What are you looking at?

Year in review

In corporate America, first quarter is the time to look back on the last 12 months and project what you hope to achieve in the coming year. Recently, I've not done a great job documenting my personal post-ball-drop reflections, but I want to be more intentional with 2017, and since the business world is still closing out the year, why not me? I'm a grown-up woman, I do what I want.

Note to self: Ship the content. Done is better than perfect. The 10-minute walk you take is better than the three miles you never run. Just do it. Etc. 

See also: Unpublished drafts of "2015 in Review" and "2016 in Review."

Key milestones and insights

Women's March

For most of my life, I've shied away from politics. The landscape is so complex, and the dialogue often so polarizing, that I felt too uneducated and frankly, too intimidated, to join the conversation. To say I've progressed by leaps and bounds would be a gross understatement, but I was compelled to attend the women's rally in Indianapolis last year, and the experience touched my heart. I didn't agree with every sign that I saw or speaker I heard, but I was moved by the demonstrations of unity and vowed to do better in using my voice. For me, this has meant calling legislators for the first time, widening my news sources and simply being open to this uncomfortable process. Others are much further along, but that's OK. Baby steps.

Courage over comfort today! #WomensRallyIndy @StateofKate pic.twitter.com/8cxakBlpim

— Bree Dunscombe (@mrsfrema) January 22, 2017

Saint Joe fundraiser + closing

On Feb. 3, 2017, I along with thousands of other Puma faculty, staff, students and alumni were shocked to learn that our beloved Saint Joseph's College was closing in May due to nearly $30 million in debt. Saint Joe and the city of Rensselaer represent all kinds of home to me. I made lifelong friends there, lured my sister Samantha to attend school with me in the cornfields of northern Indiana, bought Luke, and took my first professional job after graduation. I was on staff when Saint Joe launched the branding campaign that led to our marketing refresh and "Involved for Life" tagline. I couldn't let it go without a fight. So I along with two other Indy-area alumni answered the call to host a fundraiser in March, in conjunction with events throughout the Midwest, in an effort to generate enough dollars that the college could stay open and assemble a long-term viability plan.

The chances of raising enough funds to keep the school going were slim at best, and our alumni association (now a separate entity from the college) returned all donations when we didn't meet our goal, but it felt so good to invest my time and money in a cause that was so important to me. Planning the event, working alongside other alums, soliciting prizes, sharing stories. It would have been easy to turn my eyes from the daunting task of raising so much money. It was an impossible situation, and emotions were running high. But there was so much support, even from friends without an SJC diploma (Jen, Raquel, Alyssa, thank you!). I'm so glad I said yes.

In April, I attended the last Little 500 go-kart race with one of my dearest friends. Here, Maura and I memorialize Saint Joe's signage on I-65:

And here we stand with our beloved English professor, John Groppe, who was quoted in the Indianapolis Monthly story I linked to above. John Groppe is the reason my Frema nickname exists! I left him a voicemail one day my sophomore year, to let him know I wanted to interview for the part-time secretary position he was trying to fill. I left my name, Bree Ma'Ayteh, and walked to his office. In person, John said he would be happy to interview me, but first he had to speak with someone named Frema, who was also interested. It wasn't long before we realized that Frema ("Bree Ma...") was me! I'm holding his latest poetry collection.

Auntie Donna

On July 30, my wonderful Auntie Donna passed away at 52 years old from a years-long battle with cancer -- just hours before her namesake, my youngest sister, gave birth to my sweet nephew Benny. Auntie Donna had a long, hard road for many years, but what a blessing that she wasn't alone. She lived with Samantha and her family for almost two years, and in her last months required constant care. I was so blessed to spend a few long weekends last summer in Chicago, stepping in briefly to help with hospice nurses and medication schedules.

When I was nine years old, my parents bought a two-story apartment; our family took the top floor, and Nana (my mother's mother) and Auntie Donna took the second. She wasn't on the peripherals of my life, but front and center.

She let me tag along on errands in her sweet Cavalier, and when I was 17 let me use it to take my driver's test (no coincidence that my first car purchase was a sweet Cavalier). She shared openly about her path to sobriety, hugged me while I cried over boyfriends, answered my questions frankly, and always had unshakeable faith in me. We were only in touch at family gatherings as I moved away, got married and had kids, so this time with her was truly a gift from God.

I've lost people who I loved with all my heart, but I was far removed from their actual deaths. Phone calls to Indiana when I was either in school or beginning my career, potentially months since my last trip home, with either no chance to say good-bye or a short "last" visit in the hospital. This was my first time sitting in the stillness of someone who was starting to die. To meet her eyes and rub lotion on her hands, have short conversations as she was able, or just poke my head in her room to make sure she was still breathing. It was intimate and horrifying and one of the most sacred things I've ever done.

In no way am I trying to inflate my part in this process. I was half a puzzle piece, substituting for much larger pieces, and Samantha was the frame holding everything together with such strength and grace. But our society isn't good at holding space for grief or sadness, and this was the first time I held it in a such a deep, prolonged way, and I want to express how grateful I am for it, and that it was for my Auntie Donna, who is so very special to me.

"Check the Box Sunday"

I posted the message I delivered at church in September, but what I didn't touch on was the process of writing it. One of our pastors approached me in early June, and for the first two months I didn't write anything, just let myself be excited while the idea of it marinated in my brain. I thought about the Bible stories I would talk about, fun movie clips I could show (the congregation was thisclose to watching a scene from "The Lord of the Rings"), and when I let myself get really carried away, I imagined that everything in my spiritual journey over the last two years had been leading up to this one sermon, and I really needed to knock it out of the park, to the point that everyone would hear me and think, "Wow, why isn't Bree up here talking to us every week?"

Truly the picture of holiness, I know.

And then I actually started writing, and of course none of my ideas were panning out like I wanted them to. At the end of August, I had a respectable draft that was an appropriate length and biblically sound. But it didn't feel like me because, for one thing, I wasn't trying to be like me, or even giving God a chance to work through me. I was imitating my pastors and falling short. Secondly, I was trying to give a message that was "finished" -- a story with a definite ending, like the last chapter in a book, because it felt like I should be far enough along in my faith life that I can tell those kinds of stories. It was hard to admit that I was (and remain) in the messy middle. But once I did, it got easier.

On the big day, I was ready to cry from nervousness (What? Bree never cries), but once it was over I was ready to do it again. How lucky I was, too, to have so many people cheering me on. Luke, my mother- and father-in-law, my sister Samantha, and my dear friend Jen and her family came to see me, and several loved ones watched online. And my church family was so gracious. Thank you, God.

Therapy, take two

I'm grateful for my first stint with counseling because it allowed me to catch a glimpse of its value. But I wasn't comfortable with my therapist and ended our sessions after my free six weeks were up (muchas gracias, Employee Assistance Program). The week after Thanksgiving, I tried a new therapist, and WHOA. Fit makes such a difference! We meet twice a month for an hour, and in between I am Doing The Work. Sometimes I fight The Work, or push it to the bottom of the pile, or feel like I'm above The Work. I feel like I'm missing the mark more than half the time. But this therapist can handle my sense of humor and ugly sobbing without missing a beat. She asks good questions and helps me make connections that I haven't noticed on my own.

I have a long road ahead, but now the right person is on the road with me, and that's something.

Me, practicing positive affirmations:

But also...

There were so many things to be happy about last year:

• Completing my second and third half-marathons, eight years after my first running of the Mini. Thank you, Jo Lynn and Jen, for being my race buddies!
  
• Finally finishing my Brene Brown online course.
• Diving into spring and fall soccer with Nathan for the first time.
• Taking Kara to see "A Christmas Carol" at Indy's local theater.
• Our baby starting kindergarten.
  
• Welcoming an actual baby into our family, my sweet nephew Benny.
• Finishing a "Jesus in the Gospels" study at my church -- definitely one of the bright spots of my year.
• Falling into the PBS British Telly Club rabbit hole. AND I'M NOT GOING BACK.
• Also falling into the gaming rabbit hole. Luke's and my level of intensity isn't so high that we're role-playing D&D, but it's not so low that I wouldn't consider it. It's a slippery slope, is what I'm saying.
• Our summer vacation in southeast Michigan, where we ate ice cream every day.
  
• Seeing Jen Hatmaker and Nichole Nordeman during the Indy leg of their Moxie Matters tour.
• Visiting Boston in the fall with my dear PR and corp comm friends to eat great food, enjoy a haunted bus tour, and oh yes, attend an industry conference.

Thank you, 2017.

2018, I'm coming for you.

"Check the Box Sunday"

Nearly four months ago, I was invited to share a message on the topic of spiritual gifts at my church. And, as it does, "upcoming" quickly turned into "today," and "today" is now "yesterday," and it already feels like a lifetime ago that I delivered a 20-minute sermon about a journey that played a large role in my sporadic posting here over the last couple of years. In Daring Greatly, Brene Brown talked about the value of checking your intention before sharing a personal story, particularly while wounds are still fresh, and I'm glad I heeded her advice, because it took almost all of those two years to fully process this experience, mature my thinking and share from a place of insight.

Giving this sermon was one of the scariest, most meaningful and humbling things I've ever done. I'll write on the process another time, but for now, here's the transcript. The scripture I spoke on was 1 Corinthians 12:4-11.

Good morning, everyone!

I want to thank Pastor Elizabeth for asking me to give the message today. The topic of spiritual gifts has meant a lot to me over the last couple of years, so my goal is to share my story with you, with the hope that it might help you when you’re thinking about how your own gifts fit into your relationship with God.

My journey started in the spring of 2015, at the end of my Disciple 1 Bible study. If you don’t know about Disciple, it’s a series of Bible study classes, and Disciple 1 is essentially an intro to the Bible that walks you through big sections of the Old and New Testaments. So, the big finale to the class was for all of us to take a spiritual gifts assessment to help us find our calling for service, keeping in mind all the examples we had of God using people to do his work, in ways that wouldn’t have been possible without God’s help.

So, before we jump into results, let’s start with what the church means by spiritual gifts. Disciple gave us some parameters.

Spiritual gifts are not talents. Talents are skills that we can pick up and develop in ourselves. We get them from God, but they fit more into the natural world that we live in. So when I think of talents, I think about music, cooking, gardening … something really tangible, that when we picture the skill in our minds, we have a clear idea of how it might be used.

They’re also not the fruit of the Spirit. Paul mentions these in the book of Galatians: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. These aren’t skills; the fruits are more about shaping our character as Christians, and we’re all expected to live all of them to some degree.

So when the church talks about spiritual gifts, they are talking about special roles or abilities, but ones that come from the Holy Spirit, and we get these gifts to do the work that God says only we can do.

So, I was pretty excited about the assessment, partly because I love taking quizzes like this, that help you learn more about yourself, and partly because I really wanted the assessment to show me some new things about where God might be leading me in my faith life.

At this point, for context, my husband Luke and I had been members of PUMC for almost three years, and I had converted to Methodism after growing up Catholic, and I was finally at a point where the faith I learned as a child and my beliefs as an adult were all coming together, and it just felt like the right time to get a new piece of the puzzle figured out.

So, I took an assessment on the Ministry Matters website – I’ll share more on that near the end – and there were some really meaningful gifts like mercy, and serving, and wisdom, and I was so excited to see the ones I would get.

Maybe you can see where this is going. Of course, my gifts were none of those things! My top score was in … administration! Here’s how they described it:

• Organized and detail-oriented.
• Enjoy planning and organizing events or projects.
• Like working with issues involving systems, structures and procedures.

I think the creators of the assessment knew that getting administration would be kind of a letdown, because they added guidance in parentheses, like they were trying to spin it into something more positive, when really, it felt like the consolation prize of spiritual gifts. At least it did for me.

I didn’t feel like I was learning anything new about my path or what God wanted from me.

Also, I like being good at administration, and those gifts have gotten me far in my career, but I didn’t want those traits to be the main ways I served God, because honestly, they didn’t feel Jesus-y enough. Yes, that's a technical term.

It’s like, mercy and teaching and serving are no-brainers as spiritual gifts because we saw Jesus doing those things in the Bible all the time. But when you hear “administration,” you don’t think, “Oh, yeah, Jesus’s mission was all about being organized and detail oriented.” Those things aren’t unique to Christianity, anyone can be good them.

So, I had these results, but they weren’t the ones I was hoping for, and I wasn’t sure what to do with them, so I was feeling kind of stuck. Then, in May, about a month after Disciple had ended, there was a service that was all about listening for God's call in our lives, and instead of a sermon, we heard from different members of the congregation talk about their calls to a certain ministry or type of service. A couple of examples that stand out for me are, Teri Walters talking about the T&T after-school program we help with at Van Buren Elementary, and one of our pastors at the time, Colin Cress, talking about switching from something like an engineering major to go into the seminary, and I was just eating all of this up. After everyone was done talking, Pastor Charlie got up to the lectern, and he held up a connection card. And he said there was a special check box on this week’s card that you could mark off if you wanted to speak to someone about exploring God's call to service. And I remember sitting in the pew next to Luke, and feeling all the blood in my body rise to my face, and my heart stopped, and I knew I had to check this box. Now, I did not know what I would *say* to a pastor about God’s call, but I knew God wanted me to check this box.

So, I checked the box, but I'm a very emotional person, so I could already feel myself getting worked up in the pew, and I was starting to cry, so I did the only thing I could think to do, which was to get up, leave Luke without an explanation and hide in the bathroom for the last 20 minutes of the service. I don’t even remember what I said to Luke and the kids when I finally came out, but clearly I was not in a good place.

I think of that day as “Check the Box Sunday,” and about a week later, Pastor Elizabeth and I met, and she helped me think about things I could do to help me try on different leadership roles at church. I became a liturgist, and I joined the church council, and read books about work you could do in the church, and I kept taking Disciple classes. And I enjoyed all of it, but on the inside, I couldn’t relax into anything that I was doing. I’m very type A, I’m very take-charge, and I don’t like uncertainty, so being in this ambiguous place was really hard for me.

In essence, I was having a measurement problem.

Because as we know, in our society, we love to measure things. Measuring helps us know our place, gives us information that helps us form our identity, and helps us see where we fit in the grand scheme of things.

And the old saying, “You manage what you measure,” really is true. In school, we measure how good you are at reading, and math, and science, because we know you need those skills to function in society and be successful adult. So, if you’re not doing well in one of those areas, we measure that, so we can catch you if you’re struggling, and help you get better. And if you are doing well, we want to catch that, too, so we can encourage you to keep using those skills as you get older. So if Suzy is in high school and she’s great at science, we might encourage her to take biology and chemistry, or study pre-med in college, or do other things that make sense for kids who are good at science. The drawback is that the science label might make it hard for Suzy to think about herself differently as she grows up and has different experiences. But society doesn’t like uncertainty, either — so, we do the measuring, and then the labeling, and hope it all works out for the best.

So that’s school. But there’s no end to it. We measure your abilities in sports, art, music, parenting, work — you can even measure your happiness level! Author Gretchen Rubin wrote a book a few years back, it’s one of my favorite books, called The Happiness Project. She studied what scientists, philosophers, and academics had to say about the makings of a happy life, and then over the course of a year, she put those ideas into practice.

Now, you might not think you could track your progress at being happier, but Gretchen Rubin did it. She created a resolutions chart for each month so she could see how well she was doing. Here’s an example:

This is Rubin’s chart for the month of January, and that month she was focused on boosting her energy. So she listed all the resolutions she was following to help increase her energy level. One of them was “Keep a food diary” to make sure she was putting healthy things in her body to keep her energy up. You can see the others here. And if she did well with a resolution on given day, she gave herself a checkmark. So on January 1, if she was good at updating her food diary, she got a checkmark, to say, good job. And if she didn’t do well, she put an X in the box, almost like a strike, and it was reminder that she needed to do better tomorrow.

So, this is kind of funny, but it’s also a great example of how driven we are to measure our progress in whatever we’re doing. Without measures, it’s really easy to lose sight of what you’re aiming for.

But when it comes to our faith, how do we know if we’re being the kind of Christian that God is calling us to be? What are we measuring to help us stay on track?

That’s where I was stuck. I kept thinking, What do I do with all of this? How can I use what I’m learning to get from point A to point B in my faith? What I can personally measure that will show me if I’m on the right track?

So, in our scripture for today, Paul gives us a framework to help measure this exact thing.

The reading comes from Paul’s first letter to a church in Corinth, and the audience was mainly Gentile, non-Jews who had recently converted to Christianity, and they came from lots of social classes, and they were all still learning how to live together as a community. In this letter, one of Paul’s biggest themes is to live the life assigned to you by God. In chapter 7, a few chapters before today’s scripture, he says, “Let each of you lead the life that the Lord has assigned, to which God called you. This is my rule in all the churches. Was anyone at the time of his call already circumcised? Let him not seek to remove the marks of circumcision. Was anyone at the time of his call uncircumcised? Let him not seek circumcision.”

He ends that thought with, “Let each of you remain in the condition in which you were called.”

This scripture is important to me because it reminds us that it’s OK to be who we are. It’s not an accident that our bodies are different colors, that our ways of speaking are different, that we have different ways of making decisions, that we’re good at some things and not good at other things, and that we’re affected differently by all the grief we see in the world. God made us different, because it takes that many kinds of people to bring about His kingdom here on Earth.

Paul keeps this thought going when he talks about spiritual gifts. In today’s scripture we read, “Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and … it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone.”

You can’t measure how well you’re following Jesus by comparing your path to other people’s. God never intended us to use each other as measuring sticks. He wants us to do what only we can do.

So this is one very real way to measure our faith as Christians. Are we taking the spiritual gifts we’ve been given, and using them to bring people closer to Jesus? We can ask ourselves, How are we using our gifts to do the work that God says only we can do?

This was all well and good. But it wasn’t a help to me two years ago, because I was so caught up in trying to nail down God’s big calling for my life that I couldn’t move forward in anything.

Meanwhile, during all this exploring on spiritual gifts — I was also taking an online class about living a brave life and how to work through the things that get in the way of being our most authentic selves. One of the exercises was to write a manifesto. The idea was to write down how you want to make a difference and the daily practices that would help you show up in your own life.

So I did. Here’s a copy of my manifesto:

The best thing about this exercise was coming up with a framing statement at the top, where you articulated your core purpose. I struggled at first because I kept trying to fit in something about my talents and spiritual gifts. I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember, I've always identified myself that way, and it's something I love to do, so I thought that had to fit somewhere, and now I had this administration label, and I still wasn’t sure how that fit in. But when I finally got quiet, and listened to God, He showed me I was making this too hard. So, what do you do when you don’t know what to do? You get back to basics, and for me, the most basic, fundamental thing you can do as a Christian is follow Jesus’s two main commandments. Love God and love neighbor. That’s it, just those two things. So as you can see here, the guiding principle of my manifesto is very simple, and really, it could be anybody’s: I’m here to love God and my neighbor and say “yes” to Jesus. But the way I carry that though my life, using all those framing statements – I choose to, I have the courage to, I give myself permission to – how I do all those things will be unique to me.

And if I don’t know whether to go back to school, or leave corporate America, or do whatever else is tugging at my heart, that’s OK, because as long as I’m finding ways to love God and love neighbor in whatever I’m doing, God will take care of the rest. And if God wants me to use writing and project planning and building processes and showing leadership, He will guide me toward a path that includes those things. But my talents and gifts aren’t the purpose of my life, and that’s what I lose sight of. It took doing this exercise to remind me that my gifts are the how, but God is the why. If I stay anchored in the why, and open to whatever God is asking of me, wherever I end up will be the right place.

So, here are next steps you can take on your own spiritual gifts journey:

If you’ve never done one, think about taking a spiritual gifts assessment to see what comes up for you. The assessment I took is on the Ministry Matters site: http://survey.ministrymatters.com/SpiritualGifts

You’ll need to create an account, but it’s free and pretty easy to do.

Once you know what your gifts are, take a look at what you’re doing on a day-to-day basis, and remember to leave some white space in the margins so that God has room to bring these gifts through in your life.

And today, you can visit all the displays stationed in the church lobbies this morning. Find one or two that look like a good fit and talk to the ministry leaders there. They can answer any questions you have. Or you can also reach out to any of the pastors.

Before we close out the message with prayer, I wanted to share one of my favorite quotes. It’s from C.S. Lewis, from his book Mere Christianity, which I’ve come to again and again over the last couple of years, and it’s got a great metaphor to describe the work that God is doing in all of our lives.

“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”

Let’s pray.

Dear God,

Thank you, that your plans for us are bigger, and richer, than we could ever imagine for ourselves. Thank you for equipping each of us, with spiritual gifts we can use, to make your world a more loving and welcoming place. Please help us come to know these gifts, and use them to the best of our ability, to do your will.

In your name, we pray.

Amen.

It opened up my eyes I saw the sign

It was at my fourth session, probably right before Christmastime, when my therapist introduced me to ecomaps. A quick Google search says that ecomaps are used in social work to diagram processes and/or environments of families, communities, and other systems. In therapy, she offered it as a tool to not only help me get a bird's eye view of the people, social units and activities in my life, but also to gauge the quality of those connections.

My ecomap mirrors the example above, except the lines are varied and colored to display three relationship measures:

• Strength: Strong ties = straight lines (one or multiple depending on intensity), tenuous ones were dashes
• Quality: Green for positive, red for strained
• Level of importance: 1-to-10 scale, with 10 for highest priorities

It's the measurement aspect that prevents me from sharing a copy here, but I have to tell you about my ecomap because, for one thing, it's the only tangible takeaway I have from my six-week stint in therapy, and for another, it produced a brief "a-ha!" moment.

(Side story: I have mixed feelings about therapy. I'm deeply grateful for the opportunity to attend those six sessions for free, thanks to the employee assistance program at work. But instead of matching by specialty, the EAP shared recommendations based on zip code, so the professional I worked with had an office the next town over, which was super convenient, but she specialized in family counseling, and I was coming alone. Plus -- and this is not a critique of my therapist so much as a general observation on the experience -- despite my many, many, MANY type-A tendencies, on the couch I was eight years old, desperate for direction, and I didn't know what to do when the ball was in my court.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked at our second session, and I balked. WHAT THE HECK, MAN. It took almost a year to screw up the courage to sit on this couch, and I've gone through a pack of travel Kleenex in 10 minutes. I should get an award for just making this far, and now I have to own the agenda?  I CANNOT BE TRUSTED WITH THIS MUCH ADULTING. Shouldn't therapy be more like court, where you wear me down with leading questions until I burst like a damn with personal growth?

So, yeah, only six sessions. But I'm not giving up. Condolences in advance to the next person who takes me on.)

Anyway.

We were reading my ecomap through a lens of scaling back and finding more places for "white space" in my life (my words and preference). When we came to the "Creative Writing" box, we stared at the broken red line with the 10 in parentheses, having just talked about my 10s for Luke, the kids, God, service, and my faith life. As the sole breadwinner, I ranked "Career" a nine.

"You'll have time to write when the kids are older," she said confidently, but I shook my head. "I don't want to wait," I said. "I want to do it now."

-------

It's not a coincidence that my creative pipes clogged up as my career advanced and self-reflection grew more complicated. My inner perfectionist shouts at me so loudly these days that I nearly convinced myself I had no right to be here.

You're a wife and a mother and you work in a building where half the people wear suits every day. YOUR THIRTIES ARE ALMOST OVER. Aren't you too old to play Frema? Shouldn't you be freelancing / reading the Bible / spending time with Luke / working on your Issues / volunteering / <insert more responsible task here>? Unless you want people to think you're immature or an overrated fraud, you can't write here anymore.

Hello shame triggers, is it me you're looking for?

I thought I could work on myself and come back to this space only when I had neat and tidy progress reports to share. The epiphany is, I can't. For me, staying active in this space is part of doing the work. Even when what I'm writing about has nothing to do with the work.

A weekly post is probs not in the cards, and I'll constantly check my intention to make sure I'm sharing for the right reasons (Thanks, Brené). But this blog is important to me. Not to fish for compliments or prove my writing chops, but because it helps me feel like myself.

---

A couple of months ago, I was asking God about how this blog fits into his plans for me. Yes, writing is part of my path, but does it have to be public? Couldn't I meet the same need with private journaling? I didn't think so but wasn't sure. So I knew exactly why, on May 17, I received the following email from an old friend who I hadn't seen since 2004 or connected with in over a year:

Well played, Lord. Point taken.

(P.S. Thanks, Chris.)

Language that saves

It's not unusual for me to cry in church (or attempt to cover it up). But our pastor shared two stories on Sunday that broke my insides.

The first highlighted a Starbucks barista who learned American Sign Language to communicate with a customer who's hearing impaired. The second was about a 10-year-old girl who received an American Girl doll featuring a prosthetic right leg -- just like hers.

Both stories tied into the day's scripture reading from Acts 2:1-21, where the Holy Spirit comes down on the 12 apostles (aka Pentecost), enabling them to speak in foreign tongues so that people from other nations could hear their native languages mirrored back at them.

The important thing to note about the passage, Pastor Charlie said, is that non-Christians weren't changed to understand the apostles, it was the other way around. As followers of Jesus, we're charged with meeting people where they are and sharing Jesus' love in a way that others can see and understand.

It feels like I'm just now absorbing the impact of this sentiment, in my faith life and beyond -- looking inside yourself and knowing the onus is on you to dig deep and make change happen.

Practicing it has been another matter entirely.

My Living Brave class ended last month, but I'm still working through the last few lessons because friends, this stuff is hard. I'm dissecting shame triggers and physical responses to hard emotions like anxiety and fear. I'm simultaneously evaluating and trying to shed behaviors that stick to me like a second skin -- behaviors I still cling to, even when I want to do better; even when I'm in the moment and I know, know in my bones, I can make a better choice. Baby steps.

The importance of speaking other people's language has never felt more important. Since the primaries began, I've resisted the urge to deactivate Facebook at least twice a day, to protect myself from rash unfriending and/or producing a regrettable emoji in response to a Fox News article. Phrases like "20 minutes of action" are still used to describe heinous rape crimes because we haven't yet taught our children that their bodies are their own, and that you have no right to put your hands on another person, ever. No matter how good an athlete you are, or how drunk your companion is, or how little clothing they have on.

But while society is inching along, many people are taking great strides to change the landscape.

I spent 30 minutes at Nathan's piano lesson reading the courageous statement from Brock Turner's rape victim, my heart in my throat the whole time, and thinking, God gave this woman a gift -- to be able to articulate her thoughts and experiences so well that her message is reaching millions of people. And her story resurfaced this great letter from Ask Moxie to her boys about how to stop rape. All these words help to change how we talk about sexual assaults, moving us from defensive "no means no" messages to proactive conversations about consent. If a girl isn’t saying anything, that doesn’t mean she wants it. If she isn’t saying specifically that she wants it, then it’s wrong. I still struggle with my experience in the gray area. But I hope my daughter never does.

I cried again today when I reached the part of the Stanford rape survivor's statement where she thanked the two graduate students who intervened on her behalf. Those guys could have looked the other way, pretended not to notice what was going on, assumed it was none of their business. Instead, they stepped up and got involved. Their actions spoke courage and love.

I wish I had something equally inspiring to say about the presidential election; maybe once I've finished the course? In the meantime, I'll try to remember that I can't change the world through a deactivated social media account. I've got to roll up my sleeves and get messy. On the upside, Brene says, there's magic in the mess.

Living brave in 2016

Hello, Internet friends! I'll have you know that I started a post (though not this one) on New Year's Eve, around the same time I unveiled my latest blog banner:

The minute my coffee cup stained this notebook last year, I knew--KNEW--it had to find a way on my blog. Genius, I am!

But then my stamina tapered off and life got in the way, until last week I was breezing into church and grabbing the bulletin and ... huh. Well played, Jesus:

So here we are, together again. It's so good to see you.

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The reason I'm excited to write tonight (last night) is that I just today (yesterday, hello, 1:21 a.m.!) finished week one of Brené Brown's inaugural Living Brave semester, where 15,000 devotees from more than 60 countries are rolling up our sleeves and exploring what it means to show up, be seen and live brave in every aspect of our lives. For the first six weeks, we're tackling Daring Greatly, which I first read near the end of 2014 and never fully recovered from, the insights and implications were that overwhelming. It wasn't what I learned about myself that was so paralyzing; it was more about understanding what I didn't know and not being ready to figure it out. Plus, 2015 was another tough work year, some of it my own doing, some not, and I was too wrapped up in my immediate problems to surrender to long-term emotional work. Luckily, I'm in a better place now, but even if I wasn't, this class is just something I need to do. It's time to look in the mirror for longer glances, write down what I see (what I'm looking at) (DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE) and make the changes I need to truly be "all in" in my life.

No pressure!

This week's most challenging exercise was to identify two core values that serve as your true North above all else. It was a huge struggle to work through a massive list of perfectly good and meaningful concepts in order to get to two. I mean, who doesn't claim love as a core value? Or compassion? Or integrity? But eventually I did whittle it down (cheating a bit to include a third), and once I did, oh man, what a sense of peace. I could easily see how all the values that define my being map to these three:

FAITH

Behaviors: Praying, reading the Bible, going to church, letting go of certainty, gratitude journaling, taking Bible studies, and service/volunteering

Brings to my life: Sense of purpose, belonging, grace, meaning, gratitude, integrity, optimism, kindness, joy, forgiveness (myself and others), and compassion

GRIT (aka I can do hard things)

Behaviors: Trying new things, trying again, not giving up, finishing/shipping my work, believing in myself and my ability to do hard things, setting boundaries and prioritizing to make sure I'm doing the right things at the right time, self care like exercising, eating right and getting enough sleep, forgiving myself when I make a mistake

Brings to my life: Achievement, balance, courage, forgiveness (myself and others), growth, making a difference, perseverance, risk-taking, resourcefulness, success, leadership, learning, initiative, teamwork, self-respect, creativity (writing and art) and innovation

Side note: Brigid Schulte talks about grit in her book Overwhelmed, and the word has stayed with me since I read about it last summer. Pulling grit out of my back pocket during the values exercise was a eureka moment; perseverance is similar but doesn't feel as proactive.

FAMILY

Behaviors: Living on one income, saying no to travel in my career, playing with the kids, making crafts, reading and praying together at bedtime, taking Kara to Girl Scouts and Nathan to piano, volunteering in the kids' classroom and for field trips, date nights with Luke, taking family vacations

Brings to my life: Gratitude, balance, patience, creativity, sense of adventure, LOVE, time, leisure, simplicity, and kindness

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On Twitter, I called this process obvious, eye-opening and comforting. It's also been inspiring. I hope to share more of this journey with all of you. Cheers!

From the August 2014 blog vault

Oh look, a draft I started almost five months ago more than a year ago and never finished. Am I so desperate to beef up my archives that I'll publish any half-written piece I find?

Clearly the answer is yes, but I still really like both of these quotes, so hopefully you find value in them, too.

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The older I get, the less I believe in coincidences. For example: Last week I broke the blogging silence with musings on finding your yes. I included a cherished Facebook post from Liz Gilbert about knowing when to say no.

So it was a delight, but not a surprise, to come across a two-year-old interview with Cheryl Strayed on Twitter a few days ago about her journey to becoming a writer; specifically, this quote about choosing her passions:

I’ve always had two desires: one is to write and the other is to help people and actually have an impact on the world in a political/social realm. After college, I had a full-time job as a political organizer for this feminist peace group called Woman Against Military Madness, or WAMM. We worked against militarization, but we also worked on anti-racism stuff and all kinds of feminist issues. I remember feeling like the work I was doing was so important. I also did stuff with the Minnesota National Abortion Rights Action League. There was no question that this was valuable work, but what I kept feeling was, “But this isn’t the work I’m here to do. I’m really here to be a writer.”

I made a conscious decision that I couldn’t keep doing these sorts of serious, satisfying jobs and also be a writer. I had to choose to be a writer because that’s what really was in my heart and that was going to be my contribution to the world. In order to do that, I couldn’t also save the world by being a political organizer. I would have to serve the world by being a waitress or something that demanded less of my spirit so that I would have it to write.

Cheryl's book Wild split me into a million pieces of heartbreak and admiration and wonder, and I still haven't quite recovered. So I was happy to see a connection beween two female writers in my (completely one-sided) inner circle.

(Though I worry for my love affair with Cheryl, as the voice behind her website and interviews feels less warm than it did in Wild. It's hard not to imagine her sitting atop of her own pedestal, using phrases like "honing my craft" and looking with disdain at mountains of fan mail because the craft, it awaits!)

And that reminded me of a great piece I read from my other favorite bald marketing guy, Mitch Joel, about his own story of no a few months back:

Upon reflection, it seems like I was looking to unlock different types of new and creative ways to express myself. I read through a lot of this content. I contemplated taking some drawing lessons (as a child, I used to love drawing comics and more). Maybe I would try my hand at magic again (also something I was passionate about as a young person). Then, it hit me. As I explored these new arenas of creativity, I was spending less time writing. I was spending less time thinking about writing. I was spending less time thinking about media, marketing, communications, technology and advertising. I felt like I was losing touch with that side of my life. I was writing my daily blog posts, my contributed articles and thinking about my third business book, but not with the focus, passion and tenacity I had in the past.

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So that I don't leave this post completely hanging, I went on to read Cheryl's Tiny Beautiful Things and it about killed me.

Choosing brave in 2015, part two

Two posts in one month? It's a blogging miracle!

Let's keep moving with guideposts for the Year of Brave.

Seize the morning.

At 18, I could stay up all night gorging on Nintendo and Kevin Smith movies, then take an 8 a.m. lit exam with the energy of a spider monkey. (Truth: I don't know anything about spider monkeys, but they sound like a perky bunch, yes?) Today, as a 35-year-old working mom with three children ages seven and under who barrel down the hall before six almost. every. day., I'm apologizing to my tomorrow self if the lights aren't out by eleven. And by eleven I mean ten-thirty, because apparently I've reached the point where flannel nightgowns and teeth in a glass are more accurate depictions of my nocturnal hours than gleefully ignorant college student.

Unfortunately, I relearn this lesson every two or three days because of the stopping problem I mentioned in my last post. (See also: the time stamp on this entry.) Also, the morning is such a wild card because the kids have no respect for the zzzz's. Seriously, the click of my night lamp is the same as yelling COCKLE DOODLE DOO directly into their sleep-intolerant eardrums. I haven't figured out how to address this, but I'm going to do it this year. I do seize the morning with my friend Jen twice a week to hit the gym before work, so at least there's a starting point for making progress.

Plus, if nothing else, there's always the john, right? I may or may not have camped out in "the library" to read respectable portions of the Old Testament for my Bible class this way.

Make the call.

One of my biggest literary finds last year was Daring Greatly by Brene Brown (thank you, Molly!), which got me thinking about weighty concepts like shame, vulnerability and connection. I'm in the middle of The Gifts of Imperfection, and one of Brene's observations on compassion really struck a chord with me:

I don't believe that compassion is our default response. I think our first response to pain - ours or someone else's - is to self-protect. We protect ourselves by looking for someone or something to blame. Or sometimes we shield ourselves by turning to judgment or by immediately going into fix-it mode.

I so identify with this. It's hard for me to sit with pain. When I talked about the pastor transition at my church last week, I kept it light-hearted, but I really did sob quietly in worship for several months, and it was so embarrassing, because the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself, but I could not get it together. If ignoring the obvious is an example of self-protection, you are looking at THA MASTA, right here.

But it's not limited to me. When it comes to other people in pain - particularly those who aren't in my daily circle - I can get so paralyzed by the idea of doing the wrong thing or overestimating the comfort I can give that oftentimes I don't do anything at all. Which is bad, obvs. So making the call is about taking that first step to meet someone where they are, even knowing I could eff it up or, yes, overestimate the comfort I can give.

Allow for slack.

I continue to fight the good fight against the busy trap, which continues to involve being selective with our commitments. But I updated the wording this year to place the emphasis on leisure -  on the yes to filling the days with even more reading, creating, praying, and all those other restorative pursuits that get done only when we make the time. There's lots of room for better.

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Last fall, I attended my first canvas painting class at our local UPaint studio to paint what I hoped would be a soothing fall scene, but what materialized into a smattering of dots and series of trees that probably sprouted from Freddy Krueger's nightmares. Don't worry, I'm being all Stuart Smalley about it and have nothing but love for my amatuer artistic abilities, but that big tree on the left was scaring the bejeezus out of me. So over winter break, Luke, the kids and I painted over it with a happy little snowman. It was so much fun.

We created this guy after Christmas, but I covered the canvas in white soon after Thanksgiving. I look at this as a (tiny, First World Problems) example of brave - chasing an idea even if I don't know where it'll take me and embracing the process. I want so many (bigger, more meaningful versions) of these moments in 2015.

Next up: 2014 highlights! Or maybe a reading year in review. Let's not too crazy around here!

Choosing brave in 2015, part one

Hello, internet friends! I have missed you. I feel a little like the prodigal son who came home after squandering his wealth on extravagant activities, if by "extravagant" we mean working, parenting and generally trying to maintain my delicate grip on reality. In this scenario, I will assume you are welcoming me with open arms, and wait, is that a fatted calf? You really shouldn't have. Let's just hug it out and move on.

I thought I would break my blogging hiatus with a recap of 2014, then follow up with my plans for 2015, but right now I'm more inspired to look forward. So I'm running with it.

This flamingo from the zoo is down with my plan.

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For the last few years, I've tried to focus milestones and goals around a key word or theme. Here's a quick recap:

2012: Leap

2013: Simple

2014: Steady

Leap was perfect; it was the same year I ended my seven-year stint with a local toxicology lab to take a new job in healthcare education, and lots of big steps were required of me during the search and transition. But these last two years, my themes have felt less meaningful - mainly because I ended up leaping again with another employer closer to home. Not ideal circumstances for pursuing simple or steady. While writing this post, I couldn't even remember steady; I had to look it up in my blog archives.

It's very possible this one-word business isn't for me, but I'm trying it one more time. Similar to 2012, this year's word is perfectly in sync with where I am at this point and where I want to go.

My word for 2015 is brave.

I want to be brave enough to live all of my values and be consistent in my actions. To quiet the lizard brain and create. To curb my leanings toward the analytical and be less afraid of my emotions. To just say no to anxiety.

Here are the guideposts I'll use to get there.

Get prayed up.

One of the hardest things I went through in 2014 was saying good-bye to the senior pastor at my church, who retired in July to focus on his health. Pastor Ted was the first preacher I ever grew attached to, and I so identified with his sermons. I even used them as a soundtrack sometimes on the weekends I brought work home. So in the months before he left, I had a hard time keeping it together in worship. He would talk and I would sob quietly, praying (no pun intended) that nobody would notice my tears and I could break down in peace, thank you very much, where do you think we are, church?

Anyway. That was January through June. In July we welcomed Pastor Charlie, and he is wonderful. In a recent sermon, Pastor Charlie talked about the concept of being "prayed up" - the state of being so in touch with God and in the habit of talking to Him that you don't have anything left in the vault. This is the state I want to be in. This area in particular is where I want to think less and feel more.

Practice patience.

This has never been a strong suit of mine. Unless I put myself in the best position possible to face the day - gotten enough sleep, prayed, allowed flexibility in my schedule - I get short tempered quickly and slack off on keeping myself in check. I don't want to lean on yelling as a parenting tool. I want to be less concerned with discipline when I don't get my way and focus more on understanding the situation. Even better - I want to think five steps ahead to reduce or even eliminate the stressors that throw us off our game in the first place.

Stop when it's time to stop.

Oh look, an area where I wanted to improve last year but didn't fully commit myself.

"I'll get to that when..."

"In five minutes I'll..."

"As soon as I do X, then I can..."

One of my worst faults is placing conditions on when I can jump into a new task or activity. Unfortunately, most of the time the next task is something like "get home for dinner," "finish my bible class reading" or "play board games with the kids."

My reasons for this make sense in the moment: It's easier to finish what I'm doing than walk away and hope I'll regain my momentum later. But the result is always the same: I spend five minutes basking in the glow of my accomplishment and the next two hours feeling like crap because I prioritized a thing over someone I love.

I became more conscious of this in 2014 but didn't work very hard to make real change. This year I'm facing it head on and holding myself accountable for respecting the needs of my family and my own emotional and spiritual growth. I know, so very Hallmark. Hopefully the prodigal son intro bought me a little leeway with you all.

But seriously, my feast-or-famine way of doing things is no way to build good habits. I need to start things when I'm not inspired and end tasks when I'm not ready. Stop when it's time to stop.

Don't force a finish.

A nice follow-up to the whole stopping bit. So often I push through thinking, I could totally get this done if I just keep at it for five more minutes. Except five minutes turns to fifteen and I'm still finessing that manager email and I just missed my window for getting home on time and WHY CAN'T I LEARN THIS LESSON ALREADY I AM DUMBER THAN A FISH SOMETIMES.

Suffer for fifteen minutes.

If I can keep tasks small, I have a better chance of finishing them. Kara's had her Daisy vest since May, but I'm so intimidated by all the damn patches that I still haven't sewed them on. And yes I know about the double-stick tape, what do you think has been collecting dust on my dresser since November?

I keep putting off the hour I think it'll take to get the patches on, when really I should set aside a little bit of time each night until it's done. Gretchen Rubin is a big fan of suffering for fifteen minutes, and I'm a big fan of Gretchen Rubin, so there's my starting point. And the time to start is now, because cookie season kicks off Friday, and if there's any time your daughter need a functioning Girl Scout vest, it's when peddling Thin Mints.

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A few more guideposts to come. You won't have to wait until 2016, I pinky swear.

Progress report, a revelation and a very important question

Tonight, after blowing proverbial dust from TypePad's login page and wiggling my fingers to unclog almost four months of supressed wisdom, I scanned unfinished drafts, hoping against hope that I could channel that wisdom into a spectaular finish and avoid a paralyzing start.

That's how I found this longish note on my taxing First World Problems in 2013.

On one hand, for a year that I pledged to focus on simplicity, I sure did complicate things. One of my biggest undertakings was launching a freelance writing business! In this case, "launched" means adding a section on LinkedIn, playing with fonts in Word and signing proposals as Dunscombe Creative instead of Bree or Frema or other such options.

Since I was already working on projects, it seemed the logical thing to do. In June, I was contacted about a website writing series for employees at a local university, with three presentations to give between early August and mid September. In July, an old friend from my tox lab days asked me to write a corporate website for his new employer. They were great projects to take on, but I knew from the beginning it would be too much. My kids saw me hunched over a computer screen more often than I would've liked - pajama clad, bleary eyed, coffee dependent and snappy.

There were many times where I hit and then crawled over my breaking point, not because I'm especially noble or virtuous, but because people were counting on me for a deliverable and come hell or high water, I was going to deliver. To put it mildly, I was not my best self.

Why I didn't publish this, I'll never know. So bright and cheery and totally leading to a point!

Anyway, since I really don't want to start a post from scratch, it seems fitting to give a progress report on 2014. Here's a short list of wins so far, in no particular order:

Reading

To date I've completed 19 books for #Read26Indy. Reclaiming my identity as a reader has done wonders for my soul. It feels great to lose myself in other people's ideas and use them as jumping points for my own; to prowl the Twitter hastag and my Goodreads feed for hidden gems; to engage in lively discussions about Wild (loved it) and The Fault in Our Stars (fought it, then loved it) and Eat Pray Love (tackled the audio book this year and re-loved it) and on and on and on.

Giving

The Bible warns against making a show of charitable giving, but just today the very bald and very wise Seth Godin discussed the importance of normalizing charitable behavior. I can cover both bases by saying that Luke and I elevated our giving this year to a new level, which has challenged our budget in new and exciting ways. Yes, exciting - to know that our money more closely aligns with our priorities than ever before.

Working

The job stress I've experienced in 2014 is different from last year's in many ways, but it still reeks of FWP. On the plus side, I've done a lot of things to put myself in a better place - shortening my commute with the new job, backing off aggressive freelance projects and resetting boundaries so I can do my job well without overshadowing my roles as a wife, mother, Jesus lover, writer, friend, etc. I lost my balance this summer but regained my footing, and I'm eager to see how my new strategy plays out.

Parenting

How can it be that a first grader and kindergartener live in my house? That my last baby is actually THREE YEARS OLD, uses the word "butt" at every opportunity and has no use for strollers, bibs or sippy cups? As Gretchen Rubin likes to say, "The days are long, but the years are short." This year I've been working on saying yes more to my kids - yes, we can play the Game of Life for the eighty-millionth time, yes, we can botch make Rapunzel biscuit braids from your library Disney cookbook, yes, I can sit with you for a few minutes while you fall asleep. It's not been as easy to stop raising my voice at the first sign of wrong doing, but still, there's progress.

Focusing

This is a tough one to capture in a neat little paragraph, but the gist is this: I've spent a lot of time this year thinking on how to funnel my energy and interests into a singular mission. Chris Brogan talks about focus a lot in his weekly newsletter, and my beloved Liz Gilbert tackles it on her Facebook page. Here's a screen shot of one of my very favorite posts from her:

The this she's referring to is:

 

The way I see it, my biggest FWP has been not knowing my yes. In this great big life, we have a ton of options, and without focus, everything worthy seems viable. Should I take this freelance job? Go out on my own completely? Nurture that friendship? Move now or later? Write my book or let the damn thing go?

Having a core yes isn't the same as having priorities. I have priorities. Spending time with my children is a priority and a huge focus in my life, but my role as a mother is one part of who I am, and I'm more than any one role. What is it that ties my roles together? What measures am I using to know if I'm following my right path or veering off course?

An answer did come to me last month, an answer that I'm still working through. I've written about it privately already, so instead of finding new words, I'll just share the ones that worked for me at the time.

I kept waiting for an answer to appear and also waiting to find the right amount of time to dedicate myself to the task of answering it myself, studying as if I were preparing for a test. I was making it too hard, but I didn't realize it until last week after hearing Pastor Charlie's second sermon about taking the long way around to appreciate the riches of a life with God. That's when I realized that the answer was easy - what is my mission? Jesus. That's it. That's all it has to be. If I keep my path aligned with Jesus, everything else will be as it should.

I was looking for a sophisticated answer like creativity or service or something that felt more in line with my newsletter subscriptions. Maybe sophisticated is the wrong word. Maybe just complicated. Or worldy - a mission based on things/acts that are based in the world, even if they are noble and important. But once I answered the question with Jesus, it felt like a light bulb went off in my head. YES. This is the answer I've wanted - and had - all along. I just never put the two together. Studying the question intellectually in some ways, praying at times for an answer that I assumed would be "other" - an answer that I assumed would help bring me closer to God, instead of realizing that God is the answer. I was so short-sighted. But now I feel much lighter.

This is a hard topic to work through on a blog. Talking about God is an easy way to alienate people, and that's the last thing I want to do. I'm not abandoning any of the roles I mentioned before, or quitting my day job, or trying to convert anyone to my church, or making outwardly radical changes to my life. I can't even tell you if I'll have more to say in my next blog post. But I am asking myself a lot of questions, and it feels right to explore those questions here when I feel like I have something meaningful to say. Plus, if I may quote the bald and wise Seth Godin again, great work makes us uncomfortable. If figuring out your yes isn't great work, I don't know what is.

How are you doing this year? What's taking up space in your brain? And perhaps most importantly: What's been your favorite read so far? My Goodreads list wants to know.

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Last summer, at the height of my job search, I applied for a communications job at a community services non-profit with a focus on childhood advocacy. Like most of the jobs I went after, the online application included a field for salary requirements.

That's a tricky question, yes? Your price as an employee is more than a dollar figure. You have to measure out-of-pocket costs like insurance premiums and commuting against softer ticket items like retirement contributions, vacation time, job flexibility, corporate culture and growth opportunities. But generally you have an idea of where you'd like to be.

At that point in time, Luke and I were doing okay, but as a one-income family with three children and no short-term plans to change our situation, I had to make my next career move count financially. We had dreams of building an emergency fund, replacing the family car and switching our starter home with something more permanent. We couldn't accomplish all those things without my getting a huge raise in salary.

On the other hand, my career is more to me than money. I want work that means something, too. So even though non-profits aren't hot spots for accumulating material wealth, I threw my hat in the ring.

Three weeks later, I received the follow-up email I was hoping for, but with a twist. There was another open communications role, one that focused raising awareness around childhood education to parents, donors and legislators. Because of my writing gig for Parents.com, the hiring manager thought I might be a good fit and asked if I would interview. He was also very honest about the salary range falling beneath what I listed on my application.

We arranged for a quick call (not an actual interview) the next day.

And it was a good conversation. We talked about the job description, key initiatives, work schedules. I think I would have loved it.

Then came the issue of pay. By this time I'd been actively job searching for more than four months and was steadier on my feet when it came to talking money. So I asked for the range. Roughly the same I was making, maybe a little less. 

I asked for 24 hours to think it over. The hiring manager was gracious. 

You can figure out the rest of the story.

Of course, there's a happy ending. I found a great job doing interesting work in the salary range I wanted. Luke and I still aren't millionaires, but we're much stronger financially than we were last year. It was a smart career move for my family.

But I wish I'd taken the interview.

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I have another story like this: a company reaching out with an amazing opportunity, me stepping out of the process. Once again, my reasoning sounded logical. Not the right time to make a career switch; the money might not be there; the drive would be long; I would have to learn Skype for the interview.

(Seriously, that was one of my reasons.)

I need to stop thinking this way.

I need to stop getting in my own way and assuming I have all the answers. I need to be open to surprises, even if the balance sheet doesn't add up or the odds aren't in my favor. I should have given the non-profit a chance to court me for the job. So what if I got to the end and the pay was too low? Would I have lost anything in the process? What could I have gained instead?

Similarly, I should have panicked for a couple days about learning Skype and working in BuFu Egypt and agreed to that second interview. I'd been foaming at the mouth over that job all summer. So what if it came at the wrong time? Does change ever come at the right time?

Before you drop out of the race, at least put on your shoes. 

This post inspired by the "What would you do if you weren't afraid?" Tumblr by LeanIn.org. My thoughts on the actual book are still forthcoming.

And when the seasons change again, I will, too

Over the weekend, I went to Chicago to visit my high school building one last time. It'll be a K-12 magnet school come fall. Samantha and I went together. It was bittersweet.

We ran through the halls taking photos everywhere we could. Classrooms, locker rooms, library, cafeteria, and especially the theater where I spent a large chunk of my teenage years. We poked around backstage and found hundreds of scribbles from thespians past, including ours. 

"Fiddler on the Roof" was my first musical. I remember being homebound with a cold the weekend before auditions my freshman year, begging my father to raid every Blockbuster on the south side for a VHS tape so I could walk through the story. I landed a spot in the chorus, and it changed my life. Through acting, I made friends, built confidence, scored a kiss or two (offstage, not on) and channeled my inner rock star.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, it's also how I met my brother-in-law. But Samantha knew. The green marker says "Samantha loves Dan 4ever."

This is Jason, who longtime readers may remember as my friend from Jerry Springer. Maria was an all-girls school, so technically he's not an alum, but he might as well be. He was in a gazillion of our plays. I met him during "Fiddler" and we were thick as thieves the next few years. These days he's busy CEOing and performing around the world, so our physical paths don't cross much, but when they do, we don't miss a beat. What a happy coincidence to be home at the same time.

Talking 'bout friends forever!

Thinking about high school, wearing those years on me like a blanket all weekend, it's been hard not to feel a little sad. How can they be so far away? And why are they so easy to slip back on?

I have wonderful memories of being a teenager. I remember first kisses, senior prom, summer jobs, creative writing endeavors and all-nighters with friends as vividly as my wedding and my children's births. But I remember the hard times, too. Clinging to intimacy in relationships when all else failed; waiting for phone calls and first moves that never happened; feeling heartsick and trapped, overwhelmed by emotions for guys, peers, my parents and God. It's gutting to lose faith in someone, or fight for independence and lose, and feel so damn stuck.

Memories, like the corners of my mind...

The reunion also served as a catalyst for reflecting on 'lil Frema's goals and dreams and asking how the grown-up version measures up. At 18, the sky was the limit.

I'm not sure how I was going to afford my "fancy downtown apartment" or "cute little zippy thing" on a campus minister's salary. Prob'ly with the sales of my Great American Novel, which didn't earn a mention in my autobiographical pages but was echoed in almost every classmate's inscription.

So, how am I doing?

Amazing husband. Beautiful children. Education and career. Health and a roof over my head. Some people spend their whole lives praying for a fraction of what I have. I wasn't evolved enough to ask for those things at 18, but believe you me, 'lil Frema, you sure as hell wanted them.

I'm okay with the campus minister gig not coming full circle and living my faith in a different way. I'm even okay that I haven't written my book (YET). But I am greedy. This life is wonderful, but it's not enough. I can feel in my bones I should be doing something bigger. Making waves somehow. That I'm capable of more.

But unlike reflecting on high school, this realization doesn't make me sad. Instead, I'm excited. I have a lot of work to do. It's time to cut the bullshit and dig my heels in.

Thanks to Brandi Carlile for the blog post title.

Because I'm Super Woman, remember? Look at the banner, people.

Last spring, I came across a post from Seth Godin about the two most common mistakes in decision making. The first?

Frequently reconsidering decisions that ought to be left alone.

Internet, this is my kryptonite.

If one could be charged with a flip-flop heart, my recurring cliffhangers over how many kids to have, where to plant roots, when to sell our house, and when to start writing my @#$%ing book already would build an excellent case for the prosecution.

THESE decisions I'm totally cool with.

The house came up again this week after Luke did our taxes. If I'm being honest, we actually talk about it every week, if "we" means "I" and "talk about it" means "rehash the same old bullet points in a way that fails to generate productive dialogue."

Last year after we abandoned our plans to sell, we agreed to try again in a year, but as we entered 2013, our financial to-do list was crying uncle. New family car, first family vacay, eliminate the V*sa bill, again, prepare the house for sale. There was nothing left for closing costs, inspection follow ups or a down payment on another place. To say nothing of what our next mortgage should look like.

Boy, am I tired of thinking about selling this house. On the other hand, we could not be less ready to sell this house.

Which is what we figured out this week, again.

When Luke and I became homeowners in 2008, we picked this house believing it could grow with our family. The space was good, the mortgage was affordable on one income, and we could easily (though maybe not cheaply) fix what we didn't like. Seven to ten years, we said. Maybe the rest of our lives.

It wasn't the biggest house we saw, or the nicest. It wasn't even our first choice. But over the years, every time we complain about a broken-down this or low-grade that, the conversation morphs into a property showdown where we pit our two-story against all the runners up and agree for the umpteenth time we made the best decision we could.

Touche, Seth Godin.

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When I was in college, one of my professors said that with each choice you make, you become more free. Maybe that's why my instinct is to accelerate the (presumably) inevitable. Who doesn't want a lighter load? But as I focus on simple this year, and on making fewer commitments, some of the more complicated choices will just have to wait. And that is freeing, too.

Ground rules for 2013

Last year was all about taking risks. And that was good. I needed to stop operating on autopilot and shake up certain parts of my life. But I have a different goal for 2013.

This year, my word is simple.

"Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler." - Albert Einstein

I love this quote because it speaks to the bigger picture. Identify where you find meaning and commit yourself to those things. On the flip side, realize what keeps you away from those things and cut them out as much as you can.

Own that you are not powerless over your life, that the busy trap is not inevitable. Fight for your inner calm. No excuses. 

(There is a small chance I have hijacked Albie's quote.)

This year, I'm aiming to drown out the noise. More often than not, I'm going to trade easy distractions for long-term joy.

Here's what I want simple to look like in 2013. Warning: you will not be impressed. It isn't rocket science, you know?

MAKE FEWER COMMITMENTS. Free time is precious and not something I'll offer up on a silver platter. I need to stay active in networking, but I don't have to go to every event in town just because "it's good for my career." I'll give myself permission to skip a family birthday party because it's on a school night or I have a big meeting the next day. I will NOT pick up a new TV show even though the Fringe finale freed up a time slot and The Following looks really, really good.

WRITE. I'll do more head-banging against the keyboard, pushing through creative paralysis because I love getting words on a page. Being published would be great, and it's still a goal, but right now it's secondary.

READ. I want to devour more books this year. I'll pick ones that speak to where I am as a working mother of small children with a short attention span and ignore the inner voice that says to go for something more enlightened. If I'm not feeling it, I'll put it down and move on.

HELP OTHERS. Leave people and places in better condition than I find them. Luke and I have credit card debt, but the monthly check we write to our church is money well spent. Volunteering in the nursery every third Sunday isn't the same as taking a mission trip to Africa, but it means something to parents who want to hear a sermon baby-free. Send care packages to the soldiers in my life. Hold my tongue rather than put someone in their place. Not every gesture has to be big. At the same time, there will be times I need to play hard or go home, even when it's inconvenient. I'll know them when I see them.

PRAY. I want prayer to be more intuitive. I'm good at thanking God, but not daily. I've mastered the ugly cry, but I don't know always know what kind of help to ask for. I want to read the Bible and not be intimidated by it.

WANT LESS. "You don't need to go to Harvard to get into Heaven," my pastor once said. Swap out "Harvard" with "401k" or "529" or "property retail value" - same thing. These things are important, but just like publication takes a back seat to writing, so do material things have a proper place. My house doesn't have to be bigger (though I still want a different one). I don't need to be a VP of anything. I don't have to kill myself to avoid college debt for my kids.

Along those same lines, I won't go after something just because I can, whether it's a door buster, committee seat or promotion. Understand the price I'll pay to have X and ask myself if it's worth it.

LET GO MORE. Avoid power struggles. I can do my best, but I can't control someone else's opinion of me. I can regret a mistake, but I can own it and shrug it off instead of wearing it like a rock in my backpack. Not everyone will like me or agree with my choices, even if they're the right choices. People will get the wrong impression of me. That's okay. Only a few precious things are really worth fighting over.  

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When I'm at a crossroads this year on how to spend money, time or energy, I will come back to this list and realize there is no spoon crossroads. Life isn't supposed to be easy, but it can be easier, yes?

Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.

Here's to simple.

2012 in a one-inch picture frame

For me, 2012 was about making big decisions and finding the courage to act on them. My resolution was to leap, and it was a driving force in my life. Luke and I reevaluated our move to Chicago and fought our longing to sell the house, knowing we weren't ready. I left my employer of seven years after an all-consuming job search. I joined a church for the first time in my adult life and found new ways to look at God and my place in the world.

In the middle of all that leaping, my last baby turned one. Kara and Nathan enjoyed vacation bible school, preschool and swim lessons, and Kara took dance. Luke became more serious about running. I spent more time with girlfriends, swapping playdates for lunches and coffee away from our kids. My dad ran for political office. I called a plastic surgeon's office to ask about a tummy tuck, but I never scheduled the consult. I had my first mammogram.

I read thousands of tweets and Facebook updates, but only two hardcovers. Blogging was sporadic, and I never started my book. I was jealous. Money was tight.

A few times I came through for people when I could have looked the other way. Of all the things I did last year, that's what I'm most proud of.

One-inch picture frame prompt courtesy of Anne Lamott

Why we stayed in Indy: part three

Read part one and part two.

As I was getting my career ducks in a row, Luke and I were also figuring out what to do with the house. We met with our real estate agent in February and shared our goal of listing by April.

Pam gave us her thoughts on an initial list price, target sales price and sample closing estimate. We were competitive with other houses in our subdivision on price per square foot, and we have one of the largest backyards, so we were in a good position to sell. So what if the closing fees ate up our (anticipated) net profit? We weren't trying to make money, we just wanted to get back home.

We also walked through the house to identify repairs, touch ups and staging that needed to take place before we went to market.

At the end of the meeting, our to-do list looked like this:

- Restretch carpet on both floors
- Professionally clean first-floor carpet to remove unsightly mud stains
- Replace laminate flooring in the dining room or at least buy a rug to cover the scratched-up boards
- Buy new (matching, non-wobbly) chairs for dining room table
- Purchase new dining room curtains
- Consider new tile in the kitchen (current tile is dented and outdated)
- Replace broken garbage disposal
- Replace broken water softener
- Replace broken accordion-style doors in the laundry room and pantry
- Patch ceiling
- Repaint walls and cabinets in the kitchen and adjoining half bath
- Touch up paint in the living room and dining room
- Repaint all trim throughout the house
- Mount a mirror over the living room couch to make the room look larger
- Update bedding and install curtains in the master bedroom; purchase larger, matching lamps; consider buying nightstands that are not TV trays (hey, at least those match)
- Caulk and replace fixtures in the master bath
- Clean out master closet; move majority of items into offsite storage unit
- Repaint kids' bathroom
- Update lighting and fixtures in upstairs bathroom
- Clean out the garage
- Investigate personal loan options to fund renovations and/or cover closing costs for the buyer

Our best-guess total to complete these "touch ups" came to four thousand dollars.

Seeing as our tax refund went almost entirely to paying off our credit card AND seeing as we had no savings to speak of, the possibility of needing a loan was fast becoming a reality.

Hasta la vista, new family car. Don't let the door hit you on the way out, money for retirement.

"It's all worth it," I told Luke, even as my stomach dropped at the thought of taking on debt AGAIN and my husband's eyes bulged out of their frugal sockets. "If that's what it takes to get back home, then that's what we'll do. You can't put a price on family, right?"

Although DAMN if our dream of family togetherness wasn't going to land us in the poor house.

You'd throw a few bucks at these guys if you saw them on the interstate, yes?

So we got to work.

I pulled out my "House" notebook, and as is my way when I'm feeling overwhelmed, I started making lists. The projects most critical to selling the house, the order in which we would tackle them, the minimal amount of money we would spend (hint: NOT four grand), and a timeline for getting it all done. How much we could pay in cash and what we were willing to charge. Welcome back, V*sa bill, we missed you.

While Luke and I didn't have a hard date for leaving Indianapolis, Pam told us the best time to sell was spring, since couples with children would want to be settled in by time school started. Plus, we wanted to be rid of the house as soon as possible so I could entertain job offers up north.

Also, Kara was going to start kindergarten in fall 2013 (I KNOW, PLEASE DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED), and I desperately wanted this selling mess behind us by then so she wouldn't have to deal with changing schools.

I took a week of PTO in March to get the ball rolling, tearing through closets while Luke and his dad replaced lights, towel bars and toilet paper holders in our three bathrooms.

Not replaced: nausea, emotional fatigue, feelings of dread.

Meanwhile, I was talking to friends in Chicago about the going salary for jobs that were comparable to my current position and realizing I would need a huge raise just to maintain our very modest living expenses. To raise our standard of living, we would have to live in northwest Indiana and I would commute to the city. Or the kids would go to daycare so Luke could go back to work.

As I Dr. Philled our situation to anyone who would listen, I learned a lot of things. I realized we had a better support system in Indianapolis than we thought - people who cared about us and who were willing to help us out in a bind - and that maybe, just maybe, our problem was less about being removed from our "true" network and more about gathering the courage to ask for help. Plus, we were finally enjoying our quaint little town. And we loved our new church. And we most certainly were not ready for Luke to go back to work.

It was at the end of my week off, I think, that I posed a new thought to Luke.

"Maybe this move isn't the best use of our energy right now," I said.

And just like that, the weight was lifted.

Why we stayed in Indy: part two

Read part one here.

Once Luke and I agreed we were ready to head back north, it was hard to think of anything else. The biggest pieces of the puzzle were selling our house and landing me a new job, but the sequence wasn't clear. Ditch the house to act quickly on a job lead? Find a job and negotiate relocation?

In the end, it didn't matter. It's not like either goal could be achieved overnight. There was no reason I couldn't start my job search at the same time we were preparing the house to sell. If there was a development on either end, we could revisit things then.

Technically, though, according to the inaugural entries in my "House" and "Career Planning" notebooks, the job stuff came first.

Even before the Chicago revelation, I was thinking about a career change, shortly before the New Year, as a result of some major changes at my company. For years I took my job security for granted as Luke and I went through the financial ups and downs so familiar to young married couples with children. Now, though, it was doubly time to leave the nest and try something new.

This was not easy.

When you are with a company for seven years, when you enjoy your job and love your coworkers, and also when you are baby-stepping through major life transitions, it is very easy to avoid thinking about your next move. When I started this process in January, I had a dusty LinkedIn page and a resume from 2005, both of which were as sad as an empty bag of cookies. Plus, when I took my job in Indy, it was after a casual sit-down with the CEO, whom I knew well from my time at Saint Joe (Pumas stick together, yo). My resume came into play after I signed the offer letter, and only for HR purposes.

In other words, I was starting from scratch. And man, did it suck.

I had a terrible time summarizing the first ten years of my career in neat little bullet points. I sat for hours at the computer, typing and retyping while Luke and the kids slept, blanking on what I was good at and how to position myself to a potential employer. I struggled with the format of my resume and how to use LinkedIn. I was connected to people from my past I wouldn't have coffee with now, let alone vouch for in a professional setting. I didn't even know how to find jobs these days. Were the cool kids still using Monster, or was that site retired along with my hair straightener?

(Random aside: I combed through two years of blog entries to find that gem, and OMG. WAS FREMA ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES OR WHAT. Please to ignore all postings before 2006. Thank you.)

Based on those early attempts, I wouldn't have hired me.

But I was leaping, right? Better to start with amateur than nothing at all.

But it wasn't just my resume. I also had to reactivate my career network after spending the last few years head down, focusing on the minutia of my workload and all the moving parts at home. Maintaining relationships in my industry wasn't tied to my performance review and shockingly wasn't covered in my wedding vows. But as a mid-level professional and the main breadwinner for my family, I couldn't afford to put this development area on a shelf anymore.

That's where my notebook came in, writing down the names of people I wanted to reconnect with and those I wanted to meet, recording our meetings and any resulting action items. It was hard to reach out to people after years of no contact, and a handful of emails went ignored, but overall everyone was quite gracious and eager to help me.

Plus, it was FUN. So much fun. I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoyed talking to people, and that networking doesn't have to feel like work when you keep good company.

One of those "good company" folks was my boss. With a tentative game plan and an active resume, it was time to tell her.

Again, NOT EASY.

The entire time we worked together, Raquel and I maintained a very special relationship. We hit it off so well that you would have thought we hired each other instead of inherited each other. Which was good because we spent a lot of time together managing the company's brand, doing everything from late-night photo shoots to out-of-town press checks to growing our department with more staff. She gave me the freedom to do my job and welcomed my ideas, but she wasn't afraid to offer constructive criticism.

It can be tricky to make friends at work, especially with someone you report to, but because we had so much respect for each other, it was never an issue.

And work aside, Raquel was (is!) a wonderful friend. A friend who brought doughnuts to celebrate my birthday and flowers to welcome me back from maternity leave. A friend who shared my passion for All My Children and would send me episode updates from her iPhone so I could stay in the loop after Luke and I canceled satellite and broke our VCR. We watched the series finale together at her house over Italian beefs from Portillo's. We were in constant contact while I was in gallbladder hell, and she came with her husband and mom to Liam's first birthday party in June.

I could never in good conscience walk into her office one day and blindside her with two weeks' notice. So, I took another leap and told her, through tears, over lunch in Februrary. And I never once regretted it. It was hard for both of us, knowing there would come a point when we wouldn't see each other every day, but I couldn't have balanced work and a job search as well as I did without her friendship and support. 

Next up: the house.

Why we stayed in Indy: part one of who knows

At the turn of the New Year, after the hell that was my recovery from gallbladder surgery, I was convinced we needed to move back home.

At that point I had been an Indy-area resident for more than six years, and never did I feel more aware of the physical distance between us and our families. Luke's parents were wonderful and came several times throughout December from northwest Indiana, for days at a time, to help while I was in and out of the hospital, and it had to have taken a toll on them, all that driving, running after three kids under the age of four, and not being able to collapse in their own bed at the end of an exhausting day. 

How different that experience would have been, I thought afterwards, if we were in closer proximity to our close relatives and friends. More people could have been available to help if all they had to do was relieve Luke for a few hours instead of going out of town, away from their jobs and kids and other responsibilities.

I was also convinced we would never find our groove here. Six years in and we still behaved like newcomers to the area. There were no dates because there were no baby-sitters, and there were no baby-sitters because we didn't have the money or the inclination to hire a stranger. And even when we had the support of the other, Luke and I were terrible about granting ourselves "me time" because it meant someone was getting the short end of the stick. I tried a book club for a few months before pulling out; the meet-ups were usually about 40 minutes from my house, and always during the week, so when I did go, I left the house around breakfast and came home after bedtime - missing the kids completely, which I hated, and forcing Luke to fly solo longer than he had to, after what was usually a hard day. I resigned from the volunteer board for Saint Joe after five years of service because the quarterly meetings were on Saturday and I couldn't bring myself to be out of the house for what amounted to the length of a sixth work day, 

If we were near Chicago, I thought, Luke and I would have no shortage of free baby-sitters and longtime friends to hang out with, making it easier to prioritize the non-parenting aspect of our marriage. I wouldn't feel guilty about going to book club if I knew Luke's parents were coming over for dinner. Luke could go hiking and I could visit my sister with the kids, each of us recharging without feeling guilty.

I realize our struggles are prime candidates for a First World Problems hashtag, but they feel very real to parents raising families away from where they grew up. Building a support group from scratch is a tough job. You need confidence to put yourself out there and time to invest in new relationships - neither of which overfloweth when you have little kids. Not to mention I'm fiercely protective of my time outside of work and Luke has fewer opportunities during the day to connect with adults in a meaningful way.

Living in Indy felt a lot like forcing a round peg into a square hole. Weren't we going about this backwards? Why were we trying so hard to create the conditions we already had closer to home? Wouldn't it make more sense to just go back home?

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When I shared these issues with a friend a couple of years ago, she gave me an assignment frequently used in her training and development classes. She told me to make four lists about Indy and Chicago, only instead of measuring pros and cons, the focus was losses and gains.

What I Gain From Staying in Indy

What I Lose by Staying in Indy

What I Gain From Moving to Chicagoland

What I Lose by Moving to Chicagoland

"They tell different things," she said when I asked about the perceived redundancy of the categories. "Just give it a try."

On September 8, 2010, I took a legal-sized notepad and went to town. And while the lists were different, the key themes were clear: closeness to family and affordable cost of living.

The first time I made the list, cost of living won out. My company was doing very well, Luke and I thoroughly enjoyed having a parent at home, and we were both optimistic about our ability to travel more as Kara and Nathan got older. It's not like we were going to complicate things by having another baby or anything!

After my gallbladder fiasco, though, the tables quickly turned, and for the first time since Kara was a baby, Luke was willing to talk about moving.

Which essentially meant:

Chicagoland, here we come.

I didn't blog for two months, so why not try NaBloPoMo?

PEEPS. Where on Earth have I been?

Two words: Leaping accomplished.

I have a new job. 

It's the end of an era!

This was me seven years ago, just months into a communications job at one of Indiana's top life science companies. I resigned from Saint Joe to take this position, adding more unwanted distance between me and Chicago to start a new chapter with my battered Cobalt, coveted Prada frames (PRA.DA!) and a handful of subscriptions to girl-power magazines.

During those seven years, I added deeper, more adult layers to my life. Luke joined me in Indianapolis and we quickly became engaged; then we got married; then we had three children and oh, yeah, bought our first house. I swapped Glamour for Runner's World. I took up coffee and lost my gallbladder.

I wonder (naively) if I'll ever experience so much growth over such a short period of time.

It took me years to adjust to life in Indy. YEARS. I kept thinking about the family I was missing back home, the friends I was struggling to stay in touch with, the big-city atmosphere that was just as inspiring to me as the ocean. For almost as long as I've been here, and as recently as this spring, I've ugly cried talked to Luke about moving back.

But only at the end of those seven years did it become clear to me (us) that I (we) needed closure with Chicago. I was locked in a Ross-and-Rachel love affair with the city, always with one foot in the door, constantly revisiting the "Will we or won't we?" issue. But no more. For the child-rearing period of our lives, at least, Indianapolis is home. Hoosiers, you're welcome.

And of course, as is the way of life, closing the door on Chicago opened a window in my career.

On my last day with my dear friends and former coworkers Raquel and Jen, two of the best things to come from my first stint in Indy.

My new job came about six weeks ago after almost a year of soul-searching, networking and buying lots of jackets (hashtag: CouponsFromTheLimited). The company is a higher education services provider that helps colleges build online versions of their nursing programs, and I am their first content manager. The fast pace and short learning curve have kept me on my toes, and my commute is a little longer, so I'm still struggling to find a rhythm in my new routine. I may have pulled a Steel Magnolias in a bathroom stall last week at church.

But I continue to be surrounded by wonderful people, and I'm training myself to turn more to God when I'm stressed, and I'm taking better care of myself. It's going to be okay.

And ... that's Day 1 of NaBloPoMo. BOO.YAH.

As Nike likes to say...

"Momma, you're not going to die."

We were all in the car when Nathan said this to me, returning home on a random Thursday from a photo shoot for our church's directory, and I couldn't have been taken more off-guard. Luke's grandmother passed away a few months ago, and since then we've had on-going conversations about death and what it means, but still, kids are masters at the element of surprise.

Luke and I shot glances at each other before I started talking about how everything that is born has a lifecycle, and lifecycles are different for each type of creature, and many people live a very long time and that I probably would, too, because in our family we work hard to stay safe and live in a healthy way. And hey, turtles can live to be over a hundred years old! And afterwards, we get to see God and Jesus in Heaven!

Nathan took my response under careful consideration. We pulled into the garage.

"Momma, I don't want to die."

I freed him from his carseat and hugged him to my chest.

"I don't, either," I replied. Then he ran into the house, asking for cookies.

Maybe - just maybe - I could've handled that better.

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The following Tuesday, I went in for my first mammogram.

I scheduled it after my last physical at the recommendation of my doctor, since two of my mother's sisters were diagnosed with breast cancer before menopause and apparently that is a big deal. One is in remission, thank goodness, and the other, my auntie Debbie, passed away six years ago (WOW) from complications ultimately related to brain cancer. Her daughter was only four when she received that diagnosis - the same age Kara is now.

The results of my mammogram came back normal, but MAN, talk about a reminder that life is short.

Life is short.

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One of my biggest shortcomings is my tendency to wait for inspiration, forgetting it's in the act of doing that we are inspired. For example:

Ever since I was a little girl, I've wanted to write a book. I cranked out tons of short stories in grade school and gave them to my teachers as presents. (Yes, 'lil Frema was quite adorable.) In seventh grade I tied for first place in the Chicago Young Authors Contest for a story about a hit-and-run, and got an A+ when I submitted THE VERY SAME STORY as a final writing assignment my senior year in high school. In eighth grade, more than half the messages in my autograph book ended with, "I can't wait to read your first book!" In high school I laid the groundwork for Tragic Love Friday with my two-part soap opera miniseries. I majored in English in college.

Today? No book.

I can offer a number of excuses as to why that is. I'm not as jazzed about creative writing as I used to be. Blogging satisfies my need to be published. I'm not sure what I want to say. I can't find the time. I'm scared.

But none of them are true except the last one, and that is not good enough.

So last week, I made a declaration to my peeps on Facebook.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to write - something non-fiction, probably, to put my inner monologue to good use - but that didn't matter. I would figure it out. Do it, and then you will be motivated to do it.

Everyone was so generous with encouragement and praise that I forgot about all the reasons I had for not doing it earlier.

And two days later, on my way home from work, driving in the pouring rain, Nelson on the radio, my idea just came to me. Themes and chapter titles were scrolling across my mind like the stock ticker on a news broadcast, and I just started crying.

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Shortly after my announcement on Facebook, one of my middle-school friends commented, "I've been waiting since 7th grade!"

Me, too.

One for the "First World Problems" File

Game on! Today I begin the third of an 8-week training program to run the B&O Express 5K in September - my first race since fall 2010. Registration's done and everything! I'm following Hal Higdon like I did for the Mini a couple years ago, mainly because his novice program measures distance instead of time and the thought of switching my pace at the bark of a sports watch is about as appealing as watching paint dry.

I'm going after this thing, no excuses.

In an effort to strike that elusive balance of family, work and self, I'm attempting again to score the majority of my runs in the morning, even during the work week, which thankfully is much easier in July when the sun shines at 6 a.m. It also helps that Luke is running, too, and on the cusp of starting training for his first half. It's nice to swap notes and offer encouragement knowing your passion comes from a shared place.

It's also refreshing to rediscover something that brings me joy on such a grand scale. I read an article a few weeks ago on the importance of leisure and the dangers of the busy trap that made an impact on me. Some of my favorite lines:

"The present hysteria is not a necessary or inevitable condition of life; it’s something we’ve chosen, if only by our acquiescence to it." 

"More and more people in this country no longer make or do anything tangible; if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary."

(Luckily, businesswoman is considered an actual vocation in Sally, Huckle and Lowly's world, though I doubt a more detailed description would rank any higher on the legitimacy scale than those "What my mom thinks I do" memes on Facebook)

"I suppose it’s possible I’ll lie on my deathbed regretting that I didn’t work harder and say everything I had to say, but I think what I’ll really wish is that I could have one more beer with Chris, another long talk with Megan, one last good hard laugh with Boyd. Life is too short to be busy."

Amen, Tim Kreider.

For the most part, Luke and I do a good job of prioritizing our lives. We're selective with RSVPs and intentional about giving the kids plenty of unstructured time to play Legos, build block towers and narrate stories with their artwork (no lie). This is also true from a financial standpoint: low mortgage, zero car debt, no cable or landline. We certainly have room to grow (Emergency Fund, is it me you're looking for?), but we're on the right track.

When it comes to the "little moments," though, I personally am terrible with letting distractions get in the way of spending time on things that matter. I can waste an hour on Facebook while Liam has no baby book. I can click through my blogroll (still no reader, Jen!) but let my own site collect dust. I check work e-mail when I shouldn't. I watch TV instead of going to sleep.

I often let my long-term goals take a backseat to busyness that, in the end, doesn't amount to anything.

This week was somewhat of a new start. I followed my training schedule, gave a reference for a friend, assembled two care packages, caught up on some reading, and had lunch with Luke and the kids at work. That's what I want to do more of. Those are the moments that make a happy life. There are no prizes for Quickest Responder on Outlook or Most Scrubs Episodes Watched. 

I want to send more care packages. I want to finish a book in the same season I started it. I want to copy favorite quotes into a two-dollar notebook and scrapbook (GASP) and help others outside of just writing a check.

It's not that I never do any of these things (I even have a commonplace book for quotes, remember?); it's about rearranging my life so I can do them more.

I also want to make more time for God.

One of the reasons Luke and I love our church is that the pastors deliver amazing sermons. Today, Pastor Ted talked about communicating with God - how to know when He's speaking to you and how receptive you are to hearing what he has to say. This is something I struggle with. While I love talking out ideas and scenarios with family and friends, I'm very independent and usually pretty confident that I can figure out my own path. I'm good at thanking God for the blessings in my life, but I suck at welcoming guidance. 

On one of my early runs last week - it couldn't have been later than 6:15 - I passed the retention pond next to my trail that joins several of the nicer subdivisions in my neighborhood. By chance I noticed one of the teenagers who lives on my block sitting on a bench in front of the pond. Usually I see him after work riding his skateboard or walking with his friends, but that morning he was alone, quiet, just staring at the water.

That image came back to me at random points throughout the day and again after today's sermon. It reminded me that I need more stillness in my life so I can hear voices other than my own. I need to be open to guidance.

That's a life worth choosing.

98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed

Lately it feels like I'm leaping in place. Like I'm stretching my limits and expanding my comfort zone, but not moving forward. At least I'm learning some fantastic life lessons on patience and perspective. I'm quite excited about this.

One of our current library reads is Dr. Seuss' Oh, The Places You'll Go! I owned a pocket-sized companion in my early twenties but never realized it was incomplete. As a result, I came across this part for the first time last week. Can't nobody say Theodore Geisel didn't understand a thing or two about people.

The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That's not for you!

So onward I go.

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Last week I came across a commencement speech that really knocked my socks off. Neil Gaiman, a super-famous comic book artist and writer known by everyone in the world except me, addressed the graduating class at The University of the Arts last month. He talked for twenty minutes on doing what you love, the growth that comes in making lots and lots (and lots) of mistakes, and the best piece of advice he got but didn't follow. You can watch the video here, and I strongly recommend you do, if you're in the market for a healthy dose of inspiration or at the very least a dreamy accent. My new favorite English word is "proper."

Anyway, the points in Gaiman's speech that most resonated with me address my current layover in The Waiting Place. The first was his admittance that there are things you have to do to get where you're meant to be, and it can be hard to know if you're on the right path. His coping mechanism was to treat his dream like a mountain he was trying to climb and measure each step not on its own merit but against his own personal plan - the mountain. He would base job decisions on whether they brought him closer to his mountain, or farther away.

"There was a day when I looked up and realized that I had become someone who professionally replied to e-mail," he says at one point, "and who wrote as a hobby. I started answering fewer e-mails and was relieved to find I was writing much more."

Note to self: "Answering e-mail" is now the metaphor of choice when describing any kind of distraction, ever.

It's not very productive, answering e-mail. But it sure is safe.

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Somehow, Gaiman's speech led me to the one that Steve Jobs gave at Stanford University in 2005. It's a few minutes shorter but arguably more impactful - passionate words from an iconic business figure now gone from cancer, crediting death as the primary driver in his personal and professional achievements.

"Knowing I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever enountered for making the big choices in life," he said, citing a quote that went something like, "If you live each day as if it were your last, someday you'll most certainly be right."

There's no way my paraphrasing will do this speech justice, so put me out of my misery. Go watch it here.

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Meanwhile, as I work through what can only be described as a personal crisis of the First World variety, life goes on. Last weekend, Luke and I officially become members of our new church - a big step for us, since this is the first time we've joined a parish together, and a milestone for me, committing to a denomination considerably more progressive than the one I grew up in. Nothing about my core beliefs are changing - if anything, they're just better represented - and I hold on to the parts of the Catholic tradition I still identify with, but my initial emotions around this were complicated. A mixture of celebration and mourning, a heavy-hearted saying good-bye to a label I've worn like an old sweater, reluctantly acknowledging the thread's undone.

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Kara and Nathan just completed the third of eight swim lessons at the local rec center. They kick off the side of the pool and dunk their faces in the water, and as I watch them, I'm in awe. You can especially see the hesitation in Nathan, clinging to his instructor as they progress to the deep end, but even through his fear he outstretches his arms. Our kids are so brave, I tell Luke proudly after coming home from our lesson. I want to be like them.

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Last but not least, Liam turns one on Friday. I'm not ready to write about it yet, but his birthday is a powerful reminder that we really don't have a choice in moving forward. Whether it's graceful breast strokes or frantic doggy paddling, every day we age, leave an imprint on the earth, and pass on a legacy. It's scary when you're not reaching your mountain as quickly as you'd like, but also oddly refreshing, because it means the little things matter. We can't reach big without the small.

Poking

I am inspired.

Since the start of the year, leap has driven me to show up, connect with others, and give old dreams new shape. It's hard to write through this transition because I have all these ideas swirling around and no clue how to express them in neat little paragraphs. But surely I can leap through this, too.

If you follow me on Twitter, you've probably noticed my new fangirl crush on Seth Godin. I've known about Seth for years because of his impact on my industry, but it wasn't until I heard him speak at a marketing conference last month that he made a lasting impression on me personally. His talk of the post-industrial revolution, purple cows, and don't be a sheep MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN brought me to tears. The whole conference was like that. Most of the presentations directly related to marketing but pulled in ideas that also resonate on a higher level. Some quotes from the speakers (and I'm paraphrasing):

"Embrace the weird."

"If someone asks how your day was, and all you can say is 'fine,' what opportunities are you wasting?"

"It's not about time, it's priorities."

"Where do I find the people who are waiting for me to lead them?"

Godin gave copies of his books to every conference attendee. As a result, I've been reading Poke the Box - "a manifesto of starting" - in snatches over the last three weeks. More than 10 pages per sitting and I literally might combust.

More quotes, because why not?

"If you have quality and they have quality and that's all either of you offers, then you're selling a commodity, and I'll take cheap, please. We have little choice but to move beyond quality and seek remarkable, connected, and new."

"Poking doesn't mean right. It means action."

"If you've got the platform and the ability to make a difference, then this goes beyond 'should' and reaches the level of 'must.' You must make a difference or you squander the opportunity."

"Part of initiating is being willing to discover that what you end up with is different from what you set out to accomplish. If you're not willing to discover that surprise, it's no wonder you're afraid to start."

All of this and more is setting fire to my heart and shining a light on my need to affect change. 

I've given myself a pass these last five years because living knee-deep in morning sickness and night wakings and temper tantrums is HARD, you guys, but most of you know that because you're living it, too. That said, I'm now at the point where I'm ready to step up. Even if it's baby steps, even with a young family and demanding career. If not now, when? 

Years ago, when talking with another mom about balancing civic and domestic obligations, she said (and again, I'm paraphrasing), "If all I do is raise smart, healthy kids, that can be good enough. Who knows what they'll go on to do because of what they learned from me?"

I appreciate her point, but I don't agree.

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Luke and I signed up for a membership class at our church as a way to get involved. One of our assignments was to take a spiritual assessment to learn what our strengths are when it comes to serving God. Hokey, sure, but the older I get, the more I appreciate hokey, so okay.

According to the quiz, my gifts are in administration, leadership, and writing.

The results didn't surprise me - it was the realization I should be DOING something with these on a larger scale. 

Around the globe, children die from hunger and disease. Pregnant women walk the distance of a 5K to access medical care. Teenagers are targeted and killed for wearing a hoodie.

What kind of person am I if I have resources others only dream of and yet do nothing? Do my kids' future accomplishments absolve me of personal responsibility today?

I may never find the perfect balance, but I have a platform. I have ability.

I have a voice.

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I am Dorothy Boyd, abandoning conformity, shouting, "I will go with you!" and crossing my fingers my hunky new boss offers health insurance. 

At the same time, I am Jerry Maguire, writing (blogging?) 20-page mission statements and stealing office goldfish, ready to lead.

(I am way more excited about finding the above link than is appropriate.)

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Even before Seth Godin's book, I've been poking the box with a vengeance. I rejoined the volunteer board of directors for my undergrad's alumni association after a three-year hiatus to get my baby on. Meanwhile, others around me are initiating change of their own. My dad is considering politics. My sister Ryan is going back to school. Obama supports gay marriage. Luke is blogging again!

We are all moving forward.

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What inspires you?

Rolling away my stone

Let It Be Known that on February 24, 2012, Luke and I submitted a payment of almost five thousand dollars to our credit card company, leaving us with a double-digit balance for the first time since 2010. We celebrated with a cheap bottle of red and nineteen dollars' worth of steak and tortillas from Qdoba. Bring on the cookies, bag up those chips. We can afford it. (Today.)

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After four months of intermittent physical therapy, I can finally run with only minimal aches and pains. Did I ever give you the skinny on that whole thing? A PT evaluation in October confirmed my body was still a mess from my last c-section: severe diastasis at least three fingers wide, weak pelvis and lower abs, compression in the right knee between the kneecap and the femur. It was explained that my core was too weak to absorb the regular impact of running, so the full burden fell to my lower half, which promptly failed the task. PT exercises helped alleviate this until my gallbladder pulled a hissy fit on Thanksgiving, and it wasn't until my birthday I felt like anything close to normal. By then it was January and hello, Mini Marathon training!

It had been my plan to run this year's Mini since being pregnant with Liam, with goals of improving on my freshman effort and marking a return to the sport with a PR. At the start of training, though, I hadn't logged a mile since September.

Here is where I experienced my first lesson in Keeping It Real for 2012 and admitted I couldn't tackle the Mini quite the way I planned. Right now I'm following a run-walk schedule that exists only in my head, and it is this: Get outside three times a week. Run when I can, walk when there's pain, and don't feel guilty if I skip two weeks a day. Just keep on.

To date I'm at three miles, and the official training program hosted their 10K race last weekend. CAN WE SAY YIKES. Moving forward, it's probably best that I focus on races where training doesn't start in the dead of winter, especially when we're not in a financial position to take on a gym membership. But that's okay. The important thing is I'm moving again.

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My kids are growing up so fast. The toddlers are signed up for school in the fall - pre-K and preschool, respectively - and will take swim lessons this summer. They're also displaying an interest in learning how to read. How do you spell "snake," Mom? Daddy, how do you spell "airplane"? Kara holds ballet shows in our living room on a regular basis, inspired by Selena's and Olivia's enthusiasm, and will start her first dance class next month. There is constant chatter from her about turning five and going to kindergarten and next year can she please invite school friends to her birthday party and slow down, child, I'm not ready for this yet. Nathan is making steady progress on the potty-training front and adores all things trains and dinosaurs. Liam is cutting two bottom teeth and pulling up on everything in reach. He was baptised at our church, which we are quickly falling in love with, at the end of February. 

Such the little man.

Their relationship is every bit as adorable as you can imagine.

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I'm not sure how to navigate this new place I'm in, having recently resolved to let the dust settle from several years of activity instead of chasing The Next Big Thing. I've adopted four different life plans since the start of 2012, embracing then abandoning each one wholeheartedly when the sense of peace I waited for didn't come. Taking long-held dreams and examining them under a microscope, I'm faced with hard questions. How much of my goal setting has been driven by an attitude of laziness and a longing for easy? Am I allowing the bottles-and-diapers phase of parenting, which is unique and temporary, to misguide decision making related to the future? Have I been moving towards something or running away?

Then there is this: Who am I holding accountable for my long-term happiness, aside from myself? And where am I left if those people fall short? 

(Can you imagine living with this crazy on a daily basis? I assume Luke has your sympathy.)

I've made a lot of declarations the past couple of months - make that the last few years - about family and priorities and What Really Matters, and it's embarrassing to consider another direction now that the follow-through isn't meeting my expectations. Maybe it's the wrong time. Maybe I had the wrong dream. Maybe the alignment of the two already happened - right time, right dream - and I missed the window. No matter what the case, now I have to admit that it might be time to move on.

(Related food for thought: Linda's post on giving up a dream. Note my passionate monologue on plan one near the bottom. That Frema! So naive four weeks ago back then.)

Picture Linus from the Peanuts Gang being asked to give up his security blanket.

Lucky for me I don't need to act on anything today. Even luckier, there's plenty left to hold onto.

Speaking up for gray

This week I came across a handful of blog posts that turned my blood cold. They were uncomfortable to read and left me squirming in my chair, upset, confused, embarrassed. No longer sure what to think of experiences I made peace with years ago.

Why I Talk About Rape

On being an object, and then not being an object

It should be said.

The rape article was the hardest to get through, but it was a line in Liz's post in her account of a sexual assault that brought me to the computer. A simple sentence, stripped of layers, absent of clever innuendo or metaphors, but powerful nonetheless.

I remember that at 17, the idea of waking parents seemed somehow worse than anything.

Let me be clear. I have never been raped. But as a young woman, GOD did that general sentiment ring true for me.

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When I was 17, I landed a job at a laid-back mom-and-pop video store in my neighborhood, a job I chased after for an entire year because I loved the idea of getting paid to watch movies, do my homework, and hang out with friends twelve hours a week. The owner put me off until I was a senior in high school because the store had a...shall we say...robust adult section, and I was underage. But I was an ambitious 17-year-old, and I had excellent references, so it was only a matter of time before I was collecting late fees from local enthusiasts for titles like Hein*feld and Wednesday is Hump Day. 

On one of my last nights there before leaving for college, I was closing with "Frank," a middle-aged guy with two kids and a day job as a paralegal. He was normally a pleasure to be around, very helpful and kind - he always gave me a ride when we closed, saving me a ten-minute walk home. On that night, we were talking and laughing as usual, but on this night Frank had a few beers on our shift. I don't know that this would have been discouraged by the owner, exactly, since he was known to have a can of something in plain sight of customers while balancing the books, but it was a first for Frank, and you could tell he was buzzing. As the night went on, he became looser with his tongue, and he kept saying how nice and pretty I was; next thing I knew, he was approaching me from the back and wrapping his arms around me in a close hug.

I was taken off guard; what the hell did I know about inappropriate? It's not like he was grabbing at the waistband of my pants or even trying to kiss me. And it was over as quickly as it began, so I don't remember how I acted in the moment aside from making some lame joke and sliding out of his arms. He was such a nice guy, after all, and not himself from the beer, and he still had to drive me home. Because of course I let him drive me home.

I reflect on this now, and I'm angry. I'm angry that a grown man thought it was okay to throw a few back, on the clock, in the presence of a teenager who thought she could work four hours without having someone's hands on her hips. But I'm also so sad for the girl who felt that she had to act like it didn't happen, who felt obligated to get in the car with him, EVEN THOUGH HE'D BEEN DRINKING, because she didn't want to be rude, and who made light of the whole thing when he called to apologize the next day. (See? Such a nice guy.)

Sometimes, Breain, it's okay to be impolite.

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When I was 20, I had sex when I didn't want to. He was older, and I was intoxicated with the attention. In previous conversations, I had told him I wanted to wait, but in the moment, I never said no. When it was over, I didn't know how to react except roll over and cry. All he could do was apologize for misinterpreting my body language. I could see that he meant it. I knew he felt terrible.

If I would have pushed him off me, said WAIT, STOP, I'M NOT READY YET, I know he would've done it. But we'd been fooling around night after night for almost two weeks, and I sure did like him a lot, and I didn't know how to switch gears. How do you talk through such an intense situation when you're physically trying to recover from it? Literally catching your breath, pulling an arm through a shirt sleeve, waiting for your half-asleep eyes to adjust to the light? And that's the problem, I guess. I was more concerned with the awkwardness of the after, with the proverbial waking of the parents, than the hurt I would feel from the during.

He and I went on to date for almost a year, and nothing about our relationship was coersive or forced or any of the adjectives typically used to describe a violent situation. He is even someone I call a friend today. Looking at that one night, though, from the perspective of a grown woman with a daughter of her own, I wish I hadn't cared about the after. I wish I'd been strong enough to say no. 

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The posts I linked to at the start of this entry describe ecounters twenty times more heartbreaking and terrifying than mine. But that's what drew me to share. It's so easy to write off those experiences we believe to be less than someone else's. But not every incident is that black and white, and there is equal value in talking about the gray. I don't want the women in my life thinking they ever have to tolerate the less than. And I hope with all my heart Kara never gives a thought to waking me up.

Happy is as happy does

After posting two entries' worth of pep talks, I wanted to share some of the ways I'm trying to bring more joy and perspective to my day-to-day.

This is especially important right now because Luke and I are too busy paying down debt to account for anything grandiose - we've already scrapped our plan to upgrade the family car, for example. Anything we take on over the next year has to be free or non-commital (i.e., pay-per-use or of the "cancel at any time" variety). So, really, free. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Journaling

l adopted this habit over the summer, inspired by Gretchen Rubin's stab at a gratitude journal. Her original intent was to write daily, but after finding it to be more of a chore than a stress reliever, she switched to writing one sentence a day about those in-the-weeds moments that tug at your heart but are likely to fade over time. Learning from her experience, I started my own journal as a combination of these ideas  - I focus on what I'm thankful for, but I don't write every day, and I don't limit myself to any kind of subject matter. Sometimes I've got pages of bullet points, and sometimes just a few lines. Sometimes they're big picture, like having enough money to pay our bills, and or they're as simple as the name of Kara's imaginary dog Bingo Benjamin (Bingo from Ladybug Girl, Benjamin from Liam's middle name; isn't that something you'd want to remember?). I don't want to lose these moments any more than Rubin does, and I can think of no better way to frame them than through a lense of gratitude. Plus, the fewer parameters I set for myself, the better my chances of keeping this up.

I do, however, have one restiction: I'm not allowed to pat myself on the back for house cleaning. It's important to me to keep up on things as best I can, especially now that Liam is frog-hopping everywhere and crams whatever he can into his pie hole, but I don't want to delude myself into thinking the ninety minutes I spend scrubbing down bathrooms is equal to an afternoon playing Memory with the kids. That's not what I want to reflect on when I go through these books five years or even one month from now. Not every "good" thing needs to be documented.

Quotationing, Information Collecting

Rubin had another reason for starting a notebook that I found really appealing. She talked about her love for the physical act of note taking and how journaling provided an outlet for this. She also talked about writing for its own sake and forgetting about results. As in, it's okay to collect information and not know what to do with it. It's okay to jot down ideas just because it's fun.

I, too, love note taking, and anyone who's known me longer than five minutes knows I have a pen in my hand almost all the time, just waiting to desecrate a blank piece of paper with my scribbles. (Remember my yada yada yada banner?) So I started a second notebook to serve as a random repository of all things Frema. I've written down books I want to read, movies I want to see, plot points for a TLF part three (when I thought about tackling National Novel Writing Month in November), and quotations. Pages and pages of them, mainly because I get Rubin's "Moment of Happiness" daily quotation delivered to my e-mail and ninety-five percent of them are ones I don't want to forget. Here's a gem from last week:

Also, no, I'm not being compensated for my repeated references to The Happiness Project, why do you ask? I've only cited it eighty million times in this entry.

Reading

One of my goals this year is to read more. Pretty lofty, right? And yet, there it is. Books have always been a huge part of my life, but with all the new demands on my time these last few years, I've been lazy in making them a priority. Part of the problem is that I think I need more time to keep up with reading than I actually do - i.e., I don't have to set aside an hour before bed to wind down with the Dalai Lama. I can grab twenty minutes at lunch or five on the john. (TMI?) All of those minutes will eventually lead to one finished book.

I'm not aiming to hit a specific number of books because that seems overwhelming, but I know that I need some measure of accountability to help me stay on task. Thus, my bookroll was born. Here's to tearing that bad boy UP come December.

I'm also trying to limit the amount of guilty-pleasure reading I do - less Soaps in Depth, fewer sensationalist blog posts that were clearly written to drive traffic or stir controversy. Half these sites aren't any different from the grocery store mags that recycle headlines every 18 months. This is much harder to do, because junk reading requires such little effort, but I'm trying to remind myself these things don't bring me happiness in the long run. I'm ready for something new.

Blogging

In case you haven't noticed, I've been trying to return to a regular posting schedule - as in, posting at all, period. This is mainly because I've always enjoyed working through my thoughts and feelings online, and I've missed being an active member of this community. I won't lie, though; I'm also still trying to figure out if this space can pave the way for other freelancing opportunities. Whether it can or not remains to be seen, but even if it doesn't, I'm having a great time, and that's all that matters in the end.

Churching

After almost a year-long hiatus, Luke and I are back in the habit of attending church, and we are both so happy about it. When Kara was a baby, we were going to an Episcopal church we liked a whole lot, but then we bought our house and moved to a new part of town where the Anglican congregation was wonderfully kind and generous but essentially in preacher limbo, having gone without a full-time pastor for almost two years, and it showed. When a pastor did finally sign on, despite her being a lovely person, Luke and I weren't as happy with the sermons or the way Sunday worship was organized, so we decided to explore other options. Since Kara and Nathan were already attending preschool programs at the local Methodist church, which is known for being super active in our community, we went to a service late last fall and have kept going ever since.

This is the first time in my adult life I'm continually excited and inspired by going to church. As someone who grew up in a conservative Catholic family with extended relatives who weren't exactly tolerarant of other faiths, even Christian ones, it's been an eye-opening process to evolve from Guilt-Ridden Catholic to Nervous Catholic Light to Full-Blown Protestant. The nice thing is that all three traditions? PRAY TO THE SAME JESUS. It's true! Plus, I can let the most fulfilling parts of each experience inform my overall relationship with God and faith. I never could have predicted the spiritual journey in store for me back when I first started debating my religion, but I couldn't be more thankful for where it's led me and my family.

Less Yelling

I constantly tell people it's a good thing tLuke is the at-home parent in our marriage because my level of patience fluctuates wildly when it comes to the kids. I'm making an active effort to find other ways to handle these situations, because when I do, the results are worth their weight in gold. I just need to do it more.

Sleeping, Exercising

Actually, these are the only ones I'm NOT doing yet, but I want to be. I'm sold on the why when it comes to both; it's the how that holds me back. How can I go to bed when there are pages to read / journals to update / blog posts to write? On the flip side, how can I get up to Shred when I was up until two o'clock reading, journaling, and blogging? You see where this is going. In the end, I need to accept that I can't do eight things in a day, pick the two or three that need the most attention in that moment, and hop to it.

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I am trying so hard to focus on improving the "little" parts of my day, because really, isn't that the bulk of our lives? It's not often we're keeled over by outlandish moments of grandeur; I need to enjoy each day for what it is and explore happiness in my current set of conditions, instead of hitting the pause button until all obstacles have been overcome. I've made significant progress in this area in the last year and a half, but I can always do better.

How are you doing on your 2012 goals and resolutions? What are you doing to keep happiness at the forefront of your life? I would love to hear from you.

Thirty-two

Yesterday was my birthday. I know this because Kara charged into the bathroom while I was getting dressed and cried out, "Mom, it's your birthday! We got you presents! Come and check it out!" My Facebook wall exploded with posts of happy thoughts, well wishes, and proclamations of "The Year of Bree," and flowers and bagels welcomed me when I came into work. I am blessed to be another year older, surrounded by all this love. I am blessed to be thirty-two.

In a lot of ways, I feel thirty-two. Luke and I will have been together eleven years this year, married six in May, and we have far surpassed the honeymoon stage of our relationship, now challenged with keeping things fresh amidst regurgitated formula, clogged toilets, and stretch marks. I have kids who wear UNDERPANTS and make grand statements about going to KINDERGARTEN next year (hear that, Kara? NEXT YEAR) and who remind me not to talk with food in my mouth. I've spent late nights and long hours combing through finances at the dining room table to make room for insurance premiums, association fees, and preschool - and cried when I couldn't do it. On those nights I think about my own parents with tremendous respect and empathy for the decisions they had to make to raise five children. I never feel more adult than when I'm sitting at that table.

I've walked away from relationships, and I've been dumped. I've feared for my job and my health. I've lost faith in childhood heroes. I've taken the wrong side. I've eaten plenty of crow. 

And yet, at the same time, I'm still a bright-eyed, virgin fifteen, waiting earnestly to come into my own, wondering if I'll ever nail the part of a mature, sophisticated woman. Last month Luke and I took the kids to a Christmas program in town, and we bumped into the mom of one of Kara's friends from preschool. Her perfectly applied make-up and posh handbag put my clearance fleece from Target and ratty Sauconys to shame. How can we possibly have children the same age when clearly I'm late for P.E.?

Mistakes and petty hang-ups aside, my goal for thirty-two is to be more intentional in my thoughts and actions every day, because it's hitting me like a ton of bricks that this one life - this one day, really - is all I have. If I want memories I'm proud of, if I want change, if I want to make a tangible, meaningful impact on this world - it is up to me.

Thirty-two, bring it on.

We get by with a little help

While riding the gallbladder rollercoaster, I had a "come to Jesus" moment about how much people need each other during times of crisis and how difficult it can be to offer and accept help.

When I first saw the OB on the last Monday of November, it was after six hours of intense pain that had me crying harder than Sally Field after Shelby's funeral in Steel Magnolias. And yet? I drove myself to the appointment. Later that night, after five hours of lying on a gurney half-asleep from narcotic medication in the E.R., I proceeded to drive myself home. The painkillers were out of my system by then, so it's not like I was driving under the influence, but I was struggling to concentrate on the road. On the expressway. In the rain. The minute I reached my driveway, I sent fervent prayers of thanks to God that I made it home in one piece.

It did not have to be this way.

First of all, I was surrounded by coworkers who are kind and caring and would have been more than willing to take me to the hospital. Second, once I was at the E.R., I was in constant contact with Luke and my boss the whole time, and both of them would have dropped everything to be with me and make sure I was okay. But in typical oldest-child people-pleaser fashion, I didn't want to bother anyone. In the moment, I couldn't justify asking Luke to pack up three children under the age of four at two hours before midnight and subject them to a ninety-minute screamfest "just" to bring me home. I should've gone with Plan B - crashing at my boss's house the next town over, just fifteen minutes from the hospital - but I didn't want to impose or come off as a drama queen, even though I knew her offer was genuine. I could walk, yes? I wasn't seeing double? So long as I was able to do those two things, I figured I should take care of myself.

I can see now this was wrong of me, especially since it wasn't true. I didn't have to take care of myself. When someone reaches out to lighten your burden, let them. Don't make the decision for them or overshadow their kindness with your own trivial hang-ups. Isabel wrote a great post about this last year that has stayed with me ever since. Even Jesus had help carrying the Cross.

As it turned out, there would be another opportunity to accept help graciously, sooner than I expected. Not twenty-four hours later, I could barely sit up in bed, let alone drive a car. Luke and I had to admit that our family couldn't handle this alone.

The grandest gesture came from Luke's parents, who stayed at our house three to four days at a time two weeks in a row to lend a hand with the kids. Words cannot express how grateful we are for their willingness to put their own lives on hold and place our needs first, without any advance notice, and for spinning it in such a way that you could almost trick yourself into thinking they had the better end of the deal. ("We enjoy spending so much time with our grandchildren!") We received an outpouring of love and concern from other friends and family through phone calls, texts, e-mails, and Facebook, but it was Grandma and Grandpa D who proactively came to the rescue in the area we needed it most, even when it couldn't have been convenient for them.

Their act of selflessness has reminded me that I've not been nearly as generous with my own time. It's easy to make abstract statements when life is all sunshine and rainbows; it's much harder to follow through when hard times present themselves and a loved one calls your bluff. When you learn on a random Monday that your mother's favorite aunt, your late grandmother's sister, has passed away and the viewing is on Thursday, for example.

My mother didn't ask me to attend the service; I think she told me NOT to come, actually, since I was in my second trimester with Liam, and sick all the time, and Luke had a cold himself, and the funeral home was four hours away, and we didn't have the money for gas. She knew all that and didn't want us over extending ourselves. But I felt drawn to be there for her just the same and told her on Tuesday we would make every effort to come.

After a lot - A LOT - of discussion, though, and proposing a million different scenarios, Luke and I decided that we just couldn't do it. We were too sick. We were too broke.

I remember calling my mom to tell her about the change in plans and feeling like an absolute tool for letting her down, even though she couldn't have been more understanding. I felt terrible for not making her pain more of a priority. I asked myself again and again if my short-term issues trumped the long-term gravity of the situation, and what I would think of my response five years down the road.

I don't hold this up as an example of a time where I should have made a different choice - right now I don't regret the decision we made - but it paints a very real picture of the factors people take into account when responding to requests for support (direct or perceived), and how easy it can be to fall short. I acknowledge this was a perfect storm of circumstances where I happened to be physically,mentally, and financially tapped out, and that in the last few years I have busted ass to be present for some life-changing events for family and friends. Births. Deaths. Miscarriages. Missing siblings. Weddings. Baptisms. Birthdays. 

But there are also plenty of instances where I wish I would've stopped fretting over some perceived obstacle that seemed monumental at the time but in reality was more of a discomfort and just been there.

I hope to be there a lot more in 2012.

A year ago, and a lifetime

Liam turned seven weeks old a few days ago, and when I compare where we are now to where we were at this point with Kara and Nathan, I almost can't believe it.

For one thing, of my three maternity leaves, this one has definitely been the most active. I've brought the baby to work and met coworkers for coffee and lunch twice; scheduled several playdates with friends; went with the entire family to our local Children's Museum (and finally secured our membership); took the toddlers to a splash park and numerous trips to Target; and saw the doctor (OB/GYN, dentist, and pediatrician) more times than I care to count. We drove to Chicago and northwest Indiana last weekend to attend my nephew's third birthday party and spent two nights away from home, Liam just six weeks old - the earliest we've ever traveled with a newborn.

Walking with Grandpa

Cuddling with Auntie Samantha

Mugging with Uncle Geo

Another first: exercise. I didn't work out at all after Kara, and Nathan was five or six months old when I welcomed The 30-Day Shred into my life, but this time around, I started exercising in the same week I was cleared to do so. Two Jillian Michaels DVDs and a couple of easy runs totaling about a mile each. There were times during each of the videos where I found myself flopping around like a fish, and I think a snail passed me on the trail yesterday, but still. For my physical health and mental sanity, I am making fitness a priority, and DAMN, does it feel good.

It helps that Liam is such an easy-going baby, save for some recent episodes of evening-time grumpiness. He is cooing and smiling and most often content so long as he is snuggled in your arms, which I am happy to oblige, even though my floors need mopping and phone calls need returning and hey, the checkbook isn't going to balance itself. I start back at the office the Wednesday after Labor Day (on a somewhat reduced schedule, thank goodness), and that familiar Oh my God, I'm going back to work dread has already started creeping in, reminding me how important it is to savor this time while I still can.

Last August, I felt trapped in my own life. I loved my husband and children beyond measure, but our future was blurred, seemingly without direction, and I had no idea how to best move us forward. I missed my extended family something fierce and cursed the miles between us. My writing goals were drastically changing shape but equally undefined. I struggled to make peace with not having any more babies, and Luke and I were in the worst financial shape of our marriage, having first fallen into the trap of paying everything by credit card, then depending on quarterly bonuses to catch up on bills, and fnally spending more each month than we brought in.

I became insanely jealous of those who seemed to have it all figured out, and I couldn't stop comparing our situation to others with similar demographics. I found myself asking, "Is this all there is for us? Is this the best that life can be?"

Thankfully, the answer was a resounding NO. 

I still don't have all the answers, and our path isn't completely clear, but for the first time in years, I can finally see its shape.

What a difference a year makes.

Tuck it in, tuck it in *(belly, not baby)

Six weeks and six days ago, I had a baby. Here he is.

The Beach Boys and hottie John Stamos aren't the only ones who want to go to Kokomo.

At six weeks and six days, Liam:

• Has been diagnosed with and declared healed from umbilical granuloma
• Indulges in self-torture by way of pulling his own hair
• Screams after said hair pulling but requires Momma to free him from his iron grip
• Smiles when you plant puckery kisses on his mouth
• Is drawn to light, especially when it's shining through half-closed blinds
• Cannot maintain a dry diaper for longer than eight seconds
• Is settling into a feeding pattern of four ounces every three hours and is already showing signs that he's ready to ditch his middle-of-the-night feeding
• Spent a half-hour awake and smiling in his cradle swing today. THIS IS HUGE.
• Has perfected several facial expressions, including Zoolander's Blue Steel
• Is already losing his hair. Maybe, son, it's because YOU'RE PULLING IT OUT BY THE ROOTS
• Will probably grow up answering to Luke's and my primary nickname of choice: Nathan

Harbored behind those bright blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks is an ocean of wisdom.

Meanwhile, this is me.

At six weeks and six days postpartum, I:

• Drink a lot of coffee, as evidenced by ninety percent of my Facebook posts
• Call milk and cookies my evening poison
• Sit almost five pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight, despite my brand loyalty to all things Oreo
• Lay claim to one (1) infection-free c-section scar
• Have hosted a lengthy visit from the nefarious Aunt Flo
• Heard the phrases "tummy tuck" and "plastic surgeon" uttered by my OB/GYN during last Thursday's postpartum follow-up
• Feel super awesome about this!

Let me explain.

Early on in my second trimester, I was diagnosed with having diastasis recti - the separation of your abdominal muscles into left and right halves. It felt like a pretty big deal at the time, as I cried out in pain whenever someone so much as brushed against my stomach, but by my third trimester, the discomfort was gone and I assumed I was out of the woods. Prior to my c-section, though, my OB/GYN promised to be mindful of my abdominal area and do what she could to tighten things up during surgery, if such tightening were necessary.

The first few weeks after Liam was born, I was in such hell from my c-section and then so focused on recovering that I didn't think much about the diastasis recti, until a fellow Hoosier blogger posted about her own dance with the condition. I wasn't feeling any of the pain Casey talked about, but my stomach protruded in a similar fashion, albeit saddled with eight extra tons of Frema flab. Now, I've never rocked a six-pack, or even a one-pack for that matter, but maybe at least some of the flab could be attributed to this? I decided to ask my doctor about it at my six-week check-up.

The exam itself went great. Incision healed, vitals normal, birth control taken care of (thanks again, honey), physical activity approved.... All good news. Then I brought up the diastasis recti and waited to hear the recommended course of treatment. Ab splint? Physical therapy? Whatever it is, I said, I would do it. Bring it on.

My OB/GYN was silent as she rested her hand slightly below my breasts.

(Get your mind out of the gutter, you.)

"There's still a slight separation I can feel right here," she explained, her hand still in place, "but most of what we're dealing with is stretched out skin."

Hmm. Not exactly the verdict I was hoping for. "Since I'm cleared for exercise, would that do anything for me?" 

She tilted her head as she considered the question. "It could help some, but typically excess skin, once it's there, doesn't go away without surgery."

Enter abdominoplasty/tummy tuck conversation here.

Before you start railing on my doctor, please note that she did not in any way, shape, or form suggest that I need to have this done. If you had been a fly on the wall for my entire check-up, it would have been obvious to you that the thought of carrying around this amount of skin for the rest of my life made me more than a little uncomfortable. She also went on to say that during my c-section, she added some extra stitches to tighten things up around my abdomen and pointed out that internally I am not completely healed. "It's too soon to make any decisions right now. See what you can do with diet and exercise, and after some time, if it still bothers you, I can give you a referral for a plastic surgeon, and you can schedule a consult to get more information."

So, there you have it. One more bullet point to add to my list of "Things I Used to Scoff At Before I Became a Mother."

Seriously, though, I'm not sure what to think. On one hand, even before having kids, I've always had a bit of a belly overhang that kept me from effortlessly shopping for clothes, being naked in front of other people, and having sex without feeling at least a little self-conscious. After Kara, that bit of overhang turned into a tire gut, and after Nathan, graduated to the dreaded "mother's apron" (a term I just today learned from Shape of a Mother, thank you very much), and now? Well, let's just say even the worst "Before" pictures on Wikipedia's abdominoplasty page don't do my midsection justice. Yet, all this time, I've never before entertained the idea of having it surgically removed. Girl power, love yourself and all that jazz. And now as a parent, in particular a mom to a daughter, I worry about the kind of message I would be sending about self-love and acceptance by submitting myself to unnecessary plastic surgery. How can I encourage Kara to embrace who she is, AS she is, if I'm having my own imperfections hacked off with a scalpel?

On the other hand, it's not as if I'm in danger of becoming the next Heidi Montag. Overall I quite like my body and thank God for all it's been able to do, including but not limited to carrying three healthy babies and running a half-marathon. I have no problems walking out of the house sans make-up, even to work, and I can take or leave coloring my hair. Getting a tummy tuck would be a specific answer to a specific problem that's frustrated me for years. And unless I changed my zero-tolerance policy on bikinis and tube tops, the only person besides me who would even notice the end result is Luke. Which is fine by me, since I would only be doing it for me.

As for Kara and the boys? Well, I may be relatively new to parenting, but even I know enough to appreciate that this one choice wouldn't negate years of consistent teaching and role modeling when it comes to loving yourself as you are. Plus, while I believe in the importance of self-acceptance, I also support making your own happiness and not closing a door out of fear for what others might think. 

On the other OTHER hand, cosmetic surgery is not something to be taken lightly, and after three c-sections, going under the knife a fourth time to basically improve my self-esteem hardly sounds appealing. Also, I'm nowhere near convinced that the benefits outweigh the risks when I've barely scratched the surface when it comes to improving my commitment to physical fitness. I may never eliminate my gut entirely that way, but who knows? I might come close, all on my own, and that may be enough.

Also, dudes. Tummy tucks? Not cheap.  Even if I was resigned to having it done, we couldn't afford it until Luke was back at work, which could be another five years away, and even then I'd have a hard time justifying the cost when the money could be deposited into one of our retirement accounts. 

Maybe one day Liam would take pity on me and HE'D pay for the surgery. We could call it the Mother's Day gift that keeps on giving. You think?

Luckily, this is not a decision I have to make (or can afford to make!) tomorrow. What I can do is run over to Wal-Mart, pick up a new Jillian Michaels video, and draw inspiration from one Marty McFly: "If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."

Now for what YOU can do: Ripped in 30 or 6-Week Six-Pack?

* ETA because I didn't even think about the title indicating that this might be a sleep entry.

This is what four weeks postpartum looks like

Four weeks ago yesterday, at 9:48 a.m., the last child I will ever carry (that is, unless Luke is fatally injured, I meet Joshua Jackson, and he requires biological offspring in lieu of a marriage prenup) was strategically evicted from my uterus. Only it doesn't feel like four weeks ago, more like an eternity, because it's already that difficult to imagine what life was like without Liam.

Fortunately and unfortunately, the biggest hurdle to overcome thus far has been my own physical recovery. There's some persistent fluid build-up causing tenderness in my abdominal area, tenderness that until a few days ago inspired mild nausea whenever anyone came into contact with my stomach, and my tire gut contributed to bacterial and fungal infections around my incision that interfered with the normal healing process. Apparently, all that extra skin (sexy!) worked against me when it came to keeping the scar dry, turning the whole area into a red, blotchy mess. I've been to my ob/gyn's office twice since coming home from the hospital, with another follow-up slated for today. 

Luckily, an elaborate ritual involving cotton balls, hydrogen peroxide, MY FRIGGING BLOW DRYER, anti-fungal powder, and hospital-grade gauze applied twice a day for the last week has resulted in me finally feeling like myself again, my personal best, even, since before the onset of my first trimester morning sickness. I'm feeling so good, in fact, that I also have two full days of meds-free living under my belt, with not so much as an over-the-counter pill in my system. Hooray for me, and also, IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME.

It's only because I'm doing so well I can admit that in those first few weeks, all that unresolved pain paired with the traditional complications from this type of surgery seriously impacted my ability to function. What I said about mornings being a cherished part of my routine in my last post was true, but it's also true that they were the hardest part of my day. I posted a lot of jokes on Facebook about my A.M. coffee intake, but truly, I was no good to anyone until half-way to lunch, even though Luke and I shared night duty for Liam, and even though Luke continued to get up with Kara and Nathan just as he does when I'm working so that I could go back to bed for another couple of hours while Liam dozed after his first morning bottle.

For so long I was embarrassed about this, would apologize to my husband for having to pick up my slack, and felt like less of a mother because I couldn't push through my own issues to be fully present for ALL the members of my family. It wasn't like I was completely detached from daily living, but oftentimes even simple tasks such as giving a bath or unloading the dishwasher put too much strain on my body, so that I couldn't do more than a couple of things like that in a 24-hour time span. Now that my infections are just about healed and my overall pain has been downgraded to annoying at best, all I can do is recognize that I'm not Wonder Woman, acknowledge that I needed help - a lot of help - to get back on my feet, and thank my lucky stars Luke was around to give it to me. His being the at-home parent in our relationship allowed Kara and Nathan to get the care and attention they needed and enabled me to focus on bonding with Liam and getting better. I'm not proud of how often I fell short, but I can forgive myself for it and move on.

And yet, even in those early weeks when I would cry over not being the wife and mother I wanted to be, I was still in much better shape mentally then I was after having Kara, as I learned how to integrate the role of mother into my life, and after Nathan, born not fourteen months after his sister, who was still just a baby herself. This time around, there was no veil of self-doubt, no wavering in making decisions that were best for my family. I was still able to embrace each day for the gift it was, laugh through the building of Lego towers with my toddlers, and appreciate every hour of snuggle time with my new baby.

I keep comparing this maternity leave to Kara's and Nathan's, and each time, I realize how far I've come since then. This is the first time I've been able to bring home a child and hold onto the best, most confident parts of myself. I am so grateful for that. This focus and sense of peace I've discovered since Liam was born, it's such a blessing.

Speaking of Liam, he continues to knock our socks off. He's finally "woken up," so to speak, and joined the world of the living in that he isn't sleeping twenty hours a day anymore; he has fussy periods in the morning and evening hours, but they are not unbearable or even a surprise, given his age. At last Friday's weight check, he clocked in at a whopping 10 pounds and 3 ounces. Two days later, he rolled over for the first time. He enchants us all with gassy smiles, wide eyes, and pursed lips. Poor thing still has traces of Kara's and Nathan's cold, and it appears that we are dealing with a clogged tear duct in his right eye, but again, nothing unbearable. I can't believe how lucky we are to have him, or that I owe his existence to a bottle of red from Walmart. Miracles, though, aren't picky.

As for me, I am good, so very, very good, if not a little stir-crazy from mostly hanging out indoors, partly due to the above-mentioned ailments and partly from the Midwest's record-breaking humidity. I've generated a few unexpected bills since my leave began (damn crown, breaking off two days after coming home from the hospital!), and since we had to deplete a lot of our savings before Liam's birth for a variety of reasons, I have decided to return to work two weeks early so we can avoid financial strain. This puts me back in the office the week of Labor Day instead of late September. 

In the past, the very thought of this scenario would have reduced me to a weepy puddle of WAAAH, but I'm okay with this decision, too. I'm not wishing my time away with my family by any means, but there is a piece of me that's eager to embrace our new normal, and that new normal includes me going back to work. Plus, there is so much for us to do now that Liam is here; prepare to put our house on the market, for one. Pay off our credit card debt (and new array of medical bills) once and for all. Start tending to my professional network again. In other words, make our dreams come true. 

I am so ready.

Filled to the brim

These days, mornings are a cherished part of my routine. For one thing, there is coffee, something I didn't miss much during my pregnancy but has quickly become an invaluable commodity since Liam's birth. Second, I'm fresh from at least a few consecutive hours of sleep. And finally, there are all the positive feelings associated with the promise of a new day.

I'm very aware that I could jinx our good fortune by speaking this out loud, but Liam continues to be the most easy-going newborn Luke and I have parented. Despite all the pictures we have of his bright baby blues, the boy sleeps ALL. THE. TIME., usually only waking to eat or poop or make funny faces at his brother and sister. He is especially fond of sleeping on my chest, so that's how I spend a lot of my day. It is exactly what I wanted for this maternity leave, this unfettered snuggle time with him.

Everything else is okay. C-section recovery is still slow; I run out of happy pills today, and I have to figure out if I want to call my OB for more or figure out a lesser way to handle my pain. I never came to this point with Kara or Nathan - possibly needing more drugs than originally prescribed - so I can only assume opening up a twice-healed abdominal scar one last time would of course produce some unanticipated physical effects.

It doesn't help that I've been on my feet more this time around, but with two toddlers craving activity and attention from a mother who is now home 24/7, sometimes there isn't a choice. I'm so excited for us to start having our adventures, and it already feels like time is flying by so fast, but Luke keeps reminding me there are many good days ahead of us and that I'm not doing myself any favors by taking shortcuts around my recovery. Sound advice, but hard to follow nonetheless.

Here is my last belly shot with Liam from June 28, at the start of week 39, twenty-four hours before Baby Day. Already, it feels like this shot was taken forever ago, and that Liam's been with us for so much longer than one day shy of two weeks. Luke and I were talking last night about how we each feel differently, now being parents to three children, but it's hard to articulate why. For me, there is a feeling of completeness I've never known before, a confidence that I am on the right path, and a sense of peace in knowing that all the right puzzle pieces are finally in place. Liam's arrival has also increased my capacity to love all the members of my sweet little family, as well as my desire to do right by them, and myself.

I don't know what the future holds for us, but I'm eager to take it all on. Nothing feels impossible.

The big 3-0 and musings on the working mother balance

Folks, we have officially entered single-digit territory - no more than nine weeks until we bring Baby Brother home. My word.

 

I will shoot daggers at anyone who might dare utter this to me, but at 30 weeks, even I have to admit that I'm looking large and in charge (and also in need of a haircut; THAT I hope to remedy next week). Sitting both children on my lap for storytime is damn near impossible, and several items of maternity clothing are no longer fit for public display, especially button-up shirts, which mistakenly give the impression that this child is going to burst through my uterus Incredible Hulk style. Thankfully, I have some things to tide me over courtesy of my book club friends until my sister delivers an entire bin of looser-fitting summer clothes late next month, because the goal is still to spend as little money in this area as possible. (To Katy: I get compliments on this top everytime I wear it, and your patterned black skirt, too.)

Despite the iron supplement I'm taking to address my anemia, I wear out so easily these days, and if there is ever an opportunity to nap on the weekends, I jump on it immediately. Unfortunately, now that we're inching into the final weeks, those opportunities are few and far between. Last weekend was all about The Great Bedroom Merge, and the weekend before that I FINALLY started on Nathan's baby book. Our current goals are to focus on preparing Baby Brother's room and addressing minor touch-ups and eyesores throughout the rest of the house. I've also been busy at work, training my coworkers to handle various projects and to-dos while I'm on maternity leave for 12 weeks.

The closer we get to the big day, the more apprehensive I feel about making it through those early months with a new baby. As a mother of toddlers, I have no doubts about their attachment to me or their understanding of my love for them. This knowledge has allowed me to grant myself permission to strike a manageable balance between my roles as mother, wife, working professional, and individual who continues to exist alongside (and sometimes independently of) all of those identities. In my day-to-day, that balance looks something like this:

I do not bring work home. I will arrive at the office early, or I will stay late, but aside from regularly checking e-mail on my smartphone, work stuff stays at work. It is much easier to stay put until the job is done than it is to stop my train of thought, pack up my laptop, get through dinner, clean-up, and bedtime, and THEN try to pick up where I left off. Not only am I easily distracted at home and get little accomplished whether the kids are awake or not, I also feel cheated out of quality time with Luke. So if coming home late for dinner once in a while helps me to be a more attentive wife (and really, a better employee), than that is what I will do.

Dinner clean-up is done after dinner, not after bedtime. I fought this for such a long time in the beginning, because I felt like those precious minutes before the bedtime routine begins should be spent on the living room floor playing with my kids, not at the kitchen sink washing dishes. So I used to let everything sit until after they were asleep; however, Kara and Nathan were not made from the early-to-bed cloth, so often I wouldn't be arriving downstairs until well after nine o'clock, which meant it could get as late as ten before my "real" evening officially began. This made for a crabby Frema and, once again, a neglected husband, who by this point was in dire need of adult interaction. Finally, I realized that it wasn't the end of the world to listen to the kids laugh and rough around with their father while I puttered around in the kitchen. There are some exceptions to this; on those days where I do come home late, for example, Luke is usually quick to shoo me into the living room while he takes on kitchen detail, and lately he's been making things even easier by wiping out the pre-dinner dishes before he starts cooking. Especially because of this last thing, I am often able to do both.

(Have I told you lately how wonderful my husband is? Because truly, he is so wonderful.)

I do not miss bedtime. This isn't an absolute, of course; sometimes there are evening work functions (though none during this pregnancy so far), Luke and I have splurged on date nights if we are in the vicinity of grandparents or can afford to hire our sitter, and for a few months in the fall I attended a monthly book club gathering on the other side of the city, but overall my general rule is to be present for Kara and Nathan's bedtime. Sometimes it's frustrating if the kids are acting up, and sometimes it's inconvenient, like last summer when I was constantly late for my weekly run with Jenn, but overall it's worth it to consistently be there for bathtime, lights out, and everything in between. I revel in holding them close and sniffing their freshly shampooed heads while reading them stories. It means a lot to me to be able to kiss their cheeks and tuck them in. So I make it a priority.

I do not volunteer. This one I'm not proud of, and it's another reality I fought for a long time, but in the end, it is what it is. I was a member of my college's alumni association for about five years, and I loved doing it, but the distance between Indianapolis and Rensselaer made traveling for quarterly meetings and participating in campus events highly undesirable, especially when I already spend enough time away from home. So in 2009, I sadly turned in my resignation. My employer is great about allowing time off during the work week to participate in volunteer activities, and on and off for a couple of years I was involved in a grade-school reading program for an hour a week, but once I had kids, even that one hour away from my desk was enough to throw off my entire day, so at the end of the 2010 school year, I told the program director that I wouldn't be signing up again. Last fall, my desire to reach beyond myself grew again, and I looked into donating my time at a local women's and children's shelter, possibly on the weekends. Then I got pregnant again, and then I got sick, and now the recommendation letters I solicited are collecting dust in my mail basket, and I'm at the point where I have to admit that now is not the time to throw myself into extracurricular activities that take me away from my family, no matter how worthy the cause. That said, Luke and I recently began going to church again, a church right here in town, and we sometimes talk about looking into their soup kitchen or Bible study classes or something to that effect. So it's not like I'm swearing off do-gooding or charitable works completely, but I have realized my limits, and I have to respect them.

All of that to say - almost three and a half years into this parenthood thing, and I have finally figured out what works for me and my family. And we're about to turn all of that on its head.

Because for me, as a working mother, when I have a baby and then reach the point where I have to go back to work, I'm NOT as secure in our attachment like I am when they're older, so everything feels like it's up for grabs. You can talk to a toddler about things like having to miss dinner and they understand. That is not the case with a baby. So my big-picture focus changes from maintaining balance to simply being there as much as I can.

What this translates into on a micro level: It's hard enough being away for an average work day when they're so little that the last thing I want to do is sit at my desk even one minute after five, even if the alternative is nodding off at my laptop at ten. And when I'm dividing my attention among three children, why would I concern myself with dishes when I could be doling out hugs and kisses? On top of all that, Luke and I have not wavered on our plans to put the house on the market next year, and whether it takes a month or a year to sell, preparing for the next stage of our lives will require me to start using and building on my professional network, and part of that will entail opening myself up to extracurricular programs and events, whether it's the right time or not.

I think about all of this, toss in a few random worries about nursing (yes, I have decided to try again), and my brain threatens to explode.

Then I remind myself to breathe and not get so caught up in the future. I remember that fortunately, another reality is that Luke and I are not brand spanking new parents anymore, and we HAVE figured out a system that works for us; and while there will be an initial period of deviation from that, eventually the dust will settle, and we'll embrace a familiar version of normal once again, even if it's not identical to what we had before. Until then, I will have to grant myself permission to take it one day at a time.

So, to sum up: I am 30 weeks pregnant. I am a tad worried about managing life with a third baby. But I'm also more seasoned now than I was with the first two. Plus, my husband rocks. It will be okay.

Be happy

Confession: I am a terrible book club member.

I fully embrace the concept of reading materials that fall outside my radar and that I would otherwise never be exposed to. Even more than that, I love getting together with folks who are reading these same books in order to generate thoughts and ideas about characters, plot, and overall meaning.

What is NOT working out for me, however, is actually reading the damn things.

While part of this can be attributed to pregnancy fatigue and its accompanying short attention span, I think the bigger issue is that it's difficult for me to push through books I personally wouldn't have selected for no other reason than to meet a deadline. The gals in my club are highly educated and have extremely smart taste (waves to Katy), and I'm sure I would enjoy these books if I could get over the inital reader's block that goes along with picking up a new title. Unfortunately, these days my ability to just hang in there is already at capacity. And because at this point I can only focus on one book at a time, what ends up happening is that I put off reading things I'm sincerely interested in in favor of fulfilling my "obligations," but because meeting those obligations feels like a chore, I find myself not reading anything at all.

For someone who's always described herself as an avid reader, this is unacceptable. Also, since I've taken a leave from the club to conserve budget dollars, anyway, there's no reason to continue this self-imposed form of restriction.

So this weekend, I returned last month's selection to the library and immediately dove into The Happiness Project, a book I've been chomping at the bit to read since I first heard about it last year. I even shelled out precious actual dollars to buy it when it was released in paperback earlier this month, because inherently I knew it would be the sort of book that required underlining, note-taking, and eventually, re-reading.

Funny, isn't it? In order to read The Happiness Project, first I had to grant myself permission to be happy.

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In the middle of last year, at a point where I felt stagnant and uninspired, I started giving serious thought as to why I felt unsatisfied and what it would take to make me happier. It involved owning up to my shortcomings and limitations, defining my long-term goals, and re-evaluating my priorities. It required sharing those insights with Luke and the two of us formulating a plan for changing the direction of our lives. Thankfully, we were in agreement as to what should come next, and while we're experiencing a brief delay in regards to its implemention, this plan is constantly at the forefront of our minds; it drives our savings habits, influences our short-term decisions, and keeps us hopeful about the future. I also find it easier to accencuate the positive in the day-to-day I have now, appreciate my blessings, and gain perspective.

But again, in order to reach these conclusions, Luke and I had to admit that all the great things we have in our lives right now aren't enough to bring us long-term joy. We also realized that we can't improve our situation by hoping to magically inherit traits and desires that aren't in sync with who we are.

Our plan will take some time to accomplish--many months, I'm sure, possibly even years. There are a lot of moving parts that can't be achieved in tandem. But I would rather spend the next few years in slow, baby-steps transition than an indefinite amount of time trying to settle for what society says should make me happy.

On breastfeeding (or not) again

One of my biggest, all-consuming fears about having baby number three is breastfeeding.

Part of me feels ridiculous admitting that to anyone. After all, I've gone through this twice already! Shouldn't I be a pro by now? Or, at the very least, accept that breastfeeding is not my fight and write it off altogether? After all, to say I've been unsuccessful at nursing would be a vast understatement. To say I'm excited to try it again? That would be a lie.

It's funny; the content of this post has been on my mind for weeks, but now that I'm writing it, I'm not sure what to say.

When I found out I was pregnant again, I resolved to do everything in my power to make breastfeeding a reality for my family. I have read The Books, and the blogs, and the comments to those blogs, so the health and bonding benefits of breastmilk (and, consequently, the drawbacks of formula) are not lost on me. Plus, it's no secret that we are living on a pretty tight budget, so the cost savings aren't anything to laugh at, either. More than anything, though, was this feeling of wanting to overcome a hurdle that has previously appeared insurmountable.

I'm not blaming low supply because honestly, I'm not convinced that was the problem. With Kara, I couldn't keep her on the breast for more than a couple of minutes before she was crying and pushing me away. The lactation consultants at the hospital checked her latch several times, and it seemed fine to them, but who knows? It's not like I had any idea what I was doing, despite reading all those books, so it's very possible my technique was off or Kara's positioning wasn't right or any number of things related to my management of the situation. I never got more than a couple ounces from the pump in a session, whether I pumped every two hours or four, but again, what the hell did I know? Maybe my volume would have increased over time. Maybe I should have just been happy with the amount I was producing and made peace with supplementing the rest of the time.

I didn't try nipple shields, and I didn't attend any support group meetings (though I did call about the one offered through our hospital, and sorry, that once-a-month get-together slated for next Thursday isn't going to help me RIGHT NOW). It's not like I kept at it until my boobs had nothing left to give. It truly was my decision.

So for those who think I didn't try hard enough, well. I suppose they are right. But during those initial weeks of breastfeeding, my mind went to some very dark places. I felt terrible about myself as a mother, which in theory should have been enough to make me go the distance for as long as I could, but even more than that, I hated the idea of doing all those things and STILL most likely failing. Aside from the first couple of days of her life, feeding Kara was a source of stress, self-doubt, and guilt. At some point before the six-week mark I decided that suffering through those feelings for even one more day was more than I could bear. The reality of motherhood, I quickly learned, is that sometimes, when there's a conflict of interest between what you could ideally accomplish as a parent and what you can realistically handle, your own mental sanity has to win out. Second best just has to be enough.

... And THAT was breastfeeding with Kara.

With Nathan, things felt like they were getting off to a better start. I had still had trouble perfecting my latch, but he didn't fight my efforts and ate as often as I would let him, so I was hopeful that this time, please, this time, things would be different. However, at his two-week appointment with the pediatrician, my stomach dropped after the nurse checked his weight and announced a paltry two-ounce gain. TWO OUNCES. My God, did I feel like shit then, and my mind immediately went back to my experience with Kara, and how I fucked that up, and by the time we saw the doctor, any shred of confidence I had about nursing was gone. I continued to pump for another couple of weeks, but I don't think I ever put him on the breast again.

And now, I get to do it all over again with baby number three.

Like I stated above, when I first learned we were having another baby, I was set on doing everything within my power to make breastfeeding work this time around, and hey, third time's a charm, right? I talked about it with Katy, who nursed both of her boys into toddlerhood; borrowed more books; researched lactation consultants; and gave myself numerous pep talks that this time, things would be different.

But now? I honestly don't know. I hate that my first months at home with Kara and Nathan are tainted with such strong feelings of failure. As a working mother, that time to bond means more to me than almost anything else in that first year, and Luke and I are doing everything we can to stock our bank account accordingly so that I can take all twelve of those precious, job-protected weeks off without suffering serious financial repurcussions. I cherish that time to connect with my babies, to snuggle them in the rocking chair and take naps with them on my chest and cover their hands and cheeks and toes with kisses and overall just get to know who they are. It would be so much easier to say, This is not for me, and release myself from ever having to think about this again.

Then again, this time, things might be different. Baby Brother 2.0 could prove to be a fantastic nurser and all my worries could be for nothing. (Kind of like all those "Should we have a third baby?" conversations!) And I do appreciate the benefits, and I do really want those cost savings. Just not at the cost of my self-esteem.

One of the most popular retorts I've heard spoken by the more judgemental nursing mothers and that has most enraged me about the entire breast-or-bottle discussion is the whole "Well, if you aren't willing to make sacrifices for your children, why did you bother to have them?" It makes my fists clench and blood boil and and smoke shoot out of my ears, because really, when did how you feed a baby in the first year of life become the sole measuring stick for quality parenting? And who is anyone to say that I don't make sacrifices for my kids? Luke and I bust our tail to live on one income so they can enjoy all the benefits that go along with that. We painstakingly chose our house because we wanted to make sure they could go to one of the best public school systems in the city. We pack their meals with fruits and vegetables and whole grains, and they have yet to even try soda. We have slashed our household budget more times than I care to count in order to enroll both of them into Kara's day-out program this fall. I can't tell you the last time we bought clothes or shoes or even a magazine for ourselves, but Kara and Nathan get everything they need and then some. 

I did not become a mother because I wanted to breastfeed. I became a mother because I wanted to experience the joy of raising children and because I thought I could do a good job. I did not promise to make every right choice. I did not promise to always put myself last. But I do strive to give my family the best that I have as often as I can. I am proud of the home Luke and I have made for our kids and the life we are able to give them. And when I don't have it in me to reach the ideal, I will forgive myself (eventually) and try to move on.

This all sounds so good in black and white, doesn't it? Let's see how well my heart can embrace it, come June.

MyTubes*

* I changed the title because "Headaches, rambles" was very boring and vague and hello, there is an actual topic for this entry, only I didn't realize that until the drive home last night, which is when I thought up this little gem. How could I not use it?

I hit 11 weeks in this pregnancy yesterday, and the most noteworthy tidbit I can offer regarding this topic is that I've been plagued with a recurring headache for more than a week now that can't be alleviated with soda or chocolate. No change in my level of fatigue, nausea, or tendency to gag over smells ranging in intensity from air freshener to number two diapers (thank you, son). With Kara I started feeling better around week 20; Nathan was a few weeks earlier than that, so let's cross our fingers that the month of January brings wondrous feelings of joy and mirth.

My second prenatal appointment for Number Three took place on Monday, where I heard the baby's heartbeat through the Doppler for the first time, pounding away at a whopping160 bpm. Was it a sign that I'm having a girl? A byproduct of my key lime cheesecake from lunch? The world may never know. In any event, things are looking good, fetus-wise.

I also spent some time talking to my ob/gyn about having my tubes tied sometime after delivery.

Seeing as this is our second surprise pregnancy, and knowing that Luke and I conceived Kara when we were open to children but not officially "trying," it shouldn't shock anyone that I am obsessing over the best way to shut down this baby train. While there has always been a hankering for a third baby, I harbor no such illusions regarding a fourth. I am deeply grateful that I have been able to conceive so easily, without the aid of charts or medication or invasive procedures that can go on for years, and that I have given birth to two beautiful, healthy children. But still. Overall, I do not enjoy pregnancy, and I am still freaking out over earning enough bacon to support five people, and my husband would like to go back to work before he turns 50. That is not too much to ask.

Speaking of Luke, he has always been willing to "take care of things," so to speak, and that is still an option. Early next year we hope to get him to the urologist for a consult and determine how much of The Snip is covered by our insurance. If we can swing it financially, we would love nothing more than to "address this issue" before I go under the knife in June. (Are you loving my double entendres today?) That actually makes the most sense, since a tubal would require yet another surgery for me. I deliver at a Catholic hospital, so a two-in-one deal is not an option, and I'm not sure how long I would need to wait after delivery to have it done, and I don't care to leave myself susceptible to another happy surprise for very long.

For a while after Nathan I seriously considered the Essure procedure, which seems to be my practice's first choice for female sterilization, but reading this thread about failures and complications was enough for me to say KEEP THOSE COILS AWAY FROM ME, YOU.

I think this is all coming about because I'm feeling pretty powerless these days. I can't help myself physically feel better, our household budget is in chaos after paying on life insurance premiums, car repairs, and (drastically scaled-down) Christmas expenses all in the same month, and our place is a mess because I can't bring myself to even fold a basket of laundry. (Did I mention that I am an absolute baby when I'm sick?) The idea of snuggling a squeaky little newborn excites me beyond belief, but preparing for that baby will be a lot of work, and the adjustment period will be a lot of work, and I know myself well enough now to say I am not in my element in the first year. Although, recent interactions with Kara lead me to think that the toddler years aren't shining the light on my finest hours, either.

Anyway, I am done with surprise pregnancies and worrying about birth control and stressing over various infant-related issues. Part of what is getting me through this first trimester is knowing that I'm doing this for the last time. The sooner I can enjoy reproductive freedom, the better. 

(I did mention that I'm grateful for this, too, right? You all know what I mean.)

"Why are you selling the house?"

A couple of months ago, I wrote a post about revisiting major life choices, reflecting on the outcome, and wondering if I'd do it all again. I followed up a week later with the age-old question, "To live or not to live near your family?" My first entry for October talked about revamping our budget to accommodate new goals. And my last one highlighted our latest in a string of whirlwind weekends up north, with a good-natured jab at caffeine.

Put those macro-level concepts together and it's not hard to understand why we want to sell our house.

 

Luke with the kids at a nearby orchard earlier this month. All hail the beauty of a simple but meaningful day.

That is not to say that Luke and I have a carved-in-stone plan we are following or that we have any idea how this process will play out. We want to get closer to our families, but that could mean finding a place on the other side of town just as easily as it could translate into planting roots in one of their zip codes. And we are not willing to compromise the basic elements of our lives just to reduce the mileage on our cars: anyplace we live must be affordable on a one-income salary, have a solid school system (not five star, but pretty damn good), boast of parks, walking trails, and other forms of outdoor recreation, and be a managable commuting distance from my employer (whether my current one or another). We just have a new non-negotiable to add to the mix, and that is yes, reducing the mileage on our cars to spend more time with the people we love. No Impact Man would be proud.

We don't know what the future looks like, but we DO know that in order to get there, we can't stay as we are.

There are so many things to love about our current community. So much of what we are looking for is right in our backyard. I can access an entire trail system simply by hopping my fence. The integrity of the schools is without question. The town is quaint, easy to navigate, and cheap. But those things on their own are not enough to keep us here forever.

I long for the days when we could visit during a holiday and still crash in our own bed at night. I lament over missed time with friends because you can only call on so many people over the span of a weekend, and family touchpoints have always come first. I want to offer a shoulder and an ear more often in the literal sense than I'm able to now. I would love for Samantha to be able to call me on a random Saturday morning to watch Danny and Rosemary so that she and Dan can drool over tile. And Luke and I certainly wouldn't say no to the free baby-sitting likely to be offered in return.

These desires do not seem unreasonable to me.

Many people live away from their hometowns and do just fine seeing their parents at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. But Luke and I have never been those people, and it's time to start carving out a life that more honestly reflects our behavior. Our home is with each other and the kids, obviously, but as a wife, mother, and full-time employee, I appreciate the whole "It takes a village" mindset much more than I did as a single twenty-something grad student, that's for sure. And as a stay-at-home dad, Luke identifies with it on a different level even from me.

There are non-family issues at play here, too, of course. Like, our grocery stores are mostly filled with boxed, frozen, and/or imported items, with nary a Trader Joe's or Whole Foods or like-minded retailer in sight. Public transportation is limited and inefficient. Diversity is somewhat lacking, at least compared to a population like Chicago's. But I know that being a child of Chicago means I am setting the bar relatively high in that area.

Originally, the plan was to put the house on the market come spring; that plan has changed for reasons I can't share yet. But Luke and I are in agreement that, as soon as it's feasible, we will put our house on the market, and we will sell it, and we will rent an apartment near my job's new headquarters, and THEN we will be in a position to answer the questions that until now have been hypothetical at best. And I can't wait.

 

On using, not finding, the time

On Tuesday, I went running for the first time since August. Of course, it was amazing - not once have I ever regretted a run. And while I know that 12-minute miles aren't anything to write home about, it felt so good to hit the pavement again, and to readopt a posture that for a while came so naturally: arms at my sides, feet skidaddling over the ground a la Fred Flinstone and his caveman wheels. Why do I let myself fall out of sync with activities that make such a positive impact on me?

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On Wednesday, I left a "meaty" comment on a blog entry for the first time in - oh, I don't know, years? (Discussion of religion will do that to you; best of luck, Christy!) After having Kara and returning to work, I had to cut back on the timesuck somewhere, and that somewhere, unfortunately, was not only my presence on this here website but also in the comments sections of my most favorite internet people. So many of you consistently respond to my brain dumps with kind and thoughtful words, and I'm disappointed in myself for not returning the favor. I gain so much value from the blog community, personally and professionally, but in the day-to-day hustle I consistently overlook the importance of giving back. Sometimes it can be as easy as tweeting a piece of content that impressed or resonated with me. Othertimes, a little more uncomfortable, like going against the grain when my belief system isn't popular, or finding the right words to disagree.

Part of my growth as a writer and as a person in 2011, I think, will be to identify which of my causes need the most attention and how I can use my voice to raise awareness and call others to action. I don't consider myself a "safe" blogger, necessarily, but I'm not picketing on Election Day or writing letters to my senator, either, content-wise. There's got to be a happy medium.

Without morphing into a judgemental asshat, of course. 

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I'm already thinking about goals and aspirations for the New Year, and instead of hammering out the usual list of resolutions, I'm thinking of focusing on a couple phrases that cover more ground. "Escape velocity" has been a huge one for 2010 and will most likely carry over as I work on executing short-term projects falling under that umbrella; also, "moving the Titanic" (is that an insensitive reference? I sure hope not), since right now it feels like I'm aboard a massive ship that can't be steered with one quick motion, but instead requires tiny corrections and adjustments to slowly change course. My iceberg is in clear sight, and if I don't start redirecting soon, I fear I will soon be trapped into a life of what-ifs as a result of my own inaction.

But it won't be easy. "Moving my Titanic" will require maintaining my current level of responsibility (parenting, working, budgeting, wife-ing) while also making room for new endeavors that will help me change my path and generally just make me happier. For example, if I want to formally launch a part-time freelance business next year (which, newsflash! I want to launch a part-time freelance business next year!), I can't grab extra hours by cutting back on my day job; if anything, my current workload dictates ramping things up to help the company through a critical time of year. Likewise, if I want to run more or increase my blog presence or pick up crocheting again or FINALLY get some ink onto the pages of Nathan's baby book, I can't score the time by staying up any later than I already do, especially since another priority is to get better sleep. And I can't incorporate everything I want to do into every single day.

At times it's discouraging, this survival-of-the-fittest approach to time management - pitting your functions and interests against each other and balancing which ones should come out on top at a particular moment in time. But then I remember that everyone is faced with the same conundrums and challenges, all of us given the same number of hours in a day to live our lives, and it is plenty time enough to accomplish some pretty fantastic things. Myself included, even, with the right mixture of commitment and energy. The time is there. I just need to use it more effectively.

I have more thoughts and ideas to touch on (including the answer to Eva's "Why are you selling your house?" question posted to my last entry), but until then, I leave you with Nathan's latest words of wisdom:

"Dammit.... Don't say dammit."

My son, the sage.

On living honestly

This morning, Luke and I registered Kara for preschool.

Well, technically, not preschool. It's categorized as a children's ministry program, offered through a nearby church. Four hours a day, one day a week. The program isn't accredited with fancy acronyms, and the staff members don't have teaching licenses, but there will be free play and music and snack time and show-and-tell and take-home bulletins once a month. Plus, we'll have to get her a backpack and lunchbox. So for a two-year-old girl who's been hanging out at home with her dad and her baby brother almost her entire life, it's close enough.

It's plenty close for her parents, too.

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In an effort to get a better handle on our finances, Luke and I are trying something new at home. Suze Orman calls it the back-to-cash movement. I like to think of it as our new reality.

The new reality is this: Gone are the days where we put everything on the credit card and pay for it at the end of thirty days (which, near the end, wasn't working out so well, anyway). Good-bye to Excel spreadsheets that were intended to help us budget on a monthly basis rather than per-paycheck. From now on, if we want to buy something, we are going to the bank, making a withdrawal from the ATM, and paying for it in cash. There will be occasional exceptions, of course, like purchases online or the occasional Redbox rental, but ninety-five percent of the time, them's the rules.

We started on October 1. Six days in so far, and doing well.

 

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Luke and I have been talking a lot about what we want to accomplish in the short term--realistic goals we can achieve in the next six to twelve months. In the short term, we want more social networking opportunities for Kara and Nathan (not the Facebook and Twitter kind), to give them a chance to explore interests outside the confines of our living room, interacting with adults who are not us. We want to enjoy financial freedom and not have to itemize every single penny of a paycheck two months in advance in order to afford concert tickets or Christmas presents or a random date night. We want to formally close the baby chapter of our lives by New Year's and put our house on the market come spring. And I want to volunteer.

However, we're also in agreement on what we don't want. For example, we are not quite ready to enroll Nathan in any sort of program that takes him out of our care. He can have a few more months of home time with Luke and Kara, and enjoy the precious one-on-one time he's about to score with his dad, and at least blow out the candles on his second birthday cake before we re-evaluate our position. Also, we are not ready for Luke to go back to work, even if we could put another salary to good use ($1,600 worth of car repairs on the Outlander, I'm looking at you). We appreciate and depend on the benefits of being a one-income family: the extra bonding time for Luke and the kids, the flexibility of managing only one work schedule, the ability for me to concentrate on my corporate to-dos as needed instead of tossing my laptop into a bag the minute the clock turns five. We wouldn't be any worse for the wear for having those issues, but they would most definitely complicate things, and we have all the uncertainty we can handle right now, thankyouverymuch.

We've talked about me picking up some freelance work or Luke taking a part-time job with night and weekend hours to bring more money through the door, but honestly, right now we are content to just buckle down and do the best we can with what we have today. There is enough to pay the bills and buy the organic yogurt we like and travel north and even score dinner out once and a while. We are beefing up our short-term savings and still making regular deposits into our health savings account for medical expenses. We don't need a second mortgage, and we aren't defaulting on Sallie Mae. In every area that counts, we are fine. And believe me, we are thankful.

But still, we are making hard choices, like back in August when we discontinued satellite. This month, we stopped all contributions to my 401(k), an account that's been funded every two weeks rain or shine for the last five years AND saw generous matches from my employer, to make room in the budget for Kara's tutition. I am disappointed over this and understand there may be long-term ramifications come our golden years, but I do not regret it. Luke and I have been preparing for the future since before we even married. We're proud of the money we've accrued for retirement already. But right now, it is time to plan for now.

 

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In a conversation with Molly earlier this fall, she used the phrase "living honestly," and it has stuck with me ever since. Because that's what it feels like we're doing now: living a life that reflects our priorities and our resources, and sorting out the white noise that only gets in the way. For the first time in a long time, we're putting our money where our mouth is. What's that worth to you? I ask about almost everything now, from wedding RSVPs to a bag of Gummi Bears to preschool. What are you willing to sacrifice to make this happen?

Our short term is paving the way for the long term, a reality in which we are mortgage-free and in a position to entertain housing options that bring us closer to our loved ones, who I am missing more than ever these days. A reality that has both of us in careers that we love and best align with our strengths and passions. A reality that includes another child, obtained in a non-traditional way. It will take baby steps, but we will get there. I know it in my bones.

 

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As Kara and Nathan grow older, I become more aware of all the ways we can screw them up. I know, I know, they're only babies, all they need is love, blah blah blah, but even at this young age, we are setting the bar for how they will realize their potential. Take Kara's "school," for example. She'll be three in December, and is intellectually capable, I think, of handling a (slightly) more rigorous curriculum than the one we are placing her in; kids younger than her do this all the time in daycare, yes? But that benefit of school is not important to Luke and me right now, and as a result, her experience will be missing that formalized educational component. We'll revisit our feelings next year, obviously, but for now that's where we stand. 

We are also setting the bar for ourselves, I suppose, in regards to what Kara and Nathan can expect from us as parents. We did what we felt was necessary to get Kara into school, but we didn't even consider placing her more than one day a week (baby steps, remember?) or research more expensive options like the Goddard School or Montessori. We already know that retirement savings will always trump a 529. Many parents have different opinions on this, and that's okay. But as much as Luke and I want to give the kids the very best of ourselves, we are going to make ourselves a priority, too, and not apologize for that to anyone.

 

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I have come to learn that as a mother, I enjoy the toddler years far more than the infant ones. Kara's humor and sass are shining through these days, the product of two wise-cracking parents, to be sure, and builds upon both by relying on her razor-sharp memory. One day while we were eating dinner, she thought it a good idea to let milk dribble out of her mouth. She laughed as the milk traveled down her chin, and I hid a smile as I said, "Kara Leigh, please don't do that, that's not funny," and she replied, "Well, maybe a little funny," a phrase Luke uttered in passing the day before. (Thank you, dear.)

Meanwhile, Nathan speaks in full sentences and punctuates the majority of them with a question mark. "What's that noise, Mommy?  Want to build Mrs. Potato? Where's the moon, Mommy? Is that a oak leaf, Mommy? Want to read Turtle, Turtle, Watch Out? Should Momma hooold you?" And so on with the inquisitiveness. He is so curious, so observant, so willing to sit back and watch the action unfold. That is, when he's not bouncing off the couch, roaring like Michael Jackson circa "Scream," or body slamming his torso into the nearest gate.

They both have insatiable appetites for reading, which has been further enhanced by the recent discovery of our local library. At first I was worried they wouldn't get the concept of borrowing books, afraid they would pout and fuss when it came time to return them, but they totally get it, and now live for the next chance to play with the trains and scramble through the catepillar tunnel featured in the kids' room.

Our new reality is that our toddlers are becoming full-blown children. And man, do we just want to do right by them, and ourselves, too.

 

And things we're all too young to know

My oldest friend Gina, whom I've known since kindergarten, got married on Saturday. I was a member of the wedding party, and as I watched her walk down the aisle with her dad, tears sprang into my eyes, because she looked so beautiful in her dress, and her father so proud to have her on his arm. And when she met her husband-to-be at the altar, the soft way he looked at her made me cry some more. They've been together about ten years, but I truly believe that a couple's wedding day is the beginning of a whole new life. I am so excited for them to begin this journey.

Of course I got to thinking about my own marriage, which turns five years old in May.

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In the year following our wedding, I listened to a handful of husbands and wives in Blogland talk about how difficult marriage can be, and it's not that I didn't believe them, but...I didn't believe them. At least, it didn't seem applicable to us. Luke and I dated for five years before we tied the knot and lived together months before, and in those years and months we experienced a lot of drama over a Mary Poppins carpetbag full of issues: relating to each other physically and emotionally, establishing our relationship as an independent unit, setting priorities for the future. We trudged through painful conversations about sex and child-rearing and religion. We (eventually) learned to celebrate the best and accept the worst in ourselves and each other, and to aim to improve where we could. And once we (finally) got engaged, we embraced the sentiment of marriage with our whole hearts, banishing the word "divorce" from our vocabulary. "Always remember what brought you here," our pastor told us over burgers and fries at Joe's Crab Shack, two months before the wedding, and we promised to do just that.

In my opinion, the most difficult part was the getting there. Now that we weren't laboring over our intentions as a couple, now that we knew the general shape of our life path, there would be no stopping us.

It was with this unwavering mindset that we said "I do."

 

On our wedding day, May 12, 2006. How lovely we were, and utterly clueless, too.

Today, our marriage is almost equal the length of our courtship, but the highs and lows on our marital grid have delivered much stronger punches. We began with two full-time jobs, one sweet freelance gig, and only a teeny one-bedroom apartment to maintain, with no debt save for my college loans, and flexibility up the wazoo. We were making plans to move back to Chicago, travel across the world, add to our family, and phase me out of the workforce to fulfill my dream of being a stay-at-home mom.

It's easy to be idealistic when you have money in the bank and there is nobody to tend to but yourselves. It's easy to move into the future when everything is going according to plan.

By our first anniversary, I was pregnant with Kara, and we quickly learned that our neat and tidy life map simply wasn't sustainable. Luke didn't bring in enough money at his non-profit for me to stay home, but my job could support all three of us, so the day after his thirty-fourth birthday he bid farewell to office life and I prepared to wear the clothes of a working mother. I went through a lot of ugly feelings then: sadness over anticipated time lost with my daughter and any future children we would have, resentment over taking on a role I didn't want, fear of the unknown, and just plain anger because goddammit, I did not sign up for this.

Then, not six months after my c-section, I was pregnant with Nathan. Oh my goodness, what a blessing, and whoa, motherfucker, what have we gotten ourselves into.

So we whittled away the remainder of our nest egg preparing for our second life detour. Purchased a house to make room for another baby, investing in a down payment and closing fees and new carpet and paint. Bought a second set of nursery furniture, a different type of breast pump, more baby clothes. Accepted federal stimulus money we will have to repay in half-grand increments over the next fifteen years to afford a 2003 Outlander plagued with nail polish stains and a questionable smell that lingers almost two years after the sale. To offset the loss of all that cash, we pieced together a maternity leave comprising paid FMLA time from my company and ten vacation days, eight weeks total, even though I'd be recovering from another c-section, even though I'd be tangled up with an infant and a toddler. We anticipated the hospital bill that was sure to come from having an HSA baby at the start of the year instead of the end and were not disappointed.

Then Nathan was born, and we were over-the-moon happy to welcome him into our lives, and yet almost as frustrated, learning to deal with a newborn that was so drastically different from our first: he spit up all the time, cried for hours a day, and was overall hard to console until he was old enough to crawl. My stomach collapsed into itself from all the baby-making and lack of exercise, and it totally sucked the joy out of getting dressed for almost a year, which of course had an effect on my self-esteem, which doesn't exactly help you put your best foot forward in your most intimate relationship. We couldn't figure out an after-work routine that got the kids fed, bathed, and story-timed AND our kitchen cleaned before 10 p.m. until embarrassingly recently. Sometimes I still can't manage to put in a full day at work and still make it home for dinner.

A lot's happened in the last five years that's called us to re-examine our life plans and reshape our priorities. We are still trudging through painful conversations.

But we are making it.

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As husband and wife, Luke and I wear many hats. Sometimes it takes all of our energy to be parents and housekeepers and worker bees, and sometimes they are so in sync that we find 30 minutes in the day to spend as lovers. We don't have "Date Night" enough. Sometimes conversation is like a song and sometimes it just takes one misplaced sigh to throw the entire day off-track. Sometimes we huddle close in bed and sometimes our backs are turned. We apologize a lot, almost as often as we say "I love you." There are times when the cheap shot wins out over being the bigger person. We don't always make the effort to understand.

We have born witness to the most physically humbling moments of our lives. From his end, Luke has seen the slicing of my abdomen, the production of milk from my breasts, and postpartum blood in my underwear. There were entire months when my fingers resembled sausages, my legs tree trunks, my face a balloon. He's privy to birth marks and blackheads and cellulite and more loose skin than even Buffalo Bill would know what to do with. It's a miracle he found me attractive enough to conceive two children.

Money has played a bigger force in our marriage than I ever thought possible. We started out practically debt free, and now there are times when we're robbing Peter to pay Paul. To pull or not to pull out of my 401(k)? Do we have enough life insurance? How can we increase our income in a way that keeps our family arrangement and sanity intact? Will it always feel like we're catching up? When can we finally start getting ahead? And the kicker is that in this economy, we're actually doing well.

Sometimes it's hard to live up to our promises from 2006 and remember what brought us here. It is an active choice to be made every day. Many times we make the wrong choice.

But we are making it. Despite the hard times, somehow, we thrive.

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On the series finale of Scrubs (the Zach Braff finale, not the clunky Med School spin-off), they play a song near the end called, "The Book of Love." The Scrubs version is sung by Peter Gabriel, but at the time we downloaded it the only available file was the original, by The Magnetic Fields. Anyway, it's been years since I posted lyrics in an entry - so cheesy - but I can't help myself this time, because the words so simply capture the monotony of love, as well as the joy.

The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts and figures
And instructions for dancing but

I...
I love it when you read to me and
You...
You can read me anything

The book of love has music in it
In fact that's where music comes from
Some of it is just transcendental
Some of it is just really dumb but

I...
I love it when you sing to me and
You...
You can sing me anything

The book of love is long and boring
And written very long ago
It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes
And things we're all too young to know but

I...
I love it when you give me things and
You...
You ought to give me wedding rings
I...
I love it when you give me things and
You...
You ought to give me wedding rings

 

 

In which I (eventually) compare myself to Keanu Reeves

I'm not sure of the exact moment I started feeling better, but I'm pretty sure it was sometime after Luke's and my latest round of Scrabble, the beginning of which is captured below.

 

First person to use these words in a sentence wins the award for "Dirtiest Internet Mind." God help us all.

Anyway, I do feel better. My recent blog entries proved to be the content of some pretty interesting conversations between Luke and me, and for the first time in ages, I feel like we are moving forward in a specific way towards our future, as opposed to floundering like fish. For us, "moving forward" means:

• Being open to more children but closing the chapter on growing more babies in my uterus (on purpose, at least).
• Exploring opportunities to move closer to family but not ruling out a permanent stay in central Indiana.
• Investigating new career possibilities. 
• Remaining in this house until we know for sure where our next career paths will take us.

On the surface it reads like nothing's changed on a tactical level, and that may be true, but on a big-picture scale, this is huge. For so long it felt like I personally was operating from a black-and-white standpoint, where option A was all that and a bag of chips and option B was crippling devastation. Like, having another baby was the best (seemingly only, at the time) way to spice up our family dynamic, while settling down as a party of four without an option for more biological children would be like completing a jigsaw puzzle save for the most important piece. Moving back home would meet all of our needs for friendship and connectedness, and residing here would damn us to a life of isolation and misery. I felt pulled in conflicting directions and limited in my capacity to be the best version of myself, and it was affecting all the areas of my life.

Luckily, I have a very understanding husband who is willing to talk me through these middle-class, post-thirty sorts of crises. I also clocked a lot of driving time last weekend to attend a wedding shower up north, which gave me some time to reflect and ponder and dream. In the end, I was able to see more clearly that the grass on my side of the fence is growing just fine, thank you very much, albeit a little dry and brittle. But so what. I have a sprinkler. I can replenish my lawn.

(Your mom replenishes her lawn!)

(I'm back, baby!)

 

Kara's first night in her big girl bed this past Saturday. Two sets of smiles, only one crier.

Because I am still in a pensive mood and this is my blog so you have to listen to every word I say, let's elaborate. Take the issue of more children, which I not so subtly hinted at in my last entry. To three or not to three has been on my mind since we brought Nathan home from the hospital. Before then, Luke and I were both open to three. Afterwards, we weren't, at least for the first few months. And then, suddenly, I was. But Luke wasn't. Even after endless pestering and hypothesizing from me. (I know!) Eleven months ago, he STILL wasn't. And today: still, no.

And oh, did I fight this idea. I kept telling myself it was just a matter of time, that he needed to be away from the newborn stage long enough to miss it, that one day he would stand in the doorway with arms crossed and a tear in his eye as he observed the products of our love delight in each other's company, and he would bring me in for a hug and whisper, "Hell, what's one more, right?" And we would run upstairs right then and there to do the deed, giggling the whole time, and when we were done he'd lay his head on my stomach in anticipation of the life we had just created. Because that's probably what happened on an episode of Family Ties. Or maybe Growing Pains. That show was always the racier of the two.

But surprise! Life is not a 30-minute sitcom. Luke is not up for having another baby. The man's 36. I need to let him be done.

Plus, it's not even like he's saying no to more children. He's still interested in foster parenting and adoption for an out-of-diapers demographic as previously discussed, and pinky-swears he's not just saying this to appease me in the short term. But still, I wasn't ready to let go of baybee number three.

And as hard as it might be to believe, I did try. I told everyone, when asked, that we were finished with babies and Luke was going to get snipped and 13 months is an awfully close age gap and really it's better this way. But I never fully believed it.

And because he knows me so well, Luke didn't, either. So when I told him two Fridays ago that I wanted another baby, I could just have easily stated that the sky is blue. His reaction would have been the same.

"Okay."

"I'm not trying to change your mind," I said, and I meant it. "I just need to be honest about my feelings."

"Okay."

And yesterday, when I told him to start making calls for the snip, he said "okay" to that, too.

You guys. This is such a messy topic, how many kids to have, and not black-and-white at all. I think I was looking for the perfect answer that gives me complete peace. And I am finally trying to accept that such an answer does not exist for me. Would I welcome another baby? Yes. Would I be a loving mother to that baby? Yes. Would three babies/toddlers be an absolute blast? Yes. It would be wonderful.

 

Nathan, 18 months, 26.2 pounds, height already forgotten. Who wouldn't be up for another child when they come out this good-looking?

The stress would probably also kill me.

Not the run-of-the-mill "adding another person to the family" stress, but my specific circumstances. Being a working mom, for one, and coping with being separated from yet another infant for (at least) forty hours a week, while mourning the life of a stay-at-home mom and all the perks that go wth it, again. Being a person who is not instinctively patient, who benefits from regular doses of "me" time, who is doing her best to break unhealthy cycles decades in the making. None of these things would have kept me from having another baby, but it certainly would have made the experience ten times more frustrating. And in the process of accepting Luke's feelings, I need to acknowledge that in a lot of ways, this works out pretty well for me, too.

Same thing with where to live, and wanting an easy answer. Again last weekend, again for the zillionth time, I proposed the idea to Luke of moving closer to our families, and for the first time we actually had a productive dialogue about it, outlining what would need to be in place in order to make it happen. Later, on my own, I began to consider, maybe also for the first time, what we might lose if we stayed.

Another tough set of questions here. When it comes to family, how far is too far? Do I have it in me to forgo a "Wednesday night dinner" type of relationship with my parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, and friends during such formative years? Can I be just as useful and influential in their lives? On the flip side, how close is too close? Can I handle taking on a larger role of responsibility for issues I currently witness from the sidelines? Will I regret it if I don't?

Again, no black and white here. There is dark and light to everything. But at least I have the opportunity to ask the questions, make a choice, and follow it through. Not everyone is so lucky.

This new heightened sense of awareness has me feeling a little like Neo in The Matrix when he finally realizes the magnitude of his power and stops bullets with the simple raise of his hand. That's where I am now: paralyzing obstacles, discovering my potential. It's a good place to be.

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And now, photos.

 

I know the quality is poor, but I adore this shot of Kara and me at my company's "Bring Your Family to Work Day" a couple Fridays ago. People constantly call her my Mini-Me, and I just eat it up.

 

I'm also loving this one of me and my boy, with my jack-o-lantern grin and his piercing, dark-eyed stare. And the pout, of course, to die for.

 

We are making it, friends. I am making it. Thanks for hanging in there.
 

Go your own way

Well. That certainly was a lot of emotional vomit I spewed onto your monitors last week, wasn't it? Sorry about that. But if it helps any, it sure made me feel a whole lot lighter.

The biggest reassurance throughout this recent Self-Discovery 2.0 is that as I evaluate each major life choice, I'm still pretty sure that I/we made the right one.

The biggest was my decision five years ago to accept a new job opportunity in Indianapolis, a decision that placed two hundred and forty minutes and almost three hundred miles worth of distance between me, my parents, my siblings, and all of my closest friends. And in the five years that I've lived here, I have missed a lot. Ryan's wedding shower before her husband's move to Germany. The birth of my first nephew. Being within arm's reach for countless family crises, and unavailable for any function falling on a Sunday afternoon. It is something I have wrestled with on an almost daily basis. And while I know that many people are separated by even more hours and even more miles and make it work splendidly, it has never been a comfortable separation for me. I still think about the job offer that could have been and how things might have been different if only I had chosen a zip code closer to home.

But I am still glad to be here. Thanks to THIS zip code, Luke and I have carved out our own path together and learned to make it on our own, and we have two beautiful babies, and a stay-at-home parent, and a secure job with a thriving company, and a ridiculously affordable cost of living, all at a quieter pace and in the type of community-like atmosphere that is harder to find in the area where I grew up. That is not to say that we will always stay here or that we aren't considering life outside these walls, but I am grateful to have started out here, and we are in a better position to know what we want out of life as a result of having made this choice.

Our second most important decision, in my opinion, was to buy our house. This twelve-year-old house that seemed bright and perky enough when we signed on the dotted line but has revealed more wear and tear than we anticipated. Once again, it inspires the same cycle of questions, Luke and I wondering if we should have coughed up the extra forty dollars a month to go with one of the houses that didn't require brand new carpet from top to bottom or a new sliding glass door or brand new windows or a drastic revamp of the back yard or the eventual purchase of a brand new A/C unit. We are now an extra forty minutes and twenty-five miles away from our families, and in the spring I will have a forty-five-minute commute to work, and I never liked the exterior to begin with, and we detest the lack of cabinet space (and yes, still, the cabinets themselves). It's hard not to walk into other people's homes and ooh and aah over the features they have that we so desperately want for ourselves--bigger eating area, more storage, classier entranceway, sturdier bathroom elements. All of that in addition to more accessible options for organic produce, and less motherf*&!ing construction.

Round and round we would go while studying our financial situation to determine how much of a hit would we take on this investment if we were to put it up for sale tomorrow, how long we'd have to stay here before the money we've poured into this place (so far) isn't flushed down the toilet, the amount of money needed to fit it to our liking, the debt we're willing to accrue in the name of buying our dream home. This is where the green-eyed monster tempts me most, because of its intimate nature. This is where I eat my breakfast and pay our bills and tuck our children into bed, and it's hard to fall in love with your home when all you can see are its flaws.

But despite those flaws, I reluctantly still believe we ended up with the best house available at the time. For one thing, the mortgage can't be beat. In the almost two years we have been here, we've paid less to the bank than we ever did to our apartment complex, with double the square footage and one hundred percent autonomy to boot. Unfortunately, we just learned that our escrow payments are going up by $116 next month, but tightening the purse strings even makes that doable, which wouldn't have been the case if our inital payment were higher. Plus, aside from our kitchen grumbles, the space meets all of our needs. Adequate number of bedrooms and baths, separate loft for the computer, open first floor to accommodate boxes of toys and the constant patter of little feet. Again, it's not like we'll plan our funerals here, but we have what we need, and we know now what we want for the future.

-------

On Friday I saw my ob/gyn for the obligatory annual check-up, and one of the topics that came up was my family history with cancer--two maternal aunts, one of whom has already passed away from brain cancer (she also had breast cancer) and another who's battling breast cancer in the late stages. We talked about options for genetic testing and ways to reduce risk in the event that were deemed necessary. It's a scary talk to have, that's for sure, and heart-wrenching to think about losing precious years with your husband and children and everyone else who loves you. I spent a lot of time over the weekend thinking about this and how important it is to be honest with yourself about what you want out of life. Like, maybe I want another baby, so what if my patience is already stretched thin with two kids and the mere thought of washing baby bottles again makes me want to hurl. Even if that path never come to fruition (Luke has definitely not changed his mind here), simply giving myself permission to say it without attempting to justify it is so freeing, like the equivalent of a huge weight being lifted off my shoulders. There are tons more examples like this, goals without a strategic plan or pros and cons list, and I'm so excited to see where they end up, and how I will make the right ones a reality, and which ones will be left to God. At least I am open to the possibilities.

Escape velocity

Bright and early Monday morning, camped out in a harshly lit conference room, parked in front of my laptop, nursing a badly needed cup of Joe, waiting to press check a marketing piece literally months in the making, I stumbled across this video rallying viewers to reject the horror that is the average metropolitan commute. My own employer will acquire a new headquarters on the other side of town this spring, which will add an extra twenty minutes to an already tedious drive. It will only be my second facilities transfer since starting with the company five years ago, but I've definitely played musical chairs when it comes to office space. There will be moving of photographs, file folders, Post-It notes, again, for the zillionth time.

I sat up straighter in my chair.

Then I got to the post about "escape velocity", at which point a hand reached into my brain, fumbled for the proverbial light switch, and rattled the walls with a deafening slam on its way out the door, tripping over a big fat DUH in the process.

I mean, SERIOUSLY, people. While I may not have been aware of that phrase as defined by the blog writer or even the science community at large at the time of my last post, that's exactly what I was talking about, right? "Leaving a situation that isn't healthy or desired"? In that case, the situation was my health. But it applies to a lot of other aspects of my life, too.

I don't know what it is these days, but I am feeling uninspired, trapped in my day-to-day struggles with work, money, weight, home ownership, and a big-picture path for the rest of my life. I know where I want to be but it seems impossible to get there, or to even find the right words stating why I think that place is the best place for my family. I am too occupied with trivial concerns like All My Children and a trendier work wardrobe and affording new windows for the second floor of our house. I find it easy to become envious of others, forgetting the hard work it took for them to find their own paths, only seeing the end result of their efforts. I focus too much on what I want instead of what I am lucky enough to have. Most of all, I forget that I am in control of my own destiny, and that every single obstacle I face can be overcome.

You can understand, then, why blogging has been sporadic, yes?

It is time to start knocking down those obstacles and gain some fucking perspective.

The biggest obstacle is money. Surprise! What isn't a surprise is that Luke and I took a hit financially when I lost my Parents gig last summer, a hit we are still recovering from. Losing almost a thousand dollars a month, who wouldn't? You would think we could have made the appropriate adjustments before now, but no, we spent like even a fraction of that money was still there, and bonuses made up for it most of the time, but they are not the answer to our problems anymore. Just like my personal experience with exercise, so many of the right puzzle pieces are in place: affordable mortgage for a one-income family; owning our cars outright; saving for retirement and medical expenses accordingly. We just have to take a few extra steps to make sure we are living as honestly as possible. Some of those, thankfully, are small, like reducing our cell phone plan or buying generic contact solution, and others are embarrassingly more difficult to execute, like discontinuing satellite service and possibly adopting a "kids-only" gift policy for Christmas. These choices are not essential to the betterment of our lives by any means, but when you're in the habit of maintaining them, it's frighteningly easy to think otherwise, and equally as hard to tell yourself to let them go, that saving face cannot be a reason to avoid change anymore.

There are happy steps, too, like exploring new volunteer opportunities, discussing our own possible relocation at some point in the future, and maybe even a career change or two. Thanks to Facebook, I just learned that Trophy Frema's ex-boyfriend is in talks with an editor to publish a memoir collection based on articles he's added to his "Notes" section. After raising a fist to the ceiling and wailing "Why not MEEEEEEE?" for an entire night, I realized it's time to answer some important questions about the place that writing has in my life and the role I want it to play in the future. "HE's going to publish a book? Hell, I could be just like Carrie from Sex and the City and put together my own freaking collection of blog entries and do the same damn thing," I fumed to my poor wide-eyed husband, who could only sit back and watch me regurgitate thought tracks and questions about overall talent, ability, and persistence. "Well, why don't you?" he finally asked, and I thought, hmmm, well, why don't I, and the truth is, I don't know. I wanted that at some point for myself. I don't know that I do now. I certainly don't want to be a marketer for the rest of my life.

This is definitely worth finding out.

I am so excited for Luke and I to take the bull by the horns and begin spending our time and money in ways that are more meaningful for our family, to shed what is unimportant and demonstrate to our kids that anything is possible if you're willing to work for it. Even if it means bidding a sad farewell to "Toot and Puddle"* and SIRIUS radio. Good-bye, Coffee House. May we one day meet again.

* Thank goodness for the books.

Or bust

I am no longer training for the Chicago Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon.

Despite the month-long inner turmoil I have been experiencing over this issue, in the end it was a pretty easy decision. My outside runs in the heat have been brutal, and finding motivation to hit the gym before work has been difficult; therefore, I can count on one finger hand the number of times I've hit my target mileage since starting in May. Not good when you're just aiming to FINISH a half, let alone improve your time.

Plus, the guilt I've experienced over missing these goals is drastically affecting my overall activity--as if strength training is only a reward to be earned through tempo runs and intervals. It's like I needed to abandon this race before granting myself permission to incorporate other types of exercise into my life.

Do me a favor and smack me in the face (live or via e-mail) if I ever contemplate running 13.1 miles in the summer again.

-------

It seems like I am constantly locked in battle with my best possible self, fitness-wise, trying to strike a healthy balance between how I want to look and what is realistically achievable. Pursuing aggressive goals without setting myself up for failure. Celebrating my progress without comparing it to others. I know it isn't just me, that lots of people have trouble maintaining their goal weight and a healthy body type, but come on now. I am 30 years old, not some in-the-dark teeny bopper who thinks she can eat a cheeseburger a day and not have it metabolize in her ass. I know that my physical AND mental health benefit when I take better care of myself. And yet, I am constantly surrendering to the same poor impulses, forever digging myself into the same proverbial hole.

And the older I get, the harder the battle. When losing weight in my early twenties, I was able to drop 17 pounds by just following Weight Watchers. There were a couple times where I pulled out my Richard Simmons videos, and Luke and I did the occasional hike on the weekends, but exercise wasn't a regular part of my day. Then I had kids, and everything changed. Even after hitting my pre-pregnancy weight last fall after months of careful eating, dedicated Shred workouts, and a semi-regular running schedule, my body was still different. The by-products of my crappy twenty-something choices were still there, only multipled (damn you, tire gut). Drastic changes to flaws I've been complaining about since high school will involve a higher level of dedication than, say, shredding a few times a week. Semi-related to this is the fact that I want to graduate beyond the point where I'm convincing myself to slip on my running shoes or pop in the Shred - rookie motivation problems that should no longer be an issue at this point in my life (HELLO YOU ARE A GROWN-UP JUST GET OFF YOUR ASS AND MOVE ALREADY). I'm tired of using excercise as a means to a tactical end - a way to drop weight, a method for improving balance or gaining strength. It's necessary right now since my body isn't as fit or capable as it could be, but one day I want to do these things just because I enjoy them. How funny that Linda just published a post on this very concept. Her "now" is my goal.

On the bright side, at least reaching that goal feels possible. Next month will mark my first running anniversary - the longest I've maintained any athletic endeavor - and I am so insanely proud of this words can't even express it. Despite a lack of speed, consistency, and flexibility, I can call myself a runner. If I can do that, I can do anything.

-------

I've been pecking away at this post on and off for more than a week now, and frankly the original point is lost on me. It's not about dropping out of Chicago or chasing down the body I had at 23. It's just that I feel like I'm thisclose to nipping this thing in the bud, this one-step-forward, two-steps-back mentality that zaps my enthusiasm for wellness and short changes my total potential. It doesn't help that my world feels so small lately, so self-absorbed with short-term goals and material objectives (buy a toddler bed replace our kitchen table fix the floor boards the fridge is on its last leg ahhh), and now that Kara and Nathan are older and our family more grounded, it's becoming more important to me to leave a bigger mark on the world, to contribute in a way that lightens somebody's load and benefits society as a whole. There are certainly more important issues to focus on than the size of my waistline. Believe me, I know this. But right now, that has to be a priority, too.

Part of accomplishing this, I think, is working with my reality and not against it. For example:

The earliest I can get out of bed to exercise is a quarter to six. Not 5:15, not 5:32, not 5:40. Blame it on laziness, insanely late bedtimes, the rain, whatever. Either way, I need to acknowledge this truth and plan accordingly (i.e. no five-mile runs before dawn).

Commuting to the gym does not work long term. Sure, I managed to stay on task during most of my training for the Mini, diligently rolling out of bed half-awake two to four times a week to make the twenty-minute drive, but when motivation is at an all-time low, even the thought of packing a locker room bag is reason enough to scrap a workout completely. Plus, I hate starting my days without seeing Luke or the kids, and when I go to the gym, that's exactly what happens.

Luckily, there is a solution, in the form of a YMCA-like facility within walking distance of my house that has a decent enough fitness center, evening classes that mesh perfectly with bedtime, and reasonable membership rates to boot. Luke and I never explored this option before because he wasn't interested in hitting the machines, so it was easy enough for me to just go with my employer's "in-network" option, which is actually the higher quality gym, and suck up the drive. Now that Luke's been running again, he's more open to strength training and cross, so now it makes sense to go with something that accommodates our entire family. And no driving for me + free childcare for Luke = win-win all around. We'll sign up first thing next month, and I can't wait.

Working out after bedtime is the exception, not the rule, and never to be counted on, no matter how appealing it seems at the time. The longer I have to postpone a workout, the less likely it is to happen. (Running dates with friends aside, of course.)

Willpower is good, but abstinence is better. It's much harder to avoid eating the ice cream in your freezer than it is to refrain from buying it at all.

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Okay, seriously, enough navel-gazing already. To make up for the lack of cohesion in this post, here are shots of my kids from two weeks ago, at a park you've never heard of, where we hung out with people you don't know. Enjoy.

Bird-watching at the park's nature center.

Momma: "Kara, can you see anything?"

Kara (Enthusiastically): "No!"

 

Father and son on the move.

 

Stair-climbing to a lookout point.

 

Girl power at its finest, with friends from our Rensselaer days.

 

It all really boils down to this, doesn't it?

Mom in training

Here at work, March 1 kicks off a month-long spotlight on the annual performance review. Instead of being evaluated around the anniversary of your hire date, The Powers That Be decided to make it more efficient by subscribing to a more collective approach, setting company-wide deadlines for completing your self-evaluation and meeting with your manager to discuss what you're doing well, where you'd like to improve, and how the company can help. Last Monday was the cut-off for turning in self-evaluations, and it got me thinking: if there were performance appraisals for parents, what would they look like? Who determines if we're doing a good job? How do we know if we're getting better?

Before I had kids, I had pretty specific (if not slightly traditional) ideas of what it meant to be a good mother. I would stay home with my babies, for one, and spend oodles of time with them every day. I would learn to cook and bake so I could fill their tummies with mouth-watering, nutritious, interesting foods. We would visit the park and check books from the library and go swimming and biking just like the Von Trapps and hang out with friends and family and "talk out" our problems and always, always have naptime.

By those standards, Donald Trump would have kicked me out of the mommy board room at the end of my first maternity leave.

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The most glaring disconnect between the mother I thought I would be and the mother I am is the working. For better or worse, I am and probably always will be the primary breadwinner for my family. Full time, outside the home, Monday through Friday, with occasional travel and evening conference calls and the need to be accessible 24/7. I can count on one hand how many hours I spend with Kara and Nathan on a typical work day; usually I'm home long enough to eat dinner and rough around for an hour before we jump into Nathan's bedtime routine, followed by Kara's, followed by Nathan's sporadic cries and Kara's pleas of "Mommy and Daddy sit with you?" followed by oh, yeah, my husband, there you are, hello, now who gets to wash the dishes? Though really, since Luke cooks, it should always be me washing the dishes. It takes all my reserves just to complete fundamental tasks to get through the day; forget luxuries like updating a baby book or posting to my blog (a fact that doesn't escape my readers, for sure).

My most upsetting fail as a parent, though, is my struggle to stay patient in times of stress: Kara's random tantrums when asked to pick up her toys or brush her teeth; Nathan's restlessness in the middle of the night when bouts of cradling, rocking, and sitting beside his crib all fall short in their attempts to comfort. To me, THOSE are the instances where you demonstrate true growth in parenting, putting your "training" to good use and pushing beyond your natural instincts to achieve new results. I know hissing at Nathan to "just be quiet!" won't help him fall back to sleep; I know threatening to skip stories at bedtime won't encourage Kara to clean her pearly whites. Yet so often I'm the hamster on the wheel, repeating old behaviors, hissing and threatening in the hopes that this time it will resonate, but it never does. Instead, they get upset, and then I get upset, and then I feel guilty because shouldn't I know better by now? Is this really the example I want to be setting for them, that these are the only tools at my disposal?

But then Kara will shout "Oh, Mommy! There she is!" and clamour for a piggy-back ride, and Nathan will clench his arms around my neck before plopping into my lap for a story, and I feel so damn good about my relationship with them and how connected we are, and I vow to hold fast to the "quality versus quantity" mindset and stop measuring myself against other women. Even wonderful women whom I love and admire. When it comes to mothering, somebody will always outperform me in one way or another, but I have my own strengths, and my kids seem to like me just fine.

(For now.)

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When it comes to assessing future growth opportunities, I think that for as long as there are children under my roof, I will have to constantly re-grant myself permission to be anything more than "just" a mother--to also invest in my marriage, extended family, community, friends; my faith, work, education, health. How to get it all done? You can't. At least, I can't. So I'm trying to focus my attention on two or three tactical objectives for any given day and appropriately prioritizing the rest, all the while knowing that if my kids don't rank first from that perspective (their safety and well-being is always top priority on a grand scale), they sure as hell are going to come second. I stole the basic idea from our chief operating officer, who says he spends his hour-long commute to the office reviewing what's on his plate and determining where his presence will make the biggest impact. "Some days that means all eyes on human capital and not touching sales and marketing. It's all about making the best use of my time for the people that need me most for that moment in time."

As a mother and not a c-level executive, this translates into leaving my laptop at work to make a deposit in the "mommy bank" even if there's an end-of-quarter presentation looming over my head. Other times it's dragging my ass out of bed and working on my fitness when I want to cuddle with Luke instead. On the days I travel, my primary goal is to make the trip worthwhile for my company, and my roles as wife, mother, and fledgling athlete fall into place where they can. And so it goes, trading long runs for blog time, bedtime for work time, bedtime for date night, and understanding I will never do them all in the same 24-hour period. Some dreams will collect dust for years, dreams like earning a second master's degree or changing career paths or running my first marathon. I am slowly learning that the key to preserving my sanity is treading water when I know I could swim, being just good enough when I'd rather be great.

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When I was a junior in college, on the day a term paper was due, students were commiserating with each other over the hellish writing experience when somebody warned the professor to expect flaws in her draft, explaining her difficulty in managing coursework with on-going family issues and a part-time job to boot. She wasn't making excuses, exactly, more just disappointed for not meeting her own expectations. "If only I'd had one more night," she said wistfully. "Just one more night and I could have really given it my all."

My professor just shook her head.

"You can't look at it that way," she said. "We faculty don't expect our students to live in a bubble. We know you have other responsibilities and that school can't always be your focus. All we ask is that you do your best in your current set of circumstances. If that turns out to be A-level, great. But if not? That's okay, too. Just do what you can with whatever you've got, and show us that you're trying."

Hopefully our children will be at least that understanding when grading our performances as parents--if not now, then at least when they're grown and in the same boat. And if merit increases are involved, may they all be prorated.

Scrambled, grounded

This past Saturday I thought it would be a neat idea to run through five miles' worth of trails, ravines, and puddles in the woods.

On second thought, "run" probably isn't the best verb to describe my experience. When I first signed up to do the Outback Scramble at Eagle Creek Park back in October, I pictured jogging on an easy to moderately difficult trail while admiring the splendid reds and oranges of the changing leaves, smiling at chipmunks as they crossed my path, and bobbing along to Miley Cyrus on my iPod as I slowly but steadily made my way to the finish line. I ran two to three times a week after work and eventually hit four miles in preparation for the event to up my chances of completing the course, if not score an impressive finish. My company paid the registration fees for employees and a plus one for each of us, so I invited Katy of Must Be Motherhood--my Mini-Marathon training partner in crime (MMTPIC?)--to be my guest, and since Katy is a more seasoned runner than I am, I assumed the Scramble would be a fun way to gauge how we gelled together, pace-wise. Sure, the ads warned we'd get wet and dirty, but duh, we were running in the woods; I could handle some raw Mother Nature. I threw on my crappy maternity lounge pants, stashed a couple of towels in the car, and figured I was good to go. Having one 5K under my belt helped to soothe my fears about performance so much that my sole focus was making sure I arrived on-site in enough time to pick up my tee-shirt.

It wasn't until I found the entrance and spotted a sign that read "Are you sure you want to do this?!" that I started questioning my ability to, well, do this.

By the time I parked my car, encountering a helpful "Last chance to turn around!" sign just before pulling into a space on the grass, you could say I was a bit nervous.

I found Katy a couple of minutes later. We didn't know what we were in for but were optimistic nonetheless.

The calm before the storm.

Even talking with several experienced Scramblers and learning we'd made a crucial mistake in neglecting to bring gloves wasn't enough to faze us. "We can finish this in an hour, right?" I said to Katy as we took our place within the crowd. "Five miles at ten minutes a mile should have us done in about an hour."

"I hope so," she said.

You're smart people. I think you know where this is going.

Roughly an hour and twenty-five minutes later, we crossed the finish line--mud caked into the cracks of our hands, gym shoes soaked to the bone (at least mine were), and aches in muscles I didn't even know I had. Meanwhile, the awards ceremony was more than halfway through; I later learned that another member of my department finished the race in 45 minutes, arguably leaving us with a tiny window for improvement next year. Teeny-tiny. Positively miniscule, or whatever.

As you have no doubt already guessed, this was more than just a casual jaunt through the woods. In total, I would guess we only ran about a mile of the entire course; the rest of the time we were parting through trees, sliding down ravines, hiking up the opposite side, and generally praying to God for that branch not to break from the stress of our body weight or our toes not to lose their fragile grip on the various footholds barely visible beneath the earth. We dashed over puddles and balanced on tree stumps. We pulled up on bungee ropes and slid in the mud. And the kicker is that Katy and I weren't even all that slow; we never collapsed in a heap on the grass or took a sitting break or even stopped for very long to catch our breath. It's that the people in front of us wearing their afro wigs and mismatched pajama bottoms combing the grounds for rubber snakes and party hats just to shave a minute off their time were batshit insane.

 

My shoes will never be the same, will they? Sob.

Despite the face that my left arm and both thighs still ache from climbing around like a jungle cat, I would do it again in a second. I had a great time talking with Katy, who I first met at a local blogger thingy at Rock Bottom way back in March 2008, not even a full week after returning to work from my maternity leave with Kara, unfamiliar with the role of working mother and missing my baby something fierce. I felt supremely out of my element that night, to say the least, and quickly declined an invitation to bowl after dinner so I could rush home and cry into Kara's shoulder, clutching her with all the strength inside me after being separated for just two hours. Afterwards, I tried to keep up with everyone's blogs, anxious to make friends in a city that after three years still felt so foreign to me, but I was barely able to stay connected to the bloggers I knew while keeping my own site fresh and making sense of my routine. Failing on all three accounts, I quickly lost touch with everyone, and friendships were formed without me.

You'd think that living in the same city would have me at least bumping into someone at the grocery store, but almost a year and a half would pass before I saw Casey and Emily again, at BlogHer this past summer, once again during an emotional low point as Luke and I had a terrible time managing the kids and I was reeling from the loss of my Parents job, in addition to seriously examining the role that I wanted blogging to play in my life. I wanted to be approachable and happy, I hated being on the verge of tears in my sweat pants at 8:30 p.m. while they were dressed to the nines en route to a party, but I didn't have the strength to be anything else; those three minutes I spent avoiding eye contact in the elevator with a tight-lipped smile frozen on my face were the most awkward of my trip. I can only imagine what they thought of me, if they thought anything at all.

It's only now that Kara and Nathan are older and I'm feeling more confident in my ability to work and parent in tandem that I'm finally ready to reach out, only I didn't have to because Katy did it first by suggesting we train for the Mini together. In addition to enjoying the easy conversation, it felt good to know that at least one mom from that night would get a chance to see the real me feeling comfortable in my own skin. Plus, it was awesome to push my body in ways I've never used it before, on a beautiful day, with the sun shining brightly and Indianapolis fall weather at its best.

Not a bad way to earn my second number.

   

Dream managing

The last eight days have been equal parts frustrating, heartbreaking, and overwhelming. Kara came down with a 103-degree fever two Fridays ago that left her lethargic and achy, which gradauted to a nasty cough/cold, which led to Nathan getting sick, which led to ME getting sick and also taking three consecutive half-days at work to play point with Luke at home.

But being caught in the time-suck that is sickness isn't what I want to write about.

I want to write about a book I finished recently, a business parable I read for the book-club component of my company's leadership development program. Titled The Dream Manager, it's about a fictitious janitorial company struggling with high turnover and deciding that the best way to retain employees is to help them achieve their dreams--both personal and professional. The part I found most interesting was the simple call-out to name my dreams--one hundred of them to start with. The author went on to list the twelve areas of life that a person's dreams will likely fall into and recommended categorizing your dreams into short- and long-term goals, but right now I'm intrigued enough just with that very first thing. I'm a list-maker at heart, and seeing as I've been trying to update my 100 things meme from eight million years ago with minimal success, the dream exercise seems like the perfect solution. Though nothing's been committed to paper just yet (the author suggests keeping a dream book, and I am so on board with that), I've already spent a lot of time (29 years' worth, really) reflecting on what I hope to accomplish with my life; why not give all those hopes a permanent home on the Internet? And why not give it a whirl yourself?

Frema's Dream List, Big and Small (But Not Comprehensive):

1. Organize my filing cabinet.
2. Create a living will and trust (hangs head in shame; Suze would be so disappointed).
3. Get back to a single-digit pants size.
4. Earn another master's degree, this time in an area that has nothing to do with writing. Dietetics? Career counseling? Who cares, just sign me up.
5. Retire.
6. Celebrate a fiftieth wedding anniversary with Luke.
7. Watch my children graduate college.
8. Become a world traveler.
9. Learn how to swim properly--no more of this doggy-paddle business.
10. Read all of the original Nancy Drew hardcovers.
11. Read the Bible from cover-to-cover.
12. Become a foster parent and adopt a child. I want to do this so badly that I'm willing to forgo having any more biological children. (Luke is not open to more than three.)
13. Speak another language. (The two years of Spanish I took in high school hardly count, though I do have a favorite Spanish sentence I put together completely on my own: Tu mama lleva botas sin calcetines.)
14. Have clear skin.
15. Celebrate ten years with my current employer. (Only six to go!)
16. Start a 529 plan for the kids by the time Kara starts kindergarten.
17. Fund Luke's Roth IRA to the max every year.
18. Start a Roth of my own. (I do have a matching 401(k) through work, though, that I've been funding almost the whole time I've been there, so it's not like I'll be starting from scratch when I do.)
19. Build an emergency fund with six months' worth of living expenses. (Suze recommends at least eight months, but baby steps, people.)
20. Run a half-marathon in 2010.
21. Run a full marathon...at some point.
22. Consistently get at least seven hours of sleep a night.
23. Take my children to Disney World.
24. Visit the Grand Canyon.
25. Spend New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in Times Square.
26. Visit Harvard.
27. Own a brand-new bedroom set--everything from dressers and nightstands down to the mattress.
28. Figure out how to turn off the TypePad function that has those crazy-colored boxes appearing next to everyone's comments.
29. Learn how to sew.
30. Learn how to knit.
31. Relearn to crochet.
32. Make a quilt. 
33. Eat pasta in Italy.
34. Own a weekend getaway near the beach.
35. Visit Napa Valley and drink lots of wine with my husband.
36. Become better-versed in politics.
37. Move back to the northwest side of Indianapolis in the next five years.
38. Tour New England in the fall.
39. Meet Suze Orman.
40. Hear Tori Amos in concert every time she's in town.
41. Open a bed and breakfast.
42. Break my movie theatre hiatus; the last flick I saw was Saw IV more than two years ago, and if that's not enough to make you cry into your pillow, I don't know what is.
43. Learn how to cook.
44. Learn how to bake.
45. Have a signature dish that isn't spinach dip.
46. Play an instrument.
47. Ride an elephant in Africa.
48. Stop being terrified afraid of traveling to Africa.
49. Snorkel in Florida.
50. Get leid in Hawaii.
51. Read the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
52. Finish the Chronicles of Narnia.
53. Buy my children their first cars.
54. Pay off my student loans.
55. Enter my retirement years mortgage-free.
56. Read The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged again.
57. Visit the place in Austria where Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children pranced around the fountain.
58. Visit Ireland.
59. Go whitewater rafting again.
60. Visit a park in all 50 states.
61. Learn how to back up my blog files.
62. Die of natural causes at an age older than ninety.
63. Own a brick home.
64. Introduce Kara to The Baby-sitters Club.
65. Starting in 2010, take a family vacation every year.
66. Own a Coach purse.
67. Own a house where I can designate one room as a library, furnished with wall-to-wall bookshelves, a fireplace, and several end tables and arm chairs with handmade blankets draped over the backs. Warm and fuzzy drinks like hot cocoa would be acceptable, but NO EATING ALLOWED.
68. Learn how to change a tire. (No, honey, not tomorrow.)
69. Build a home. (Not personally, mind you. Just oversee it.)
70. Learn how to garden.
71. Track down my first boyfriend, Nick, to make sure he's okay. I loved him for a long time when I was young, and he didn't always take care of himself.
72. Publish a memoir.
73. Apologize to Billy Hall from seventh grade for laughing at him when he gave me a love letter. I wasn't trying to hurt his feelings, but I was so surprised I didn't know what else to do. Plus, if we're being honest, he wasn't very popular.
74. Find Billy Hall's love letter.
75. See my parents retire.
76. Attend the Olympics the next time it's hosted by the U.S.
77. Open a used bookstore.
78. Make at least one real friend in this city of mine, the kind who won't crack jokes when you ugly cry and who knows your Starbucks drink by heart.
79. Relocate to the East Coast for a really cool job.
80. Learn to surf.
81. Print out all my photos from the last four years and place them in albums like I should have four years ago.
82. Learn how to stop interrupting people when they speak.
83. Start Nathan's baby book. (Sorry, son.)
84. Eliminate my tire gut.
85. Start a scholarship in my family's name for my undergraduate alma mater.
86. Watch my children live long and happy lives.
87. Hold my grandbabies.
88. Be a godmother.
89. Be a mother-in-law.
90. See Luke publish a children's book like he's always wanted.
91. Watch him achieve the rest of his dreams.
92. Call myself a runner without feeling like a poser.
93. Live to see a cure for all cancers, especially those that kill children.
94. Have a job in which I advocate for children.
95. Mow a lawn.  (NO, HONEY, NOT TOMORROW.)
96. Become a personal finance consultant. 
97. Re-connect more regularly with old friends.
98. Find a song I first heard in sixth grade (circa 1992) called "Happy" that they used to play on B-96 in Chicago.
99. Find a song I first heard in college on a friend's mixed tape called "Thankful for This Day."
100. Dance without feeling self-conscious.

What are your dreams?

Luke and Bree plus three?

Now that the kids are a little older and every second of the day isn't solely focused on survival, Luke and I are finally in a place to start putting the finishing touches on our home. We made the move last October, and yet we still have walls that are bare, pictures that are outdated or missing altogether (didn't we give birth to a son in January?), knick knacks that need staging, files that need organizing, boxes that need sorting through.... You get the picture. As a result, we're now re-evaluating the usefulness and/or necessity of every piece of furniture, every stitch of clothing, every picture, file, and knick knack that we have, the goal being to keep only those things that bring us the greatest joy, meet our basic needs, and make our lives a little easier so we can spend less time picking up after ourselves and more time doing. Yesterday, I gave an armful of clothes, five pairs of shoes, and several old duffel bags to Goodwill, and looking at all the new space in my closet was not unlike going on a first date that involves dinner and second base. Not that I could recite the technical definition of second base, mind you, but in my head, it's some pretty good stuff.

Anyway, when I received word that my Parents job was ending, another goal was thrown into the mix: make a little money. In this economy, it's all about the Benjamins, y'all, one man's trash is another man's treasure, and I've got my mind on my money and my money on my mind. (If you can think of other personal finance cliches, knock yourself out. Bonus points for those born from early nineties rap.)

ANYWAY. Enter the baby clothes.

As Kara (rapidly) outgrew each stage of (her precious, adorable) clothing, everything was laundered and folded and blessed and placed neatly into Tuperware bins to use for the next baby. Items ranged from onesies she practically lived in to a three-month winter suit she wore maybe once on a stroller ride with Daddy to a newborn coming-home outfit she never wore at all because as it turns out, eleven-pound infants were not built to wear such tiny things.

 

Another Parents.com gem taken about ten days after Kara was born, just in time for our annual Christmas card. In case you're wondering, the sleeper and the Santa hat both made the cut.

Since Nathan's closet is smaller, we've been going through his things every couple of sizes, but except for one major purging before we moved into the house, Kara's things were left relatively untouched. As she is our first precious baybeee, it was emotional for the both of us, going through those bins, and there were tears and heartfelt talks over what we wanted to hold onto and what we were okay offering to the world (for cash), and as I sniffled sadly into the sleeve of my shirt and lamented the possibility of never being in this exact stage again, I wailed for the zillionth time, "Do you really think we're done?"

My husband blew me away by replying that he really wasn't sure. However, he added, "I think we're sad for different reasons."

"What do you mean?" I said, recovering from my latest Ugly Cry.

"I'm sad about Kara never being this little again, not about not doing this again."

 

Kara at eight months, watching me leave for work on a random weekday morning. I can't remember if we kept these pjs or not. I hope so.

The topic of more children was revisited Saturday morning, after I reorganized Kara's closet to store our bassinet, which until today had been residing in our master bedroom, serving as a drying rack and/or storage unit, take your pick, and isn't THAT exactly what you want in your line of vision as you get ready to...well, you know.

As I refolded the few baby blankets we decided to hold onto and placed them on the bassinet's mattress, I asked Luke again, "Do you still think you're okay not having another baby?"

And he sighed, because hot damn, is he married to a woman with a one-track mind or what, but once again, he conceded, "Maybe not. I don't know. I don't mean to leave you hanging, but I really don't know," adding, "...but probably."

The conversation rarely ends here. There's been a lot of talk about other ways to add to our family; the door is currently open to either adoption or foster parenting, though Luke isn't ready to do any soul-searching on either one. Which is totally understandable, seeing as our oldest isn't even potty-trained and our youngest can't stand on his own two feet without assistance. Why do I keep pushing for an answer to a question that doesn't need an answer right now? Why can't I just be happy with the family we have and let the future work itself out?

 

Me at 40 weeks with Kara. If a third pregnancy isn't in the cards, I certainly won't miss looking like an item of interest on a whale expedition.

I'll tell you why. Because I don't want to worry about contraception for the entire length of my thirties. Because I don't want to drag out my child-birthing years with large age gaps between a second and third child. Because I know Luke wants to go back to work someday. Because I know we would want a parent at home with any kids younger than school age. Because we have other plans for our life, plans that don't include changing diapers, washing bottles, or rocking babies to sleep at two o'clock in the morning, and I want to know when those plans might possibly become a reality.

When it comes to physically producing another baby, Luke is very, very hesitant, not just because he's quite happy with the two we already have, the two who are extremely close in age and who try his patience on a daily basis, but he's also concerned about what a third pregnancy might mean for me. I developed pre-eclampsia with Nathan, and in hindsight, I think I probably had it with Kara, on a low enough scale that the doctors just missed it. If that's actually the case, I got it the second time around a little earlier, so who knows when it would rear its ugly head with number three. Plus, you know, gestation, so tiring, so draining, and recovery from a third c-section? I don't even want to think about it. Breastfeeding/pumping/weaning again? I DON'T EVEN WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT. It's just been in the last few months that I've finally started feeling like myself again. It started with the 30 Day Shred back in May and has climaxed these last couple of weeks as I build on my training for my upcoming 5K. I am 29 years old. I want to look and feel 29. I don't think that's unreasonable.

But then I think about never getting a positive pregnancy test again, never seeing a baby of mine on an ultrasound again, never feeling kicks and flutters inside my belly again, never having the most perfect human being I've ever seen in my life be removed from my uterus again, and I am filled with sadness. I remember being in recovery with Nathan a couple of hours after he was born, resting in bed, holding him in my arms, nuzzling his cheek and kissing his head, and telling Molly, "I understand why some women have eight babies." And I did understand. Those moments of getting to know him were worth every ounce of discomfort, every minute of confusion. I knew it with Kara and confirmed it with my son.

 

Nathan at eight or nine weeks, I think, donning a sleeper that Luke wore when he was a baby. I don't care if we get our next child at eight YEARS old, he/she is wearing this sleeper, damn it, family traditions and all that.

In the event, though, that we did close the pregnancy chapter of our lives and expand our clan using alternative methods, I think adoption or foster parenting would be a wonderful fit for Luke and me and the kids. I've always been drawn to the idea of taking in a child who needs a loving home; when I was in middle school, I told all my friends that I would never give birth to a baby, not ever, because there were too many children already in the world who didn't have anybody to love them. I spent half my junior year thinking about becoming a nun because I adored the sisters at my high school so much, so obviously lil' Frema's decision-making processes were a little extreme back then, but I still agree there are too many children who need parents and love and education and quality medical care, and Luke and I have such a good life to offer another child that I can't imagine not doing it. Though I can imagine not doing it, because of the oodles of money you have to shell out and the hoops you have to jump through and the fact that patience has never been my strong suit and it's already spread thin with two kids. A third might very well push me over the edge, however he/she gets here.

Nothing is set in stone either way, and like I said, Luke really isn't up for talking about this in-depth right now, but so far it seems like we might lean more towards foster parenting with an open option to adopt. I attribute my feelings to reading The Pinballs in fifth grade. What? It was a really, really good book.

 

Nathan around four months, probably, because he's still in his swing. Actually, it's Molly's swing, but whatever, we're all family around here.

Finally, I haven't written off going along with Luke's initial thought of just being happy with the two beautiful children we have. There's something to be said for leaving these early years in the past and enjoying the new experiences that come along with getting older. Luke and I have loved watching Kara come into her own, increasing her vocabulary, showing interest in potty training, delighting in chapter books, going down kiddie slides at the park. And Nathan is in one of my favorite baby stages--he can transport himself to any area he wants and entertain himself for longer periods of time, he's smiling and laughing and snuggling and kissing (read: sucking on your knee). And while he's once again taken to waking up at night, we can still count on getting in a respectable block of sleep. His newborn days were hard, so very hard, and it took us completely by surprise because Kara was such an easy-going baby, no gas problems, no screaming for hours a day despite being nestled safely in our arms. Who knows how a third child would rock our world?

We also have big plans for retirement savings and 529 plans and traveling the world and being charitable, and all of that takes money. The bigger our family, the smaller our financial nest egg will be for all of these areas.

 

This is a recent, non-Parents shot of Kara and Nathan oohing and aahing over the Lost A Sock family's shiny, red fire truck. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, bestowing my mad mothering skills only upon them.

The hardest thing about this decision is that there's no right or wrong answer. All of the reasons I've given for having another child are just as valid as the reasons for being done. In the end, it's not really about money for your golden years or nursing difficulties or your personal reserves, it's about what you feel called to do in your heart. All I can do right now is think and pray and continue to share my feelings with Luke and also SHUT UP ALREADY, because holy hell, the last thing we need as we work this out is pressure. Sometimes the best action plan isn't to search for answers, it's to let them come.

Flowering

It never fails; going for long periods of time without updating means I'm guaranteed to suffer from writer's block so severe that I spend hours reading blogs Twittering posting on Facebook avoiding the necessary task of "catching up," which in my case means covering as much literary ground as possible using the fewest number of words. Doesn't that make for fun reading! And yet here I am, catching up, anyway. Hopefully, for the last time, made possible by...

Parents.com
On Monday I wrote my last entry for "Parental Discretion Advised," the blog I religiously posted to three times a week for two-plus years on Parents.com. Farewell, mainstream Internet exposure! Adios, freelance check that covered my mortgage with six cents to spare! May we someday meet again.

All last week there was a lump in my throat when I thought about saying good-bye to two years' worth of writing and comments that spoke to some of the most exciting (and sleepless and heart-breaking and frustrating) times of my life; it didn't help that I spent hours combing through the archives and reminiscing over those early days when I was pregnant with Kara and everything seemed so simple--Luke and I eating dinner at Culver's every Friday, just the two of us, before our childbirth classes at the hospital; sleeping in and going for pancakes before ANOTHER trip to Babies R Us; cleaning our entire two-bedroom apartment in sixty minutes or less; and waiting, waiting, waiting in those final days for Kara's arrival, walking the halls of that spotlessly clean apartment, fingering sleepers, folding baby blankets, longing for her to come and wondering what it would feel like to hold her for the first time. Losing access to my Parents blog means losing a physical connection to those memories, and I am so, so sad about that, even though for months I've been ready to move on.

I'll talk more about the logistics of my Parents relationship soon; for right now, I want to focus on being thankful that I had the opportunity to share my experiences on such a widely popular platform in a way that padded my bank account, too. Also, a HUGE thanks to those of you who took the time to follow both blogs--steady traffic is the reason I was able to re-sign when other contracts were allowed to run out. I never, ever took those numbers for granted.

 

Luke and Kara at our family trip to the Indianapolis Zoo last Saturday. They're looking at rhinos. Or maybe ostriches. Whatever. The important thing is daddy-daughter pictures = adorable.

 

Nathan and I in front of the llamas at the petting zoo. My seven-month-old (!) is equally adorable but not as impressed with animal antics. He's probably entertaining himself by wondering why his mom thought it was a good idea to match that hat with those pants. If you ever bump into Clinton and Stacy, son, tell them Mommy needs pants that don't slide off her ass.

Priorities
There's been enough transition in my life lately--the closure of Parents, a new reporting structure and improved clarification of department goals at work--that have inspired me to evaluate where I funnel my energy and to make sure that my own values and goals are receiving more of my time and not less. I also attended a women's health conference on Friday where I sat in on sessions about life balance and intentional change, which got me to thinking about how often I use being a mother to young children as an excuse to avoid pushing myself in challenging situations. One of the speakers talked about her daughter's love for animals and her passionate desire to go on an African safari. She talked and talked and talked about it until her mother finally told her to GET ON IT already, and in the end, it only took her two years to save the money. Two years! She probably spent more than double that just sitting on her hands, lamenting the impossibleness of it all, and now not only has she achieved her goal, she's got the rest of her life to make another one come true. A simple story, but it was enough to get me talking with Luke about our personal goals and plans for the future. I really liked the exercises from those conference sessions, so maybe I'll post my responses here sometime soon.

Anyway, so far I've found that implementing little changes one day at a time has made prioritizing a more manageable task. In the beginning it was as simple as committing to my 5K training and letting go of the guilt I felt in abandoning the Shred. Silly, right? But that's the thing about me: if when I embrace a new project or activity I can't find a way to sustain it long-term (i.e. longer than ten days), I eventually give up and start pursuing the next new thing. For example: I love that I'm training for this 5K even if I don't love every minute of the actual training, and I sure hope I make it to race day, but after September 26, then what? Soon it'll get colder and the days will be shorter and I don't want to run on the trail after dark and how much will it cost me to buy warmer gear and what do you know, I've just up and killed my running career. If I can't stick with it, why even start?

But that kind of attitude won't get me anywhere, so I'm trying to change my way of thinking. Maybe this isn't a character flaw like I originally thought; maybe I just need to admit that I have a shorter attention span than the long-range planner in me cares to admit and start embracing it. Maybe it's OK if running (or whatever activity I'm into at the time) doesn't end up holding a permanent spot in my life; that doesn't mean it doesn't serve a purpose today. 

 

Here's Kara catering to her love of sharks. The pure joy on her face almost brings me to tears. I hope she's always this happy.

 

Meanwhile, Nathan caters to his own desires of spitting up on everything in his path--carpet, pillows, flooring, and favorite my work fleece. Thanks, son.

Money
With the loss of my Parents gig comes the loss of money. Money that we counted on to cover day-to-day expenses, invest in savings, and eat out as often as we wanted. Without it, things are tight. Not "We're going to lose our house" or "Which adult gets to eat today?" tight; more like, "Damn, PB&J for dinner AGAIN?" tight. We can pay all of our bills without issue, and we're still putting something away in savings and my 401(k); we've just needed some creative thinking, is all. 

We've attempted to follow a budget on-and-off for years, but this was the motivation we needed to stay on track. So we referred back to our old spreadsheets and totaled receipts every week and when we tallied our expenses at the end of August, we were only $83.43 over budget. People, this is HUGE. But obviously, there's still work to be done, as my last Parents check is due in the next couple of weeks, so if we screw up in September, we'll have to pull from savings to make up the difference. I've got a longer post brewing inside me regarding personal finance strategy, but I will share this: Learning how to auto-calculate sums in Excel? LIFE-CHANGING. You're welcome.

 

Kara at the White River Gardens, which is adjacent to the Indy Zoo and therefore covered in our annual membership fee. Doesn't it look like her hands are in full bloom? I love that. What a great metaphor as I (we) take my (our) next steps.

Whose horse is this and why am I beating it to death?

Listen.

It's been almost two weeks since I attended BlogHer '09 in Chicago, and the longer I wait to reflect on my time there, the less interested we all become. To be honest, I'm half-way there already, but it's important to me that I document this for my archives. Plus, I really think I can write about it in a way that highlights my unique experience instead of rehashing everyone else's talk tracks. So here I go.

To start: this has been a weird blogging year for me. On one hand, I'm the diligent worker bee, consistently posting updates to Parents.com three times a week (except for those first months I had Kara and Nathan. Slacker!). I rack my brain for story ideas. I follow comment threads. Occasionally I add to the conversation. And while I've never been the most sought-after blogger over there, my traffic is consistent and respectable. And that's the goal, right? A frequently touched blog with vibrant signs of life? All of that should have left me in pretty good spirits about going to BlogHer--meeting readers, sharing my blog with others, even just feeling like an active participant in the blogosphere as a whole.

It should have. But it didn't. Not when it's such a tightly controlled space representing such a segmented part of my life. And I when I say that, I don't mean that the editors influence our content. We've always been given free reign over the topics we choose to write about. No, it had more to do with a sense of longing on my part to reconnect with THIS blog, where I first fell in love with blogging. This is where I can paint a picture of my life using broader brush stroke, where I can curse freely and post silly little writings, where my history includes a life before children, before marriage, before my graduate degree and move to Indianapolis. It's the URL I type in whenever I comment on somebody's site (admittedly a rarity, these days) even if the most current entry is three weeks old because this blog will live longer than any freelance gig, and it's the one that best speaks to who I am. I have thousands of readers on Parents and only a few hundred here (Red Rover, Red Rover, let Parents.com readers come over), but on the World Wide Web, this is home. And I miss it. So, so much.

(Thus ends mushy love letter to a non-living entity. Get a room, Frema!)

I was so excited to attend the conference, but once I got there, I was surprised to observe how disconnected I felt from everything. For BlogHer 2007, I had a close-knit group of online gal pals to have dinner with and attend sessions with and overall just have a good time with. I even had a real-life blogging buddy as a roommate! And in the weeks leading up to it, we were in constant contact with each other through e-mail and comments, so by the time we finally met each other, we didn't miss a beat. We talked about our non-bloggy lives and rubbed bellies (well, mine got rubbed, anyway) and took pictures and laughed and hugged and enjoyed each other's company. BlogHer WIN.

This time around, my buddy didn't come, and I chose to bring my family instead of looking for somebody else. I didn't take part in any meet-ups or even make a concerted effort to find out who was going. My hectic schedule has resulted in me falling out of touch with most of my old blogging circle, so while I did chat with these ladies for a couple of minutes at the start of the conference, unfortunately, that was the extent of it. (It was so good to see both of you, though!) And I found that inserting myself into situations with new people (which I did during lunch and between a few of the sessions) wasn't actually the best way to connect with them. I much prefer doing that in the context of being around people I know and who know me.

Pair my loneliness with keeping tabs on work, learning quite suddenly about my Parents contract being allowed to run out, mourning the relationship I used to have with my personal blog, missing Luke and the kids, and feeling conflicted about the increased marketing presence (yes, I'm grateful lunch was free, no, I don't want my picture taken with a life-sized jar of spaghetti sauce), and it's no wonder I looked like a deer in headlights the entire time I was there. My sincerest apologies to those of you gracious enough to approach me and introduce yourselves, as I know I wasn't the most engaging or captive audience.

To top it all off, I only took two pictures while I was in Chicago. This one of Luke on the Dan Ryan driving to the hotel:

 

Taken with my smart phone for work. Fancy!

And this one of the "Room of Your Own" session featuring the women of MamaPop:

No, I'm not a professional photographer, why do you ask?

That all said, I did have a good time. I walked (most of) the BlogHer 5K hosted by PHAT Mommy, Nathan happily in tow via baby carrier, and after the stress of the last few days, it felt so good to just hang out with fellow shredheads and cuddle Nathan close as we traipsed along the lakeshore. I also liked most of the sessions, though a gem to keep in mind for next time is to attend sessions based on the speakers even if the topics themselves don't grab my attention as opposed to going on topic alone, because the former were the ones I found the most entertaining. Another nugget would be to attend on my own dime, because while I did glean some tangible to-dos for my company's social media strategy, I often felt restricted in how I spent my time. The MamaPop session was one of the few guilty pleasures I gave in to.

As I wrap up my time with Parents, I'm allowing myself to feel the loss of a job that, while tedious, also provided a legitimate reason to write about the minutiae of my life as a new mother, minutiae that otherwise might have gotten lost in the shuffle. I have a four-part birth story for Kara's baby book and monthly updates for Nathan's (your story's coming, son, I promise). I have a shiny new bullet point for my resume and a much better handle on how to negotiate a freelance contract, the details of which I will be more than willing to share with you when it's appropriate. Finally, I have a chance to return to my blogging roots and relax a little, to post because I want to and not because I'm being paid for it. Though I am still interested in being paid for it, so long as it's managed differently and the content doesn't compete with what already appears here. Amalah and her various columns for Alpha Mom spring to mind as an ideal compromise.

So, despite my personal turmoil, BlogHer '09 couldn't have come at a more opportune time. And when the logistics didn't meet my expectations, I thought about how much I loved loved LOVED meeting blog readers. Seriously, you guys can't fathom how much you made my day just by saying hello. Who knows? Maybe BlogHer '10 will be even better.

That is, if I can afford to get there without being sponsored by a jar of spaghetti sauce.

(Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

But I haven't given in to Starbucks

So! I had this brilliant idea yesterday. Seeing as I'm on the cusp of attending a three-day blogging conference where I'll be passing out business cards with my URL on it, I thought it might make sense to--wait for it--BLOG. I know! Am genius. Tell all your friends.

Wonderful things have been happening these last few weeks, many of them related to my job, so that's what I'm going to start with first. If you follow me on Twitter, you know that my employer dropped two happy bombs on us in less than one week: the half-year profit-sharing bonus we received in June and the CEO's decision to transfer ownership of the company to his workers through an employee stock ownership plan (ESOP). You can learn more about ESOPs from our trusty friend, Wikipedia, but basically it means that the founder has given his baby, the business he started almost twenty years ago with his personal life savings, to those of us on the payroll. It translates into additional retirement savings for every one of us and voting rights on major decisions involving the company's future, not to mention a more tangible motivation to continue our current level of success. It was an emotional day when he broke the news, and as I learn more about the specifics, I am blown away by how lucky I am for not only having a stable job in a shaky economy, but a rewarding job with a company that only projects good things on the horizon, not to mention the opportunities I have to advance my skills and challenge myself professionally. As a result, for the first time in my life, I'm taking a proactive approach to my career, assuming new leadership roles and working alongside my boss and other team members to develop strategies for our department that will enable us to work more effectively. I've also been involved with some pretty exciting writing projects that jazz me up like nothing else, even when those projects are equal parts frustrating.

So many women who work outside the home are miserable in their jobs because they are unfulfilled by what they do, making it even harder to be away from their babies. And it IS hard to be away from my babies; I never look forward to Monday even after the most hectic of weekends, I'm always craving more time at home. But I can say with absolute certainty that my time away from them is well spent. Finding myself professionally has inspired me to take a long, hard look at my priorities outside the office and how I want to spend my time (contributing to this is the fact that I'm still reading Eat Pray Love and feeling very connected to the idea of nourishing my personal core). I'm also reflecting on the lessons I want my children to learn from me about finding their passion and also turning raw lemons into lemonade. It's been an energizing process, to say the least, and enlightening, to form a relationship with my company that mirrors a long-term partnership, a marriage of sorts where each side is committed to giving as much as it takes and overcoming obstacles in a way that leaves everyone's dignity intact.

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Things have come to a bit of a standstill on the fitness front, and I can't believe I don't feel guilt about it, but I don't. Even with sporadic exercise and frequent surrenders to peanut butter cup blizzards, I've maintained an average loss of eight pounds, so I can't feel too bad when it's clear I must be doing something right. Unfortunately, an eight-pound loss post-baby isn't the same victory as an eight-pound loss before your body carries a child--my mid-section still looks three months pregnant--but hey, I'll take what I can get. I knew that the more time I allowed to lapse between workouts the harder it would be to get back into a routine, but life is still so topsy-turvy for us right now, and I hate to keep using that as an excuse, but it's also the truth. My girl crush on Jillian Michaels remains as strong as ever, but I'm at peace with sometimes (OK, a lot of times) choosing other ways to spend my time, knowing that life will settle down little by little and a night of rocking my son back to sleep won't always kill my desire to Shred the next day. I did buy some new gym shoes, though; that counts for something, right?

 

Nathan and me at Indy's "Unite to Fight: Race Against Prostate Cancer" family walk a couple of weeks ago. I carried Nathan while Luke pushed Kara in her stroller.

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The continued anticipation of my Tori Amos concert next month along with the recent death of Michael Jackson (and I'll admit it, I am still so sad about that) combined have restored my interest in music. Not that I ever stopped being interested, but most of Luke's and my CDs have been living in a beat-up Tupperware bin in the back of our closet since we moved into this house, and I've been too lazy to dig out stuff as it appeals to my mood. Yesterday I got to thinking about all the songs I've been out of touch with simply because I haven't been able to find them, and it kind of pissed me off to the point that I finally said ENOUGH and organized the CD rack we bought well before Nathan was born. Alphabetized and everything, though I do wish I'd been able to categorize discs for each singer/group in the order they were released. Baby steps, people.

I also made a mixed CD of what I consider to be Tori Amos essentials so I don't have to switch discs to hear all my favorite songs. One of the reasons I'm still attracted to her music after all these years is its ability to become relevant as I gain more life experience. For example, Boys for Pele freaked me the hell out as a God-fearing high schooler, but as a married woman with two kids and a more sophisticated religious and world view, I'm more comfortable with the appeal they hold for me. When From the Choirgirl Hotel came out my senior year, I couldn't get past her new band sound to appreciate the lyrics, but in just the last week or so I found new meaning in a song I had completely written off. The biggest surprise has been my fascination with The Beekeeper. Those who only like Tori when she's angsty have no use for this one, and I understand; I didn't like it, either, not until well after I had Nathan and the softness of those songs found a place in my head. Anyway, all of that to say that the Tori I became enchanted with at 17 is not the same Tori I relate to today. It's pretty awesome when music grows with you.

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I'm drinking coffee now. Me, the woman who swore she would never succumb to the drama that is depending on a caffinated beverage for survival, typically enjoys a thermosful doused with skim milk and sugar on the drive to work. With all the late nights I've had in the last month or two, I've been so tired in the mornings that one day when Luke asked if I would possibly benefit from a liquid pick-me-up I said HELL YES, WHERE DO I SIGN UP. And I said it again and again until Luke was grinding coffee beans as part of his morning ritual while I finished getting dressed. There's something to be said for sitting in my car with one hand on the steering wheel and the other balancing a drink, an act that wakes me up and transitions me from home to work in a way that my sans-coffee routine didn't. Maybe I feel more adult. Maybe the beans are that strong. Either way, I like it.

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Luke spent this past Saturday at a theme park with a friend, so Molly and I took the opportunity to co-host Baby Day 2.0, and the kids had a blast together. They are all at such different stages now that it's hard to believe there's barely a full year between any of them. The Baby Day sequel marked the third weekend in a row that we had company, and it's been so nice to invite people over and watch their kids play with ours. Kara's now getting regular exposure to her peers through the daycare/nursery at church on Sundays, but other than that, not so much. So it was great to have my sister Samantha and her family with us for the Fourth of July and my friend Maia and her two girls the weekend after that. With upcoming BlogHer taking place in the trenches of my hometown, we'll have a straight month of Saturday-Sunday fun.

Here, the photographic evidence:

 

Kara and baby Danny, who will celebrate his first birthday next month. I say this every time I mention him, but I swear he is the spit and image of my sister.

 

Auntie Samantha and Uncle Dan entertaining their first and only nephew, with Nathan loving every minute of the attention.

 

Baby Day 2.0. Kara's all, "Girlfriend, where did you get that awesome striped shirt-dress? Don't hold out on a sista," And Marin's like, "A fashionista never reveals her secrets."

 

Meanwhile, Nathan and Marin decided to pose as if they were attending their first Baby Prom. Nathan may have even tried to grab her hand.

 

Molly loving on her godson. (At least, he will be her godson, once Luke and I can secure the fall baptism date with our pastor.)

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And that's all, folks! I hate that my writing is so sparse here and that the entries I do post have to cover such a large span of time, but that's another aspect of life I'm slowly making peace with. Despite my fallen-to-the-wayside personal blogging, I'm super excited about BlogHer this year and learning new ways to feed my addiction increase my overall knowledge of social media. I'm probably one of the few attendees whose primary reason for going is to actually take part in the sessions. This year is weird, though, in the sense that I'm not part of any big blogger meet-up like I was two years ago, and since Luke and the kids will be with me, I doubt I'll make any of the parties. I'm OK with that, but I really hope to meet at least a few of the bloggers I read and/or who read me so I don't totally miss out on the networking aspect of the conference. I'm also debating whether I should bring my work laptop and try to liveblog any of the events. I've never been good with crafting blog posts on the fly (aka the reason this site so frequently collects dust), so I'm not sure how solid my entries would even be, but I'm definitely thinking about it.

Will any of you be in Chicago? If so, I'd love to say hi. And if you're doing the BlogHer 5K on Friday morning, you'll get to meet Mr. Nathan in person. If that's not reason enough to walk three miles before breakfast, I don't know what is.