Falling Asleep in My Lawn Chair

It’s quarter to ten on a Saturday morning. I am lounging on the patio. A slight breeze tosses my hair across my cheek. I consider brushing it away. Instead, I close my eyes and absorb the sunshine.

Over by the swings I can hear Beth scooping up rocks with her little red shovel. The rocks tinkle and clink on the blade as she ladles and digs. Though she doesn't have a plan or purpose, I can sense a rythm in her motion.

Beth is wearing a pretty, orange sundress with a bright yellow sunflower splashed across the front. She is singing the Mickey Mouse song and giggling softly. I can hear the smile in her voice as she hums and plays.

A black bird, no bigger than my hand, with a red breast is perched on top of the swing set. It’s watching Beth, studying her moves. The bird tilts its head to the right and begins to chirp.

A few houses away, a neighbor fires up his lawn mower. At first, the machine roars, like a bear waking from a nap. After a few minutes, it settles into a steady purr, joining the chorus. The sounds mix together. They ebb and flow like waves on a beach.

The breeze catches the spirit and, feeling inspired, picks up its pace and begins to dance. The gentle wind tickles the branches of our petite ash tree, the one we planted when we first moved into the neighborhood. The tree jiggles, as it claps along. Closer to the house, the flowers and bushes sway and swoon.

I rock slowly in my lawn chair. The sounds embrace me. I breath deep, tasting fresh, clean air. The singing, chirping, buzzing and rustling merge, and for one moment, I understand the feeling of peace.

A minute later, I am asleep.

The Grass Will Grow Back

I am in the kitchen. Beth (2) rushes in. She is clasping a clump of tangerine day lilies in her hands.

"Mommy, I picked you flowers!" She giggles.

I peek out the kitchen door into my garden. The flower bed behind the house has been trampled and all of the blooms have been plucked off the stems. I can feel my blood pressure rising as I think of all the time I spent weeding and caring for the flowers.

As I scan the scene of the devastation, I want to shout "You ruined my garden!"

But when I look into Beth's round brown eyes, puffy cheeks and happy smile, I know I can't do that. The flowers will grown back, I tell myself.

I am out in the yard. Eric (7) is climbing our ash tree. It's barely more than a sapling but the lowest limb is just strong enough to hold a small boy. He is pulling chunks of leafs off the branches and stuffing them into a bag.

"Look Mom." He calls. "I have a hundred leaves."

The tree seems to buckle a bit under his weight. The lowest branches are bare now, cleaned of their coverings. I can feel my heart pound as I think of the time and money spent coaxing the tree to grow.

My poor little tree, I lament as I survey the mess. I want to shout "Stop ruining my tree!"

But when Eric flashes a wide grin, I know I can't do that. The leaves will grow back, I tell myself.

I am sitting in the yard with Emily (4). She is yanking fists full of grass out of the lawn. She tosses it in the air like confetti and shrieks.

"Mommy, it's raining grass!" She exclaims.

I frown. There are brown blotches all over the lawn. I can feel my stomach clench as I think of days spent watering and feeding the grass.

The lawn is ruined, I think as I examine her work. I want to scream "What are you doing, stop it!"

But when Emily laughs and throws her arms around my neck, I know I can't do that. The grass will grow back, I tell myself.

I am sitting on the couch flipping through a photo album. There's Eric when he was three. He's hugging his teddy bear and smiling. This one is Emily when she was learning to walk. She's wearing a pink dress. See how proud she is. Here is Beth. She's just a few days old. She's wrapped up tight in her blue blanket with her eyes squeezed shut. I can feel my eyes brim with a small tear.

They keep changing and growing, I think. Inside, I am pleading. "Slow down! Stop growing. Please stay small for just a little bit longer."

But when my babies bound into the room and jump on my lap, I know I can't make that happen. They won't grow back. They will only grow up.

A New Superhero Hero In Town

Eric (7) is dressed in his black Nina Halloween costume. He jumps into the family room and kicks his right foot into the air. He pumps his fists and shouts “Ha!”

“Whatcha doin bud?” I ask.

“Ridding the world of evil.” He says.

“Well, maybe do it with a little less jumping and shouting. I can’t hear the TV.”

“Mom,” Eric sighs. “With great power comes great responsibility.”

I love the fact that Eric is so confident in his superpowers. As he bounds around the room ferreting out evil from under the sofa cushions, I start to think about what he says. And I start to wonder, is great power limited to super heros?

I’m just a simple Midwestern gal. I live in a modest suburban house just north of a cornfield. I take my kids to swim class. I make oatmeal for breakfast. That doesn’t sound much like great power to me.

No power means no responsibility, right?

Wrong.

Even though I don’t sling webs and swing from building to building, I have tremendous power. And every day I am faced with a choice. How will I use my power.

It starts when I wake up in the morning. I have the power to start my day off on the right foot. I can choose to slog through my shower. I can growl at my husband and snarl at the kids. Or I can smile and be thankful that God has given me another day to hug and kiss my family. I have the power.

When I go to work, I can glare at my co-workers. I can roll my eyes and slump in my chair at meetings. I can complain about my boss, my pay, my job, my day. Or I can smile and be thankful that God has given me a means to make a living and to pay the bills. I have the power.

When I drive home from work, I can scream at the idiot who just cut me off. I can give him the finger and shout obscenities. I can waggle my fist at the traffic jam. Or I can smile and be thankful that God has allowed me to make it safely to my destination. I have the power.

I have the power to make my own day better. I have the power to influence my family and friends. I have the power to influence the lives of people I have never met.

I have the power.

With my great power, I have great responsibility. A great duty. To leave a mark on the world. To make it a better place. To share something as simple as a smile.

That is my power. That is my responsibility.

Spiderman, look out. There’s a new superhero in town.

Plastic Tubs of Margarine

“Mom, we recycle, right?” Eric (7) asked.

“Sure.” I said. “We recycle newspapers, cans, plastic and glass."

Eric smiled. A few weeks ago, his class celebrated Earth Day. They talked about the three “R’s” – recycle, renew, reuse. Amongst the seven year old set, going green is all the rage.

When I was a kid, there was no Earth Day. And re-cycling was when you rode your bicycle again and again. No one had an environmental conscious or worried about their carbon footprint.

It wasn’t because we didn’t care about Mother Earth. It was because we were too poor to recycle. Interesting enough, our deficiency of wealth probably made us better stewards of the environment than most environmentalists of today.

Take plastic margarine containers. Once they were empty, we didn’t throw them out. We washed them to use again.

Mom had a hundred uses for margarine containers. They could keep food fresh in the refrigerator – no need to spend $19.99 on Tupperware. They could be used to sort nuts and bolts – who needs a fancy workbench. They made great art projects – this week it’s a drum, next week it’s a boat.

Nana's motto was reuse. One teabag made at least two cups of tea. And she could easily stretch a single bottle of shampoo to two by diluting with water. Torn clothes were never discarded. They were repaired and worn again. And again. And again.

On the food front, Nana was even more resourceful. Dandelion greens were transformed into salads. Wild fruits were cultivated. Leftovers were never left. And when it came to meat, Nana ate every part of the pig except the oink. Don't even ask what she did with leftover bacon grease from the bottom of the skillet. I can feel my arteries hardening just thinking about it.

When I was a kid, we used shoe leather express more and our cars less. And we rarely bought new things. We couldn't afford them. Being poor forced us to consider our circumstances. Do I need something new? Or can I make do with what I have. Most of the time, the answer was "make do."

As "environmental conscious" becomes more of a mantra, I wonder if we aren't focusing on the wrong theme. Instead of talking about recycle, renew, reuse, I wonder if we would be better off talking about "making do."

As Eric tossed the used margarine container into the recycle bin, he smiled. He felt proud to do his part to save the earth. But I felt a bit guilty and wondered whether I shouldn’t save the plastic container – just in case I need to store some buttons.

Happily Ever After

What’s Your Story?

In a few days, my nephew Daniel will graduate from high school. Dan is a smart kid who works hard and who has a big heart. Instead of spending his final days of his senior year attending parties, Dan will be on his way to Haiti to help restore the lives of those impacted by the earthquake from earlier this year.

In my blog today, I offer some advice to Dan as he officially enters the world of adults.

Dear Daniel:

Once upon a time there was a boy.

In a few days, you will graduate. A few weeks after that, you’ll leave home and go to college.

I remember the day you were born. It was a snowy March day and the roads were slick. I remember when you were a toddler with a bright smile. You enjoyed playing with matchbox cars and building things. You wore warm footy jammies to bed and fell asleep hugging your cookie monster.

Like most small boys, you loved stories. Your mom read to you about Thomas the Train. She read to you about trucks and cars. She read, “I Love You Forever”.

Children thrive on stories. Stories are powerful. They evoke compelling memories and teach important lessons. Some stick with us for years.

Once upon a time there was a boy.

Stories aren’t just fiction and fantasy. They are not just dreams and wishes. Every day is a story. Every person is a story. Your Mom is a story. Your Dad is a story. You are a story.

The move from student to adult is the perfect time to assess your story. To look at yourself and say “What is My Story? What Story Do I Want to Be? And How Can I Make Someone Else’s Story Better.”

Once upon a time there was a boy.

So, what is your story? Is it a list of where you were born, where you grew up, what you did? No, that’s your resume, your history. Its not your story. Real stories aren’t about what happened. Real stories are about “why did it happen this way.”

Think Star Wars. What’s the story? Boy meets droid. Boy has an adventure. Boy defeats the death star. No, that would be boring because the recited facts are nothing more than history.

But Star Wars wasn’t boring. That’s because Star Wars wasn’t about the facts and the events. The real story was about Good versus Evil. Freedom versus Imprisonment. Love versus Hate. That’s what made it compelling.

Like Star Wars, your story is complex. Because your real story isn’t about where you were born, where you live or where you are going. Your real story is about your values.

Your values define your story. Be honest. Choose to do the right thing. Be a person that others want to emulate. That is your story.

Once upon a time there was a boy.

Don’t stop with knowing your values. Instead, ask, “What do I want my story to be.”

Do you want to be a famous pilot? Do you want to live humbly and simply? The story you will become is up to you.

You have the power to shape your story. First, by dreaming big. Second by surrounding yourself with other people who share your dreams.

Great stories are not written on small dreams. They are written on yearnings that are larger than life.

You can desire things that are bigger than you, things that seem impossible. The higher your goals, the more likely you are to write a great story.

Great stories are not written about one character. Every great story contains a multitude of supporting characters. The friends who help the hero be bigger and better than himself. The people who spur him on. The Ron Weasleys. The Hermione Grangers. The Albus Dumbledores. The people who help make Harry Potter great.

Pick your friends carefully. Choose to be influenced by those we are good. Learn from those who dare to dream good dreams. Find people who are smarter than you are, more successful than you are, stronger than you, happier than you, better than you. Find people who share your values. Find people who share your dreams. Be with them.

Once upon a time there was a boy.

When you think you know what you want your story to be, remember this. In every great epic adventure, the ultimate success of the hero wasn’t what he did for himself. It was what he did for someone else. Great stories teach us not to spend our life trying to make our own story great. They teach us to make someone else’s story better.

It's Charlotte giving her life to save Wilbur. It's Superman saving the world. Because life’s greatest question isn’t how you can succeed. It’s how you can be useful to others.

Be useful. When you dream, dream beyond your own wants. Dream for those who have lost their dreams.

Once upon a time there was a boy who did great things.

Your story is being written. You have the power to decide what the next chapter will say. You have the power to make someone else's story better. You have the power to create your own “Happily ever after.”

I Love Meeka

Emily has a friend named Meeka. Emily tells me that Meeka lives in a large brick house that we often pass on our way home from preschool.

Meeka has an older brother named Pablo. Meeka also has a baby sister and a baby brother. The baby sister is named Moon Dancer. The younger brother is also named Pablo.

Meeka likes chocolate ice cream more than vanilla. She likes to wear pink dresses and ballet slippers.

Meeka’s favorite movie is “My Little Pony.” Her favorite book is “Go Dog Go.” Meeka likes everything that Emily likes.

I’ve never met Meeka. No one has, except Emily. Meeka is Emily’s imaginary friend.

I love Meeka. I love that Emily has an enormous imagination. And I love that Emily sometimes invites me into her dreams.

“Meeka and I are going to the pony dream castle.” Emily tells me.

“How will you get there?” I ask.

“The ponies will take us.” She says. “Will you come to?”

I’d like to go to the dream castle. But I don’t know the way. I’ve lost my map, I suppose. So Emily goes without me, just her and Meeka.

When Emily returns I ask her about her adventure. “What do you do at the dream castle?”

“We play hide and seek with the clouds.”

Emily tells me about her adventures. She talks about pink sand castles and blue and red balloons. She mentions flying unicorns and magic stars. She tells me about princesses and fairies.
“Maybe I’ll go with you. Next time.” I say.

Emily takes my hand. “Let’s go now.” She giggles.

I pull her close and hug her tight. “OK.” I say. “Let’s go now.”

Wishing So Well

Every once in a while some thoughts pop into my head. And when they come out again, they take the form of a rhyme.

I wish someone had told me
That blue birds weren’t really blue.
It would have been a funny thing,
Even though it isn’t true.

I wish someone had told me
That bobcats were all named Steve.
It would have been a silly thought,
Even though it’s make believe.

I wish someone had told me
That horseshoes were found out dogs.
It would have been so comical,
Like a day dream in a fog.

I wish someone had told me
That catfish liked to purr.
It would have been hilarious,
Though fantasy for sure.

I wish someone had told me
That imagination lasted all day.
Then I would not need to wake up
And see my visions float away.

I Quit

My face is red. I can feel the sweat rolling down my neck. My legs hurt. My breathing is heavy. “What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself. But I keep moving. My feet pound the ground in a steady rhythm.

Mile one.

The idea came to me last summer. Out of the blue, I decided I wanted to run a race. Not a marathon. Not a sprint. A simple 5K would do. (That's 3.5 miles for the metricly challenged).

At forty-ahem years old, I admit I’m not much of an athlete. In the days BC (before children), I played a lot of volleyball. I was younger. Much younger. Much, much, much younger.

When I was in college, I would play all day if I could. But I kept getting older and my opponents kept getting younger.

So I quit.

My shirt is soaked. I smell like a locker room. My feet hurt. “Is it time to stop yet?” I ask myself. But I keep moving. My arms rock back and forth. I try to concentrate on my steps.

Mile two.

I tried the gym next. Water bottle. Check. Headphones. Check. Work out clothes. Clean towel. Check. I spent hour upon mundane hour slogging on the treadmill. Always walking. Never getting anywhere. It got boring.

So I quit.

Three kids later, I desperately needed to exercise. But there was no time. Eric’s soccer practice was on Wednesday. The girls’ music class was on Tuesday. Thursday was swim class. There wasn’t room for exercise.

So I quit.

I plod past a man standing by his car. I recognize him. He started the race when I did. But he's finished the race. He’s heading home already; and I am still running. He waves as I jog past. “You’re almost there.” He smiles. I keep moving.

Mile three.

I came up with the idea of running a race last summer. It seemed so crazy. So impossible. So improbable. I couldn’t even say the words aloud.

"You're a bit old to take up running" I told myself. But the idea kept nagging me until I gave into it.

I knew if I had any chance of pulling this off, I needed a partner in crime. I sent an e-mail to my friend Erin. “Hey, I have a crazy idea. Hear me out before you say no. We should take up running. It’s great exercise. What do you think?”

Her response: “Run? Only if I’m being chased.”

This was going to take more persuasion.

My breathing is heavy. My feet are throbbing. I’m not sure I can go any further. But I can see the finish line. So I keep moving.

I think back to a year ago. The first day I ran. I barely made it to the end of the block. A mile seemed like forever.

It's getting closer. I pick up my pace. My heart is racing. Just a few more steps.

This time, I didn’t quit.

P.S. Erin ran this 5K with me. A few weeks later, she was scheduled to run a half marathon.

The Dragon Under My Bed Likes My Room Messy

Kids are smarter than you think. Here are ten creative excuses a Mom might hear when she insists on some help around the house. Appropriate responses are also included.

Number 1:
Child: I’m busy saving the world from alien invaders.
Mom: Playing a computer game doesn't make you a freedom fighter. Get to work.

Number 2:
Child: My imaginary friend, Dwayne, promised he would do it.
Mom: When Dwayne’s done I’ll give him your imaginary allowance.

Number 3:
Child: I can’t take out the garbage, I’m allergic to stink.
Mom: Are you allergic to spending a week in your room?

Number 4:
Child: Doing dishes is not in my contract.
Mom: I’ll see you in court. In the meantime, get 'er done.

Number 5:
Child: I’m building a time machine. When I’m finished, I’ll travel back in time and do it.
Mom: You already built a time machine. I used it to travel here from the future to tell you to clean your room.

Number 6:
Child: Don’t you think it’s unfair to take jobs away from people who need to work?
Mom: Why do you think I became a parent? Free labor.

Number 7:
Child: The dragon that lives under my bed prefers that I keep my room messy.
Mom: The monster standing in front of you is going to eat the dragon.

Number 8:
Child: That’s not trash on the floor in my room; it’s a science experiment.
Mom: Penicillin’s already been discovered. Clean up the mess.

Number 9:
Child: If I clean the floors, you might think we don’t need you anymore.
Mom: Well, I don’t want you to feel left out either. Here’s a mop.

Number 10:Child: I’d rather spend my time hugging you.
Mom: Here's ten bucks. Take the day off.