11 Things Might Be Enough

Natalie from Mommy of a Monster threw out a set of questions (and her answers) to the universe last week, and I thought it'd be a fun post to do the Monday after my girl turned four, since I just know the party on Saturday will consume a lot of the weekend. 

sharing their party

While this is not a typical Just.Be.Enough. post, it is a snapshot of my life right now.  I'm trying to accept that some days I might need a little help and some weeks I might not be able to squeeze in the eighty-four items on my to-do list each day.  So hopefully, today, this is enough.

1: Wine…Red or White?
White, a little on the sweet side. Bubbly doesn't hurt either.

2: What is your favorite wine or libation?
Prosecco’s my favorite wine, and flavored vodka’s my favorite libation of the moment.

3: Have you been to any wineries or wine tasting?
We went to Sonoma for a day while visiting friends in San Jose many moons ago. My favorite was a delicious Moscato, and since my kids stole my brain I can’t remember any more than that.

4: Favorite pair of shoes?
For date night – Neutral patent leather peep toe platforms
For running errands with the kids – Brown knee-high riding boots
For my sanity – Asics (either the 2100 series or the Gel Cumulus depending on the state of my knees)

5: What is your morning drink?
Copious amounts of coffee. I’ve ditched fake sugar and am slowly (very slowly) transitioning away from the deliciousness of flavored creamers.

6: Tattoos, body piercings, or both…and where?
I used to have a belly ring, but I took it out a while ago. A long while, when I really think about it. I have a tattoo on my lower back/upper hip.

7: Favorite dessert?
I go through stages, because I’ve never met a dessert I didn’t like. Right now I’m crushing on salted caramel and anything lemon (not together of course.)

8: What is your dream vacation…money is no object!
I have two, so let’s combine them into one hodge-podge of fabulousness. I’d do a mini-tour around Europe—Paris, Barcelona, London, Tuscany. Ryan and I did a month-long multi-country European trip back in college after he studied in Germany for the summer--with giant backpacks. I’d love to do it with the luxury of a human amount of clothing and a blow dryer this time, with the appropriate power converter of course. 

After all of that walking and wine drinking and art gawking, we’d have to relax in the ultimate beauty of French Polynesia, floating in that gorgeous water off our over-water bungalow.

Sigh…who’s funding this again? Oh, I see…

9: If you won the lottery…
(please see question #8!) After that, I just want a bigger house in a better neighborhood, and I’d send our kids to the best schools I could find.

10: Do you talk to yourself? If so, do you answer yourself too?
Not out loud, but I absolutely do it in my head.

11: Would you ever sneak a giant metal rooster into your house?
Why not? This place is a zoo already.

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Losing the Shine

my bissell steam and sweep*

We pulled up the teal carpet with excitement, knowing the promise that hid beneath years of dust and the hazardous tack strips and carpet nails littering the scarred wooden floors.

Having our floors refinished was one of the first projects Ryan and I tackled in our house, though our version of tackling meant calling and hiring someone who wouldn't be likely to let the sander wear through the remaining layers of wood.

For days we wandered back and forth between the addition and the kitchen, moving between our two back doors to avoid the heavy drapes of plastic and untouchable varnish, spending time anywhere but home to breathe without gagging on the fumes.

Refinished and beautifully polished, they were a reminder of the potential lurking within the walls of our work-in-progress old house.

For years I worried about their shine, keeping a static mop in the closet for basic dust issues, a broom for sweeping, and Murphy's Oil Soap for periodic cleanings when I noticed some of the shine fading from their glossy darkness.

Kids brought a whole new dimension to our floors.


A pulverized cheerio settles into the grooves of the floor, the varnish no longer impenatrable.  Sippy cups thrown in gleeful games subtly mar the surface.  Errant crayons smear waxy streaks near the dining room table.

The Murphy's Oil Soap sits neglected, the gleaming surface of my floors a memory like lazy weekend mornings when it didn't matter if a corkscrew was left at the edge of the kitchen counter from the night before.

I've streamlined my cleaning routine: one little magic machine that picks up crumbs and steams the floors into a sanitized surface, warm and clean but lacking the reflective shine and slippery clean of my old stand-by. 

There are moments I miss the shine.  But then I see Dylan trailing behind the steamer, trying to figure out why my path is wet and a little hot and why one of the buttons makes a whirring sound and one does not.

And I remember that there's always more than one way to shine.

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*This is NOT a sponsored post.  Bissell has no idea who I am or that I'm writing this or that my mom bought me this lovely member of our household as a Christmas gift two years ago.  I just love having sanitized floors in the amount of time it takes to sweep the room.

Hello 2012



I've been away for a few days, literally and figuratively, vacationing with some friends and their families.

Thanks to a much too generous Christmas gift, I was able to stay slightly connected, playing around on my new phone, flitting by twitter and traipsing through some of my reader, though my commenting was sporadic at best.

But the writing and planning parts of my brain were left to percolate without the outlet of a keyboard, a welcome break I hadn't consciously decided to take, and one I hadn't realized I needed until I was in the midst of it.

There were no revelations found over the weekend, no epiphanies about how I can best juggle all of the balls I've labeled "important" this year.

But there was a dance party and deliciously chilled white wine and thin crepes spread with Nutella and board game shenanigans my kids somehow slumbered through without waking.

I have goals this year, and they're more specific than they've been in recent years. 

My writing, my fitness, and my relationships are all gathered together in a bear hug to my chest; I want to take each to a level of focused joy that was only hinted at last year.

I'm willing to sweat for my aspirations, and I don't just mean the ones about improving my half marathon time. 

There will be thrills; I am certain of this.  There will be setbacks; I am certain of this, too.

But for today, hello to 2012.  I can't wait to get to know you.

Christmas morning nail painting while waiting for Daddy to wake up

sometimes it's more important to paint your own nails than it is to have the perfect manicure and pedicure

she is wise in ways she doesn't even realize

she is absolutely enough

What gives you that “be enough” feeling?

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Making Real Holiday Memories

Our Christmas tree this year is a little more Charlie Brown than Rockefeller Center, gaps in the branches letting in the light streaming through the windows.

Despite the promise shown at the store, our tree has proven to be the final cog in my husband’s case for an artificial tree, an argument that began on Thanksgiving Day, when my brother proclaimed they were getting an artificial tree this year.

My reluctance to leave our real fir at the curb for recycling for the last time has less to do with the joy I get from a real tree and more to do with the memories hidden within the branches already shedding needles at an alarming rate.

I can see my parents walking up and down rows of trees, holding one than another at arms’ length, gauging the straightness of the trunk, the symmetry of the branches, the ability to hide the sparser sections in the corner of the room.

I can feel my nose tightening in the cold, breath warm within my scarf, digging gloved fingers deeper into my coat pockets as I pushed snow around with the toes of my boots.

The warm blast of air from my mother’s kitchen floats through my mind, wrapping me warmly in the anticipation of knowing we would have to wait patiently, maybe as long as twenty-four hours, before the branches relaxed from the cold enough to hang ropes of gold garland and multi-colored lights.

My family’s prized ornament gently hangs on my mother’s real tree in the same spot each year, a faded red candle my dad made in first grade is always front and center, out of the reach of little fingers not yet ready to understand that paper and glue can be more valuable than delicate glass bulbs.

These memories hang in my mind tied to the sap-infused branches of a real Christmas tree.

Artificial trees come out of boxes.

My lower lip trembled into a pout at the thought of giving up a real tree, the thought of depriving my kids of those memories pulled freshly to the surface each time I smell the freshly cut branches of a Christmas tree.

So I sought the words of the wise Dr. Seuss:

Memories and magic and tradition aren’t linked to the tree.

They’re linked to my mother’s no-nonsense choice of a tree short enough to be easily decorated by my short family.

They’re linked to my dad’s eyes sparkling bluely between his beard and a Carhartt hat.

Next year, our tree will likely come from a box, twinkling with hundreds of already-attached lights.

But our holiday memories? Those will come from me.

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I Meant to Stop at the Tree Stand

With December’s calendar moving into overdrive, I’m making lists and adding stars and exclamation points and trying to figure out if I’ll ever be able to highlight more completed tasks than I add new ones each day.

Our highest priority Sunday was getting our Christmas tree. As usual, we seem to be racing against time to find a fir that meets my aesthetic standards and Ryan’s financial ones.

Needing our tree stand, Ryan pulled the rubber storage totes from the attic.

Dylan snoozed on the couch after falling asleep to Christmas music on the way home.

Abbey immediately wanted to dig into the shiny, sparkling, trinkets packed away so carefully last January. Visions of checklists pushed aside the dancing sugarplums of our beloved ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.

Hoping to quench her decorating thirst, I pulled the stockings and stocking holders from the box, clearing our mantle onto my little desk, hanging our four stockings across the white molding.

Despite pleas to play with something besides the holiday decorations, she pranced down the stairs, cradling a box of colored glass balls.

Almost reluctantly, I walked up the stairs for the ornament hooks, bringing her stool over to the wall where we decorated our giant candle holder with purple, gold, red, and green bulbs.

Her eyes sparkled more brightly than the ornaments, her spirit transfixing me to our task.

My eyes snagged on the mantle, the stockings looking lonely below our oversized mirror.

Minutes ticked by.

I adjusted poinsettias and filled a flower bowl with ornaments, moving things around and adding lights and oversized red balls behind the stocking holders.

More minutes ticked by, starred items pushed back and pushed back again.

We wrapped pre-lit garland around the banister.

We filled the tree with water, Abbey hurrying back and forth, Dylan using his “careful” walk, both hands clasping a small cup as he proceeds with deliberate steps towards the tree. 

Abbey fastened the oversized buttons of the tree skirt, smoothing and adjusting it until she was satisfied.

I’ve written twenty checklists. I have starred items and circled stars and made little notes in red Flair pen.

Minutes slide into hours, and my priorities shift into place, my to-do list forgotten until after bedtime.

this week's theme was priorities

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Running in November

Running in November generally requires gloves and long sleeves and a retreat to mindless miles on the treadmill, trying to find something suitably distracting on TV. 

So Saturday, when the weather beckoned me outside in short sleeves, there was something intoxicating about my run, short and careful in case my tailbone decided to protest halfway through my route. Gingerly setting one foot in front of the other, familiar music flooded my ears, and my feet carried me along without thought, letting my thoughts drift into rhythm with my increasing pace.

Scenes to be written for my National Novel Writing Month unfurl smoothly in my head, and I give a belated moment of thanks for the extra time I’ve had the past few days to write with Ryan at home for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Knowing the kids are soaking up the extra time at home with Daddy, I let my feet keep time with the beat without guilt about leaving them at home.

I’ve given myself a free pass for the weekend, keeping my list of things to do minimal and focusing on writing and time with family and friends.

In this moment I feel balanced; I feel content.

Still, there are miles stretching in front of me, and balance is not the only thing I am trying to find as wind blows my hair from my forehead. Goals hover in front of me, priorities and dreams shifting depending on the day. 

I delicately toe the line between being grateful for the contentment I feel and the aspiration to tweak and improve myself in so many areas of my life.

Warm air pulls me to go farther than I had planned, but I turn and begin to run home. I know staying uninjured after a running hiatus means slowing down even when I want to speed up.

Finding balance step by step means returning home with a clearer head, resolving to set small goals for myself in parenting, in writing, in health and fitness.

Running gives me a place to let my dreams soar and the peace to allow myself to reach for those dreams, knowing that the most important ones have already come true.

Have you heard of Striiv?  Do you want one?

 

Visit Just.Be.Enough. this week for the chance to win one of two Striivs that they will be giving away this week.

 

For your first chance to win, link up a Be Enough Me post.  This week's prompt was: What are you striving for?

 

For your second chance, come join us for our first Twitter Party!

(11/29 at 8 pm EST)

We’ll be discussing getting moving and putting ourselves first as we strive to live healthy lives full of movement.

And giving away awesome prizes!

Every MONDAY join us…
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Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission
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Next week’s prompt: The best present...

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

I Never Knew I Could Miss Shoes

Sitting patiently on the stairs near the back door, my running shoes have been lonely lately.

 

Please visit me over at Just.Be.Enough. today, where I'm hosting the weekly link-up.  I'm talking about why I haven't been running and how I feel about that.

Rethinking Regret

I've written before about living without regret, and as I sat down to jot down ideas for today's post, I planned to continue with similar sentiments.  Then I found this quote, from L.M. Montgomery:

My cherished copies of three Anne of Green Gables books are currently on Abbey's bookshelf, waiting to be shared.  Their spines worn and pages yellowing with age, I've lived and relived Anne's adventures and mishaps, as a child and young adult and mother-to-be, softly reading aloud with the book balanced on my pregnant abdomen.

I've imagined Abbey curling into my side, listening to stories of Anne long before she's ready to read chapter books, talking with her about some of the mistakes Anne makes and the lessons she learns.

I stared at L.M. Montgomery's quote and considered my "I don't regret a single moment" philosophy. 

My thinking shifted.  Perhaps I had been putting too much power in the hands of regret.  I was letting the idea of it mean more than it does. 

Regret doesn't have to mean I would change a decision or a mistake; it simply means that I feel sadness and possibly some disappointment about those missteps, those bumps in the path I've taken to get to this place in my life.

I do have regrets. 

I have made decisions that have hurt others.

I have made decisions that have hurt me.

I have put myself in the position to be hurt by others.

I do, in fact, feel sadness and disappointment about those parts of my past, as I'm sure I will about decisions I have yet to make.

But I have learned from my regrets, even the lessons that had to be repeated, the pain that had to be replayed time and again, until my thinking shifted into place.

Those lessons mean I can face my regret, forgive myself, and leave those mistakes in the past.  I do not carry them into my future.

So one day, when I am settled into the couch with Anne of Green Gables, Abbey at my side and Dylan clamoring to catch a whiff of pages feeling the breath of excited children after far too long, I may pause for a moment to feel some sadness, some regret for mistakes I've made in the past. 

Their sweet smiles and ability to snuggle into nooks I wasn't aware my body had will be even more of a gift, because I can be certain they are the two things in my life I have never regretted.

this week's prompt:

"Something I do not regret..."

We hope you will read, comment, link up, and explore the stories of others who have linked.

Every MONDAY join us…

Write, post, link-up, share your story and your voice. Be part of carrying the weight of confidence and share our mission to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children that the time has come to celebrate ourselves!

Next week’s prompt: “One image or symbol that reminds me to Be Enough"

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)

My Costume? I'm an Author

The truth is Santa once carted a typewriter all the way from the North Pole and lovingly placed it under our Christmas tree.  Hopefully he left a few dollars in my mom’s stocking, because she was the one replacing my typewriter ribbons as I filled pages upon pages with stories, stories I was convinced would catapult me onto a best-selling list before I left junior high school.

I became interested in boys and wrote about hand holding and note-passing and breathless first kisses.  I became more interested in boys and experienced those things.   I decided my first novel wouldn’t be finished until after high school, filling floppy disks with ideas and beginnings and endings, the middle of my epics hazy and unsure. 

My dreams of moving to New York and writing for a living out of a studio apartment curled inward, pushed back by ideas of journalism and white space and bylines.  They shrank into the corner during the angst-inducing year of philosophy classes, later beaten into submission by the academic reading and writing required of an English major. 

The truth is dreams can get tired, too.  Teen author slid into young adult author until finally my fingers stalled at my keyboard, and I casually relegated the idea to “one day I will write books.”  One day in the future, one day when the kids are grown, one day when my life feels settled, I will write books.

Everything changed when I met Greta.  If you’re shaking your head and looking around for a straightjacket as I talk about meeting a fictional protagonist, you’re probably a reader and not a writer.

The truth is I didn’t create her or imagine her or plan her; she walked into a specific writing prompt and presented herself, and I needed to know more about her. 

So I wrote her, in snippets and glimpses, without regard for chronology, filling in the details as they revealed themselves to me.

More than a few thousand words, and several snapshots of her life, later, and I’m at the point where I think it’s time we made a commitment.

And that’s where novel-writing dreams collide with a compelling character and begin to dance to the frantic tunes of NaNoWriMo.  National Novel Writing Month.  Or November, to the non-crazy people who don’t plan on churning out 50,000 words in the next thirty days.

The truth is I’m unsure about this undertaking.  Nervous.  Exhilarated.  Terrified.

The truth is I wouldn’t have done it without the excitement percolating around it at Write on Edge.

The truth is I can’t do it without their support.

The truth is I can’t do it without YOUR support.

The truth is I’ve always known there are novels curled together in my brain, patient and dormant, biding their time.

The question is can this one make the leap into reality?

photo courtesy of Laura at Purple Sky Photography

hopefully I'll still be smiling by November 30th

and as for the nitty-gritty ,I'll still be posting during this experiment

I'm aiming for three posts a week-Monday, Wednesday, & Friday

This week's prompt was The Truth.

Every MONDAY join us…
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to empower, inspire, and remind women, parents and children
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Next week’s prompt: “Something you do not regret doing”

(Remember you can also write on a topic of your choice.)