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Finding the thing that puts you in the zone...

The days I find most satisfying are the ones where I am so deeply engrossed in whatever it is that I am doing, that I look at the clock and think, "Where did the day go?"  To be so lost in what you are doing means that it is feeding you.  Finding that soul-feeding zen-zone in your work is the ultimate, in my opinion.

I saw my thirteen-year old son, Austin, in the zone today.  We had a field trip to Piedmont Wildlife in Durham, NC.  This is a former tobacco farm which now serves as a refuge for injured and rehabilitated wildlife.  The staff and administration at Piedmont Wildlife work zealously to aid animals that have been injured, and to educate the community about the value that animals of all descriptions (yes, even copperheads!) provide, and the delicate balance that their presence creates in our ecosystem.

Piedmont is currently logging and tracking the box turtle population on their property, to understand their behavior and habits in light of some environmental changes which are occuring.  Austin and his schoolmates from Raleigh Progressive School learned about this initiative, and a short while later while walking the property, found a box turtle.  This is when I watched my son transform.

Austin carefully picked the turtle up, and showed it to his friends.  He then carefully brought it back to the classroom to be logged for tracking, since it had no apparent markings.  Under the seasoned direction of Director Gail Abrams, Austin learned how to properly mark, log and set up GPS tracking for these creatures.  DNA kits were on hand to participate in a related study.  Austin appeared oblivious to his friends and their conversation, focusing only on the turtle and the task at hand.  His zen-zone was my joy.

I don't know what my children will be when they grow up.  But I hope whatever it is, they develop a terrible sense of time because they are so lost in what they do that their souls are fed.

What do you give a child who wants nothing material?

First of all, what's up with that?! 

I don't know how I gave birth to a girl who doesn't "do" Barbies, doesn't want her ears pierced.  Eats like a beautiful troll (purring when it's really good), wearing remnants proudly on her face her shirt her pants her hair.

I walk into Saks, and am greeted by name.  My son looks at me and says, "they're your peeps?"  I brush it off, a little embarrassed.

My daughter has no interest in shopping.  When I hold up something I know she would love (because it's sky blue - her favorite color), she says, "Oh!  You're right, it's beautiful.  But I already have running shorts.  How many does one person need?"  And she's right, of course.

A few Christmases ago, her letter to Santa was brief and consisted of little more than a "Merry Christmas and thanks for doing what you do for all the kids of the world."  So I tried to figure out what she might like, and created a respectable pile for the morning of 12/25.  She opened everything, oohed and ahhhed appreciateively, and then asked if we could bring it all to Target for a gift card because she simply already had everything she needed.  I did, and then spent the next several months trying to entice her with a toy/craft/item that might interest her.

Thus is my programming.  How misguided that I have tried to recreate in her that which brings me pleasure, when her pleasures are so much simpler and more attainable.  She loves her cat.  She loves her dog.  She loves her brother.  She loves chocolate.  She loves TV.  She loves to cuddle.  And it's all available to her.  And she is truly happy.  One of the most joyful humans I have ever met.

My daughter doesn't walk, she bounces.  Her hair is alive.  Her eyes are sparkling.  She hums.  She snaps her fingers.  She whistles (I can't whistle.  Nor can I easily leave behind a beautiful pair of shorts).

She has been sent here to teach me, and I am a slow learner.  But I am learning.

Today, we spent the day together doing errands.  We listened to music.  We joked around in a silly way.  And then I thought of a great gift for her.  I drove to the Volkswagen dealership, and parked.  I said, "Honey, I have a gift for you." 

She looked at me, (with pity?) and sighed, "What is it, mom?"

"Look around."

She did.  Row upon row of Volkswagen Beetles.  White.  Cream.  Lime.  Silver.  Blue.  Black.  Her face lit from within.  And we had a rousing game of  "whitepunchbuggynopunchbacks... creampunchbuggynopunchbacks... greenpunchbuggynopunchbacks....redpunchbuggynopunchbacks..."

A kind salesman walked over to us, and asked if he could help us.  I told him that we had come to play "Punch buggy." 

He smiled, and said, "Well then, makes yourselves right at home."

And we did.  And it was simple.  And priceless.

I'm learning.

sometimes we have to let our mascara drip

In the day-to-day life of adulthood, we try to put on our brave face.  Our best face forward.  Our professional and put-together facade.  It's one of the reasons why weekends are so precious.  And why grown people rejoice over the notion of "dress-down Fridays."  (Really?  Do khakis and sockless moccasins truly make us that happy?)

When I get dressed in my "professional Lori" garb, my kids and I joke that I am becoming "Business Barbie".  Even at their tender ages, they see me putting on the mask that I wear for the world.

This past weekend, I took my kids to an indoor water park at a "resort" called Great Wolf Lodge.  To anyone who knows me, I would usually choose a dental cleaning to a trip to something like Chuck E. Cheese, so this was really planned for my kids.

Upon arrival, we got settled, scoped out our options, and headed for the water park.  They immediately "carp-ayed-the-diem" and went for the water.  I gingerly enjoyed the water in all the ways that one can, without ruining my mascara and hair (which turns into a Q-tip upon contact with water).  I bravely did the arms hanging from a rope bridge thing above the pool, hopping from one foam lilypad to the next.  (We can talk about how sore my arms were in another blog about my delusions of physical strength).

The I went into the wave pool, and perched gracefully (in my mind; this is my blog, remember?) on a clear inner tube with handles.  I bounced along with the waves, participating in the joy with my kids.  And then I flipped.  And submerged.  And when I re-entered the surface, and breathed, I was, in a sense, reborn.  Hair: toast.  Mascara: the stuff of horror movies.  There was no going backwards now.

I went into the ladies room, and washed off all mascara remnants.  Business Barbie had gone home for the day.  I rentered the indoor waterpark, and enthusiastically, without abandon, became a large and probably embarrassingly happy child for the remainder of the day.  My children delighted in my standing under the tipping water bucket with me (think Titanic; this is not for the meek).  We giggled and sang as we rowed our rafts.  We even ate french fries and onion rings as a snack.  Complete and utter abandon.

It was joyful.  I wonder what would happen if we conducted ourselves in our daily lives without self-consciousness and motive.  If we didn't interact with the unconscious goal of appearing smart, groomed, successful, socially acceptable, popular, "cool"...how would we behave?  Would anarchy break loose?  Would we be nicer?  Meaner? 

I like structure.  And I like the confines of civilized society in the most basic form.  But I could do without pretense.  Genuine people are genuinely rare.  And genuine laughter feels really good.  Let your mask drip all over your face and embrace the freedom once in a while.  It might be enlightening, and it certainly feels good.  Ask a kid.

The Gift of the Mistake

Growing up as a type-A must-succeed kind of person, the idea of mistakes and imperfections were, in my mind, the ultimate in "what to avoid."

Now, at the ripe old age of 45, my view of mistakes has changed considerably.  I recognize that every mistake, every customer or staff complaint, has forced us to look at what we are doing, and find a way to do it better.  It has made us view ourselves from the outside.  This is a gift. 

When one is on the receiving end of a complaint, there are a few options: 

1. Get defensive.
2. Shut down.
3. Cringe, but listen.
4. Open up and really hear what is being said, without personalizing it and getting emotionally entangled. 

I think #4 is the winner (though not always easy!) because I believe that everything we hear, whether delivered with sensitivity or a bulldozer, has at least some element of truth to it.  And that element is, in my opinion, an opportunity for us to tighten up our methods and get even better.  And that is what we have done consistently at RightTime KiDS.  Perhaps that's one of the reasons we are consistently voted a family favorite by the readers of Carolina Parent.

Last night, I had the privilege of attending a customer service training seminar, initiated by our brilliant first franchisee, Pam Keels Woodyard.  Pam's thinking is that one of the things that has always set RightTime KiDS apart from any comparable service, is that we are extremely professional and welcoming.  As a customer of the North Raleigh location, Pam felt RightTime KiDS offered drop-in childcare services with a consistently polished, organized, yet warm and friendly staff and program.  She believed in what we do, and how we do it so much that when we offered a franchise opportunity, she wanted in.

Pam was right.  And we ran our center that way from the very beginning, because as an actual parent who uses the facility, I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted in my drop-in center for my children.  Anything less wasn't good enough.  But the philosophy and corporate culture hadn't been formally defined and trained in the way that Pam's seminar wrote it up.  This is something we will be introducing into all of our future training.  Because how our customers feel when they leave our centers, whether having just dropped their children off, or just picked them up, is worthy of our very best efforts at all times.

I try to teach my own children that as humans, we are wired to make mistakes.  The trick is to see these errors, and make a conscious effort to do something differently at the next try.  And it's okay to laugh at our own mistakes, especially if they aren't the kind that hurt others.  (Ask my kids about my cooking prowess, and they'll have stories to share about burned meals, smoke alarms, and threats to call the child abuse hotline).  By reminding ourselves to be compassionate and non-judgmental, whether with ourselves or with others, I think we can become better people, better parents, better citizens, and help those around us to do the same.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Children have a way of telling it "like it is" and in doing so, have the ability to take our breath away with what they reveal.

On Saturday night, I was in the car with my two children, and my neighbor's adorable 4 year old daughter.  Our visitor initiated a rousing round of "Old MacDonald Had A Farm," a song we haven't sung in our car for some time.

It started with the obligatory cow, pig, duck, and then evolved with the creative input of my two kids.  Old MacDonald had an alien.  A flying squirrel.  A goldfish. 

Then Old Mac Donald had a "mom:"
with a "I can't play I have work to do HERE...and a I can't play I have work to do THERE, here I can't play, there I have work to do, blah, blah, blah, blah...Old MacDonald had a farm, e-i-e-i-oooooo!"

Ouch.  Breath taken.  Point made.

I'm taking Friday off to have a picnic and make hardwood-floor angels.

8 years ago today...

when America was losing her innocence, my life started to tumble along with the lives of so many others.

I grew up in New York City.  In Manhattan.  When the first plane hit the first tower of the majestic and powerful World Trade Center, my 58 year old larger-than-life, powerful, smart, strong, passionate father was lying in a bed in Columbia Presbyterian Hospital on the upper east side.  Waiting for tests that would confirm a diagnosis he probably already knew, but didn't want to know.

Then the second tower was hit.  And my father, in his hospital gown, with the back exposed, decided he was freeing up that bed for one of the sure-to-come victims who would be flooding the city's hospitals.

I had left the city just 3 days earlier to return to my very small children in New Orleans, who had never spent a night away from me in their lives prior to me heading to NYC to see what I could do to help my parents.  I promised them I would return on Saturday, and I was committed to keeping that promise, even though it felt so very wrong to leave my dad.

We all know how that day unfolded.  It has been documented using every form of communication and media known to man.  So many lives were lost.  So much destruction and human agony.  And ten days later, on 9/21, when it was clear that there were far too many empty hospital beds in New York City, my dad received his diagnosis of stage 4 metastatic (is that the word?) lung cancer which had spread to his brain and spinal cord.  He was gone one month and one day later.

Eight years later, it still feels like a kick to the stomach when I think of him.  I can still smell his warm, musky smell.  I can still hear him singing.  Sometimes, when I'm not expecting it, I can smell the second-hand smoke that was a prominent frangrance of my childhood.  I want to hug him so much, it hurts.

We all lost so much that day, including our belief that here, in America, we are immune to the horrors that occur in other parts of the world.  Yet what defines us is how we moved forward.  We didn't curl up in a ball and hide.  We held hands, stood tall, looked for ways to lighten the load for our neighbors who were hurting even more than we were.  We mourned.  Hard.  And then we dusted ourselves off, and remembered who we were.  We maintained our hope.  Our optimism.  We rebuilt.

I have done the same since losing my dad.  My mom wasn't able to.  They were childhood sweethearts, and she was lost in the blackest of holes after he left.  18 months and 5 days later at age 59, she joined him.  I like to imagine that they are together, taking care of my German shepherd, Zak, my cats Walter and Willow, my goofy sweet dog, Zoe, and keeping an eye on things here.

What I have felt since losing them has been a strong sense of protection.  I can feel my guardian angels all around me, and I know that there is still a strong sense of love and connection.  I suspect the families and friends who lost so suddenly eight years ago today know what I'm talking about.  We are definitely not alone, and everything really is going to be okay.