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MOOOOOMMM! ...yep, that's me

May 13, 2012

if it seems like i’ve fallen off the grid, you’re right. no time to call. or write. or even breathe (or so it seems when i’m whirling around like a dervish trying to keep up).

you see, i’ve been a little busy…

dinner. laundry. skinned knees. referee. music concerts. teacher conferences. potty diapers. potty talk. juggling. struggling. sassy. stinky. silly. playtime. bedtime. kidtime. all the time.

sometimes it seems like, as moms, we do everything. but days like today remind us that, to our kids, perhaps we are everything.

little moments add up to a lifetime of being there…and there’s no other “there” than i’d rather be.

happy mother’s day!

In life Tags defining moments in life, motherhood
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i will fix you

December 1, 2011

when you’re a parent, your world revolves around caring for your kids. you pick them up when they fall. wipe their tears when they cry. hold them close when they’re scared. raise them up when they're down. hold their hand. heal their heart.

it seems an awfully imbalanced relationship—a one way street of complete dependency.

but then i’m reminded how far from the truth that is.

recently i lost a friend unexpectedly. when the news sunk in, there was sadness. anger at the inexplicable circumstances. the inability to do anything about it. but a simple hug from two sweet little boys was comfort. perspective. love. support.

i was restored.

ever notice how, when something sad happens, people always say “go hug your kids today.” what is that all about? well, as much as you give the world to them, your kids give it right back to you in return. they are walking, talking, giggling reminders of what truly matters.

In family, life Tags defining moments in life, loss
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hitting bedrock

April 13, 2011

after a particularly grueling week of stress, unexpected surprises and shifting priorities, i ran into a friend in the hallway.

we half-smiled at each other. "how are you?"

it was really a rhetorical question as i could tell from her body language that her week was pretty much the same as mine. "oh you know...fine."

after we exchanged obligatory pleasantries, it was time to cut to the chase. like an episode of west wing, there we were, walking and talking in rapid fire succession. there was frustration about this. uncertainty about that. and a general sense of anxiety about our respective situations.

more often than not, with venting comes relief. whatever you're struggling with, simply talking about it, getting if off your chest, helps ease the burden...and of course sometimes, it only makes it worse.

on this particular day, it was the latter.  i was tapped out. fried. crusty. and to top it off, i had to race like a bat out of hell to get to a parent teacher conference for which i was late. in the middle of rush hour.

when i got to the school, i was a mess. trenchcoat belt dragging on the floor. hair disheveled. heels clicking frantically on the shiny polished floors as i ran down to the hallway to the classroom.

the door flung open. "sorry i'm late!"  my voice was breathy from the 40-yard stiletto sprint. "it's been a crazy day."

warm smiling faces looked back at me from the little table where they were seated. a stack of report cards lay on one corner and a box of kleenex sat right smack dab in the center of the table. i took a seat in one of the small red chairs.

"so what can we say about your son. not sure if you saw his report card."

i did.  pretty much all 1s from top to bottom. over the years, we've been incredibly fortunate to have a kid who loves learning and soaks up new concepts and experiences like a sponge. we'd grown accustomed to glowing reports. i presumed this would be no different.

i was right...sort of.

they ran through the usual list of aptitudes: math, science, spelling check. he was doing great in all.

"well isn't there anything we should watch out for or be aware of?"

the teachers looked at each other. and then turned to me.

"mrs. jones, no. you guys should be proud of yourselves. not only does your son love school, he's just a nice guy. he is kind, has empathy, he helps friends out if they're struggling, without being condescending. we can put him in any group and he interacts seamlessly. he could earn an allowance with how much he helps tidy up the classroom...i guess if we had to say anything, he does sometimes need to be reminded to keep quiet during independent activities--but that's only because he LOVES to chat and tell stories. he is a special kid."

as i listened, i could feel the pools welling up in my eyes. if you know me at all, you know that it doesn't take much...but this was an epiphany. all of a sudden, on my long list of goals and priorities, one thing rose straight up to the top. have i raised my child to be a good person? have i equipped him with the skills to succeed in life, to have a positive outlook, to hopefully share his talents and brightness (both intellect and heart) with others? for this moment in time, the answer was yes. on this goal, i had earned an EE: exceeds expectations.

they pushed the kleenex box toward me. "now these are the kind of tears we like!"

sitting in the mini-chairs, surrounded by the word wall and artwork and maps and books, i learned an invaluable lesson...and all the other angst from earlier in the day dissipated.

we all have bad days, weeks, even months. when it feels like the shit is rolling downhill, building momentum, hurdling forward with no ability to stop it. but eventually it hits bedrock. reaches solid ground. it may wear on the foundation, but it can't move it. it can't move you.

i was reminded that my family is my foundation. the core. what matters most. they are my touchstones. nothing in life is more true. pure. or restorative.

In family, life Tags defining moments in life
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pay it forward

April 2, 2011

i can vividly remember two distinct events in my life that reminded me—on a fundamental level—how good people can be. how optimism can trump negativity. how genuine acts of kindness can make you see that we’re not all crusty, self-serving assholes that roam the earth on an endless quest for personal gain. that sometimes, just sometimes, you can do things for the sole purpose of making other people happy.

the first instance happened when i was six years old. we went shopping at our neighborhood grocery store, pick-n-pay. as my parents meandered through the produce aisles, i went off to the bakery section to peruse the desserts. i was in awe: a magical snow white cake with seven dwarfs making their way merrily down a sprinkled path. giant cupcakes. chocolate frosted eclairs. glazed donuts. cookies for days. there i was, a little girl with eyes wide and nose pressed up against the glass, lost in reverie around these amazing delicacies…

and then i heard a voice speaking to me from behind the counter. i was too small to see who it was so i had to take a few steps back. “hi dear, well aren’t you cute,” said the sweet-faced lady in a white apron and tufts of blond hair peeking out of her hairnet.

back then, i was terribly shy so i just cracked a nervous smile.

“would you like to pick out a cookie?”

my heart started racing. i had my favorite patchwork lion purse (complete with yarn mane) strapped across my chest. it was fierce and fashionable, but much like now, there wasn’t any money it! so i froze.

“don’t worry dear. go ahead and pick one out.” her face was kind and reassuring. i scooted toward the glass case frantically scanning my options. as i got closer, my gaze settled in on the target. i lifted my little finger timidly toward the case and pointed at the giant, perfectly circular chocolate chip cookie.

she smiled. “that’s a great choice!” she pulled a piece of wax paper out, grabbed the cookie, and leaned over the counter to hand it to me. “there you go sweetheart. enjoy!” and that was it. i didn’t have to pay.  she just gave me a cookie, showed me some kindness—and i walked away with an indelible memory. lesson #1: people can do good, not because they have to. not because they want anything in return. not because anyone is watching. just because.

flash forward to my first year out of college. i was living in chicago and, like every dutiful notre dame alumni, was making the trek to the golden dome for the first home game of the season. if you’ve ever made the drive, it’s short…but far from scenic. suffocating pollution in gary, indiana. annoying traffic on the highway that is perpertually under construction.

nonetheless, my roommate and i were excited to get back to our alma mater, old friends and, of course, the long-island-iced-tea-stained linebacker dance floor.  we made our way out of the city and were cruising along toward the skyway. from the distance, we could see a backup of cars.

“great. traffic. this is taking away serious tailgating time. ” (nice to know i had my priorities in line…yeesh!...but i digress.) we inched our way to the toll booth at a snail’s pace, getting crustier by the second. i fumbled around for the $2.00 toll fee and pulled down the window.  i extended my hand to give him the money.

instead of the typical, weathered toll operator scowl, he had a twinkle in his eye. “don’t worry about it ma’am.”

“excuse me?”

“the guy in front of you paid your toll.”

i was flabbergasted. it was such an unexpected, random act. we were elated…and inspired.

“here you go, sir.” i handed him the money. “pay it forward, baby!”

we exchanged cheshire cat grins and i drove away. lesson #2: it really does feel as good, if not exponentially better, to give than receive.

these little epiphanies are often taught, but rarely felt. in real life. tiny gestures—a 50 cent cookie, a $2.00 toll—that can have a tremendous impact on another human being.

the whole rest of the drive, i kept thinking: “who does that kind of thing?”

well, it’s the same kind of person that returned my wallet, everything intact, when i lost it on the train. and the friend that surprised me with an amazing bouquet of flowers the other day, just for simply being a friend.

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it’s you and me. random acts. unspoken words, spoken. a pat on the back. a phone call. a small effort. a big thank you. a bit of affirmation. appreciation. an ear to listen. a shoulder to lean on. a reminder that a little good has a lot of power.

pay it forward, baby.

In life Tags defining moments in life, live your best life
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play to the top row

December 24, 2010

portrait of dorcas

tell me that’s not a subhead that grabs your attention! yes, her name was actually dorcas. dorcas lavina snow. the tattered yellow newspaper clippings framed on her wall told of her descendants braving the atlantic on “the good ship anne” and settling in plymouth, massachusetts in 1623. eventually her family migrated to brecksville, ohio and settled much of the quaint town on the west side of cleveland.

our paths intersected one fateful day when i was a freshman in high school. it was an all too familiar scene. my mom, standing at the foot of the stairs yelling to us early on a saturday morning.

“get dressed! we’re going to meet your new piano teacher!”

“shit!” the collective groan could be heard from both my brother’s and my rooms. “here we go…”

since i was in kindergarten, we had a revolving door of horrific piano teachers.  bernadette, a snappy twenty-something blonde who taught lessons above a candy store (the only saving grace) and made me cry when I struck the wrong keys. miss woodman at the cleveland institute of music, a haughty, balding woman with a shrill voice and penchant for not wearing bras. miss castellano, a mean spirited italian princess who would tap her pen to the beat of the song and tell us we “should be ashamed of ourselves” for not practicing more. needless to say, we were not excited to meet the next perpetrator of our musical torture.

when we exited off the highway, we turned onto snow road, aptly named for miss snow’s father. she lived in an old white colonial with black shudders. we rung the doorbell and her filipino maid maria opened the door. sweet.

“an old white lady with a filipino maid is going to teach two new filipino kids some piano.” i could feel the dread bubbling up inside me.

we walked down the long creaky corridor to the “parlor.” the smell of mothballs and roasted chicken from the local stage coach restaurant permeated the air. at the end of the hallway, there were six old queen anne victorian chairs with scrolled legs and faded tapestry seat covers lined up. the sitting room was adjacent to a pair of white french doors that were closed shut.

then one of the doors swung open. dorcas snow. was she a sight to behold! old. no, decrepit. white stringy hair tied up in a bun. thick, cloudy cat-eye glasses. a parchment lace blouse that buttoned up to her neck. floral prairie skirt hiked up to just below her bosom. white lace ankle socks and gnarled feet stuffed into pointy caramel brown heels.

it was difficult to process how this little old lady could possibly teach me anything besides how to dress like a granny on little house on the prarie…but as my eyes gazed past her, there was a serious clue. after she greeted us, she opened up the second double door, and there, in the next room, were two gleaming 8-foot Steinway concert grand pianos, their undulating curves nestled perfectly together like two pieces of the most glamorous jigsaw puzzle you’ve ever seen.

this lady meant business. sometimes she was wistful and nostalgic. other times she was stern and crotchety. but she always commanded the utmost respect when she’d tell you to step aside, hobble over to the piano, and bang out a concerto with the verve of a sixteen-year-old.

she was a concert pianist in her youth and demanded excellence. even with all the high school angst and bitterness about having to forgo precious mall time to practice piano, you did it—in order to avoid humiliation, in order to please her, and shockingly, in order to push yourself, to revel in how you could possibly make the piano sing like you never imagined you could.

miss snow had an uncanny ability to size up not only your technical aptitude, but also your aura, your unique personal style. she selected songs that played perfectly into your strengths. for my brother, it was melodic, upbeat rhythms a la gershwin. for me, it was all about finesse—idyllic reveries and pieces that required emotion, expression, touch.

the only problem was, in all the years of “playing the piano,” i never really understood what that meant. sure, i could read the notes. i’d bang them out. when the direction said pianissimo, i played softer. crescendo, i played louder. staccato, crisp and light. ritardo, slow it down.

i learned the difference when it came time for our first big recital. i was given my piece: a prelude by rachmaninoff. it was intimidating, but eventually i committed it to memory. i was quite proud of myself when i went into my lesson.

i sat down on the bench and started the song. miss snow listened. from the corner of my eye, i saw her fidgeting. i played a few more bars. then I saw the grimace. the next thing I heard was the clapping.

“hold on, hold on. stop for a minute.”

she hobbled over to the bench. “i can tell that you have been practicing because you have the notes memorized, and that’s great. but you’re missing something.”

“what was she talking about? i sacrificed some serious phone time to learn this stupid song.”

she plopped right down on the bench next to me and pulled up her sleeves. she crouched down and started to play. her bony frame swayed to the melody while her curled fingers traversed the keys like a dancer pirouetting across the stage. the piano was shaking and i could feel the music. in my gut. could my eyes actually be welling up from hearing, or rather feeling, the music?

after she played the last chord, she stopped, turned, and looked me in the eyes.

“when you play—whether in your living room at home or in the biggest concert hall—play to the top row. like you mean it. so you feel it.”

during this season of fresh starts and new year’s resolutions, miss snow’s words ring true. playing the piano, much like life, can be rote. you go through the motions. memorize the notes. but do you really live like you mean it? so you feel it?

if not, it’s never too late to start.

Tags defining moments in life, live your best life
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