I Had The Glide of My Life: Gratitude for a Chair and All It Brought

Of all the overwhelming and seemingly impossible decisions I faced as parenthood approached for the first time (breast vs. bottle? Co-sleep or cry it out? Return to work or stay at home?), one was a no-brainer: I knew I wanted a glider chair for the nursery.

Not a traditional rocking chair that could trap chubby baby fingers or an unsuspecting cat's tail under its weight, but a smooth, padded, back and forth glider- the kind advertised to bring comfort to both baby and mother.

After turning my investigative reporter's mind to the various makes and models, our selected glider was delivered, assembled, and installed in our spare bedroom, which was still transitioning to nursery status. It stood there in the midst of unopened boxes and piles of packages, gentle and welcoming, and I couldn't resist its draw.

I eased my pregnant self down into the chair and began to glide. I closed my eyes and let it carry me where it would. Back and forth. Childhood to motherhood. Dreams to reality. Back and forth. Hopes and fears. Back and forth.

In the evenings when I returned from work, I'd sit in the glider and watch my husband as he patiently put together the stuff of parenthood- the crib, the changing table, the white wooden toy box under the window. I'd move back and forth as he worked, watching the man I fell in love with glide into fatherhood before my eyes.

When baby finally arrived, the glider was our first stop upon entering the house. I settled in cautiously, worried there wouldn't be room for both of us, but its arms seemed to magically expand to cradle us both.

Back and forth, that baby and I glided through sleepless, colicky nights. With the warm weight of his body on my chest, we glided through through insecurities and imperfections, rocked our way past hurts and scars. As we'd settle into our nightly rhythm and glide back and forth, I felt old wounds close, seemingly soothed and healed by the motion. No matter how much I wanted to stay back, the glider always lead me forward, staying on track, so sure of its path, despite my own lack of direction.

Science says the feeling of love comes from a chemical reaction in the brain. I can only assume that process is accelerated by a gentle glide, back and forth, in a cozy, padded chair.

Eventually, I rocked another baby in the glider. And then another. And then eventually, the glider went where all the soft, fuzzy pieces of babyhood go when the babies are babies no more: into storage. As our lives- now filled with sturdy student desk chairs and angular folding benches- moved forward, the cozy, padded glider tucked in the basement closet, its arms now holding plastic bins of toy trucks and trains, a concrete reminder of what was packed away.

There would be no more gliding into the wee hours of the night with a baby's warm, milky breath perfuming the room. No more midnight, moonlit lullabies. No more back. Only forth. So much ahead, and yet so much left behind.

Last week, we brought the glider up from the basement, loaded it into the back of my car, and drove it  to my parents' house, where it would soon meet its new owner- a radiant, expectant new mother, who in a full-circle twist, helps care for my father.

We unloaded it and dusted it off, and as the kids scampered off to play, right there in the middle of my parents' garage, I sat down for one last glide.

I pushed back, closed my eyes, and tried with all my might to imprint the chair's gentle rhythm on my soul.

As I finally got up and began to walk back to my family, I looked over my shoulder and noticed that my momentum had kept the glider moving back and forth.

I like to think it was the chair's way of saying that it was time for me to stand and let someone else take a seat.

And that the glide will always go on.

Stuck In The Middle: Do the Screws in My New Hip Match My Dress?

I spend most Saturday mornings in my happy place: the lap pool. That's where, in an attempt to channel my inner Katie Ledecky (or maybe her mom...or a very cool aunt), I stuff my voluminous curls into a latex cap, adjust my prescription goggles, and get my freestyle on.

Boom! I swear, I feel like I'm 25 again as I slice through the water: vibrant, young, and free, but this time minus the relationship angst or the adult onset acne.

An hour later, I climb out of the pool, feeling refreshed and vibrant, and head to the locker room to swap surgery stories and arthritis advice with the nice ladies getting ready for Senior Splash Aerobics.

Could someone grab my housecoat and make me a mug of chamomile tea? Because just like that, I'm 85.

In reality, of course, I'm neither. Just stuck somewhere near the awkward intersection of Not-So-Young but Not-Really-Old, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it. That's right folks, my name is Mona, I'm 44, and I'm too old to be hip, and too young to have just had a total hip replacement.

At times it's dizzying enough to make my head ache, but the good news is that my hip really doesn't anymore. At least nowhere near the way it did before. Which I've learned in online support groups now makes me a "hippie," just not the kind who was at Woodstock.

But to quote the modern sage Shakira, these hips don't lie. And to paraphrase my orthopedic surgeon, neither did those x-rays, which he referred to as a "hot mess," because he's evidently way cooler than I am. And he's also pretty easy on the eyes according to the Senior Splashers who have dubbed him Dr. Cutie Pie. I inquired if he was their McDreamy or McSteamy but they drew a blank on that reference. Ouch.

Speaking of ouches, I didn't injure my hip all at once. It was a slow decline into hot messiness, thanks to an alignment issue I was probably born with but didn't know anything about until I had put several thousand miles on the joint. Somewhere between an 8-mile road race around Mackinac Island and hiking my 8473rd load of laundry up the stairs, my hip reached its tipping point, and much like my first car, things went south very quickly. That's how I found myself rushing back from a 4th grade field trip to attend the required Joint Replacement Boot Camp, where I pre-registered for my surgery. Spoiler alert: it turned out to be nothing like the boot camp classes I used to attend. Or teach.

As I removed my name tag from the planetarium and swapped it for the hospital-issued variety, the  nurse in charge asked if I would be taking notes for my mother or father? That day alone, I think at least 5 people posed the $64 million dollar question: "Why are you getting a hip replacement? You're too young!"

In fact, if I had a dime for every person who has asked me that, I could probably pay cash for my total hip replacement. And the arthroscopic surgery that came before that. And the MRIs, arthrograms, 2.5 years of physical therapy, multiple cortisone injections, and failed stem cell treatment. But I digress.

I used to be known for the spring in my step, but for the past two years I've been gimping around with a decidedly unhip limp. Snap, Crackle, and Pop were not just for breakfast- they resonated from my lower region as I inched my way up and down the stairs, one painful step at a time. 44 may seem too young for a total hip replacement, but it's also too young to be an invalid. Or in chronic pain. Or a sideline parent to your young, active children.

So when I finally found the surgeon who was ready to upgrade me to a sleek, shiny new model, I wanted to do a happy dance. An age appropriate, hip-friendly one, of course. Is there something between a twerk and a jig? I wanted to shout for joy. Is there something between "hip hip hooray" and "Fo'shizzle?"

As I was wheeled back for surgery, I high-fived the doctor. It may have had something to do with the delicious cocktail of drugs I had just downed, but I'd like to think it was pure happiness. Don't get me wrong- I'm very thankful for all my old hip did for me. It carried me across marathon finish lines, scaled Ayers Rock, and took in more majestic sights and ocean views than any one joint deserves. Together we rocked an entire decade of step aerobics, and it was even kind enough to make room for 3 babies. I have nothing but love for that old ball-and-socket, and I promise to celebrate it every year on May 30, my surgeryversary. Maybe I'll bake it a cake. Or is there something...hipper? Maybe bone broth?

But for now, it's on to a new chapter, working title: Titanium is the New Black.

One day, I'm going to show this new hip the world, but right now, we're still getting to know each other. We like to Netflix and chill...as in a movie and an icepack. We enjoy long, slow walks through the neighborhood where we're still learning each others gait. Leisurely breakfasts where we linger over egg white veggie omelets with a large side of gratitude. Steaming hot cups of coffee on the deck where we simultaneously feel alive and ponder our mortality.

It's really not such a bad place to be.  

Especially Saturday mornings when my new hip and I head to the pool, and somewhere between the blue water and the blue-haired ladies, we dive right into the sweet spot.

The Box: A Story About The Stories We Tell Ourselves

This is a story about a box. A small box, roughly six inches high and six inches wide. It's a story about the power objects have over us, and their ability to make us feel boxed in.

This is also a story about the stories we tell ourselves. The boxes we put ourselves into. 

But let me back up a bit...all the way to my 30th birthday, which requires throwing the car into reverse for quite a few miles.

My husband and I got married 3 days before I turned 30, so I passed that major mile marker on the road to adulthood in a bit of a blur. In fact, it didn't really hit me until the dust had settled on the wedding festivities. All of a sudden I had a new name, a new title, a new home, and a new number in front of my age. I was someone's wife. I was Mrs. Shand. I was a homeowner. And I was 30.

To give you an idea of how the transition went, shortly after we returned from our honeymoon, I sat in a doctor's waiting room reading my magazine as the nurse repeatedly called "Mrs. Shand? Mrs. Shand? Shand!" I just sat there, thinking to myself what a coincidence it was that someone there had the same exact name as my my husband's mom.

And the new house? Though it was just a few miles from where I had been living, and I had moved many, many times before, across the country and even around the world, something about this move was different. The neighborhood was lovely, but the neat rows of bungalow houses all looked exactly the same to me, with nearly identical streets forming a nondescript grid. The first time I went out for a run, intending to go about 3 miles, I got so lost I ended up running 9.

This was a house my husband had been living in for years. He had remodeled it from top to bottom with his own two hands. He knew every inch of that house from the inside out, every creaky floorboard, what every switch on the wall did. I didn't even know where to put my socks.

But even more disorienting was the idea that I was supposed to be an adult. I had a job, a roof over my head, and cupboards stacked with linens, cups, and dishes. But let's face it: I didn't have a clue. I felt like I was playing house. Pretending to be a grownup.

Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

A few weeks later I came back from a run- just 3 miles this time- and found a package on the porch, marked "fragile" and covered in postmarks and stamps. Since this was back in the Stone Age of online shopping, a dark period in our history I refer to as Before Amazon Prime, this was still a bit of a rarity.

I took it inside, unwrapped it and pulled out the most beautiful, intricately decorated ceramic box. It was off-white, but painted in brilliant hues of green, orange, burgundy, and teal, with a tribal, almost aboriginal pattern of swirls and dots. I had never seen anything like it. I traced the ins and outs of pattern with my fingers, feeling the bumps and grooves of the artist's work. It was stunning, but it was just the beginning. The box had a hinged lid, and I lifted it and reached inside to reveal a gorgeous pair of dangly, beautifully beaded earrings. I held them up to my face in the mirror, their delicate sparkle ridiculously incongruous against the backdrop of my sweat-stained face and, messy, post-run ponytail.

I dug around in the package and pulled out a small, handwritten note. "Dear Mona," it read. "I was in Bangkok last week, saw these, and thought of you. Happy belated 30th birthday, sweet friend. Hugs and kisses, X" Of course, her name really isn't X, but we'll call her that to protect the innocent. X was a British woman I had met at a youth hostel in Australia years prior. At the time, I was a recent college grad with not much of a plan beyond that trip. She was successful documentary filmmaker "on holiday" as the Brits say. Together, we backpacked through the land down under- at one point we even took a temporary job picking grapes at a vineyard, and probably drank more wine than we helped produce. Then, we went our separate ways- me, back to the United States, on to grad school, and eventually to my married life. She relocated to San Francisco, where she continued her documentary work with a human rights organization, and never married. We kept in only sporadic  touch, but she always remembered my birthday- even before Facebook notifications.

As this gift perfectly illustrated, she was in so many ways the kind of person I wanted to be. The kind with a rewarding career that was making a difference in the world. The kind who picked up exotic souvenirs just because she was thinking of her friends...and then proceeded to actually send them!

I carried the box and the earrings up to my bedroom, wondering all the way what my friend's home looked like. I imagined it was a funky city loft full of tribal artwork and exotic pieces she'd collected in her travels, each one telling the story of some oppressed group and their struggle for basic freedoms. I wondered about the box. Did it, too come from Bangkok? Or perhaps another faraway land? Maybe the African savanna. Or a jungle in Central America. Who were the artisans who toiled over it? What story did that beautiful pattern tell? What secrets did it hold?

I put the earrings away and wondered where I could find a dress to match them. And a life to match the dress. I hoped they would do OK in metro Detroit, in my life, where I was in the midst of a career change and quite possibly the oldest unpaid intern to ever make coffee in a television newsroom.

The box I carefully carried to my bedside, and over to my nightstand. It looked like hopelessly out of place next to the Pottery Barn catalogue, but I figured we'd adapt. Or maybe what I really hoped was that it would rub off on me. That somehow if I kept the box and kept it close, I would have magically have all it seemed to represent- the international career, the beautifully decorated home, the global stories.

You can imagine how well that worked out.

Years went by, and the box stayed in that same spot next to my bed. When my good friend insomnia came for its nightly visit, I'd lie in bed and trace the patterns with my finger. I was pregnant with our first child and wondering how in the world I was supposed to take care of another human being when I still hadn't figured out this whole grownup thing for myself. I wondered what we had thrown ourselves into. I wondered if I should get throw pillows to match that box. I wondered if we had any matches so I could light some candles. I wondered what my future kids would think of a parent that didn't even have their act together enough to light candles or have throw pillows. I looked to the box for answers- it had none.

Mostly, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

Along with the new baby, the next few years brought a new house in a new city. Another new baby. And then another one. The box, of course, came with us and still sat in its mismatched place of honor next to my bed. Of course, there were many, many more sleepless nights. More staring at that box at 3am, wondering why my life's twists and turns weren't as beautiful as its swirls. Why my life didn't seem as vibrant as its rich hues. Why my relationships weren't as harmonious as its patterns. I'd trace the path of each curlycue, praying that I had taken the right one in my own life. While nursing my babies in the middle of the night, I would reach over and slowly open and shut its lid, over and over- trying to find my own rhythm in its gentle snap. It was a habit I'd developed as a child, with another box- a pale blue Holly Hobbie lunchbox, as I sat, more often than not, alone in the school cafeteria. I'd focus on opening and closing its metal clasp, hearing that satisfying snap so I wouldn't have to hear the silence all around me.

Back then as a child, and once again a grownup, I felt lost. Confused. Out of sorts. Who was I?

A few years later I remembered hearing that if you couldn't sleep, you should try writing down all the things that are bothering you in an attempt to clear your head before bed. Between the kids, my work, my parents' failing health, my own health challenges, and my guilt and personal neuroses about pretty much everything, I had enough to fill a novel, but instead, I decided to fill that box. Armed with a pack of post-its and a pen, every night I tried to take the weight of the world off my shoulders and quite literally box it up.

I started with the easy stuff- the things that danced around the edges of my mind during the busy daytime hours, but really came out to party at 3am like: Research summer camps. Dig out bins of summer clothes. Organize bins of clothes. Be more organized. Try not to yell so much. Teach her to stand up to mean girls. Figure out why girls are so mean. Figure out why grown women are so mean.  Did I hug my kids enough today? Did I hug my husband at all? Do they all know how much I love them? I shoved all of that in the box...but still found myself wide awake, staring at it every night. Sometimes it even seemed to taunt me, its curves and twists making me think of the ones I had taken...and the ones I had left behind.

So I dug deeper. I'd write down things in my life that I really hated and stuff them in the box. Parkinson's Disease. Septic shock. Aphasia. Femoral acetabular impingement syndrome. Religious persecution. Sectarian violence. The children of Syria. Oh, magic box, why can't you take these struggles away? Take them to your far away home on a remote tropical island, or a desolate hillside, or the rainforest, or wherever it is you came from. Just take them away from me. The box betrayed me yet again.

A few months later my own health issues came to a head and I found myself more lost, confused, out of sorts, and unsure of who I was than ever. I was a writer with nothing to say. A runner who could no longer run. A mother who could barely take care of her kids. One night I hobbled up to my bedroom on crutches, trying so hard to hold it all together. As I eased myself down onto the bed my crutch went flying, I reached out to grab it, only to be hit with a dagger of pain to the surgical site. In the process, the box was knocked to the floor where it spilled open, scattering all the pieces of paper around the room. Tears poured out as I looked down at the mess.

I HATE THIS STUPID, STUPID BOX! I yelled, slinking painfully to the floor. Seeing it there, it all became clear- on the outside, that box was everything I wanted to be but wasn't. And on the inside, everything I was, but didn't want to be. I wanted to smash it to bits, but that would just be one more mess in my life I couldn't clean up. So I glared at it, and for the first time noticed something on the bottom. I used a crutch to reel it in, hoping it was the artists' name or initials so I could at least curse him or her more personally. But what I saw when I pulled it closer was strangely familiar. A little too familiar.

It said, Kirkland Signature.

That's right. My box...the one that had tortured me for years...my artsy fartsy, indiginous, free range, free trade, artisanal box...was from COSTCO.

It didn't come from a tribe deep in the Amazon, or a war-torn East African jungle. It wasn't carved with the tears of ten thousand weeping widows or coated with the ground up dust of unicorn hooves.

No, it came from Costco, somewhere between five dollar rotisserie chicken and the 50 pound bag of cat litter, with the melodic sound of the seafood roadshow in the background.

Let's be clear- this has nothing to do with my lovely friend X who sent me the box. She did nothing but offer a gesture of kindness. I was the one who covered it in magical, mystical, powers and measured myself against it for years. And as it turned out, it was just an ordinary box. A box that probably came in a 6-pack of other boxes. I cleaned up the papers the best I could, picked up the box, and stuffed it in the bottom of my closet.

Not long after, my daughter was wrapping up work on a big 2nd grade project. Together, the class builds a community, with each child completing a building for the town inside...you guessed it, a box. She had worked diligently on it for weeks, and brought it over to show me when she was done.

"You did a beautiful job," I congratulated her. "It's perfect."

"Mom, it's not perfect," she corrected me with me, her tiny hands on her hips. "But it's my box, and I love it."

That night I once again found myself awake, my heart racing as I stared at the ceiling since the box was no longer by my bedside. I got up, pausing to watch my loving husband snore...I mean sleep. I went from room to room, peeking in on each of our slumbering children, watching their chests move slowly up and down until my own breathing slowed to matched theirs. I ran my hand over the spots on the walls where the paint was peeling, the moldings we've never gotten around to finishing, the jumble of family photos in mismatched frames on the table, the crucifix on the wall.

"It's not perfect." I told myself. "But it's my box, and I love it."

The next morning when I woke up, I dug the ceramic box out of my closet, took it to the garbage can, and threw it away.

Don't get me wrong- more often than not, I still feel lost, confused, out of sorts. And I probably won't get this grownup thing down until it's much too late. But I guess little by little I'm figuring out who I am and this much I know:

I'm someone who is learning to think outside the box.

Thanks for Nothing, April the Giraffe. Really- I Mean That!

Courtesy: Animal Adventure Park 

If you would have told me a month ago that I'd be spending what little free time I have watching a pregnant giraffe pace around her pen and not have a baby...well, I probably wouldn't have answered because I was very busy watching a pregnant giraffe pace around her pen not have a baby. I mean, seriously- April has been "close to labor" FOREVER. I'm starting to think I might give birth to a baby giraffe before she does. But back to my original point, if you had told me TWO months ago that I'd be spending ANY time watching a pregnant giraffe do ANYTHING, I would have said you were nuts. And yet, here I am, locked in a dysfunctional relationship via my computer screen with a silent animal hundreds of miles away. Ain't technology grand?

For those of you who haven't yet been formally introduced, April's story simple: it's a classic girl giraffe meets boy giraffe meets livestream webcam meets entire world kind of thing. And I, like millions of other people, can't seem to get enough.

Though April has been a viral internet sensation for some time, the first few times I tuned in, I didn't really see the appeal. After all, she was just standing there, looking...well, giraffe-ish. You know, enormous and spotted and gangly-legged. I watched for a few minutes and then turned it off, because it was kind of boring. It's not like giraffes make a lot of noise, or do much of any interest besides eat and poop...and quite frankly I see enough of those behaviors around my house. There just wasn't much happening.

But then for some reason, I kept checking back, and the more I did, the more I realized that was the best part: there just wasn't much happening. I've watched her eat, drink, walk around and occasionally canoodle with her baby daddy Oliver. Some days, I've even watched her sleep. It's about as simplistic as entertainment gets, and given the ever-crazier-by-the-minute world we're living in, that's a pretty amazing thing.

When you get right down to it, April is just a big, goofy-looking animal who is perfectly content in her own patchwork quilt skin. Some say giraffes are an example of God's majesty, but I think they point more to his sense of humor.

She's having a baby, which many of us can relate to, but she sure is a heck of a lot more calm about it than any expecting mom I've ever seen. I was two weeks overdue with my first child, and had there been a live broadcast of my behavior, my husband and I would still be paying off the FCC fines.

With April, there's no obsessive compulsion to decorate the nursery, or guilt at not having done so. No mommy wars of any sort. There's also no talk of Russian scandals, executive orders, or FBI investigations. I haven't asked her, but I think it's pretty safe to say April is a non-partisan giraffe with no opinion on the current administration, the role of the media, or the proposed federal budget.

She's just a mom-to-be, waiting on nature to take its course, and reminding us that it will happen when it happens. I believe that's a special something many of us used to possess called "patience."

I've heard some experts speculate that April's lure has something to do with giving us a glimpse into a world we'd otherwise not see. But I think it has less to do with the lure of the exotic than the calm of the familiar.

When I see April, I remember long, sweet walks through the zoo with my dad when I was a little girl, and the way he pronounced it "gee-RAHF." I remember my own world before my babies came into it- the hopes, dreams, and expectations I carried right along with each pregnancy. I remember that it is possible to just be.

To be honest, I'm not even interested in watching the birth of the baby- that sound very messy. So for now, I will soak in these last minutes with April and be thankful that relief and escape are just a livestream away.

He Put on a Hat and Everything Changed

I've never been a hat person. I have way too much hair and it's far too unruly to be contained under any dome-shaped contraption. If I try, it will either adhere itself directly to my head, or rebel completely and explode out the sides. Or both. Hats are just not my friend.

And now, I have another bone to pick with hats. You see, my oldest son- he's almost ten. In so many ways, he's still a child, and even though he's getting bigger and stronger, deep down he's still my little boy with the baby-soft skin and the stuffed animals lined up on his bed. But he grew up one day all at once, and I blame his hat.

It was a chilly November morning and he was getting ready to run a local 5k. My son came downstairs in his version of winter weather-appropriate running gear, which is another way of saying "shorts and a t-shirt."

"You'll need to bundle up- it's really cold out there," I told him, which of course is Mom Code for "You are NOT leaving the house like that!"

He went into the mudroom and put on a sweatshirt, gloves, a knit hat with tassels, and at least five years.

As he walked back into the kitchen, my jaw hung low as I searched in vain for my child who seemed to have been replaced by this much older, more confident boy with the hat on his head.

He pulled the hat down over his ears, the edges skimming chiseled cheekbones I'd never noticed, and framing eyes that held secrets no adult could not unlock, even if they tried to remember.

I marveled at the newly developed muscles rippling under his skin as he laced up his shoes.

I squinted in an attempt to bring the 9-year-old back in focus, and I caught a glimpse of something I'd never seen in him- never even considered might be lurking underneath.

A man?

I watched him without words, like you watch your favorite movie, my brain attempting to binge on the vision in front of me.

My heart was racing as if I'd already gone for a run. What had I done? I wanted to rip that hat off his head, to hold him close until the little boy reappeared- the one with the chubby cheeks who wore clothes sized with the letter "T" and smelled like baby wash and maple syrup.

But what kind of mother would I be if I sent my son out in the cold without his hat?

And so he ran- that older boy with the hat- he ran really fast. So fast that he worked up a sweat and removed the offending headwear. As he peeled it off to reveal his matted, damp hair, I saw his familiar goofy grin reflected in the finisher's medal around his neck and finally felt the earth return to its normal orbit. I exhaled for the first time in what seemed like hours and felt my breath slow right along with my little boy's.

He was back, and even as I squinted at him in the morning sun, I couldn't find any trace of the future man who had tried to take his place.

A few weeks ago we were at a large family gathering and when it was time for my father to go, he asked me to help him with his hat.

It was the same hat he's had since my childhood- the big, furry, oblong kind with flaps that come down over the ears. The kind more suited to winter in Siberia than suburban Detroit. I picked it up and took it over to him, and bent over his wheelchair so I could put it on his head.

As I held the hat in my hands, its soft, downy fur tickled my hands, melted my heart, and transported me three decades back. That hat smelled like Old Spice and Brylcreem, like winter mornings of my youth, when my dad, freshly showered and shaved, firmly pulled his rubber shoe protectors over his polished Rockports and placed his hat on his slicked-back hair before heading to work.

I looked at him and saw my 8-year-old self reflected back in his thick bifocals. I squinted and tried to bring the memory more sharply into focus, but before I could grab it, before I could dive back in time, it was gone.

I wanted to rip the hat off his head, to hold it close and keep it all to myself. But what kind of daughter would I be if I sent my dad out in the cold without his hat?

I focused all my attention on him as my son helped push the wheelchair out, the way you focus on the last few chapters of your favorite book, not wanting to miss a single word before the beautiful story concludes.

When it was time for us to leave I gathered up the kids, their shoes, coats and other assorted winter gear.

"Put your hats and mittens on- it's really cold out," I warned them.

"I didn't bring a hat, Mom," my oldest confessed.

"It's OK, my love," I told him as I bent down to kiss him, burying my face in his hair so he wouldn't see the relief in my eyes.

I put one hand on the top of his head- partly to guide him, and partly to steady myself- and together we headed out to brave the cold.

Snow Day Survival Guide

They are the two words every child wants to hear in the winter: "SNOW DAY!" But having kids home all day can be a challenge for parents. Here are a few ideas to get you through the day.

First and foremost, get the kids outside! If you don't already have child-sized shovels, they're a great investment. Snow toys like brick builders and snowball makers come in handy as well. One of our favorite things to do is to fill a squirt bottle with water and food coloring, and use that to make snow art. It's a great way for little ones to practice letter formation as well!

We also love to bring the snow inside...to make snow ice cream! The recipe is simple, the results are delicious!

And who says you need to go outside to make a snowman? No offense to Elsa and Anna, but the only ones I wanna build are made out of marshmallows.

Snowflakes are fun to make this time of year- they will take any adult right back to their childhood! For the simplest version, just use a coffee filter (what else are you going to do with that stack, now that you've switched to a Keurig?). If you're ready to get a bit more sophisticated, try a 3-D paper snowflake. They only require paper, tape, and scissors, and older kids can easily complete them. You'll find the instructions here.

Our final snowflake was a fun science experiment- it takes 8-12 hours, but hey- it's a snow day so you've got nothing but time! My oldest loved making these Borax rystal snowflakes, but we also made other cool shapes, including his initial. Instructions are here. 

I'm a big fan of projects the older kids can do with the younger ones, and homemade playdough and finger paint both fit that bill. With a little supervision at the stove, older kids can mix these up and then the whole crew can create...because you're never too old for arts and crafts! Both of these are made with common pantry ingredients and are non-toxic. 

A snow day is also a great chance to help your fine feathered friends...birds actually have a much harder time finding food when the snow hits, so take the opportunity to make a few easy bird feeders with your kids. You and the birds will reap the benefits all winter. Here are some ideas. 

Another great way to pass the time on a snow day is with some simple games- we keep busy with indoor obstacle races, and the many "Minute to Win It" style games you can find on Pinterest. One of our favorites is this one where the kids have 1 minute to move as many M&Ms as they can from one plate to another using a straw. 

Thanks to WDIV for having us on to share these ideas- happy snow day to all! 

Finding My Voice: From A Chance Encounter Years Ago To A New Year's Goal

Most broadcasters get their start in small markets- places like Glendive, Montana; or Alpena, Michigan, but my first gig was international.

It was 1994, I had recently graduated from college, and I was stranded in the Australian capital of Canberra. How I got there is a long story that involves first love, first heartbreak, and an overnight bus ride, but I'll save that for another time. Suffice it to say I found myself with several hours to kill in an unfamiliar place.

The sun was barely peeking out of the early morning sky, and in my teary, weary, travel-ragged state, I was hardly in the mood to tour the sights. Still, part of me knew this was quite possibly the only time in my life I'd have the chance to see Canberra, so I'd better pull myself together and take advantage of it. Surely there were national treasures, museums, and galleries that I should visit so that I could broaden my worldview and deepen my understanding of that great nation on the other side of the world.

Just one problem: it was 7am on a Sunday morning and all the bastions of Australian culture were closed. I had about 5 hours to kill before my next bus, so I stashed my backpack in a locker, grabbed a cup of coffee from a corner deli and wandered the streets.

About an hour into my aimless jaunt, I stumbled across a large building that looked interesting, and by that I mean it appeared to actually be open. It was the Australian Institute of Sport.

I walked up the steps, pushed open the door, and found myself face-to-face with a dark-haired, red-nosed man sitting behind a desk, surrounded by a pile of Kleenex, a manual of some sort, and a telephone.

"(Sniff) Well, good morning (cough cough cough)," he sputtered, and then continued in an extremely hoarse voice. "We're not quite open (sniff sniff) but now that you're here, I'm going to need to you do something..."

"Umm...what??" I replied nervously, as headlines of international kidnappings and trafficking rings flashed before my eyes, and I wondered why I couldn't have just wandered right past this place. It's not like I even understood cricket. Or rugby. Or Australian men. (oops, I digress again...)

"We just got a new phone system (GIANT COUGH) and I need to record (SNIFF) the outgoing message on it, but as you can see...or well, hear...(SNEEZE), I'm a bit under the weather. Could you do it for me?"

Relief flooded through me. "I guess I could, but in case you can't tell, I'm from the United States. Shouldn't the official message for the Australian Institute of Sport sound a little more....Australian?" I asked.

He looked right at me said, "You have a voice- that's what matters."

So right there and then, I scored my first paid job in the industry: I recorded the outgoing answering machine message, giving the days and hours the Institute was open in exchange for free admission and a refill of my coffee.

Shortly after my splashy debut on the international broadcasting scene, I caught a bus back to Sydney, and eventually a very long flight back to my regularly scheduled life in the US. I think it's safe to assume that my message has long since been erased from the phone system of the Australian Institute of Sport, but that random stranger's message to me was permanently archived on my brain: You have a voice- that's what matters.

I thought about it in those emotional, jet-lagged days upon my return to the States, where I felt lost and silent.

I thought about it in the years that followed, as I tried different career paths and countries; all those years when I said too much, struggling to fit in.

I think about it now, as I grow deeper into motherhood, when it often feels simultaneously like no one and everyone is listening.

It's no coincidence that "voice" and "vocation" come from the same root: the Latin "vocare," which means "to call." When I think of what it means to have a "voice," I think of the bridge that connects our inner and outer worlds. It's the sweet spot where body, heart, mind, and spirit overlap. It's not just the sound that comes from our mouths, but the one we make in the world.

As this new year begins, those words speak to me once again: "You have a voice- that's all that matters." Will I be strong enough to be a voice for justice and a voice for love? A voice of truth and compassion? A voice that says what it means, and isn't afraid to say no? A voice that is unafraid to speak alone? Because that's what matters.

About a month ago, my daughter gave her first book report of the school year. Despite being a voracious reader, and the daughter of a broadcast journalist, she's a shy flower who breaks out in a sweat at the mere thought of speaking in front of her class.

"Mommy- I don't want to do it," she cried that morning, her voice shaking with fear. "Why can't I let someone else read my book report for me?"

I took her on my lap, held her hands in mine, and looked right in her eyes.

"Because there's only one YOU," I told her firmly. "You don't have to be the loudest, you won't always have all the answers, and not everyone will always like what you have to say. But nobody, NOBODY can speak for you, sweet girl."

"You have a voice- that's what matters."

Have Yourself A Poopy Little Christmas: Finding Light In A Time Of Darkness

If love means never having to say "I'm sorry," then loving two little boys means never having to say "I'm sorry, this bathroom is just too clean for words!" Oh, there are plenty of words to describe the typical state of a bathroom in our house, but most of them are not fit to print.

I can't even identify some of the things I've found in the kids' bathroom, because quite frankly I don't want to get close enough to try. Let's be honest: boys are a symphony of gross, and the bathroom is their masterpiece concerto of yuck. And I don't want to completely let my little princess off the hook, since her bedroom could easily be featured on an episode of Elementary School Hoarders. Given that anatomy is on her side, she does generally manage to keep the toilet seat clean, although actually flushing the device is apparently frowned upon in her kingdom.

That goes for all the kids in the house; that's because right now we are three kids deep in one of the poopiest phases of parenting. Everyone is out of diapers, but now they're gripped with a fascination with all things excrement-related. Bathroom humor is the only kind of humor in our house. When they do Mad Libs, I can be relatively certain that the choice of nouns and verbs will fall into just two categories: bodily functions or the parts that produce them. My daughter, if given the opportunity to play with my phone, will bypass all the sweet, smiley faced emojis and head right for the picture of the toilet or the brown lump of poop. And the first time we traveled to Mackinac Island, Michigan's storied getaway where cars are not allowed and horse drawn carriages are a main mode of transportation, the bulk of the 4-hour trip north was devoted to the topic of horse poop. Do they just poop in the ROAD? Who cleans it up? Where do they put it? What happens to it after that?

So it should come as no surprise, given their obsession, that one of my children would find a way to bring poop into the picture of one of the most holy, divine moments in all of religion: the birth of Christ.

It was shortly after Thanksgiving and my youngest was setting up the nativity scene by the fireplace while I worked on the tree in the other room with his siblings.

"Mom, what's a manger?" he called out.

I peeked in to see him tossing the plastic manger in the air (we purchased a kid-friendly set after the unfortunate year where several donkeys were decapitated during a Bethlehem brawl).

"Umm...it's that thing in your hands...you know, the place where Mary laid baby Jesus after he was born?"

"But what IS it when He's not in it? Is it a bed...for a sheep?" he wondered, his chunky kindergarten fingers not finding success at shoving a plastic animal into the manger.

"Well, not exactly," I replied. "I think it's more like a food trough- the place where the animals ate. Remember how there was no room for Mary and Joseph inside? They had to stay out with the animals. Then Jesus was born, and Mary wrapped him up and put him in there.

He considered this thoughtfully for a second and then his face lit up with excitement.

"So all these animals were there?" he gestured to the plastic menagerie.

"Yes..."

"So was there...(sharp inhale of excitement)...POOP? When Jesus was born? WAS THERE POOP EVERYWHERE? BECAUSE ANIMALS POOP!  I'VE SEEN THEM AT THE FARM AND IT SMELLS SOOOOOO BAD REMEMBER WHEN WE WENT ON THAT FIELD TRIP IN PRESCHOOL AND THAT COW POOPED AND THEN ALL THE CHICKENS WERE POOPING IN THEIR HOUSE AND THERE WAS POOP ON THE GROUND AND I STEPPED IN IT AND YOU MADE ME WIPE MY FEET ON THE GRASS BEFORE I GOT IN THE CAR..."

Clearly, the poop train had left the station. He became so engrossed in his recollection of barnyard poop (and reenacting it with the nativity scene animals) that he forgot he had even asked the question, so I took it upon myself to walk away and not have to deal with another poopy conversation. But his question stayed with me, and not just because I had to scrub the toilets that afternoon.

Though it's my most favorite time of year, I'd been having a hard time getting in the Christmas spirit. Despite the holiday lights all around, things just hadn't seemed very bright. Between the never-ending political drama in our country, the unthinkable atrocities unfolding in Syria, the bombing of churches in my family's homeland, the suffering of loved ones, and my own chronic pain from an injury that just won't heal, light had been in short supply.

Maybe that's why I started wondering- WAS there poop when Jesus was born?

I guess there probably was, both literally and figuratively. In our minds, in images, and in the songs we sing this time of year, the birth of Christ is such a gentle, magical time. We think of Christmas as a time of light, which of course it was (and is), but we often forget to mention that Jesus was born in the middle of a time of great darkness. The people of God were under oppressive rule. The nation of Israel was fracturing. Riots were common. Persecution was the way of life. 9 months pregnant, Mary and Joseph made an arduous, 100-mile journey by DONKEY over hills and streams, only to deliver the baby outdoors, without family or hospitality. These were very dark times, or as my kids my say, poopy. And that's not even talking about the animals.

I am no biblical scholar, but I do have to believe that was no accident. There's a reason the Son of God didn't arrive on a calm, clear day, with Mary and Joseph comfortably registered at the Labor and Delivery unit of their local hospital, birth plan in hand, with a crowd of family and friends in the waiting room as lavender essential oils were diffused into the birthing suite.

No, He was born into a world that I can't help but think was very similar to the one we're living in today: a broken, dark, and poopy one.

And that's where I guess this year I find the meaning of Christmas: in the poop. Christmas is about waiting for God to break forth into our world, despite the poop. It's waiting for the reassurance that hope is alive, that peace will prevail, that joy will be found, and that love will always win. It's the belief that nothing we can do as humans is so dark- not even the poopy condition in which we've left the world- that it can separate us from that light, and I've never found that thought more comforting than today.

Our world is a tough place to live in, but the Christmas story reminds us that just as hope, peace, joy and love started with an innocent child born in a humble manger surrounded (I surmise) by poop, it also starts at home in our poopy lives every single day. Christmas starts here. Christmas starts with us. It starts with cleaning up the poop.

Later that day, I found my sweet five-year-old, put him on my lap and asked him, "Buddy, do you remember earlier when you asked if there was poop when Jesus was born?"

After the requisite 10 minutes of laughing because MOM SAID POOP, he settled down. "Yeah..."

"Well, I wasn't there, and there's nothing written about that in the Bible, but I think we can guess there was. Like you said, there were all these animals, and animals poop. But that's not all. There were a lot of people behaving in a pretty poopy way back then. The world was dark and scary. And God wasn't afraid of any of that. Not the poop or the dark. He still isn't. He sent us light. That's a big part of Christmas- we need to look at all the ways we are poopy- not just in the bathroom, but in the way we talk, behave, and most of all, treat other people. We need to look for God, because he's here. We need to look for him in each other, in strangers, in people we can help. We need to look for that light, and we need to BE that light. And we REALLY need to clean up the poop in our lives."

I wanted to tell him so much more. I wanted to tell him how guilty I feel when I look around at all the poop that surrounds us- the politics, the pain, the suffering-  and realize how lucky I am that the majority of the excrement in my life is confined to the bathroom.

I wanted to tell him how every mother, of every creed and every color, in every part of the world, has seen the great light that's been passed down through history with the first glance into in her child's eyes.

How sometimes my heart simultaneously aches with equal parts joy and guilt when I think about how whole our life is in the midst of our very broken world.

I wanted to tell him all of that, but it seemed a bit heavy for a 5-year-old, so instead I just kissed the top of his curly head, held him a bit too long until he squirmed out of my arms, and told him to go clean the bathroom.

The Angel: Seeing The World Through A Child's Eyes

Holiday celebrations are some of the best parts of living in a small town, and my town does not disappoint. As Christmas approaches, our Main Street. is decked out in wreaths and ribbons, with beautiful storefront window displays glittering and gleaming in the soft white lights.

Early in the season, the entire downtown closes to traffic for an evening to make room for Santa's sleigh, where, after several hours of music and merry-making, the crowd gathers for a countdown at the end of which Santa magically turns on the Christmas lights that surround downtown's centerpiece, the Millpond (we won't dwell on that one year we counted down like six times but the lights still wouldn't go on- even Santa has technical difficulties). It's a pretty big deal around here.

Many of the homes leading into downtown take their celebrations just as seriously. There's the house with the nearly 50-foot pine tree that is adorned from top to bottom with ornaments the size of watermelons. Smiling snowmen on every corner. Enough reindeer to pull a dozen sleighs. And my favorite- a giant lighted angel which stands in front of a quaint, brick gingerbread-style home on Main St. I look forward to seeing its warm glow every year, and then I forget about it until the next. Christmas angels aren't there when it's not Christmas, right?

Unless they are and you just don't see them.

Fortunately, someone in my world does.

I think it began around sometime around February or March. We'd be driving through downtown and all of a sudden, my then 6-year-old daughter would nearly leap out of her booster seat with excitement.

"Mama- there's the most beautiful angel standing there, and she's holding a present in her hands! What do you think is in it? Do you think it's for me?" She'd breathlessly blurt out as we navigated the roundabout in the middle of town.

"Mmm hmm...," I'm sure I muttered distractedly, the first few times, glancing up about 2 blocks after the fact, which is typically the time it takes a verbal message to trudge through the muck of my overloaded brain, and to trigger some sort of a response. Of course by then, I saw nothing.

But she wouldn't stop. Whether it was on the way to ballet, coming home from the grocery store, or heading to a friend's house, she saw an angel. I saw nothing but places to go, errands to run, and time ticking away on the clock.

Though she only mentioned the angel when the two of us were alone together in the car, on those rare occasions I was a passenger, I'd try to remind myself to look for it. Unfortunately, by the time we got close to downtown, my attention had been pulled away by a beep or a buzz or a tweet or a tap or a swipe. But never an angel.

Finally one day, I remembered. As we made our way downtown on the way to dance class, I told her to tell me when we were getting close to the angel. I slowed waaayyy down until I heard her gleefully  squeal: "There she is!"

Sure enough, she was right- there stood the frame of the giant lighted angel I so look forward to seeing each Christmas. I'll be honest- in the light of day, she looked a little shabby- just a twisted shell of metal and wires on a soggy, bare lawn.

"Oh, you mean the Christmas angel!" I said. "I didn't see her because the lights aren't on this time of year."

"She's not just a Christmas angel, mama- she's there all the time," she insisted. "It doesn't matter if the lights are on. She's an angel- she's always shining. I see her all the time. You just didn't LOOK for her. "

DUH.

And just like that, my thought process sped through the roundabout and took a hard right turn into the oh-so-familiar parking lot of Mommy Guilt. Between work, activities, obligations, and the pressure of getting everyone from Point A to B (and points C-Z), what else had I been missing?

But then I realized- maybe we're not meant to see it all alone. Sure, my little girl sees things where I don't- she looks at a puddle and sees nothing but joy. I see a stealth mess that's looking to attach itself to a host so it can spread entirely new messes throughout the house. She sees cotton candy dinosaurs on a cloudy day, while I mourn the absence of the sun. And she sees angels shining even when the lights aren't on.

But I know it works both ways- it's my job to see things that she can't yet understand. To shield her as best I can from harmful germs and harmful strangers, bumps on her leg and bumps in the night. To guard her heart and raise her to see the world with both wisdom and joy.

Light and dark.

Angels and demons.

Between the two of us, I think it will work out just fine.

She'll be my angel and I'll be hers.

What Happened To the Magic Words? A Mom's Plea For More "Please" and "Thank You"

I've heard it said that parenting is a thankless job. The hours are awful, the pay is terrible, and the working conditions often include high-level HAZ MAT situations involving various forms of human DNA.

Sure, raising children is certainly difficult, often physically and mentally exhausting, and occasionally downright disgusting. But thankless? Hardly.

My kids are currently 9, 7, and 5 years old, and from the very beginning, we've done our best to instill in them the power of the "magic words" and the importance of a grateful spirit. They are far from perfect, but more often than not, they say "please" when they ask for something, and "thank you" when it's been received. So not only are we verbally receiving thanks multiple times per day, but we're "paid" in frequent hugs, deep belly laughs, and the cautious optimism that we're not raising entitled brats. Even with the 24-7 on-call shifts, I'd call that a hefty payoff. OK, a decent payoff. OK, fine- but I would still not call it "thankless."

Now dealing with adults, on the other hand- there's your thankless job. Actually, it's more like a "thanksless" job,  as in a shocking lack of use of the word "thanks." It can also be a "pleaseless" job, sometimes a "you're welcomeless" job, and almost always a "sorryless" one.

At least once a day I am shocked by the most basic lack of manners among adults, and I'm not even talking about the level of incivility that passes for discourse online. Believe me, I'd sooner put my bare hand in a blender than read the comments section of any news article, especially during election season.

I'm simply referring to what it feels like the almost total extinction of "please" and "thank you" in everyday life. You're probably familiar with the scenario: someone provides a service for another person. This could be anything from holding open a door to simply providing information via email, text, or other messaging means. Whatever the details, the response is often the same: Crickets. Nothing. Nada. AND IT MAKES ME CRAZY. When did saying "thank you" become optional? And when did so many people decide to opt out? The mom in me constantly fights an overwhelming urge to prompt people with a sugary, "What do we say?" or put a friend/acquaintance/total stranger in time out for what I consider abhorrent behavior.

Want some examples? The other day I was in the checkout line at the grocery store, when I noticed the child in the cart in front of me had dropped her toy. I picked it up and gave it to her mother, whose  only response was, "Oh geez, did she drop that again?" You're welcome. Later that same day,  I was out to dinner with my family, and I couldn't help but notice that when the waitress set down plates of food at the table next to us and they immediately said...grace. I'm all for that- really, I am. But shouldn't the process of giving thanks for one's food include thanking the person who brought it to the table? Directly, and not just through the intercession of a higher power?

Before you accuse me of being over-sensitive, consider what those words actually mean. Saying "thank you" isn't just a trivial throwaway. On the most basic level, it communicates acknowledgement of the act that took place, or receipt of the information that was communicated. Those things are rational, but saying "thank you" is mostly an emotional act. It connects one person to another. Saying "thank you" doesn't just acknowledge someone's effort, thoughtfulness, intent, or action. It acknowledges the person himself. And that is our basic responsibility as human beings living in community with each other. It's part of the unwritten contract we sign as co-inhabitants of the planet. And we're violating it right and left.

I often see "open letter" style thank yous, where people offer their profound gratitude very publicly to someone they often failed to thank privately. I'm sure you know the type of post I'm referring to- it usually has a title like: "To the Kind Woman In The Trader Joe's Parking Lot," or "Dear Lady Wearing The Black Swimsuit at the Splash Park." In the tradition of grand intellectuals like Emile Zola and Martin Luther King, Jr., the writer clearly feels his or her communication should not be limited to the mundane reality of either personal one-on-one missives. These letters often go viral, but they change nothing, and serve mainly to put the focus on the writer. That's not really what gratitude is all about. You know what I'd love to see go viral? Good old fashioned thanks.

A few years back I made what ultimately ended up to be a very brief stop in corporate America, taking a job in public relations. It was one of those "too good to pass up" opportunities, so even though I had a feeling it wasn't quite the right job for me, I gave it a go. A few days into the job, I needed to email a senior vice president for some information, which he promptly provided. "Thanks so much!" I replied. The same scenario played out over the next few days, and each time I replied with my thanks. Later that week, Mr. Very Important Senior Management Guy paid an unexpected visit to my desk.

"Hey, I get that you're new here and you're trying to be friendly," he boomed, loud enough for the entire cubicle farm to hear. "But you're clogging up my email with all your replies. You don't need to say 'thank you' for everything around here- we don't have time for that."

My jaw hit my my desk. "Umm...OK..." I stammered to his back as he importantly walked away. "Thanks...I mean, not thanks...I mean I'm sorry...wait, do we have time for 'sorry' here?"

For the record, I did thank him for the opportunity when I submitted my letter of resignation not long after that.

Contrast that to a day 35 years ago this month- one of my earliest memories of the power of the magic words. I came home from school to something my 8-year-old eyes had never seen: both my parents in tears. Anwar Sadat, the president of their native Egypt, had been assassinated as he marched in a parade commemorating the anniversary of the 1973 war with Israel. For days to come, we watched the footage over and over again, with audible sobs heard over the whir of the VCR in rewind mode. My parents and their Egyptian friends poured over news clippings taken from papers around the world, and discussed the implications in hushed voices.

I did not come close to understanding the nuances of the situation at that time- heck, I hardly do today. On the one hand, Sadat was a man who had not made life easy for Egypt's Christian minority, to which my family belongs. He had gone as far as to imprison the church patriarch in a remote desert monastery after accusing him of inciting sectarian unrest. On the other hand, he was the first Arab leader to sign a peace accord with Israel, a feat for which he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, and which ultimately lead to his death at the hands of extremists who considered him a traitor.

As my parents struggled to digest all of that, what rose to the top on October 6, 1981, was that the leader of their beloved homeland had been killed, and from thousands of miles away, they mourned the piece of their history that died along with him.

In the days that followed, one of our closest family friends paid a visit. A devout Jew, she had been my parents' very first next door neighbor, and their relationship seemed a testament to the amazing possibilities this country held. No doubt, she was working to reconcile her own jumble of emotions over the events that had unfolded. But this was not the time for debate.

She walked over to my mom, took her hands, and held them to her heart.

They stood that way for some time, not speaking, both with tears streaming down their cheeks.

"Thank you," my mom eventually said.

And it was more than enough.

Beach Memories: A Vacation To The Place Where Nostalgia, Love, and Loss Live On

Some people find peace in majestic mountains, others in wide open plains. My source of calm and comfort has always been the ocean.

Within the first few breaths of that salty ocean air, I feel my lungs tingle, my muscles relax, and my heart finds a familiar rhythm in the waves.

Because we've been coming to the beach since I was a child, those waves hold memories that churn up against each other, the past and present getting tossed together like tiny seashells. Over the years, the force of the water and time whittles them down and eventually deposits them back on shore. As I walk the beach, I see glimmers of those memories sparkling like shells in the sun. Sometimes, I can grab them before the next wave comes rolling in, but other times they retreat into the sea, teasing me with their barely visible edges.

My kids are beach creatures as well, easily spending hours jumping up and down in the waves, body surfing back to shore, and digging for shells in the wet sand. We walk together down the same beach I visited with my parents at their age, and the memories stretch out in front and behind us as far and wide as the sea itself.

I sit down to watch them splash in the water and in the crash of the waves against the shore, I hear the crack of the dice against the side of the backgammon board, my dad and his best friend locked in a heated game more than three decades ago, the afternoon sun gleaming off the intricate, mother-of-pearl inlaid tiles.

As the waves retreat in a fizzy farewell, I can almost taste the icy cold cans of Fresca we'd drink by the case, the citrusy bubbles soothing our throats in the midday heat. I hear laughter and sometimes I can't quite tell where it's coming from- past or present? My kids or my childhood? In the end, it doesn't really matter.

Every trip to the ocean reminds me of the one my own parents crossed, of what they brought with them, and what they were forced to leave behind. The water gives so much life and joy, but it also separates and divides, carves canyons from rock.

Just a few weeks before our trip this year, our close-knit Egyptian community was rocked by the sudden, unexplainable death of a bright, young star. Just 34 years old, his light was extinguished before it even had the chance to dazzle in the way everyone who knew him knew was his destiny. His loss felt like a giant tidal wave that swept over us, uprooting everything in its path, including destiny. The normal order of generations was undone as a mother buried her son, and children held their parents close. Feelings ran to extremes but words held no meaning. How could love hurt so much?

I longed to let the salty ocean water wash over all of us and carry this grief back down to its depths. I needed reassurance from the pull of the tides that the forces of nature were still in their proper places. I ached for the beach.

One night during our trip we went for an evening walk under the full moon. I held my daughter's hand as the surf tickled our ankles. My legs were heavy as the grief was still there, holding on, refusing to be cast off into the sea. We stood for a long time letting the waves roll in and out and eventually, I did feel its grip loosen slightly. I watched our footsteps appear and disappear in the sand, and said a silent prayer that the beach would hold them forever just below the surface.

Thoughts On Pain And Its Purpose: The Surprising Upside Of Injury

I've been thinking a lot about pain lately, mainly because I've been experiencing a lot of it. Not just the usual heartache that comes with being an oversensitive, exhausted, working parent of three young kids, but actual physical pain.

It all began about eight months ago, when the usual post-run stiffness and soreness in my right hip simply wouldn't go away, no matter how much I rested, iced, or stretched it. The pain got so bad it literally stopped me in my tracks mid-run one day, and I ended up limping 4 miles home.

Several trips to the doctor eventually lead to a round of physical therapy, which lead to an MRI, which lead to an orthopedic surgeon, which finally lead to a diagnosis of a labral tear, bursitis, bone spurs, and a condition called Femoroacetabular Impingement, which basically translates to the ball and socket of the hip joint not fitting together properly.

In layman's terms, that means a structural issue with my hip, combined with a family history of arthritis, combined with two decades of high impact exercise have made for the perfect storm that is currently raging in my right side. Surgery is the only option to fix the myriad issues, and in my case, September (when the kids are back in school) is the only option to have the surgery.

So that means two more months of dealing with the pain, which is increasing by the day. Sometimes by the hour. Two more months of feeling every single step, never knowing which one will land safely and which one will lead to the entire joint buckling under me. Two more months of carefully easing down into chairs and using my upper body to compensate. Two more months in which everyday tasks like putting on socks, going up and down stairs, or reaching for an item on a shelf are oftentimes impossible, and almost always excruciating.

Running- my stress reliever/sanity saver/social outlet/source of inspiration has been taken away, indefinitely. Walking for any significant time is also too painful, and on any given day the same can be said for sitting, standing, and even sleeping. The fickle nature of this particular injury means that even on good days, one wrong move in any particular direction can throw the entire joint out of whack, resulting in a shooting pain so strong it brings me to my knees...figuratively, since I have nowhere near that range of motion right now. Only the pool and its delicious weightlessness offers a temporary respite from the pain and a vague sense of normal movement.

But I don't tell you all this so that you will feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for sympathy or a pat on the back. While I wouldn't wish this particular condition on anyone, I guess I'm not sorry it happened.

The pain has made me walk more slowly, talk more slowly, and to think before I move. This internal injury that can't be seen has profoundly changed the way I see everything around me, and caused me to retreat into myself in a way I have not done before. As a result of feeling so much in one part of my body, I believe I have become more sensitized in every area of my life.

And that's a real blessing, because it sure seems like we're living through times where no one wants to feel a darn thing. When tragedy hits- a shooting, a bombing, a toddler ripped away from his parents by a wild animal- we react. We judge. We criticize. We take sides. We insert our personal politics where they don't belong and throw verbal arrows from the comfort of our computer screens. Anything to keep from feeling the pain.

I get it. I get that when life hurts this much, when there is so much chaos and loss in the world, it's tempting to armor up, to shield ourselves from the intense vulnerability of the how much we, ourselves, have to lose. In other people's tragedies, our own are always present, as the instability of life reveals itself. Rather than face the possibility of something similar happening to us, of how many loved ones could be lost, how many cherished places destroyed, or how many dreams dashed, our instinct is to try to protect it all- to grasp it tightly and keep it safe- to control it, so that there's no chance we can be hurt.

But sometimes, we need to be hurt.

Medical professionals will tell you that pain serves a purpose. Acute pain, for instance, is protective. That's the kind of pain that lets you know that something is wrong and that you need to get checked out. For example, if you have chest pain when you're having a heart attack, that's a good thing if it makes you go to the hospital. If you touch a hot stove and feel pain, even though it's severe, it's a good thing because it makes you move your hand away.

Pain also serves a unifying and correcting purpose.  It tells us that something is wrong. If we didn't feel pain, we wouldn't know we were sick, and we wouldn't seek an answer. It's a healthy body that responds to pain, after all.

Emotional pain, I believe, can serve a similar purpose. We can't take care of what we do not feel, so if we anesthetize ourselves from every possible hurt, how will we ever address the root cause? We've become so fragmented as a nation, perhaps as a world, so hardened, that we feel almost nothing but anger...or worse, indifference. If the health of our society is measured by the way it responds to pain; to the hurting, the helpless, the broken, the bruised, the battered, the bleeding, and the impoverished among us...then we are in big trouble.

You may be telling yourself you feel fine. You're not in any pain. I guess I'm not sure that's enough anymore. Before I hurt my hip, I wasn't walking around rejoicing over its functionality. I didn't really have any feelings toward the joint which now occupies so much of my time and energy. But you'd better believe that once the surgery, rehab, and recovery have come to an end, I will feel differently about the ability to move without pain. The absence of pain is not the same as the presence of joy.

I don't mean to suggest we all need to go out and injure ourselves just to find meaning in our lives- there's plenty of suffering in the world to go around. But the next time you find yourself in or near a painful situation, whether it is physical or emotional, whether it is yours or someone else's, before you do anything else, take a moment to sit with the pain.

Ease into it, and allow it to serve its purpose.

Take a moment to pray not just for, but in solidarity with those who suffer, to mourn with those who mourn.

Remember that pain softens the heart, as fire softens iron.

Feel someone else's pain, and allow them to feel yours.

And maybe together, we will begin to heal.

The Orange Flowers On The Hill: Finding Strength In Unusual Places

Like many moms, I put a lot of miles on my car. And like many moms, I put the exact same miles on my car day after day...after day. In fact, it's less of a car and more of a school-sports-activity-grocery store shuttle.

We live in a relatively small community, so varying the routes to those same places isn't even a realistic option. So that means I drive down the exact same stretch of road multiple times each day. Most of the time, I'm on autopilot, as the same old scenery whizzes by. Golf course, restaurant, barn, hill, curve, curve, stoplight. Then later in reverse: stoplight, curve, curve, hill, barn, restaurant, golf course. As is often the case with the things most familiar to us, I see them so many times, I tend not to see them at all.

But I do remember the first time I saw the orange flowers on the hill.

It was one of the first few days of July, five years ago. At that time, I had a 3-week-old baby boy, a two-year-old daughter, and another son inching up on his fourth birthday. To say I was overwhelmed doesn't begin to come close. As if the physical and mental exhaustion of life with a newborn (and two toddlers) wasn't enough, with my husband working long hours, preschool done for the summer, and no family or any real support system nearby, I was breaking. Whether it was food, comfort, diapers, milk, or the blue sippy cup but NOT the red cup, from morning until night, and then right back into morning, someone needed something from me All. The. Time. Though I had little people attached to various parts of me virtually round-the-clock, I had never felt more alone.

My solution was to get the heck out of the house as much as possible, and just GO. Anywhere. Tire them out then pray for sleep. Though it felt more like preparing for the Invasion of Normandy than a trip to the park, I would pack up the diaper bag(s), load our motley crew into the car (unloading to change the baby, feed the baby, and change the baby one more time), and set off. Borrowing a page from Dory, my mantra in those days was "Just Keep Swimming...Until Naptime."

On one of those days, we had loaded up our royal motorcade for a morning at the local library, where Optimistic Me envisioned a few hours of cozy cuddling amongst the stacks as I exposed my little darlings to the joys of literature. Of course, with three kids under age 4, what unfolded was a tad different. My oldest threw a fit when he couldn't find the train book he wanted. I set the two year old down to help him, and another child ran over her finger with a rocking child. Her shrieking woke up the baby in the carrier, who seemed to think it was an invitation to a crying contest that he was NOT about to lose. Optimistic Me was nowhere to be found, but Real Me was left standing in the middle of the library, covered in a mix of sweat, tears, breastmilk, and other DNA samples not necessarily emanating from my body.

"That's IT! We're going home!" I yelled, gathering up whatever seemed to belong to me (children included) through teary eyes, and slinking out without looking back.

We piled back in the car, all of us sobbing. I turned up the volume on the radio hoping the music would soothe someone, anyone in this miserable lot. The rain was now coming down in sheets, and I sat for a few minutes in the library parking lot with water streaming down my windshield and my face.

Finally, I put the car in drive and headed home, down that same stretch of road I'd traveled so many times before. The rain was relentless, coming at us sideways and making huge puddles on the road. I hit one of those puddles just right, and my car began to hydroplane, sliding crazily around as I tightened my grip on the wheel and prayed for it to end.

Thankfully, it did, and though I was only about a mile from home, I pulled down the closest street to catch my breath. It was a private drive- a street I hadn't been down before, and for a moment I didn't recognize where I was. For that matter, I didn't even recognize myself. Or my life.

A few deep breaths later, my hands had nearly stopped shaking and the rain had all but stopped. I shakily turned the car around and got ready to return to the familiar road. I pulled up to the intersection, wiped one last tear from my eye, and pulled out. As I did, I looked straight ahead to see the hillside in front of me covered from to top to bottom in vibrant, beautiful orange wildflowers.

I was mesmerized. How many times had I driven past that same hill, and never noticed those flowers? Where did they come from? When did they bloom? I looked at my three beautiful children, now sound asleep in the rearview mirror, then at the flowers one more time before taking a deep breath and continuing down the road.

In the days that followed, I saw those flowers everywhere- scattered along the roadside, hiding next to mailboxes, growing seemingly out of nowhere, but standing tall and proud in the most unlikely places. Their fiery color and resilience were in such stark contrast to my mood, and I began to intentionally seek them out everywhere I went. Each one I saw felt like a little boost. A hidden message just for me. A reminder that you can't stop to smell the flowers if you don't even see them.

That summer passed and just as quickly as they appeared, the orange flowers were gone. It's now been five years since I first saw them, and every summer, right around this time, I look forward to their return. I drive by the hill and point them out to my children, making sure they clearly see what I was blind to for so long. I take note of how they much they've grown, despite being dormant for so long

I wish I could pick those flowers and hand deliver a bouquet to every new mother out there with a note that says "You CAN do this." I wish I could bottle up their scent and dab a little behind my ears on those days I need a little more strength. I long to press their petals in the pages of my life, to run my fingers across them in those dark chapters where fear tries to triumph over faith.

But it's enough just to see them, to watch them grow, then fade away, to know that they will be back, and to remember that this is but a season.

I don't know the actual name of those flowers- I'm told they are some sort of daylily- but to be honest, I don't really care.

In my mind, they will forever be known as "Hope Blossoms."

My Youngest Child Is Graduating From Preschool And So Am I

When I was a freshman in high school, a book of short essays by the American pastor Robert Fulghum called "All I Really Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten," was published, and quickly rose to great popularity. The title of the book was taken from the first essay, in which the author explains how the world would be improved if adults adhered to the same basic rules as children, i.e. sharing, being kind to one another, cleaning up after themselves, and living a balanced life of work, play, and learning.

It was a lovely little book full of sage advice, and it gave me nightmares. 

You see, I didn't actually GO to kindergarten, at least not for very long. I think I attended for about a week, and then, at the teacher's recommendation, I was moved to 1st grade. The details of how it all unfolded are kind of sketchy- after all, this was 1978, well before helicopter parents staged a mass landing on the education scene. There was no social media, not that my mom and dad would have ever crowdsourced the decision in a parenting forum, or allowed a bunch of strangers to weigh in on whether or not their five-year-old was academically or socially ready for the challenge. I'm guessing the conversation went something like this: 

Teacher: Mr. and Mrs. Boulos, we've talked it over and we think it would be in your daughter's best interest to skip kindergarten. 

Mom and Dad: OK, thank you.

And off I went to first grade.

Second row, second from the right. Don't I look thrilled?

I never once second guessed their decision until that book came out, alleging that the one year I skipped turned out to be the lynchpin of the entire educational experience. What huge holes did I have in my learning as a result? Were the other 20 years I spent pursuing educational goals of various sorts a waste of time? Could I somehow make up the year, perhaps in a kindergarten online correspondence course?

All these years later, I think I've finally come to terms with my kindergarten deficit, mainly because I've spent the past six years in preschool. Technically, my three kids were the ones attending preschool, but after six consecutive years of thrice weekly dropoffs and pickups, six years of goodbye hugs of varying intensities, six years of walking (sometimes pacing, sometimes casually strolling) the hallways where my children grew and thrived, it felt like I was enrolled right along with them. And leaving preschool will not be easy.

September 2010

September 2012

September 2014

That's because in a world where adult expectations and activities are so quickly thrust upon children, a world where toddlers get professional manicures and first graders must decide which travel sports team might best suit their athletic needs, preschool has remained a place for child's play. A place that is colorful and messy. A place that feels safe and secure, where friendships form in a matter of seconds, hugs flow freely, and creativity lines the walls.

In many ways, time has stood still for us over these past six years. As our children, each two years apart, each spent two years in preschool, up until this point there has always one more behind them to immediately carry on the preschool torch. As our older kids have moved into the big, wide, world of homework, spelling tests, and playground drama, having one foot firmly planted in preschool has been a grounding force, and a way to connect not just to my children, but perhaps to childhood as a whole.

Over these past six years of preschool, my kids had the same teachers, took the same field trips, and even made many of the same projects. And at some point, their lessons became my own.

The more things change, the more they stay the same (except for my hair). 

In my six years of preschool, I've learned how difficult it is to let go- from letting go of a loved one's hand to letting go of control. But I've also learned how necessary it is.

From the dedicated teachers, I've learned what a blessing it is to allow someone other than yourself the opportunity to love and nurture your child. Someone who sees them in a different light, who appreciates things about them that even we as parents might completely miss. My heart aches with gratitude for each of them.

From my fellow preschool parents, I've learned that support, advice, and competition-free companionship are not just things we should offer our kids.

From the preschoolers I've learned that you should laugh- at yourself, at your friends, and at anything that seems even remotely funny. And you should cry, because you know what? Stuff hurts. And tears help. So there.

I've learned to dream, because when you're surrounded by a roomful of aspiring astronaut/princess/ballerina/police officer/garbage collectors, how can you you not imagine what you, too would like to be when/if you ever decide/are obligated to grow up?

So today my youngest will join his older siblings in walking across the stage to collect his preschool certificate. I admit- it's more than a little comical, seeing these tiny beings decked out in mortar boards, their goofy grins a stark contrast to the undue solemnity of "Pomp and Circumstance" as they parade down the aisle. In the past, it has made me laugh so hard I cried.

But this time, I might just skip the laughter and go straight for tears, because it is certainly the end of an era, and in many ways it feels like the end of innocence. This time, as my baby boy walks across that stage, I must force myself to accept that we are both walking away from these precious younger years.

Society has little time for childhood, and even less for adults with childlike spirits. While children are masters of the moment, the senses, and the pure heart, in little more than the blink of an eye, doing will overtake being, and thinking will overtake feeling.

So my prayer for my pint-sized graduate is that together we will always carry the lessons of these preschool years close to our heart, and not just because I have an entire jewelry chest's worth of macaroni necklaces.

Preschool has been good to us- I don't know that we've learned ALL we need to know, but I do know my child is ready to graduate to the next step. I only hope that I am, too.