Snow and Snow Days and Working from Home and Working Nights...and Punishment!

It was a perfect storm.

Between the MLK Day holiday, the foot of snow that fell, my son's school closing, me working from home, my husband working nights...it was a full house for three days last week. In our tiny cape cod style home. 

Actually, now that I think about it, it was downright inevitable.

Last Week: Emotions and Tempers in My Household.
(Image from solarnavigator.net)

 
My son and his antics got on my nerves.

Then they got on my husband's nerves.

So badly that my husband finally exploded.

"That's it! You have lost TV, Xbox, the computer, your iPad, everything. Now go to your room and  bring a piece of paper and write  down EVERYTHING  that aggravates me and aggravates mommy -- and what you're going to do about it!"

My son made two lists.

Things that aggravate mommy  

Talking back, not doing things when she tells me to, beating up Bruno, having a crap attack, being sneaky, yelling at her, cursing, and talking back to her. And I won't do any of the things I just said. I'm verry sorry when I did these things, and I promise I will never do them Never AGAIN!

Then, after a review and conversation with dad, an amendment on the back of the paper: 

And I promise I will work hard to not do these things or I Will Be Punnished.

A second piece of paper came out.

Things that make my dad furious!!! 

Not doing things when he tells me to. Having a crap atatack, joking around at the rong time, lieing, being sneaky all that, cursing at him, or talking back, throwing balls at him when he's not ready, being ungrateful. And I promise I work hard to controle my selfe over doing those things, and I am sorry when I did do those things.

And that is how my household spent the first part of last week.

For Father's Day

One of my most favorite Peter Gabriel songs is "Father, Son." I first heard this song when I saw him perform it live at a concert -- and I bawled. It still makes me cry every time I see him sing it.

Here's a beautiful video of him performing the song, which includes black and white footage of him with his dad as well as his own son. The video was directed by his daughter Anna. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EQH6qu2pHT8

It makes me think of my husband's relationship with my son. And all the time my husband devotes to my son: helping coach his baseball teams, driving him to his activities, going to the field with him, bringing him and his friends to the pool, having a  father-son dinner together every week with a game of basketball with him beforehand.

I feel an outpouring of love for the two of them. But especially for my husband and his devotion. And I hope that, although right now my son has little appreciation for all my husband does for him, one day, perhaps when he has his own son, he will look back and come to appreciate this time he had with his dad.

Father, Son

By Peter Gabriel

Father, son
Locked as one
In this empty room
Spine against spine
Yours against mine
Till the warmth comes through

Remember the breakwaters down by the waves
I first found my courage
Knowing daddy could save
I could hold back the tide
With my dad by my side

Dogs, plows and bows
We move through each pose
Struggling in our separate ways
Mantras and hymns
Unfolding limbs
Looking for release through the pain

And the yogi's eyes are open
Looking up above
He too is dreaming of his daddy's love
With his dad by his side
Got his dad by his side

Can you recall
How you took me to school
We couldn't talk much at all
It's been so many years
And now these tears
Guess I'm still your child

Out on the moors
We take a pause
See how far we have come
You're moving quite slow
How far can we go
Father and son

With my dad by my side
With my dad by my side
Got my dad by my side
With me

Lyrics from lyrics007.com.

My Son's Latest Bit of Wisdom

My son's latest school assignment instructions:

Now that we've discussed what an Active Listener is, write three sentences about how to be an Active Listener.


What my son wrote:

You listen with you're ears.
You listen with you're eyes.
You listen with you're heart.


I love that. To listen with love. I think I need to do more of this.

Road Trip! With My Son!

Last week, my son and I took a road trip to my parents for an overnight visit. It took us six hours to get there. Here's a taste of what traveling with my son is like:

[6:30 am, in a Dunkin' Donuts parking lot]
My son: That man walked in with swagger!

[9 am, somewhere on 95 South, listening to Sirius Radio Hits 1]
My son: They're playing the same songs all over again.
Me: Yeah, they only play about 10 songs.
My son: What's if they come in at 1 am, record [the show], then leave, and just let it play over and over?

[9:30 am, in a Chik-fil-A parking lot]
My son: Who eats chicken for breakfast?
Me: Um, you're eating it.

[10:30 am, somewhere on 95 South as my son plays a song, on repeat, on his iPad]
Me: That's the fifth time that song has played.
My son: Yeah, I wonder how many times it'll play.

[11:30 am, somewhere on 95 South]
My son: When are we there?
Me: In about an hour.
My son (crying): You said that an hour ago!

[12:30 pm, 30 to 45 minutes away]
My son: We're getting close! Those look like Virginia trees!

My Son, on Our Dog Bruno. And Peace.

My son wrote a piece at school on peace. And Bruno. I love it. My husband thinks we should frame it. I agree. Here it is.



Bruno with his stuffed animals. (And blankets!)

Peace is...

In my bed with my dog
relaxing watching my dog Going
to bed His stomach Moving
up and down his eyes starting
to close My dog is in his
crate He is snugleing [sic] against
his stuffed animals and I
AM TOO

The Terrors of Buying Baby Toys

I love gifts. They bring to mind the giver. A beautiful vase my husband and I received for our wedding makes me think of my husband's wonderful, funny, loving aunt. Our Irish made candlesticks make me think of my sister-in-law. 

Therefore, I try to put thought into the gifts we give. I, too, would love the recipients to think of us.

But with great gifts come great responsibility (thank you, Spider-Man). Even beyond the sentiment behind the gift.

Ever since it came to light that China has used lead paint, carcinogenic metals, and who knows what else in its manufactured goods, I make a point of checking the manufacturing country for products I buy. This includes travel mugs, dog food/treats, and, now, baby toys.

What I don't want our gift to be!
(Image by Kreld on deviant.art.com)

I have a new nephew who lives across the country. Yes, the same sister-in-law who gave us those thoughtful candlesticks is his mom.

In the past, I simply would have logged on to amazon, searched on bestselling baby toys, picked one that I thought was cool or fun or got great reviews, and had it shipped directly to my sister-in-law.

Today, however, there is research to be done.

First, I type in "baby toys made in the USA." This yields some toys with "Made in the USA" listed in Product Details. It also, to my distress, nets toys with no country listed.

I then dig deeper - look at the customer reviews - and find alarming comments such as, "cheaply made in China. Shame on you!" or "contacted manufacturer to find out if product was made with plastics containing BPA but received no response" or "parts came off in baby's mouth."

Ack!

So I decide to skip the toys and search on "baby cloth books." My son has two that I have kept because I loved them so much. To my horror, comments include headlines with "Safety Concern" and a description: "my son...is a chewer and the color from the beetle wings have faded making me wonder if he is ingesting the paint??? This concerns me greatly since another book by this company has been recalled due to possible problems with lead content."

Seriously? Isn't the thing supposed to be made of cloth?

I haven't even met my nephew yet. There's no way I want to cause his demise. Or worse, brain damage or loss of IQ. I could just imagine his parents' ire. All directed at me and our poisonous gift.

At this point, since he is already out of the womb, it's too late to learn a craft like knitting so I can whip out a handmade gift.

So now I punt. A gift card. Safe. Generic. Forgettable. But this doesn't mean I love my nephew any less, or have put any less thought into this gift. Rather, I think it demonstrates how much I already care for him.

Much Ado About To-Do Lists

I'm a list person.

I have lists for things I'd like to accomplish at home, at work, to my home, in my life, with my writing, for my shopping. Lists help me think, dream, brainstorm, order my thinking, set goals. Remember.

My journals are full of these lists. Sometimes I think of the journals kept by women in history -- and how much scholars learn from their journals about everyday life during the times they lived.

But I digress with my grandiose thoughts.

Anyway, I carry my journal everywhere with me. I'll often go back to entries from previous days or even weeks to check off items I complete.

At times, these lists get me down, as in, I'm not getting anything done. Other times these lists give me a feeling of satisfaction, of moving forward.

So it was with a jolt of surprise and, yes, pleasure, that I found a to-do list in my son's backpack. His first! 



My son's first ever to-do list. Isn't it beautiful?

It turns out that his teacher had my son and his classmates make to-do lists that day at school. Their assignment: to do all of the items on their lists and check them off as they did them.

I love his list. I love the items on his list. Such simple things. It makes me want to be a kid again. 

But, since I can't do that, maybe I can simplify my list-making. Or simply stop making them. But if I did that, would I remember what I need at the store? Would I remember all the things I want to do to our house? Would I remember the things I want to write about? Would I remember the things I want to do with my life? Would I remember that I want to discover my purpose in life? And, more important, would I continue to move toward that purpose if I didn't have my lists?

I don't know. And I don't think I'm ready to find out.

What's in a Name Change

Last month, we got a puppy. A small dog, he came with a big-dog name: Bruno.

At a little over a year old, he knows his name. He responds to his name.

So it was inconceivable to me when, over the weekend, my 9-year old son expressed a desire to rename our puppy Huxley.

Wha-wha-wha-what???

Huxley, AKA Bruno.

To prove it was no big deal, my son yelled, "Huxley!" Right in Bruno's ear. Well, Bruno suffers from a small-dog characteristic. He's nervous. So when my son screamed the puppy's new name, Huxley, AKA Bruno, jumped in fright, his eyes bugging out at my son.

"See?" my son said.

It reminds me of a couple of years ago, when my son was really into the names "Rex" and "Jaxin" (his spelling). He loved them so much that he asked me to register him for second grade as Rex Jaxin. As if that would be all we would need to do to give him this new name.

So unlike reality, when I had to go to the courthouse and Social Security and the DMV to legally change my name after I got married. Then had to make photocopies of our marriage license and send them to all the various places to get my name changed on my bills.

If only it were as easy as my son imagines.

Then I could be Mina one day, Milla the next. Or I could try out Violetta or Persphone or Maya or Anabel or Ludivinia or Anna Maria Christabel.

Nine-Year Old Passion

My son has become passionate about basketball.

What my son's heart must look like.

It's a beautiful and funny thing to see.

The Beautiful Parts

• My son playing imaginary basketball games for hours, complete with imaginary teammates and steady play-by-play announcing.
• The hoop that my husband and I spent a whole day putting together -- incorrectly -- then taking apart and doing again. That activity almost ended our marriage, I mean, made our marriage stronger.  
• My husband and son intensely playing Knock Out.
• My son and me playing Knock Out while I giggle the whole time from nerves, as I scurry to make a basket before my son can knock me out.
• Day after day, my son wearing his various Sixers (and one LeBron James) jerseys (a birthday gift from his generous grandparents), even as the temperature drops. He just sticks a short-sleeved or long-sleeved shirt underneath. 
• Watching the NBA post-season as a family and having a rooting interest in the Sixers.
• My son voluntarily reading books about basketball players.

The Funny Parts

• My son telling me that when he grows up, he's going to be 6'10", a point guard in the NBA, and that he'll dunk so many baskets, everyone will call him Dunkin' Donuts.
• My son learning about the all-time greats of the game and asking me if Michael Jordan is still alive.
• My son telling me about recess at school one day, when all the kids were cheering, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" every time it was his turn to shoot. (Yes, he's also a huge WWE fan.) 
• My son teaching me the following new vocabulary words:

  

Vocabulary Word	Definition
Ball Hog	‘Nuff said.
Swish	When you make a basket and all you get is pure net. As in, "Look, Dad, all I’m making are swishes!"
Air Ball	When you throw the ball at the basket, especially a free throw, and it doesn't even make it to the backboard or the basket. I hear this one all the time from my son when we play Knock Out. And he's not talking about his own attempts.

The Passion

His passion for basketball makes me think about my own passions -- and whether I feel that passionate about anything in my life. 

I know I did when I was younger.

But since I became a mom, a puppy owner, and a full-time corporate worker bee?

No.

But I really want to.

Now that my son is getting older, I think it's time for me to start rediscovering these things about myself.



Eating My Way Back to Healthy?

The Strong Years

Random strong woman. (Not me. Nor my double.)

For almost 10 years, I taught eight to 12 group fitness classes per week: kickboxing, step aerobics, body sculpting, interval, spinning, treadmill trekking, even yoga (as a sub).

Along the way, I took lots of workshops and picked up certifications for the latest fitness crazes at any given time: urban rebounding, mat pilates, body pump, zumba, and on and on.

During my pregnancy, I continued to teach, even my spinning classes. Teaching helped with my swelling ankles. Teaching helped me feel fit. Strong. Healthy.

The Long Slide Down
After I had my baby, I continued teaching. When my son was almost two years old, I rejoined Corporate America -- on a part-time basis -- and continued to teach on my days off. Until I went back full time. Until I was promoted to officer. Until my job became all-consuming.

So I picked up running.

Then walking.

Then I stopped exercising.

I have since left that all-consuming job. But I'm still not exercising, and haven't for about a year. I'm still living on the benefits of my earlier teaching days. Or at least I was.

The Wrong Year 
My weight is still about the same. The jiggling is not. Nor is the thinning hair.

I think this hair loss is happening because I have no outlet right now for the stresses of the day.

My husband thinks it is due to my diet. My poor one, of course.

For years he has exhorted me to take a multi-vitamin. To eat healthier foods.

The Solution: GOMBS?

GOMBS. Mmm. Appetizing.

Anyway, here is what he says I should be eating every day (from the teachings of Dr. Joel Fuhrman on PBS):

• Greens, especially kale, collard greens, broccs, cauliflower
• Onions, either raw or chopped up small and cooked
• Mushrooms
• Berries and Beans
• Seeds and nuts, especially flax, sesame, walnuts

My husband, the apostle, calls it a diet of GOMBS, "chock full of micronutrients that act as immunity boosters."



I can eat other stuff, too. I just have to make sure I eat these particular foods every day.

Really?

Where's my multi-vitamin?

Where Art Thou, Little Bird?

I miss my little bird.

No, I'm not talking about a pet bird. Nor Angry Birds. Nor a certain part of my husband's anatomy. (Besides which, he'd object to the descriptor!)

Little brown bird.

Rather, I'm talking about a tiny wild bird that used to live in an enormous prickle bush outside my kitchen window. As I would make my coffee and fix my breakfast, he'd chirp away, while his delicate feet took his portly body hopping from branch to branch. And I would take soothing pleasure in his presence.

I'm reminded of my little friend as I sit in Montgomery County Community College's new art gallery. Above the latest exhibition, in the gallery's loft, there's a brown bird in this converted barn with me. He's flitting from window to window, perching here then there. As he picks his way across one of the exposed beams, his movements and his chirping bring to mind my little bird outside my kitchen window.

A few years ago, we had a patio installed outside my kitchen. There was no room for a large prickle bush. I really hated that ugly old bush. But I really miss my happy little bird.

In honor of my friend, here's one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems. I'm hoping that my litttle bird was able to find another home, one where he is bringing soothing pleasure to another.

254
Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

My Mixer

I finally started making my holiday cookies last night. Yeah, I'm appalled at myself, too.

Anyway, I started easy. Viennese Kiss Cookies. Only six ingredients. I wasn't sure whether my mixer was still working, so I dropped flour, butter (chilled and cut into 1-inch pieces), and sugar into my food processor. That did nothing but make a mess since flour and butter fell through the hole of the bowl and onto the food processor base itself. Meanwhile, the food processor couldn't seem to catch hold of the ingredients to process them. I ended up with the flour, butter, and sugar still in the same state as when I put them in.

So it was with some trepidation that I dragged out my mixer. Last time I used it -- last year -- the motor sounded like it was straining.

The mixer's old. In fact, it used to be my mom's. Her first mixer from back in the 1960s. A Sunbeam Mixmaster.

My mom's old Sunbeam Mixmaster. Now mine.
(Please ignore snorkle mask in background.)

I remember watching my mom use it when I was a little kid. I remember her turning the control on the end and watching the mixer speed up as she did.

I remember being fascinated by how the beaters got released. When you rotated the handle on top, down to the back of the mixer, there was a clicking noise as you rotated the handle. Then there was a second clicking noise when the beaters pushed out of their holders. You could then pull the beaters out one at a time to lick the batter off. I remember wondering why the second beater didn't fall into the batter while you were licking the first one, and being a little anxious that it would.

I remember thinking how cool the bowl size lever was. To move it between small and large, you had to push the lever down first. And when you did move it between bowl sizes, the whole top of the mixer moved in and out so that the beaters could move along the edge of the bowl, whether the bowl was large or small.

I remember that the beaters were shaped differently from each other; the one that went on the outside, along the edge of the bowl, was rounded, while the one on the inside was square. And when you put them into the mixer's holders, you had to put them in just right so that the notches lined up and clicked in. So sometimes you'd have to rotate them around a little 'til you got it right. I remember loving that clicking sound as they pushed into place. I still do.

The mixer is quite heavy, as it's almost all metal. Its weight reminds me of the old heavy cars we used to drive: our Country Squire station wagon (which I crashed when I was a teenage driver) and my dad's prized Mercury Cougar (which my mom gave away without consulting my dad when it was rusting in our driveway). Both of them boats.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself with a walk down memory lane, I plugged in the mixer and transferred the ingredients into the large mixing bowl. Then I moved the speed control from "OFF" to "1 Add Dry Ingredients/Folding." 

And that trusty, old, heavy mixer of my mom's began mixing my ingredients. 

And mmmm. Those Viennese Kiss Cookies were yummy.

How Ebay and Amazon Saved My Son's Christmases

Ever since my son got it into his head that Santa Claus can make anything, he's really put me to the test.

Three years ago, he asked for a Harry Potter action figure that could bend and move his arms and legs. Yep, he'd been burned by Santa in past years, who gave him "collectibles" instead of toys. He also wanted a Jango Fett action figure, which was nowhere to be found in any local stores. Ebay saved Christmas...and my son's belief in Santa that year.

Two years ago, he really wanted a Roxas action figure. If you don't know who the heck he is, he's the hero of a video game called Kingdom Hearts. At the time, these things weren't in any toy stores. Or else they were sold out. I can't remember. Damn stupid memory. Anyway, amazon was our saviour that year. (In addition to J.C., of course.)

Last year, he asked for baseball action figures. Enough to field two teams that could play each other. And which had arms and legs...as well as wrists and ankles...that could move and bend. (I've learned to look for "fully posable" in the product descriptions.) He also wanted them to have equipment: bats, gloves, balls, oh my! Amazon!

This year, my son's at it again. He has asked for a full-size car that has a gokart engine that he can drive around our neighborhood because "Santa can make anything." I'm hoping I can find this on ebay or amazon. Or that my son will forget he wanted this. Or that I can convince my husband that maybe it's time to tell my son the truth. I'll be happy with any of the above.

It's the Journey

I'm all about the results. The final product. The destination. It's usually only after I've got the results that I can then look back on the journey. And only if the results are good do I feel good about the journey.

My son brought home to me how short-sighted, how...unjoyous...this type of approach is.

Creepy Incredible Edibles. Note the
kids on the box having a blast. The liars.

Recently he saw a commercial for Creepy Incredible Edibles. In the ad, the kids are mixing these concontions then "daring to eat or drink" them. Things like Bio Brains and Green Goo and Gummy Body Parts. And they're having a blast doing so.
His excitement -- his sense of wonder, and of the possibilities -- was contagious. He's been a really good listener lately. So I found myself agreeing to bring him to the store to buy these incredible edibles. I paid for half, and he paid for half with his own money. We brought the box home and he made the easy stuff first, the stuff that didn't require equipment that needs assembly. Stuff that only needed measuring some water and mixing with packets of powder. At first it was fun. The Fizzy Drink changed color like it was supposed to. It fizzed  up just as it was supposed to. But then came the time to drink it. And my son took a sip. Then had to hold back the barf. And the disappointment. It tasted terrible.

We made everything else in this box. And each one tasted awful. And after each one, the disillusionment on my son's face grew. I became obsessed with getting the measurements perfect, the process letter-perfect, the timing exactly right. Hoping against hope that if we just did it correctly, that this would magically make the conconctions taste good. And remove the look of utter disenchantment from my son's face.

Until we finally made a Gummy finger. He became so scared to do any of the steps himself, for fear of doing it wrong. So I took over. And of course it still came out tasting like crap, at which point, he promptly burst into tears. Sad and feeling bad, I asked him what was making him cry. Was it because they tasted bad and he'd been thinking they would taste good, based on the reaction of the kids in the commercial?

No.

Sniff.

He was crying because making them wasn't fun.

Oh.

Ouch.

I washed all the equipment. Then, I suggested that he make the next batches himself.

"What if I do it wrong?" he asked.

Oh. Another stab of pain.

There is no wrong, I told him. You just do it and have fun. You're free to do whatever you want with them. Make whatever you want.

"Okay," he said. "But throw away the instructions."

Gladly!

Beginning Where I Am

I'm an all or nothing kind of gal.

If I'm running really late for an event, often I'll end up not going. I tell myself I'm so late, why bother. Never mind that I might have enjoyed the second half of the event...or had fun connecting with the people there once I arrived. 

Or I'll stubbornly tell myself I need at least a whole week off from work to clean out and declutter my walk-up attic, even though the Flylady tells me I can accomplish the same thing in 15 minutes a day. Of course, I have yet to prove to myself that this 15 minutes a day thing works because I have yet to DO a 15 minute boogie with a trashbag.

My latest ridiculousness is around my writing. I'm convinced I need several hours in a day to devote to my writing -- I can't write in any less amount of time. Since I don't have several hours to devote to my writing (who the heck has several hours to devote to anything?), I don't write.

And another day goes by without my having added any new scenes or pages to my story.

And another day of not working toward my dream slips by.

So I've decided I'm going to try something new. I'm going to Begin Where I Am. I forgive myself for all those days of not writing. In fact, I'll forgive and FORGET about them. I'll just put those days out of my mind and focus on now. Where I am. And put pen to paper. All I need is one new thought. One new sentence. Maybe even one new paragraph. And tomorrow, same thing. Until hopefully one day I'll look up and find myself at the end of my story...and ready to start another one.

This, Too, Shall Pass

It's already mid-October, and I dressed my son in shorts for school yesterday. I know that soon enough we'll be bundled in winter coats and shoveling snow and ice from our porch and driveway. But right at this moment, with the sun shining warmly down, it's hard to believe we'll be doing that.

I'm reminded of a sermon I once heard by a priest at the University of South Dakota about 20 years ago. It was the year after I graduated from college, when I traveled for my sorority as a leadership consultant, developing and advising our college women. The priest was a bit theatrical, and he started his sermon by standing right in front of us and pouring salt into his hand. His theme: This too shall pass.

The priest's salt pile has grown in dimensions in my mind,
or at least in importance!

It was a sermon about how everything that happens to you in life, both good and bad, will pass. It was his interpretation of "to every thing there is a season." And he ended it by reading various scenarios, and after each one, we repeated, "This too shall pass." He had us giggling when he'd read a sentence about becoming president or acing an exam, and we'd have to say, "This, too, shall pass." And he had us thinking when he'd talk about a loved one dying or experiencing a breakup with a boyfriend or girlfriend.

I struggle with how to share this important lesson with my eight-year old. Especially when he's sobbing and says he wants to die after events such as the Phillies losing in the first round of the playoffs, or when we can't find the book that was advertised at the end of one of his Captain Underpants books because it looks like the author never wrote it.

I worry that if he's feeling that way about relatively trivial things, how will he handle something truly tragic? And later, will he be able to survive his teenage years when life is so narrowly defined by a small high school peer group?

How do I honor his very real feelings of despair and disappointment, while also helping him understand that while it seems like dark times now, this too shall pass?

The Power of Intention

Last summer, my son told my husband that he wanted a Major League Baseball. But not just any Major League Baseball. He wanted one from a Phillies game.

He talked about it all summer, how much he wanted this to happen.

My husband really wanted this to happen for him. So he bought him a Major League Baseball. It came in a nice case and had the official Major League Baseball stamp on it. My son liked it and treasured it. But it wasn't what he really wanted.

Later that fall, my husband got Phillies tickets. We went down to the ballpark really early. The plan was for me to stay in the car until the game started so that my son could nap while my husband went in to batting practice to see if he could catch a ball. Sometimes the players will hit one into the stands.

As planned, my husband goes into the stands to try and catch a ball. He forgot his glove. So he jams the tips of his fingers into my 7-year old's glove. He's standing in left field and realizes that he's on the wrong side. All of the balls are going to right field. He quick runs over to right field. But when he gets there, all the balls are now sailing out to where he was standing moments ago. Right before he's about to give up, a ball is hit right towards him. He freezes. Then, he holds up his little glove. The ball is falling right towards his glove. He's single-mindedly focused on that ball. He's telling himself, "Don't drop the ball. Don't drop the ball." He's so focused that he's completely unprepared when another dad knocks him out of the way and grabs the ball for his own son.

My husband was crushed.

He came out and got us, all upset. My husband and son had seats in left center field. My son had worn his Victorino jersey to honor his favorite player at the time. These seats were perfect, as Shane Victorino plays center field. I had a seat almost directly across from them -- in seats with one of my good friends.

About halfway through the game, I got a text from my husband. Not only did my son get a Major League Baseball at a Phillies game. But he got one thrown to him by his favorite player.

Ball that Shane Victorino threw to my son

Here's how it happened. Between innings, all the children in the section would stand at the front and yell to Shane to throw them the ball when the players were done warming up. Before one of the innings, out of blue, out of all the children in that section, the usher randomly chose my son to stand all alone with her in front of the section right where Shane could see them. When the players were done warming up, Shane had the ball in his hand. My son yelled, "Shane!" He looked up, saw my son with the usher, standing there waiting, and he tossed the ball gently and perfectly up to him.

And that's how my son taught me the power of intention. And how if you put your intention -- your deepest desire, the thing you want most in the world -- into words, the universe will respond.

Almost Within Reach

Last week I found out an editor, who was recently promoted and is actively building her stable of authors, wants to see the first chapter and synopsis of a story I'm working on. And I didn't even query her! The instructor of an online writing course that I'm taking shared my story concept with her. 

So what did I do? After I jumped for joy -- and fright? And peeled myself off the ceiling?

I did what every self-respecting procrastinator would do. I vaccuumed the entire house, including the baseboards. I even moved furniture out of the way to get those dust balls. Then I did three loads of laundry and two loads of dishes. After that, I turned my attention to the bathroom and scrubbed the toilet and bathtub and sink. Then I moved on to the bedroom and changed the sheets. Finally I entered the kitchen and cooked the chicken I had defrosting. Two different kinds of dishes.

Did I mention I don't have a synopsis written? And I only have a first draft of the first chapter? My class ends next week. And my instructor has told me to send everything to her so that she can give me advice on how to make these things sparkle. So time is ticking...slipping through my fingers as I try to grab onto it to slow it down.

Are you marveling over my actions -- or inactions -- as much as I am?

Two things are running through my head.

First, I'm thinking about Julia Cameron's Artist Way, and her concept of synchronicity, which is rooted in the belief that the universe will respond to your deepest desire. If you have the courage to pursue your dream.

Second, I'm thinking about a friend of mine who told me how she wanted to redo her kitchen for years. But for some reason, she just couldn't get started on it. She was completely blocked. Until this summer, when she felt a shift inside. And suddenly it was really easy. She found a contractor by chance who has been a great collaborator with her, and she couldn't feel more at peace and happy with the process.

I hope and pray that these two things come together for me. That the appearance of this editor is synchronicity -- is the universe responding to my deepest desire. If I just have the courage to pursue my dream. And that I will experience a shift inside where suddenly the insurmountable -- the writing of my synopsis, the revising of my first chapter, the finishing of the second half of my book -- suddenly becomes really easy.

I Used to Want to Be

Isis
Wonder Woman
Solid Gold Dancer
Soap Opera Actor
Judge
PhD Graduate
Pianist
Broadcast Journalist
Lead Singer of a Rock Band
Collegiate Leadership Consultant for my sorority
Soap Opera Writer
Romance Novelist
Greek Advisor
Leadership Trainer
Host and Creator of a Show Profiling Soap Opera Actors
Aerobics Instructor
Journalist
Audio Book Voice Talent (I had to google what you'd call this)
Writer
English Literature College Professor
Poet
Yoga Teacher
Fresh Air Producer

For the record, I never wanted to be a Puppeteer nor a Mime. I once bought a book with an extensive quiz that promised if you took it, it would tell you your top careers that matched your skills and interests. So after spending days on this thing, those were my top two results.

Spider Love

I heard the most romantic E.B. White poem this morning. Of course it involves spiders! Apparently he wrote it for his wife when they were newly married. Author Michael Sims was on Radio Times this morning discussing his new book, "The Story of Charlotte's Web: E.B. White's Eccentric Life in Nature and the Birth of an American Classic." Sims read the poem on the show, and it moved me profoundly as I was driving to work. I just love that last verse.

Natural History
E.B. White

The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.

And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider's web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.