Y is for YOLO

We passed the time at my in-law's house by going on a journey to see a magical tree. There's some nice parkland a couple of blocks from their house where a majestic maple grows with a grand canopy and wavy branches. Its trunk is so wide in circumference; I can't ever keep myself from wrapping my arms around it, and my palms press the surface to feel life pulsing beneath. Before we reached our destination, however, my youngest spotted an unfortunate sight: a sparrow lay in the grass, the feathers of his belly were still white. My son couldn't take his eyes off of it.

"What's wrong with the bird?" He asked, gulping back tears.

Because he's only two, I didn't think he was ready to hear the D word, so right or wrong, I lied, "The bird is napping. He's been flying so long, and he needed to take a break."

"Make the bird fly," he insisted. "Wake him up." He made no moves to leave this bird's side. I tried to distract him with the sight of our soon-to-be green giant, but he wasn't interested. His brother swung from some low-lying branches and called him over to join in, but this was only a temporary distraction. Moments later, he asked for the tired birdy again. He turned right back around to look for him, but lost track of his resting spot. In his confusion, another feathered friend alighted close by and launched again with energetic wings flapping. He looked up at me with relief in his wide eyes, "Tired birdy's flyin'!" 

"Yes!" I lied again. "Look at him in the tree!" As he craned his neck to see the young bird dancing above, I put my hand on the steady bark once more before we headed home. 

Life lesson: He who binds to himself a joy does the winged life destroy; but he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in Eternity's sunrise. -William Blake

V is for Vintners

Vacation at home is more fun when we can fit in a date night or two. Last night, we met up with one of my favorite winemakers and his wife. We ate oysters, east coast to contrast with their west coast roots, and later found a table at the trusty Tabard.

They've been to town before, but they still have an eye for trying what's particular to the region. Typically, we feel pretty lucky to live in a city that cares about food and drink. However, their Northwest Coast is well-known for plentiful resources. If you've seen any episodes of Portlandia, you know they take their farm-to-table concept seriously. Did our guests secretly look down their noses at our thin soil and tiny crabs? Nah, he was indeed keen on eating the crab cakes, but we all cleaned our plates, emptied our glasses, and most importantly, we talked late into the night.

Life lesson: Eat, drink, be merry.

L is for Lifted

Old Saturday Night Live episodes, Oscar the Grouch's version of nursery rhymes, an accidental double order of Baked and Wired cupcakes, luxury seating to see Life of Pi, and a pick-up soccer game in Papa's back yard. At the start of the week, my ideas of fun were of little interest to my spring break buddy, but since our visit to the doctor's, these are all things that made him smile.

When we were kids, my dad would joke with us after our visit to the homeopathist. It wasn't enough to get a remedy, but we'd have to click our heels together and say, "I believe. I believe." Hey, whether its hokus pokus or not, if it comes with clear eyes and a brighter spirit, I'll take it.

Life lesson: Have faith.

Q is for Quiet

It was this time last year that I posted about our trip to the homeopathic doctor. She's famous in our family for asking, "Anything else?" Because of course, there's always something else. Except today, when I sat across the desk from her, my son next to me with his allergic eyes that prompted the visit, we didn't say nearly as much. His head hung low and he folded his arms across his chest. His watery eyes watered more with each question. Normally, I wish he would say more, to remember eye contact and to be confident to share his quick humor and sweet heart with those he meets. Above any of that, I want him to be happy. This time I was glad that this holistic doctor with her eyes open to the whole person, not just the symptoms, could see what I see. Words were unnecessary. She packed up seven doses, four more than usual, with a plan in place if we don't see improvement.

Life lesson: Silence is golden.

Z is for Zoom

He's a kick-up-his-heels kind of runner. Give him an open space, and he's off, burning every bit of energy in that little 2 1/2 year-old body with yellow hair blowing off his forehead to show his smiley crescent moon eyes.

Most days, we take advantage of the soccer field in back of our house. Sometimes we take a soccer or football, something to chase, although it's never a necessity. Yesterday, he sped down the sledding hill on his own calling out, "Woohoo!" all the way (a cheer I taught him early on).

Today, the snow was almost gone, so we crossed the bridge to Roosevelt Island. When I felt the chill in the air, I decided it would be a short walk, but our little man on the go had his own agenda. I watched him zoom up the path, keeping up with his patient eleven-year-old brother, and knew there was no turning back. We were three-quarters of the way around before he finally needed a lift. And because I've already seen just how fast my older boys have grown, how they no longer need me (nor is it appropriate) to scoop them up, I was pleased for the chance to hug my tuckered out toddler all the way to the car.

Life lesson: Not so fast.

K is for Kindred Kiddos

Cousins. I consider them to be one of the major blessings of my life, not just because we share blood, but for the countless adventures, jokes, and  stories told 'round the camp fire. As adults, we reunite just a few times a year in person, sometimes for a ukelele singalong or a lobster feast, impromptu ice cream rendez-vous or all-day dock chats. My husband and children were instantly accepted into the fold. The instant connection we feel to them is enough to sustain us until the next time.

On weekends, my sister and I get our toddler cousins together, only nine months apart in age, and each time is more satisfying than the last. I think they've outgrown parallel play and toy tug-of-war since they now greet each other by name and make conversation. They roar like lions and practice yoga. They climb the mountain and dribble the ball. When one tries to escape the yard, the other stops her in her tracks with words of warning, "Not safe!" When it's time to go, they cry but summon enough cheer to hug. 

This summer, they will move to Miami for two or three years, and I dread the distance between us. Still, I feel confident that the bond between them will not be easily broken.

Life lesson: Unconditional love above all else.

I is for In the Middle

I was born the middle child, and contrary to popular belief, it's not so bad. My brother set the stage with important props for my formation, and it wasn't just a love of musical theater. My little sister "leans in" when we exchange professional advice, denim complaints, and baby-raising tips. I've always loved having a leader and a little.

Coincidence or not, I've found myself in the middle a lot lately, and it has nothing to do with my siblings. A couple of colleagues ask me to mediate in difficult conversations. My teenage son views me as the buffer when it comes to his dad when they don't see eye to eye. Tonight, I found myself clearing the air with another parent about an uncomfortable incident. I didn't sacrifice my concerns, but in the end, our alliance was stronger.

Life lesson: Don't just cross the aisle. Build a bridge.

X is for Xerox

I never knew my score on the test I took in middle school for gifted thinkers--that test with logic puzzles and brain benders--but based on the absence of praise or feedback afterward, the silence spoke for itself. There, I said it. Or was I meant to carry that shame with me until adulthood?

Today at the copy machine, it took me a little while to configure a nine-page document onto 11x17 fold-over sheets of paper. Okay, I'll be honest, it took me a long while. I gave myself wait time. Wait time that would have made a class of 25 feel very uncomfortable, but fortunately I was alone. I made a proof and promptly lost track of the order. I forced myself to make a checklist of pages. Then I decided to make the tenth page. In the end, I was proud of my results, but not as proud of my process.

Life lesson: Why reserve accommodations for others; remember your own needs as well.

A is for Artist

I've known the chef who prepared our 13-course dinner last night for several years. I've enjoyed his cooking on a couple of occasions, but I had never embarked what he calls a journey menu at his newish restaurant in DC. Flavors popped in three bite events, and each dish was enhanced by multiple textures and colors too. This talent he has to gather ingredients like cuttle fish, foie gras, snails, and rose petals and present them in beautiful, edible packages is evidence of creativity, knowledge, organization, and hours of labor. Some might say these are skills that students develop while they're in school, although I'm pretty sure that RJ has said that school, even culinary, was not his thing.

I think of my students, most of them unsure of what their future holds. What will they do with their talents and gifts? In traditional classrooms, we write, we read, we talk, and write some more. But maybe through that practice, they are becoming tuned in to the world around them, exploring possibilities, taking risks. I hope. For if any of them find a way to take pride in their work and create something as special as what I ate last night, the world will be better off.

Life lesson: Gifts come in many shapes and sizes.

G is for Green

This wintery day was crying out for color. I rushed errands in the chilly temperatures with boots and my wool coat, no different from the many pedestrians I spotted on their way to restaurants and bars. What made them stand out were the spots of Kelly green that peeked out from under warm layers. Sweaters, t-shirts, maybe just a scarf. In the grocery store, one woman was covered in earth tones except for a triangle of a green camisole that showed beneath her v-neck sweater.

I'm a little ashamed to say so, but holidays can bring me down. It's never the family-time that I dread, it's the pressure to be prepared with menus or costumes or gifts and wrapping. But St. Patrick's Day? Now this is a holiday I can handle. When I went home, my boys and I showed our Irish pride. No, we didnt drink beer or go to the parade. We did what we could to make this grey day more colorful. We wore green.

Life lesson: Simply celebrate.

C is for Competition

This morning, our oldest son made us proud on the second varsity boat for the season's first scrimmage. It's still such a thrill to see him rowing on the Potomac, the sleek boats and rowers moving in unison. Next, we celebrated my middle son's hockey championship win. One particularly bright moment was when he assisted a goal, and it was clear through the entire game how far he'd come since he started last year.

Before both events, I went for a solitary run along Capital Crescent Trail, and I set my mapping app to let me know my pace. I raced myself. Each mile, my iPhone's polite voice announced the data, and for each subsequent mile, I beat it. One of my sons works on a team of eight to find perfect unity in order to beat the boats rowing alongside them. My other son also has the support of a team, but he is faced with obstacles at every turn. They both love what they do. As for me, no other runners tried to beat me, nobody blocked my path, and that's more than fine.

Life lesson: Different sports for different sorts.

N is for News

Some students asked if I could help them start a team newspaper this year. They meet twice a week at lunch to pitch articles and write. A couple of them like to format, another one knows a lot about Googledocs, and for the most part, I walk my way around each meeting eating salad, checking in with kids, and directing questions to one of the take-charge kids.They're sticking to a template, established in the first issue, that includes a What's New? article and a teacher interview on the front page, but they've added plenty of features over time. There's an advice column, a history column, and a horoscope. They reported on the school play and our team's Rock, Paper, Scissors tournament. They also put several workshop pieces in, and I'm glad they want to showcase their writing. For the majority of meetings, it truly is led by students, something I'd been skeptical about way back in the beginning.

At the last meeting, when they announced they were ready to publish, I looked at their latest draft and had some sudden doubts. The format was a little awkward, fonts were too big in places, and they missed some editing. As a teacher sponsor to this club, I want to take care in what goes out to the community. No big deal, however, in the interest of getting the next issue out, I canceled the meeting and assured them that I'd put the final teacher touches on their work before it went to print.

 In my quiet classroom, I sat down with my laptop and began to tidy it up. My few years putting a literary magazine together means I can make adjustments and slide text boxes around easily. It also means I'm more than a little fussy, so my 30 minute lunch seeped into a planning period, and then another. I added commas here and there, made fonts uniform, and found a little more art.

 A couple of the kids stopped by on their way out to check in, and when I showed them the finished product, they were so proud of themselves. "Wow, we did it again. It really looks great," said one of the founding members. I can only wonder if she counted me in her collective "we".

Life lesson: Let go of the reins; just be ready to pick them back up if the carriage rolls off the road.

W is for Willing and Able

A co-worker and I chose five novels for a new sixth grade unit that focuses on characters with disabilities. When she first proposed the idea last year, I was eager to climb aboard. Not only would we explore elements of fiction, but we'd build more understanding about empathy and different perspectives. I read all of the books; each one made me cry at least once. Somehow, I thought this was a good sign to move forward with the idea.

 I firmed up lesson plans that invited kids to share connections, knowledge, and questions about disabilities. But when the books arrived, I became very nervous. This was unfamiliar territory, and when I was honest with myself,I acknowledged that I don't even much experience with people who have severe disabilities like the ones described in the books. It suddenly felt like too heavy of a topic for my sixth graders. I feared they'd be impulsive, and that I wouldn't even be prepared to handle stray comments. They also really like to laugh and have fun. If I'm aiming to inspire and engage them, why would I teach these stories?

 We're only a few days into the unit now, and for now, all is well. In part, they like to be the first ones to read these brand new books. They all appreciate choice, too, since some of them are coming from elementary schools where teachers assigned them the novels they studied. But so many of them are also engrossed in the stories--not only are they instantly focused on reading in class, but there are reports that kids are picking up their books all day. As I listen in, I'm proud of the way they express concern, outrage at injustice, curiosity about experiences so different from their own. They talk to each other about the characters, even when I don't tell them to. They talk to me about events in the books on their way in and out of class. I think they're hooked.

 Life lesson: Young'uns might surprise you when given the chance.

T is for Terrific

I could list a hundred ways that our third baby boy has brought joy into our household over the last two and a half years. Eight years younger than our middle son, his arrival meant revisiting soft blankets of babyhood on which we would lie around entertaining this adorable little one. Then he turned two. 

Indeed we admire his spunk, but he is capable of wreaking havoc on the household in a way we hadn't seen in our first babies. He is a child that will skate across the kitchen table when I turn to open the dishwasher and proclaim proudly, "Mommy, it's slippery!" He will walk right out the back door, escaping into the wild without a thought of his own survival. Although I started out behind the camera for the holiday picture, he overthrew my leadership, pushed me into the shot, and took about twenty pictures on his own. His brothers let him push them over for a wrestle on the ground; it's no wonder he behaves as if he's as strong as them.

We couldn't have planned it ourselves, but one domino in our schedule fell tonight, and all five of us landed in one car on our way to a dinner out. While we've survived many outings with our wild one, most events were invitations, obligations, and the effort itself actually caused muscle burn, so we've preferred take-out for some time. Not tonight. That's right, the five of us sat around a table with plates, flatware and even glasses. A server took our order, it arrived, and we all ate it at the same time, no need to take turns. We didn't have to rush the check. There was a minimal amount of debris on the floor beneath the high hair, and we didn't feel like we needed to leave an extra large tip to make up for the extra labor we caused. 

Was it a fluke or is our family transitioning yet again, this time toward a time when we can all sit 'round one table to talk and to eat? On the drive home, he wanted us all to look at the sliver of moon out the window because it was smiling. The moon was not the only one smiling tonight. 

Life lesson: Change can be a very good thing.

R is for Raised by Wolves

Okay, I've got another one, but this one was relayed by my sister. Years after I survived Vineyard summers on a limited budget and two wheels for transportation, my dad bought my sister a VW convertible. Oh, my brother and I rolled our eyes, she was always the spoiled one. Of course she'd be the one to get the sporty car at sixteen. Even from her toddler years, he called her Rab, short for the Rabbit, so this car definitely deserved a vanity plate. Seems that "THE RAB" was already taken, and because he didn't think quick on his feet (when it came to brainstorming license plates anyway) he chose "RAB1", which from afar made a reader wonder if my sister was a rabbi.  Not as slick as planned, but that was not my sister's main concern.

This car was a manual transmission, and though it was purchased just for her, there was no one around to teach her to drive it. It sat in the driveway for weeks until she couldn't take it anymore. While my parents were at work and my brother and I were off doing grown-up things, my sister grabbed the key from the drawer and started up the ignition. She yanked the clutch, reversed and rolled, until she was starting and stopping along a long stretch of road just below my our own street. It must have looked comical. At the very least, the sight was alarming. Because as she tells it, a construction worker spotted her weak attempts to teach herself to drive. She rolled down her window to this complete stranger, and the next thing she knew, he was sitting beside her, and she was following his guidance. At the end of the session, she could drive herself home without embarrassment.

"So who was that guy?" I asked my sister, even though I'd heard the story a few times before.

"No idea. I never saw him again."

Me, I never learned to drive stick. Why would I need to when I had the slickest bike in town?

Life lesson: Family is only the start of your education. Real world experience fills in the blanks.

P is for Parenting

A funny memory bubbled to the surface this weekend when my son wished aloud for a new bike.

"A new bike?" I asked incredulously to the recipient of a nice new set of wheels last year. "Do you want to hear about the bike I rode in college?" 

I proceeded to set the scene for the summer of my nineteenth year when I arrived off the ferry in Martha's Vineyard with a duffel bag and just a little money in my wallet. I was headed to a room I was renting with a college friend, a boyfriend was not far up the road. Other than some part-time hours on an organic farm, I had the vague promise of a job in a joint called Jamaican Me Crazy, but by the time I showed up, the retailer was practically off his rocker. Not only did I need money for rent, but I needed a way to get around, so I scoped out one of the bike rental shops. 

Practical or not, I had a vision. I wanted good ol' fashioned granny bike with a basket and a big seat with handle bars that stretched high up front, and that's what I found. Too bad I barely had money for groceries that week. I called my dad up, collect, from the pay phone in Oak Bluffs. Beverly, his secretary, and I exchanged pleasantries before she connected us, and I asked him if he could wire me some money. 

"How much do do you need?" He asked, calm as always.

"Just about $70," I replied, apparently not savvy enough to pad the cost of the bike with any bonus cash. Next, he connected me in a three-way call with Western Union, and I could taste freedom in the breezes that blew in from the bay. 

Back then, I fancied myself as privileged, summering on the Vineyard and getting money wired to me on the fly. But now that I'm a mom, I don't have to wonder if I'd consider sending my kids to set up their own rental for the summer with no transportation in an unfamiliar place without a cell phone or cash. I tuned out fine, I guess. My parents loved me then, and we all still love each other today.

My husband (yep, the boyfriend mentioned earlier) and I imagine our oldest may someday want to work a summer or two on Norton Farm. We might not escort him to the door, but my guess is that we'll make sure he has some money in his pocket. He'll have a bike, but I'm putting my foot down here. It won't be the latest model.

Life lesson: Just because you walked two miles in the snow to school doesn't mean your own kids have to.

E is for Extinguisher

If each activity--school, work, or extra-curricular--were a piece of kindling, our family fireplace would be blazing a mile high. This month alone has been complete with  meetings, trips, appointments, lessons, and practices that have filled days and evenings. What was once a warm glow of a busy family has now grown too hot for my taste. We're starting to shed layers and open windows for relief from the heat. At the end of this week, despite feeling pretty worn out, we managed to fit in a hearty post-sleepover breakfast, a hockey game, boot camp, crew practice, a couple errands, and two lunches out for three boys at a time (not all our own), all before 1 pm. I'm surprised that the doorknob of our front door wasn't hot to the touch by the time we arrived home.

As I headed upstairs with my youngest for his regular nap, I spotted my oldest sleeping soundly already on the couch. Next, I found my middle son snuggled into his own bed under the covers, his book still open beside him. How could I resist the same temptation after I put the little one down in his crib? While my husband kept just  a low fire burning with soft tapping on his keyboard, the rest of us enjoyed a quiet mid-day slumber.

Life lesson: When in danger, stop, drop, and rest.

H is for Help

There are days when I feel stretched too thin when it comes to meeting the needs of my sons, high school, elementary school, and pre-school. Other times, I can't imagine living any other way. I pack my days full, but when I'm lugging bags and baby out of the car and see my middle son grabbing more than me as he heads to the house, I remember I'm not on my own.

Instead of crashing after a busy week, I took three eleven-year-olds, and the toddler of course, to the pool for a pre-sleepover swim tonight. I imagine that doesn't sound like a break to many, but when the older boys swam over again and again to teach the little one how to put his face under water, how to kick behind a paddle board, and how to shoot a basket, time raced by. My husband and I complain about sloppiness--socks on the floor, six damp towels on the closet door--but the big boys both bring the baby downstairs for a pillow fight any time.

Life lesson: There's no need to go it alone.

F is for First Person

Looking back on parent-teacher conferences, I remember how effectively I could fill the space of those meetings with my own voice. I had no trouble talking a parent's ear off about their child's strengths and challenges, and I was full to the brim with confidence in my attention to their kids as individuals. But oddly enough, I walked away from those events feeling hollow, wondering if my student's parents believed me, wondering if I even spoke the truth. Because how can anyone truly capture a child's experience in school as well as he or she can.

For over three hours tonight, I sat with my homeroom students and their parents for 20 minute intervals of student-led conferences. We worked together over the last week or so to reflect, gather work samples, and set goals for the future. They were familiar with the process--they led their own conferences in the fall--so there was less anxiety on their part and mine. There were a lot of interruptions, as anyone could have predicted, and it wasn't just the snow day, either. No matter. When three or four of us sat around a table, each child perked up and took responsibility for the event. Each one presented their thoughts to their parents with straight posture and true statements about their progress.

I know I'm preaching to the choir on this one, but I'm not afraid to say that you were all right. Instead of making my best effort to paint a picture of my students, my students painted a picture of themselves. Sure, I still chimed in with encouraging questions or some additional evidence to back up their reflections, but mainly I enjoyed sitting by with open ears, and what a nice change of pace that was.

Life lesson: If you want the real story, it's usually best to go right to the source.

D is for Drama

It started yesterday, but it started to sink in this morning. Sure, I experienced the kick when the text came in early to confirm out day off for snow, but once I made it through a cup or so of coffee, it was clear that we'd have to move forward on the issue. It wasn't the potty train that my two-year-old has been riding, and it wasn't the sleepover that my eleven-year-old is planning. This time it's all about my oldest. We're young parents, at least for him, and I'll admit that we're just making it up as we go along on this parenting adventure. All in one day we hesitated, we talked, then yelled, we reached out for support, we filed a report, and it's quiet for now. Is it over? Probably not, but I'm thankful for the break. 

Life lesson: There is never a dull moment.

J is for Just Do It

Several times a week, I set my alarm to go off at 4:45 AM. I'll admit that it usually hurts to peel my eyes open, but I never regret it when I manage to crawl from the bed to my shorts and sneakers that I set out the night before. When I step into the gym, the bright lights expose a world unto itself where just-woken men and women move with purpose from machines to weights to mats. There was a time when I would have felt self-conscious there. I was never an athlete; in fact, I was awkward, but I've developed enough confidence through experience that I can do my own thing without hesitation. With my earbuds in place, I have a connection with the world beyond middle school that I can absorb for one solitary hour, with no family, no students, to turn to me for help.

Jay sits at the front desk, and while no other employee manages to crack a smile at the crack of dawn, he always calls members by their first names when he says good-bye. And from then on, the routine flows smoothly, my cup of coffee is always better, and my muscles are usually still warm when I walk into school. 

Life lesson: What's not easy to begin, can be the most satisfying in the end.

O is for On Your Mark

Our two-year-old was so excited by his dad's return home that he laughed with relief when he saw his bearded hero climb into the car at the airport yesterday. By Sunday morning, my own fatigue from single-parenting was setting in, but when nap time came, it was the baby who couldn't take it anymore. He cried for a good thirty minutes, "I want my daddy," before he settled in with his "soft blanky" and fell asleep. When the evening came and our family was intact again, he positioned himself at the door, placed his little fingers on the tips of his toes, and called, "On your mark, get set, go!" and raced around the loop of our kitchen again and again. His face glowed, pink cheeked, and sweet.

Life lesson: There's nothing wrong with saying what you want out loud.

S is for Simple Sundays

Sundays were once reserved for quiet. When my sister and I talked on Friday night, we were optimistic that even though Saturday would be busy, we'd surely find time to get together on Sunday. Ah, Sundays. I remember in our early years of marriage and parenting, Sundays started with a trip to church, drop off for religious ed, and then we'd go home for lunch, a lounge on the couch with stories, and a nice, long nap. Later, we'd return to my parents' house for dinner, and they'd even send us home. We'd drive away, leftovers in hand, with my mom waving from the driveway and my dad, chasing our car up the road. Our back seat windows were rolled down for our little boys, already dressed in their pjs, to hear my dad call, "Your car is too slow!" as he chased us the street. They'd all woop and holler in unison as we drove toward home and the end of our weekend. I have a clear memory of carrying each of my sleeping babies from the car to the crib.

Today began with the familiar trip to religious ed, but there were about ten stops between breakfast and dinner. My sister and I didn't get our toddlers together to play. We didn't see my parents, and no one chased our car into the horizon.  In fact, it's days like these, that my arms just feel like jell-o at the end of the day after all of the heavy lifting I did. Now, I'm trying to remind myself that there will be quiet days ahead.

Life lesson: Take your foot off the gas for long enough to look back for comfort and look ahead for relief.

B is for Bad

I'm well aware that in most circles, the act of driving a Eurovan, perched high above the road with a steering wheel positioned out front like a school bus, is not all that cool. However, the ease with which I handled multiple trips around Arlington, the van full of high school rowers, most approximately 6 feet tall, and leading (yes, leading) the way for the Penske truck that carried hundreds of bags of mulch to deliver, I was the captain of my ship, and I knew it.

This post-journey bravado is likely explained by the misery I felt in the days leading up to the event. I'm prone to getting lost. I can be a little flaky, and I worry that the community will uncover this dreadful secret. And for those interested in digging further into my past, my first few years of driving resulted in two totaled cars, most likely due to my under-developed adolescent brain, leaving a long-lasting bruise and a fear of history that is doomed to repeat itself.

Today, I turned that big ol' wheel like I was born to drive, steady and true to the course. And when the rowers fatigued toward the end of the day, I flung some bags over my shoulder and threw some mulch down, too. Because that's the kind of badass mom that I am.

Life lesson: Don't let the past define the future.

M is for Mornings

I'm a single mom a few times a year due to a some business travel of my husband's, and truthfully, I dread it each time. We both work hard, and our kids' schedules are full, so it's just plain hard to navigate the time with no co-captain. There is one perk, however, and that's the opportunity to be with all three boys in the morning. The early start to middle school forces me to get up and leave before the two younger are even awake. I'm grateful that Rob's flexibility allows me to leave quickly, but I miss out on bed head, and rosy faces, bowls of cereal, and the comics open on the table.

This week, our mornings were not as leisurely as they are when their dad's in town, but I got to wake each of them up personally with pats to their backs. And I got to push my toddler in a stroller through the neighborhood to day care each cool, crisp morning, with a stop at a friend's for my fifth grader. I made it to school on time for five days in a row, and my oldest only forgot his lunch once. 

Life lesson: When life offers stress or serenity, choose the latter.