Parenting

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How to Find Balance

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How to Find Balance

Balance? Are you kidding me? Is that even a thing? 

Work-life balance seems to be not only my own nemesis, but just might be the great white whale of our time. It's the thing that we are constantly seeking to conquer, yet never quite able to attain. We wish that there was some kind of magical pie chart that would show us the exact proportions of a life well-lived, but in my experience, the math never really adds up in real life. 

I work twelve hour days, seven days a week. I wake up before dark just to get my four miles in before the kids wake up. On any given day, I've got three companies to run, yoga to practice, reading to catch up on, and any spare minute is squirreled away for my writing projects. My husband and I high-five each other on the way out the door in the morning and pass out on the couch hours before the kids put themselves to bed. (Sexy, I know.) 

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What to Do if Your Daughter Hates You

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What to Do if Your Daughter Hates You

Divorce is horrible. And unfortunately, it's even more terrible for our children. This week, one of my students posted on my online forum asking for help. Her tween daughter is unhappy which means she is unhappy. My student is newly divorced and their entire lives have been upended. Once having lived in the expansive stretch of a McMansion, now living in a tiny two-room apartment. Her daughter complains about the apartment, the clothes, the new life. The mom feels guilty and ashamed and is grasping for anything she can do to help her daughter feel safe. Feel loved. Feel like it's all going to be okay.

I remember what this was like. I remember that first year, living in my little house. I remember the tears, night after night, as I tried to put my inconsolable daughter to bed. I remember her fury and her heartbreak.

"You've stolen my happiness," she told me. 

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A Mother's Loss

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A Mother's Loss

It happened again.

I watched my daughter get out of the car, sling her backpack over her shoulder and run after some friends. I watched as she crossed the busy street to the inner sanctum of junior high. She was laughing, face to the sky, hair flying in the wind, so beautiful that time seemed to stand still just for her.

I sat in my car watching, waiting for her to look back in my direction, if even for a second. 

She did. She always does. A smile and a secret wave saying, "Bye, I love you."

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The House That Built Me

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The House That Built Me

I'm sitting on the cold terra cotta tile floor. My finger tracing grey squares of gritty grout. The sun's warmth opens all the white lilies that line the deck, not strong enough, even on the sultriest of days, to bring this floor to even a corpse-like temperature. Its cold seeps through my jeans now and I laugh through tears. Thinking of how many times I've cursed that cold tile. Sucking the life force out of my feet for the past five winters. And even so, how I remained barefoot most of the year.

This beautiful floor. The hardness of it is highlighted by our quiet echoed conversation. Its unwillingness to bend or comfort. It had a job to do and it didn't get caught up in softening a blow to a foot or to a head. It was unconcerned with offering warmth or pliability. 

It held this house together. And it kept us suspended and supported in this place.

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What We Touch

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What We Touch

I am holding a beautiful Wedgewood porcelain tea pot. 

I found it high up and way in the back of the kitchen cabinet during my move.

This beautiful thing.

I don't know its history. When it was purchased. Who it served.

I don't know if it holds happy memories. Or terrible ones. I don't know if it held hopes and dreams of beautiful dinner parties. Or if it has served an army of broken hearts, mistrusts and betrayals.

I only know that it has been carefully stored. And that it is not mine. 

And that I am sure it has stories to tell.

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Five Things I Thought I'd Never Be Thankful For

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Five Things I Thought I'd Never Be Thankful For

race yourself.

This isn't going to be a typical Thanksgiving post full of positivity-lite and generic gratitude.

Ironic, because I find myself in a place in my life where I have never been more happy. Or more grateful. And I could easily write a piece on how beautiful my life is and how thankful I am for that. To which you could roll your eyes. Or burn with jealousy. Or give me a standing ovation.

And I honestly don't think it would do either of us any good.

So, I thought about what I'd really like to share with you. What gratitude really means to me. And what giving thanks actually looks like in my life.

It's easy to be thankful for the "good stuff." A loving and kind man. Healthy kids. Career success. Strong body. Great friends. Beautiful home. 

It's easy to be thankful for the "simple stuff." A hot cup of coffee. Warm fuzzy socks. The song of the black bird outside my window. Amazon Prime. 

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Independence Day

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Independence Day

Last winter, my heart was broken. Someone I loved very much walked out of my life. Out of my daughter's life. 

He gave no reason. 

He just bailed.

And for months after, I tried to heal. I tried to forgive. I tried to forget.

I tried to pick up the pieces of my heart and scotch-tape them back together.

My chest literally hurt. My rib cage ached. I felt haunted by the Ghost of Relationships Past. Everything I did. Everywhere I went. He was there. 

I came to realize this heavy brick on my sternum was grief. 

And that it is normal.

And that it sucks.

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A Love Like That

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A Love Like That

I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. A little piece of heaven surrounded by ranches, farms and ocean in the middle of the California coast line.

This morning, I took advantage of an unusually-blank weekday morning and jumped in my car to go to one my favorite running trails about 20 minutes from my house.

Mornings can be utterly gorgeous in this valley. For the short time that California is green - it’s almost arrogant with its vibrancy. Showing off for the sky.

But not today.

Nope. Just grey. Subdued. 

Rounding the bend into the valley, to the left you can see all the way into wine country. And the hills beyond. To the right, you look up the valley to the ocean. Beyond the ranches.

And today there was a single horse in the middle of the field.

Surrounded by vultures. In an equidistant circle.

There had be at least 30 of them. Sitting there. Ring-around-the-rosie all facing the horse.

My heart sank. Something is wrong.

I got to my trail but couldn’t shake the thought of that horse and those vultures.

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My Daughter Wants A New Mom

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In 2011, a few years into single-motherhood, my daughter (9 years old at the time) told me that she didn’t want me to be her mom anymore. This post was written late one night during one of the worst times of my life. Here’s the original post. Scroll down to see my update, written 12 years later.

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Talking To Kids About Money

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Talking To Kids About Money

I am driving my daughter to her friends house for a sleepover. We are making small talk. I'm still in denial that she's growing up and my almost-nine-year-old wants to spend the night away from home. It was just two minutes ago that she needed Mommy for everything. She's growing up faster than I am.

She says, "I can't wait to see Lilly's house."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because I want to see if she lives in a fancy house or if she is poor." 

At this point, I'm a little woried, but I have to ask anyway. "Do we live in a fancy house?"

She looks at me as if I just asked her if I was a purple unicorn. Like, I'm asking her a trick question because the answer is so obvious.

"No, mom. We're poor."

Ok. Ouch. That was below the belt. Regaining my focus, I ask, "What's the difference between a fancy house and a poor house?"