Legacy

The start of a new year always causes me to pause and look back.  I remember reading a quote many years ago which stated, in so many words, that the only two things that matter at the end of your life are "what you learned and who you loved".  Those simple words resonate with me as I reflect on the previous twelve months, along with all the promises I made to myself and others at this same time last year.  Did I keep my promises?  Honor my vows?  Improve on the flaws that needed fixing?  These answers are light and simple as long as I did not screw up too severely in any one area.  I could go easy on myself by wiping the slate clean and looking only forward to what the new year could bring.  But what if this was it?  What if the close of this year marked my own personal expiration?  What would be left of me and my time here to warrant any noteworthy memories?  What would be my legacy?

I am not trying to be overly morbid by harping on my demise, but this does cross my mind from time to time.  Surely I'm not the only one.  Although I was raised Catholic and consider myself a Christian, I make a real effort to learn about and respect the religious principles of various groups.  My own spiritual journey is still evolving and leaves me hungry to explore other viewpoints from different faiths.  Beyond the walled garden of Christianity, I know that other faiths follow similar universal teachings of love, forgiveness and charitable deeds.  We all appear to believe the day will eventually come where we will stand in judgement for the life we lived and the choices we made.  I don't live in constant fear of that day when my judgement will come.  I would be a monumental hypocrite if I made that type of declaration.  However, I do wonder if today was my last day and all my second chances were used up, would my goods out weigh my bads?

My point is that we really don't know when that final day or year is coming.  Last year at this time, many people made heart felt resolutions, but did not live long enough to see them through.  Yesterday, someone that died today, planned to still be here right now.  How can I be so arrogant to think my last moments will be come at a convenient and well planned time?  There most likely will not be a warning bell for me to tie up all my unfinished business neatly for a glorious Hollywood ending (complete with an emotional musical soundtrack, I might add).  In true form, my final words will probably be something non-poetic like "aah crap, not now".  In that moment my mind may go to my family, my friends and loads of unfulfilled promises.  Will they be forgiving enough to remember me for my good intentions instead of my poor actions?  Will they be left behind knowing how much I loved them, even if I never said it enough times?

When I look at photos of my deceased and beloved grandparents, I am immediately filled with all the emotions and memories of the lives they led and the experiences we shared together.  My hope is that my children and others will be able to look at old photos of me one day, with my smile frozen in time, and remember my impact on their existence in a positive light.  I want my legacy to be more about what good I did do, instead of what I could have done.  I need to believe that my work on this earth will endure and inspire someone to want to go farther than I my own journey took me.  Maybe they will sense my spirit when they accomplish a personal goal or achieve a life long dream.  By "they" and "someone", I mean my own children of course, but these sentiments are not limited to only them.  If you want your legacy to endure beyond the span of your life, then you need to start now, on this day, in this hour, in this breath to make your best intentions real.  Don't assume that another year is available or guaranteed to every one of us to make good on today's promises.  If we live like this year is our last, we may work harder to make the time count for something better than just our best intentions and create a legacy we can be proud of.

Happy New Year to everyone and may this year find you happy, fulfilled and 

blessed with all the love your heart can hold.

Oh, Grow Up!

My blog has been getting a lot of hits over the last month although I have not shared anything new.  I swear I did not abandon it.  I've just been going through some things.  If you are connected to me on Facebook, you may already know that we have been doing a small kitchen face lift.  This so-called small kitchen remodeling project grew a little, just shy of a high rise demolition and rebuild.  It includes some new sleek toys and I am really happy with the results.  The original estimated timeline was supposed to be ten days max, but three weeks later the whole thing has come to a close finally.  I actually believe my husband was so agreeable in upgrading our outdated kitchen so I would cook more often.  Bless his sweet little heart!  Hasn't he figured out the only thing to keep me cooking at regular intervals is to actually like what I cook?  (He always turns up his nose at my vegetarian creations.)

Enduring this construction project during the holidays creates a much higher stress level than I could have ever imagined.  We have always loved hosting small gatherings at our house during this time of year, but the kitchen demolition has made the party planning a little trickier.  We have been eating out every night and keeping the boys out of the messy, dusty house as much as possible.  During all this time of family togetherness, I have noticed a lot of changes in their behavior.  There are very few signs of sweet little boy traits around here.  When they made their Christmas wish lists this year, there were exactly zero toys that made the cut.  We have never told them the truth about Santa, but no one seems to be very worried about him anymore.  Whenever we are out in public, neither son wants to walk next to me, let alone hold my hand.  My title of "mommy" was taken away months ago and now they just call me "mom".  Even worse, this title is no longer said in a sweet way.  It is usually yelled from upstairs whenever food supplies have run low, like "MOM, WE'RE STARVING!!".  It leaves me feeling like I have been through some sort of demotion or reassignment.  I used to be the queen of this household and now I am treated like an annoying fifth wheel that  is sent away to make occasional food runs.

Of course this is not good, so this week I tried to indulge them in a little tradition I started when they were really little.  Every Christmas vacation, we load up in the car dressed in pajamas and drive around looking at Christmas decorations.  When we went this year, they snoozed in the back seat and asked me to wake them up if I drove by "anything cool".  I recently snooped on my big boy's internet browsing history and discovered he has been Googling "signs of puberty".  He was getting dressed the other day and ran for cover when he heard me walk into the room.  Really??  It's not like he's had some incredible growth spurt that produced strange new body parts overnight.  Even my once cuddly baby boy acts like I am invading his turf when I walk into his mini man cave.  He keeps his eyes on me when I open his drawers to put away clean laundry.  We have already reached the point in our relationship where I have to ask them to explain song lyrics to me because I am no longer cool enough to speak the same language.

Throughout all these little observations, I have taken note that they seem to be adjusting rather smoothly.  The two of them seem to be doing okay with their new found maturity and coolness.  It's me that can't handle it.  They are growing up and maturing much faster than (cough, um) me.  I am still stuck in the "adorable little boy" phase, while they have obviously moved up to the "pre-pre-pre-teen" phase and left me behind.  I am the one who has some growing up to do.  I am the one who is afraid of what new developments tomorrow will bring.  By the time I catch up with them, they will have moved on to the next level.  It already takes ninja-like skills just to sneak up on them to steal a kiss on the cheek.  If that is the best I can get for now, then I guess I will have to treasure it for what it is...precious and rare.  My Christmas wish list will include a free hug-and-kiss-combo from each kid that will have to last me until the next gift giving holiday, like maybe Mother's Day.  It's going to be really interesting growing up with these two.

The Comeback

Over the last few weeks I had a date highlighted on my calendar:  September 2nd, Labor Day.  This day was significant because I planned for it to mark my triumphant return to running following my foot surgery.  This day was chosen because it allowed me six weeks of recovery time for my foot to heal and for all the swelling to go away.  Why six weeks?  It seemed like a respectable amount of time to be down and out from my sport of choice.  Besides, it is the same amount of time I have taken off after each of my previous surgical setbacks.  Yes, I've had a couple.  Six weeks is just long enough for me to miss my runs without going completely crazy from inactivity.  I have never missed that six-week goal in the past and I had no plans to miss it this time around either.

This Saturday morning I met that goal two days early.  My plan was to lace up my running shoes and do a simple test run around the block.  There would be no worries about pace, form or appearance.  Just take some easy strides to see how my new foot would feel during repeated strikes against the road.  I still have a mild limp when I walk, but it is so slight that no one stares at me with that pathetic "poor-thing-bless-her-heart" look in their eyes anymore.  I figured I would last about a half mile and be totally spent from exertion, since I had not done any physical activity to this degree since the day before my painful bunion was removed.  My shoes were worn and my running shorts were snug from the weight I gained while laying around with my bum foot propped up.

Nevertheless, I walked out the back door and turned on my running app, as I headed down my street to put the shiny new foot to the test.  Initially, it felt a little weird because I am still struggling to use a normal foot strike.  Ever since I ditched the crutches, I have been walking with an under pronated foot strike, meaning the outer part of my foot touches the ground first and rolls inward.  Supposedly I adopted this bad habit in a self preservation move to protect the tender ball of my foot while it was still swollen and healing.  If I don't make a conscious effort to correct this soon, I might end up permanently jacking up my foot in other ways I never intended.

With my bad running gait, wearing too tight shorts, I managed to surpass my initial expectation of hitting a half mile and stretched this little test run to a full two miles.  It felt like I had the starring role in a short film called Fat Girl Running.  According to my running app, my stats included an average pace of 4.0 mph, which equals a painfully slow 15-minute mile.  For any non-runners reading this right now, that is equivalent to a brisk walking pace.  I was breathing hard, with my lungs and quads burning, but I was out there and I was moving.  That's all that mattered to me.  I felt like I'd won a major prize.

When I turned the final corner and hit the home stretch back towards my house, another runner was passing me on my left side.  She smiled as she ran ahead of me, probably assuming I was a rookie runner because of my uneven stride and slow pace.  My stupid pride forced me to straighten up a little to try to look sharper as she passed, but it didn't matter.  She was already long gone and too lost in the bliss of her own morning run to notice me.  That was when I was reminded that this little journey was mine alone and not meant for anyone else to care about or understand.  I had to make this run, as well as all the others, for my own sense of accomplishment.

There would be no medal at the end and no cheering crowd to greet me.  Later in my life, it may not matter to me that there were no witnesses to see that I'd met my little goal on this average Saturday morning.  But it will matter to me that it happened at all.  It will matter to me that I have never let a setback permanently sideline me.  It will mean something to be able to tell my kids that I got myself back in the game without any whining about how far I still have left to go.  It won't matter how sore I was at the end of this little two miler, but it will matter that it took far more determination just to start this comeback run than it ever took to finish it.

Superwoman Doesn't Live Here

I recently changed my hair.  For years, I wore it in a super short pixie cut that was easy and convenient for my runner girl lifestyle.  My husband loved it and it was easy, so it remained my signature style for roughly 15 years.  Sure I would grow it out from time to time, but eventually I would get tired of the upkeep and go back to my simple short look.  It was cute, fast and made me feel carefree.  So what the hell was I thinking by letting it grow out to shoulder length this past year?  Oh yeah, I turned 40 and decided it was time for a makeover.  By simply allowing my hair to grow out to a longer length, I had to double everything related to it:  my hair care budget, my number of products, my blow drying time and my morning prep time.  UGH!  I want to go back to bed just thinking about it.

So was it worth it?  Sure, because my guys seem to like this look.  My husband would go along with whatever 'do I choose, but it is the opinion of my boys that really gets my attention.  My hair has a very thick wavy/curly hybrid and coarse texture to it.  Although I occasionally wear it in it's naturally wild state, I also started straightening it most days and it's a lot of work.  After washing my hair, it takes about one hour, start to finish, to completely beat my bushy wavy hair into submission.  So imagine my disappointment when my baby boy walks in on me during one of my marathon hair straightening sessions and says "you look better with it curly".  Huh?  Did he just say that?  Doesn't he realize that I do all this work in an attempt to look good?  So much for that.

I instantly felt defeated.  He waltzed his little 8-year-old self into my bathroom and made me feel like a chump with one simple statement.  How does he do that?  Why does his innocent declaration feel so monumental to me?  He was not being mean or disrespectful.  He just stated his opinion in a nonchalant, matter-of-fact way and walked out.  My kids and I have both reached an interesting point in our development.  I have finally come to a point in my life where B.S. is no longer tolerated and toxic people are quickly shown the door.  I feel stronger because I don't spend valuable energy trying to get people who don't matter to like me.  Although all the chinks in my armor are not completely gone yet, I finally feel good in my own skin.  However, the little people who do matter most to me can walk into my bathroom on any random day and say they don't like my hair and I want to crumble.  I don't consider myself to be especially vain, but his brutal honesty about my disheveled appearance has caused me to check myself in the mirror a time or two.

Why do I let his opinion rule me so much?  Probably because I do want him to think highly of me.  I do want him to feel okay standing next to me.  When I show up to his school to meet his teacher and see his friends, I want to represent him well.  I want him to look up to me with pride.  But isn't that backwards?  As the parent, shouldn't my opinion be law?  Shouldn't he be on a mission to impress me?  My two boys are very different.  My oldest son, who is the miniature spitting image of my husband, gets all his personality traits from me.  We like many of the same things (like running!) and miraculously he still chooses to hang around me without anyone having to offer bribes.  He's a great kid who looks at me like I am Superwoman that gets everything right, but I get the feeling he tells me what I want to hear sometimes.  My suspicion is that he will be the son to look after me when I am really old and unable to chew my own food.  I know my glory time with him is limited because he will be too cool to hang with his old mom in about one year.  My youngest son, however, just calls it like he sees it.  He's not worried about protecting my feelings and self esteem.  He just puts his opinion out there, regardless of the fall out.  Not much bothers him either.  Yeah he is still light years away from adulthood, but I do believe he will continue to have these personality traits later in life.  He is like a little Teflon Don that couldn't care less that his socks don't match most days.

Maybe that is why I value his opinion so much.  It's because these are the exact qualities that I want to have one day.  I want my guys to like my cooking.  I want them to miss me when I'm not around.  I want them to brag on me behind my back.  In order to achieve my own superhero status, I would have to let the minor failures bounce off me and move on without a care.  When people ask for my opinion, I would give them the honesty they deserve instead of the politeness I try to manufacture.  Crap, I can hear how ridiculous that sounds:  When I mature, I want to be more like my 8-year old.  Well, maybe not exactly like him.  I still have better hygiene than him and slightly more money.  Nevertheless, I admire him and look forward to the day when I can have the same nonchalant attitude about petty issues that don't matter in the larger scheme of my earthly existence.  This chic is a long way off from achieving that kind of feat, but my hope is that I will feel content enough with myself in another 20 years or so to finally reach that superwoman status.  That means there will be a lot of screw ups and mistakes made in the meantime, but hopefully no one will be paying attention just yet.