Marking Your Progress

One of the things we do at Girls on the Run is run laps -- lots of them! As a physical activity based positive youth development program, we use running as a tool to boost the girls in the ways they need it most as they enter their adolescent years, working on competence, confidence, connection, character, caring, and contribution as well as encouraging physical activity and discouraging sedentary behavior. Running is incorporated into many of the games and activities that are used to reinforce the lesson objectives.

When we get to the laps part of the lesson, a few of the girls who genuinely love running get really excited. I love hearing the cheers from these girls: "Yay! I was hoping we'd start running soon!" But for most of the girls, running laps is a chore. Training is hard work, requiring discipline and dedication, and it's difficult for the girls to understand how this tiresome activity will help them to reach their end-of-season goal of completing a 5K run.

Isn't life like this? In the day-to-day, it's easy to lose sight of the way that intentional action and perseverance today lead to growth and achievement tomorrow.

In Girls on the Run, we try different tactics to make the lap-running more fun for the girls. Favorites this season included zombie and freeze tag, chasing or being chased by the coaches, and STICKERS. When we started using stickers as lap-counters, I thought the girls would put them on their clothes, or maybe their backpacks. But instead, their favorite sticker spots were their faces. The girls raced around the school, aiming for that next sticker, the stickers serving as a visual reminder of their hard work and intentional action. Girls were moving forward, progressing toward their 5K goal, and having fun while doing it.

We all have things we do each day that may seem laborious and even pointless: folding the laundry, writing that report, running laps. What can you do today to liven up that which feels tiresome? How can you mark your progress? Sometimes these seemingly mundane activities are truly the pathway to the extraordinary.

Please consider a donation to my SoleMates fundraising campaign. The money that I am able to raise goes to our GOTR NJ East scholarship fund and is used to expand the GOTR program into areas of our council territory where scholarship needs tend to be highest, an initiative that we call Every Girl can Run. All donations are tax deductible. Thank you for your support!

R.I.P. Triscuit

The birth of Triscuit the dinosaur was a labor of love.  Andrew was just a little guy in preschool.  His teachers introduced a project where they would learn about recycling -- using old boxes, toilet paper rolls, paper towel rolls, scrap paper, and other "trash" to make something new.  No doubt this project required much planning and effort from the classroom teachers.  But the result was a marvelous creation: Andrew's very own dinosaur fashioned out of a Triscuit box.

Andrew and Triscuit were fast friends.  A T-rex, Triscuit was strong and fierce.  He had sharp teeth and a scary, screeching yell.  When we saw Andrew with Triscuit, we would hide, or dash out of the way to avoid biting or worse injury.  Creativity and imagination blossomed in the games that ensued with this paper and cardboard plaything.  

Andrew had a connection, a relationship, with Triscuit.  The problem with Triscuit is that, after a while, he aged.  The tacky glue and tape didn't hold as well as in the beginning.  His tail was torn off.  To Andrew, he was the same old Triscuit, up for adventure and fighting and eating.  But to me, he was looking more and more like a piece of trash.  Gone was the first love and initial pride that I have for most of Andrew's school artwork.  Triscuit was taking up prime living space in our house; something had to be done.  

Following a friend's parenting advice, I took a few pictures and some video of the falling-apart dino, and threw him in the kitchen trash, burying him under some soggy paper towels and other nasty objects requiring the same resting place.  As other new toys and artwork arrived at our home, Andrew quickly forgot about his toy, until one day several weeks later when he was looking at pictures on my ipod and spotted his beloved Triscuit.

I failed to realize how devastating my act would be to my son.  Even though most people would view the dinosaur as a piece of trash -- for truly, that's what he was -- it was as if he was alive to Andrew.  At one time, he has been a real friend.  Our descriptions of the pathway of trash from can to garbage truck to landfill only worsened Andrew's sorrow.  He was determined to find and rescue his friend.  He was grieving a loss.  Surprised by his sensitive response, I felt totally unequipped to comfort him.  I never meant to cause him pain.

Perhaps this loss mirrors that which I feel when I give away my kids' old clothes and toys.  Even if these items aren't of much value to others, to me, they hold meaning.  They mark a time in my life in relationship with my children, a time that I can't take back or do over again.  They remind me of ways that we've grown or changed.  Sometimes, a toy brings to mind a specific memory, a time of play that resulted in a significant teaching moment or full-belly laughter.  Learning to cling to the precious memories, while letting go of the stuff, creates room for new avenues for growth -- new play, new possibility, new change, new life -- and even additional shelf space for the next recycled trash creation.

Wounded

"Terrifying."

"It was really awful."

"I almost lost it."

These are my typical responses when asked about the events of a few days ago.  It was really hot this week, and the local pool was not yet open for the summer.  A friend of mine invited my kids and I over for the morning and offered to let the kids play with all of their backyard water toys, including a water table, pool, and sprinkler.  The kids were so excited and were playing really well.  What an ideal morning - the kids were using their imaginations, experimenting with water, working on social skills with friends!  My friend and I were getting some good time to catch up.  We were having a great time!  And then there was an accident.

I was in the kitchen when it happened.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the two boys playing on the back porch, their arms reaching up high.  Next I heard the screaming.  Dashing outside, I found Andrew on the ground, covered in blood.  Thankfully, I remembered a warning about the profuse bleeding that typically accompanies a child's head wound.  And we were just blocks from the hospital.  It was only a short time until we arrived at the hospital, and the stitches were in, and the CT scan was clear, and the only evidence of Andrew's fall was his red hair.  But a few days later, the cut is deep and raw.  It still feels bloody and in need of some healing.

A few days later, I'm still having vivid memories of the first moments after the fall - the desperate cries, the blood, my holding Andrew's head together.  I know - it really could have been so much worse.  And I'm grateful to have the privilege of cleaning Andrew's wound, of watching him to confirm that everything seems normal, of having to ask him repeatedly to slow down and rest.  But I'm scared.  I was scared before this happened, the fear of something bad happening to my kids causing me some underlying anxiety that impacts my thinking and my relationships.

This incident confirms that, try as I may, I can not prevent bad things from happening to my children.  I can not control all of their life circumstances.  And now, how do I respond?  Can I place them in the loving arms of a Father who created them, knows every detail about them, has good plans for their lives, and is the One who can give them true security?  This is my hardest test as a mother.

More Lessons From My Son

My alarm rang out this morning - its sound, along with the noisy tapping of heavy rain on our window, coaxing me out of my slumber.  Stretching, I forced my legs out from under the covers and over the side of the bed.  It's Andrew's birthday, I remembered.  Early in the morning five years ago, Andrew made his way into the world, a loud cry announcing his arrival.  That day marked a significant turning point for me; life has not been the same since his coming.  Celebration, joy, stress, impatience, love, fear, uncertainty, protection, weariness, laughter - these feelings and others more intense than ever before.  Securing my heart with his smile, my little Andrew's vulnerability and innocence demanded that my well-being be intertwined with his, that his joy would be my joy and his suffering my suffering.  Our lives are braided, even knotted together.

(I'm sure that he won't want to be braided or knotted to me in a few short years from now, so I remind myself to enjoy the present.)

Andrew wanted to share soft pretzels with his school friends to celebrate his birthday, so I rose early both to celebrate the time of Andrew's birth and to make the pretzels.  Ten cups of flour were needed for the dough.  I counted...
one...
two...
three...
four...
five...
and then was distracted with another thought.  I'm still not sure exactly how much flour was in that dough.  Still waking up, I felt grumpy, frustrated with my inability to complete this simple task, and afraid that the pretzels would be a disaster.  I pictured a bunch of preschoolers vocalizing their disgust after tasting Andrew's "treats".

Then I remembered a story that I heard while touring the Sturgis Pretzel Factory a few months ago.  Our tour guide explained that hard pretzels came into being as the result of an error in making soft pretzels; legend has it that a baker left the soft pretzels in the oven too long.  He decided to try a burnt pretzel, and was surprised to find that it was actually quite good.  Coincidentally, CBS News was filming during our tour; you can hear the highlights from the story (and see us around 2 minutes into the video) here.

Andrew, Amelia, and Natalie, after touring the Sturgis Pretzel Factory

This memory provided some comfort.  A baking error can result in something just as good as the original.  In fact, something new can be birthed from a "mistake".  For a perfectionist like me, stories such as these, where deviation from rules or instructions have a positive outcome, are life-giving.  They're freeing.  It seems that missteps are often necessary for making the world creative and interesting.  The ability to make and recover from mistakes allows movement and progress without the fear of error.

As a mom, I've struggled to encourage my kids to be their true selves, and to allow mistakes for the value of the teaching and learning opportunities that result.  I have my own, often selfish, standards and ideas and goals for the ways that I'd like them to perform and the people I'd like them to become.  Andrew has his own, very unique, personality and humor seen as early as his ultrasound photos.  He's sensitive, helpful, and social.  He is not a perfect child; at times, he's disobedient, disrespectful, and even mean.  But to me, he is lovable and valuable despite moments of bad behavior or poor choices.  God has graciously given him to me as a gift, so that I may learn important lessons such as these: we're valuable because we exist, not because of what we do (or don't do), and being our true selves brings joy, blessing, and beauty to the world.  Happy birthday Andrew!

The Good Life

Something seems a little off.  Our thermostat tells us that the room temperature is 68, but it feels like a chilly 68.  A message reading "system malfunction - please call technician for maintenance" confirms that we have a problem with our furnace.

This is the third minor issue in a couple of days.  First it was the driver's side windshield wiper that flew off while clearing the wetness from my view.  Next we had a problem with the chain connecting the handle to the flush valve on our toilet.  And now we're having some difficulty with the furnace.  These are just small annoyances, but enough to rouse a little anxiety, especially after a day of consuming higher-priced food and gas and hearing (again) about the impacts of climate change and political upheaval in the Middle East.  I've been working on praying about the small things - the things that deep down, I'm not sure really matter to God - and also trying to model this prayer attitude for my children, so I ask them to pray about the furnace.

Natalie's enthusiastic response:
"Dear God, please help us to fix the windshield, and help us to have a good life.  Amen!"

I smile.  Where does she come up with these ideas?

I ask Natalie what it means to have a good life.

"In a good life, bad things don't happen."

At age 3, Natalie already shares my perspective; often, my thoughts, words, actions, and prayers reflect this view - the view that good is just the absence of bad.  Frequently, I make choices in an effort to avoid the bad, but in the process, I think I miss out on a lot of good.  When I get stuck there, in that place of being scared of all that in my opinion, is bad, I'm living a life of not doing much of anything at all.  And if I don't take action, if I just say no to spending money or potentially offending people or failing at a new endeavor, I may miss opportunities to deepen a friendship, speak the truth, or find a new love.

The good life evokes images of large homes, fancy cars and clothes, impeccable health, career success, educational opportunity, vacations to exotic destinations, and intelligent, well-behaved children.  It looks secure and happy.  But is a good life truly built upon these things?  When I can quiet the urging of TV ads, facebook, and even my own misguided thinking, I discover that the good life must include some bad things to actually be...good.  Who can resist the wonder that rises up inside upon hearing stories of a reconciled relationship, a homeless man now able to provide for his own financial needs, a drought-stricken community that now has clean water, a back-of-the-pack runner who wins her race?  Are all of these reasons enough to make me wish for the bad?  I'm not there yet (i.e. I really want my warm house back without needing to pay a service technician!).  But remembering this makes me feel open to the possibility that something good can be birthed from something that, upon first glance, has the appearance of something bad.

This blog was birthed out of some decisions made after an experience with our old, broken-down dishwasher.  And I love what's been happening in me as a result of this blog.  Writing is so life-giving to me.  Like a tall glass of cold water after the longest marathon training run on the hottest summer day; right now, it's exactly what I need.  Thank goodness for the possibilities and opportunities presented by the broken.

What thoughts come to mind when you dream about the good life?  Is it a life that feels distant or unattainable, or could it be that the life you're living right now - the one that includes the monotony of laundry and snotty-noses, or the struggle of caring for aging parents, or the never-ending deadlines - is actually the good life?  Have you seen something good, or even life-changing, result from a difficult situation?  I'd love to hear from you!

Birth Day

"Mommy, what does 'birth' mean?" -

this one of the questions posed by my children as we walked to the library.  We had been to the park on an unseasonably warm day, but the February chill still present in the wind, along with the mass of middle-schoolers invading our calm play, pushed us on to our next endeavor.  My daughter's birthday was coming up, and so I shared with them the story of her birth.

It is still easy to recall the conflicting feelings surrounding her birth.  It wasn't that long ago, and the memories are strong.  My doctor had performed some internal maneuvers at a weekly appointment with the assurance they'd help the baby to arrive by the 40th week.  They worked a little too well for me; contractions began soon after leaving the doctor's office.  The same thing happened with my first child, so I left, knowing that my baby could soon be born.

A couple of mornings later, the morning of my baby's birth, I visited the gym, praying that my steady treadmill walking would help to transform the weak contractions into effective ones.  My next stop was the grocery store.  I loaded up, hoping that I would not have to go there again for a few weeks.  After unpacking the groceries and showering, I noticed that the contractions were indeed much stronger.  I called Dave, who promised to be home soon, and made arrangements with the doctor's office.

The pain, now increasing at each contraction, prompted us to drive directly to the hospital.  The waiting there was awful.  "It's a busy day for babies," we were told.  And so I paced the triage waiting room, pushing on furniture, wishing that I was there to visit a new baby and not to deliver one.  It was forty-five minutes later when they called my name.  At that point, I was unable to respond to the litany of registration questions.  My water broke, my body feeling and sounding like a bottle of liquid being poured out.  Finally, some attention.  I'm fully dilated.  Heart monitors on.  Baby's heart not beating fast enough.

We were rushed to a delivery room.  I felt like I was on one of those TV medical dramas, me with my own suspenseful story.  Doctors and nurses crowded around me.  The on-call doc calmly informed me that the baby wasn't getting enough air; they would need to do an emergency C-section if I couldn't push the baby out in the next few minutes.  "Do it for your baby!" someone called out.  My mind was still processing what was actually happening.  It was all so fast.  Much faster than the first time.  Too fast.

I remembered my doctor's advice during my first delivery.  "Lori, direct all of your energy-your sounds, your thoughts, your movement - your life - into your push."  And I pushed.  I was scared.  I wasn't sure that I could do it for my baby.  But I did.  And quickly, it was over.  She was breathing and beautiful - a daughter named Natalie.

Isn't this how birth is?  Any pregnant mother wishes for an easy delivery, the baby sliding through the birth canal and out into the world in one steady, and easy, fluid motion.  Oh, that it would be graceful, and flowing, and beautiful.  Like a dancer, summoning her talent and confidence to perform a routine that she's practiced hundreds of times.  She's flawless.  She was made for this.  Or like water, streaming gently over a waterfall.  The weight of gravity pulls it into beauty.  It's following the laws of nature.  But more often, the birthing process is more like the one I experienced three years ago: physically and emotionally strenuous, too slow and too fast, eliciting insecurity and fear, requiring the aid of loved ones and experienced others, resulting in something, or someone...exquisite.

How do I explain this to a child?

Andrew and Natalie, if you read this some day, I want you to know that birth marks the beginning of something new.  When I think about birth, I think of life and beauty.  But in reality, birth can be quite messy.  Often, there is lots of preparation, growth, and waiting before the actual birthing process even begins.  The process itself can be both short and long, exhilarating and boring, peaceful and painful.  Keep on going; don't stop; push through.  Your Dad and I will hope for you and pray for you and love you, as will your other family members and friends.  And God will be your provider and your help, don't leave Him out of things.  That which is being born is worth any sacrifice and trouble.  It - or he or she - is glorious.

Photo by Matthew Lester

Someone To Watch Over Me

My husband's had a rough few weeks at school.  For whatever reason, this time of year seems to be especially burdensome for him as a teacher.  Last year, I think it may have played a part in Dave's running injury.  The one that kept him from running his marathon earlier this year.  But that's another story.  Anyway, I hate to see him this way, walking in the door late at night, the weariness written all over his face.  Frequent questions about his competence as a teacher, and really, as a person in general, beg for the comforting response from me.  But sometimes my encouragement and reassurance are not enough.  Dave is tired, and he continues to feel anxious, powerless, overwhelmed.

A few nights ago, as we were tucking our kids into their beds, Andrew was complaining about having to go to sleep.  This happens quite frequently in our house, as I expect it happens often in most households with young children.  Kids don't want to miss out on anything, even if it means jeopardizing their much-needed rest.  As Dave was tucking Andrew in, ensuring that he was "snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug", he told Andrew that he wished he could be like him:  that he could go to bed at 9PM, that he wouldn't need to worry about finishing projects long overdue or about what people think of him.  In that moment, Dave was reflecting on what it was like for him during his childhood.  He wanted for nothing; all of his needs were provided for.  His job was simply to enjoy his life, and love the people around him, and be creative, and be loved.

But isn't that how life SHOULD be for us too, even after our wrinkles and gray hair expose the truth that we are way too old to be kids anymore?  Do we really need to worry as much as we do?  How can we be responsible adults, but still live more like children?

These are some my questions as I anticipate Christmas's arrival.  The Bible describes God as a loving Father and us as children.  In this relationship, we don't need to have all of the answers for life's problems and struggles.  We don't need to scramble to provide for all of our own needs.  Our Father is taking care of it for us.  And He provides for all of our true needs in Jesus.  As I struggle to believe this today, I try to picture my Father, tucking me in, speaking quiet and calming words of love, encouraging me to rest.  And I surrender to sleep.

Is Anybody Out There?: Confessions of a Stay-At-Home Mom

I've had a rough day so far.  On the surface, it seems that the roughness is due to my kids' potty issues.  Last night, it was the middle-of-the-night call, beckoning me to the bathroom, where my daughter then decided that she didn't really need to go on the potty after all.  Then it was an early morning wake-up call as a very sorry child told me that he wet his bed.  There have been a couple of additional potty problems since we've all been awake...get out the wipes...sanitize the potties...clean up soiled children...start another load of laundry.  It's seems that it's those potty issues and the constant fighting.  Why do my children feel the need to question nearly every directive that comes out of my mouth?  Is it worth the energy to stick to my word?

I'm exhausted.  And I feel like there must be something terribly wrong with me.

Honestly, I think the main reason that I've been struggling with this stay-at-home mom gig is that it makes me feel truly incompetent, maybe more-so than anything else I've ever attempted.  Most times I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.  I'm fearful that I'm messing up the very thing where I invest most of my strength, emotion, and wisdom (that is, if I have any wisdom left!).

Sometimes, I feel alone in this problem that I have.  I read the books and blogs and facebook posts of moms who can work, go to the gym, put a fabulous dinner on the table, throw festive birthday parties, involve and lead church activities, volunteer at school, call friends with encouraging words, and provide a clean and loving home for the husband and multiple children.  I just can't keep up; I try, but I'm always coming up short.

Now I'm the one calling out, "Attention all Have-It-All-Together-Moms out there (if you really do exist). Please share your secrets with me!  Help me to know where I've gone wrong."


Why do we do this to each other...the pretending to have it all together?  When you look SO good, it makes me feel SO bad about myself.  And it makes me feel all alone in that badness.  Does anyone else feel the way that I do, or am I really the only one who can't seem to get things right?

Maybe one of the secrets is to revel in the small daily victories instead of wallowing in the defeats.  Maybe then I would be OK with my many mistakes and inadequacies.  Maybe then I would become the kind of mom that I aspire to be: gentle, patient, gracious, present.  Learning to celebrate the accomplishments of other moms, instead of using them as a measuring stick, would help too.

Until I am fully transformed in my thinking, I'll rely on my other coping mechanisms, some of which work quite well.  Lately, when the fearful and frustrated thoughts creep in, I remind myself to fight back with beauty:

gaze out the window, where the snow is falling all clean and quiet;
dance to that song that reminds me of a favorite time past;
breathe in the scent of the candle, smelling of fall and spice;
take in the words of an encouraging note or of Jesus;
savor the drawing or painting, bright with color;
drink in that full pot of flavorful (i.e. strong!) coffee;
create a new recipe or journal entry;
dream of a situation made right or a relationship reconciled;
thank a friend who's shared life with me;
study those children, who are small and needy today, but will be grown and gone all too soon.

Superheroes

This morning, as soon as my son left for preschool, my daughter found his "hero" attire and dressed herself.  Eye mask and red cape on, swooping, galloping, flying across our house she went, back and forth, back and forth.  Never tiring, always smiling, she was searching for anyone who needed some saving.

True confessions...when I was little, I used to wear my Wonder Woman underoos and do my own swooping across our neighborhood.  I wore my red, white, blue, and gold proudly.  I didn't care that it was only underwear.  I felt powerful!  WW to the rescue!   

What's up with kids and their desire to be superheroes? 

A little later today, as we unpacked my son's backpack, we found the orange trick-or-treat unicef box.  Both kids were intrigued.  I explained that you may use the box to collect money when you are out soliciting candy on Halloween.  Then I read the back of the box: 

$0.07 provides 50 kids with safe water for a day

$2 buys 1 liter of therapeutic milk

$19 buys 3 mosquito nets to protect kids from malaria

$257 provides an emergency classroom kit for 40 kids

$500 buys a water pump for a whole community


Andrew wanted me to get his bank for him.  He emptied the contents and started to put the money in the unicef box.  Several times, I asked him if he was sure he wanted to part with his money.  All he wanted to know was whether his money could purchase the set of malaria nets.  "Yes, let's do it mommy."

What's up with kids and their desire to be superheroes?

And why is being a superhero less attractive to me now that I'm adult?  When encountered with an opportunity to give, I typically first think about all that I could lose, and not so much about all I could give...and what that giving could mean for someone else. 

Do they make underoos for grown-ups?

A Lesson From My Son

I went for a different kind of training run today.  Andrew wasn't up for the Y, but was excited when I asked him if he wanted to go for a bike ride.  So we went to a local park.  I ran with Natalie in the jogging stroller, and Andrew rode his bike (mostly) alongside us.  Initially, I thought that we were in the midst breakthrough moment; I would finally be able to complete all of my running with my kids!  But after 5 minutes on the bike, Andrew was starting to tire.

The park's paths weren't particularly hilly, but even so, there were several times where Andrew would stop at the bottom of a "hill" and ask for a push.  "Mommy, I can't do it," he would say.  He seemed to be intimidated by the grade and the length of the hills.  He's pretty new to bike riding, but experienced enough to know that he would need strong legs continually pedaling to keep the bike from moving backward, the default direction.  He wasn't sure that he was powerful enough to make it up the hill.

I'm having an I can't do it kind of day.  I feel like I'm marching upward on an escalator that's going downstairs.  The hills are working against me.  I'm looking for someone to push me so that I can achieve today's goals: a run long enough to match that on my training plan, a blog entry, a basket full of folded laundry, quality time with my husband and kids, some time in prayer for friends.

At the park today, when we approached the steepest of the hills, I told Andrew that he should try pedaling the bike up the hill, on his own, without a push.  I was confident of his abilities.  I wanted him to see that he could do it.

"Keep on going!  Use your momentum!"

"What's momentum mommy?"

 "You can do it!"

He was frustrated.  He wanted his push.  He was a little mad at me.  I was challenging him to think differently about himself and his obstacle, and that can be hard to accept.  But as he approached the crest of the hill, a huge smile grew across his face.  He had indeed done it.  He pedaled the bike up the hill, on his own, without a physical push.

I want to be like Andrew today.  I want to step up to the challenge to think differently about myself and my obstacles and my goals.  I want to listen to encouragement, even when it's different from the thoughts swirling around my head.  I want to keep pedaling when my muscles are screaming for me to stop.  I want to be pleased with my efforts and grow in confidence.  Thanks Andrew!