On this cold, gray, dreary morning, wondering where summer is, I run along the streets of my small, Midwestern town feeling coddled and removed from the world's reality.
Most people are already at work. Kids are out of school. Few, if any, cars force me to the side of the road. Here in middle America, I run in the middle of the street, no worries about road camber or careless motorists.
In fact, there are few real worries at all ... at least, in comparison to what goes on in other places. And this is what often troubles me.
I live in my own little corner, where life is reasonably good. As each day passes, we are safe and happy, a roof over our head, food on our table.
Sure there are squabbles, but nothing too threatening. This week's worst crisis aside from the crappy weather? A thunderstorm Monday night took out the satellite dish feed and reduced us from two televisions to one for three full days, forcing our family of six to seriously evaluate priorities. (Basketball and hockey playoffs, and the Red Sox vs. Yankees series won out.)
Half a world away, though, a cousin of a friend has taken on the daunting task of making a difference at an up close and personal level. Four years ago, she, along with her husband and kids, left Minnesota and resettled in Haiti.
Tara Livesay writes on her blog http://livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/ about the daily trials and tribulations of life in Haiti with deeply touching and often humorous insight, helping women and children at the most basic level of survival.
On this end, so far removed from the suffering, it is impossible not to feel helpless. But now, Tara is giving us a way to join her efforts.
Setting her sights on the Twin Cities Marathon in October, Tara is seeking sponsors who will donate $1, $2, $3, or more dollars per mile, at three levels: $26, $52, $78, or more.
ALL FUNDS RAISED will be used to benefit malnourished children in Haiti — the poorest country in the Western hemisphere — through the Medika Mamba program, which is an incredibly simple and inexpensive way to save the life of a child.
Medika Mamba is an energy dense peanut butter, heavily fortified with protein and nutritional supplements. The name Medika Mamba means “peanut butter medicine” in Creole. It costs only $68 to save a child’s life using Medika Mamba, which costs $4.25/kg. It takes an average of 15 kg to cure a child.
You can learn more here:
http://medsandfoodforkids.org/
Check out this link to see Tara's pictures of some Medika Mamba graduates:
http://livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/2009/05/medika-mamba-graduates.html
Then, go here to contribute to Tara's marathon effort to nourish the most vulnerable inhabitants of a world that is too often heartless and unforgiving:
http://livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/2009/05/marathoning-for-haiti.html
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Time is not on my side
Sitting here, staring down the last day of school and wondering, as always, where does the time go and can I please have some of it back?
The year has three major points — first day of school, Christmas break and last day of school. Everything else is sandwiched in between; just one, long, dizzying blur that speeds up and slows down at random. It's a real life version of the whirling thing in the playground that you spin and hop onto.
One moment, I'm knee-deep in diapers and bedtime chaos. The next, our last child is done with fifth grade.
After 13 years, we have no one left in elementary school.
Part of me thinks that when fall arrives, I'll just keep walking down the block to school even without a kid in tow.
The next one up is heading into 8th grade (on the verge of high school!) and the one after her will be in 11th grade, one year away from graduation. The oldest is done with her freshman year in college.
Who needs to look in the mirror? These kids are a continuous, looping reminder that I am getting older ... every minute of every day.
At what point did I really think that having kids would keep me young?! Whatever that magic was has stopped working.
Worse yet, they think I'm old, not cool. My jokes are not funny. I should not sing out loud. No longer am I at the center of their universe, but rather some fading light in the nighttime sky.
I know they mock me, even though they insist they are not. I can see it in the roll of the eyes and hear it in the heavy sighs.
Can I really be two steps away from the nursing home?
The only consolation is that this will come full circle. I know. I did the same thing to my parents.
The only difference is, of course, I am so much more cooler than my parents were.
The year has three major points — first day of school, Christmas break and last day of school. Everything else is sandwiched in between; just one, long, dizzying blur that speeds up and slows down at random. It's a real life version of the whirling thing in the playground that you spin and hop onto.
One moment, I'm knee-deep in diapers and bedtime chaos. The next, our last child is done with fifth grade.
After 13 years, we have no one left in elementary school.
Part of me thinks that when fall arrives, I'll just keep walking down the block to school even without a kid in tow.
The next one up is heading into 8th grade (on the verge of high school!) and the one after her will be in 11th grade, one year away from graduation. The oldest is done with her freshman year in college.
Who needs to look in the mirror? These kids are a continuous, looping reminder that I am getting older ... every minute of every day.
At what point did I really think that having kids would keep me young?! Whatever that magic was has stopped working.
Worse yet, they think I'm old, not cool. My jokes are not funny. I should not sing out loud. No longer am I at the center of their universe, but rather some fading light in the nighttime sky.
I know they mock me, even though they insist they are not. I can see it in the roll of the eyes and hear it in the heavy sighs.
Can I really be two steps away from the nursing home?
The only consolation is that this will come full circle. I know. I did the same thing to my parents.
The only difference is, of course, I am so much more cooler than my parents were.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Reality bites
It is the dawn of a beautiful spring day, a rare and blessed event in this God-forsaken land we call South Dakota.
A pale blue seeps into the sky as the sun rises and starts taking the chill out of the morning air. Yesterday's rain has greened up the lawns and settled the dirt. Buds are bursting into leaves on the trees and bushes.
Heading out on the daily run, I have every reason to feel joyful, bounding across the miles carefree and effortless. And yet, every step feels leaden and tired.
As blessed and reaffirming as running is, the sport can be equal parts painful and depressing. How can it be that you feel like a gazelle one day and a sodden, lumpy piece of dead wood the next?
Other than the mirror or old photos, I know of nothing else that serves as such a cruel reminder that not only does life go on, but often times it just flat-out stomps on you from head to toe.
Days and weeks pass with a mixed blessing of runs good and bad, mediocre and forgetful, so at what point do you get to the tipping point?
Or, more importantly, how do you know it's not just a bad cycle of runs, but rather the start of the long, slow decline? When do you go from trying to improve to trying to hang on?
Running, like life in general, is much more enjoyable when you are feeling good, all powerful and ready to conquer the world. No one wants to slog through mile after painful mile, reminded every step of what once was and no hope offered for what will be.
The only comfort is to crawl back into bed, pull up the covers and push the aging, aching thoughts out of the head. Then, another new day appears on the horizon, seemingly like every day before it.
Within a few steps, though, instead of yearning for the couch, the body responds to what I am asking of it. Running feels not quite effortless, but not dreadful either.
The heart sings and the spirit soars. I'm back, and ready to fight on ... at least for another day.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Parenting lessons learned along the way
Contrary to appearances, I really haven't strayed too far from my original goal of writing on a regular basis.
True, I haven't had a post since the beginning of the month, but that doesn't mean the mind is empty or the motivation is lacking. It's just that sometimes, you go through a spell where you get so caught up in the daily grind, thoughts lose traction and the wheels just spin.
In the meantime, perhaps with the hope of attaching purpose to the day, I started to keep track of the many parenting lessons that reveal themselves at a random interval in the life of a child.
If it seems as though a lot of the entries are related to laundry ... well ... welcome to my world.
• Dirty laundry multiplies at twice the rate of clean laundry if you have two children — any more offspring and the accumulation rate ratchets up exponentially.
• Do not ever believe a child's promise to take care of an animal.
• The moment you finish cleaning the kitchen, a hungry child will appear and beg for a meal or snack.
• To a child, it is completely fair for a mother or father to tend to the needs of all and pick up after everyone, but wholly unfair for a child's scope of responsibility to extend beyond him or herself.
• Your children will surprise and disappoint you, bewilder and confound you, make you laugh and cry, but, overall, they will rise to and often exceed expectations.
• Until children are about 10 or 11 years old, parenting is mostly physical. After that, let the games begin.
• It is the rare child who plans ahead and makes a pre-emptive laundry strike. Most prefer to wait until the last possible minute, then retrieve a dirty piece of clothing that has been percolating in the stench at the bottom of the hamper and insist that all life will cease if the item is not washed, dried and ready for school in 7 minutes.
• If you give a child an excuse, he/she will use it. Likewise, given the opportunity, a child can rationalize or justify any behavior.
• Children need rules, limits and consequences, but typically do not want them.
• Babies and toddlers possess an innate instinct that sets off an alarm the moment you dare to take time for yourself, and then they realize that they need you instantly.
• Every child, regardless of ingredients, is different.
• Children of even the most loving, supportive and smart parents will screw up.
• From the moment you learn you are pregnant, you will worry about your child forever.
• Given the option, most children would prefer to live among piles of clean laundry rather than put clothes away.
• Sack lunches made with loving care will be left at home despite umpteen reminders to place them in backpacks.
• When you ask a child to produce an item such as a coat and he/she says it's in the bedroom, that often means the item is lost.
• The declaration of no homework on Friday afternoon will be replaced with panic about a forgotten assignment by Monday morning breakfast.
• No matter how bad the test grade, there are always others in the class who did worse, which many children think should soften the blow of the bad grade and put it in a better light.
• Some children, when threatened to put away laundry dammit, will put clean, folded clothes in the hamper and send them through the wash again.
True, I haven't had a post since the beginning of the month, but that doesn't mean the mind is empty or the motivation is lacking. It's just that sometimes, you go through a spell where you get so caught up in the daily grind, thoughts lose traction and the wheels just spin.
In the meantime, perhaps with the hope of attaching purpose to the day, I started to keep track of the many parenting lessons that reveal themselves at a random interval in the life of a child.
If it seems as though a lot of the entries are related to laundry ... well ... welcome to my world.
• Dirty laundry multiplies at twice the rate of clean laundry if you have two children — any more offspring and the accumulation rate ratchets up exponentially.
• Do not ever believe a child's promise to take care of an animal.
• The moment you finish cleaning the kitchen, a hungry child will appear and beg for a meal or snack.
• To a child, it is completely fair for a mother or father to tend to the needs of all and pick up after everyone, but wholly unfair for a child's scope of responsibility to extend beyond him or herself.
• Your children will surprise and disappoint you, bewilder and confound you, make you laugh and cry, but, overall, they will rise to and often exceed expectations.
• Until children are about 10 or 11 years old, parenting is mostly physical. After that, let the games begin.
• It is the rare child who plans ahead and makes a pre-emptive laundry strike. Most prefer to wait until the last possible minute, then retrieve a dirty piece of clothing that has been percolating in the stench at the bottom of the hamper and insist that all life will cease if the item is not washed, dried and ready for school in 7 minutes.
• If you give a child an excuse, he/she will use it. Likewise, given the opportunity, a child can rationalize or justify any behavior.
• Children need rules, limits and consequences, but typically do not want them.
• Babies and toddlers possess an innate instinct that sets off an alarm the moment you dare to take time for yourself, and then they realize that they need you instantly.
• Every child, regardless of ingredients, is different.
• Children of even the most loving, supportive and smart parents will screw up.
• From the moment you learn you are pregnant, you will worry about your child forever.
• Given the option, most children would prefer to live among piles of clean laundry rather than put clothes away.
• Sack lunches made with loving care will be left at home despite umpteen reminders to place them in backpacks.
• When you ask a child to produce an item such as a coat and he/she says it's in the bedroom, that often means the item is lost.
• The declaration of no homework on Friday afternoon will be replaced with panic about a forgotten assignment by Monday morning breakfast.
• No matter how bad the test grade, there are always others in the class who did worse, which many children think should soften the blow of the bad grade and put it in a better light.
• Some children, when threatened to put away laundry dammit, will put clean, folded clothes in the hamper and send them through the wash again.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Life, one deep breath at a time
Near the end of a yoga class last week, as we pressed our bodies up into Pigeon pose, the right knee bent and the left leg stretched out long behind us, one of my students declared: "Doing Pigeon is like eating candy."
We all laughed, taking delight in the analogy and enjoying the deep stretch of the hip. We knew exactly what she meant.
That is how good Pigeon feels at the end of a yoga class, when the muscles are warm and loose, the hard work is done and the mind is finally freed of all clutter.
The comment also led me to think of the transformation taking place every day, several times a day, when I teach yoga.
People of all ages, shapes, levels of fitness, and walks of life — they wander into the studio, shedding winter clothes and the myriad details of their day. For 45 minutes they turn off the busy thoughts and turn their focus inward to body and breath.
At least, that is the intention.
Every day, all day, our minds are racing to the task at hand or any number of burdens demanding resolution. Sure, a good workout helps to cope with the chaos. The physical effort mixed with the escape does wonders for both body and mind.
But, the good time ends. Re-entry into reality — like coming home to South Dakota from a January vacation in Mexico — can be brutal and shocking.
The peaceful bliss can disintegrate in the amount of time it takes to go from one side of the door to the other.
Yoga, on the other hand, smooths out the edges and instills a more lasting calm. I'm not completely certain why and I haven't conducted scientific research to back up my claim, but I think it's because yoga forces us to shut everything out, even if it is for only 45 minutes.
Unlike a run or a swim or a bike ride, when we are constantly feeding on the incoming stimuli of the world around us, yoga is fully and completely about us and all that is within. We breathe. We stretch. We align the body.
In the time span of one class, nothing else matters. There is no judgment — no fast or slow, no good or bad, no extra pounds, no ugly body parts, no unpaid bills, no complicated relationships, nothing to cook for dinner, no laundry to put away.
Perhaps the best part is in the last five minutes of class, when we lay down on our mats, the lights out, we close our eyes, listen to the music and think solely about each breath as it comes in and out of the body.
Each breath only here for a moment and then replaced by another new breath. It is hypnotic, spellbinding and almost a little mind boggling. How often do we actually stop and pay attention to the one thing — the breath — that gives us life; the one thing that allows us to do all that we do? Never.
Oddly, it takes time and practice to slow down to a pace of such nothingness, when the breaths flow in and out as if they were waves lapping at the shoreline.
But, once we ease into the comfort of being alone, quiet and content within ourselves, the feeling never completely leaves us. And, returning to that place becomes increasingly natural and constant.
People tell me I'm crazy to teach 10 yoga classes every week. Honestly, I think they're crazy not to.
We all laughed, taking delight in the analogy and enjoying the deep stretch of the hip. We knew exactly what she meant.
That is how good Pigeon feels at the end of a yoga class, when the muscles are warm and loose, the hard work is done and the mind is finally freed of all clutter.
The comment also led me to think of the transformation taking place every day, several times a day, when I teach yoga.
People of all ages, shapes, levels of fitness, and walks of life — they wander into the studio, shedding winter clothes and the myriad details of their day. For 45 minutes they turn off the busy thoughts and turn their focus inward to body and breath.
At least, that is the intention.
Every day, all day, our minds are racing to the task at hand or any number of burdens demanding resolution. Sure, a good workout helps to cope with the chaos. The physical effort mixed with the escape does wonders for both body and mind.
But, the good time ends. Re-entry into reality — like coming home to South Dakota from a January vacation in Mexico — can be brutal and shocking.
The peaceful bliss can disintegrate in the amount of time it takes to go from one side of the door to the other.
Yoga, on the other hand, smooths out the edges and instills a more lasting calm. I'm not completely certain why and I haven't conducted scientific research to back up my claim, but I think it's because yoga forces us to shut everything out, even if it is for only 45 minutes.
Unlike a run or a swim or a bike ride, when we are constantly feeding on the incoming stimuli of the world around us, yoga is fully and completely about us and all that is within. We breathe. We stretch. We align the body.
In the time span of one class, nothing else matters. There is no judgment — no fast or slow, no good or bad, no extra pounds, no ugly body parts, no unpaid bills, no complicated relationships, nothing to cook for dinner, no laundry to put away.
Perhaps the best part is in the last five minutes of class, when we lay down on our mats, the lights out, we close our eyes, listen to the music and think solely about each breath as it comes in and out of the body.
Each breath only here for a moment and then replaced by another new breath. It is hypnotic, spellbinding and almost a little mind boggling. How often do we actually stop and pay attention to the one thing — the breath — that gives us life; the one thing that allows us to do all that we do? Never.
Oddly, it takes time and practice to slow down to a pace of such nothingness, when the breaths flow in and out as if they were waves lapping at the shoreline.
But, once we ease into the comfort of being alone, quiet and content within ourselves, the feeling never completely leaves us. And, returning to that place becomes increasingly natural and constant.
People tell me I'm crazy to teach 10 yoga classes every week. Honestly, I think they're crazy not to.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Mother of the Year, Lifetime Achievement
Clearly, my life is no thrill-a-minute, full-of-wonder daily experience. I just went two weeks without any inspiration — nothing — to write about.
But then, out of nowhere, or so it seems, my mothering instincts fall short and lo and behold we've got writing fodder.
For starters, I learned yesterday that a friend puts stickers on baggies in her young daughters' lunches to promote healthy eating habits.
Me? I always thought "Eat the damn carrots or no dessert!" worked pretty well.
What am I? A mother of four? And yet, my capacity to screw up can be astounding.
I thought our 11-year-old was capable of self-supervising her homework after a week-long vacation. Failing to cross-check her claims, I sanctioned a few episodes of Hannah Montana and an hour of playing Webkinz on the computer.
Two days later, she reported that she had been so busy catching up on her homework, she didn't have time to study for a science test at any point during the weekend.
"So, Mommy," she explained, "I got an F."
I gave myself an F for parental involvement, or the lack thereof.
I also should have known better when, on an impulse, I caved into the 13-year-old's request for a flashy, new water bottle as a reward for her daily running efforts. Since my usual answer is "no," I thought I'd try "yes" for a change.
She was excited and motivated. I felt warm, fuzzy and a bit smug in my all-loving, all-knowing mother mode ... until hours later, when I actually read the inspirational statements printed on the bottle.
In addition to such nice thoughts as "Breathe deeply and appreciate the moment," "Your outlook on life is a direct reflection on how much you like yourself" and "Friends are more important than money," there was this:
"Children are the orgasm of life. Just like you did not know what an orgasm was before you had one, nature does not let you know how great children are until you actually have them."
Yikes. After 19 years of parenting, you might think I had explored all potential lapses of judgment. Yet, here I was, wading in over my head into the unchartered waters of not sex, but sexuality. Note to self — thoroughly read all items prior to purchase.
In hindsight, it sounds bad, but I actually weighed my options — point out the problem and suffer the embarrassment of talking about orgasms with a 7th grader or keep my mouth shut and let her deal with the fallout when her friends check out the bottle.
I sucked it up and broached the issue as delicately as possible with as few words as possible, mumbling something about something inappropriate. Then, I bought her another bottle with only one, completely safe comment on it: Green is the new black.
Hmmm. Wonder what adventures in motherhood await next week.
But then, out of nowhere, or so it seems, my mothering instincts fall short and lo and behold we've got writing fodder.
For starters, I learned yesterday that a friend puts stickers on baggies in her young daughters' lunches to promote healthy eating habits.
Me? I always thought "Eat the damn carrots or no dessert!" worked pretty well.
What am I? A mother of four? And yet, my capacity to screw up can be astounding.
I thought our 11-year-old was capable of self-supervising her homework after a week-long vacation. Failing to cross-check her claims, I sanctioned a few episodes of Hannah Montana and an hour of playing Webkinz on the computer.
Two days later, she reported that she had been so busy catching up on her homework, she didn't have time to study for a science test at any point during the weekend.
"So, Mommy," she explained, "I got an F."
I gave myself an F for parental involvement, or the lack thereof.
I also should have known better when, on an impulse, I caved into the 13-year-old's request for a flashy, new water bottle as a reward for her daily running efforts. Since my usual answer is "no," I thought I'd try "yes" for a change.
She was excited and motivated. I felt warm, fuzzy and a bit smug in my all-loving, all-knowing mother mode ... until hours later, when I actually read the inspirational statements printed on the bottle.
In addition to such nice thoughts as "Breathe deeply and appreciate the moment," "Your outlook on life is a direct reflection on how much you like yourself" and "Friends are more important than money," there was this:
"Children are the orgasm of life. Just like you did not know what an orgasm was before you had one, nature does not let you know how great children are until you actually have them."
Yikes. After 19 years of parenting, you might think I had explored all potential lapses of judgment. Yet, here I was, wading in over my head into the unchartered waters of not sex, but sexuality. Note to self — thoroughly read all items prior to purchase.
In hindsight, it sounds bad, but I actually weighed my options — point out the problem and suffer the embarrassment of talking about orgasms with a 7th grader or keep my mouth shut and let her deal with the fallout when her friends check out the bottle.
I sucked it up and broached the issue as delicately as possible with as few words as possible, mumbling something about something inappropriate. Then, I bought her another bottle with only one, completely safe comment on it: Green is the new black.
Hmmm. Wonder what adventures in motherhood await next week.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thought for the day
Blizzards to the West, flooding North, tornadoes South, global financial ruin, wars, famine — you name it, we've got problems.
And yet, amazingly, there is still time and energy to waste on the crazy woman the press has dubbed Octomom.
OK, sure, I am part of the problem. I actually viewed the CNN web page video report headlined, "Nurse: Octuplet mom fed babes for show."
Clearly, the only ones who should be watching Octomom are the authorities at Child Services. As for the three CNN news anchors and Dr. Phil ... I hear they need sandbag volunteers in Fargo.
But, just to bring you up to speed, in case you missed the vapid details of what our news outlets deem worthy of attention, here is the latest:
Octomom — the single mother of 14, the last eight of whom were birthed as octuplets — is in a new home (somehow, I missed that event), with her kids, and until recently, with the help of nurses provided free of charge by the organization Angels in Waiting.
The latest news surge came after Octomom fired the nurses. She says they seized control of her house and her babies.
Meanwhile, the nurses filed charges with Child Services on several counts, including that Octomom is failing to adhere to such basic motherhood standards as feeding her children.
According to the claims, Octomom only sought to feed her babies when cameras were present to record the moment. Otherwise, she left the mundane task to the nurses.
There is so much sad, disturbing and wrong about this story, it's hard to know where to begin and chances are nothing has been left undiscussed.
Still, I get this sick feeling that somewhere between Octomom, her lawyers and media handlers, the nurses and their lawyers, Child Services, and the media, there are eight tiny babies and their six older siblings who face long odds of experiencing a childhood that even remotely resembles normalcy.
And yet, amazingly, there is still time and energy to waste on the crazy woman the press has dubbed Octomom.
OK, sure, I am part of the problem. I actually viewed the CNN web page video report headlined, "Nurse: Octuplet mom fed babes for show."
Clearly, the only ones who should be watching Octomom are the authorities at Child Services. As for the three CNN news anchors and Dr. Phil ... I hear they need sandbag volunteers in Fargo.
But, just to bring you up to speed, in case you missed the vapid details of what our news outlets deem worthy of attention, here is the latest:
Octomom — the single mother of 14, the last eight of whom were birthed as octuplets — is in a new home (somehow, I missed that event), with her kids, and until recently, with the help of nurses provided free of charge by the organization Angels in Waiting.
The latest news surge came after Octomom fired the nurses. She says they seized control of her house and her babies.
Meanwhile, the nurses filed charges with Child Services on several counts, including that Octomom is failing to adhere to such basic motherhood standards as feeding her children.
According to the claims, Octomom only sought to feed her babies when cameras were present to record the moment. Otherwise, she left the mundane task to the nurses.
There is so much sad, disturbing and wrong about this story, it's hard to know where to begin and chances are nothing has been left undiscussed.
Still, I get this sick feeling that somewhere between Octomom, her lawyers and media handlers, the nurses and their lawyers, Child Services, and the media, there are eight tiny babies and their six older siblings who face long odds of experiencing a childhood that even remotely resembles normalcy.
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