Fall is like Being 40

I used to believe Spring and it’s promise of new beginnings, newly blooming scents and colors and a gentle warmth was my favorite time of year. Summer, with the extended daylight, endless beach days and nightly smell of charcoal reminding some deeply buried part of my DNA that a full belly awaits has also worn the crown of favorite seasons.

But now, Fall has taken position as favorite time of year. Crisp air with the promise of boot-wearing weather, silky soft long sleeves and hiking among the deciduous as they “decide” to allow leaves to change color and eventually fall has become what feels best to my soul.

Fall means cooler, calmer, back to routine days of school and football Sundays. Fall is coming home to smelling whatever’s been simmering in the crockpot all day. It’s welcoming the use of fireplaces over fire pits and eventually, giving thanks for an overflowing bounty of nourishment of the spirit as well as family and those we have placed in our lives as family.

Fall is like being 40. 40 is reacting to life's challenges with a cooler, calmer demeanor, knowing that the back to routine days will eventually become routine once again. 40 is having mastered or no longer being afraid to try that new recipe, hairstyle, friendship, or otherwise untested experience because you know yourself well enough to let your deciduous nature take over. 40 is knowing that truly living and giving thanks for the bounty in your life must occur because you’ve lived long enough to know those people, places and things won’t be there forever; their leaves will turn and fall off the tree at some point, too.

Fall, Autumn, Harvest Time, I welcome and embrace you in the way I have learned to welcome and embrace being of the forty-something kind. I welcome your comfort, abundance, wisdom, and change as I open my arms to those very same things in my life. God, Mother Nature, Gaia; I thank you.  

Mommy Wars 2.0

Those of us that have been blessed with children that we birthed, adopted, inherited or found on the corner, will be able to relate.

Remember when the kids were little? Maybe you still have little energizer bunny, diaper needing, scraped knee, band-aid requesting types. None-the-less, the elephant in the proverbial room or playground as it often was for me, revolved around that crazy, mostly unspoken competition among mothers. I’m not talking about the work-outside-of-the home vs. stay-at-home mom superweight fight,  I’m talking about the, “My kid can do xxx” so, “What’s wrong with you because your kid can’t,” type of bout. The kind that allowed the more insecure moms a place to gloat or hide over their child’s ability (or lack thereof) to successfully use the potty, tie shoes, or read Brown Bear, Brown Bear on their own even though everyone knew that little angel couldn't read it, but had been forced to hear it so many times they simply memorized it.

Now that I am the mother of two teens, one approaching college entrance age at rapid speed, I realize there is a Mommy Wars 2.0. This time it’s not about scoring a goal on the pee-wee field or knowing their times tables, it’s about GPA’s, Travel Teams, SAT Scores and AP classes. It’s about seeing someone you haven’t seen in almost a year telling you, quite loudly for maximum hearing within the unsolicited crowd, that their child is in line for Valedictorian, has 25 AP courses with a gazillion point 0 grade point average before even asking how you’ve been. Their point is not to share that their child is a happy, hard working, goal setting, good friend; but that their child, is indeed, smarter, more athletic, better at instruments, more industrious...read BETTER than yours.

Just like when the kids were little, I make a conscious effort not to smack the bragger, though I may do all sorts of wicked things to them in my mind behind the wicked smile plastered on my face. Let this be an official announcement: I refuse to play your game and am the first to admit my children are not “perfect!”

But...I will say, my children have a mother that prays I can help them be what they were put on this planet to do, not what I have groomed, paid for, dragged them to, set them up for a stroke at 20 or tiger mom’d them into.

As mom’s, no matter the method, we all want the best for our children and do what we think is right. What we MUST not do, is judge others who do it differently. My children have strengths recognized in the academic world, but also in the real world they will have to survive in without me one day. So...go brag somewhere else, because one day, I just might tell you the truth about yourself and that your children, no matter how perfect, will sever the cord one day and make it on their own. Have you equipped them for that?

Plays Well With Others

A checked “Plays well with others,” box was a staple on my elementary school report cards. In fact, I loved school because it was one of the few places where this attention seeking only child could always be sure there would be other kids to play with and where there was always something to stir my creative juices and challenge my brain.

However, there was a catch. Ms. Bossypants should have been stapled on  my forehead. I wanted to be second only to the teacher, whom I did concede, was smarter than I: it came with the height, I believed. Sometimes this independence was to my teachers' delight in that I volunteered my budding teaching prowess on those moving a little slowly in comparison to the class. On the other hand, a teacher informed my mom that my four year old self  was worrying more about other preschoolers needing help and helping them get their work done, that I was neglecting to take care of mine.

You know what they say about patterns...I find I’m still worrying about others getting their work done; students, other teachers, it doesn't matter. I’m stuck somewhere in between the, “If not me then who,” and “No one’s going to tell me what to do" zone of proximal development. Remnants of Ms. Bossypants are alive and kicking. She shows up in meetings and creeps into thoughts so much so, that I hope my eyes don’t betray the comments swirling behind them. “Why can’t you just…” and “What is it you don’t get,” pop into mind. Truly, I still need to worry about me, even just a little, instead of the world.

Though, I do believe my teachers would be proud. The world needs well practiced members of the Bossypants Battalion, too! Some things never change. I don't think I could stop if I tried and I'm OK with that.

Confession of a Workaholic - Nothing Like a 4-day Week to Shake Things Up or Slow Things Down

Why do four day weeks feel like you’ve been dragged over broken glass, strung up and flown like a kite through a hurricane and like you have run a marathon each of those days...twice? Seriously?! Or is it the need to control and complete the same insane amount of work we pile into a “normal” week into a four day span?

I always knew I spun a bit faster than the average bear, but these four day weeks remind me that not only do I have my personal schedule bursting at the seams, but that I don’t know how to slow down and enjoy the holiday.

That got me thinking about my choices. Work, race, plan, organize, lead, write and just go; or sit with myself and allow things I don’t want in the forefront of my mind to hold audience with me while I “relax.”

Slowing down shows me the ugly I try to hide with the busy digital planner and tote bag full of projects.

Slowing down forces me to face the loneliness I have worked devastatingly hard to flee from.

Slowing down means feeling down because things aren’t the way I’d planned for them to be so many years ago.

Slowing down is synonymous with being content with me, myself and I; in my own skin, with my own company.

Most of the time, I'd gladly race rather than deal with me. I give and go and work and wonder until I’m thrown off the saddle by something like a four day work week.

And left to ponder…Where do I fit into the lives of family? And ask again, will my doorbell ring? Until an answer presents itself I give and go and grow a bit in the process.

When is it going to be my turn when so much is not up to me?

When is it going to be my turn when so much is not up to me?

To be driven around,

And spoiled with surprises?

To be taken to dinner at sunset,

Be handed a glass of wine in a pretty glass,

And get phone calls just because?

When is it going to be my turn to go on a dreamy vacation,

With someone or someones that place me ahead of themselves,

Just every once in awhile?

When is it going to be my turn to not worry

About money,

Or being lonely

Or really living,

Instead of waiting or making a go of things...alone?

When will someone do my laundry,

And notice the dishes climbing out of the sink,

Or trash threatening to revolt from the can?

When will I not have to

Buy the groceries alone,

Cook alone,

Eat alone,

Then clean up, alone,

When alone does not a family make?

Ever?

Or never?

Or only on my dreams.

I used to wonder what was wrong with me.

Ask what I was doing wrong, as a wife, mother, daughter, friend.

Then, accepting that I can't change others, so to make the best of it.

Now...feeling like the proverbial hour glass is more empty than full.

What do I do?

Staying the same is not an option.

So...

Do fairy tales and dreams come true

For hardworking,

Sacrificing,

Do unto others,

Trying to make the best of the cards you've been dealt people like me?

Or do I get to keep watching it work for others?

And wait until death for it to be my turn...my heaven.

Because it looks like it won't be here on earth, for me.