And She's Off!

I'm wiped out.

It was a very late night, or rather, early morning.

A restless 9 year old battled bouts of anxiety and excitement until at least 2 AM as her mind raced about the upcoming trip to Grandma's house.

Sans parents.

While she finally slept.  I didn't.

It wasn't that I was particularly nervous for Harper's week-long adventure in Ocean City with my parents, but rather, my own mind battled missing her.

Yes, the week away is giving me some more one on one time with Zane:  an uninterrupted play-date with his best Beaver pal, art class, plus a few other tricks I have up my sleeve, but having Harper take off alone is the first step in her developing an independence - that I want her to have - and yet, don't.

She was so ecstatic as she met me bedside this morning to hug and kiss me goodbye, "Mommy, we're leaving for the airport now."

Wow.

And then there was the email I got later in day describing how her first plane "took forever" to leave the runway.

But an email just wasn't going to cut it for me.

By 8 PM, I had to hear her voice.  She sounded amazing.

Amazingly old.

And then, she showed me just how much her family means to her.

"Mommy, put Zane on. I need to talk to Zane."

I overheard bits and pieces of their conversation.  She asked if he was having fun and what he did today (he was stripping the stairs with George) and then responded by telling him how cool it was that he was helping Daddy with the stairs.

See, he cried in his room this morning when he realized she wasn't home when he woke.  He also had a hard time comprehending how Dad was able to drive my mom and Harper all the way to Ocean City and make the return trip by the time he woke up.  The entire morning confused him.

Harper knew Zane would be sad, for they hang out together every morning before I wake up, and thus she made a point of making sure she spoke to him this evening.

I love that they love each other.

This is Harper's first trip away without us.  It is so important for her.  It is so important for us.  It's just mind boggling to me that we are at this age.  The age at which we've begun discussing human development, problems with friends, and the all too familiar "what makes me nervous" discussions.  So far, we have managed to create a very open atmosphere of communication, where every question deserves an answer - even if it freaks me out to have to answer.

There's that tug of wanting to continue holding my baby, and wanting her to branch out.

Today was a pretty long branch for my girl.

And I am very proud of her.

For The Birds

Who would have thought that a trip to the National Aviary would produce this type of reaction from my all creatures great and small lovin' daughter?

Well, apparently, she does not like birds.

It took one low flying swoop to send my girl into a panic of Hitchcock proportions.

Are you seriously asking if I'm being dramatic?

Of course I am!

That's not to say there wasn't panic. Oh, there was panic all right. Not getting trapped in a phone booth type of panic, but rather, locate the nearest exit and vacate the habitat as quickly as possible panic.

Upon leaving the building, Harper wouldn't even go near the pigeons. Pigeons. Even Bert loves pigeons. How will I ever take her on my dream mother/daughter vacation to London, and specifically Trafalgar Square, if she's experiencing ornithophobia?

If anyone should have been traumatized, it should have been me! I was the one who got pooped on! (Just the arm - don't freak out on me - I got a free button to wear as proof).

Zane? Bird-maestro. He, who usually can't stand loud noises, endured the squawks of the Lories in order to feed them a small cup of nectar purchased by sucker-mom for $3.00. He was enthralled.

Harper? Not so much.

You can cross squawking and swooping birds off her desired list of Pittsburgh activities.

You won't hear me yapping all my best bird phrases any time soon. The mere mention of birds gives her the shivers. No a bird in the hand . . . or the early bird gets the worm . . . or birds of a feather flock together . . . nope.

Ducky. Just ducky.

Really Tall Stuff

Harper used to be fearful of new things.

Apparently, she has scaled that mountain.

On July 4th, she took on a 25 foot climbing wall outside Heinz Field in Pittsburgh.

The last time she attempted a climbing wall was last October at the First Focus retreat. I was totally excited to see her attempt something as new as this back then.

This time, I was completely dumbfounded at how she attacked the hurdle. On her first try, she got half way, turned to look down (not helpful at all), freaked a bit, and lowered herself to the ground.

Not to be outdone by the kid next to her, so got back on and began climbing again. Just a third of the way left, she exclaimed, "I can't do this! It's too hard!"

We told her she was fine and that she COULD do it.

And she did. This photo shows her clinging with her right hand, while swinging over to hit the buzzer with the left.

At which point, the crowd broke out into cheers.

"That felt good" was her response - to both the task and the encouragement from the crowd.

She's not scared of heights, as say, George is. High places don't stump her sense of courage. So, the actual 25 feet of the climbing wall was not a foe to her.

For Harper, the "height" is her ability to believe and thus lean into the truth that God did not give her a spirit of timidity, but rather, one of power, and love, and self-discipline.

We all have fear of something taller than us.

Harper has only recently begun conquering her fears that paralyzed her from trying anything new for years. After some good work in her life by God, us, family, friends, and professionals, she has broken quite a few of the plaster shells that engulfed her from ages 4-7. If you were to meet her today for the first time, you would never believe that this was a child who used to be plagued by anxiety.

Zane has just begun confronting his "heights". A new town. A new home. A new room. New friends - who don't yet feel like real friends even though they are nice as can be . . . how can you really replace a Schuyler, Will, Jonny, Brady, Dmitry, Zachary, or Alex?

This change has been monumental in his little life. A big, giant-like change, with Zane looking up at the monster and exclaiming, "I don't like you." Everyday is different for the little guy. Time to teach him about David and Goliath.

Today he played in the pool for hours, just paddling away ALL BY HIMSELF while wearing his bubble. I wasn't even in the pool with him (yes, I was close by), for I needed to give him the sense that he could conquer those things which have, in the past, made him nervous. Swimming, being one of them. With the help of Harper, and our 11 year old neighbor, Zane became quite comfortable in the water, scooting here and there with a huge smile glued to his face.

It exhausted him. He is now quietly playing lego's in the buff.

He has also started gymnastics. He is attentive in class, enthusiastic, and shares that he "could do the rings all day long." At the first class he wanted nothing to do with the beginning stretches, and stood to the side drawing pretend circles on his palm with his finger, which is his non-verbal way of communicating anxiety. At the second class he did every ounce of the class, and came bounding out afterwards yelling, "I did it all! I did the whole class!"

He is climbing his own walls. Takin on his own really tall stuff. And he too, in an attempt to reach the top, will experience a moment (or two) of intense fear and regret, will want to give up, and yet, force himself to hang on and hit the buzzer.

We're not waiting for the buzzer, however. We're already cheering him on.

Have I shared lately how much I love my children?

Z-lion

My little Z-lion is a bundle of nerves these days. I've made mention that he is having a tougher time adjusting to our move than Harper, which has just completely shocked us. In the beginning, he was asking when we were going home, and most recently he has communicated fear that he won't make any friends. At least he's talking about it.

Today was the first day he verbalized, "Mommy, I am too nervous to go in there," in reference to reading time at the library. The program is fantastic and includes reading and some songs.

Both my kids have NEVER enjoyed group music classes once they reached 3 years old.

So, as the kids began the opening song, which was just a silly version of the Wheels on the Bus (which was cute) Zane would not stand up and practically crawled under the chair to hide. I decided to remove him from the situation, as he was so uncomfortable, and take him to choose books. It was when we got into the stacks that he wailed, "I'm so nervous!" It was a real, guttural cry. As a parent you begin to distinguish cries. He was a wreck.

This hasn't been the first time. We tried class last week and the same thing occurred, but I held on through the craft section and Harper even came in to sit with him on the floor, as otherwise he'd be on my lap the entire time. She was an incredible help.

Today, she offered to buy him a prize with her earned Book Bucks ("money" redeemed for prizes each time you read a certain amount of books), which really cheered him up. Quite impressive, my dear Harper.

What's funny, is that I would think that in anxious situations, the first thing to slip would be potty training. Nope. We've not had one problem. Even at night. Perhaps he realizes that this is the one thing he can truly control right now.

He has asked about taking gymnastic class, so George brought him to a trial class tonight. I got a call about 20 minutes in. Now I was the one nervous to answer the phone.

"He didn't want to participate in the stretching, but once the tumbling started he was all about it. He learned how to do a back flip on the rings, and even offered to straighten out the mat for the other kids when it got crooked."

I told Harper that Zane actually participated in something and she got so excited. We waited for him on the front the porch and then cheered as they drove up.

Zane got out, all smiles, yelled, "I LOVED IT!" and proceeded to show me a forward roll ON THE SIDEWALK!

Ouch.

He was ok.

His new friends who live behind us came by and he stopped. Immediately.

"I don't want anyone watching me."

Uh-oh.

Guess where I've heard that before?

She was once 4 years old.

I may have to go back and read my own blogs to see how to and how not to proceed should he share a certain personality trait with his sister. Good thing I've kept a history. I wrote much about Harper, but even as I start to look back at Zane, I recall that he hasn't taken a liking to group stuff (with kids - wouldn't do the Skokie library kids program without clinging to my side), and can't stand places where there are crowds and tons of noise. His SLC class had 12 kids and 3 teachers and was very structured. Gymnastic class had 5 kids. At his new Sunday School (which was a bit of a struggle) he talked about one boy.

He's a small group type of kid. As is Harper.

I can't wait to attend the gymnastic class with him next week and am so very glad he found an activity that is fun, builds confidence, and one which he expressed delight!

Stay tuned tomorrow as I share how Harper read books to a seeing eye dog tonight. Ishtar, a black lab, comes to the library on Tuesday nights, and Harper signed up to read to him. It was right up her alley.

Blinking

I was an avid journal keeper until just after I had children. I enjoyed the process of searching for the perfect blank journal, and then sitting in a coffeehouse every morning with my cup, bagel, and pen in order to hand write my thoughts during restful moments of quiet before heading off to work. I believe I spurred on many Trinity gals to the joys of keeping a journal. I pray that these women have continued the discipline.

I suppose my blog is now my journal. It just feels different - almost too easy. There is something so very immediate about the process of writing electronically as opposed to using a bound blank book and a pen for means of documenting personal reflection and contemplation: The ability to get one's thoughts out so quickly, to reread and edit, the ease of sharing so openly, and having an "audience", to name a few. I can get over the fact that I now have difficulty hand writing my thoughts, as I am genuinely thankful for this new outlet. I also know that if I waited for the moment when the timing would lend itself to returning to keeping a handwritten journal, I would pen absolutely nothing.

That, and, with no Cuppa Jo all of you would be bored.

My opinion on blogging is very different than my opinion about scrap booking. For I am actually planning on having my blog digitally reproduced and bound into hard copy volumes for my children. The handwritten journals they will have to fight over. This is definitely a long range goal, as I have almost 8 years of blogging to cut, paste, and transfer to a site that can reproduce it for me. I call this process, "Beaver To Do List: Number 1 - bind the blogs".

One of my coolest entries during my journal keeping years was when God gifted me with the ability to see his good works "blink by blink". It became my buzz phrase with the college girls I was disciplining at the time. I know we all talk a good talk about seeing God's good works and blessings in our lives, and yet, I was finding that some women, myself included, were overlooking the seemingly tiny good works and blessings that God was doling out, resulting in heavy feelings of discouragement and abandonment. The ability to recognize, and feel, and taste His presence was trumped by the need to see something "big". Thus, His morsels of grace were easily missed, as the tendency to search for and notice only the large visual chunks overshadowed His awesome presence.

However, through writing, I had learned for myself, that I would benefit from a walk with Jesus that gave value to the "blink by blink" moments which even though small, were incredibly powerful and sustaining. And thus, I went on a campaign to promote such thinking in the lives of the students with whom I worked, always challenging them to take a second and third and fourth look at their situations, knowing that by doing so, they too, would find a glimmer of hope and God's hand during blinks.

Recognizing God in "blink by blink" moments:

• Reminds me of God's immediacy in my life down to the millisecond
• Reminds me of His constant communication with me
• Reminds me of His love for me by gifting me with several moments of His embrace throughout my day

And this is why, even today when I am completely weary from having slept maybe one hour last night due to being in the grips of worry, that I still know and can state with confidence, with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength that my God has a road map for me and my family. He's mapped it. I know this. I am thankful that He is using my very own writings from years ago, to remind me of the truths He has built into my life. For while I am looking for the big blessing of the house being sold, I would benefit from noticing, pointing out, and sharing the "blink by blink" moments that he has gathered and showered upon me. Daily.

Recently, during the opening of the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center (right here in Skokie), Elie Wiesel (whose charity lost $15.2 million and his entire life savings to Bernard Madoff) made a quote encouraging us to enjoy the moments of life, rather than the days of life, as life is made up of moments. When I find the actual quote, I'll add it here - as I'm not doing it justice.

So true is this. Both our walks with God, and the dailiness of life are made up of moments (blinks). Perhaps I've gone a bit micro-manager when it comes to walk/running this desert marathon, but if I only keep my eyes on the finish (how much further, its location, what it looks like, when I'll get there, what kind of free food there will be), I will miss the important moments along the way. The cups of water being handed to me for re hydration, the running buddy who can distract me from the physical pain by chatting with me, and the cheers from encouragers and supporters along the path.

Will you join me in seeing God during the "blink by blink" moments of your day?

Blink. Even the tiniest of blessings are huge.

The Atkins Fight Back

We are fighting the dark side.

The car.

Humana.

But it's not the actual situations that fatigue me. Things break down all the time. There are always bills to pay. I'm not one to expect smooth sailing. And while I'm not altogether stressed about the actual situations themselves, as I believe that ultimately they will be repaired, I must be honest and say that I awoke feeling low this morning over the prospect of the time it takes to remedy situations such as these.

I'm straight-up done putting any more energy into the car and Humana.

See, what is wearing me down is the time I've already given and will have to continue to give to these issues.

Waiting an hour for a tow. Getting the car home. Getting the car towed back to our mechanic on Monday morning. Reworking Harper's ride for school on Monday. Figuring out how I am to get to work, and Zane to school, on Monday since George needs to be on a train at 7:00 AM to head downtown for his ordination class. Finding a replacement vehicle (although, props to Angie, who has offered me a car). It's the mental gymnastics that I have come to abhor. The mental gymnastics that I must endure due to someone else's mistake . . . yeah, I know, that sounds really self-centered. But, it's true.

The car was not repaired correctly back in July. That was 6 months ago. Humana has been jacking me around since February. February. You do the math.

It's the phone calls to Humana (that average 45 minutes a call) in the middle of the day - at least once a week, each time receiving different and contradictory reasons as to why my claims are denied every time I call. No wonder we mothers also give birth to the ability to multitask when we deliver children into the world. Do you really think we wear those telephone headsets around the house to look cool or because we secretly harbor the desire to look like Madonna in concert? No, we wear them so that we can actually prep dinner, put laundry away, and straighten a bathroom, all while staying on hold with Humana.

It's hard when you feel that your time is being taken from you . . . sure, I understand that we all waste time. I am a huge time-waster. But, with these situations I feel as if my time is being taken from me and I have no choice but to continue fighting back. And I'm tired of fighting back. I just want to move on.

We're home bound today and the kids are doing marvelously. Thankfully. They spent the morning playing Star Wars - not on Wii - no, they actually played Star Wars. Harper was Darth Vader. Zane, Bobafett. A snip-it of the dialogue went something like this:

"Bring me Obi One and the young Luke Skywalker. I want them brought back here alive!"

"What about-"

"Don't interrupt me! Find the droids and kill them, but bring me the jet pack (?). Also, Jabba. I want him brought here alive."

Zane did as he was told and I found him in the family room attempting to lift an imaginary Jabba to bring back to Lord Vader. He was grunting. Jabba is quite large. And slimy.

They also played Peter Pan.

They are being rewarded with The Empire Strikes Back.

I did a Peapod Order. If I'm able to get a car today then I can always cancel it and run to the store. However, it is nice to think about someone delivering my groceries to me before 8:00 am tomorrow morning, even with the added expense. An expense we don't have. No, it's not the cheapest choice. But it is a time saver to be sure.

And right now, I want my time.

Desperate Plea

At the risk of having my 1999 Subaru Forester morphed into some suped up speed machine, I am putting the call out to these guys, and gal, from Overhaulin', to save my car.

My car, whose transmission blew this afternoon.

The transmission which was previously replaced in July. And then repaired again in September.

If you are a faithful reader I don't even need to link you back to the events of this summer. For you, this is like a bad film sequel: Transmission III: Stranded at Walgreen's.

I am numb.

And now I'm really not sure how to get the grocery shopping done that still hasn't happened since my run in at Aldi's.

So, I'm boldly putting out the call to the Next Food Network Star and Overhaulin'. I could use some meals for the freezer along with that transmission.

Thanks. I'll just wait here, trapped in my house. I'm the one sitting in the front window learning how to play my pink electric so that I can drown out my troubles with very loud songs.

Oh, and did I fail to mention that I got a few more bills from Humana today, denying some claims for Harper? Is there a show called,

We'll Fight Your Insurance Company For You, So Just Sit Back, Relax, and Let Us Take it From Here, Because You've Spent Way Too Much Time Attempting to Reach Someone Who Can Give You a Straight Answer As To Why They Won't Pay?

No? There should be. Time to pitch that one to the network. Though the title probably needs a little more work.

Cue primal scream.

Village? A Little Help Here . . .

There's kind of an unspoken rule at the playground.

Or so I thought.

I have always believed that when at the playground, one doesn't only keep a lookout for their own kid, but also the well being of other children.

If a kid trips at your feet, you help them up.

If a child can not find their parent, you assist.

If a little one is about to run into the path of moving swing, you either physically stop the swing, or the child - whichever you can reach more quickly.

I've been attempting to open my circle a bit by getting out to parks with Zane more frequently and striking up conversations with mother's and/or nanny's I've never met. As I have found that way too often I have met a new parent and shared a quick chat without ever really properly introducing myself.

Today, I had the good fortune of bumping into a parent who had taken my toddler tunes class with her daughter. She introduced me to her friend and we began a conversation about music classes in the area. I glanced over to see Zane playing with a broken branch - climbing it, etc. It was big enough for climbing, having been broken from a nearby tree during last Saturday's storm.

I wrote the name of an area music class that I would recommend on the back of my card and handed it to the mom I had just met for the first time, and then looked up to see that Zane was no longer on the branch. I turned. Turned again. Spun in a circle.

I couldn't find him.

I began jogging back and forth, glancing every which way.

I couldn't find him.

My two friends immediately branched out. The park was crawling with children, parents, and Nanny's, so I was certain that he was still in the area and that I just couldn't see him, but the painful fear that struck my core was almost paralyzing. An inner mantra of "Find him. Find him. Find him," ran on a continual loop as I realized that I needed help. So, I stood in the middle of the playground and yelled loudly, "Everyone! I can't find my son. Please start yelling, Zane!"

My two friends continued looking. A Nanny began to look. And the others?

They looked up. And then looked back down. No one else moved.

A dad even chuckled and apathetically "hollered" Zane's name.

I'm running back and forth, in and out of equipment, and up and down ladders, while the world just goes on.

Oh. My. God. Help me. Jesus. Please. I can't find my boy.

Finally, one of my friends said, "There he is! He's in that tree".

And sure enough, my son, dressed in brown's and sage green (brilliant fashion choice for a fall day), was in a tree - not very high - not even out of the playground vicinity, but definitely camouflaged by the brown bark and greenery of the tree. I doubt he could see or even hear the three of us running around and yelling . . . he was having too much fun and there was a lot of other playground noise to drown us out. It wasn't even a situation where I could scold him. He was completely in range. I just couldn't see him.

My friend came over.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. But I feel like my heart was just ripped out of my chest".

Pause.

She continued. Softly.

"Why didn't anyone else stop and help you?"

"I don't know. I just don't know."

I thanked her.

I turned around and very pleasantly, (although I was seething), announced, "Um, thanks everyone! We found him. It's all good!"

But it's not all good.

The playground is where we encourage our children to try new challenges. It's where imaginations turn tunnel-slides into boats, or in Zane's case, into a dog crate at the pet store. It's even the place to climb a tree. It's one of the developmental hot spots for children. It's their scene! It's also a tiny village: a gathering place for parents or caregivers and their children. It's where we teach our children to play nicely, take new risks, share, take turns, and respect others. Collectively. Parents working together.

I think we adults may need a refresher course in the village mentality.

And I'll be dressing Zane in bright primary colors for our next park outing.

Ike and Tina

"We're in trouble!"

This is how George woke me up this morning while he furiously began to throw on shorts.

This, after I had finally slept peacefully the night before after dealing with a popped si joint that I kicked out of place on Wednesday as I was lifting Zane.

"What?" I had no idea that the rain that had begun last night, had continued throughout the entire night, flooding our street and backing up the drain outside our basement. It was 7:00 am and water was coming in our basement door.

You know what? The si joint mishap was irritating enough. Having it worked on and put back into place by a brilliant PT at Athletico was interesting, and yet, not completely comfortable. Inflaming the area a second time for which I blame my frisky husband, was unfortunate. Put your eyes back in your socket - no cheap thrills here - this is a clean site. George just tried to be all manly by coming home from work and picking me up to swing me around romantically. It was a lovely gesture. Poor timing, but lovely. And thus, it didn't quite illicit the response George was going for.

I screamed in pain. He apologized. Several times.

Scrapbooking with my cropping gals from 6:30-11:30 last night with a stiff back was fun and took my mind off of the fact that I needed help putting on my pants yesterday and couldn't pick items off the floor. And upon getting home at midnight, I was just looking forward to snuggling down into bed and sleeping in a bit.

It is now 9:30 PM. The rain only stopped about an hour ago.

We finished, well, George finished ripping up the majority of the carpet and padding in our basement - leaving a few sections that could wait until tomorrow. We then hauled everything outside, mopped, cleaned the couch (as Scout kept running in and out during the process giving the room the delightful aroma of wet dog), AND patched some holes behind the stove in the kitchen, as there has been some activity in that vicinity over the past couple of nights . . . of the small, furry, beady eye variety. Think: "If You Leave a Mouse a Cookie". As, apparently, I did.

Good thing I don't let the kids watch TV during the week. They had their fill today. I didn't bat any eye.

Props go out to our neighbors, who while watching George keep guard at the back door while sitting on a bench with a snow shovel which he used to bail the back up, came and helped us push back the pool of water on our lawn. Then, with the use of a boat pump, we were able to clear the drain.

It wasn't the Saturday I had intended to have. But, we all worked together. Our basement is fine. The furniture is fine. Nothing damaged other than carpet. We'll go with area rugs from now on. Several friends of ours weren't so lucky. Our basement remodel was nothing compared to what I was hearing from others in the area.

In no way do I mean to escalate our minor frustration and hassle to the level of Ike's wrath.

I have, however, given a name to our little storm.

Tina.

Decisions, Decisions?

This is me.

Well, this was me until I announced to a table of 10 people on my 39th birthday that I would choose not to approach 40 in fear.

It's not that I'm scared about the age 40, as I don't even feel 30, so my fear is not an aging thing. And come on. Let's face it. I have great skin. ;)

The fear that I own is a fear that I've had all my life, boxed up in the basement of my "house".

It's the fear of truly "going for it". The fear of really committing to a goal, attacking that goal, and fighting for that goal. Why? Because of the risk of failing at that goal. Yep. I said it. The very cliche "fear of failure" excuse.

In college, I decided not to go for a theater degree due to this fear.

After college I never really sought a job in video production due to this fear.

The one thing I didn't approach fearfully was marriage to George, and ironically enough, he is the one who is constantly encouraging me not to make decisions based upon fear. Go figure.

I defininitely have that "fear of failure" obstacle hanging out in my yard.

And yet, there is another.

Part of my not pursuing a full-time career in coaching or casting is due to being overwhelmed by this fear and thus being left without the energy to completely engage all my efforts into securing a role in that world. Well, that, and the fact when I think back to all the shows I've directed and classes that I've taught, and children that I've coached, I am overcome with a feeling of exhaustion.

I spent years teaching children and directing theater. I directed and choreographed my first musical at Trinity without knowing what I was doing, being so filled with anxiety and the desire to do an incredible job that I even found myself sleepwalking through the process. Just ask George, who watched me walk into doors and would find me choreographing in the dead of night. I gave those productions my all, while awake and asleep (in fact several bits of choreography literally came from dreams). Interestingly enough, however, these years of directing, were all before I had children, and thus a time in my life when I could throw every fiber into the job. Now, when I think about doing that again, I just feel tuckered out. And, yes, scared that I could never muster it up again.

So, now there are two obstacles invading my property: fear of failure and fatigue.

Now, I'm at another crossroad. I've already conquered the writing fear by pursuing the current part-time writing gig that I have. I feel completely unqualified for the position, but I am learning the ropes as I go.

And this past weekend, Mary Kay stared me right in the face. (Well not Mary Kay in a literal sense. That would be darn right creepy). Now, I'm not one to get all caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm that seeps out of every pore of the Mary Kay world. It's a positive world, that's for sure. But, make no mistake, I'm not in a "pink bubble", nor do I drink "pink kool-aid". I can not be swayed to manufacture emotions in order to be a part of the moment. I'm not much of a follower in that regard. Hmmm . . . Harper and I are seeming more and more alike these days.

I was able to attend Seminar with a very clear head. My goal? To see a bigger picture of the company and to figure out, on my own, without influence from those who seem to know what my goals should be and want to communicate them to me, why I have been shrugging off the idea of becoming a Sales Director. All weekend I was asked, "So, what's your next goal?" to which I would answer, "Team Leader". Which was quickly countered with, "How about becoming a Director?" or "Next year I'd loved to see you here in the Director suit." However, I didn't want anyone to tell me their goals for me. Like Dorothy, (yep, that's an "Oz" reference), who figured it out in the end, I too needed to find my goal, on my own, and claim it for my own. Anything else and the goal wouldn't truly be mine, but rather just an expectation, developed and fashioned by someone else, to which I would feel an obligation to live up to.

And yes, I did come to the conclusion that I would like to be a Sales Director. I came to realize that I am my worst obstacle . . . for no one in my life has ever fed me the idea that I would fail and this feeling of fatigue is a fairly new development over the past few years, and quite frankly, irritating. Nope, both of these obstacles have been taking up residence in my brain for far too long and are utterly useless to me. G'bye.

I was trying figure out last night, after a Color 101 Thank You party that I hosted for consultants and their guests, why I feel compelled to fight for moving up in this company and not with the acting coaching or casting.

The answer came to me in a flash. Or, as George would put it, a "blinding flash of the obvious". I feel pretty strongly that my days on stage are done. I don't say that mournfully. I just mean that if, (and that's a heavy if), I go back to performing, it will definitely be later in life when the kids are older, as right now, in our current phase of life, the time commitment for such a life is counter to what I want for our family. I want to be here. I want to be present. I don't always do a great job on the home front and I lose my patience, and I don't clean the place everyday and I'm addicted to blogging, but I'm here. All day, and after school through dinnertime. For the first time in a few years, I am home for dinner. I may not cook dinner and I may drive everyone in this house completely crazy, but I'm home. And I want to be home. To many, this may sound like a cop out; to give up on a talent and skill that is deeply embedded in the structural make up of who I am. But . . . as I realized last night, I am not giving up that talent and skill. A Ha!

Last night, I stood in front of a room full of women, some customers, some consultants, and realized that I am using those same talents that I perfected for the stage. Public Speaking, Motivation, Communication, Humor, Listening, Timing, Entertainment. I stand up in front of women every week presenting Mary Kay. I use a script (my flipchart) which I very skillfully use as a tool while interjecting my own improvisation through the presentation. I'm committed to the product, so I'm not merely selling, but rather sharing my enthusiasm. I have to be engaging, or the "audience" will tune out, etc. What do I want? Well, I'd love for everyone to purchase! But, I've also found that some women are interested in becoming consultant's themselves, which leads to my being able to help educate, motivate, and celebrate other women!

For years, I've been teaching these skills to youngin's, without having the opportunity to use them for myself! These are the very skills that my soul longs to use everyday! Mary Kay has afforded me the ability to "perform", albeit not a character, but, well, hopefully you get it.

Mary Kay's theme for 2009 is THINK big, WORK smart, SHINE on. Or, THINK, WORK, SHINE, 2009. Catchy.

I accept.

I can either decide not to decide to move onward and upward, thus remaining stuck and stagnant in my fear of failure and fatigue, or I can take a step forward, while using the talents and skills that I have worked to perfect as an actress, only now, as a Sales Director with Mary Kay.

So, I have decided to Think like a Director. I will Work in order to become one. And I will Shine at the end of the Mary Kay year when I've become one.

Geez, just writing it makes me fearful and fatigued.

Doh!

"A person who decides not to decide, has already decided."

Alpha One Taxi: When You Absolutely, Positively, Have To Be There In 25 Minutes

Thanks to our mechanic!

Thanks for holding on to our car for 9 whopping weeks in order to overhaul the transmission and replace our engine. Thanks for then realizing that you hadn't ordered the correct engine for our car. And thanks for making us sweat while removing our engine to repair the head gaskets as we waited anxiously to find out if the engine was even damaged. Thanks for the news that the engine was fine and for keeping the car for yet another weekend so that you could "drive it Saturday to make sure all was well". Thanks.

Thanks for being the main reason that we came so close to missing Justin's first and only Illinois concert date on Corbin Bleu's tour due to OUR CAR BREAKING DOWN IN LOMBARD.

It was God who made sure that we didn't lose ALL THE TRANSMISSION FLUID while on busy 294 and whatever exit we took that was full of construction, toll booths, and traffic. Our true and non-sarcastic thanks and praise go only to the Lord, who must have pushed our car past all that heavy traffic to the entrance of a Popeye's Chicken before I smelled the problem, felt the problem, and then experienced fuming anger as I realized that the car wasn't moving another inch.

George pushed the car into a parking space. Hood up. Transmission fluid everywhere. Transmission fluid seeping out of the car.

My heart broke. Broke. I heard myself whimper, "Is it over?"

George replied with a confident, "No!"

I exited the car and immediately called Justin, who I couldn't reach, (duh), as he was prepping to go on stage in 45 minutes.

We tried to hold it together for the kids. We called people to pray. We tried to keep the goal in mind: getting to the concert. I spotted a Midas Muffler and told George to run there as I thought they would have a listing for Taxi's.

Alpha One Taxi and Livery Inc. (630-549-3009), whose advertisement states, "We are there when you need us", came our rescue as I shared with Andreas, the owner and our driver, why getting to the Dupage County Fair by 7:00 was of the utmost importance. He hauled like any good taxi driver, even going through store parking lots when the traffic was backed up due to a freight train that decided to push my boiling point. He charged my cell phone for me during the ride, which I promptly forgot in his van. He drove BACK to our parked car after the concert to give us the cell phone AND called a towing company which he knew took AAA and credit cards.

Only AAA had already scheduled a towing company which took credit cards. Or so we thought. Surprise! While AAA insured us the company took credit, this was not the case, and thus, the tow truck driver had to take George to the ATM before dropping off the car. Elvis of Esco's Towing was really great. Guatemalan and a Christian. So George and he had a great discussion about coffee, Jesus, and Justin on the ride home. Elvis now wants me to coach his kids. Oh, Elvis. How about some Mary Kay instead?

So, thanks to our mechanic for a great night!

Yes, I got to see Justin. He was fantastic. Sure, we had to lug our car seats into the venue, barely had a moment to take it all in, missed talking to Justin at the "meet and greet" afterwards because we were figuring out the next leg of our trip, (with Justin's Dad, Avi, leading the way in rounding up New Trier kids to get us wherever we needed to go) and, thus, I didn't even see Justin standing 10 feet away from me signing t-shirts and cd's, but we were there.

We were there with his family, all his friends, and new fan's. Thank God that all of Glencoe, and almost every kid I'd ever coached was is attendance, as we needed them at that moment, just as they've needed me over the years. Marcie, Justin's mom, loaded us up with a t-shirt and 4 CD's. Another Mom bought the kids glow necklaces. The McDonough's drove us back to the car and then took me and the kids home. I even met the Artistic Director of Writer's Theater in Glencoe who gave me his card and told me to call him for tickets to A Lion in Winter, which just happens to be one of George's favorite plays.

But the best part was when I opened Justin's CD to read the liner notes:

Joline, 13 years! I can't begin to express what you mean to me, and I wouldn't be who I am on stage or off without your years of direction.

And then, the floodgates opened. Every emotion I'd been holding in throughout the evening burst open. It was then that I realized that while I had physically attended the concert, a piece of me had missed it.

We spoke around midnight. I could hear excitement and fun in the background. The gist went something like this.

"Joline! Where were you! I didn't see you!"

"You didn't get my message, did you? You were brilliant!"

I told him what had happened.

"Are you ok? Did Harper and Zane like it? Oh no, my cell phone is dying. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Ok. Have fun!"

That's ok if he doesn't. He sounded like he was having an incredible time. It was just good to talk to him and insure him that I was indeed there. I wouldn't have missed it. I couldn't have missed it. I will relish in the fact that while my brain was tied up in the events of the evening, I was still in attendance, row H, watching 13 years of coaching sing and dance across a stage in front of adoring fans.

$22 cab fare and a well deserved $10 tip. $3.00 pretzel. $3.00 corndog. $4.00 for root beers. $6.00 for ice cream. $10.00 Corbin Blue "dogtag" necklace for Harper. $3.00 tip (and a Justin Stein CD) to Andreas for returning with my phone. $70 tow.

Seeing Justin in his ultimate element.

Priceless.

Grow Up!

I was sharing the news about my new gig at Smarthinking PR with a good friend of mine the other day. She is a writer as well, and thus, I knew she would understand my utter euphoria about being handed this opportunity. I also knew that she would be able to grasp the intense fear I have about Mucking it up . . .

Her words were few. Simple. And yet profound.

"Joline, you are an adult. So you're scared. So what. Just learn how to do the job. And then do it."

Oh.

Well, that makes sense.

I'm an adult.

My children rely on me help them solve their problems.

They are young. They need direction.

And while I also need direction in the world of PR, it is really up to me, THE ADULT, to learn the trade. No one is going to spoon feed me or make me a chart to check off and track when I've completed my PR homework. There are no jelly bean's or stars being handed out for studying everyday. I have everything I need to research, educate, and implement these new skills. I already know in what direction to head. I can either sit and worry and fret and whine and doubt, or

I can pick up a book and learn something new.

I'm an adult. I have all the abilities I need to learn new things.

Even a new trade.

I'm an adult and I'm thankful for my level headed adult friends. Good word, Joan!

Girl's Night Out

The Chicago Sky is totally cool.

Harper is totally cool.

Jeanne Martin is totally cool.

Last night was totally cool.

I sound like valley girl approaching her 40's.

Like totally.

Last night was Play it Pink night at the Chicago Sky game. For those of you who have no idea what the Chicago Sky is, (and apparently there are many who haven't a clue that Chicago has a professional WNBA team, as evidenced by many empty seats) you may be interested to know that the they are an incredible WNBA team in OUR city. What fun! The players are amazing. The atmosphere perfect for families. The price just right. How encouraging for little girls (and their mom's) to see female athletes on the court. And then, just when I thought they were cool, we got to see the Chicago Sky wheelchair team play also. I was in awe of the strength that all of these women portrayed on the court.

The Sky partnered with us to raise money for the Mary Kay Charitable Foundation, thus Play it "Pink". There were pockets of us wearing our Play it Pink tee's spread throughout the pavilion. Harper, who doesn't quite have a love of the color pink, did get into the spirit by wearing a pink tee. She sported a Hannah Montana pink t-shirt. Hannah can talk my child into anything.

Scary.

Harper had a blast. Yelling "Defense!" and "Let's Go Sky!" and yes, even doing the Cha-Cha Slide at her seat and in the aisle. A moment that I, um, thwarted, when I attempted to bring her down onto the floor with me and hundreds of others. I, yes, I, should have known better to leave well enough alone. She was doing great until I gently persuaded her to head down to the floor. And while she didn't freak out as we inched our way closer to the cha cha'ing masses, as in the past, she did share that she just couldn't join everyone else. It wasn't for fear of people watching her, as has been her m.o., but rather, because there were just too many people.

I think I understood a little more about her last night.

She was completely enjoying the game, yelling and cheering with everyone else, attempting to get the attention of the Fly Kids, who would come around to throw balls and t-shirts, dancing in the aisle throughout the game and in the line for food, and on the way to the bathroom, and performing the the slide up in her seat with no inhibition. There was no anxiousness about any of this. It wasn't until we attempted to hit the floor that she clammed up. This was completely my misstep.

I got it. Crowds. Masses of people.

I apologized. "That's cool" was her response. The evening continued as if nothing happened. Cool. Totally.

She told me that she had the best time and would like to see another game.

The other cool part about last night was that I had the opportunity to introduce myself to Jeanne Martin. As she ascended the stairs I approached her with "I'm Joline. The writer". It felt a bit like a reunion, although we've never met. Jeanne had shared her heart at Career Conference. I had shared my heart through this blog. And thus, it is as if we'd already met, as opposed to a mere business introduction between a Red Jacket and Sales Director extraordinaire. It felt more familiar than that. She was just as warm in person as I expected and enthusiastically introduced me to her husband as "the one who writes the blog". I was very flattered. He shared that he really enjoys my writing and then said, "Keep up with this Mary Kay thing. It is really special."

Good God. Do I now have to write a blog about how he motivated me, also? What is it with these people?

No. I think that would border on "blog stalking".

Let me just say once again, that God keeps revealing the same message to me through both the Holy Spirit's nudgings and people.

Writing and Mary Kay.

It's the perfect recipe for me.

My year anniversary with Mary Kay is June 12. As George and I agreed when I began, I would try this Mary Kay gig for one year and then reassess whether I would continue. When I began, I only wanted to sell product - not develop a team. A year later, I have three team members, am considered a Star Recruiter and am working towards becoming a Team Leader. I am headed to seminar in July. I am consistently selling an average of $300 a week and am bringing in $3-500 every month as was the goal. I'm convinced. Once I reach Team Leader I have the possibility of working towards the car and directorship. This is where I stop to ponder. Do I want that? Do I really want to make this a solid career?

Yes.

As long as I can write also.

Can't leave a step out of the recipe, right? All ingredients are important and play a role in the successful outcome of the baked good. And I'm baking me up a batch of scrumptious work at home pie. Thanks, Waitress. (Reference is not mean to confuse the reader. I'm not pregnant. Nor unhappily married. I simply like pie.)

Considering that I didn't even originally want what I have now, I guess I should be open to the next step.

So, Happy Anniversary to me. Moving onward and upward.

Fringe

In seventh grade, one of the most uncomfortable social situations I experienced was that of leaving the dance floor during the slow songs at the sock hops our school sponsored after school on certain Fridays. For, truly, unless you had Farrah hair, and actually used the comb, or the flip brush that was tucked in your back pocket, rather than, (shudder), a pick for your curly, completely non-featherable hair, you weren't dancing with anyone. That was for sure.

I know.

Unless, however, one of your friends was able to put someone, say, Don Aven, up to asking you to slow dance to, say, "Truly" by Lionel Richie.

And before we go any further, let me just add, in case you happen to Google yourself, that this post is not about you, Mr. Aven. Hope you are doing well, though! Sorry I missed our 20th reunion.

As you move in rhythm, or rather, awkwardly sway to the music, you relish with satisfaction that you are now out on the floor, with one of "the" guys, while your friends stand off to the side watching. And then you realize, that this too, is actually uncomfortable. And this uncomfortable feeling only escalates as you secretly admit that Don Aven didn't actually ask you to dance, but, rather, had to be coaxed to approach you. Not that any money or goods exchanged hands, but it's not like Don took the long walk over to you from across the room after working up the courage to approach you with an true invitation to sway back and forth to one of the best love songs of the '80's.

Nope. It's a pity slow dance.

It's at this point of revelation that your former post on the side of the dance floor is beginning to look pretty good.

When it came to slow dances, I was a "fringer". Give me some good upbeat tunes, and I'd be on the floor for several songs in a row. But, then, as the tempo slowed, there would be an exodus of sorts, as several of us who had no one to dance with, (until we were "dating" someone, which, for me, was a number of years later and a story in an of itself), exited the floor. We'd mull around on the fringe of the activity, acting as if we were cool and were choosing to take a break from the dance floor due to fatigue, all the while hoping someone would ask us to dance. Well, the right person that is. Come on, we had standards.

I had a list.

I did get to check off Don's name.

So when Harper had a Kindergarten-2ND Grade school dance a few weeks back, (I know. Reader is like, "huh?" Kindergarten-2ND Grade dance?) I wondered how she'd fair. As a child with social anxiety, and yet a love of dancing, the conflict within her body to either dance or not dance would definitely turn to a battle. I was just wondering who would win.

We'd prepped her as much as we could. Mrs. Beckstedt would be there. Kelly would be there. The Cha-Cha Slide, her favorite, would most likely be played. And Hannah Montana? A given. No one would be watching her dance, as everyone would be clumped together in groups and not actually scoping the scene.

We arrived early to help Harper get her bearings. A few mom's milled around. I made eye contact and said "hi".

No response.

Just a blank stare.

George caught it. "I feel like I've just been welcomed by the Gestapo."

Ok, that's a little over the top, but it was cold man. Seriously. We felt invisible.

We took a seat on the side of the gym. The music started. Any enthusiasm that Harper had about this event began to fade. She couldn't do it. Her friends wandered over to ask her to join them. She couldn't do it. The DJ played her favorite songs. She couldn't do it.

"I want to dance, but my body won't let me." She was not content with this.

And so, we sat on the side of the gym for the entire dance. George and I danced a bit with Zane to keep him occupied, and to her credit there was Harper's 30 second attempt at the Cha-Cha Slide, but for 99.5% of the time, we warmed the bench and watched everyone else having fun. All the children were either dancing or running about. We had the bench to ourselves.

"One in every 150 children experiences social anxiety."

I just made that up. And yet, for this night, those were the numbers.

Here I was again, at a school dance, on the fringe. Feeling uncomfortable. Acting as if all was OK, and that I could handle the pain Harper was experiencing, while on the inside my heart broke for my daughter, who was physically trapped. And recognized it. And was frustrated by it. She didn't want to be sitting and was angry at her body.

For the next hour we sat there alone as Harper's friends bopped over trying desperately to entice her onto the floor. As for the adults, I did approach two mom's I know to share a brief chat and the principal came by. But mainly, there were stares. There was eye contact and yet no contact. As hard as it is to write, we were indeed noticed, and yet went unnoticed.

We realized just how "unnoticed" we went when 4 parents stood directly in front of us while we were sitting. They turned to look down at us watching the dancers, and then turned right back around without moving aside to open up our sight line.

We got quite a view. Have you ever stared at 4 middle aged asses in jeans from just inches away?

Oh, it's something.

And yes, I did say "Excuse me" and Harper yelled, "I can't see!" But we weren't "seen" and we weren't heard, because, well, we were on the fringe. We were that group of junior high kids who hang out by the wall and play Rubik's Cube during a dance. We were the groups of girls standing in a clump watching painfully as other girls were asked to slow dance. We were present, but we didn't fit in.

That evening, all of us, well, except Zane who mimicked the boys who were attempting The Worm, experienced a different degree of uncomfortableness during that dance.

Harper wanted to dance, but remained on the fringe because her body just wouldn't release her to the point where she felt comfortable jumping in.

George watched as the adults moved into clicks (ah, just like the good 'ole days) creating little pockets around the gym, realizing that even though we live less than a mile from the school, we live on the fringe and have no real friendships with other parents at our local elementary school.

And I, was brought back to those memories of feeling on the fringe during those slow dances and yet, I have never struggled with social anxiety like my daughter does. How much harder then would a situation like this be for her! My chest was tight as I wondered how I could help my daughter in this present situation and onward as she grows up. I know school dances aren't mandatory, right? And yet, we have to continue trying to take risks with her.

When we set out that night, I had no idea how uncomfortable the evening would be for all of us.

Fringe just kind of hangs there, you know? It's different. People either love it or hate it. You certainly can't miss it. An item with fringe does tend to stand out. And yet, the fringe itself adds nothing to the structure of the garment which can stand alone and be worn without it. It's an embellishment that can be removed. And thus, while it doesn't go unnoticed, it just doesn't always fit with the personal preferences of the one wearing the piece, so they pass it by or dismiss it.

So, I guess, in this respect, the fringers are indeed unique. And are indeed noticed. And yet that's where the contact stops. At eye contact.

It's been weeks since this dance and Harper has grown leaps and bounds in her anxiety issues. She is not a shy girl by any means (which makes her social anxiety all the more peculiar) and we're just beginning to celebrate the new confidence and successes that she has recently felt and experienced in herself. And while dancing in herds doesn't seem to be something that makes her comfortable, there are alot of other new things that do, softball mainly.

Perhaps my daughter, with all her new found confidence, will have a soft spot for fringers she meets and will not pass them off with a glance, but will be able to connect with them in a really special way. She already seems to have a sensitivity for others feeling included and comfortable. I pray that she continues to recognize the needs that all of us have to belong - whether on a big or small scale.

So, thanks Don Aven and Lionel Richie for coming to mind as I entered that school gym. Memories can certainly be poignant or painful, don't you think?

My memory of fringe is both.