Every Curl Counts

She comes in the room,
Hair a blaze.
A rats nest,
A crazy maze.

They bounce,
And they flutter.
Filled with light,
Making the whole world shudder.

People straighten,
And brush.
Hiding before society’s eyes,
Refusing the discovery how to rise.

Coils and curls galore,
Frizzy and tangled,
A head of hair so strangled,
Dull and decrepit,
A burden.

Mask the natural,
Redo and Revise.
Don’t let them see,
What a surprise!

Day after day,
Pieces torn,
Begins with a brush,
Ends with a hush.

But with a little bit of conditioner,
Just a speck of moisture.
Suddenly the whole world is your oyster!

It begins with a boing,
Transforms into an inner light.
No more a fight,
The war has been won,
The torture is undone.

Embrace the curls,
Oh let them shine,
A part of your natural design.

Unfurl the mask,
A golden pearl,
They shimmer and spring,
A vibrant crown waiting to be seen.

They twirl and twist,
Naturally bounce,
Feel like a lion!
But be careful, I might pounce.

Every section, every curl,
Each a story to be told,
A tale about becoming uncontrolled
In a world.

They stand tall,
Unapologetically bold.
For you realized,
Curls are canvas of true diversity.

Let them bounce,
Then them twirl,
Don’t be afraid to announce:
The mask has been lifted,
Just because you realized that
Every curl counts.

By Hannah Stoffers

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Code Red

The school had had an active shooter practice drill a couple of weeks ago. My daughter was in class, but students were working in groups and didn’t hear the announcement that it was just a drill. She thought it was real and texted me. She was upset the rest of the day. We talked about it, let her vent. She took a bath, got a good night’s sleep. We carried on as we do.

I remember watching the coverage of Columbine as it was happening. Kids just a few years younger than myself crying, streaming out of the school. I watched the screen, horrified. How can this be real? How is this happening?

24 years later, I get the text that we all dread as parents. “Mom. School is in lockdown. I don’t think it’s a drill this time.” After a few minutes, I get the text from the district that the school is in lockdown, police are on site and we are not to come to the school.

I went to the school.

I didn’t care. And neither did 50-60 other parents. We parked away from the school, out of the way of police, of course, but there is no way I’m NOT coming to the school to get my kids if need be. After the police had cleared the campus an hour and a half later, parents were allowed on campus to get their kids if needed. There was a call that was taken seriously, but later turned out to be a prank that set this whole thing in motion. My daughter called me, and through her tears said she wanted to stay at school to be with her friends and finish the day. I don’t know if that was the right thing. Maybe I should have taken her and her brother out for the rest of the day. I let her take the lead and told her she knew herself and how she felt and that if that’s what she wanted to do, that was fine. I went to sit in my car for a minute to calm down.

I’m so sick of this.

I’m sick of teachers having to comfort kids, protecting their students with their own life, all while teaching the subjects they are passionate about and getting underpaid for the privilege of doing so.

It is madness. How is this normal?!

Tonight we ordered take out and ate dinner. Hannah and I went on a lovely evening hike afterward. We left our phones at home and climbed a couple of hills overlooking the valley where we live. A hike doesn’t fix the big stuff in days like today, but it felt good to get fresh air, get some elevation, say some gratitude prayers and clear our minds. Hannah wanted to go a little further and have some solo time, so I waited below and saw her tiny silhouette on top of the ridge with both hands raised. I mirrored her, raising my arms up in a V, witnessing her summit. She made her way back down and we walked home. Tomorrow counselors will be available, as will therapy dogs. Ironically the dogs were supposed to be on campus today, but of course had to be rescheduled. They will likely be well loved tomorrow.

I write when I have things that need to come out of me. Hannah sings to the ocean or to the mountains. She whacks golf balls. We both like to hike. She also writes. She penned a heartbreaking poem tonight and asked me to share it. It’s called Code Red.

Code Red
We all feel dread
Barricade the door
And secure the floor

Drill or no?
We feel so low
Hide behind a table
But it doesn’t feel stable

My tears keep flowing
Can’t stop sobbing
Can we keep going?
Wait and wait behind the desk
It all just feels like such a mess

15 minutes now
Teachers say it’s okay!
But we know the truth.
Although we are the youth,
We know.
It doesn’t take a sleuth
Or even just a clue
To know that this isn’t a drill.

I hug my friends and cry,
It feels like we’re about to die.
And in this moment I am just helpless
All I can do is wait.

It’s been 30 minutes now.
Feels like a million.
My tears continue flowing and there is no stop to them.
Nothing to do but hide,
Nothing to do but cry.

Cannot leave
Just can’t breathe
All I wanna do is grieve

It’s been 45.
At least we’re still alive!
Stay quiet
Cannot make a riot

Hoping that my friends will be okay
Texting them to see what they say
I hate today.

Breathe in and out.
Without a doubt
It was just a hoax
Someone who has jokes

One long hour.
Just so sour.
Everyone was okay.
At least they said
because of this code red.

Living through a nightmare
Like all my bad dreams
All of these streams of tears.
Gleams of hope
But still no joke

Feel like I’m going to explode,
Just a load of bull
Because of a 911 call.
And in this world
I feel so small.

Hannah S.

When It Rains….

The house we are renting needed to be treated for termites. As in whole house wrapped up in in gift wrap tent fumigated treatment.

Obviously we could not stay in said gift-wrapped house while the treatment was performed so we arranged to go “camping” for the few days that the home would be uninhabitable. We love camping. We enjoy the outdoors. There’s nothing quite as yummy as percolator coffee first thing in the morning, enjoying the sunrise. No where we have to be, and all day to do it. Four humans, two dogs, all of our pantry/fridge food in a camper – what could go wrong?

The first day felt like camping fun! Kids got to dip in the pool at the campground after they ran a mile to test their times and continue to improve for PE where they test the students periodically. (Love this so much – start them early! And they are faster than I ever was!)

Hannah beat her fastest time!

The kids were troopers commuting to school from camp, complete with doggos on board.

Buck’s balance needs a little work!

Camping while doing regular life like work, school drop off and pick up and errands takes on a whole different meaning, especially when done a mountain pass + 40 min commute over 3 freeways away. Yes, traffic is exactly how it’s depicted on Saturday Night Live’s sketch The Californians.

Day 2 brought with it a little of the drudgery as the latest atmospheric river flowed in. Perhaps you’ve heard that SoCal has unprecedented rainfall totals this year. I heard a news anchor recently ask rhetorically if San Diego was becoming the new Seattle and I had to laugh. It feels like we never left the Pacific Northwest! The campground became deluged in rain, mud and puddles everywhere. We got lucky with our campsite and it was only a little mucky, but it was next to impossible to keep the mud off our shoes, the cars and the camper. We played a bit of cards to pass the time sitting in a box with wheels in a mud pit with rain pelting overhead.

With at least 2 people in need of morning showers to start the day, and only one camper shower, I took dear daughter to the campground shower so we could get ready. We jumped through puddles, and dodged the rain down to the little building. All of this rainfall brings bugs and spiders. Lot’s of worms were “hanging out”. We go in, take our showers and then come out and see that the drains are backing up ,…and we have visitors.

Yes, this picture is extremely zoomed in, because in my vulnerable just-showered state, I didn’t want to get too close. But you tell me – that spider body looks disproportionate to its legs. It definitely looked like it just ate a huge meal or it’s waiting to explode with baby spiders everywhere. (HOW do they always find me?!) Envisioning a scene from Arachnophobia, I urge Hannah to kick it in to high gear and get done so we can get out of this spider’s home.

Not only did the kids have their regular school schedules, there was also a Family night for incoming freshmen at the high school…golf lessons…a trip to the Walmart for camping supplies that we forgot….I’ve feel like I’ve spent this whole week commuting. A total of 22 trips back and forth have been logged, and I’m officially ready to be out. of. the. car. Don’t even get me started on gas prices. When it rains, it pours.

After so many rainy trips back and forth, we are now back home and our food returned safely to pantry and fridge. I’ve washed all the things, mopped all the things and sanitized all the things. The sun is now shining and we return to regular life…

Just in time for next week’s atmospheric river.

Face Punch

On the Peloton platform, they’ve gamified fitness utilizing badges and milestones to mark significant workouts. Garmin does this too, as does Apple and other fitness trackers. I have no judgment about this – I find them motivating. I would still move my body without them, of course, but it is fun!

We have a Sober Squad within the many Peloton sub-communities. We’ve had meetups and zoom meetings and cheer each other on during PowerZone challenges. It’s fun and like any fitness activity, having community and accountability helps! One of my sober Pelo buddies is reaching his 1,000th ride right about the same time I am so we had planned to ride a live class together. (Live rides are done in real time, instructors can see you on the leaderboard, along with the 1500 other people riding also.) Many members do these for milestones in the hopes of a shout-out. I am no different and tomorrow will be a live Millennium ride!

But to get to tomorrow, I had ride #999 to get through first. After warming up, getting my strength classes in, I noticed my left shoe wasn’t clipped in all the way.

The culprit. Also, don’t mind the dog hair all over my yoga mat. I had two “helpers”.

Luckily, I had another pair of pedals on hand. “No problem. I will switch them out,” I thought to myself. “Nothing is gonna keep me from tomorrow’s class!”

I grab my tools and the box with the other pedals in them and set to work. I watch YouTube tutorials (left side turns opposite) and learn all about pedal installation. I am a person who likes to dig in and do things. It frustrates me when I can’t figure something out. I mean, we live in the age of the internet, right?! Everything is figure-out-able.

I cannot for the life of me get the pedal to turn. I cannot get the old pedals off. I call Eric for moral support and to make sure I’m doing it right. Also to ask if we have any WD40 or any other brilliant ideas he may have, so I can get this job done. He offers to take them off when he gets home. That’s my last resort because A. I want to do this myself and B. I really don’t like riding in the evening and I want fresh(ish) legs for tomorrow’s fun.

After a quick trip to the store for WD40 – because of course this is the time to discover we are out, I return home. I spray the pedals down and pull and yank on the wrench. They aren’t budging. I grab something to eat while I wait for the WD40 to work it’s magic. I sit behind the pedal and try again. I pull, I grit my teeth, I squeeze my eyes shut, and pull again.

It comes loose!

Then the pain sets in as I catch my breath, realizing I have just punched myself in the face with my own fist and the wrench. I cry, both from relief that the dang thing finally came undone, and also because I feel the blood rushing toward cheekbone, now pulsing from the pain.

I move to the other side of the bike, crank that one loose, and happily avoid giving myself another Marsha Brady football-to-the-nose face. I install the new pedals, and as I sit there in stunned silence, I hear the garage door open.

“You did NOT come home just because of my pedal fiasco, did you?” I holler to Eric as he walks in, smiling.

“I did,” he replies. I burst into tears again. He laughs, I laugh – and show him that I got them off but not without injury. He hands me Tylenol and heads back to work.

Marsha Brady cheekbone
Fat lip
Riding with an ice pack

I settle in to my new pedals, ready to ride #999. So I can then ride #1000 tomorrow with friends.

What adds insult to injury is that this morning I was just chatting with friends about yoga, meditation and finding that flow state while working out physically. That we can sit and be in the uncomfortable and how that translates to life outside of working out. Today was definitely not a meditative workout. It was far from zen. They can’t all be life transforming. Some are infinitely more memorable than others.

I have no doubt that the memory of riding the millennium ride will not be without the thought of a punch to my own face.

Hair…and more

I was listening to Glennon Doyle’s podcast and in one episode they were discussing all things recovery and rules and the parameters we set for ourselves, as well as those set for us by cultural norms and practices.

They discussed wanting to do, or not do a thing, such as dyeing one’s hair, buying a scarf, always wanting the latest thing (whatever that might be), and even just wanting in general – and how those things can tie into consumerism and the impossible standards espoused by the beauty industry. (Men going grey = silver fox, while when women do it, it’s ‘she’s let herself go’ and other such nonsense.) While not all of it resonated, when they got to the topic of going grey vs. continuing to dye hair as an example, I paused and listened intently.

I stopped dying my hair in late 2017 shortly after getting sober. Chopped off all of my hair super short – an outward symbol of inward changes. It’s now been a few years and I still have zero desire to ever head back to the colorist. No judgment to those that love getting highlights, doing dramatic amazing things with color – that’s just not what I am wanting for myself right now.

The salon I go to for trims caters to curlies. They cut hair dry, coil by coil, so each curl clump lays within the next, creating beautiful ringlets and overall amazing shape. And bonus- when cut dry there is little chance of underestimating curl shrinkage! Win!

Products for curlies have come a looong way. Playing with the phone camera post-appointment and seeing the definition made me smile.

Product makes all the difference!

I thought back to my middle and high school days. “Thank goodness for the internet,” I murmured to myself thinking of all the products and techniques tried over the last couple of decades, as well as the days when there were no products. My daughter now benefits from YouTube tutorials and tips on how to take care of her own mane of waves.

One particular ringlet stopped me. And I remembered that podcast discussion of going grey…

Ain’t she a beaut!

I wasn’t always ready for the grey. I used to yank out the single silver strands when one or maybe two would sprout. I liked the definition highlights gave. The grey is coming in more and more, and…I love it. Listening to that podcast solidified my decision to skip sitting in the stylist’s seat for hours. I love the rebellion it represents. The “I don’t care” attitude sliding down it’s rings. The flinging off of convention. The grey swims upstream, against the current of brown surrounding it. “See me?” it boldly asks. The grey is a gift, a symbol of living that not all receive. The experience of the grey demands respect, has earned its confidence, and smiles mischievously.

Ultimately – what one does (or doesn’t) do to their hair is their business. What my overall aim is – is to be mindful of the bigger picture in what my actions teach my kids, and is it authentic? Are they comfortable in their own skin? Do they accept themselves as is, or do they fight against nature? No amount of words speak so loud as my actions. We teach not by preaching, but by modeling. If I embrace who and what I am – that teaches them to celebrate who and what they are.

Sometimes a haircut…is more than just a haircut.

Lemon Tree

Tapping this out on my phone, from a bathtub in a house we are renting, I’m kind of excited. We’ve owned and rented various homes over the years, as well as lived in base housing during Eric’s career in the Navy. We’ve been house hunting for about 6 months for a long term place of our own for the first time in our marriage.

The cart is way ahead of the horse. I’m writing this post before any contracts are signed, before anything is even remotely official. We looked at a house – what I am hoping is THE house. It’s not fancy, it’s not brand new, and definitely needs some work and sweat. I can see past the surface of this one to envision our family within its walls. I’m speaking it into the universe! Manifesting! All the powers of woo woo!

When I walked in with our realtor, I realized before we even went inside, that it ticks many of our checkboxes. We are working within a budget that in other areas would buy a lot more, but this market is SoCal and it is its own animal. The floor plan is great, it’s a two story, in the neighborhood we want, (location, location, location as they say) and is within the school boundaries the kids currently attend. After transferring every 2-3 years, one thing we really wanted was for them to complete high school without any more moves, if possible. I realize this is all first world problems and decisions. The fact that we can buy a home is a privilege. Even more so that we can be selective.

We tour the home, spotting areas that need work, windows that will need replacing, verifying the HVAC and hot water heater age…all the things you examine as you look at property. I snapped a few pictures to send to Eric as he couldn’t make this particular viewing. “This may have some possibilities…” I texted into the phone ahead of the slog of photos being sent his way.

I always try to temper my reactions to properties as we’ve been viewing them. I kind of know pretty quickly whether I like a space or not. You get a feeling driving around neighborhoods. Most of the time I am able to look beyond surface things like paint and decor to see floor plan and possibilities. Eric is definitely better at vision. Some have been beyond ridiculous. There was a flipped house that had a very beautiful, but highly impractical, kitchen. In “adding square footage”, access to the garage was walled off. With washer and dryer hookups in the garage, this meant that to do laundry, one would have to go out their back yard, around the house, into another side door of the garage simply to wash clothes. It was an overpriced property that as soon as we made the connection of how impractical the layout was, we quickly made our way on to the next.

One house we viewed had a small pool (not something I really wanted, but the location was) but smelled like 4 large wet dogs and decay were embedded into the walls. Likely a home built 50+ years ago and not properly maintained, or cleaned.

Additions to another home done improperly resulting in tripping hazards in the form of 2-4 inch differences in each doorway from room to room were a fun find. (Insert eye roll here). There was the neon orange house. Think Pepto bismol pink, but then make that violent color orange. Through the entire house. The “fixer upper” that was trashed inside and broken windows that we didn’t even get out of the car for…the house with not one, but two giant (seriously, huge) spiders greeting us over the front door, ughhh…so many listings.

As we made our way outside and to the back yard, the side path led around back to a lovely space with room for the things the kids and I have been dreaming about – a trampoline, a tetherball, maybe even a hot tub! I snapped a few more photos on my phone looking at the space, realizing it’s probably the largest backyard I’ve seen yet in the 6 months we’ve been looking. Fully fenced, I realized there are no neighbors directly behind this property, smiling as I reminisce about the “fun” neighbors in south Texas that loved having outdoor parties until 3am, music blaring. There wouldn’t be any of that here. There are side neighbors, but the houses are not packed right on top of one another as we’ve seen in other places. “Definitely a strong possibility…” I thought again to myself.

Who am I kidding?

I’ve mentally already packed my bags. I’m cataloguing belongings into Donate/Keep/Sell. I’m seeing the kids laughing while jumping on a trampoline. I’m smiling and trash talking them while viciously beating them at tetherball. Grinning, I turned to the far side of the yard and sweep my eyes around the plants along the fence line. The only thing this yard needs is some TLC, and of course the lemon tree Hannah and I have been dreaming of since we lived here a few years ago. Oh! Maybe an avocado tree, and tangerines! I move to walk back around front and my eye spots yellow…

How had I missed it? There it was, back along the fence. Not quite in the corner, there it was – a medium height, but highly productive, lemon tree. All hope of maintaining any sort of poker face was lost.

“I think this house is one Eric needs to see,” I quietly tell our realtor.

There’s this thing I do when I’m attempting to avoid disappointment. I don’t want to hope too hard, for fear of whatever it is I’m hoping for doesn’t come to pass. This preemptive strategy never works. I’m trying to avoid feeling bad. In reality we’re either disappointed or not, but no amount of trying to tamp down excitement or rein in enthusiasm results in less disappointment. ‘Expect the worst, hope for the best, then be pleasantly surprised when it does work out’ seems on the surface to be the way to go, but I’m calling BS on that. Why not be optimistic? Why not?

I’m really excited. Might I be disappointed if it’s not the right house? Of course. In the end, who cares? I’m just gonna revel in the excitement of possibility for a bit. We will be going to see it again after some maintenance has been done, and it’s been professionally deep cleaned. We will likely put in an offer. My fingers are crossed. My toes are crossed. We will see.

In the meantime, I choose hope…

…and the excitement at the possibility of a lemon tree of our own.

Lightbulb Moments from Sharing Sobriety

I recently shared my getting sober story within a fitness group online. It was a conversation that was real and honest and vibrantly highlighted the lessons learned in early sobriety, from the vantage point of where I am now. It was a great experience to be able to articulate why I find sobriety important and how it has positively affected my life.

“So because you got sober, your life is all rainbows and unicorns, right?”

Uh, no. That is not what I am saying at all. And it doesn’t work that way. (Like, at all.) During our conversation, we discussed the idea of the “Before and After”. Everyone loves before/after shots depicting dramatic transformation, be it fitness, dramatic weight loss, or a massive makeover. (Hello Biggest Loser and My 600lb Life) The dad-bod that gets ripped, the former addict gets sober and then healthy in the after picture, and even my own before and afters with fitness and sobriety show tangible evidence of change.

Day 1, still shot taken from a video.

We look at photos like these and two things happen. One, the person viewing them thinks, “Wow. That’s awesome.” Then privately thinks “Good for them, but that’s impossible for me.”

What fails to show up in a before and after is the truth.

The truth in the before and after comparison is that the part that no one sees is the little line that divides the two photos. THAT is where the magic of the messy middle happens. The thin line that separates pre-and post- life – that is where all the blood, sweat and soul excavation happens. In sobriety and fitness, that’s were the real work BEGINS. It’s where the lying to yourself stops and the dealing with your stuff happens. It’s hard workouts, and meal planning and no more justifications on why you ‘deserve’ a break today. It’s where we discover what we are made of, and that we can, in fact, do hard things. We can swim against the current of a culture soaked in booze. That little dividing line that no one pays much attention to, needs to be widened to reveal what it really takes to get to where you want to go. The after shot? That’s a lie, too.

There is no after.

There is no “after,” no arriving at a mysterious destination of pink cloud bliss. Thinking that “one day I will…” fill in the blank with whatever goal is on the horizon. There is no after because once you achieve that goal, it becomes, “Okay, what now?” In our conversation, we decided to not call them Before and Afters, but Before and Durings, and I love that. Before and Right now….but no after.

Another big take away was a truth that has been thrown at me in various ways over the years, but took a long time to penetrate. I first read it in Don Miguel Ruiz’s book The Four Agreements. It was the second agreement to take nothing personally. When I began navigating social situations sans alcohol, there was a fading of some friendships. I wasn’t invited out with friends anymore…..and, it sucked. There’s a grief that happens with the loss of some friendships (more of that dividing line content). Whether it’s sobriety or fitness or some other choice – when we choose a path that we know is our next right step, some people will not join us for the journey. It’s not easy, and can be heartbreaking, but the truth discovered is that I am not responsible for other people’s reactions to my choices. Additionally, those reactions usually don’t have anything to do with me. It’s not my job to make other people okay. It’s my job to do the next right thing that brings me into integrity with who I am.

The universe (God, our conscience, that small voice inside – whatever you want to call it) nudges us in the direction we know we should go. We are really good at burying it. We numb that voice out with substances, ignore it with distractions, consumerism, endless scrolling and all the ways we stuff it down and shut it out. One of those nudgings that kept increasing in volume until I could no longer ignore it was this uneasiness with not only my drinking at the time, but also who I was versus how I was outwardly presenting. Whenever we’d have get togethers, I would come home and exhale – as if I’d been holding my breath all evening. I wasn’t showing up as myself in an authentic way. An introvert by nature, using alcohol gave me a coat of armor to be the extrovert I thought I needed to be. When I first decided to stop drinking, the people I told laughed. Seriously. They laughed in my face and thought I was joking. It ticked me off at the time, but now it makes me sort of sad. The reality was, they couldn’t see a life without alcohol. It was simply preposterous in their minds. By one simple (and difficult) choice, to no longer partake, I took one step into the direction of authenticity. Those friendships I discovered were not to be long lasting, and while it hurt, the chips had to fall where they did. Getting to acceptance of this didn’t happen over night, but it did happen, and over time, I learned that I would be okay.

This led to a chasing of authenticity that I continue to embrace. We all put on various armor to do life. For me, it was “putting on” extroversion. People do it in all manner of ways – artificial nails, make up, hair dye, fancy cars, designer labels, keeping up with the joneses – all the ways we project that the grass must somehow be greener somewhere else. As we take off the armor; lay down the booze, grieve friendships that were not meant to last (and in my case, that included no longer dying my hair and wearing makeup) we become more authentic with who we are. We continue to become who we were meant to be all along.

Stopping a destructive habit isn’t the end point. It’s just the beginning. It’s the spot where we exhale. Where we can be at peace in our own skin and excitedly ask “Okay! What’s next?”

We continue…

2000 Days

I don’t think about the day count much anymore, until someone mentions it in sober circles and I pull up the app and take a look. I recently hit 2000 days of sobriety.

2041 days today in fact.

Reflecting back on the sober time – it’s motivating, but definitely not a daily forefront-of-the-mind thing like in the beginning. It is now a part of who I am, a person who doesn’t drink. This isn’t to say that I don’t have thoughts that creep up out of nowhere from time to time. (And I shut that shit down quick.) It’s just more on the back burner, simmering quietly as life gets lived.

The typical posts on socials around the holidays and New Year’s in particular, are often sprinkled with clinking glasses, celebration beverages, etc. but it is also interspersed with Sober November, Dry January and the like. It’s encouraging. Part of why I decided to go “public” with my sobriety is that it provides a counter to the normalization of drinking. It may be one drop in the ocean, but at least it’s there. A happy, content, regular sober life.

I’m sure I would have eye-rolled sobriety posts before I was ready to receive them, and I doubt my little posts are any different for some. That’s cool. There’s a relief in not tying ones emotions to others’ reactions – in life and in sobriety. Other peoples’ opinions are really none of my business. That sounds a lot like emotional freedom to me.

Every sober anniversary I post something on socials about it. Little things, not preachy, but a simple “My DMs are always open” type of statement. I’ve had people reach out, curious. It’s one of the best rewards of living an alcohol free life out loud. If my risk of vulnerability encourages or helps one other person – than it’s 1000 percent worth it.

Holiday Happiness

“The moments of happiness we enjoy take us by surprise. It is not that we seize them, but that they seize us.”

—Ashley Montagu

This morning (2 days before Christmas) the parking lot of the Trader Joe’s was a zoo. People were honking, angry and agitated. The lines were long and no one looked happy. It made me sad, and I kept thinking about how much value there is in steering our life’s mundane activities from a perspective of acceptance. This is a huge part of 12 step recovery programs. Accepting what is, instead of resisting it and being angry about unmet expectations.

An associate of the store came over and asked if I’d like a chocolate truffle while I waited. (Seems silly, but, little things are big). I gladly accepted and savored the chocolaty sweetness on my tongue. When I got to the checkout person, paid and gathered my purchases, I leaned over and told the checker “May the force be with you.” He made direct eye contact and whispered thank you. At the door I was met with another associate handing out mini bouquets of flowers – for free!

Later in the day when picking up a grocery order from Ralph’s, I was informed that my order wouldn’t be available at the promised time, but that they’d call when it was ready. Later, after receiving said call, I made my way back. The parking lot was still a crazy mess, and there was no parking. Again, no happy faces, all of us scurrying around trying to get our things done before the weekend. Calling in to let them know I was ready to pick up my order, I was informed that my order was given to another customer by mistake. Hannah, the curbside associate, profusely apologized, informed me that my order would be free, and thanked me for my patience. About 15 minutes later, I was informed that they had my order, and was I still here to pick it up….but also that there were a couple of items that were out of stock.

No problem. They were kind – it was hilarious to me at this point. They had likely been yelled at by other customers all day and there was no need to add to their stress. Having worked in retail, I get how brutal it is this time of year.

Hannah made her way out to my car and said, “I don’t believe we are out of these items they said they were. Can I go back and grab them for you?”

“Oh you really don’t have to do that. I know you all must be insanely busy at this point,” I replied, figuring I would stop and get the last 2 items at another store.

“It’s really no problem – give me 2 minutes!” and she dashed back into the store. She returned with 3 brands of each item and let me choose. I thanked her again and marveled at how I will always think of this incidence when shopping, but that they’ve made a loyal customer for as long as we are here.

All of this could have gone so differently. I could have been bitchy and raged about the inconvenience of having to make multiple trips across town. I could have let the anger of other parking lot drivers seep into my attitude. I could have taken my irritation out on the people waiting on me.

One thing that became apparent when I stopped drinking, and dug a little deeper, was how the 12 steps were more than just a guide to no longer drinking. It’s that, for sure, but it’s also a plan to lead an emotionally adult life, ie, take responsibility for our actions and doing the introspective work needed to be at peace in one’s own skin, regardless of what is happening around us. To, as a friend of mine says, “Shed peace, not discord, wherever you go…”

Shed peace.

Even during the chaos of a grocery store 2 days before Christmas.

And sometimes it even means chocolate, flowers, and free groceries.

Time

14 years ago today we welcomed our first child and it feels like 1000 years ago and yesterday all at once. Time is elusive and crafty, bending and warping depending on perspective and hindsight. In just 4 years, my tiny chubby-cheeked baby will be a legal adult. (Seriously?!) My brain sees the little baby, the toddler I taught to throw away his own diapers, the first days of preschool, and then kindergarten. The onslaught of contradictory evidence is shoved in my face daily, (so rude!) with shadowy hairs on his upper lip, a startling ever-deepening voice, and his height. The fact that he has shot up is one of great pride for him. He loves to remind me each week musing, “Hey, we should measure me…,” with a mischievous glint in his eye, waiting for my eye roll.

Advertising his sarcasm loud and proud!

I feel breathtakingly fortunate. Not that life with middle schoolers is a cake walk – because whoa. It’s rough out there, people! When talking with other parents (I’ve seen people do this when talking about their spouse, too), so often it devolves into a vent session about dumb stuff their kids have done, or what irritates them. It’s like a contest of whose spouse/kid is the worst. Feeling out of place in those conversations, I don’t contribute when chat goes in that direction. (Even if I did feel that way about them, why would I publicly complain about them?) I don’t get it. If I met them randomly, I would actually like them. For that, I am grateful.

Pictures of babes wrapped up in baby burritos are fun to look at once in a while, but I am not a person who yearns for early days of parenting. Those long monotonous days were hard, yo. Diapers, dishes, and deployments on repeat were long, not to mention the sleep deprivation. Love the memories, glad to have been present in them, but find like with most phases of the kids’ development, I revel in where they are right now. I dig their personalities, their sarcastic senses of humor, and hearing their perspectives on what’s going on in their lives.

While not pining for some mythical ‘good ole days’, I do find the phrase, “Slow down….just a bit,” whispered more frequently lately, as a prayer to Time that insists on marching forward.

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