6710 Grand

I’m wrestling with a difficult truth.  Well, maybe just chewing on it a bit.  Still wrapping my head around it.  I was listening to a Max Lucado book, Never Give Up .  He was telling the story of a young teen who was roughhousing around with his brother.  In their headlocks and arm wrestling, one kicked the other in the stomach—in the gut as he said.  Such a kick yielded acute, severe pain.  The pain led them to the emergency room which uncovered a tumor.  Emergency surgery removed the cancerous mass which, the surgeon said, had only been growing for a few days at most.  This aggressive invasion of the body could have resulted in a more serious outcome.  So, Max said, God saved the boy with a kick in the gut.  Miracle?  Sure.  I guess.  But why would God use such a method? The book is talking about going through hard things and not letting discouragement or pain get the better of you and cause you to “curse God ...

 I saw an interview transcript with Michelle Williams where she said something akin to 'you can't be great at both being a mom and a career woman'.  She said when you're at work you're thinking about your kids and when you're home with your kids you're thinking about all the work that's not being done.  Some people commented that she was just making a statement about priorities and a LOT of people agreed with her completely. The whole thing just made me really mad.  Really mad .  For 2 reasons. But I'll get to that.  Perhaps being an actress where your job takes you away from your family for months at a time and you have what I can only assume is a grueling schedule, followed by interviews and talk shows to promote the movies you're in, and then bouncing back into home life where you can then focus only on your kids is hard.  I wouldn't know.  I have no doubt that's hard.  I would never presume to understand the life of a Hollywood actre...

May-cember.  It’s becoming more recognized among parents of school-aged children.  The month of May is so crammed with activities that it resembles December—but with none of the fun of Christmas.  Performances, end of year parties, tournaments, concerts, graduation, graduation parties, dentist appointments, annual physicals, standardized tests, due dates, Mother’s Day, birthdays, Cinco de Mayo, Endangered Species Day, World Day for Cultural Diversity… the list seems endless.  There’s so much to do for the kids and their insane schedules, not to mention all that I’m doing for work—grant deadlines, promote summer camp, spring appeal, grant reports, meetings, annual reviews, contract negotiations—and home—renew pest control, renew lawn maintenance, plant flowers, tend to flower beds, mow the lawn, oil change on the mower, figure out why the composter isn’t working, clean the carpets, balance the checkbook, pay the taxes, renew the Costco membership, plan the graduation ...

 The sun has set, but it's not quite evening.  I'm still in my workday and I still have work to do.  Today, my task is to write a heart wrenching letter, seeking support from the thousands of humans who support the work of Indraloka.  To inspire them to help continue this work of hope, healing, compassion, and joy.  Nick is away.  The children are home but (presumably) occupied with their own tasks.   I sit down to write. Blank Blank Blank My desk is too messy.  I need a clear, distraction free work zone.  I tidy the desk and sit back down. The white page stares back at me, a blinking curser it's only movement. It's too quiet.  I put on the playlist I created that keeps me in a "fall" mood.  Carefully selected tracks of Bruce Hornsby, George Winston, Amber Run, Yanni, Hozier, and Shaboozy (ok, it's not fall--just a really FUN song!) fill my audible space.  I take a deep breath and dive into inspiration. But it doesn't come...

 It’s the question I hate, and yet, it is asked of me at least 4 times a day.  What’s for dinner? Why does it bother me so much?   I think it’s because I hear it more than anything else.   Hi mom, what’s for dinner?   Where’s mom?   What’s for dinner?   Is mom down there? What’s for dinner? I’m reduced to a single purpose—feed the hungries.   And I know I’m so much more.   Sometimes, I fantasize about being simply, not available.   No food in the house.   Nothing is for dinner.   Someone else needs to answer that question. I realize my hatred of this question is irrational and impractical.   I am the only one who can answer the question.   Afterall, I plan the weekly meals, do all of the grocery shopping and cooking.   Dinner is my jam! Yet, I still can not stand being asked.   So, how can I avoid the question? A dry erase board.   I bought one specifically for this purpose.   It has th...

 I am angry.  I have had enough.  I have had enough for my children.  The one thing we will not get any  more of is time.  It’s a finite resource and none of us know how much we have.  I have become so very aware of that in the last few years—since having a 4 th child, working full time with a traveling husband, my time is extremely precious.  Most precious is time to myself.  Time where no one else is demanding, asking, talking, pulling or otherwise needing my attention.  Time when I have no one and nothing to answer to by myself.  In that most precious time, I’ve declined phone calls from people I love.  Not because I don’t want to talk to them but because I don’t want to give up my time.  I’ve turned off notifications.  I’ve put down my phone.  None of those things are important enough to relinquish my time.  I won’t say I’m always doing something productive or even something anyone else would consider w...

 It's my favorite time of day--the early morning.  I'm awake but no one else is.  The house is quiet.  The coffee is fresh.  I can cuddle up on the couch with a blanket and a book, watch something not animated, or sneak down to my office to unload a few thoughts or ideas.   It doesn't last long, but I savor every moment.  It's the time of day when I can, for a short while, stop being mom and wife and just be Robin.

It’s 4:33 and the sunrise alarm clock that is supposed to wake me up naturally is blaring orange light into my bedroom.  I have no idea how to turn it off because the 946 page instruction manual remains unread in my “to read” folder.  But it doesn’t matter.  Ike is crying and it’s time to get up anyway.  I pry myself out of bed, throw on my gym clothes and head downstairs.  The coffee pot is brewing.   I debate having a cup before my run but as I diaper my baby and snuggle him back to bed I know it’s not a smart choice.   One cup leads to seven and that means my morning run won’t happen.   And it MUST happen. Baby is back down for at least another hour so I head to the basement where my office and gym are waiting for me.   I’m immediately reminded of the things I meant to finish last night but didn’t and am momentarily tempted to tackle them now.   No.   You MUST run.   I open the windows in the gym and turn on two fans. ...

 Ike is a talker.  More of a shouter really.  There's no wondering about gender stereotypes--he is ALL boy ALL the time.  It's a different world raising a son.  He barrels head first into whatever he sets his sights on.  Sometimes it's the couch.  Sometimes it's the cat.  I suspect neither one of them likes it much but he just keeps going. One thing that's the same though are the things he says.  Sometimes we laugh and sometimes we cover our mouths (and his) in embarrassment.   A few weeks ago we were in Target.  He's the only one who doesn't have to wear a mask.  Most of the time, I'm glad for it.  Not this time.  I wanted to plant one on him and never take it off.  As we're walking through the store, he just starts yelling.  This isn't new.  He's not making words, just OOOOOOOHHHHHHH!  OOOOOOOOHHHHHH!  Sometimes it's jabber but mostly just yelling.   Until it's not just yellin...