forgive yourself

i’m only 53 days late for my new years resolution. and the xmas cards, which for the last few years have become the new years card, this year, officially became the facebook post.

i have a perfectly legitimate excuse. i left the company i’ve worked at for seven years—a job and people i know inside and out—and took a new post at another agency. better title, bigger challenge, a world of new opportunity…and a heaping helping of additional stress… all while juggling parenting, two kids, household chores, and the myriad of annoying little tasks that make up daily life.

yet somehow, the voice inside my head refuses to cut me some slack. i have this nagging sense of guilt. my conscience wags its critical finger, chiding me for all the failures i’ve racked up during this time of transition. cousin xmas gifts—finally in the mail, just shy of march. photo canvases and family albums—a mere figment of my time-zapped imagination. best friend phone call five months overdue thanks to the barrage of homework and nightly bedtime rituals. closet purging—suspended in my room, halfway done in once-organized piles that get a little more messy with each morning’s mad dash to get dressed and out the door. spring cleaning—yeah right. talk to the tornado whose name starts with “L” and ends with “ogan.”

i feel like a wimp for even whining about it. like the “dog ate my homework" excuse, it seems like a cop-out. “sorry, all of you fabulous friends who managed to go see santa (another mandatory ritual i also missed this year), crank out ten batches of cookies AND send out cards on time (hell, at all!)… i just got too busy so i opted out this year. and to make matters more egregious, i refused to confess my failure on facebook to make a point, if only to myself.

a couple friends who are also fighting the good fight, spinning, twirling and treading to get through each day, actually apologized to everyone for not getting cards out in time. this really broke my heart. i completely understood the sentiment… but it just wasn’t right. i know i certainly wasn’t holding a grudge. and i’m sure none of their 500 other frenzied friends weren’t either. 

i saw this photo on instagram many months ago and saved it because it just struck a chord. in this day and age, we’re all over-worked, over-stretched, sometimes just plain “over it.”

maybe, just maybe, it’s time we give ourselves a break. maybe it’s not all of your friends on facebook, posting perfect posts and curating catchy captions, that are judging you. maybe it’s actually YOU. trying to live up to an ideal of perfection that is just that: an ideal. a cosmo or stepford or cinderella myth—meant to make you feel bad for failing to live up to the unrealistic standard of perfection you hold yourself to.

i came to the realization recently on report card day. that one time nine years ago when i only had one kid and time to actually read parenting advice, i read an article in new york magazine about “the power (and peril) of praise.” it was both interesting and counterintuitive. my parents focused on grades. “all A’s…or else.” the outcomes were of supreme importance. but no, in this article, the preeminent authorities on the subject gave a very important directive: to set your kids up for success, you have to praise the effort, not the end result.” by focusing only on the outcomes, they fixate on failure, start buying into the narrative that they don’t measure up, find themselves lost, and lack the resilience to push through adversity.

sound familiar?

my resolution for 2015: follow the advice i constantly tell my kids. “as long as you try your best, that’s what counts.” as long as you’re in the moment during the times that matter, that’s true success. not the final grade. or your goal weight. or whatever it is that motivates you—and drives you mad.

all of us overachievers are gunning for the A+: holding ourselves to too high standards, trying to execute flawlessly, berating ourselves for all the things that didn’t go exactly as planned. instead we should be celebrating the little wins, daily victories. a kind gesture. a gorgeous sunrise. a good laugh with an old friend. a perfect hair day. a pat on the back for a job well done. or even, on some days, simply getting up and out of bed when all you want to do is hide under the covers until it’s safe to come out.

and even when you do hit the mark, no matter how high, at the pinnacle of so-called “success,” you may feel like an imposter, a fraud. but guess what? we all do. the truth is: we’re all winging it. “nobody knows what the hell they are doing.”

two cases in point:

the late maya angelou, one of the greatest writers of our time, once said: “i have written 11 books, but each time, i think ‘uh-oh. they’re going to find out now. i’ve run a game on everybody and they’re going to find me out.’” 

similarly, david carr, a highly acclaimed reporter who covered the intersection of media and pop culture for the new york times, recently passed away. one of his most famous quotes echoes the sentiment. “i now inhabit a life i don’t deserve, but we all walk this earth feeling we are frauds. the trick is to be grateful and hope the caper doesn’t end soon.”

so just keep pressing on. stop comparing. start living. trust your instincts. be true to you. remember that everyone’s shiny facebook highlight reel isn’t the full picture of what’s real. and gratitude, rather than self-loathing, goes a long way.

most importantly, believe that your best is actually good enough. because it is.

riding the wave

i can remember the first time vividly. the blue beneath our feet looked harmless enough, light ripples in the sunlight—not a hint of warning about the turbulence to come.

when the steamy, translucent gates parted, we waded in slowly, gradually ascending the heights until we reached a point of statis. terra firma. level ground. the vibe was chill, relaxed, even inviting—especially for a first timer—but we stuck close together as his eyes enlarged to take in the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and ever so peculiar smells engulfing him.

i thought it would be an amazing adventure: his first bus ride. and when we boarded, his excitement about embarking on such a reviled mode of transportation amazed me. i handed him the crumpled dollar from my purse and did my best to flatten out the bill, smoothing it between my fingers to ensure it would get accepted. he fumbled a bit, hurriedly trying to stuff it into the narrow slot as the bus driver watched blankly. finally, on the third try, he found his mojo, staring intently with delight as george washington’s face got sucked up ever so smoothly into the machine.

“third time’s the charm, bud!”

beaming with a sense of accomplishment and relief, he followed anxiously on my heels to see what was next. we slowly shuffled forward—you know the move: barely lift your feet and slide several inches, right-left, right-left, following behind the person in front of you, close enough to be able to slip into an empty seat if you stumble upon it, but far enough away where no bodily contact happens. ever.

his eyes opened wide as he scanned the strange surroundings. seniors, tweeners, hipsters and homeless people.  he was clearly fascinated by the array of colorful commuters he witnessed as we made our way to the middle of the bus. per usual, i scanned the rows for an opening while simultaneously avoiding eye contact of any sort (a skill honed and perfected after years of taking the dank red line subway).

nothing.

he looked up at me nervously.

“don’t worry, honey.” i pulled him close and showed him the shiny silver pole by the center doors. “just hang on to this and it’ll be fine,” i reassured him, intentionally leaving out the sordid images popping into my mind of the dregs of humanity, and all the grimy hands that grasped the metal lifeline throughout the day, even seconds before ours. “bring on the purell,” i muttered under my breath.

“huh?

“it’ll be fun, i can tell!” i articulated loudly, earnestly trying to reinforce his genuine anticipation.

he wrapped both hands around the pole, and readied himself. it was a white-knuckled grip for sure—not because he was scared, but simply due to the fact that he didn’t know what to expect. i, on the other hand, had wrapped my jacket-clad arm around the pole to stabilize myself while avoiding actually touching the cootie-laden structure. (i figured this was an intermediate lesson, a trick i could teach him on ride #3 or 4, after he had successfully completed this maiden voyage.)

the doors slammed shut, and as the bus began to move, it melted my heart to see the corners of his eyes wrinkle up when he smiled—just like mine—a giant grin that radiated happiness, though he was trying to play it cool to blend in with the crusty commuters surrounding us.

for the next few stops, he was in the groove, letting go of his vice grip as he started to get the hang of the ebb and flow. he clearly found comfort knowing the trusty old pole was there if and when he needed it. a safe base. the novice was getting his bearings. my little jedi in transit training.

things were all well and good…until we got to chicago and milwaukee, where the subway and bus stops converge. by the time we had arrived, it was rush hour and the mass of bodies pushed forward when the steamy glass doors swung open. unlike the nirvana of literally minutes before, we were packed in like sardines.

helpless to resist the momentum, we surged forward, slowly shuffling again, only this time with bodies pressed up against our backs. he paused to look up at me with a combination of slight curiosity and sheer terror.

“everybody move back! make way for the passengers boarding the bus!” the driver yelled sternly.

“keep moving until you can’t go any further.”

i nudged him forward until we were firmly wedged between a few fine specimens of the CTA variety, only to find ourselves in the worst possible predicament: caught completely adrift, with neither a pole to hang onto nor a place to lean against.

“oooh this is not good.” i thought to myself as i put a hand on his shoulder, regretting this brilliant maternal decision to subject my kid to the gruesome tortures of mass transit.

the doors struggled shut, then the bus hurtled toward the intersection. the amoeba of people that included us poor souls with no pole morphed with the abrupt forward movement. the rough jerk sent us flying, and we both reached for the invisible bar (also known as thin air). it was futile. with nothing to stabilize, we flailed. i grabbed onto his shirt and kept him (barely) upright.

“mommy, HELP! what am i supposed to do now? i am going to fall if i have nothing to hold onto?”

with each successive stop, he’d tense up, his entire body bracing for the impending wave to hurl him about like a piece of driftwood tossing about at sea. he’d look around, embarrassed, worried. hating the lack of control. dreading the possibility he’d fumble, step on a foot, bump into man, or worst of all fall flat on his face.

i leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “ok buddy. listen to me. you’ve got to stay loose.”

his face contorted. the sweet adoring “i love you, mommy” face was instantly replaced by an indignant “wtf are you talking about, lady??” look. “stay loose when i’m about to dive headfirst into this mass of scary humanity?!”

i smiled reassuringly. “I’m serious,” i said in a gentle voice. “at the next stop, just watch me carefully.”

his response: a hearty huff and eye roll (the latter another lesson he regrettably learned from the best…me).

as we approached the stop, i got into position, exaggerating my movements for dramatic effect. i planted my heels (all 4.5 inches of them) firmly on the ground, as wide as they could get in the 12-inch square block of space i had to work with. i bent my legs slightly and got ready to ride the wave.

he was intrigued now, watching me intently as i assumed the position. i cracked a big smile and winked at him.

the brakes screeched loudly as we pulled up on the next stop, and i rode it out, shifting my body weight subtly back and forth to counter the momentum. he watched in amazement as i maintained my balance, only hesitating once to grab onto his arm when the jostling got a hair too extreme.

the furrow in his brow slowly morphed into a grin of his own.

he whispered into my ear. “that was awesome!”

“i told you bud. i know what i’m talking about. whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

the grin transformed into an ear-to-ear smile. “i wanna try!”

he couldn’t wait test out the technique. as we approached the next stop, i watched his lips recounting the steps, and his body motions working in unison. he was ready.

“look mom! no hands!” he squealed.

and that was it. on an unremarkable wednesday, in the middle of rush hour on the CTA, i taught him an invaluable lesson about surfing…and life.

“whenever you feel out of control, take a deep breath. plant your feet on the ground. trust yourself. believe you can handle it. and then ride the wave.”

beast of burden

being a working mom involves a lot of schlepping. while i’ve got more than a few cute purses in cool shapes with fancy hardware, for the every day grind, you need girth—a bag big enough for the 13-inch mac, moleskin, munchies and assortment of random crap you cart around “just in case”: pens, printouts, receipts, lip balm, umbrella, kleenex, kitchen sink.

because the term “mom” is generally synonymous with pack mule, you get used to the weight—on your mind and on your shoulders. taking care of messy noses, raspy voices, dirty hands, making plans. carrying it all around because hey, that’s your job.

and speaking of work, sprinkle on some deadlines and the general cadence of meeting and juggling and spinning, and each day brings with it the pressing weight of life’s responsibilities.

recently i have been traveling a lot for work, and while i’ve pretty much got my rituals down to a science (the travel baggie full of pint-sized products, one carry-on, shoes and all, backpack for laptop, and swivel wheels for shuffling through the long airport lines), i had a curious feeling on a cross-country trip late last year that something felt unusual.

i was headed to costa rica for a team summit. my backpack was stuffed with the typical travel gear: computer, power cord, phone charger, moleskin and snacks. the only thing missing was my usual stash of trashy, in-flight gossip mags—no time for distractions as i had a date with a powerpoint deck for the long trip down to the tropics.  

it wasn’t an excessively long trek: one layover in houston, a sprint to catch a connection, and finally to our destination…but when i finally got to my hotel that night, my shoulders and back were sore.

“what the hec is in this bag?”

as i mentioned earlier, random items in my bags and purses are not an uncommon occurrence, but i started pulling out the contents to figure out why it felt so heavy.

a pile of change, yup. a brush, ok….wait whu??

i dug deep into the bottom and felt a smooth, cold object. and then another. and then a few smaller ones. i grabbed hold of the big one and pulled it out. it was a rock that my boys had collected on a summer trip to michigan. “it’s a heart for you mommy! it means love.” over the course of our vacation, the boys had picked a random assortment of heart-shaped rocks, plucked from the beach, and lovingly bestowed on me.

when we got back to reality, they proudly set them out on the table, and every morning hounded me to take them to work and put them on my desk as a reminder of our happy place and of them. and every morning, i’d scurry around, getting ready, searching for outfits, barking about being late, and telling them they’d be too heavy to carry in my backpack that day.

apparently they decided, on this particular trip, to take matters into their own hands. i schlepped these rocks four thousand miles down to costa rica and back. and though the burden was heavy, my heart was light.

a couple months later, i went to new york for another work trip. backpack was clean and only the essentials packed. yet again, when i got to my hotel room, a rock had found its way into my bag. only one this time. but one was more than enough.

as a parent, it can sometimes feel like you’re buried under the weight of all that you carry. but it’s also grounding, purpose. it’s bedrock—tangible reminders of love so pure and real that you can’t fathom what life was like without them. when you’re busy carrying on with dinner and homework and activities and obligations, never lose sight of the fact that those smiles and squeezes and random little gifts—and yes, even rocks— are the little things that can carry you through.

boy wonder

i always believed i’d have a girl. a little mini-me in pigtails and polka dots, fancy shoes and frilly tutus. we’d bond over all things girlie: hair brushing, nail painting, craft making, cookie baking. but i’d also teach her that sweetness can be strong. she’d learn how to smack a tennis ball, when to speak her mind, how to fish while looking fabulous, how to choose which guy was right.

i had all the life lessons lined up in my mind. waiting for the day that “chloe” arrived.

but fate had something else in mind.

two boys.

princess pipe dreams up in smoke…and in their place, dirty toilets, tackles and tears, tiny hands meticulously dismantling every door hinge and futile attempt at haute décor.

despite the lack of a little girl bestie, i look at my boys and couldn’t possibly imagine loving anyone or anything more. there are different life lessons for them, and they’re sponges, soaking up answers and knowledge—and everything really— with rabid curiosity. yet what amazes me most is not what they can learn from me, but how much i learn from them.

with age comes a certain kind of wisdom…book smarts, even street smarts. but when i look at them, watch from afar, listen behind the door as they whisper under covers and sing in the bathroom, they teach me about the things that really matter. the things you forget when you become a “grown up,” when you put on your polished, professional face and wade into the weighty issues of life and work, politics and the so-called pursuit of happiness.

magic powers and mash-ups

last summer, we took a family trip to six flags great america. i’ll just go on record to say that amusement parks aren’t exactly my thing, but the boys were brimming with excitement so i took one for the team, surrendering to the snaking lines and sweltering heat, muffin tops and fashion emergencies. after all, it was only a day, and there would be funnel cakes, so hey, i’d survive.

inside the gates, we were welcomed by the massive, double decker carousel. we picked out our magical painted ponies and went for a spin. with each revolution, i felt…lighter. i looked at their faces: bright, beaming grins. hands petting the horses’ manes as if they were real, racing like the wind toward an imaginary finish line.

windblown and wistful, we scanned the map for our next destination. bam! the log ride was my jam as a kid, and it was one of the few rides that could accommodate gigandor, the little speed demon, and two oldies whose rollercoaster riding days were long gone.

in order to get to logger’s run, you had to weave through the carnival game village. we sped up our pace to try and fend off the sensory assault: flashing lights, fluorescent colors, life-sized plushies, and shiny, happy people preying on poor gullible kids with dollars to burn and dreams of winning big.

we were almost in the clear, when the little one stopped dead in his tracks. his laser eyes fixated precisely on the target: a superman cape. naturally, being a superhero, he had to have it.

“daddy, i want that superman cape.”

“nope, come on buddy, we gotta get in line so we can go down that giant hill and get splashed! it’s going to be so fun!”

“noooo. PLLLLEEEAAASSE!!! i can win that. i’m going to throw the baseball at those fuzzy guys and win.”

stone face. sheer determination. not a molecule of doubt in his body.

out of pity, guilt and the earnest desire to avoid a meltdown, daddy caved and pulled out his wallet. i mean, all of us wise folks know that the cute, fuzzy hair on the smiling clowns, goading young passers-by on, exists only to cover the gaping chasm between one target and the next. the poor little guy didn’t have a chance.

ok. 5 dollars. 6 balls. time to win the kid a cape. he’d let the boy toss a couple for good measure, then step in to save to day…

but the little man had other plans. his tiny hands grabbed a baseball.

aim. wind up. toss. miss.

the ball tore through the tufts of hair, hit the back wall, and plummeted like a lead balloon.

aim. wind up. toss. miss.

aim. wind up. here we go again.

my husband started to sweat. he grabbed two balls to stop the impending catastrophe.

“let me try, bud.”

aim. wind up. toss. miss. “shit! i mean shoot!”

“NOW ME!” bright-eyed. total belief.

aim. wind up. toss. HIT!!!

“DING! DING! DING! we have a winner!”

and just like that, our four-year-old boy wonder claimed what was rightfully his.

we were giddy…and in shock. here we were, convinced he’d fail, sure that we’d have to swoop in, protect him from the disappointment, fill the inevitable void he’d experience by trying, then losing. and there he was, convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he’d emerge victorious. and he did.

that belief. in magic. in superpowers. in good trumping evil. that unwavering belief in himself.

it was awe-inspiring. i marvel at these boys and their xrays eyes. they see beneath the surface, beyond the solid lines and concrete objects. rocks are magic amulets or heart-shaped tokens of their love. dandelions are bouquets and wishes that come true. legos and marbles and feathers and coins are a “circus exercise place with spinning rides” because duh, wouldn’t that be cool.

their toy boxes are disaster, and when they play, they dump the entire contents of mismatched game pieces, stuffed animals and fake food onto the floor. i flinch, and groan, and try to stifle the nagging and finger-wagging about cleaning up your room. and when i’m called back for the grand reveal, it’s always a delicious mash-up, an original masterpiece born straight from their imaginations—that looks nothing like the picture on the box.

they speak their own language. make up their own rules. believe they can do anything.

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it made me ponder when exactly the moment is when we lose that in ourselves. when did self-doubt and cynicism stain our view of the world and what was possible? was it the handslap you got when you dared to color outside the lines? was it at school or a first job? was it a trauma or tragedy? or was it not a moment at all—but rather a slow and steady erosion of your sense of wonder?

you need only watch the news or step outside your door to find the world is a rough, harsh place. and rules and structure and boxes and cubes will be there to keep you in line. but these boys remind me to see the other side, to look for it.

they sink their teeth into donuts with the same gusto that they do life—without the accompanying guilt, self-consciousness or fear of what others will think. while we try to run from life, they run, full throttle, toward it. faster than a speeding bullet, finding magic in moments and things that we miss.

it’s not just silly naivete’. it’s wisdom beyond their years. it’s the belief—no the absolute certainty—that everything’s gonna be alright.

it’s that feeling of swinging when your legs reach the peak. zero gravity for a split second before you plunge back down. or running full throttle down a sand dune. nothing but you and the air and your breath and your legs, pushing you forward with reckless abandon. no fear. no doubt. no purpose other than to feel the sand beneath your toes. it’s that place you’re transported to—familiar, safe, like home—when you sit with friends and talk in strange dialects and laugh until your sides hurt at the insane world, at each other, at yourself. it’s the thing we should hold onto when all roads lead to logic and reason. it’s laughter, lightness, letting go.

i teach. but these boys—and their wonder—remind me how much i have yet to un-learn.

bright shiny objects

it was a typical sunday evening. we had just settled in from a long day of workouts, errands, and random household chores. the kids were huddled up on the couch, eyes scanning the rectangular screen, fingers rapidly pressing and swiping, and their intent faces illuminated by the bluish glow shining up from their laps. tablet time.

“dinner’s almost ready guys! can you please turn that off and wash your hands.”

crickets.

“excuse me! did you hear what i just said?”

nada. they didn’t even flinch.

as i watched them, the scene from afar was heart-warming. the two brothers, lately more sparring partners than adoring siblings, were giggling, smiling, admiring each others’ mastery of the ginsu knife swipe on “fruit ninja.”

but their utter entrancement with the device—and complete lack of acknowledgement of  me—were starting to bug.

“hey, you guys need to listen to mommy!” my husband said sternly, looking back at me to exchange eye-rolls before heading out the front door to take out the trash.

“ok. 5 more minutes, PLEASE!! i just need to get to the next level.”

ugh. my will to fight was sucked up in the puffs of steam rising from the medley of pots and pans on the stove, so i gave in.

“fine…but you better turn it off as soon as your time is up.”

2 minutes later, daddy returned, flinging the door open and bursting in with a huge, cheshire cat grin on his face.

“what the…”

his hands were cupped and loosely pressed together.

“GUESS WHAT I’VE GOT, BOYS!”

he was giddy with excitement.

the commotion jarred the zombies out of their trance, and they looked up in unison to see what the surprise was.

he moved his hands closer and we leaned in.

and then we saw it. the bright, green glow flashing intermittently in his hands.

a firefly!

“WHOA! COOL!” the boys squealed as they watched the magic bug light up.

city fireflies are few and far between—in fact it had been decades since i had seen one—so despite my distaste for bugs in general, i too was mesmerized by the light.

i can remember vividly spending hours catching fireflies in my front yard on a late summer evening at dusk. i was around my son’s age, 8 or 9. my brother and i, and the neighborhood twins, were in the front driveway playing four square (old school—you know, the kind with an actual red ball).

as the sun began to set and the daylight dimmed, we started to notice green flickers of light hovering above the lawn. first a few, and then more. it was a spectacle. magic. and we ran into the grass to see if we could catch them.

they weren’t afraid. they weren’t elusive. they buzzed around with no clear direction, almost beckoning our eager hands to take hold. we’d reach out and snatch one—glowing life and light—cupped gently in the palm of our hands…just like my husband’s.

i thought of that summer night with nostalgia and longing…for carefree times and endless days and simple pleasures.

our kids are growing up in a different world. a digital world. and technology has, in many ways, brought “the world” into their hands. facts, knowledge, information, all at their fingertips.

and the frenzy over every new device— most recently the new “magical” iphone 5S—has become human nature for many of us. but i read a provocative, and in my opinion quite profound, article in FastCoDesign about a recent apple commercial that expressed something that i’ve been feeling since the 4, 4S and 5 releases.

everyone is telling me i should care. every time a new model, software version or operating system rolls out, i’m supposed to pant with anticipation for the next new shiny thing. the commercial itself heralds the proclamation:

“this is it. this is what matters. the experience of a product.”

as the author mark wilson writes, "Watch the ad closely for me. As we’re told that products are what matter, we see a series of shots in which people actively turn away from life to engage with their technology…. In what should be a warm, humanizing montage, people are constantly directing their attention away from one another and the real, panoramic world to soak in pixels."

no doubt technology has transformed life as we know it…and in many mind-blowing ways for the better. but don’t be fooled by the bright, shiny glow. no device can ever replace the feeling of sun on your skin, the twinkle in your kids’ eyes, sparkles of light dancing on the water.

it’s up to us to carve out time, “catch fireflies,” keep some moments sacred, devoid of devices and things that impede rather than enhance our experience of life.  for our kids—and ourselves—these are the bright, shiny objects we should seek and hold precious. they are the ones filled with magic light that sinks into your soul and lingers long after you let go.

what lies ahead

heading into the holiday season, i spent several days pouring through photos (and if you know me, there are thousands) to find the perfect shot for our holiday cards. as i sifted through the archive, i found many images that pulled me in, but that i couldn’t use because they all had one thing in common: they were shots of my kids from behind—taken from the vantage point of a mom, hanging back a couple steps and watching as they plunged into whatever lay ahead.

running at full speed up the 150-foot sand dunes with tiny shovels in hand. standing with pant legs rolled up as waves devoured their delicious little toes. sprinting to find the perfect pumpkins. staring with awe into fish tanks and candy shops, holiday windows and bakery shelves. setting aside brotherly quarrels to walk hand in hand through the crunchy fall leaves and giant rain puddles.

you can’t see their faces, but you can sense their wonder, the gusto with which they plunge into new experiences. as parents, you watch with a mix of pride and perhaps a touch sadness as these little beings go out into the world to explore, to experience, to see, touch and taste, to learn to stand on their own.

you try to prepare them as best as you can. when you fall, brush it off. if you lose, congratulate the winner. if you hurt someone, say you’re sorry. all the rules of engagement and pithy life lessons make sense…in a world full of order.

and then something happens to remind you that sometimes you simply have no control. though it’s been two weeks since the sandy hook tragedy, the horror of that day is the worst case scenario, every parent’s most horrific nightmare come true. one day, we were worried about protecting our kids from skinned knees and scary dreams, bullies and bike falls…and now this?

for our kids—and even for ourselves—we don’t know what lies ahead. but what we do have is the ability to be present and grateful for each moment that we have.

that doesn’t mean it’s all rainbows and butterflies. in fact it’s the opposite. it’s hard to juggle life’s demands, be there for your family, keep your perspective and see the good. but try to remember, in those times, to hang back for bit. step away from the chaos. take a cue from the little ones and embrace the wonder of moments that happen every single day. you never know when they will be your last...

Pin, meet Balloon.

Ahhh, the innocence of youth. Having young children is a constant reminder that the world is full of light and goodness. Their eyes are filled with wonder at every new experience. Their hearts, for the most part, are pure (except perhaps when they succumb to the occasional primal urge to snatch a friend’s toy or stick a foot out a little too far, thereby tripping an unsuspecting sibling). Minor grapples aside, they are “the innocents” and, as a grown-up, I often look with envy on the blissful ignorance of childhood.

But recently, I had the unfortunate experience of raining on my son’s happy parade. It was a moment, a casual conversation that came and went. We moved on to a different subject…but were indelibly changed.

Four days ago, we were eating dinner and I had the Democratic National Convention playing on TV. Obama, Mr. Usually-Cool-as-a-Cucumber, was fired up, reveling in one of the crowning achievements of his presidency. “Osama bin Laden is dead!” he proudly proclaimed. Deafening cheers filled the convention hall.

My son looked puzzled. “Who is Osama bin Laden?”

I paused. I couldn’t remember what he knew and didn’t know.

Ok here we go: Good & Evil 101. “Oh he’s a really evil man that hurt a lot of people.” 

“But what did he do?” I was clearly not going to get off easy.

Deep breath. “Remember when we watched those two planes hit the buildings on TV?”

“No.” Blank stare. 

I must’ve kept it from him. Shielded him from the annual memorial footage. Quickly changed the channel when I heard him skipping toward the room.

My heart sank. In too deep to turn back. “Well, 11 years ago, on September 11…” I stuttered my way through an account of what happened. He sat there, trying to process.

“…so when they ran the planes through the buildings, they exploded and collapsed, killing thousands of people.”

His face went blank…and then contorted. Shock. Disbelief. Then he blurted out, “So President Obama had him killed?!” 

“Yep.”

Terror. In his face. And mine. 

“773-202-LUUUNNNAA!” The goofy commercial cut through the tension like a knife through butter—smooth and easy. Phew! Pattern interrupt.

He spoke first. “Mommy on Wizard 101, I am this close to unlocking the next level.  But first I need more crowns…” And just like that, he was back in the bubble.

For the past few days leading up to today—the anniversary of 9/11—TV news coverage of that fateful day has been in full effect. Yet he’s never mentioned anything since our conversation. He routinely stages epic battles with Pokemon and magic potions, but the archetypal themes of death and revenge played out in real life were far less palatable. Whether intentional avoidance or selective memory, I don’t know why he never brought it up again. But what I do know is this: it was a definite reality check.

The balloon will burst—if not today based on the brutality of war, perhaps on the playground thanks to a bully or under a bridge where a homeless person sleeps. It’s an ugly world out there and, try as we might to protect our kids from reality, there will be times when you have to face it head on. Times when there is no explanation for tragedy or cruelty or hatred. Times when you simply have no answer to the incessant questions “Why?”

So what can you do? Teach them to value every single day. Show them right from wrong. Don’t raise an ostrich. Give them wings. Fill them up with knowledge, but also enough belief in the goodness in people and the world—so there’s something to hang onto when times go dark. And let them hold onto the lightness. Or better yet, float away with them on occasion. They have much to learn about life…but also much to teach.

when you grow up

you know the age-old question we ask when family is gathered around and our kids have been exposed to just enough of the world to begin to articulate the answer.

“what do you want to be when you grow up?” we wait with baited breath, reveling in the notion that our child dreams of someday becoming a doctor or a veterinarian (swoon) or perhaps even a chef (double swoon!). we think it simultaneously adorable and terrifying if their response strays from the standard fare: an actress (gasp!) or…wait for it…a professional bowler (yes, this is my youngest son’s current career aspiration).

we ask the question in a light-hearted way, knowing that the answer will change umpteen times as they grow, all while reassuring them that no matter what they choose, we will support them. “we just want you to be happy, fulfilled and successful.” that’s all…no pressure. 

but the weight of that question stays with us long after we reach the supposed conclusion. our answer to the question kicks off a lifelong trajectory toward the end goal. it’s as if, when they reach it, the stars will align and balloons will fall from the sky in a congratulatory wave of affirmation that “you’ve made it.”

pushing forty, i think it’s safe to say i qualify as a “grown up.” what did i want to be when i grew up? my answers ranged from psychiatrist to MTV veejay to lawyer to travel writer to publicist to advertising pro.

“hey wait a minute…i do work in advertising now! doesn’t that mean that someone should be rolling out the red carpet now? where’s the champagne? the streamers? the hearty pat on the back for a job well done?”

“anyone there? …bueller?”

as you get older you realize that what you are—your profession—is only a sliver of who you are as a person. work success can yield a tremendous amount of pride and personal satisfaction, but it’s hardly the measure of a life. contrary to what society holds up as the ultimate goal, achieving career success, there’s so much more to the equation. just think of all the relationships you have and all the roles you play on a daily basis. in fact, i believe we’re asking the wrong question altogether.

at the end of the day, the real question is: “WHO do you want to be when you grow up?” what kind of person? friend? spouse? parent? at the end of your life, when they’re rolling out the dirt carpet, how do you want to be remembered? odds are those gathered together aren’t counting the campaigns you’ve launched, papers you’ve written, patients you’ve seen, contracts you’ve signed. no, it’s more likely they’re reflecting on the lives you’ve touched, the memories you created, the times you helped out, listened, cried or laughed together.

when you teach your kids (and even yourself) about life’s possibilities, root their identity in something real versus a title that may or may not provide fulfillment. surely they’ll find a path toward a career, but remember that an occupation is but one line in the story of a life. what’s more essential is character—the stuff that lies beneath. deep down, are they kind, sincere, witty, compassionate, generous, adventurous, creative, loyal? do they feel empathy? value relationships? genuinely care about others? in my book, those are the things to strive for—the true mark of success. 

the apple and the peach

It’s a cardinal rule of parenting that I’m convinced every couple with more than one child has broken: Thou shall not compare your kids.

Try as you might to cherish each one for his or her unique gifts and talents, it’s simply inevitable. You go along for years with a single object of your undying love and adoration, and then, from the instant that the next sibling is born, the comparisons begin.

“Baby A was 8 pounds 3 ounces, but Baby B was only 7.6 pounds. This one walked 6 months sooner than that one. Mikey hated meat but Marky snarfs down sausages. And on and on.”

Consciously or not, you begin to measure each developmental milestone relative to the other child. The empirical differences are very straightforward: facts, figures, dates. But when it comes to contrasting personalities, things start to get a little tricky. The incessant warnings about “labeling” your kids—and thus relegating them to some dreaded self-fulfilling prophecy—have been deeply ingrained into our collective parental psyches, and so we try with all our might to avoid explicit comparisons.

But I have come to realize through my two boys that, while the contrasts may be stark, variety is the spice of life and it’s ok to not only call out, but celebrate their differences.

So this is a tale of “The Apple” and “The Peach”: two fruits that fell from exactly the same tree, yet are wonderfully, scrumptiously, 180 degrees different.

The Apple. Of our eye, that is. Our firstborn. Out of the womb, bright, curious, soaking it all in like a giant sponge. A smile that’s simply delicious. Lighting up his entire face—no, the entire room. Shining brightest when he’s pleasing: lending a hand, singing, whistling, sharing. And devastated when he disappoints. Toddler timeouts were spent with projectile sprinkler tears and eyelash-stained “I’m sorries,” full-body draped in complete repentance. He’s feistier now, but will always have the kindest soul and a heart of gold. He is my snuggler, thinker, dreamer, cleaner, helper, animal lover, rule follower, heart warmer.

And then there’s “The Peach.” Rosy cheeks, juicy lips and a mischievous twinkle in his shiny brown eyes. If The Apple wears a big red heart on his sleeve, The Peach leads with his cute dimple chin. All action, all the time, The Peach plunges feet first—without a parachute. Fingers grubby, leg bruised, wheels churning, stone overturning, exploring, adventurous, plowing through life with gusto and glee. All with a stinking grin on his precious little face. The only times he stops are in the early morning, bleary-eyed, a bundle of love, the calm before the storm of daily life: toy chest dumping, ball throwing, book page ripping, screw removing, tower building, treehouse dismantling, bright shiny object eating exploits until he crashes into bed, cheeks rosy, mission fulfilled, our hearts melting until we get up and do it all over again. He sucks the marrow out of life and us, when he squeezes as tightly as he can, eyes wide, lips pursed, love and giggles overflowing.

The Apple and The Peach. Comparisons are inevitable, but in the end, they’re cut from an entirely different mold. The key, I hope, is a common set of values to ground them, a consistent framework to guide them, but a unique set of expectations to nurture them.

Every time I catch myself wishing for a little more sanity, nostalgic for the days when grownups outnumbered little people, and the odds were definitively stacked in our favor, I look at these two precious gems. A large marge and a mini-me, delectably cute, diametrically different, dropped from the same tree. Our tree. And I’m thankful for the bounty they bring.

I can’t wait to see how they grow…

freefalling

whenever i travel, i have my routine. preprint boarding pass. get through security. if it’s a morning flight, a stop at starbucks for an oatmeal and a grande skim latte. if it’s afternoon, off to feast on one of my favorite, airport-only guilty pleasures: a freshly baked aunt annie’s pretzel dog served piping hot with a side of yellow mustard. next up, the newsstand for a gossip mag and a jumbo bottle of fiji water. neatly pack my suitcase on the way in. throw it all back in on the rush to get home.

though it was a smaller plane (only 3 seats across), it was a trip like any other. tired from meetings. ready for some quality time on the plane with my may issue of vanity fair before squeezing the little munchkins awaiting me at baggage claim. the short 1 hour flight was the perfect amount of time to pour over every detail of rob lowe’s tell all book excerpt about his big break—being cast in s.e. hinton’s “the outsiders,” directed by francis ford coppola (and incidentally one of my favorite pre-teen angst books/movies).

i was glued to the story. who knew that, before the this motley crew ever became the “brat pack,” lowe auditioned for  the role of jeremy on “eight is enough”—only to lose the part to ralph macchio? or that tom cruise was actually staying in a guest suite at emilio and charlie’s house eating haagen dazs and swimming in their “gilligan’s island pool” while awaiting a big break of his own in the film.

though it was 70 and sunny when i left nashville, things started to get mildly bumpy about half way through the flight. nothing out of the ordinary—just occasional turbulence that subsided after a minute or two. no big deal: i had important dish to read up on.

just then, the flight attendant got on the loudspeaker. 

“hi folks. we were just about to get prepped for our descent, but due some weather in chicago, we’re going to be…in a bit or a holding pattern for...about the next 20-30 minutes.”

as if on queue, we felt more jostles.

“crap.” a delay... “oh well,” i thought, slowly gripping the armrest of my seat. “i guess when i’m done with the 80s nostalgia, i can go back to the piece i earmarked on the falling out between bill gates and paul allen, founders of microsoft. the outsiders’ studly debauchery aside, this story seemed to have just as much drama, ambition and betrayal (think the pre-quel to “the social network”) to keep me occupied until touch down.

i was just getting into the seedy details about matt dillon’s 45-second seduction of a fan in tulsa when we hit a rough patch. the plane started shaking. outside, you could see nothing but black and dark, foreboding clouds.

i had been in worse turbulence than this, and the young, coiffed flight attendant was still smiling when he instructed us all to “please fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen.” i did as i always do during flights like this: look around and assess peoples’ faces: some were sleeping, others stoic. i concluded that it would all be fine and reopened the magazine.

about 2 minutes later, there was a startling sound.

“DZZZZZZTTTTTTT!”

we felt a huge jolt. the lights flickered and came back on. i was in row 4, so i had a clear view of the window in 1C at the front of the plane.  i saw a vivid flash of purple in the sky.

“OH MY GOD!” i was no longer in my head, but speaking loudly in both panic and disbelief. “oh my god.” i turned to the lady next to me. “did we just get hit by lightening?!”

she was a kind, mousy woman with a calm demeanor. she half-smiled nervously, though her eyes were fearful. “i think so…"

i could feel my heart starting to race. we both kept our eyes on the flight attendant, watching for signs of panic or any form of acknowledgement that we were in dire straits. though he was clearly shocked when the jolt hit, he disappeared behind a curtain, offering no clues as to our fate. it didn’t take long for the heart palpitations to build to a pounding crescendo.

it felt like we were hurtling forward—the same sensation as when you’re on the runway during a landing, screeching ahead and wondering whether the brakes are actually going to be able to actually stop the vicious forward momentum. the only problem was we were thousands of feet in the air. we weren’t plummeting, but it felt like we were out of control.

“oh my god. are we going down?” i was back in my head. in a span of 5 minutes, i was suspended. in the air. in limbo. in a state of mind that somehow presented me with a reflection of my life—and my death.

the terror of realizing there was no where to run for safety was suffocating. but it wasn’t nearly as brutal as realizing that you can’t go back, can’t change anything that you’ve done up until this point. the last interaction you had before you stepped on the plane—with your kids, your spouse, your friends, and even your enemies—might be the last you ever have. period.

to make matters worse, as a parent, the sheer helplessness of knowing you may not be there to see your kids’ future: to guide them, to protect them, to enable their hopes and dreams, was devastating.

i was gripping the arm rest and gasping for air.

“are you ok?” asked the woman next to me.

i mustered up enough oxygen to mutter desperately, “i have two kids waiting for me and i just want to get back to them.”

she looked at me, paused, and her expression changed, from nervousness to empathy…and reassurance. “me too,” she said.

i could feel the air moving more freely through my lungs now. the pounding began to subside. she only said two words…but they spoke volumes to me. “we’ll be ok. and if we’re not, our kids will be.”

how could she know? how could i possibly know?

i wanted desperately to pick up the phone and call them, leave them a message, make them a promise that no matter what, they’d be alright. i chastised myself for not drawing a big “i love you” rainbow on my son’s whiteboard to make up for the tiff we had before i left (he wanted to wear the sweatshirt instead of the jacket). i wished i woke the baby up instead of letting him sleep before i whisked off to the airport. i wished i could have given them something tangible to hold onto…

and then something clicked. i stopped wishing. i realized that with kids—and really in all our relationships—it’s not about a single moment in time, like the last interaction you had with someone or leaving behind a last-ditch “crash” course on how to get along in life.  instead, it’s the lessons that we teach, the values that we instill, the goodness that we affirm—what we leave behind for loved ones is a legacy built over time, during every moment that we spend with them. 

they’d be ok if, and only if, i gave them the love and the tools then to thrive now and from every point forward—regardless of whether i was physically there.

i saw the flight attendant resurface at just about the same time i noticed that airplane had slowed down. we were no longer careening forward, and for the first time since this ordeal began, i could see some faint lights in the distance below. 

over the grainy background noise of the audio system, he began: “i’m happy to report that we have just been cleared to start our descent. i apologize for any inconvenience you many have experienced. we should be on the ground in approximately 15 minutes.” 

“inconvenience?!” i thought… “more like a grabber, much?” but i was too elated to even care about the ridiculous euphemism (no doubt calculated to downplay the traumatic events that had just transpired). 

when the wheels touched ground, i grabbed my belongings and raced through the airport terminal. terra firma. a homecoming. squeeze hugs from my boys, waiting for me with cookies in hand, grins on their faces, love in their hearts.

i got my mother’s day present early this year. happy mother’s day to all of you!