in the details

“don’t sweat the small stuff.” you remember the book, filled with tips on how to keep from letting the little things in life drive you crazy. no doubt, it served its purpose. for those of us stressed with the harried pace of life, the moral was clear: keep your perspective and don’t get consumed by trivial distractions that prevent you from cherishing the things that matter. 

but lately i’ve found that those big “things that matter” can also take their toll.  in a perfect world, we’d all spend our time languishing on nobler pursuits, like finding our passion, being good parents, spending quality time with loved ones, or even just pausing to self-reflect. they’re lovely ideals, but when we fall short, we bear the weight of those big things. they’re heavy. they can burden us. they threaten to make our weary legs buckle. we feel even more frustrated because we can’t seem to hold it all up.

that’s when i fall back on the little things. i’ve come to accept that in life, there will always be a certain ebb and flow to our productivity, our inspiration, our feelings of fulfillment or lack thereof. yet the little things remind us that all is not lost.

lately i’ve found a sliver of meaning in the least likely place: my daily commute. it’s minutes really, a half hour sliver that follows the frenzied morning scramble and precedes a deluge of emails and meetings, and tasks and to-dos.

for a brief moment each morning, it’s solitude. my time. and something strange happens when i step on the train. in a sea of commuters, i am calm. in my head, yet totally soaking in all that surrounds me. sometimes i get off at the right stop. and sometimes i don’t.

off the beaten path, sure i see the vistas, the sparkling expanse of city that lies before me. but my eye is also drawn to the corners, to shadows, to colors and textures—the oft overlooked details of the city as daylight breaks.

“god is in the details,” so mies van de rohe said. i think he’s right. i know it’s not much. in the scheme of things—of all i want to do or be—it’s not nearly enough. but it’s something.

steal moments just for you. trust me, it's hard, but as a friend recently reminded me: force yourself. in the car. on the train. take the long way. get lost. get found…a little goes a long way.

who carries you?

i’ve been thinking a lot about change lately. no matter how successful you are, how much you’ve achieved, how many things you have, as human beings, we’re all riddled with self-doubt. we watch, we compare, we follow others…and consequently we wonder…what am I doing? is it worth it? is there something more around the corner?

what pushes us over the edge? from doubt to determination. to stepping away from safety. to running toward risk. so much to lose. so much to gain. vacillation. inspiration. 

with change comes confusion. we whip out the pros and cons, weigh the benefits. for our most personal decisions, we often look solely within. we hole up. we retrench. we’re strong. independent. stoic soliders marching toward an uncertain fate. we linger, doubt, debate. we analyze and paralyze…and often fall back on the familiar. 

but if we’re lucky, we also discover an amazing gift. those who know us best can see it clearly. while we question, they believe. while we’re confused, they are confident. while we want to run, they stand firm. while we want to hide, they hold us up.

who carries you? who was there from the beginning? who will be there at the end? who believes in you as much—or more—than you believe in yourself? a spouse. a sibling. a parent. a mentor. a friend. just as we look to others to compare, don’t forget to share.

soul-searching means not only listening to the voices in your head and acting on the emotions in your gut…but also leaning on others to help you through. there's safety in numbers. security in knowing someone's got your back.

sure, “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for. we are the change that we seek.” it’s up to us to shape our destiny. and when a door opens, a few may simply plow through without hesitation. but for most, perhaps, a little more is needed. sometimes it’s a little nudge. sometimes it’s a lightening bolt. always it’s a catalyst for carrying you a step—or maybe even a leap—forward.

MOOOOOMMM! ...yep, that's me

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!

unforgettable

i could feel the beads of sweat taking shape. starting at the temples and rolling gently down the sides of my flushed cheeks. the usually pin-straight dorothy hamill bob looked more like a shaggy helmet, with a faint halo of frizz around the edges.

at eight years old, this was my first taste of southern-style heat. several hours in the baking georgia sun transformed my crisp white terry cloth romper into a dingy sweat mop, clinging to my skin like a piece of bologna on warm bread.

over the years, our family vacations covered most of the requisite tourist attractions: disney, D.C., new york…but this trip broke the mold. we were in atlanta visiting cousins who had moved down south.

our grand tour started with a stop at the peachtree hotel. “COOL!!” we shrieked as we giddily glided to the top floor of the tower. the next stop, however, wasn’t nearly as lofty. piled into a wood-paneled station wagon seventies-style, we were stuffed like sardines, no sign of seatbelts and non-existent AC. we rolled down the windows but there was no relief. the hot air rushed in and swirled around like a convection oven, ensuring even roasting on all sides.

three grueling hours later, we arrived at our destination: plains, georgia. a tiny podunk town that proudly boasts its status as the hometown of jimmy carter, his infamous brother billy, and their family peanut plantation. not exactly my idea of tweener paradise...and i could feel my head starting to throb.

we spent what felt like an eternity browsing kitschy peanut paraphernalia lining the gift shop shelves. finally, my dad, who was inexplicably tickled by the idea of “billy beer,” grabbed a 6-pack and we headed toward the car.

head hurting, sweat dripping, car dreading, i was not looking forward to enduring another three-hour haul back to atlanta. i looked at my mom, who was smashed next to me in the middle row.

“mom, i’m so hot. i really don’t feel well.”

she had a peanut brochure in her hand and was waving it back and forth like a fan to cool off, but when i spoke to her, she stopped. and looked back at me.

she grew up in the school of tough love. she lost her mom early in life and showed love by being strong, working hard, pushing through…but certainly not emoting. i fully expected her to hand me a napkin to mop up the sweat and leave it at that.

but she didn’t. instead she moved her big purse off to the side and pulled me closer. she didn’t say a word. but she laid my head in her lap and stroked my hair gently the entire way home, stopping only occasionally to fan me with the flyer.

i vividly remember feeling shocked…then serene…then utterly safe. 

it was a moment—in the midst of peaches and peanuts, sweltering heat and strange circumstances—that i will never forget. despite the millions of memories i have of my mom, this is one that still stands out. the day i knew that i was loved. and safe. and that she would always be there. 

there are moments in life that define the totality of an experience or paint the complete picture of a relationship between two people. when all the trivial things fall away, the peaks and valleys level off, and all that is left is what’s true.

the things you remember may not always be the obvious ones. as i look back, sometimes it’s the little things—felt most deeply—that linger longest.

don't forget the dream

With the bliss of the holidays behind us, January in Chicago is pretty darn bleak. Despite the unseasonably warm weather, the skies are generally grey and the buzz kill of returning to work after lazy days off, stuffing our faces and soaking in the warmth of family time, brings seasonal affective disorder (aptly named SAD) in full effect. 

And that’s why, for many of us, Martin Luther King Day couldn’t come at a more opportune time. After painfully clocking it in for two full weeks of work and school, you made it to the holiday. And now to enjoy a wonderful day off to shorten the work week! 

If you’re like me, you had big plans: either to sit squarely on your sofa and savor every last minute of the long weekend, or perhaps you planned to hit the errand list hard to make sure you crossed some essential things off your dreaded to-do list.  

Tops on my list was to catch up on Facebook. I fired up the laptop and got to scrolling. How were people spending their day? There was homemade chili and jalapeno cornbread, sledding in what’s left of the meager snow, friends nursing hangovers from the Sunday night swill fest. All pretty standard fare…until I got to one horrific post.

“Apparently, my niece was told by her 'friend' they can't hang out anymore because she is half black and she will get in trouble by her parents. Really, this still happens?”

I stopped dead in my digital tracks. Here we are in 2012, nearly 50 years after Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s “I Have a Dream” speech, and this type of racism still exists and happens every day across our country.

As a parent, I felt disgusted by the thought that someday my kids, who are bi-racial, might experience this kind of wretched bigotry. As a non-Caucasian person who feels completely integrated into the fabric of my work and life in the city, I was reminded of those who aren’t—and that any moment, I too could be subject to this kind of treatment. As an educated person, I was embarrassed by my lack of reflection on what this day really means. 

Yes it’s nice to have the day off. But let’s never forget what we’re celebrating: Dr. King’s courage in the face of so much hate, his perseverance in the midst of such oppression, his leadership when so many were content to follow the status quo.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness:

only light can do that.

Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

Ignorance cannot drive out ignorance. Only we can do that—by teaching our kids to understand differences, to find common ground, to accept others, no matter what race, creed or religion, and by remaining vigilant in the fight against this type of hate, whether we’ve got the day off or not!

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…

i eat life.

sip. savor. taste. linger. inhale. munch. chomp. bite. devour. slurp. tantalize. tempt. feast. nibble. indulge. infuse. inspire.

a friend recently asked me why i incessantly post instagrams of all my eating exploits. from burgers and brie fries to tortellini and truffles, i’m constantly snapping, filtering, tagging and posting.

i realize this may be annoying…and if it truly bugs you, you’ve probably already hidden my culinary captures from your feed.

or perhaps the constant deluge of edible delights may make you hungry. you might have just eaten a perfectly respectable sandwich, and then along comes a pic of a ginormous piece of carrot cake, moist yet flaky, three layers deep, heaping with cream cheese frosting and homemade whipped cream, dusted with a hint of cinnamon, and BOOM, the grumbellies kick right back in…and maybe, just maybe a droplet of drool falls from your lips. if that’s the case, i’m truly sorry. food is meant to be shared, but the virtual method doesn’t quite give you the warm afterglow and full-bellied feeling of an IRL (“in real life”) bite!

so what is the psychology behind this obsession? as a child i was never lacking in the food department so, as far as i know, there’s no deep-seated void that’s being filled by the endless food photo frenzy. but there must be a reason i get so lathered up.

one day, when we were driving in the car, my son remarked about how much he loved his breakfast that morning. “daddy, you cooked the toast just perfectly.”

“thanks buddy."

“it was not too burnt, still kinda soft, with just the right amount of butter, and a little salty flavor.”

“uh oh,” i thought. “am i raising a little pretentious, food-obsessed mini-me?”

until he added the kicker. “it was exactly the way GG grandma used to make it for me in the mornings at her house before she passed away.”

[insert dagger into heart.]

if you’re passonate about food, you know that it’s not just nourishment. it’s creativity. history. beauty. emotion. feelings. flavor. memory. harmony. sustenance. whimsy. comfort. togetherness.

to you, it may just be a piece of bread.

to me, food is life. meant to be savored, celebrated and devoured…especially with a sunny side up egg on top. CHOMP!

7 life lessons on the cusp of 40

i've still got time...nine months to be exact. but the reminders have been hitting me like a battering ram. one by one, friends have been dropping like flies, entering the realm of the dreaded “big 4-0”—or anxiously awaiting the bomb to drop in far less ceremonial fashion than the new year’s eve ball in times square. i just saw the headline while scanning some news blogs: "generation x turns 40." blech... and the other day, i got a lovely message on facebook from my high school reunion chair: “so we’re turning 40 this year…let’s celebrate!”

“thanks for the reminder.” i thought. “i’m well aware…”

though some of my tweener co-workers (ok…to be fair, twenty-somethings!) may think i’ve officially hit “ancient” status, i feel pretty darn good for an ol’ lady. perhaps i should scorn the day it actually hits, but quite honestly, i just don’t. i’m ready.

i was reminded of this fact a few months ago when i bumped into a good friend while grabbing coffee in the office kitchen.

she had just turned 30: gorgeous, glowing, and graciously embracing this new milestone.

“happy happy birthday!” i gave her a long, heartfelt hug, and almost felt maternal as i thought back through my own experiences and how much “life” she had to look forward to.

“thank you! you know, i thought i would dread it but i’m ok with it…actually more than ok. i’m in such a good place! so now that i’m 30, what do i have to look forward to?”

“a pile of shots, a wok to throw up in and a few hours of recovery time to do it all again” … oh wait, that was my 20s! yeesh.

anyway, it was a lighthearted question…that inspired a much deeper answer. sometimes when you’re living it, you may not realize how far you’ve come, how much you’ve accomplished, the perspective you’ve gained, how much you’ve grown. and then a question gives you pause, and there is, simply, clarity.

“what do you have to look forward to in your thirties?” the answer was far too loaded for a drive-by kitchen chat, so we booked a proper lunch to celebrate and discuss. here is a topline of what i said:

“words of wisdom from my 30s”

1. perfect imperfection: one of the biggest epiphanies i experienced in my thirties was a true awareness—and acceptance—of myself. i vividly remember the painstaking self-consciousness of youth. of begging my parents to “drop me off at the corner” for roller skating saturdays at my grade school, terrified that my friends would make fun of our white oldsmobile toronado (can’t imagine why) or my parents’ filipino accents. of first dates in college where i’d pound enough grape ape everclear before the barn dance to wipe away the inhibitions…and sadly, on occasion, the unfortunate mess when the liquid courage dissipated and the liquid upchuck surfaced in its place. in the working world, being faced with following someone else’s dream or carving out my own path, when i felt utterly clueless about what it should be. all of these misadventures were part of the learning process, culminating in the biggest lesson of all: that no matter how “put together” people appear, how much they seem to have going for them, everyone’s got their baggage, everyone’s trying to find their way. the more you get to know people, the deeper you scratch beneath the surface, the more you realize we are all the same: perfect in our imperfection. instead of chasing an ideal or worrying about your limitations, you learn to be comfortable in your own skin.

2. your voice: an essential part of embracing who you are is finding your authentic voice. in my thirties i realized that, as life gets more complicated, nobody is going to figure things out for you, nobody is going to set you on a course toward greatness—or mediocrity for that matter. “it’s all up to you.” when you’re out of the protective bubble of college, where groupthink reigns supreme, and you surround yourself with friends who look like you do, think like you do, it’s safe, secure…and the furthest thing from real life. without that safety net, you are forced to decide: what is important to me? what issues matter? what do i like/dislike? without anyone else weighing in, what do i want? it’s terrifying at first, but also empowering. whether through work or hobbies or interests or passions, you begin to discover—and own—your voice.

3. no drama: also known as “shedding the deadweight.” in your twenties, you’re on a process of self-discovery, and with that comes a plethora of interesting characters: people who expand you, experiences that push you out of your comfort zone. some people are inspiring. there’s an instant connection…and they become an indispensable part of your lifelong journey. but inevitably, you realize that others are just deadweight. “friends” who bring you down. or like pigpen in the “peanuts” comic, they move through life with a swirl of drama that follows them wherever they go, and engulfs anyone (including you) that happens to get sucked in. for awhile, it may be entertaining, but as time goes on, the electricity wanes. and it’s just plain exhausting. by our thirties, many of us realize that it’s time to ditch the drama and cut the cord on the clusterf**ks in your life.

4. the core: all this talk of clarity and confidence would make one think that with each year, nuggets of wisdom simply pop into your consciousness like pimples on a preteen, but nothing could be further than the truth. for most of us, your 30s is a time of incredible milestones: marriage, kids, moments of bliss that give meaning to an otherwise self-centered existence. but in other ways, your 30s will find a way to shake you. rock you to the core. for all the good, you may experience, first hand, loss like you’ve never known: of a parent, of loved ones, of friends, of jobs. of relationships that you thought would last forever…but didn’t. illnesses that might strike without warning. real-life reminders that you’re not invincible will hit you over the head like a hard, blunt object shattering your ruse of control. perhaps it stands to reason that the heaviness that comes from hard times tends to hit when you’re older, wiser, stronger. when you’re more prepared to handle it. and when you realize that your core—the people and values that you hold closest to your heart— are the key to helping you through.

5. at any moment: this decade has taught me that life is all about moments. not the trajectory from point a to point b. not your best laid plans mapped out on a calendar. not the “ single moment ”where you thought you’d finally “arrive,” but the many little moments from which you learn and grow. we don’t always know what final shape it will take, but those moments pieced together form the mosaic of your life. moments with loved ones that mean everything. moments meant to be cherished but often missed. moments that, at any moment, could be taken away.

6. simple things:

i used to flip through magazines and earmark pages and pages of things that i simply “had to have”: clothes, bags, shoes, baubles. but when i hit my 30s and life grew infinitely more complex, those must-haves ironically became simple things: more time spent laughing with my kids, breathing in the air atop the sand dunes, enjoying the stillness of quiet moments, taking in the sights and tastes at the farmer’s market, strolling the neighborhood in search of the next cozy nook. sure we all want to look and feel our best, but ultimately the finer things don’t bring true fulfillment.

7. young at heart: sometimes it's easy to feel overwhelmed by the weight of the years. we all grow tired of the juggling act: trying to keep up with work and housecleaning and kid-chasing and list-making. the bones may be a little creakier, your eyes a little sleepier. but other times you may feel more alive, more aware, more inspired than ever. there’s nothing like having two little living, breathing reminders to not take life too seriously. when i see the world through my childrens’ eyes, i share in their wonder. when i’m texting “OMGs” and “LOLz”, i feel like a giddy tweener. when i’m reminiscing with old friends and the laughter flows as freely as the wine, there’s no pretense and no purpose other than to say that we’ve made it this far—and are sharing in this journey together. and last but not least, when i hit the bars, i do still occasionally get carded, which always makes me crack a cheshire cat smile (even if they are just throwing this old dog a bone!).

whether 30 or 40 or 60, age is just a number. the clock is going to keep on ticking until your time is up, so make the most of every moment…i'm not professing to know all the answers, but i feel like i've cracked enough nuts to be ready for anything that the next decade throws my way. so come on 40, bring it. i'll be ready!

the xmas compromise: our beloved bipolar tree

For most of us, the holidays are a time when we cling to traditions. We dust off cookie recipes passed down through generations. We pop in our favorite Christmas CDs (since we embarrassingly haven’t transferred the holiday playlist to the old iPod). We tune in to the tried and true TV classics from Rudolph and Frosty to “Home Alone” and “The Grinch.” And we pull out boxes of ornaments—each with its own story—and dig into decorating the tree.

I’m a huge fan of all these traditions. They don’t just help us mark the passing of time, but they warm our hearts with memories of growing up and great times spent with family and friends. Yet much as I love the purity of these pastimes, I have to admit…brace yourself because if you’re a traditionalist this is going to sound blasphemous…sometimes I just want to mix it up. Passing by gleaming store windows and paging through the sumptuous settings in Elle Décor, it’s hard not to be swept away by design inspiration.

So one day, as the season approached, I decided this would be the year we’d change things up.

“You want to do what?!” My husband was flabbergasted. “What about all the awesome ornaments we bought over the time we’ve been together? The hand-painted trout and birch canoe from Michigan. The driftwood Santa from Minnesota. The Winnie the Pooh and Piglet sitting on a chair sharing cookies (from the time when we were kitschy kids in love).”

He was pulling heartstrings like a puppeteer.

“I know, I totally love them all,” I said. “I just want a change.” Puppy dog eyes. “Everything is so mixy-matchy—this year I would just love to have a swanky tree. Matching ornaments, one ‘look.’ Trust me, you’ll love it.”

Shrug. “If it’ll make you happy, go ahead.”

Cha-ching. I felt like a teenager asking my dad for the car keys. License to drive…all the way to diva décor for the new tree!

Though he was skeptical, when I pulled out the sparkly booty of handblown glass, shiny silver and pearly white orbs, he was sold. (And if your mind was in the gutter just now, it may have also taken the other kind of booty as well to convince him!)

But little did I know, my “fancy tree” plans were about to be foiled.

The tree was up, the lights were on, the egg nog was poured, and the delicious scent of pine permeated the air. The family tree-decorating fun was about to commence. We pulled off the lids for the ornament boxes….and then all hell broke loose.

Little grubby hands, completely bypassing the silver and white sparkles, greedily grabbed at the intriguing collection of objects in the criss-cross grid of ornaments from years past.

“Awww, how cute! Look at this fish—it’s adorable!”

“Oh there’s a spotted cow with a Santa hat on. I love it!”

“Yes honey, they’re so cute. Mommy and Daddy got those when we were first dating. We love them, but we’re not using them yet.”

I strategically used the term “yet” in the hopes that we could fill up the tree with sparkly goodness first…and then conveniently run out of room for the riff raff. But for each bauble I put up, I’d find two crafty ornaments hung along the bottom half of the tree, as high as the kids arms could reach while standing on tip toes.

“Ok guys, here’s the deal,” I snapped. “We’re not doing these yet.” My inner Santa was quickly being usurped by my inner Scrooge.

I put a halt on my decorating agenda and quickly began removing the ornament invaders from the perimeter of the tree…only to find more sprouting up on the other side.

“Ummm Mommy, I don’t understand why you don’t want to put these pretty ones up.”

My inner monologue fired back. “Well let’s see…because red and blue and green and birch and wood and plastic don’t match silver and white. Because….”

As I rattled off the reasons why in my mind, I caught a reflection that caused me to reflect. The soft white tree lights shone on the shiny silver ornaments and giddy faces with Chicklet smiles were beaming as they happily placed the ornaments on the tree.

Was I really going to kill their xmas spirit by kicking the kitsch off the tree? On the other hand, wasn’t I entitled to a little sophistication for the holiday season?

In parenting, there’s often a tension, a push and pull between serving your interests and nurturing your kids’. Most of the time, you sacrifice for the greater good. You let go of your agenda and best laid plans. And other times, you find a way to work it out.

I turned to my kids. “You know what, you’re absolutely right. We can’t leave all these awesome ornaments off the tree. But they’re so cool they need their own special spot.” Their eyes twinkled with delight. In full transparency, the special spot was on the back side of the tree, but that was beside the point. It was a win-win.

And so it was born: our beloved bipolar xmas tree—like a mullet, styled in the front with a party in the back. Silver and pearly white peacefully coexisting with snowmen and swimming trout.

When we were finished, we turned off the lights and stepped back to admire our work. I was on a quest for the perfect tree…and I, or rather we, succeeded in making it so.

before she wakes

Saturday morning in the suburbs was an eye-opener to me. We were spending the weekend at my brother and sister-in-laws and, sitting in the kitchen, still in PJ’s and sipping coffee while paging through the latest US Weekly, I became aware of an amazing phenomenon.

It was about 7:35 am and the doorbell rang.

“Seems too early for UPS,” I thought. “Maybe it’s the paper boy,” I said to myself, wondering if such a thing even exists anymore.

“Ding dong.” Another doorbell ring.

Whoever it was really has something urgent to say. “Hmmm wonder if they have Jehovah’s witnesses in this hood…”

She got up from the breakfast table, coffee in hand, and scurried over to the door.

“I think I know who it is.” She half-rolled her eyes and half-smiled. Now I was curious. 

The very millisecond after she unbolted the lock and swung open the door, I heard their high-pitched, giggly voices.

“Hi Mrs. Jones, can Emma come outside and play?”

“Sorry girls, she’s not awake yet. I’ll tell her to call you after she has breakfast.”

Wow these girls were on an agenda!

Not more than 15 minutes later, the doorbell rang again.  Persistence! I smell future Mary Kay careers up in this mug. 

“Ummm, can Evan come outside and play football?” This time the voices were lower, a bit awkward, with the occasional Peter Brady voice cracks sprinkled in. Again she explained that he wasn’t awake and they’d have to wait until he had some breakfast.

Fascinating. All this action before 8 in the morning—and it only continued to get busier. When the kids finally woke, they scarfed down some toasted bagels and milk, and then they were off! They disappeared out the front door in 2 consecutive door slams, and from then until late into the afternoon, we’d see them occasionally from the kitchen window, in groups of 4, 5 even 8, running, skipping, jumping (because of course one of the neighbors did have a trampoline!) in the vast expanse of connected backyards. It was really idyllic…

And I felt really guilty.

Though I could do without the crack-of-dawn wake-up calls, I kept wondering: by raising our kids in the city, were we cheating them of this wonderland of fun and friends, the freedom to roam and not have to be chaperoned and shuttled around to make sure they were safely out of harm’s way? Were we selfishly forcing them to stay when in reality they would be better off getting up in the wee hours and waking unsuspecting neighbors with friendly early morning doorbell rings and frolics around the cul-de-sac?

During the long drive home and the days that followed, I wrestled with the questions. And then, come Saturday, the doubts subsided. 

Why do we stay in the concrete jungle, where our houses are smaller and the yards nonexistent, where picket fences are replaced by battles for parking, where our kids are confined to supervised play dates versus the nebulous boundaries of neighborhood life?

The rituals of our mornings in the city remind me why. Like in the burbs, we’re also up at the crack—only in our house the pounding on the door is followed by firm little footsteps that lead right up to my bedside. The little grinning face directly in front of, nearly touching mine, heralds the rule: there’s no sleeping in in this house. And much as I love my sleep, I happily submit.

There’s an ease, an effortlessness to rising at this time. Before she wakes, the city is, in a word, a revelation. Serene. Glistening. Full of latent energy that slowly comes to life—before our eyes.

Just as they are immersed in the bliss of backyard bonding, we need only look as far as our window to see an ever-changing canvas of sky behind that amazing cityscape. Before the daily bustle begins, we hop into our car and zip through the streets like we own them, all the while admiring the parade of precious dogs sniffing the air, wagging their tails, and seemingly proud to prance around in their parkas and silly knit sweaters. Dedicated runners dot the sidewalks and lake paths, blood pumping, breath puffing, and cheeks rosy from the rush of the run and the brisk morning air. And every body of water—from the usually bustling river to the North Pond Nature Sanctuary by the lake—gleams, still as newly polished glass. When we get to the park, the kids take off, running, squealing, chasing each other across the open stretch of green grass.

It’s the same pure joy I witnessed in the backyards of suburbia.

As parents, whether in casual conversation or the nagging soundtracks that play out in our own heads, we’re often forced to defend our choice of city v. suburbs. Yet the perceptions of calm and chaos, urban versus suburban, are sometimes not as clear as we think. Is one truly better or worse? Or are they just different?

We’re all faced with choices to weigh, competing interests and priorities. But in the end, each one of us is simply trying to share with our kids the world that we love; give them a taste for the things that we crave; make them feel loved, secure and inspired by their surroundings.

What side of the picket fence do you fall on? It doesn’t matter. It’s all about embracing your choice. No matter where, immerse them, expose them, inspire them…and they’ll be better off because of it.