Act Your Age

For one week, I did not act my age.

I stayed up too late watching TV, and got up too early to do the tasks I should have done the day before. Yes, I completed my essential responsibilities, but not by using my time efficiently...

I ate whatever was quick and easy - regardless of nutritional value - sending my blood sugar levels soaring high too quickly, then plunging way down low just as fast. I had coffee for lunch and popcorn for dinner...

I wore a naughty costume to the Halloween party (don't worry - children weren't present). Although I thoroughly enjoyed going "against type" and having fun with an alter ego, I then had to face those pictures on Facebook the next day...

I woke up often throughout the night, wishing I'd stuck to predictable-ole beer at that party, not mixed drinks. I still can't drink cranberry juice without evoking some scattered, less-than-flattering memories of that night...

I didn't drink enough water throughout the week, which left me feeling dehydrated by the end of it...

After my week of time travel to an age long lost, I walked through campus on my way to class. The irony did not escape me. Surrounded by young adults in their late teens and early twenties, I thought how they're the ones we presume are not eating or sleeping properly, succumbing to vices, doing as they please when they please, not considering consequences. This is their time to answer only to themselves, without grave responsibilities They have the time and the freedom to make right or wrong choices, and to learn from them.

I, on the other hand, have already learned from my choices. Frankly, I should know better.

Yet sometimes (rarely) I forget my age. I ignore those lessons I've learned. I make dumb choices.

Thankfully, however, I suffer more readily from my poor choices, rather quickly snapping me back to my proper place in time before I get too far along.

I had some fun acting someone else's age, but mainly I felt frantic and exhausted. I have gladly returned to myself, and willingly promise to act my age!

Talk to Me

When you see characters on the big screen talking to themselves, don't they appear to have a mental disorder? Or that they're just muttering insignificant gibberish?

But wait a minute, I talk to myself!

I know I don't have a mental disorder. And the talk absolutely is not gibberish.

It's like my own little pep talk.

Some people start their mornings with daily affirmations. My little talks are kind of like that - except they don't take place at the beginning of the day. I have more of a just-in-time approach.

I thought of this today at tennis practice. Though I could fill a book with all the beginner's mistakes I make, an overarching challenge for me is assertiveness: my lack of it. Both my husband and our coach have described my game as "nice." That might be a compliment in everyday life, but on the court, nice doesn't get me anywhere! At least, not a win.

I can hit the ball hard. It's just not intuitive for me yet, so it doesn't happen often enough. But I've found that when I tell myself {imagine gritted teeth here...}, "HIT IT HARD!" - voila! - my success rate improves! Today, an opponent hit a drop-shot just over the net, but I was playing back near the base line. My partner was too far away to reach the ball, and I wasn't even expected to get to it in time, either. But took off running and said to myself {well, I guess I didn't keep it to myself; it came out louder than I'd intended}, "GET THAT BALL!" Then I did. {Imagine big smile on my face. But oops - the game wasn't over yet - couldn't just stand around and bask.} And OK, so talking to myself doesn't equate to success all the time (I've missed that same drop-shot more than I've hit it), but talking to myself definitely helps more often than it hurts.

Later, while mulling this over, I realized that I also talk to myself when skiing down a challenging slope. Maybe it's high and steep and fast, or maybe it's full of moguls as far as the eye can see. Whatever it is, I'm at the top and I have to get to the bottom. So I take a deep breath, and coach myself all the way down by talking to myself.

Our tennis coach has a twist on the talking thing... he says he hums some music to himself during play, and reaches a crescendo right when he hits the ball. He says he just does it naturally, but that it helps him focus on making contact with the ball at just the right moment.

So maybe you'll say I'm crazy, or maybe you'll say my little chats with myself are gibberish, but I realize now they serve me well. So I think I'll keep them in my bag of tricks.

And maybe I'll talk myself out of being so nice all the time!

Geek Pride

{Putting my geek hat on as I write this...}

When I walked in the door yesterday, my daughters handed me a sheet of paper with the following title:

Twins' Christmas List

I thought it was great that they had typed it. And that they had kept it short - just 4 items each. And that they had considered cost, with the prices of their items ranging from $7 to $58. Nothing outrageous.

But what really got me filled to bursting was the correct placement of the apostrophe in the plural possessive in the title!

Do you know how many adults don't punctuate the plural possessive correctly? Lots. But my fourth-graders did. (These particular fourth-graders might not have all their multiplication facts down, but darn it, they know how to punctuate.)

Yep, that's mama's geek pride showing.

{Taking the hat off now...}

Cool to Be Cold

Why do kids - mainly tweens and teens - find it so much more appealing to underdress, and shiver, than to simply dress appropriately for cold weather?

It's not like my kids don't have plenty of outerwear options to choose from. There's an entire closet filled with jackets, coats, scarves, gloves, hats, etc, varying in colors, formality, warmth, and style.

Yet my ten-year-old daughters were reluctant to wear jackets or coats, much less gloves, to school. Until last Thursday, when the weather turned cold enough that they couldn't stay warm during their running club with just a track suit and t-shirt on. Afterward, my daughter said: "My hands felt like they were holding an ice cube. And when the ice cube started to melt, they just picked up another." Her twin agreed.

Needless to say, they both dug out their winter coats & gloves the next morning.Yes!

But my eleven-year-old son is still wearing shorts to school. Despite the fact that there's frost on the ground! In Columbus, Ohio, yesterday, walking around outside in temps ranging from the mid-thirties to low-forties, all he wore over his short-sleeved shirt was a hoodie. Unzipped. He walked around shivering, but hey - at least he looked cool in his attire.

Or not.

I guess it's just one of those battles I have chosen not to fight. But I'm "not fighting" with gloves on. It's cold around here!

13.1

I did it! I successfully met both of my goals for my first half-marathon:

Goal #1: Finish the race. Check.
Goal #2: With no injuries. Check.

And the bonus: I finished at a pace 1/2 a minute faster per mile than my training pace!

I owe much gratitude to my family - for supporting me and cheering for me and just being there with their wide grins and hugs at the finish line - and to many friends who supported me with words of encouragement. Thank you!

Now I'm gonna go eat whatever I want...

Anxiety Attack

An anxiety attack, I've learned, is appropriately named.

One minute, I'm fine. The next, I'm in the middle of a physiological, emotional catastrophe that I didn't see coming.

My body shakes like I'm outside in shorts in temps of 20-below. My mind wills the shaking to stop, but it won't. I'm overcome by a general sense of fear that's undefined yet definitely present. As the blood rushes away from my head, my face becomes pale and I feel lightheaded. I start to sob, uncontrollably and visibly. That's the part I hate the most. The other symptoms I can try to fake. But tears announce, loud and clear to others, that something's wrong.

The first time I ever had an anxiety attack was two years ago, on a 10-hour trans-Atlantic flight. Due to a mix-up with the seating arrangements, my husband and I were separated, with no chance of reassignment, as the flight was sold out. My seat was in the middle of the plane - halfway back in coach, in the middle of a five-abreast row. For nine hours and forty-five minutes, the flight was relatively pleasant. I read an entire book, ate a little, and had just the right amount of conversation with the woman to my left. Fifteen minutes prior to landing, however, I felt an overwhelming urge - no, a mandate - to get off that plane now. If I could have, I would have jumped out the window. I felt I couldn't sit any longer, though of course I had to. I might as well have had arm and leg restraints on my body. I felt lightheaded and sick to my stomach. Those were the longest 15 minutes I'd ever spent. When my husband and I reunited after deplaning, he wondered why I looked so pale. And then the inevitable tears came, though I was now safe from captivity. It was just my body's reaction to the anxiety ordeal. I couldn't control it, though I would have given anything to do so.

I've flown several times since that trip, and haven't had an issue at all. So it's not flying that caused my anxiety. It's not fear of heights that caused it, either. Confined spaces don't typically bother me. It was just a confluence of conditions that triggered the attack.

My second anxiety attack occurred today, again without warning. As I was sitting in the dentist's chair, being prepped for some non-routine dental work, I felt the symptoms begin again: the shaking, the illogical fear.

I know it's common - almost cliche, really - for people to be afraid of the dentist. But I never have been. It's not my favorite way to spend an hour, but it doesn't bother me, either. Until today.

So I excused myself to use the restroom, thinking that the short walk and the time alone would enable me to think logically and pull myself together.

It didn't work.

As the dentist started to work on me, I felt my my creases deepen, my involuntary frown nearly causing my eyebrows to touch. I crossed my arms like a stubborn child, and brought my knees up so I was practically in a fetal position. None of this I did purposefully. My mind ordered my body into protective mode. It wasn't long before the tears started rolling down my face.

I felt like a baby.

And I felt sorry for the dentist and his assistant. They were really doing a fantastic job. Nothing actually hurt; they were moving as quickly as possible; they were trying to make me comfortable.

I felt anxious anyway.

I just wanted to leave that dentist's chair, get to the safety of my home, and huddle under a blankie with my husband's arms around me.

But I'm a grown-up. So when the dentist offered to give me a break, I said no, I just wanted to get it over with. He understood.

And once the drilling was over, I was fine. My mind and my body relaxed as they finished up with the remaining tasks.

Still, the next time I need some major dental work - like, say, a root canal! - I think I'll go for the valium. Because if I'm going to act like a baby, I'd rather coo like one than cry like one.

Hit 'Em Where It Hurts

In this case, my son's wallet.

Yes, the boy is bright, funny, creative, and handsome (oh, indulge me - I am his mother, after all!). Alas, his weakness is organization.

And because he's unorganized, he loses things. All the time.

For years, we've worked with him to help him plan his day, organize his things, keep track of items. Sometimes there's a glimmer of hope, but mostly it appears we still have quite a way to go. So it wasn't really all that surprising when, one month into the school year, he lost the power cord to his new laptop. Of course, none of the power cords for our other laptops are compatible with his computer (despite two of the others being of the same make), so he had to buy a new one. On the one hand, we praised him for going to his school's IT department on his own and obtaining the new power cord. On the other hand, he had to learn a lesson from this incident. We had to hit him where it hurts - no, of course not a literal hit! - and that is his wallet.

Whether or not you believe in Gary Chapman's five love languages (found in his book by the same name), or that there are exactly five, or that these are the exact five that exist, it does give some food for thought. One of his love languages is called "Receiving Gifts," which happens to coincide with our son's appreciation for (need for, really) materialistic things. He's always been this way: objects appeal to him. He can't bear to get rid of the ones he has, and he always has a list of new ones he'd like to acquire. And by extension, he loves money. Because, of course, money is the path to obtaining the things he wants. So, he doesn't like to part with any of his hard-earned money.

So when intrinsic rewards and punishments don't work - and they don't ever work with him - we have to get concrete and materialistic. He had to pay for his own power cord out of his own wallet.

A week later, wouldn't you know it, he lost his English textbook. After running through all the options to locate the book (did you clean out your locker? did you check the lost and found? did you ask your teacher for a loaner copy?), it was clear that his was gone forever and there were no loaners available. He had to have his textbook in order to do his assignments. So on Friday, he came home with a brand-new textbook from the school book store in hand. Great!

Then on Saturday, I looked up the cost of that book. My eyes about popped out of my head when I saw the price: $82.69! This is a lot of money! Mind you, this is not a college textbook. He's in 6th grade!

I gulped, then broke the news to him.
"WHAT?!" he said. "For one book?!"

Yes, he has to cough up the $82.00 (generous as I am, I waived the change...). We were both sick to our stomachs. Yet there was no argument. He knew that, since he was responsible for the book, he would be the one to pay for the replacement. I told him he didn't have to reimburse me until I got the bill from school.

Regardless, he handed me a wad of money a little while later. Evidently, he couldn't live with that kind of debt hanging over his head, so he paid me in advance. I appreciated his attention to paying his debt without argument, rather than hoping I'd just forget about it.

These back-to-back lessons really hurt him where it counted, but they certainly made an impression that he won't soon forget.

Let's just hope we can make it to Christmas before he loses the next big thing...

Helpless

She whispered to me, in breaks and starts, "I'd rather have a bloody nose than be sick like this. Because a bloody nose doesn't last that long."

I agree with her.

Each time a child of mine is in agony with a flu or other virus, I am in another kind of agony watching his or her suffering. Through my daughter's chills, the fever, the pains, the heaving, she suffers slowly and continually throughout the day.

We've endured many traumatic and at least one life-threatening event in our children's lives, and the range of emotions and thoughts that a parent experiences at those moments is inexplicable. But in those moments of despair, there's also a call to action, a rush of adrenaline: save the child, solve the problem, repair the damage. Yet watching a child suffer a common virus makes me feel so helpless for so long. Pain relievers may, well, temporarily relieve some of the aches and pains, but they do nothing to cure the virus. There's nothing I can do but watch, and hold, my child until the battle within her body is over.

Yesterday, my daughter grimaced with stomach and head pain and cried silent tears nearly all day. Her words, when rarely spoken, came out in whispered sentence fragments. If there had been anything I could do to end her suffering, I would. But I couldn't. She had a common virus and it had to run its course.

Today, thankfully, she's better. The fever has broken, her aches and pains are gone. She is simply worn out from yesterday's battle and needs much rest. I will still be here to hold her and make her comfortable. That's what mommies are for.

Hiatus

At 6:15 this morning, I was making preparations for my busy day ahead: appointments, errands, other tasks.

At 7:00 this morning, I started to cancel appointments, postpone errands, rearrange my task list.

The abrupt change occurred the minute my daughter woke up suffering from the flu symptoms that were causing her to ache and hurt.

Likely she will be home from school tomorrow as well. Then, like a chain of dominoes, we'll see who is the next among us to fall.

Sometimes, my second thought after I discover a sick child is, "Now how am I going to get everything done?" But my third thought is, "Nothing on my schedule is so critical that it couldn't be postponed to another day."

So, here I am with an empty schedule and a book, sitting beside my daughter as the battle of the germs vs white blood cells wages on within her body. As we cuddle, I try to give her whatever comfort she needs to fight her battle.

All the rest can wait.

The Game

You know how the subtitle for my blog reads: "Winning some and learning some"?

Let's just say I'm learning a lot lately.

That's Not My Job

Consider these 3 questions, actually asked of me:

1. By my son: "Mom, don't you want to make me happy? I really want the {fill in the blank with the latest electronic gadget}!" This question has been asked of me repeatedly, ending each time with a different electronic or motorized object.

2. By a national modeling agency via a radio ad: "Don't you want to make your child happy? Join us at {specific location} on {date} for your chance to meet modeling and acting agents. Your child could be the next Hannah Montana!"

3. By my friend: "Don't you want to make your husband happy?"

My answer to all: That's not my job! And even if I thought it were, it's not possible to make someone else happy.

No one can make anyone else happy. We all have to figure that out on our own, and pursue our own happiness.

Pleasure, now, that's something different. The latest toy or outfit, transportation to the movies with friends, my husband's favorite meal - those are examples of little things I can do for them, expressions of love, to provide a moment of pleasure. And I do think we all have an obligation to do nice things for one another. But pleasure and happiness are not interchangeable terms. The latest Rock Band system will bring momentary pleasure, but not lasting happiness.*

Regarding my children, my job is to give them a loving & nurturing environment, guidance, and opportunities to find their own way in the world. Through hard work, persistence, and patience, they will pursue paths that bring each of them inner happiness.

I do want them to be happy. But that's not my job. That is work they need to do for themselves.
_______________

* If anyone is interested in research on the subject of happiness, I highly recommend Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. My husband and I both have read this book (written in laymen's language, but based on research in the field of psychology), and will recommend it to our children when they are old enough for such a topic to hold their interest.

Trust

You know that exercise in which your partner stands behind you, and then you fall backward, hoping to land in your partner's arms and not flat on the floor? Whether or not you thrust your hands out to break your fall at the last minute reveals your level of trust in your partner.

Here's another true test of trust: Try walking ahead of a child pushing a grocery cart behind you. You'll be uneasy the entire time, knowing that at any minute the backs of your ankles could become bruised and bloodied. Yet, to continually glance behind to check the cart-to-ankle distance is interpreted as an insult to the child.

So you suck it up and pray that, this time, your ankles will be spared.

** CRASH **

No, that wasn't my ankle. Just the cart of another shopper as it collided with my child's. Loud and jolting, but no actual ankles were hurt in the collision.

Difference Between W and L

Yesterday I re-learned the importance of speaking up for myself.

Because I didn't.

And it cost us an L on our tennis score sheet, instead of a W.

As I've mentioned, I'm on a tennis team. It's a beginner-level team; it's only in the last two years that I've learned to play this fabulous sport that I can't believe took me so long to discover. Ostensibly, the other teams we play are also beginners. Yet that's not really the whole story. Some players are actually new to the sport, like me. However, others are experienced, but choose to stay in our league for various reasons - maybe they don't have time to commit to higher-level play, or perhaps they're recovering from an injury, for example. And not knowing our opponents, we don't know if they're new to the sport or actually quite experienced.

In our match yesterday, the opposing team interpreted one rule of play differently from our interpretation of it. Although we have the right to request a review of rules at any time during play, we chose not to exercise that right. I can't speak for my partner's thinking, but as for me, I thought we were right, yet didn't trust myself. And since I'm relatively new to the sport, I thought it might be possible that we were the ones who had misinterpreted the rules and that they - perhaps more experienced - knew better. And neither one of us wanted to make waves, or to be troublesome. So we deferred to their rule of play without dispute.

And we kept playing, against our better judgment.

That decision caused us to lose at least two games. By losing those two games in the first set, we lost that set, which otherwise we would have won. We easily won the second set, and time was running out. Had we won both sets, we would have won the match with no need to begin play on the third set. We would have scored a "W"in!

However, we didn't speak up. So we lost the first set, and won the second, forcing us to start play on a third set, though we had only a few minutes left of play. We fell just shy of a winning - we "L"ost the match altogether.

I could have kicked myself.

And not necessarily over the loss (though I would have much preferred to win). The kick would have been for not speaking up when I knew I was right. (And I was right - I looked it up in the rulebook as soon as I got home.)

This is such a common theme in my life: I prefer not to make waves, then regret not having spoken up sooner. Well, to be honest, I am much more assertive as a 40-year-old than I was as a 20-year-old. I have learned this lesson before.

Sometimes I guess I just need to learn it again.