family time together and small pleasures.
We are pleased to be called Christian. All of the Lenten season we are contemplative about the suffering of Christ and man, about the beauty and the brokenness we see in the world. Easter marks the end of a season of fasting and sacrifice, of sitting with some difficult feelings and even more difficult questions. (It makes you understand why one might want to blow something up.) But we also witness the transformation of the landscape during this season – daffodils, cherry blossoms, bright spring green grass – and we are reminded of the exquisite beauty of hope.
So I guess Easter has always felt less like a big par-tay and more like relief - like exhaling after holding your breath or kicking off your shoes after a long night in stilettos.
How do you celebrate Easter?
Today my daughter had a doctor’s appointment, so I had to pick her up at school and take her into town. So at approximately 10:30am I was passing by my church, Effort Baptist in Fluvanna county. It’s right on the corner of Rt 53 and 618-Lake Monticello Rd. Effort has a pretty large campus with multiple buildings and large parking lots. As we passed, I noticed that the parking lots were full – but not just full – all the cars had been organized in an orderly fashion, lined up in neat rows, bumper to bumper, feeding into a line that wound around the sanctuary past the fellowship hall towards the back office parking lot.
What is going on here? I wondered aloud until I remembered that today was our day to host the mobile food pantry. Once a month our parking lot is the designated spot for this cross between food bank and food truck. Unlike most food banks, the mobile food pantry is – well – mobile, and it has refrigerated trucks so clients receive fresh fruits and vegetables, meats, dairy and other perishable items. Awesome.
I’ve known that we participated in this service, but since it happens in the middle of the business day, I’m not usually around to witness it. The sight today was stunning. My first – actually, second – no, third reaction was to wish I could get a picture. So I did, in fact, turn the car around, go back and take pictures. As I was taking pictures, I immediately got that guilt I get when I want to document and share an ugly truth, but fear it will appear like I’m exploiting/exposing/pitying human suffering from afar. I wouldn’t want to compromise the dignity of people in need, so I will not share these pictures – just in case.
But I will tell you that I was dumbfounded by the sheer numbers of people in my backyard who are hard pressed enough to wait in a very long line of cars in the middle of the work day for a bag of food. Damn.
I have traveled half-way around the world and visited the slums of the poorest nation in the world (actually, Liberia is the second poorest, but who’s keeping track?), but I wasn’t prepared for the sight of so many of my neighbors in the world’s richest nation depending on the kindness of strangers to fill their bellies. It’s not that I’m not a paycheck away from devastation myself on any given day, but I think we get so insulated in our façade of “normal” that we may not realize how much hurt and lack really is normal. So next time you see someone asking for food bank donations outside your local grocery store, don’t pass up the opportunity to contribute. You just never know who you may be helping.
Last night I went to jail.
I go every Monday night – voluntarily – to lead a faith-based recovery program. I work with a group of women that live together in a cell block designated for this program.
I’ve taught in a wide variety of venues – preschools and board rooms, hotel ball rooms and church sanctuaries - and now jail cells. I think this is my favorite classroom.
Is it scary? A little. There is nothing warm and fuzzy about any part of a jail. Even as a volunteer, you have to give up a lot of control when you enter a jail. I get locked up right along with my students. There is no panic button or intercom or escape hatch. I have to wait for the guards to make their rounds just like everyone else. I love my group of women, but I have to trust them – a group of incarcerated drug addicts and alcoholics – not to want to do me harm, not to lose their shit, not to have a fight break out between distressed people living in captivity.
There is one woman in the group who I had for a week or two, then she was released. A few weeks later, she was back due to a bond violation. I don’t know if she has an official diagnosis, but she is clearly very low IQ. She has trouble focusing on the task at hand and has some speech problems that all together give her a very childlike quality. Last night, during the video portion of the lesson, she drew her plastic lawn chair up next to mine.
“I want to sit next to you. I like you,” she said.
It struck me as very sweet, until I remembered where I was. In this context that kind of affection could be a little, um, problematic.
And then I had to remind myself that she was an alcoholic – not a child – and I found this reality quite incongruous as well.
But here’s the thing: these women are very wise and warm. They are usually pretty real too– I mean they’ve nothing left to lose. This makes them the best students to have. They want to learn. They are highly motivated. They’re honest. (And they always show up for class.) This makes me want to be a person they can trust – maybe the first person they can trust in a long time - to keep my word, to keep showing up, to be person of integrity – honest, but with healthy boundaries. It’s such a simple way to honor their efforts.
Saturday’s run was better than Wednesday's. It may have been that it was cool and rainy or that I got started earlier, but I think it was the mental hurdles I jumped that made the difference. I lept over the growing fear and doubt that an extended hiatus had birthed in me to slog through a slow, beginner run. Saturday, all I had to do was get out there and do it again.
My goal was to run 20 minutes, walk 20. That might be 2x10min running intervals or 15/5 – maybe 20 all at once.
I warmed up by walking 5 minutes (and thereby avoiding have to run up a sharp hill right out of the gate). I was feeling pretty good and relaxed, and frankly, daggone pleased with myself that I went out in the rain. At about the 18 minute mark I began my ascent up a long slow incline that is always unpleasant for me, even when I’m in fighting shape. I had a choice: I could walk it and complete my 20 minute target on the other side, or I could slug it out and be done by the time I reached the top. I went with the latter and kept on chugging.
Boy was I ever so glad to crest that hill and have accomplished my goal. I walked down the other side. I was content to walk the rest of the way home, but after about three minutes I noticed my heart rate and breathing had returned to normal. My feet, knees and legs all felt fine. I felt like I could run some more. My body said to my head, “We’re up for it. Are you game?”
So dang if I didn’t add a loop knock out another 15 minutes! Yay me! I know it’s no marathon, but for me it’s bigger – it’s outrunning my doubt and catching up to my confidence.
I've always wanted to have my own business. I love making things (including small businesses) but I allow perfectionism to bog me down until I throw up my hands and say, “Screw it. I need the structure of a 9-5.”
And yet the dream never goes away.
I read a lot of entrepreneurial crap (yes, most of it is crap), and there’s always some quiz like: “How to tell if You’re Cut Out to Be an Entrepreneur” which puts you through the paces of discipline, perseverance, risk tolerance, blah, blah, blah. I want someone to tell me if I can cut it. But no one else can answer my fear – fear of failing, fear of giving up a steady paycheck, fear that no one will want what I’m selling, fear that my work is derivative, redundant, or mediocre. It’s safer to avoid the scrutiny.
I counsel other people all the time about authenticity. I subscribe to lofty ideas about pursuing your passion and the great Dream Giver will open doors if we are strong and true and honest and courageous. But I’m a hypocrite.
My challenge this month has been to press into this fear and slap it around a bit. I’m working on my Etsy shop, a delightfully easy way to set up shop, to start small. By April 1st I’ll have some listings ready and be open for business. See, I’ve put it out there now.
And as long as we’re putting things out there, I’m going to tell you about my run last night.
I’ve taken a running break. I really struggled with this because I have a lot of strings attached between my identity and my running. But the fact was I was burned out. I wasn’t feeling it, and even though I know you need to push through that now and then, I just needed a break. So after my half marathon and the holidays and my trip to Liberia, a month became two, and then three…
When I finally stopped feeling sad/guilty/left out every time I saw someone post about their fabulous run, I started to get some serious exercise anxiety. I’ve been driving around with a gym bag packed and ready to go for a few weeks, and yet I manage to talk myself out of going to the gym or going for a run every day. All those old insecurities came rushing back: How far could I go? How slow would I be? Will I look too fat and jiggly? Will I be shamefully panting and gasping for air? Will I get caught giving up mid run because I can’t make it?
Again, I’ve counseled and coached many a woman on releasing these sorts of fears and kindly getting a move on. Again, I am a hypocrite.
Then I get home from work last night to find a letter from my doctor. I had my annual physical recently and had blood work done. The results are in and my cholesterol and LDL levels are a bit too high. My doc recommended that I pay a little more attention to my diet and exercise and come back in 3 months. If there’s no improvement, we’ll talk medication.
Well, there’s the wake-up call I needed. With a family history of heart disease and a life-long battle with my weight, this merits my attention. While it is by no means a devastating diagnosis, it makes me mad. I feel like I’ve just been poked in the chest by the playground bully with the taunt, “So what are you gonna do about it, loser?”
I’ll tell you what, I’ve never laced my running shoes up faster. I hung those lab results on my fridge and went for a run. I ran a half marathon 4 months ago, but my body doesn’t seem to have much recollection of it. I didn’t go far. I was very slow – and jiggly and sweaty and out of breath. I ran 20 minutes and walked 20.
I had old fashioned oatmeal for breakfast and spinach salad for lunch (and I’m recalling why I need to ease into a more fiber-rich diet). I hate this battle, but I guess it is (and always will be) mine to fight - and I’ve got too much to do to be slowed down by poor health (if I can help it).
Am I sorry I took a break? Not really, but clearly I needed kick in the pants to know break’s over.
My son had a homework assignment last week. He had a sheet of “interview” questions he had to complete, and I was the subject of the interview.
There were the usual questions: What year were you born? Where were you born? Where did you go to school? What do you do for a living? And so on.
Then he asked, “What is one thing you people should know about you?”
I was stumped. I asked if we could come back to this one. I needed time to think about it – as if this was at long last my opportunity to give my life’s message.
It’s a hard question though, isn’t it?
Each of us is a unique assemblage of interests, abilities and experiences, any one of which is probably only marginally interesting on its own.
I asked Scott later, “What do you think people should know about me?”
He said, “I don’t know.”
“How about that I’m smart?”
“Everyone knows that already.”
“How about funny?”
“Naaah.”
Really? I guess he doesn’t think I’m as funny as I do.
“How about creative?”
*Sigh* “OK. Let’s just go with that one.”
I think I just wore him down, but I wanted an answer for myself.
I think what we all want is to be known - not necessarily for one thing, but in all our complexity – and be loved for all of it (or at least in spite of some of it). I’d want people to know that beneath this soft, white, matronly exterior is a dangerous rip current of angst and desire, spiritual depth, excruciating tenderness that has been carefully bubble-wrapped over the years. I’m not sure you can communicate those things in a 2nd grade biography project.
So how would you answer that question? What should we know about you?
I am feeling a little nostalgic tonight.
I am getting my Irish on in anticipation of St Patrick’s Day I am baking Guinness Stout chocolate cupcakes, and I am particularly missing my proud Irish brother as he floats along the backwaters of Kerala in India.
I’m listening to the Waterboys album, Fisherman’s Blues. I’m pretty sure I played this every single night I bartended at the Garret between 1987 and 1991.
I am making egg salad and thinking of my friend (another Irish boy) Chris K. I recall him teaching me how to make the perfect egg salad. He was bright, funny, beautiful and polished off a fifth of Stoli every other day. I wonder if he is even still alive. Last I heard, he had destroyed his liver via alcohol and hepatitis and was living on disability by the age of 35. I don’t imagine there have been many greater wastes of human potential, and I grieve him often.
My husband heard from an old friend of his this week - one I don’t remember - but as he tried to jog my memory with context, I was transported back to the orphan’s Thanksgiving I spent with my rag tag group of friends sometime in the early 90s. We were a collection of over-educated waiters, bartenders, and newspaper reporters that became bar regulars and then friends.
So many extraordinary people have moved through my life. They are dear treasures unearthed at some of the most unexpected moments – via a song or a bowl of egg salad.
But there are others that approach like a thief in the night.
I am preparing a lesson for my Sunday school class this week. We’ll be talking about forgiveness (among other things). The subject of forgiveness becomes more than a lofty ideal when I consider the man in want of my forgiveness. I found myself going down to that dark place again. I checked out his Facebook page, full of indignation about Rush Limbaugh’s most recent uncivilized behavior. There were links and posts about the controversy surrounding birth control and women’s reproductive rights and religious freedom and I became enraged all over again.
This man who spouts liberal, feminist attitudes is the same one that showed me precious little respect as a human being, much less a woman. He belittled and manipulated. He was emotionally abusive. He was addicted to pornography and alcohol and tormenting me. How could I forgive what he did to me?
Then I read this post. My ex, my rapist, my abuser, my tormentor – he is mine to forgive. Damn. Wondering if I can walk the talk. I don’t think Irish whiskey will answer this call. Only by God’s grace.
We started the week on Sunday with praise and worship, and what could be more emblematic of God’s love for us than hot coffee, fresh smoothies, and aromatic, homemade mini-cinnamon rolls?
The boy discovers a literary treasure. He has read this book over and over in the past week.
Full moon over the Kids Zone.
I noticed this lovely patch of daffodils at least a week – maybe two – ago. Daffodils stand out not only for their cheery bright color, but because they are one of the early adopters of spring. The temperature has varied wildly and this week these beauties were covered by snow, but you wouldn’t know it now. I can’t help but admire them. They look tender, but nothing can deter them from blooming enthusiastically in season. I feel sure there is a lesson in here.
Big solar storm this week was nothing compared to the gathering storm in my head. An awful cold snuck up on me and took me down quickly. I stood slack jawed and bleary eyed on the cold remedy aisle of CVS cursing the meth-heads that make it so hard for us pedestrian drug users to find relief. I found the anti-histamine/decongestant combo I hoped would work, went home and got in bed with a glass of wine, a box of tissues and the remote. The wine was clearly unnecessary and sadly went to waste as you can see by my morning after shot.
Today I should have gotten pictures of my husband running his 8K race, the kids at their Bounce-n-Play party, at the ice rink, or our big night out at the Japanese steak house, but I am reprising my date with drugs, tissues and TV (no wine) and leaving the rest to my dear husband.
Recently I had an appointment with the dermatologist. It was for a simple, unglamorous skin check. With a family history of skin cancer, fair skin and an alarming number of spots gathering across my body, it’s become part of my routine to get a professional to give me the once over every so often.
My primary care physician referred me to a dermatologist she likes who happens to have set up shop adjacent to a pretty swanky “medical” spa, so I had high hopes that my full body scan might also include a nice anti-cellulite seaweed wrap. Boy was I disappointed.
My appointment was scheduled for 11:10am. I arrived at 11:00. Since this was my first visit to this office, I expected some paperwork and planned accordingly. I filled out the medical history questionnaire, the insurance data and the HIPPA consent. I waited in the swanky, well-decorated and well-magazined waiting room for moments before I was called back. Good sign, I thought.
Next stop was the examining room. I was ushered in by a nurse who proceeded to ask me all the same questions that I had already answered on the questionnaire. I found this irritating. Why should I fill out a form if the nurse is going to ask me all the same questions all over again? But I was a patient patient and played along pleasantly.
She instructed me to take off all my clothes except for my underwear and she gave me a “gown” to cover myself while I waited. OK, let’s talk about this gown. I’ve worn plenty of hospital-type gowns in my 40-something years, but what she gave me was a two-piece disposable dooflickey.
The top piece resembled the bib they put on you at the dentist office. It went over my head and covered the top portion of my body from neck to almost the lower edge of my breast and was barely nipple to nipple in width. It was a glorified paper towel, and the bottom drape was just a slightly bigger paper towel.
I disrobed, tried to cover what I could with my drive-thru napkins and then I waited. And I waited.
I waited.
I looked at the painting again. Hmm. It says it was painted on the savannah in Tanzania. Cool. I love Africa. Yet another connection.
I waited.
I noticed the artist signed the painting and included credits: the Today Show, Animal Planet, Wild Kingdom. That's kind of odd. What is that all about?
I waited some more.
And then I started to get angry with the painting. It looks like a 5 year old painted it. So what if it was painted on location. BFD. What a pretentious piece of sh….
I waited some more. I had been in the waiting room nearly an hour by now. I had sweated through my paper towel gown. Now I was irritable, feeling highly compromised and hating this stupid painting. I was silently cursing the doctor, the office and the state of healthcare in general as I sat submissively in this examination room.
I checked my email. I checked my Facebook. I checked my Twitter. I looked at that damn painting and wondered how that bozo managed to sell that preschool-quality painting to this office and had the audacity to shove Animal Planet and the Today Show in my face. I’ve been to Africa, bitch. What makes you so special?
Then at long last, the doctor entered the room. She apologized profusely for my wait, but a long time patient of hers had just informed her that he had had pancreatic cancer. She couldn’t just walk away from that.
Oh, I am a jack ass.
I had to respect this doctor’s compassion and care for her patient. I was new and non-urgent. He is likely going to die sooner rather than later, and she cares about him. OK. Fine.
So we pressed on with our exam. She gave me a thorough once over. She informed me that melanoma, the deadliest kind of skin cancer, has a genetic component, but the other skin cancers – basal cell and squamous cell carcinomas – the ones ,my mother and maternal grandfather have had – do not. Except for the fact that I have inherited their fair skin and vulnerablility to the sun’s rays, I probably won't inherit their cancer.
So the doctor gives me a clean bill of health. She declares that I look GREAT – from a skin cancer point of view. Was it really necessary to qualify that statement so pointedly? She explained that all those spots on my arms and legs were not really normal aging, but sun damage. I did this to myself. Great.
She had me stand in my panties and dental bib to examine a spot on the back of my thigh, and then proceeded to have a sociable conversation with me in this decidedly awkward and compromising position.
It was mere minutes, this exam. I waited an hour. I was examined for 5 minutes, tops, and I exited to pay my $40 copay. I am going to hang on to the phrase, “You look great.” I paid for it.
If I accomplished anything in the last 24 hours, it was to inspire my family to be kinder, more thoughtful, more responsible and respectful, but in truth what I may have inspired was a lot of musing about my possible hormonal imbalance.
Just like any wife/mother/female, I can get whipped up into a PMS rage. I can simmer for quite a while before I boil over and give everyone the what-for for all their short-comings as human beings. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.
But this weekend I…well, I could probably think of a more elegant way to phrase it, but nothing would be quite as accurate as…lost my shit.
It happened over a pair of scissors - not just any scissors, mind you, but my sewing shears(cue ominous music here). I have precious little windows of time in which to get my crafty stitch on, so when I went in my work room Sunday afternoon and discovered my scissors were nowhere to be found, I went a little crazy. Now, just so you know, this wasn’t yelling, screaming, chair or insult-hurling crazy. This was muttering, catastrophizing, furtively-searching-the-house-like-a-crack-addict crazy.
This was the final straw in a haystack of little aggravations, thoughtless, careless or lazy acts, and flippant, blame shiftiness that became just too much for me.
· It was the empty bag of dog food and cereal boxes left in the cabinets to trick me into thinking we were still properly provisioned.
· It was the load of laundry in the dryer that was in someone else’s way, so they dumped it all unfolded in a pile in the middle of my bed. It was the pile of dishes in the sink that (while our dishwasher is on the fritz) no one seems to know how to scrape, much less wash despite my generous modeling of this activity.
· It was having my head bitten off when I reminded a certain someone that their bike was still at the top of the driveway.
· It was the argument over refinancing the house that turned ugly because I said I wasn’t stressing about it and my husband heard I couldn’t care less about it.
· It was my daughter’s response to my inquiry about her candy sales as “fine” one day, and as “I told you needed more!” the next day. She might as well have thrown in “you stupid old bat”.
So by the time we got to the episode with my scissors, a day of reckoning had arrived.
I actually gave what came next a lot of thought. It probably seemed to my beloved family that I had snapped, but I had not. I am a peacemaker.
I go through most of my days in my work, my church, my family of origin, and my neighborhood trying to be uber accommodating. I try to be pleasant and easy going. I often swallow my opinions, my objections, and my feelings because I don’t want to appear unreasonable or controversial or make others uncomfortable. But I couldn’t get it out of my craw that perhaps I was letting those I love the most take advantage of this tendency of mine. I don’t know if I’d call it a character flaw or not, but I do believe we teach people how treat us and I take very seriously my job of teaching my children how to treat people – including me.
The next morning as everyone was getting ready for school, I waited for my opening. My son poured a Crystal Light packet in his water bottle, leaving a powdery mess all over the counter. As he turned to walk away, I leaned down, coming nose to nose with my eight year old boy and evenly said, “If you walk away and leave that empty Crystal Light packet on the counter, I am going to Lose. My. Shit.”
Again, I’m not proud of the wording there, but it did get everyone’s attention, and thus began the Sermon of the Mom about how we listen, respect one another’s feelings and opinions (even when we disagree), how we are all responsible for the care and maintenance of the house and associated tasks, how we communicate needs and schedules, that it’s not borrowing if you don’t ask first, and how we THROW AWAY TRASH rather than store it on countertops, tables, floors and cabinets. I was tired of doing all the heavy lifting and tired of being treated like a shrew because I expected more from them.
My husband entered the room as I declared, “And that goes for you, too!” whereupon he executed a smooth about-face without breaking stride and disappeared again.
I said what needed to be said, and I feared it may have evaporated into the mist without effect. As I returned home last night, I stopped outside the front door prayed for the grace to not be a jack ass to these people I love, for the grace to be pleasant and loving and give them another chance to get it right. What I walked into was my children industriously doing homework, my husband working on dinner, the house fairly tidy, and everyone in good humor. Was I dreaming? We ate dinner, had civil conversation, laughed, and someone other than me did dishes. Divine.
My kids are great kids. Smart, funny, kind and generous. But sometimes we all could use a reminder about thoughtfulness, respect, and taking responsibility. I needed a reminder that my feelings are valid. Feelings are flags. I took time to examine mine and found an opportunity to teach us all something about who and what to value in the world. Maybe next time I can do it without swearing at small children.
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There used to be a sign that hung in my old workplace that said: People may not believe what you say, but they always believe what you do.
As a woman who has battled weight and body image all my life, I made a promise to myself that I would be a better steward of my children's self image as much as I knew how. The excerpt below is from guest blog post on you'd be so pretty if... It articulates the power of not just our words, but we act out what we believe about ousrelves..
I have three boys, two in grade school and one in pre-school, and Tee has a teenage daughter with special needs, and an adult son starting a family of his own. We both know that our kids watch everything we do and hear everything we say about ourselves. We’ve always made sure we never made negative comments about our bodies in front of our kids, and both of us have steered clear of unhealthy behaviors like yo-yo dieting, pills and other weird fads.
We thought this was good. That this was enough: The lack of negative references to ourselves would convey a confident, body-positive attitude.
Not quite.
Non-verbal communication is powerful; the things we hesitated to do, avoided and made excuses for said as much about how we felt about ourselves as disparaging comments about our thighs in passing would. In contrast, the things we take on, participate in, try our best at and embrace say as much about who we are and what we’re capable of as the words we use.
Service has always been an integral part of my family life. I had really great role models in my parents and grandparents, and I hope to pass along not only my belief that it is our Christian duty to serve, but that giving of your time, talent and treasure is a joy and a blessing all its own.
One time when my oldest was asked what motivated her to volunteer, she said: It’s just what we do. She had never considered that one might not want to share themselves with those most in need.
Recently, we had the opportunity to participate in a family project for Project Linus, a non-profit organization that distributes blankets, hand made by volunteers, to needy children who are sick or have been traumatized in some way. We had a great time picking out fabric and making our blankets. As I boxed up our blankets for mailing to Project Linus headquarters, I included some pictures of the children and their works-in-progress (seen here), and I was feeling pretty pleased with the whole business.
I showed the pictures to my oldest daughter, whose immediate response was: OMG! I look awful!
Uh, oh. Looks like I passed along more of myself than I thought.
Anyone who knows me, knows that my husband is frequently a source of frustration, aggravation and bewilderment. I assiduously avoid any gratuitous praise (like he should get a parade for running the vacuum?), but I must diverge from the usual condescending and cavalier attitude that I project for humor’s sake. (He knows how I really feel and indulges me when I need to use him as a punch line.) I am truly blessed to have a husband who is really a full partner in parenting.
Due to our work schedules, we alternate morning and evening duty with the kids. The morning shift includes getting everyone up, dressed, lunches packed, breakfast served, dog walked and all to the bus stop on time. Today my husband had morning duty which meant that I was off the parenting clock for a moment and could get myself - and only myself - ready for work.
As it happens, my bathroom shares a wall with the kitchen. I can hear very well what transpires over the breakfast bar while I am laboring over hair and makeup.
Most often what I hear is the ritual dance of early morning, time sensitive conflict. It has all the tranquility of an air raid siren with the attendant chaos. I can usually tune this out, but occasionally I have to step in.
Today what got my attention was a different sound – the sound of laughter. My husband and son were ready ahead of schedule, enjoying easy conversation and lots of giggles. Being on the other side of the wall and able to enjoy this moment anonymously was sa-weet! Very sweet, indeed.
Yesterday I tweeted this: "Ode to Joy" played by a 4th grader on the recorder in the car - isn't. Just sayin'.
Here’s one interesting response from @singingengr8: @MollyFulton Ace Cleaning Services can take care of that. Call for a free estimate @466-4334
What exactly do you think they have in mind?
It’s the first day of spring - a glorious, picture perfect realization of what spring should be. Flowers are blooming, bees are buzzing, the sap is rising, and I have a 15 year old daughter with a boyfriend who is lurking. I’m feeling the need for a new sort of vigilance.
I’ve given the girl some Saturday chores. I should have known that when she had to take a shower to walk the dog that the boy was in the neighborhood. As she went about her housework, the boy started a pick-up game of baseball in the street right in front of our house. I asked her if he was waiting for her. She said, “No.”
Later I sent her outside with the kid brother in tow to work in the garden. The ball game dissolved and the boy moved into the yard to hang out. I kept watch through the afternoon. I saw the way he looked at her and was constantly reaching for her – her hair, the drawstring of her jacket. I knew better than he did what was driving him. The kid brother was great for distraction and deflection, but I kept checking out the window to be sure I could see where everyone was and what everyone was doing at all times.
At one point, little brother came in the house for some reason I can’t recall. I went to see what the 15 year olds were up to left unsupervised by the 6 year old. They were laying side-by-side in the hammock swinging and talking and holding hands. I wanted to casually go out there and make some excuse to interrupt this moment but as I watched, I was moved by nostalgia. Remembering the sweetness of a lazy Saturday afternoon with romance floating on the warm breezes.
I love my girl so much. I remember being that girl. So it is no wonder I am pulled to the four corners by knowing, remembering, longing, and fear.
I let her have this moment, but soon – if the boy is to stay much longer – he’s going to have to start doing some yard work. Maybe wash my car, too.
[I started this post as an object lesson for my work blog, but it's a funny story about the boy as well.]
About 2 weeks ago, my son started carefully considering how to manage the challenge of catching a leprechaun. Now he’s only 6 and still inhabiting a world of magical and fantastical thinking so I, of course, did not have the heart to tell him the truth about leprechauns – that they are very, very hard to catch.
Leprechauns are so elusive because they possess something of great value. If you are lucky enough to catch one you have a choice to make (and this is where my son began fretting). You can either take possession of the pot of gold that the leprechaun protects, or you can opt for the leprechaun to grant you a wish. Gold is a nice choice – and prudent in this economy – but a wish! That opens the door wide for even more than what money can buy.
So presented with seemingly endless possibility, my son decided that if should he catch a leprechaun, he would wish to catch another. Clever.
I don’t know if this is actually allowed, however. It is well known that when you release a genie from a lamp, you get three wishes that are tightly governed by specific Wish Rules of Engagement – including no wishing for more wishes. This may seem like a tricky CYA move on the part of genies and leprechauns (if they do indeed observe the same rules), but one would do well to recognize this as the proper gift of confrontation that it is: you must choose.
I understand well the paralysis of choice. Sometimes there’s just too much to chose from; it’s overwhelming. Mostly, it’s about fear. We believe if we just keep more options open longer, that’s better. I don’t think so.
So what would you do if you caught a leprechaun? I’m say we go for the gold.
[This post is recycled. Hey, I thought it was a good one and I need to fill in the new parenting blog project. Sue me.]
I have never been one of those girls that needed, wanted, or offered accompaniment to the restroom. I won’t go into my public restroom or port-a-potty phobias now, but suffice it to say that I was really glad child number three was a boy. Now it was dad’s turn to visit every stinking bathroom in every store, restaurant, or gas station we’d pass for the next 10 years.
Privacy is good, and so is maintaining a little feminine mystery – no matter how long you’ve been married. Unfortunately, I do now feel the need to announce my intentions to head off to the privy, as my loved ones seem to get panicky if they don’t know exactly where I am at all times.
This strategy has met with limited success.
EVERY time I go to the bathroom, I hear someone say, “Where’s Mom?” They could be in the basement watching a movie or surfing the internet for hours or even at the neighbor’s house, with not the slightest interest in interacting with me in any way.
Then I quietly depress the lock on the bathroom door, and suddenly we are in a movie thriller with quick cuts and close ups: door shut and locked, antennae up, eyes darting, hair bristling…they are now alert and buzzing with the uneasy feeling that I have just made myself unavailable somehow.
And now a little more urgently, I hear it again, “Where’s Mom?”
I wait and see if someone else has the answer to that burning question, but more often than not I find myself shrieking, “I’M IN THE BATHROOM!” There is no gentle, loving, reassuring quality to the shrieking. No, just fire-breathing, flesh-melting rage from behind the locked door.
So now I am in the most undignified position of having loudly declared my exact location, with little doubt as to my exact activity.
There is an awkward period of waiting.
I can no longer take care of my personal business in leisure, I am now terribly anxious about both the passing of time and judgement concerning my daily constituitional.
So I suppose there’s no hope for it. As long as I continue to cohabitate, I can expect someone will notice when I have to go to the bathroom. The question is: how can I get this to happen when the dog needs to be walked?
One of the most critical and dangerous aspects of parenting is the strategic alliance between the two parents. This is true regardless of whether you are happily married, unhappily married, divorced, living together or apart. If you are single parent, I tip my hat to you for performing the hardest job in the world, but in this one aspect you may have the advantage. You benefit by having one sovereign voice of authority.
If two parents are not perfectly aligned in mission, strategy and tactics, those sweet little bundles of (seemingly vulnerable) love and joy will eventually pillage the household like Attila the Hun. They can smell weakness. At the slightest hint of a parental fault-line, they will plunge a wedge in it and hammer until you shatter into a million tiny shards of defeat not big enough to scoop coals from the fire or draw water for a drink. (Please refer to the book of Jeremiah - I'm referring to Old Testament-style vengeance here.)
It is for this very reason that I try especially hard to always have my husband’s back – especially in front of the children. I disagree with most everything he does (tactically) but I exert Herculean effort to restrain my disappointment that he has not executed my superior parenting methods. Sometimes, though…well, this wouldn’t be interesting if I always got it right, now would it?
I was in the bathroom this morning getting ready for work. I can hear my husband and my son engaged in the morning ritual dance of asking, ignoring, pleading, rejecting, cajoling, and yelling involved in getting the boy fully dressed and fed before school. My husband was exhibiting saintly patience (i.e. a maddening passivity and failure to acknowledge the boy’s insolent behavior) while my blood pressure continued to increase with the rising volume and sass of said boy. I try not to jump in and take over these situations.
Really.
I try really, really, really hard.
But this morning my restraint buckled.I marched out of the bathroom with curlers still in my hair and affixed my laser vision on the boy. And with the thundering voice of Zeus I declare: I will not tolerate this noise anymore! You will not speak to your father that way; I will not have it! Let me remind you how this works. He (I point to my husband) is an adult; you (I point at my son) are the child. He is the parent; you are the child. He is the boss; you ARE NOT THE BOSS.
I swing around on my husband and inquire: Who’s the boss? (I’m picturing this in my head kind of like a half-time locker room pep talk, but I’m not sure my husband received it as such.)
My husband responds: Um, m-me?
That’s right! I say and swing around once more casting a squinty, zzzt! look in my son’s direction. Do you understand me?
His sweet little head nods furiously.
I stand, fists on hips, head cocked in classic superhero reflective pose and declare: My work here is done.
(Image is crudely scanned and used without permission from my favorite Anne Taintor calendar. Sorry Anne – luv ya!)
Have you ever wondered about the proper pronunciation of “posterous”? In my head, that first “o” was a short vowel – the same way you’d say preposterous! Then I heard someone say it out loud with a long “o” – like poster or post-it note. Um, that probably makes more sense since it is a platform for blog posting.
Anyhoo… when I knew the world could no longer spin without the fuel of my witty insights on family life, I had to come up with a new blog name. prePosterous parenting practically wrote itself! There’s a reason the family sitcom is so popular – child rearing is just a hoot.
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If you’ve landed here, it’s probably because some awesome person has linked to this blog – my first running blog. I may or may not return to this space, but for now you will find a lot more interesting and current stuff over on my other blog: Bite Size.
Come see me at my new place!
The W4MTP blog has been on hiatus in the off-season, but we’re back now and ready for another 12 weeks of inspiration, information and sweat.
If you are new to the program, welcome! You have done a brave and admirable thing – no matter what your motivation. If you are returning, we are so glad you’re here whether you are leading the way or just trying to get back on the wagon.
This year’s theme is A New Attitude. Pretty perfect if you ask me. See if any of these old attitudes ring a bell with you:
- I can’t run.
- I’m too old/fat/slow.
- I look ridiculous.
- It’s too hot/cold/rainy.
- I don’t have time.
- I don’t have energy.
- I can’t take time away from my kids/husband/job.
- I don’t know what I’m doing.
- I don’t think I can finish 4 miles.
Well now is the time to replace those with a new attitude:
- It feels good to move.
- If not now, when?
- I am a role model.
- I am unstoppable.
- I am worth 30 minutes a few times per week.
- I am going to feel better every day.
- My family will have a happier, healthier me.
- I will meet new people, make new friends and learn from kind, gentle women.
- I can do whatever I set my mind to do. 4 miles, here I come!
What attitude are you ready to trade in?
I have demoted myself to nearly a 13 minute miler. I am not happy about this. At one point I was closing in on a solid 11 minute mile, but a winter of inconsistent training and weight gain has taken its toll. To quote my friend Jen, now when I haul ass, it takes two trips.
But I got back out on the road this week with my group, and even though it was humbling, I know it’s the only way back. I think I can get back up to speed by the end of the summer.
When I’m on the road, it’s clear what I need to do. Just lace up my shoes, step out the door, and keep putting one foot in front of the other. This simple sequence is easy to lose sight of when I’m not on the road, but rather swimming in the deep end of my daily routine and commitments.
Inside I need only concentrate on eating good, real, whole food – not too much. Less wine, more water. Less packaged, processed convenience foods, more fruits and veggies and lean protein. I know all this. I need to eat for fuel and pleasure, but not for comfort. Comfort I need to find somewhere else.
I can’t say I find comfort on the road. Running is stress busting and anxiety taming, but comfort? – not so much.
So where do I go for it? Where do you go for it?
The hardest thing about running? Remembering why I do it.
I wrote about this in my previous post, but it is still really hard to accept that maybe – quite possibly – my runs aren’t and will never be about performance or accomplishment. That’s a bitter pill for a woman who cares (perhaps a little too much) about both. Not every activity is a competitive sport – even a competitive sport.
Of course, the dirty little secret every runner has is that she’s constantly comparing herself to others, herself to her past, herself to her hope.
I ran this morning because it was on the schedule. I ran this morning because I have a race in 6 weeks and I’m starting to feel the pressure.
But the real reason I ran this morning – the really, really real reason I ran instead of rolling over in bed or letting the clock run out on my small window of opportunity while I puttered was that it was warm. I wanted to be outside and feel the warm air on my bare arms, to hear the chorus of birds, see the sunrise, and fill my nose with the sweet spicy fragrance of lilacs and daffodils and wisteria. Losing weight, following the plan, hitting a target just aren’t as compelling as the full sensory experience of me moving through this world awake and alive and present.
Have you ever woken up next to your spouse and wondered to yourself: Who is this person? What on earth am I doing here? I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.
Hopefully, you have enough faith and commitment to realize this moment for what it most surely is: temporary. So you keep waking up next to that same person day after day, and eventually you remember why you stay, why you fell in love and, and all is right with the world again. This is my relationship with running.
I have really been struggling with running. I’ve put on some weight because I haven’t been running as much, and now it’s harder to run because I’ve put on some weight. But I’ve renewed my vows with my running shoes, and I have faith it will get better.
It’s been a while since I’ve been able to get in a long run. I’m usually jamming in 2-4 miles anywhere I have a hole in the schedule, which is to say, not very much. But it’s spring break. My husband is driving the kids to the grandparents for the week, and I have a rare, blissful stretch of Sunday afternoon hours to do whatever I want –and it’s a gorgeous spring afternoon, sunny, cool and breezy. Perfect run weather. So I head out to spend as much time as I want on the road.
It still takes a mile or two to shake out the cobwebs and let my mind run free, but then it comes back to me. I remember why I run. I run to shake loose my anxiety and worry. As I run, I leave a trail of my stress on the road as it runs off my head and falls to the ground in big salty drops. I run to fill my lungs with air, to pump up my chest that has become deflated from a week of sitting at a desk, in front of a computer doing battle in the world. I run to feel my heart pound and be reassured that to feel what my heart feels won’t kill me.
I can’t run to compete or compare, to prove something or to measure my worth. When the one that should love and care for you becomes punishing and accusing, we call that abuse. We can’t tolerate it – even from ourselves. Perhaps especially from ourselves.
This weekend I attended a conference, and they ran a video piece that showed a woman running. She had words stacked up around her; sitting on her shoulders were all her cares and concerns. As she ran, the words began to break apart and the letters hit the ground like shards of glass littering the path behind her. It was a reminder to me of the romance I once had with running.
You know how sometimes you keep hearing the same word, or an idea keeps coming back to you through the perspective of different people, articles you read, movies you watch? I’ve had a few words that keep popping up everywhere I go these days, and what I realized as I ran this afternoon was that I wasn’t just leaving a trail of my mental garbage behind me as I ran. God was rearranging the discarded letters to bring me a new message – like a divine Scrabble game: Relax. Surrender. Forgiven. Forgive.
Everything is going to be OK. Everything is going to be OK. Everything is going to be OK.
I didn’t learn this lesson this year, but I continue to be reminded of it on occassion.
I really learned this lesson almost ten years ago. Shortly after September 11th, when the world seemed to have been knocked off its axis, my father became suddenly, inexplicably, critically ill. A simple cold became pneumonia that landed him in the ICU of Georgetown University hospital for over two weeks.
I had two young children and a job that required my presence daily and for long hours. My father was over 2 hours away fighting for his life.
He had never really been sick before, so this was new territiory. I had to work, but found myself dropping everything to drive into the nation’s capitol as military helicopters patrolled over every bridge into the city and stories of anthrax unfolded on the nightly news.
It was surreal. The national and global crisis was merely an enlargement of my own personal family cirisis. How could my tower of strength and stability be so suddenly brought low?
On September 11th, I was working at a childcare center. I took a call from an unidentified parent that morning who asked if we would be closing early. I did’t know what he was talking about. He said, “A plane has flown into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and we are under attack.” I called the police to report a crank call. An officer came in person shortly thereafter to inform us that this call was no hoax.
Waves of incomprehension, fear, disbelief. Everything I thought was important, everyting I thought was absolutely necessary, every ball I thought was my sole responsibility to keep in the air – I walked away from it. The river kept rushing by, and I just stepped out of it, virtually unnoticed.
It was then I realized, “Everything is going to be OK. I don’t have to hold the world up.”
So even now, as I get caught up in waves of anxiety about my obligations, committments, and expectations, I am reminded: everything is going to be OK. When I am completely and utterly stripped down to nothing, I know nothing can separate me from the love of God (or my husband, children, parents, siblings). For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,[k] neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God. [Romans 8:38,39]
Yeah, I have love, so everything is going to be OK.
Thanks to Francesca from Charlottesville Running Company and Donnie from Ragged Mountain Running Shop, we got some great tips last Saturday on proper running form.
Good form is important because:
· It improves performance
· It reduces the chance of injury
· And it makes you look good. J
Even though my body clock prompts me to consciousness by 4:45am every morning, that still doesn’t make it easy to actually get myself upright. If I had my way, I’d lay in and savor the indulgence of pillows and blankets and the cat sleeping at my feet. The hum of the house just before dawn is the sound of sanctuary. Once I’m up – all bets are off.
So I roll out of bed and dress while the coffee brews. I don’t think too much; I just press on to arrive at the appointed time and place I am expected by my running group. I often think I will get there early to get a little extra in before my “trainees” arrive, but I don’t. The truth is if it weren’t for them, I might talk myself out of tunning altogether.
It is hard to both train myself and others who are all along the run/walk continuum, but I can’t excuse myself. I can’t even think the very slowest walker who only wants to cover a mile is going to hold me back because I know deep down, I wouldn’t be here but for her. So I am grateful for every brave and determined soul who shows up for a training session.
I had time to get in a little extra mileage after our session this morning, and I still almost talked myself out of it. I need to get home. I need to get to work. I need to get on with my day. No, I needed to honor my intention to get stronger, faster, leaner. An extra 30 minutes was not going to derail my day, so I ran some more.
The morning was fine and fair, and yet I haggled with myself over just how much more I would do the entire way. Instead of the well planned route I always take, I just ran. I ventured down unfamiliar streets, cris-crossed the golf course, took note of houses, flora and fauna I’d never noticed before.
My intention was to do a little more than was comfortable, to do what would actually bring me closer to my goal instead of checking off an obligation. As always the ROI exceeded expectations. So why is it still so hard to get up?
I don’t know where you are in your life now, but maybe you are like me: married with kids, mid-life, slave to routine – mostly other people’s routines. There is a place you can go, a foreign and enchanted place outside of your regular orbit: the track at UVA.
The Charlottesville Track Club Women’s Four Miler Training Program (W4MTP) is like summer camp for grown up girls. Here you will meet other women braving a new adventure. You will bond with other participants and your new fairy godmothers, the “Pink Ladies”. You will create memories that will last a lifetime. It may seem a bit frightening, but thrilling too. You will consider the possibilities of true love again.
If you are wondering why you should participate in the W4MTP, I say do it for love.
You may do it for the love of someone who is fighting or has survived breast cancer or someone you have lost to breast cancer. You may do it for the love a friend who wants to try this thing and needs your help and support. You may do it for those that love you: your husband, children, friends and family who want to see you happy and healthy, energetic and proud.
The W4MTP may not be exactly like kissing some bronze surfer boy under the boardwalk, but you will find love. You may actually fall in love with walking or running, but maybe – just maybe - you might fall in love with yourself again. You will do more than you thought you could do. Your body will change; your mind will change; your heart will change.
Do it for love. It’s never too late for your next great summer romance.
Posted via email from W4MTP
Dear Running,
I know we’re coming up on our 2 year anniversary, but we need to talk. You know I love you, right? I trust you, and I’m committed to you.
You complete me.
But, um, here’s the thing…I’m feeling like maybe we need to take a little break. No, no, it’s not you; it’s me. You’re great. You don’t need to change for me.
No, I’m not interested in anyone else. Sure, the passion you stirred in my body may have led to some flirtations with yoga and kayaking and Zumba – but that’s all it was – innocent flirtations.
I just need some space to think. We fell in love so fast. I left friends and family and work to be with you, but now? Now, I think we need to cool it a bit. I’m not sure if we still want the same things.
Love,
Me
Posts
- 2lbs of fresh strawberries, diced
- half of a red onion, finely diced
- one bunch of fresh cilantro, minced
- juice of one lime
- 2 ripe avocados
- half a yellow onion
- one bunch of fresh cilantro
- lime juice
- salt
Vmeals is pleased to announce a great new menu from one of our catering partners in the Houston area: Red River BBQ and Grill.
Red River wood-smokes eight different types of meats, including brisket, pork ribs, chicken, sausage, ham, turkey, and pork tenderloin, but it's not all barbecue.
Red River also serves a variety of hamburgers, mouth watering steaks, catfish, shrimp, and chicken fried steak. All plates are complimented by home made sides such as potato salad, beans, coleslaw, and macaroni salad. They've now added a completely NEW catering menu with all of your favorite American staples.
Now delivering to Katy, Memorial City, Galleria, Energy Corridor and Greenway Plaza.
Be sure to check out Red River's menu and give them a try for your next event.
Every choice we make will lead down a path that we will remember and account for later. When you think that every choice leaves a legacy of some sort, it may prompt you to be a little more discerning, huh?
Not every decision will be the beginning of a great success story. Sometimes you will be telling a story about a lesson learned (that's a nice way of remembering a mistake or failure).
What kind of story are you creating today?
When you're thinking delivery, you may not think ice cream, but Vmeals brings you ice cream vendors in Orlando, Richmond, and Boston. Surely you can come up with a valid business reason to host and ice cream Sunday bar.
May is time to par-tay. Let us help you with your next event.
You are probably familiar with this saying as the Golden Rule, but let's think about it for a moment.
Most of us have come to understand this as a practical rule - if you don't want your brother to hit you, don't hit your brother - but really it's more than that. You can settle for the practical (and self-serving) frame of treating others the way you want to be treated so they will treat you better.
But notice the first word: Do. I think this implies taking initiative, being proactive, going the extra mile to show by your actions the kind of person you'd like to be and see in the world. I think this is what Gandhi meant when he advised us be the change we wish to see.
When you consider the Golden Rule, how does it resonate with you? With a sense of self-preservation and protection or with a vision of being your best self and an example for others?
It seems that everyone has a smartphone these days - even my husband who is distinctly non-techie and non-gadgety just upgraded to sweet new Android, and he actually loves it. This is the man who is constantly requiring assistance from his children to send an email because his wife is too aggravated to show him how AGAIN. That says a lot about the smart design and usability of these amazing little machines.
Murdoch claimed he didn't know about or condone the phone hacking by his employees, and with an international corporation of the size of News Corp, he must have been tempted to think that claiming ignorance to individual behavior was plausible. But the indignant members of parliament laid the burden of guilt definitively at his feet for (among other reasons) "creating the culture" responsible for this extremely bad behavior.
Leadership matters.
If you lead an organization, a department or a committee, you influence that culture. You set the standard and you have responsibility for the performance of the group. Hey, leadership isn't easy, but is important on every level. If you have anybody watching and following your lead - regardless of whether they actually report to you or not - you are a leader.
- A good leader communicates a clear vision: Here's where I'm going. Follow me!
- A good leader cultivates a community of shared values: This is how we operate.Trust my direction!
- A good leader inspires followers: I want to go where you go because you have enthusiasm, integrity and a mission.
- A good leader doesn't turn a blind eye to inappropriate, unethical, illegal activity.
- A good leader doesn't claim credit and shift blame.
- A good leader doesn't rule by fear or intimidation.
Are you fit to lead? What kind of culture are you creating around yourself?
I hope everyone out there has had a good week - especially all you hard working administrative professionals. We have been going through the submissions for Vmeals Administrative Professional of the Year, and boy are we impressed! (I'm exhausted just reading their job descriptions!) Take a look at a few of their collective responsibilities:
- ordering food
- coordinate all events/parties
- payroll
- accounts payable
- program coordinator
- meeting organizer
- copier & printer troubleshooter & sometimes repairman
- office supply orderer
- mailroom attendant
- make travel arrangements
- supervise support staff
- negotiate with vendors
- manage office equipment accounts/contracts
- draft correspondence
- data management
- special projects
- new hire orientation/training
- processing business related expenses
- serve on the safety committees and social committees
- member of professional organizations
- attend professional development seminars
- published articles in trade journal
"In the successful organization, no detail is too small to escape close attention."~Lou Holtz
We've doubled down on the motivational quote for the week. I think these two guys know a little something about success, and their similar observations are particularly apropos to Administrative Professionals Week.
Those with the gift for administration may not get much glory, but the greatest leaders recognize the important contribution of those who tend to the details - and we salute you all.
Happy Administrative Professionals Week!
Next week is Administrative Professionals Week. We're proud to be a great resource for admins, and they are some of our very most favorite people! Let's face it, these women and men are the glue that holds an office together. They go by many different job titles, but they all have one thing in common: they juggle a boatload of different tasks and have to be The One Who Knows All and The One Who Gets It All Done.
We want to show our appreciation by giving you all a big virtual hug, words of praise and by awarding one deserving admin with the title of Vmeals Administrative Professional of the Year - but we need your help. Got to our Facebook page and tell us why you deserve to win or nominate someone else you think deserves the title.
Maybe you don't feel comfortable blowing your own horn on Facebook, or maybe you're not allowed during business hours. No problem. Just shoot us an email: mfulton@vmeals.com and tell us who and why we should award this very prestigious title and a $150 Spa Finders gift card!
Next, Vmeals is our favorite cool technology solution to the age old question: What's for lunch? We think we're pretty hard-working and efficient and simple to use, but there are few things we still like to do the old-fashioned way. We think high quality customer service never goes out of style, and word of mouth remains our favorite form of advertising.
We reward our customers and friends who refer Vmeals to other friends and colleagues (you really are our favorite people!). In addition to VCAP points, everyone who refers someone who creates a new account with us this month will receive a $5 Starbucks gift card. The person who refers the most will receive a $250 Target gift card. Your referrals don't need to order for you to qualify, they simply need to register. How great is that?
So, aside from telling us why you deserve to win Vmeals Administrative Professional of the Year and telling all your fiends and coworkers about Vmeals, what have you got going on this Friday?
Well, that about sums it all up. Are your actions consistent with what you say is important to you?
| Cheers! |
If he were around today, he would certainly be blogging about food (and other things like architecture, gardening, religious freedom, etc). He would be totally into fresh, local and organic foods. His plantation home, Monticello, was the epitome of sustainability with his revolutionary garden.
But just like Vmeals, Mr. Jefferson was also on the cutting edge of food trends. He introduced the techniques of French chefs to his kitchen, and turned Americans on to vanilla, macaroni, and Italian olive oil, and he was the first person on record to own an ice cream freezer. He was an inventor and innovator and would have been delighted, I'm sure, by the creative ways we've used technology to connect and source meals.
It's all well and good that he gets lauded for the Louisiana Purchase and commissioning the Lewis and Clark expeditions, but he also brought us wine and ice cream. Let's remember what's really important here, folks.
So we wish Mr. Jefferson a very happy birthday. We are deeply in his culinary and innovative debt.
Get a look at his awesome birthday cake!
Sadly, I've seen too often that people are just as likely - maybe more likely - to only rise to the minimum standards required. Imagine if everyone in your organization set out to raise the bar a little every day. What could you do today to show everyone around you what excellence looks like?
I read this great post by Christine Kane yesterday about these 5 magic words - the ones that will help you get things done, the things that are most important to you. Are you ready for it? Here they are:
That's just what I do.
Well, it's no abra cadabra, so what makes these words so powerful? Presumably, you know what it is you want to accomplish, and you probably have a pretty good idea how to get there - the actions, activities and practices of someone who is successful.
So whether it's getting up early to work out, sitting down to write at a specified time, unplugging from phone, email, and Facebook for certain hours so you can work on that important project - don't think about if you feel like it, if you feel creative or energetic - just say to yourself: That's just what I do.
That's just what I do says I have established routines that work.
That's just what I do says I am committed and disciplined.
That's just what I do says I have faith in myself.
If you want to be someone who gets things done, then act like it. That's just what you do.
Did you know that when you order through Vmeals, there's an easy way to track your per person costs - no math required?
As you go through the order process, you will select the date, time and location of your event, then the menu and menu items you desire. You will then come to a screen that looks like this:
This screen (this is only a partial view) gives you the opportunity to attach as much information as you like to your order - charge codes, special instructions, internal notes (like "remember to set up the projector"), and attendance. That attendance number is optional, but can be quite helpful. If you enter the number of people you expect at your event, in addition to the running total you see in the Order Summary, you will also see the cost per person, to help you stay on top of your budget requirements.
Using the attendance field also helps our restaurant and catering partners with supplying just the right amount of paper products and utensils - no waste, no running short and no guess work. So you see, it pays to take attendance in to account when you are entering the details of your order.
Do you typically use the attendance field when you place an order?
The change of seasons is a good time to remember that our lives are seasonal. We will move through times of extraordinary beauty and promise, hard work and high productivity, harvest time and rest.
The way we experience time isn't quite linear, nor is it simply a repetitive circle. Think of it more like a slinky where you cycle through the rhythms of work and rest, striving and satisfaction, stretching and moving forward.
Just as we faithfully await for various trees, shrubs, and flowers bloom at their appointed time, remember that you too will blossom in due season - not just once - but again and again.
Updates
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Updates
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Do you need to get back on the wagon? http://t.co/9uwB3xHA
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Do you need to get back on the wagon? http://t.co/9uwB3xHA
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Making it festive for dad's birthday dinner. Happy birthday, Chris! http://t.co/ZU6ZKfAE
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Good to see @SuzanneHenry yesterday and @LoveThatFit today, even if they both humble me with their super hotness.
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What to Expect When You Join W4MTP http://t.co/XBeKNX2T
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Some good tips for travel/fitness: http://t.co/Z6G8sFqB but you're going to look douchey if you do squats in the security line.
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I've seen some foolish things on #Pinterest, but freezing left over cookie dough and wine? Who ever has leftover cookie dough or wine?
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When I was in #Liberia, I ran into some girls headed to their initiation http://t.co/pFZqayZS Must stop #FGM
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@jenontheedge could be, but I actually feel like walking is harder for me in some ways.
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Why do I feel more aches and pains on my walking days than my running days? annoying.
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RT @VmealsCS: From the archives: http://t.co/J7YRfxYV Where Everyone is Above Average
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Smoke and Mirrors zippered pouch/makeup bag by mollytogs http://t.co/v22Al7AZ via @Etsy
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RT @Carla_Julian wanted to give a shout out to Zenas Choi who just got my business.Will help me save time and money! @DMC_4DullesRail is in!
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What to Expect When You Join W4MTP http://t.co/XBeKNX2T
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Pretty sure I followed Fred Sanford in on 53 this morning.Afraid a rusty old lawn chair was going to fly off the back of his truck at me.
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She's the tops! http://t.co/kpTXKC0T
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making meatloaf http://t.co/ndfdTQmo
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Help @UNICEF spread the word about #SahelNOW! 1 Million+ children are suffering from severe malnutrition! #KloutForGood http://t.co/CbHHL99z
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RT @nadenlean: Nice to catch up with @VmealsCS this afternoon to discuss their catering several large events for us.
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Instructed to give this blank paper to nurse so she will know Kyle isn't on any medication. I feel a ranty b http://t.co/8cPSbS3i
Profile
Summary
Experience
- 2006 - PresentDirector of Sales & Marketing / VmealsLead a team of talented, remote sales people across the country in key metropolitan markets while also ramping up our inbound marketing efforts through social media, SEO, SEM, and content marketing.
- 1995 - PresentCenter Director / Knowledge Learning Corp
- Jan 1999 - PresentFamily Partner / Children, Youth, and Family Services
Education
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1982 - 1986University of VirginiaBA in History
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1984 - 1985University of St. Andrews
