Dancing in the rain

I have been fortunate to have a few friends in my life that go way, way, way back with me.

I have one friend who I have known since we were born. Well, since she was born...I arrived a month ahead of her. I have another friend who I have known since we were about three years old. And another friend who I have known since I was five or so.

It is without a doubt a blessing to have people in your life who have traveled that long and far with you.

It is also a curse since they remember every hairstyle, every boyfriend, every fashion incident, and no matter how much you think you've got it together, you always know there are a handful of people in the world who know beyond a shadow of a doubt that underneath it all you are really a great big weirdo.

I love that.

In beginning my quest for TRUST, I have been trying to conjure up times in my life where I remember feeling completely and utterly at peace. Times when I felt so completely safe that I wasn't giving a second thought as to whether what I was doing was right, or wrong, or acceptable, or enough. Times when the world's gifts and my intentions all aligned and together we glimpsed...paradise.

As unlikely as it might seem, one fuzzy memory that keeps popping up for me involves these two cherubs right here.

My buddy Christie and me.

Don't those two little nuggets look just chock full of sugar and spice?

Mother of Pearl...don't let them fool you. 

One day, when we were about exactly the age of this picture here....(so, babies, basically) we had a sleepover at my friend Christie's house. I have no recollection as to why since it seems to me we were kind of young for sleepovers, but our moms did a lot of swapping of childcare and babysitting, so who knows what lead to such an exciting adventure for two little friends.

You would think the sleepover would have been adventure enough.

But, no, in the wee hours of the morning, long before anyone else in the house was stirring, Christie and I woke up and made our way to the family room. Looking out the big glass doors, we noticed it had rained in the night. In fact, it had rained a lot in the night.

As we peered outside we could see large puddles covering the ground and water pouring from gutters. 

It was like the world had become a magical land of waterfalls and wading pools perfectly sized for two pint sized fairies.

So, what else were we to do but to go exploring?

We. Left. The. House.

I'm sure we started out in Christie's own front yard but at some point we ventured down the street to where it took a slight dip and a large amount of water had accumulated. It probably wasn't all that much water really, but to us it felt like a swimming pool.

A swimming pool that was in the middle of the street. 

In our pajamas we waded in that oversized puddle, splashed in it, stomped and danced. 

I don't remember feeling cold. I don't remember feeling afraid. I don't remember feeling at all that we were doing something naughty or dangerous. 

We felt glorious.

Eventually, it probably did start to get cold so we made our way back to her house but we couldn't let the opportunity to shower in a waterfall pass us by, so we finished up by standing underneath the downspout "washing" our hair and making sure that not one square inch of our little bodies remained dry.

It was at this point we were finally discovered.

You can imagine that Christie's mother was not nearly so enchanted by our Wonderful World of Water. Or the fact that two tiny girls were wandering around in the street at dawn.

I clearly remember seeing her mouth moving and arms waving as she rushed us inside and thinking, "What's wrong?!"

I know Christie thought the same thing because she and I have remembered and retold and regaled each other with this memory over and over for the past 40+ years. 

As mothers now, we find it equal parts horrifying and hilarious, but in general the hilarity wins out.

But in all the times I have recalled this story, I've never thought about it in terms of TRUST before.

Without question though, that's what we felt.

We trusted the world was safe.

We trusted each other.

We trusted our intuition and our instincts.

We trusted ourselves.

We trusted that when we were ready to go back home, it would be there.

And maybe, there was a small part of us deep down that knew we might get in a little bit of trouble for this...but we also had complete trust that we would be loved anyway.

It's never a surprise to me that Jesus says if we really want to enter the Kingdom of Heaven we have to become like children.

Dancing in the rain doesn't hurt either. 

In the laughter

My sister in law, Sarah, has got me hooked on the show Call the Midwife. I've been binge watching my way through the seasons and am up through the middle of Season 3. If I could, I would watch in all of my spare moments but I can only watch when I'm by myself because no one else in my family is quite as interested as I am in the lives of midwives and nuns in a poor neighborhood in London in the 1950's. They also seem to be a bit squeamish over highly realistic childbirth scenes.

Go figure. Cowards.

I've started having recurring dreams where I am either pregnant or have just given birth, and when I'm struggling with productivity and sloth (as I often do), I imagine Sister Evangeline giving me a stern and entirely necessary scolding, which usually gets me up off the couch. (Usually. Unless I'm in the middle of an episode in which case Sister Evangeline will have to wait.)

It's safe to say Call the Midwife has infiltrated every aspect of my life.

I'd go so far as to say the show has become my own personal Life Coach and that I follow its guidance as close to the letter as I can. Except for the bicycling. I'm too scared of Seattle traffic to start bicycling everywhere.

The other day I watched an episode where one of the main characters suffers a heartbreaking loss (no spoilers, I won't say who). She is struggling to find her footing in a world that no longer makes sense, when she receives some wisdom from an older woman who has fought her own battles with heartache.

In answer to what she is supposed to do now, how does she go on, what does she do next? The older woman says to her simply, "You just keep on living. You keep living...everyday...until you feel alive again."

Last night a bunch of us gathered together again. My CTMW-enabling sister in law and younger brother came into town to visit, which was as good a reason as any to pull together an evening of food and drink and conversation and hugging. (There is a lot of hugging these days. I'm not typically much of a hugger, but I'm coming around. I have to. It seems I can't stop these people.)

There was also laughter. Lots of laughter.

Sometimes I feel like I don't know how to explain the laughter. That if someone were looking from the outside in we would look more like a bunch of silly, party clowns than the bruised and battered tribe that we are.

And then I saw this quote today:

There are three things which are real: 

God, human folly, and laughter. 

The first two are beyond our comprehension, 

so we must do what we can with the third.

~Adapted from a Hindu poem 

We laugh because it's part of who we are, who we have always been, and who she was. 

To stop laughing would be to stop living. It would mean that we not only lost her, but that we turned our backs on her. The laughter is how we honor her and everything she gave us. 

Every time we have been together- noisy, full of food and wine, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen while the rest of the house stands empty- at some point someone has whispered to me, I swear I hear her. I swear I can hear her laugh. 

Every time.

And I say, I know. Me too. 

I don't know how she did it, but she brought all of these people together. And what a raggedy, eclectic bunch we are. 

But we know how to laugh.  

She taught us so very well. 

The CTMW enabler and Tracy going to battle in our annual $10 gift exchange.
I think they worked it out in the end. ;-)

Free at last

Something very exciting is happening this week.

I've been counting down the days and circling this date in red on my calendar.

The waiting and watching and wishing is almost finally over!

Drumroll please...

My six month Boot Camp gym membership expires this Friday!!!!

(Fireworks! Trumpets! A chorus of Hallelujahs!)

If that isn't enough to bust out some Martina McBride and sing Let Freedom Ring at the top of your lungs, I don't know what is.

The relief is palpable.

I want to be clear, a lot of people really like this gym. I liked this gym...at first. I wouldn't want anyone to not check out this gym because of my personal feelings. It's just... I realized after a few months of it, it's simply not for me.

It's not the exercise, don't get me wrong. I have been very committed to exercise in various forms for over two decades. I actually like to be active and feel healthy and fit. I have not stopped exercising since my attendance at this class progressively dwindled down to zero. I have just gone back to methods of working out that I know work better for me. Because you see, this class taught me something very important.

At forty-five-almost-forty-six there are some things I am not willing accept anymore in the name of fitness.

They are, in no particular order:

1. Burpees.

2. Sprinting up hills.

3. Burpees.

4. Push-ups on street corners.

5. Burpees.

6. Running outside.

7. Burpees.

8. Running, period (for any distance beyond the width of a tennis court).

9. Burpees.

10. Being scolded for talking too much to my friend because we are affecting the "focus" of others when the music is at approximately a gazillion decibels and no one can hear anything beyond a two foot radius. (Eye roll).

11. Burpees

I think by now you have picked up on my main hot button issue. Because the truth is, I would have probably stuck with it even with #'s 2, 6, 8 and 10 But #'s 1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 9, and 11 are non-negotiables.

There is really no greater indignity than the physical act of burpees. I will do planks, mountain climbers, push ups (just not on street corners), or squats until the cows come home (which could take a long time since I don't have any cows).

But burpees....shudder. 

Tell me to do 10 burpees in a row and you are risking eliciting something really scary from me. Like an icy stare. Or a dramatic sigh. Or visibly slumped shoulders and tears in my eyes. (I don't have much of a "scary" repertoire. Passive-aggressive is about all I can muster).

Still, it isn't pretty. Nor is me doing burpees.

So, that's it. My burpee days are done. And as God as my witness, I will never perform another burpee as long as I live. Even if I were to join some other class or gym or suddenly enlist in the military... I swear on Buddy the Elf himself that I will simply say, "No", should someone ever again try to tell me to hit the floor and crank out some burpees.

And if I have to, I'll top that off with a, "You can't make me."

'Cause you can't.

The future is here

When Ben and I bought our charming Magnolia bungalow 24 years ago..

(That's exactly what it was called on the real estate flyer.) (It still makes me laugh.)

....we found ourselves settling into a neighborhood perfectly suited to our personalities.

We had retirees all around us.

Even in our 20's we made good neighbors for old people. You won't hear a peep out of us after 8pm.

One of the oldest old people was our neighbor Alice. I swear she had to have been at least 85 the day we moved in and she was with us for at least another 12 years after that. She was sweet as pie and as we started producing children she was never happier than when she would spot me out with the baby while she was having her daily stroll.

And the thing is, for a woman her age and limited physical strength, her daily strolls were really more like a daily marathon. She would get out with her walker at least once a day, usually twice, and steadily spend the next 30 minutes pushing that contraption up the street and back. It was truly inspirational because it did not look easy.

But Alice always had a smile on her face.

She also always had a parka on. I do not mean a jacket, or a windbreaker, or a sweatshirt, or a raincoat. I mean a parka. This was true whether it was the middle of winter or smack dab in the heart and the heat of summer. In the winter she would don some extra layers with a warm hat, a scarf, gloves and boots, but whatever the temperature the blue parka was a given.

I would stand at the window and watch Alice make her way up the street and marvel at her blue parka and wonder how she was fairing in the 75 degree heat. I was often concerned about her but she never seemed to break a sweat during her jaunts so I had to concede that she must know what made her most comfortable.

One day as I was clucking away about Alice and her parka and whether I should go check on her and do-you-think-one-of-these-days-we-are-going-to-find-her-facedown-on-the-sidewalk... Ben looked up from the television and said simply, "You know that's gonna be you, right?"

I. Was. Speechless.

Well, I never. I mean, honestly. What kind of thing is that for a man to say about his spritely young bride in the prime of her life?!

The man should be a freaking fortune teller.

This was me today.

Now, let's be clear. It wasn't anywhere near 75 degrees out today. In fact, it barely hit 55. But...there were people playing tennis, and children were stripping their sweatshirts off at the playground, and I passed at least one person still wearing running shorts while out for a jog. This is the Pacific Northwest, people. No one takes cold weather seriously until it hits at least the low 40's.

And I was in a parka, a wool headband and mittens. I'm pretty sure it's a slippery slope from here.

Just call me Alice.

And it's true, I did overestimate the chilliness of the temperatures today and I probably could have removed some of my layers after getting warmed up on our walk. But then what would I have done?  I'd have had to carry all that stuff and that just seemed silly when it was easier to just leave it all on.

And, truth be told, I was perfectly comfortable. Cozy, you might say.

I didn't think it was too obvious that I was a bit over-dressed until a cute little boy, wearing nothing more than a long-sleeve t-shirt, approached and asked if he could pet my dog. As I started to say, "of course", I noticed his mom sort of waving him off and trying to hurry him along. Now my hearing isn't what it used to be (are you noticing a pattern?) but I could have sworn I heard that woman mumble something about "not bothering the old lady."

I'm kidding.

I think.

I really can't hear all that well.

So, I hope Ben is feeling pretty smug about his prediction lo those many years ago. Because he's the one who is stuck with me. And if I end up as much like Alice as I seem to be, I'm going to be around a loooong time.

Nice and cozy and warm.

As long as I have my parka.

The gift of laziness

It occurred to me that when I shared how I use October as a time to slow down and reflect, it may have sounded a bit noble and self-sacrificing. That in taking time for quiet and relaxation I am taking up the challenge to step out of the busyness and demands of life and boldly make this very counter-cultural choice. As if I am triumphantly taking a stand for simplicity and fighting against the inner compulsion to always do more, be more, and have more. I picture myself throwing off the shackles of ambition and perfectionism and instead daring to venture into the unknown lands of complacency and contentment.

I kind of wish that were true.

In reality, when I give myself permission to do less, seek quiet, read more, and rest, it's less like a personal challenge and more like the mothership is calling me home.

When I hear people say things like, "I prefer to be busy. I don't really know how to just sit and do nothing." I only hear the teacher's voice in Charlie Brown saying, "Waah, waah, waah, waah, waah..."

What is this language you speak? How can one not "know how to sit and do nothing?" I feel as though it is the very thing I was created to do. I can sit and do nothing like a BOSS!

People usually laugh when I tell them I am inherently lazy. I know they think I'm joking, and I understand why. I'll be the first to admit that my life does not have the outward appearance of being managed by a lazy person. I take great pride in that simply because it means that somehow I am managing to go forth most days keeping my slothful ways nicely tucked in and hidden under a veneer of competence and productivity. That feels like a pretty huge victory.

It always feels good when you can move about in public and safely assume your crazy isn't showing.

But seriously, I get it... I might not be lazy in the way most people think because in the end I always get done what needs to be done. I think the thing is that I am lazy but disciplined.

If I set an expectation for myself that my house needs to be tidied up and cleaned, then I will do just that. If I tell myself that some form of daily exercise is a non-negotiable, then I'll squeeze it in somewhere. If I declare that only savages would leave the dinner dishes sitting in the sink overnight, then I will muster the inner strength to restore the kitchen to an appropriate level of civility before retiring for the night.

I do these things out of a sense of discipline and because in spite of my internal desire to spend most of the day lying down, I do not actually want to live in squalor and on a diet of cold cereal and Doritos. (Okay, actually that sounds delicious. But, again, discipline....)

I make lists, lots of lists. And I take enormous pleasure in crossing things off those lists. Because you know what I get to do once everything is crossed off of my list?

Nothing.

And that is when I really shine.

My life mantra.

Stating the obvious

Look at Jack's poor, sad little Easter basket still sitting untouched and unappreciated. It's actually sad on two counts. Sad, that no one has dug into its contents and declared them wonderful. But perhaps even more sad is that out of all the Easter baskets my kids have had over the years, these tacky little nylon ones that I bought one year at a drugstore in Maui are the ones that have stuck. They are Annie's favorites and WOE to the Easter bunny that tries to put out the beautiful Longaberger basket my sister gave her when she was a baby. Nope, these bug-eyed, oddly sports-themed, why-didn't-they-fall-apart-years-ago little treasures are the ones that get pulled out every year. Their only saving grace is that they do, in fact, squash down flat which is certainly handy for storage purposes. And given that I refuse to employ more than one storage box for Easter decorations, that is actually a pretty big plus.

But back to Jack's sad little bunny....and his notable absence on Easter Sunday.

I knew he had to work in the afternoon and that he had worked late the night before Easter so that made the likelihood of seeing him sometime Easter morning, or at church, pretty slim. But, I didn't want him to think he'd been forgotten so when we hadn't seen him by 2pm I sent him a friendly text saying: THE EASTER BUNNY PUT A 48 HOUR HOLD ON YOUR BASKET BUT AFTER THAT ALL CONTENTS ARE UP FOR GRABS!

Wasn't that sweet?

This is the second year in a row that Jack has not been home on Easter. Last year, he was in Jamaica on a mission trip and this year he was....well, living like a college student. Turns out, when your child moves away from home, even just to live on campus, even a campus a mere five minutes from the threshold of his childhood home, he just isn't around as much. Huh. Who knew?

The truth is that we have been spoiled. Our firstborn chose to go to school close to home and we have gotten to see him a lot over his first year in college. But I've noticed that as the year has gone on we have seen him less and less. And this decrease in visits and laundry runs interestingly enough directly corresponds with his growing happiness and comfort level with his new home away from home. We see him less because he is happy. And as Mary Poppins would say, "That's as it should be." (which isn't particularly profound but when you hear it in that perfect Julie Andrews accent, it sounds really wise with just a touch of melancholy).

Although, in spite of his thriving independence, I'd be willing to bet that he will turn up at some point today to claim his goods. He has no idea what is in that bug-eyed-baseball-bunny basket but he for darn sure doesn't want to see it go to his brother.

I'm kind of thinking that maybe I will throw in few quick supplements to his basket. Not that the Easter bunny didn't do well, but clearly we aren't doing enough to entice this kid home on Easter morning. Maybe if he gets a plastic egg with a tempting wad of cash in it he will think twice about sleeping in and skipping the festivities next year. I mean, nothing says Easter like bribery and emotional manipulation, right?

Alright...maybe not.

Maybe I'll just let him go ahead and grow up. A little bit.

And I'll start strategizing with the Easter bunny for next year....

Easter Past...and before the ugly baskets

The key to his heart it seems...

Weep, weep...sob, sob....

Alliances

Years ago, when the boys were young, and I had just gone ten rounds with Timothy's superior circular reasoning as to why whatever it was I was mad at him about was completely justified/unjustified, I overheard the following conversation between my two sons:

Jack: I don't get it. Why don't you just apologize?

Tim: For what?

Jack: For whatever you did.

Tim: What did I do?

Jack: Whatever mom says you did that was wrong! 

Tim: I didn't do anything wrong.

Jack: But mom thinks you did and if you just apologize it will be OVER!

Tim: I'd be happy to apologize if I did anything wrong, but I didn't. So I won't.

Jack: Alright. But that is not the direction I would go.

I can't even remember anymore what it was that Timothy did that was wrong (he was probably being argumentative) but what I do remember is their conversation actually made me smile. It reminded me of two things; 1) My boys are SO different, and 2) They have a relationship that is separate from their shared role as our sons, they are brothers.

Over the years, I watched that brotherly friendship grow and change but it wasn't until they were in high school that I truly came to realize something. They were not only brothers, they were allies. And, every once in awhile, their common enemy was me.

Let me explain.

When Tim entered high school, Jack was a senior and thus drove them both to school. They had a 30 minute drive to and from school each day in which they sat side by side and presumably spoke words to each other occasionally. Their school is not gigantic and without a doubt they frequently saw one another in the hallways, at lunch and at school gatherings. During one term they even had an art class together and I came to find out later that most days they sat at the same large table together during said class. Jack would often give rides to Tim to and from his friend's houses and, again, I'm assuming that sometimes during those car rides they spoke to one another.

Do you see where I'm going with this? Are you getting that during that one year they had together in high school they actually spent quite a lot of time together? Yes?

Uh huh, but here is how conversations would go when every now and then I would try to innocently inquire about one brother to the other.

Me: Soooo....(casually) do you know if your brother is asking anyone to the dance?

Son: (without making eye contact) What? I don't know. Why would I know?

Me: Oh, I don't know I just thought maybe he would have said something to you?

Son: Me? Why me?

Me: Because you're his brother and you spend an hour together in the car everyday and you see him at school and I just thought that maybe you might know a little something about what goes on in his life?

Son: Nope.

LIES!!!! LIES!!!! LIES, I TELL YOU!!!

They know. They always know. They just won't tell me!!!

As infuriating as it was not to be able to get them to turn on one another and be the proper little spies I wanted them to be, I eventually had to admit (begrudgingly) that their loyalty was admirable. While I would have liked to have had a steady stream of information on their lives, and thought I might have been able to bribe at least one of them into being my informant, their tight-lipped, unyielding "know-nothing" schtick was commendable. I guess.

Not that they would ever admit there is a secret alliance between them. I mean, that's the whole point of a secret alliance, right? Nobody is supposed to know. And I've mentioned before that as amiable as my boys are with one another they would roll their eyes and immediately start punching each other if someone tried to suggest they are "friends". But as someone who has tried multiple interrogation tactics and hasn't been able to get one of them to break, there is no doubt some sort of unspoken non-aggression, mutual-defense treaty is in place.

But every now and then one of them lets something slip. Nothing that would qualify as top secret information or critical intelligence, but more of an unmistakable quiet admission that the alliance does in fact exist.

Jack was home doing laundry the other day and started to laugh about something he read on his phone. I inquired as to what was so funny and in an unguarded moment he just chuckled, shook his head and muttered,

Oh, it's just Tim....

And that was all I got. But it was enough. It was enough to know that even now that Jack lives out of the house and goes to college and has taken the concept of secret life to a whole new level, he is still in touch with his brother. And they are still making each other laugh.

That's all I got. But I'll take it.

Long live the alliance. (But I'm still hoping I can get one of them to crack...)

What?!?
(Can't you see how cagey they can be?)

Betrayal

I can't remember if I have ever gushed about my sister here?

No? Well, it's about time then. 

My sister is hands-down one of my favorite people in the whole entire Universe (the world is not big enough, I had to go with Universe just in case there really is life on other planets). 

It's not because she is perfect. Being perfect is not a requirement for being one of my favorite people. Thank goodness, since if it were no one living in this house could make the list, including me. 

It's not because she is smart, even though she is. 

It's not because she is beautiful, even though she is. 

And it's not because she can do actual, for-real, military-style pull-ups and therefore could snap me like a twig....even though she can....and it scares me a little. 

The #1 reason she is one of my favorite people in the whole entire Universe is because there are scarce few other people who know me like she does and, remarkably, she loves me anyway. 

I know...that's sweet. But I'm about to put that love to the test. 

You see, if there is one thing my sister and I agree on 100% of the time besides the irrefutable truth that eating raw cookie dough is worth a small case of salmonella poisoning, it is our dedication to Lazy Parenting. 

Let me explain, Lazy Parenting is not the same as neglectful parenting or love-less parenting. Don't judge us too quickly. It simply means that if there is a path of least resistance available, we are going to take it. 

Get out of bed to make the kids a hearty breakfast on a Saturday morning, OR, stay in bed and let them scrounge around for granola bars and string cheese? That one is too easy...

Offer to take the kids for a bike ride and picnic in the park, OR, make a big show of conceding to let them ride their scooters up and down the hallway (like you've done something really generous and cool) while you heat up some hot dogs and read your book? Uh huh. This is where we start to separate the over-achievers from...people like my sister and I.  

But even more important than the careful investments of time and energy you make within your own home are the ones you make outside your home. This is where it can get really dicey. 

Lazy Parents are very careful not to over-commit, over-promise, over-extend and over-volunteer lest they should pull a muscle or have to give up their favorite TV show. They are the Kings and Queens of the Sign-Up Sheet Shuffle. You keep moving around that table, pen poised, carefully reading every volunteer request and checking your calendar for dates, all with the hope that by the time you circle that table for the 35th time all of the jobs will have been filled. Oh, really? Shoot. 

It's an art form. My sister and I keep saying we are going to write a book titled The Lazy Parent's Handbook but, well, I think you know why that hasn't happened.

And given all of that...given our conscientious dedication to this important life philosophy...given that we perpetually refer to that fake book which we are never going to write...do you know what a Charter Member of the Lazy Parents Forever Club absolutely, positively, under no uncertain terms DOES NOT DO? 

She does NOT agree to be the Team Parent for the High School Soccer Team!!!!!

I'm so ashamed (and exhausted already and the season doesn't start for over 4 weeks). 

So, you can see why this is going to be a true test of my sister's loyalty and devotion. I'll understand if she can't see past this horrible lapse in judgment. Who could blame her? It's obviously indicative of some tragic, hidden character flaw. I can't even look at myself in the mirror. Sisterly love can only be pushed so far. 

I will understand if our daily texts and phone calls and accidental Facetimes dwindle to nothing in the wake of Soccergate 2014. Betrayal is a bitter pill to swallow. 

But I'll miss her. 

Just as soon as I have time to miss her....which will be sometime in May...maybe June. 

Did I mention this is a two year commitment? 

She shakes her head slowly in silent humiliation. 

We were so happy then...
Sigh...

Boxes and Labels

I have a friend who way-back-when worked as an organization development consultant (or something like that) for one of our big tech companies up here. I'm sure she was good at it because she is super smart. I'm also sure she was good at it because they ended up promoting her to the European division after which she and her family moved to Paris for several years where she did leadership training all over Europe and the Middle East. She is also one of the funniest, most magnetic people I know.

Anyway, about a million years ago, she and I were chatting and I was telling her about my tendency to start strong with things and then lose interest somewhere down the line and wish I'd never started the thing in the first place. I can't remember exactly what tiresome project/plan/organization I was referring to, but I must have been growing weary of something I'd agreed to.

She listened intently, nodding along very seriously. Then, in her bright, ever-optimistic way, she smiled widely and slapped me on the leg and said, "Well, that all makes perfect sense! You are an Initiator not a Sustainer!"

I stared at her silently for probably a full five seconds as I let this revelation settle in and then I burst out laughing. Hysterically.

I congratulated her for finding a way to put a pretty label on the reality that I am a lazy slacker with grand intentions who eventually wants everyone else to do all the work.

We laughed and laughed together with her assuring me that Initiators were every bit as valuable in the world as Sustainers, and me shaking my head and saying, "Uh huh. I'm sure that's how those dependable, reliable Sustainers look at it. Thanks a lot, Initiators. Don't worry about us as you flutter off to your next project, we'll keep this thing rolling..."

And even though that conversation was at least a million years ago, and was always something I remembered with great humor, I also never forgot it.

I catch myself evaluating different decisions I make, projects I start, committees I'm considering and thinking, "So, Lori...is this something you can sustain? Is it necessary to be able to sustain it? Do you want to?" Which are all really very good questions to ask of anything we are considering giving our time and energy to.

It also makes me look at my kids and quietly evaluate their tendencies. I have one that definitely exhibits a preference for Initiating things over Sustaining, one that shows all the signs of being a stalwart Sustainer, and one that is a little hard to tell. None of it changes how I relate to them or what I expect of them, but it's an interesting distinction to ponder.

Let me be clear, I don't really believe in boxing people into labels. I'm also certain my friend doesn't either and if I ever reminded her of this conversation she would probably say, "I said what?!?" And then we would laugh hysterically about it all over again. But I do think there is something to this. I do think there are people who are better at generating ideas and energy and enthusiasm, and there are people who are better at buckling down and keeping the day to day operations of things rolling along.

This blog is a good example of my struggles with Initiation vs. Sustaining. It's true I have Sustained the blog but I also have done a terrible job of sticking with the original intention behind its Initiation.

But here's the thing:

I completed high school, college and graduate school.

I've been happily married for 21 years.

I have one friend whom I've known since infancy and two others since preschool. We are still very connected to one another and have been long before the advent of Facebook.

I just returned from a reunion with some of my college girlfriends (for those keeping count, that would have been 20+ years ago). We do these reunions every other year and they only get more and more fun. We pick up right where we left off every time.

I talk to my sister and my cousin (who is like a sister to me) almost daily.

My house is reasonably tidy (but please don't stop by unannounced).

I have been in my Director of Children's Ministry position for two years now and I have no interest in stepping away anytime soon.

If I do agree to see a project through, I really will (it might just happen in the 11th hour).

Last time I checked, I never stopped being a mom for the past 18+ years.

So...what's my point?

Maybe I'm a Selective Sustainer? (I just created my own new group functioning term, I hope my friend is impressed). Maybe I am more than capable of sustaining the things and relationships that really matter but anything else has to be weighed against the energy I'm already pouring out. Maybe I recognize there is only so much of me to go around so I keep a handful of things in the "Sustain Permanently" column and everything else goes in the "Sustain Until I No Longer I Have the Energy" column. Actually, I'm pretty sure there is a third column titled, "Avert Your Eyes, Keep Your Head Down and Do Not Agree to One More Thing". That third column is a biggie.

So, that's what I'm going with. I am both an Initiator AND a Selective Sustainer. I will not be contained by labels and boxes. I am going to be like a human Venn Diagram with a foot in each circle. I am the embodiment of "and/or"and a living oxymoron.

I'm such a rebel.

Just don't ask me how the Great Bedroom Switcharoo Project is coming along...

Low-drama Mama

The other night Annie and I were having one of our many, many, many chats about school and friendships and the trials and tribulations of navigating both. Inevitably the conversation drifted toward a discussion about "friend drama" and we ended up talking about what it means to be "dramatic" versus what it means to just express your feelings.

It's a fine line, don't you think?

Anyway, it was a lighthearted conversation and not particularly angst-filled so at one point I leaned in close to Annie and teasingly said, "Do you know who my most dramatic child is?"

Without blinking or missing a beat, Annie looked me straight in the eye and said flatly...

"Tim."

She's catching on, that girl. I think she's gonna be okay.

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The last time I felt really sad about one of my kids taking the next inevitable step in life was when Timothy was graduating from pre-K. He was my baby then and we had been trying for over a year to have another baby so I had a lot of emotions about seeing my littlest taking the next big leap forward. But considering that was 10 years ago now, and given the fairly significant extenuating circumstances, that should give you some indication of my approach to seeing my kids moving upward and onward.

I have never cried a single tear when one of my kids started preschool, Kindergarten or any other grade.

Even when we forced Jack and Tim to change schools in the 8th and 5th grade respectively, and they were upset and nervous and sad about the change, I sent them off to their new school that first day with nary a tear.

When we had our baby, little Annie, change schools a month into her Kindergarten year I dropped her off with butterflies in my stomach but dry eyes.

Now, lest you think I'm cold-hearted, it's not that I didn't have heartfelt, conflicted emotions around all of those events. I prayed mightily for my boys that our decision to change schools would prove wise in the long run. I watched my little girl walk into that new, big school and part of me wanted to run after her and whisk her right back home with me.

But, at the end of the day, as much as there is always part of me that wishes I could slow the hands of time, there is a bigger part of me that sees how ready they are to take that next step. Sometimes more than ready. And life has taught me that holding them back would not only be futile but potentially disastrous. Because my experience is that when a kid is ready for more, leaving him in a place that is stifling him is only asking for trouble.

Anyone who knows me well knows I have many sad feelings about our first child leaving the nest. I don't think anyone can blame me for feeling nostalgic and wistful about such a major life event. But when people talk about tears at graduation or when we drop him off at college, I honestly cannot predict what will happen. I keep telling Superdad to be prepared for anything. I could sail through his graduation with smiles and cheers and nothing more than tremendous pride (and relief), or I could be a torrent of embarrassing, ugly, snot-filled sobbing.

I wish I knew.

I do know though that he is ready. Not ready for every single thing that is going to come his way from this point forward. None of us are ever wholly ready for every eventuality life can throw at us. But he is ready to be done with high school. He is ready to test those wings out in bigger skies, with a smaller safety net. He's starting to chafe against the restraints that are a necessary part of keeping high schoolers in line and teachers sane. And he's ready to trade those restraints for the responsibility that comes with owning your own decisions and your mistakes.

I have seen a lot of kids making some questionable choices as they approach the finish line and as an adult it is so hard not to want to scream at them and ask, "Why are you doing this? You are almost done! Can't you just get through a few more weeks??"

They are acting like children because they are dying not to be anymore.

They remind me of race horses penned into the starting gate. The agitation is palpable. They are straining at the bit and the reins attempting to keep them contained. They prance in place, knowing they can't move forward yet but all of their pent up energy won't allow them to be still. All of their attention and focus is centered on the freedom that they know is coming but is not here yet.

Which is why I don't know that there will be any tears at my son's graduation.

I will be proud and exuberant and yes, a little relieved...but I don't know that I will be sad.

He's so ready.

And as much as I love that boy and will miss a thousand things about having him in our home on a daily basis.

I really am excited for him.

P.S. So, just hold on a few more weeks, son... You are almost there. Just coast to the finish line, Buddy. We are rooting for you all the way.

Kindergarten