The Fierce Diva Guide to Life

My Dreams

 

It’s time to mingle once again!   I wasn’t sure what to serve today for my guest of honor, Tricia, from Raising Humans.  If you were at Bloggy Boot Camp in Charlotte over the weekend, then you would recall I said “no” to the pie, hoarded fruit, and really love black olives.   There has to be a menu in there somewhere, right?

Tricia is one of those gems that I found through the SITS Girls.  She’s a gifted writer who inspires me in every post to capture the small moments, moments which Tricia articulates with thoughtful attention and heart and beautiful words.  I am in love with this post below, because Bloggy Boot Camp has me all riled up about following my dreams, and feeling fortunate enough to be surrounded by an awesome tribe of bloggers who are on this path with me. I am truly blessed.

Please welcome the lovely Tricia. 

When I first came to Ilene's space here, I thought to myself, "Wow, Fierce Diva. That is awesome. I need a little bit more fierce and a lot more diva in my life."

I've never really been described as fierce. I'm rather meek, pretty shy, and happier hanging back out of the spotlight, quietly doing my thing as well as I can. That path, the quiet one that flies well below the radar, has taken me pretty far. I've had some successes. I've risen in my career. I've built a little blog that I call home and that welcomes more visitors than I ever dreamed it would (in that more than my husband and my best friend actually come to visit).

And that's all wonderful. I love my life and I'm proud of the successes I've had.

But now, I want more.

I have these dreams. Dreams that I've always had but that I pushed aside for one reason or another as I planted my feet firmly on the quiet, expected, traditional paths. But we all know, dreams will be pushed but they will never leave for good.

When I close my eyes, I see my name in print. I see my words shared with hundreds and thousands. I see my stories making a difference. I see people reading my thoughts and experiences and thinking to themselves, “Yes, I get that. She gets me. I'm not alone. I'm going to make it through this. I'm going to celebrate this.”

I see lives changed, even in the most minute, tiny, only visible with a microscope kind of way, but still changed, with my words.

When I close my eyes, I see myself standing on a mountain top, tossing inspirational quotes laid upon beautiful photos far faster than you can pin them all and promising that every last one of them is true. Believe it.

When I close my eyes, I hear interviewers asking me questions. "How did you do it?" "What advice would you give to someone who wants to do what you did?" "Congratulations on all of your success!"

Yes, in my dreams, I am a diva. I am fierce.

In my dreams I am going after my dreams and I am living my dreams. And I am not scared of honestly baring my soul in front of strangers. And I am not scared of sending my words out into the world in the hopes that they will resonate and someone will pick them up and publish them. I am not scared of rejection or failure.

In my dreams, the life I want more than anything is there. And it is perfect.

I know that dreams come true all the time. I know people whose waking moments match their dreams and even in the mundane of dishes and errands and cleaning and the administration of daily life, they can only smile because their life is as they want it and they've made it so.

I know it is possible. I can live my dreams. And if I live my dreams, my children will see that dream living is not only possible, but an unassailable right. So they, then, will live theirs. And their children will have no doubts that their dreams will come true, with two generations of dream living before them, and they, then, will live theirs. And I will leave, in my legacy, a line of dream livers. And, truly, what greater pursuit is there?

I've never really been described as fierce. But, see, I have these dreams.

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Tricia is a mom & freelance writer, finding opportunities for growth in the most amazing places. Read about her growing triumphs & pains on her  blog Raising Humans. You can also tweet at her @raisinghumans or follow her on Facebook.

Thirty Years and One Day

 

“Where’s my cell phone?  Have you seen my cell phone?”

He looked at me with vague recognition as he gripped the edges of the overbed table and turned his torso with effort.

“Don’t strain,” I said, “I’ll help you find it.”

I searched through the nightstand and standard issue bedspread, reeking of bleach and staleness and under a chair.  And as I brought my head back up from the floor to meet his, it dawned on him.

“It’s you.”

With folded arms he turned away.        

He didn’t want me there.  I knew he didn’t want me there, but I went anyway. When you get a call like that, you go.  When you get a call like that, you put thirty years on the shelf and you unzip your heart and you throw your kids at neighbors and you run through airports and you pray that you make it on time and you come to understand in a fleeting, humbling way how much value there is in one day.    

Despite my hurts, I was aware enough to see through a stubborn old man who created a story that looked much different than mine.  We all create stories, to protect ourselves, to live with ourselves, sometimes to prevent ourselves from growing close to those we love the most.  Because loving like that can be scary.  Except we humans, we forget.  Love never killed anyone.  It’s fear that’s the real mortal enemy.

Eventually, he softened. I helped him put on his socks, I held his drink for him. I told him about the brilliant run I had the morning before at the reservoir near my house.  “That’s a great place to run,” he said in quiet recollection.       

Slowly, the room that first seemed crowded from all of our mistakes felt lighter.   Because when we let 30 years of fear and anger slip away, there’s room to let the light in.

I sat there and wondered how much those 30 years cost me. Because anger always costs us. Anger lives in our bodies, you know.  It lives in every cell, along with fear and love and old hurts and anxiety and uncertainty.  Pantanjali knew that. 2,500 years later, Candace Pert proved it.  I sat there and wondered how long and how much it would take to extract anger from 100 trillion cells.

I sat there and wondered what I’d have space for in those cells once I got rid of that anger and the righteousness and the hurt from the unmet expectations once and for all.   

I vowed that this was the day I would let it go. And if he lived, I resolved to make things different. I would call.   I would visit.  I would bring the kids for week long sleepovers where we’d crash on air mattresses in the guest room.  I told him that next year, when he was better, we’d go to Disneyworld together.  

I committed to never again allowing anything to get in the way of us knowing each other.  If I could put thirty years on the shelf for one day, I could do it for another day and yet another, until the days were weeks and the weeks were years and until I was no longer weighed down by those 100 trillion cells  because I would let the light in. 

And finally, after thirty years, I felt the light coming into those cells.  I felt the light coming in as the orderly wheeled out the monitors, as I overheard his wife making phone calls to the family, as I stood over him and kissed his forehead that had grown cool.

I was ready.

I think he would have been ready too. 

I would have asked him, had we had another day.  

###

What has fear and anger cost you?   

This post was inspired by the lovely Tricia from Raising Humans and her absolutely stunning post entitled These Days One More, which encapsulates in the most beautiful way the true value of one day.   This post is definitely worth your read and your vote for BlogHer VOTY. 

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My Week in Laundry

The Misconception About Philanthropy

 

Today’s mixer is BYOB! 

That would be, “Bring your own bacon.”

Today’s guest of honor, Jennifer Barbour, is a bacon lover, pie hater, mom to two boys and three dogs, and all around do-gooder.   If you haven’t checked out Jennifer’s blog at anotherjennifer.com, it’s definitely worth the read.  Jennifer writes about motherhood, living in Maine, blogging, social media, and she also lends her voice to an abundance of worthy causes, through her Philanthropy Friday series.   I am so happy to have Jennifer here on my page today.  Please give her a warm welcome! 

photo credit 

When I worked for a nonprofit, I was the person who said no to donations.

 Sounds counterintuitive, doesn’t it?

 It’s not that I didn’t appreciate people’s gifts, but we often didn’t need what they were leaving us.

 Kind of like the negligee for Hurricane Sandy victims.

 Thanks. But, no thanks.

The problem was that staff didn’t know how to say no. Or, people would simply drop off bags filled with their old clothes and household items at one of our residential facilities and leave.

There are two problems with this. 1. We often didn’t have a need for the items and would be forced to find a place to store them. 2. Tracking these donations was a nightmare.

I banged my head up against a wall trying to manage the donation process, train employees to understand it and educate potential donors on the best ways to give.

I’ll be honest. I wasn’t very successful. There really wasn’t a true development department to handle donor management – my focus was on marketing communications - and staff was too busy carrying out the mission of the organization.

In my 9 years of working for (or with, as is the case now) nonprofits, I often observed a disconnect between the giver and the receiver. People wanted to give, and organizations certainly needed things. Why didn’t this work in harmony? Why did donations sometimes become a chore?

Yet, some of the best conversations I had were with people to whom I said “no” because I would often re-direct their good intentions into a more meaningful donation. They would tell me about why they chose our organization to support. The conversation would frequently turn personal, and I would listen without judgment. They might have gone through our (substance abuse) treatment program. Or a daughter may have been saved from a life of drugs and jail under our roof.

It’s a pretty amazing day when someone tells you the organization you work for saved her life.

I didn’t get to have these conversations too often, but they usually ended with me suggesting where their donation would make the most impact, even if it wasn’t with our organization. I might send them a wish list, in case they still wanted to help us by purchasing something or donating money. Or I’d connect them with clinical staff to see if they might want to speak to our clients about their own success story. They might become a board member.

There’s often a misconception about philanthropy that “giving” means spending a lot of time and money on a cause.

Honestly, sometimes I just wanted people to share their support of our organization with their friends, family members, colleagues and social networks.

I’m only beginning to realize that my pull to work for a nonprofit early on would also pave the wave for me to explore the topic of philanthropy and, in a way, re-define it.

While I write a lot about giving back, I’ll be honest when I say that I’m learning about this stuff as I go along. All I can say is that when we have a pull to give, we should see where it leads us. Whether you donate money or goods, use your voice to advocate, shop with a conscience, or perform simple acts of kindness, it counts in a big way.

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Jennifer Barbour is a copywriter, blogger, aspiring author and new media consultant. She aims to inspire, to entertain and to make you think. Her passions are writing, philanthropy, her awesome family and bacon, though not necessarily in that order. You can find out more at anotherjennifer.com.

Use Your Words

It was a conversation I had never planned to have, the one with the friendly customer service representative from the limousine company.

Normally, I would hit someone up for a ride, but given I would head to the airport at 4 am on Friday morning, I decided to drive and leave my car there….until I realized that parking would cost more than a car service.

Saturday, when I contacted a local car service to make a reservation, the call was taken by the sweet and patient D.

D. was friendly, engaging, and not at all in a hurry to rush me off the phone or close the sale.  We made the kind of small talk that can only be appreciated by New Jerseyans, Parkway traffic, the chore that it is navigating the Newark International security lines, the knowledge that if you don’t get the first flight out in the morning to your destination of choice, as I planned to do on Friday, you’d have very little chance of getting out of there at all. 

Once I made my reservation, D. asked, “I’ll just need the address where we’re picking you up, Mrs. Evans.”

My response to her was followed by a noticeable pause.

“That was my grandparent’s house,” D. said with a quiet astonishment.   “You live in their house.”    

“Oh my gosh!  You’re a Gregory?”

Although I had never met them, I knew of her family.  I live in a small town, the kind of place where people stayed.  Many of the parents my kids went to school with knew the Gregory family while they were growing up.   

“I practically lived in that house when I was a kid. I have so many memories from there.  Wonderful memories.”

“Your grandparents were adored,” I say to D. “And everyone knew them.  To this day, if someone who has lived in this neighborhood for a long time asks me where I live, I tell them I live in the Gregory house.”

“You call it the Gregory house?”

“It will always be the Gregory house.”

Thirty minutes later I received an email from D., confirming my 4 am pickup, along with a personal message, excerpt as follows:

I am so unbelievably happy and blessed to know that such a kind person lives in my grandparents house. I always wondered. I hope our paths cross again somehow. Have a Happy Mother's Day! And we will see you Friday morning at 4am.

I smiled at her note, her warmth, her sincerity, her approval of my taking occupancy of a house that belonged to her family.

That note, by an almost stranger, gave me the most uplifted feeling.  

Her words mattered.

Words have power.  

Words set a tone. 

As a blogger, I need to remember this, to use my words carefully. 

With friends and also with complete strangers. 

With words, we can spread love or we can spread hate.  

We can inspire or we can spread doubt.

We can spread laughter or we can spread gloom.

We can spread rumors or we can share truth.  

We can change the world with words if we put our minds to it.

For better or for worse.

We have that opportunity, with every written word, every conversation, every shout, every whisper.

Are you as mindful of your words as you could be?

###

This post is dedicated to my friend and fellow blogger Jennifer Barbour of Another Jennifer Blog, who inspires me through all of the ways she uses her words to help make the world a better place, while sharing “stories of those who incorporate philanthropy into their everyday lives,” through her Philanthropy Friday Series, her monthly Giving Pledge, and her contributions to the Global Team of 200.  Jennifer, thank you for using your words to spread so much good. 

Me and The Beebs

 

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. 

I never forget my music.

I have it in my purse at all times.

Except this week, when I switched purses. 

Any yoga teacher knows that her playlist is everything.

And anyone who has ever taken yoga remembers the playlist.

They may not remember what was on that playlist but they remember how those songs made them feel.  

So when I arrived at the studio on Tuesday without my music, I felt empty handed, to say the least. 

I should mention that my music fail was preventable.

That “free” cell phone upgrade I took last month for $200.00 was to simplify the music end of things. I thought an iPhone would be “the answer” to my never leaving home without my music again.  I mean, when was the last time you left your house without your cell phone?

I’m more likely to forget a child at home than forget my phone!

Except one month into owning my first iPhone, I had still neglected to load my music on that thing.

I had an iTunes account.  I had music on it!

All I had to do was plug that silly phone into the computer and download.

Downloading music was on my list of things to do, along with figuring out why all of the sudden, I had to restart my washing machine mid cycle, clean the fish tank, import my blog to Word Press, and mow my lawn (although when one day, I couldn’t find my youngest, who was playing out front, because the  grass was taller than she was, I finally decided to give into that one and hire landscapers).  

My failure to download left me in the compromising position of being at the mercy of the yoga studio House CD’s.

I sorted through the CD rack by the stereo to review my options.

There were three yoga CD’s, all which featured different sounds in nature.

I’m not a fan of teaching yoga to the sound of a forest stream or birds chirping.  I like to teach to “real” music versus sounds in nature. I’m also not the biggest fan of “yoga music,” mind you – except for MC Yogi, who is kind of the like the Beastie Boys and Bob Marley and The Police, when they were a ska band, rolled into one, and who raps – yes! He raps, people!   About Hanuman the monkey god and the Hindu deities and the chakra system.  Yes, he’s that cool.

Except last night, while MC was lying, forgotten and alone on my messy desk in my office at home next to that really long, negleceted to-do list, I was thumbing through CD’s that featured the sound of rain falling for 48 consecutive minutes (yawn) and additional discs that were used for children’s dance classes, Disney, Folk music, Justin Bieber.

There are many reasons people go to yoga.  For a good stretch through the hips and hamstrings, for stress relief, and for those ambitious types, to pursue to the path to enlightenment.

Most people I know don’t come to yoga to listen to Justin Bieber.

But given my choices, Bieber was the best playlist option I had.  

And so we began. 

We down dogged to “Boyfriend” and did sun salutes to “To All Around the World,” and balanced in tree to “As Long as You Love Me.”

While I don’t think I’d intentionally bring the Beebs to class with me again and while he’d never replace that other Justin in my book (although no one could ever replace that other Justin in my book, not even MC..well, maybe MC...), I certainly appreciated him more than the sound of wind or trees falling or whatever else the nature CD featured.  

I left the studio Tuesday night with the young Beebs on my mind and the crazy ride he’s had these past 5 years.

Not to  be judgmental or anything, but when you’re a 19 year old millionaire pop star and you get pissy when the neighbors in your gated community ask you to stop driving all over their lawn in your Ferrari, I tend to think that you could benefit from yoga.  So, Beebs, if you ever happen to read this, take some motherly advice. Before you try to plow through another airport without going through security, or speed your car around a foreign country or cheat on another girlfriend, why not try exploring your inner nature and balancing out the fluctuations of the mind and harmonizing your mind, body, and spirit?   You may actually like it.

At the least, Never Say Never. 

 

 

What's the one surprising thing you did this week?

 What's on your playlist that would surprise me? 

My Week in Laundry

 

There were two piles in the middle of the floor, one dirty that needed to be washed, and one clean that needed to be folded and put away. I’m always behind on the laundry, this week no exception.

Early on Saturday, with coffee in hand, I began to sort through the piles, four clean loads lying on top of each other in one basket, and four days of dirty in the other.

I pulled out the shirt Miss F. wore when we had harsh words before school Tuesday morning, where I, in a terrible mood, said regrettable things, things that prompted me to send a text message to the aid in her class and ask her to apologize for me.  I couldn’t bear those words being the last she heard from me all day.

I pulled out Miss F.’s softball uniform and B.’s soccer jersey, worn for two games played in two different towns at the same time, my not being able to see more than 10 minutes of either one. 

I pulled out the shirt I wore my first day back at work, after an unexpected and chaotic week away, my boss’ petulance exacerbating the sulking jags I indulged in while hiding in my office.    

I pulled out the dress I wore to my father’s funeral.

The dress I tugged at while I overhead two women say, “Does anyone know if his daughters even showed up?”  

The dress I smoothed over my hips while a well-meaning guest, a person I had never met, took me aside to acknowledge that he knew this death was complicated for me and wished me peace.

The capris I wore running the morning of the funeral, where I may have run my fastest five miles ever, while letting the anger and grief and sadness and guilt pour out of me.  

Past, present and future mixed up and blended, baseball jerseys atop a dress worn to a funeral of a grandfather my children never knew, by my choice, for that matter, a painful yet well considered choice.  And while I pulled clothing out of that basket and folded it in piles, I sat there wishing I could sort out my feelings as easily as we sort out the lights from the darks and the casuals from the delicates.  

I’m not unique.  Every family has their laundry.

Part of my mission is to take the facts that belong to the story of me and my father, and learn to look at them as facts, not as burdens or hurts, or details that I allow to define me.

We don’t have to attach emotional energy to facts.  We can learn to become neutral observers of the facts, even the facts that seem troublesome. Even the facts that we have spent our entire lives personalizing.  Yoga teaches us that.  And while that’s easier in theory than in practice, we have the option to acknowledge our stories, validate our stories, and respect our stories yet be liberated from our stories at the same time.  

We can own our stories without them owning us, dirty laundry and all.

~Namsate 

Hello...Goodbye

 

We stood on the grass as the van made its way over the gravel driveway.  As it came to a stop, E. emerged with a brown cocker spaniel in her arms. 

“This one’s yours!” she said as she handed the dog to me. “Isn’t he a beauty?”

The kids gathered around me as we said hello to our first foster dog Brock.

That was a year ago. 

We’ve fostered fourteen dogs since. 

Many people don’t understand why we have chosen to take in dogs on a temporary basis as fosters versus adopt. 

Today, I’m explaining my famliy's decision to foster versus adopt over at Another Jennifer, the blog created by my dear friend Jennifer Barbour.   I am a huge fan of Jennifer’s blog and in particular, her Philanthropy Friday series, which she uses to bring awareness to various non-profit organizations and social causes. Jennifer’s dedication to using her blog for social good is one of the many things that turned me into a faithful follower. I am honored be featured today on Jennifer’s Philanthropy Friday series to talk about fostering shelter dogs. Won’t you please join me there for my dog story? 

 

 

 

Midfielders Make the World Go Round

It’s time to mingle again! This time, with Eli from Coach Daddy. I could never dream of asking Eli over without serving pizza, so please! Grab a slice. A brilliant story teller, Eli chronicles life and parenthood with humor and heart, from anecdotes about coaching soccer, to some of the unusual questions he fields from his daughters, to his "almost" convincing justification of Chick Fil A not being a fast food. Today’s post combines the many elements that makes Eli's voice so compelling. A soccer metaphor, some philosophy, and a tribute to his girls.

The kids’ shirt said a lot in three words.

“Soccer is life.”

I love soccer. But I know better than to believe that soccer is life.

It does a pretty good imitation, though.

###

It’s much tougher to watch my girls play than it is to coach my girls. I pace the opposite sideline, silent, lips bitten and arms folded. I walk the field with them, no matter what their position. I don’t say a word. I follow them. I want to see what they see. I want to feel what they feel.

When it’s crunch time, they’re in the game. I never was. I don’t know what it’s like to be.

You don’t have to know tons about soccer to understand the role of the midfielder. The midfielder plays between defense and the offense, as both an offensive player and defender. Their range of field extends from one end of the vast field to the other and one side to the other. Their zone is the entire field.

Soldiers, then, are midfielders.

Other countries glorify the central midfield position with cool names, such as Trequartista (Italy) and Enganche (Argentina and Uruguay). World-class players such as Diego Maradona and Andrea Pirlo have played this position. They’re the playmakers, often outfitted in the esteemed uniform No. 10.

Engineers, then, are midfielders.

On soccer’s biggest stage, the midfielder is the complete player, possessing vision, skill, toughness, creativity. When you’re a school-aged girl playing soccer, it’s simply where the dirty work is done. It’s where the smart coach puts the players he trusts everything with.

And this, it seems, is where my daughters are best suited.

When you’re 8 or 12 or 15, it isn’t where the glory lies. It’s where the bruises, under your shin guards and on your arms and hips and ribs and thighs lie, and in spots that hurt that you don’t even remember being hit. It’s in the heavy, tired legs, the sweat-soaked jersey, the stained and strength-tested shin guards that stand between you, your enemy, and the first-aid kit.

Law enforcement and first-responders, then, are midfielders.

When goals are scored against you, and when your offense fails to score, look no further than the midfield. They dig out the ball from the opposition, are expected to know where the enemy is and where she’s going to be and where to best set up the more glorified forwards expecting your pass.

If you fail – if you don’t fight hard enough for a ball or place a pass just where your forward wants it, you’ll hear about it.

Teachers, then, are midfielders.

Midfielders have chances to score, too. They have incredible field vision, can anticipate not only what their teammates will do, but also what the opposition will do. Midfielders often must work alone for their shot, against able opposing midfielders and waiting defenders and lastly, a determined goalkeeper.

Marathon runners, then, are midfielders. So, too, are activists, social workers and, sometimes, world leaders.

A midfielder must look behind her when a goal is scored on her team, chin up, pat her chest to accept responsibility and encourage her teammates to fight on.

Dads, then, are midfielders.

A midfielder must smile as she watches a ball she fought so aggressively for and labored to secure find its way to a teammate’s feet and into the opponent’s goal. She will celebrate as the goal-scorer receives the cheers and accolades and find contentment in their moment of glory.

Moms, then, are midfielders.

So as my girls limp off the field, hair plastered to their flushed faces, jerseys askew, limbs bruised and socks stained and cleats bearing the dirt and dust and grass and sweat and blood and tears of the position, all I can do is kiss their salty foreheads and whisper, “Great game, lovey. Great game.”

They’re in great company, my midfielders.

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When he’s not growing mustaches for men’s health awareness or trying to remain the No. 1 dude in all three daughters’ lives, Eli is coaching soccer, writing his blog or looking for his next cheese-covered snack. Find him at Coach Daddy and on Twitter: @Eliatcoachdaddy.

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Bring on the Noise

In Praise of Pop Tarts

 

“Sprinkles, Mommy!  I want sprinkles!”    

“Rainbow or chocolate?”  

“Both, Mommy! I want them both!   Ow!”  My daughter winces. “They’re hurting me!”  

“Look at me, baby!  Look at me!” I turn her head to face mine.   “Don’t look down there!”

“You can have whatever toppings you want.  You can have every topping in the store.”

“Mommy!  Make them stop!”

S. looks past me at the open wound and at the nurse, in the middle of sewing 17 stitches into her leg, as a result of being hit by a car hours earlier. The staff assures me that she can’t feel a thing, but every time she glances at her injury, she panics. 

“What about marshmallow sauce?”

“Yes, Mommy!  Yes!

S. wraps her arms around me and hugs me hard.

For the moment, she forgets about the stitches.

S. was released from the emergency room that night and the next day, I wheeled my daughter, high on codeine, unable to walk and sitting in an old stroller, into the self-serve frozen yogurt store, to make good on my promise.

This has been the year about food.

Not good food.  Not the clean eating green smoothie kind of food that I used to blog about eons ago.

This year has been about comfort food.

It has been about Happy Meals and peanut butter sandwiches and taking my kids for self serve frozen yogurt more time than I can count. It has been about letting them eat their Halloween Candy and Easter Candy that sits in the kitchen cabinet on any day they want instead of it having to be a special day or occasion. It has been about giving my daughter lollipops three times a day when that’s how many times a day I had to change those bandages on her leg, that first lollipop given at 8:00 in the morning.

Our best nights together were are the pancake house, where I never once stopped them from pouring too much syrup on their waffles, the bagels on the way to soccer games washed down by juice  boxes.

Have you ever checked to see how many grams of sugar are in a juice box?

This was the year I stopped caring about things like that.

This was the year that it was more important to me to watch three children marvel at the taste of a waffle when completely engulfed in syrup.   This was the year that I gave them money for school lunch, even on French toast stick day.   This was the year that we ate pizza three nights in a row.

This was the year that while my kids delighted in Girl Scout cookies before dinner or salt water taffy too close to bed, we sat around a table and delighted in each other.  We shared stories, of school days and soccer practices and play dates.  They were conversations sweetened by and bonded over food.  

These were the moments that I sat with them.  These were the moments that I listened.

We’ve had our best discussions over ice cream sundaes, when, in between each spoonful, my giddy sugar rushed children, eagerly offered the truth.    

One night, a few weeks ago, after B.’s school play and on an 8:00 pm run to Target, with all three kids in tow, Miss F. grabbed my hand as I drove.

“Mommy, I have to tell you something.”   

“What is it baby?”

 “I did something you’re not going to like.”  

“Did it happen at school?”

“It wasn’t at school.”

“Did you hurt someone?  Were you fighting with your brother?”

“No, Mommy. No,  I.. I…”

It was then that she burst into tears.

“I stole something.” 

Through her sobs, Miss F. told me the story.  It had happened in Kindergarten, three years ago.  She had taken a tube of Chapstick from a checkout line display in a grocery store, which had sat in a drawer, forgotten about, until earlier that day.

“I want to take it back, Mommy!”  

“We can take it back.”

“And I want to pay for it.  With my own money.” 

“I think that’s a smart idea.”

“I’m so sorry, Mommy!  I’m so sorry!”

“I know you are baby.” 

“Are you mad at me?”

“You’re mad enough at yourself right now.  You don’t need me mad at you, too. As a matter of fact, I think I love you more right now than I ever have.”  

“Why?”

“Because you were brave to tell me the truth.”  

I pull into our parking space and give my girl a hug.

“I promise it will never happen again.  Ever.”  

“I know it won’t.  Just promise me one more thing?”

I gently grab my girl’s face and turn her eyes toward mine.

“Just keep talking to me.  Every day.  About everything.  Please.  Just keep talking.”   

###

This post is dedicated to Eli Pacheco of Coach Daddy Blog, and was inspired by his post, “What Sandy Hook Taught Me: Keep My Girls Close" that I featured as one of my favorites of the year.  His resolve on how to parent in the wake of the Sandy Hook Tragedy is by far the best I have come across.  If you haven't read this post, you really should. 

This post is also written in memory of my father, Douglas Kaplan, who passed away last week, on the 24^th of April. Running is how we kept each other close, even during the years when we weren't.   Running was our language.  Then, now, and always.  

 

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It’s all about Michelle Montero from Callias Corner today! And in her honor, dirty spicy martinis, wine, and chocolate are all on the menu.  There might be some irony in what I’m serving today as a hostess, given I met Michelle while we were both during a green smoothie challenge last summer. And while my cleaning eating diet didn’t last very long past August, I’m so grateful that my friendship with Michelle did.

For the past several months, I have had the pleasure of tracking Michelle’s photography career and the start of her business.  In addition to being phenomenally talented behind the camera, Michelle is a huge inspiration for me in that she not only has a dream, but she’s pursuing it before our eyes.  

 

 

Status quo...that's my gig.  

Keep everything as is...that's my gig.  

No major changes.  Don't interrupt the flow...that's my gig.  

Lay low.  Mouth shut...that's my gig.  

Family girl...that's my gig.  

Safety...that's my gig.

Leave the past in the past...that's my gig.  

Childhood dreams over...that's my gig.  

I'll admit it.  I'm scared.  I'm frightened.  I'm sh!tting my pants.  I don't know if I can do this.  I want to do this, but I'm scared.  What if I fail?  Scarier still, what if I succeed?  What if?  What if?  What if?

"What if my Aunt had balls, Michelle?  Then she'd be my Uncle!  But my Aunt doesn't have balls, Michelle.  That makes her my Aunt."

These are the ever famous words of my husband.  These are the words he speaks to me when I doubt my ability to succeed.  He spoke these words before we moved to LA.  He spoke these words before we moved to Maryland.  He speaks these words to me now.

"We can't what if ourselves to death, Michelle.  If we did, no one would be anywhere."  

He's simple and very to the point.  Very, very to the point.  And, he's right.

I grew up in a dance world.  I received my BFA in Dance.  I lived and danced in NYC.  It was fun, it was stressful, it was a time of my life when I thought fame and fortune should be handed to me just based on want alone.  In my eyes, I worked hard and I should have been rewarded. But, instead of a reward, I was handed failure.  

As a dancer I had to find time to work to pay rent, find money to pay for classes and find time to audition, audition, audition.  With burnout approaching, a new boyfriend and just a heap of plain old bitterness, I left dance...defeated.

I've been bitter for a long time.  My dreams were shattered.  I had a degree that has done little for me by way of jobs.  I leave a childhood full of missed football games, nights out with friends and a lonely graduation.  Dance was my life!  I sacrificed a lot to become a professional dancer. 

Because of this failure, I never thought that success for me would ever be an option.  Introduce a new husband (my then boyfriend) and two kids and, well, any dream of becoming the woman I wanted to become (successful, dedicated, driven) fell by the wayside.  I don't have time for success.  I'm not good at success.  I don't know how to succeed.  I'm complacent.  I only know how to fail, how to give up.  Then...I grew up.

 There is something to be said about adulthood, about maturity.  I now look back at my attitude in my 20s and I am not surprised that I didn't succeed.  To be honest, I don't think that I wanted to succeed back then.  I was afraid of success.  I was afraid of the impact it would have on my status quo.  I was irresponsible for a reason.  I wanted to fail.  Failure was easy.  I didn't have to work hard to fail.  Failure I could do.

It's been about 7 months since I started my photography business and all I can tell you is...I want to succeed.  Photography, for me, is what my dance career was all about.  Photography has given my degree, my dance training, new meaning.  I see things differently now.  I can see success in my life.  I can see a future for my dreams.  

I truly believe that individuals bloom at different stages in their lives.  We don't have to find success right away.  We can find it in our 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and hell, if you live this long, into your 100s!  There is a reason I didn't succeed in dance.  I did not fail in dance, however.  My dance past helped shape my photography future.  Those failures are my greatest successes.  

I still have a long way to go with my business, but I have this new found optimism in my life.  So, what if I fail?  Then I'm blessed with the knowledge that I learned something new.  What if I succeed?  Then I fasten my seat belt and enjoy the ride...because it's going to be a long one!!

And, what if I had balls?  Well, I do have balls baby, and "no" you can't call me Uncle!

 A special thank you to my beautiful blog friend, Ilene, for asking me to guest post on her amazing blog.  Ilene has been one of my biggest supporters and I love and respect her dearly.  Namaste.    

About me:

I'm a photography obsessed mother to two little ones (ages 2 and 6)! When I'm not taking pictures of life, I'm hanging with my husband, family and friends. And I love martinis. Dirty, spicy martinis. And, wine. And, chocolate. And, really, really short hair.

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