Yoke

Prayer.

2012-03-04T13:47:00.000-08:00

When Lily was so sick a Church of the Latter Saints in California was praying for Lily's healing. People and churches all over New Jersey, Ohio, Texas, Pennsylvania and all around the world had our daughter in their prayers.

Knowing that strangers from all different faiths were praying gave me peace, hope and strength. It was like having a team of holy cheerleaders reminding me that God loved us, that Lily's illness was not His doing, that we could do it, we could see this brain tumor thing through and come out the other side as whole, functioning people.

Prayer is not magic, however. There is no explanation why my prayers for Lily to always be healthy were not exactly answered when she was, in fact, diagnosed with a brain tumor. And why, then, my prayers for her healing and long term health were answered. Or why some who we pray for die and others live. There is no logic to it; no scientific formula--but still I pray.

Prayer is not a way to manipulate God. Prayer is not a magic wand to wave. It is not a way to change the past or rearrange the present or dictate the future. But prayer is powerful-nonetheless.

Its power comes from the shared experience of asking God for something that no one else can give us. When we all pray whether in Lindenwold, NJ or in London, England--we are all singing the same song at the same time. It is this music that changes things; that makes shifts in the world. When we, all of us, pray, we utter our hearts truest needs--we share pain and joy--all in equal doses.

When we pray we give up the fear and anger that we are carrying and stand up with peace in our shared hearts. We stand up with the faith that our prayers will be answered and heard.

And then, we pray again.

It ain't no Cabbage Patch Part 2: A Friend's Story

2012-03-01T07:02:00.000-08:00

Preeclampsia can happen at any point in pregnancy and it can also happen postpartum. My friend Sarah suffered from preeclampsia a few days after delivering her second child. Sarah had no idea it could happen postpartum. Sarah is volunteer organizing the Promise Walk in Cherry Hill, NJ on May 12.

Preeclampsia is a condition that all women need to know about--if you are pregnant, thinking of getting pregnant or have a friend who is pregnant--learn the symptoms and warning signs. There is no cure--but there are treatments to protect your health and your baby's health. The most important tool: awareness and knowledge.

Here is Sarah's story adapted from her blog Finnegan and the Hughes. You can read the full entry here.

When I had my daughter Hayley Jane at full term via c-section on October 25th we were on cloud nine! Our little princess had arrived and even my son Derek, at just 26 months old, was thrilled for our family. I was released from the hospital and spent two days in that post baby honeymoon phase then I woke up on October 31st I knew something was off. I told my husband Rob I couldn't fully catch my breath, I had a dull headache and I thought my vision seemed blurry. Then I thought I was being paranoid; I was recovering from a c-section and had a new baby that was nursing every 2 hours but Rob told me to call the doctor. I was surprised at the stern immediacy in the doctors voice when she said to "grab your pump and get back over the bridge" My in-laws rushed over and I kissed my babies good-bye trying to be strong but unable to hold back the tears. Derek was going to be a fireman for Halloween that day, plus my brand new Hayley Jane, I needed to be home and dress Hayley in pink and cuddle her...would she forget me, would we never bond!! I didn't realize then that it would be 3 hellish days till I saw them again.

Hayley and I

(2 days before I was readmitted to the hospital)

In the Emergency Room they had no idea what to do with me. I was a basketcase, I cried to EVERYONE!! If the person changing the trash even glanced in my direction and made eye contact I would cry to them and say "I just want to go home to my babies" After many hours in the ER I was sent to Labor and Delivery where I was told what I had was preeclampsia. WHAT? I was so petrified and just wanted to be with my babies and here I was a mother of two, about to be hooked up to a magnesium iv so I wouldn't have a seizure due to preeclampsia and I had NEVER even heard of having preeclampsia postpartum!! A very sweet nurse sat down next to me and she grabbed my hand firmly, she spoke clearly and calmly about how awful I was going to feel on the magnesium and she asked me to tell her what I was thinking and I told her "I'm scared, I just want to be home with my babies and I'm nervous what will happen to me and I'm afraid that I might die" She told me this would help me and that my husband could stay. Rob stayed by my side for 3 long days. The first night I was on the magnesium he snored away in the chair next to my bed while I saw 5 of everything, I had to wear an oxygen tube because my oxygen saturation levels kept dropping so low every time I would drift into sleep I would wake up gasping for my breath, I was pumping every two hours, unable to get out of bed and was hooked up to a catheter. I felt so sick, oh so sick, the magnesium makes you so so so sickly feeling. After I came off the Magnesium I felt "better" my blood pressure was still high but low enough that I could go home eventually!! It took a few weeks for my BP and me to get back to normal.

Thousands of women and babies die or get very sick each year from this dangerous condition called preeclampsia, a life-threatening disorder that occurs only during pregnancy and the postpartum period. Affecting at least 5-8% of all pregnancies, preeclampsia and related disorders such as HELLP syndrome and eclampsia are most often characterized by the presence of protein in the urine and a rapid rise in blood pressure that can lead to seizure, stroke, multiple organ failure and death of the mother and/or baby. Swelling, sudden weight gain, headaches and changes in vision are important symptoms; however, some women with rapidly advancing disease report few symptoms.

Typically, preeclampsia occurs after 20 weeks gestation (in the late 2nd or 3rd trimesters or middle to late pregnancy), though it can occur earlier. Proper prenatal care is essential to diagnose and manage preeclampsia. Pregnancy Induced Hypertension (PIH) and toxemia are outdated terms for preeclampsia. HELLP syndrome and eclampsia (seizures) are other variants of preeclampsia.

"It ain't no Cabbage Patch" is a series on preeclampsia, a life-threatening disorder that occurs only during pregnancy and the postpartum period. Preeclampsia and related disorders such as HELLP syndrome and eclampsia are most often characterized by a rapid rise in blood pressure that can lead to seizure, stroke, multiple organ failure and death of the mother and/or baby.

Join me and my team LilCoCo at the May 12 Promise Walk to the benefit the Preeclampsia Foundation in Challenge Grove Park in Cherry Hill, NJ.

The "F" word and other hysteria

2012-02-17T20:34:00.000-08:00

I used to blame dropping the F bomb on my Austrialian co-workers. They used to say f.u.c.k. like others say "hello, you look pretty." It was smooth. sweet. and oh, so complimentary. I don't work there anymore. I still say, well, you know that very bad word.

The truth is, I have the mouth of a sailor, probably something I inherited from my father, who was actually a sailor and as logic would dictate, quite literally had the mouth of a sailor.

Anyway.

I have two young children. I am a yoga teacher. I am a Girl Scout troop leader. I am a volunteer everywhere. I am a Christian. I go to church. I go to bible study. And I write about faith. And I pray. I pray all the time.

I still cannot stop it with that word and many other related words that would get my mouth washed out with soap if my Nana was still alive and kicking.

I am quite sure I am offensive.

And shouldn't I, the mother who accidently taught her child the word "untenable", have a better word to describe the most fucked-up shit that can happen?

Opps. There it goes.

The fact is, sometimes there are no other words. Sometimes, there simply is not anything else that can be said. Sometimes things are just that vulgar and I am just that irate. Sometimes, I have no discipline.

And that my friends is the fudgesicle truth.

See, I am already rehabilitating myself. One F word at a time.

Pieces

2012-02-15T20:29:00.001-08:00

Confession: when someone reads my blog and comments, I love it. When someone wants to talk about my blog in person, I sometimes want to hide in the bathroom.

It is crazy.

I am both desperate to be heard and at the same time terrified to be seen. I am both that girl on the stage confidently telling her story and her secrets and that girl in the back of room in the tan sweater hiding her hands in her sleeves.

Every time I put words together in Yoke--I am putting little pieces of my very truth on display. These entries are more honest than my Facebook status. Entries are typically unedited. And each one, no matter how jovial, shows off a piece of my soul.

This is my art.

And some nights, when I am plugging away on a piece of my book or toying with a raw, honest entry about something in my life, I get myself into such a state that I cry. And then I pray. And then sometimes, I chug wine. Or eat candy. Or engage my husband or the dog in an intense debate. And then cry some more.

There is so much unpublished. There may be too much I shared. I don't know. But I do know, that something inside me drives me to share. Something will not allow me to the girl in the back of the room--I was her, once. And I hated her.

Despite it all, every time I share a link, I am filled with terror.

Because telling your truth is a difficult fucking thing. It is a cry in the night to liked minded souls--it is a prayer that you won't be alone in your life path. It is a hopeful reach into thin air for a familiar hand.

This experiment in truth telling has taught me many things: to appreciate those willing to share their bits and pieces whether through words or song or music or paint. To know that my truth is not the only truth. To recognize that no matter how confident I appear--to share true pieces of myself is scarier than speaking in front of hundreds of people. To hope, always, that someone will grab my hand.

And when they grab it, to keep quiet about it at a party. I am not quite ready for all that public chatting yet.

Ten Words I have taught my children.

2012-02-09T06:20:00.000-08:00

Us, be sassy? Never. Ever.

I am not sure why we wanted them to speak in the first place. Here's what my two lovely ladies are chatting about this week:

1. Apparently

Apparently, I fell in the toilet.
Apparently, I pooped on the floor.

2. Egregious

It is absolutely egregious, mommy. The gym teacher tells us to run, but cannot even walk fast.

3. Absolutely

See above, and
I am absolutely not doing my homework. I simply do not have time for it.

4. Remiss

Mommy, you have been remiss again. I wanted a present after school. Where is it?

5. Untenable

Chloe, stop being untenable. You make absolutely no sense. Minnie Mouse is not married to Donald Duck.

6. Pit

Clean my room. It is a pit. What did you do all day, exactly?

7.Furious

You are making me furious, mother.

8. Sinner

I am sweatin' like a sinner in church
or, a new variation, just this morning:
you are a sinner, mommy.

9. Gourmet

This is not the gourmet meal I asked for. I wanted chicken in the shape of dinosaurs.

10.Fancy

This is not fancy. I want to be fancy. Make me fancy. Fancy! Fancy! Fancy!

It ain't no Cabbage Patch: Part 1

2012-02-08T11:12:00.000-08:00

My two healthy children have wiped my memory nearly clean of the absolute train wreck that was their two separate births.

Both little darlings were born entirely too soon--by all standards. Lily was born at 29 weeks, 5 days. Chloe, at 31 weeks. Both were cheated out of ten weeks in the womb--ten cozy, cuddling weeks to grow big, develop strong lungs and you know, finish the whole gestational process like God intended.

Whenever I mention that I had two premmature births, inevidently, someone comments:

"They were just in a really big hurry to be born."

or

"Wow, so you just went into early labor. Lucky you! The last few weeks of pregnancy sucked."

or, my all-time favorite:

"How adorable! I loved preemie Cabbage Patch Kids!"

Let me tell you. Preemie-hood ain't no Cabbage Patch. And I would have sold a kidney to experience the last 10 weeks of pregnancy. And my babies, my babies were in no hurry to be born. I never went into labor, never even had a Braxton Hicks nor did I make it to a birthing class. There were no embarrassing scenes during which my water broke at the grocery store: my doctor broke my water during my emergency c-section, while I was hooked up an IV of magnesium sulfate and a blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm every bleeping minute to make sure I was not about to stroke-out or something.

I had preeclampsia, twice.

2 lbs 14 ounces. Lily was prepped for the ventilator seconds after birth.

And it nearly killed me. It nearly killed my daughters before they even had a chance to see my face. Preeclampsia has killed all future hopes at a large family--if we do decide to expand our family, we will adopt.

I like to consider myself a unique individual--but preeclampsia is not even remotely uncommon (about 5-8% of pregnancies are afflicted and if you ask a room full of mothers--my bet is one of them had PE). Preeclampsia is the leading cause of maternal and infant death globally (deaths are in the realm of hundreds of thousands). It can be mild or severe or anything in between. No one knows what causes it. And there is only one cure.

End the pregnancy. Deliver the baby.

Twice, I started my pregnancies in fantastic health. With Lily, I had just finished a year of running and had completed a half-marathon. With Chloe, I was an active yogini--teaching, training and practicing daily. When I began my first pregnancy, I did not have any of the traditional risk factors: no family history, no high blood pressure or diabetes and not one auto-immune disorder in sight.

But, somewhere between 28 weeks and 29 weeks, something went awry. I was swelling--what I thought was normal pregnancy swelling was not--I gained 50-60 pounds of water weight. I woke up the morning that Lily was born, March 13, 2006 and was nearly blind in one eye. It was fluid build up. At my OBGYN, my blood pressure was slightly elevated. Then a simple urine test revealed my kidneys were spilling protein.

A swollen face. Not my best.

Dr. Levine, who I do credit with saving my life and my child's, told me: Pack your bag. Get to the hospital. You will have a baby by the end of week.

There was no hesitation in his voice. Mike and I drove home. And for the first time in my life, I thought I was going to die.

My check-in blood pressure at the hospital was something like 190/100 and then a few minutes later skyrocketed to 210/100. Dr. Levine called and told me my c-section was scheduled for 10 p.m. It was 8 p.m. I woke up that morning and suffered through a two-hour long conference call. I ate lunch at Baja Fresh. I had a long phone call with my best friend in Maryland. I wrote text for a brochure about the prevention of blindness, while my own eyesight was in jeopardy.

I ignored all the alarms bells my body gave me. I was young. I was healthy. I was invincible.

"It ain't no Cabbage Patch" is the first of a series of articles on preeclampsia, a life-threatening disorder that occurs only during pregnancy and the postpartum period. Preeclampsia and related disorders such as HELLP syndrome and eclampsia are most often characterized by a rapid rise in blood pressure that can lead to seizure, stroke, multiple organ failure and death of the mother and/or baby.
Join me and my team LilCoCo at the May 12 Promise Walk to the benefit the Preeclampsia Foundation in Challenge Grove Park in Cherry Hill, NJ.

There is laundry on my dining room floor.

2012-02-07T13:47:00.000-08:00

Future Bag Lady in Mary Poppins the Musical.

There is laundry all over my dining room floor.

And I have decided to call it quits for the day--to take off to the proverbial golf course and hit a few balls.

There is also a Tupperware container with fruit in the middle of the living room, which I will let rot.

The sink in the Hello Kitty bathroom is filled with wet clothes and what appears to be a pile of Squinkies (oh well!) And Lily keeps asking me for various cleaning supplies--Windex, paper towels and most disturbing, bleach (maybe she can deal with the fruit situation).

I have no idea what has gone on. And I have no idea what I am going to serve for dinner. And I think I forgot to put deodorant on. And I might, I just might smell like urine. Although, that smell could be coming from anywhere.

But, I am now off the clock. The house might burn. The neighbors might wonder why we are all getting dressed in the dining room. But I am quitting, for today.

I have no clear idea how I arrived in this very spot--the spot where I fear allowing anyone to even peek in the windows. The spot where I consider drinking at 4:30 in the afternoon while hiding in the bathroom closet. The spot where picketing my own house and going on strike seems appropriate. I have no idea what I am protesting, exactly. I am just completely, totally bewildered, befuddled and babbling.

My day began at some point in the middle of the night when Lily woke up crying about something.

I have no idea what this "something" was exactly, but I do know that every time I attempted to leave her room, she would wail, as if being spirited away in the middle of the night by Mother Gothel and I resigned myself to sleeping on the very edge of the bed with an Easter Bunny pillow pet as a pillow.

While I enjoyed my plush accommodations, Lily slept with one eye open (on look out to make sure I did not escape before sunrise) and Chloe pushed around her Minnie Mouse Bowtique shopping cart. Apparently, her puppy had to go to the hospital, over and over again in order to get shots.This went on for hours. And hours. In fact, Chloe is still taking her puppy to the "hospital," while intermittently stopping to scream at me wildly about tutus.

She will play a fantastic homeless person in Mary Poppins someday.

So, back to the laundry. I sort of remember the children being tasked with "finding all the socks" last night. Then I remember leaving. Followed by returning. Followed by falling asleep full of hope in my own bed, before waking up in Lily's room feeling hungover.

I have no idea, however, why the clothes are still there. Or when the Squinkies migrated upstairs and jumped into the sink and why, oh, why is Lily spraying ME with Windex.

So, I quit.

For today.

Marathon.

2012-02-03T11:33:00.000-08:00

About two hours before Lily was born, the NICU doc sat at the foot of my hospital bed and told me that Lily, about to be born a 29-week preemie, would never, ever run a marathon, so I needed to lower my expectations.

My blood pressure monitor alarmed and I remember thinking, "Lily will run a marathon. And she will run it, while you watch from your lawn chair eating Cheetos."

Then, of course (you know the story), Lily was diagnosed with a brain tumor. One of the first questions I asked the neurosurgeon: "Will there be side effects? Will Lily be in a wheel chair?"

After all the million things that could and almost definitely would happen, he said: "Her frontal lobe will take over. It will take time. It won't be easy. But she will be fine." One day later and Lily came out of brain surgery, a 14-month old who could no longer hold her head up, let alone sit on her own. She cried very time we lifted her out of bed. She wouldn't smile.

And, I thought, well, that stupid NICU doc was right, no marathons for Lily. Then a day later, Lily laughed. Mike made me bring in a yoga mat and the cloud lifted day by day, week by week and year by year.

Now Lily is pretty good at sitting. She is also pretty good at running. And she is a damn good equestrian. Lily aspires to paint beautiful pictures to put in galleries, while playing on a college lacrosse team. In the short term: she just wants to get strong enough to do a cart wheel and ice skate.

Lily also hates going to school on Gym class days. She hates it. She cries. She tells me "it's not fair." She says it is too hard.

It has baffled me--this hysteria from a girl who took a ballet and tap dance class when she could barely walk; the child who shows fear, but still pushes ahead, roller skating before she could run; the school girl who runs with the boys right after school everyday; the little girl who wants to learn everything and anything--who loves her body for its perfection (flaws and all). Lily, who is braver and stronger than everyone I've ever met.

At first, I ignored her--thinking maybe this is an excuse for not going to school. Then, I thought, well, her Gym teacher is sort of gruff--more of a yeller and than hugger--but truly loves the kids, after all she chose to be a teacher. And Lily should learn how to deal with difficult people. Then, I thought, maybe Lily just does not want to wear her sneakers--maybe it is a fashion dilemma.

Then, finally, I asked Lily, in a calm moment--what's the deal?

She said, "Mrs. X yells at me to run. She yells at everyone. She just yells the entire time. She yells at me to run like the other kids and I just can't do it. Not yet. It makes me sad and frustrated. "

And there it is: The NICU doctor is back--the outer voice that screams at you all the things you cannot do--that voice that reminds me of your shortcomings and demands that you fix them or feel like crap. This voice is now yelling at my 5-year-old.

I could get on a soapbox about my opinion on the role of physical education in schools (but that is for another day). For today, I am worried about my daughter--the little girl who some said could do nothing and others said would do it--the little girl with a tender heart who, because we had no other option, was raised to be a warrior. My beautiful child with more scars on her 5-year-old body, than I have on my 34-year old one.

Once a week, Lily walks into a gym class and is told what she can't do. Berated for not doing everything the same as others. She is reminded of her body's imperfections and told that makes her something less. She is graded on her inability to jump--as if this inability today--is something she will never be able to do. Lily has been introduced to the cold, mean world of naysayers--a place where you are defined by everything you can't do right now. She has encountered her very first grown-up bully.

I am so scared this woman will ruin it all for Lily--that her negative voice will take root in Lily's beautiful head--and someday Lily will be less than Lily wants to be--because she will believe that she is less. And that somehow, Lily will miss her marathon.

Three, oh three, it's the magic number

2012-01-23T21:00:00.000-08:00

Three is when I first fell head over heels in love with Lily. And now it is happening with Chloe too.

It is this magical time when children are somewhere between two worlds; they are babies and children all at once. They still like to be rocked to sleep; but can verbalize their (rather strong) opinions about everything ranging from milk to attire.

It is the magic number. When Lily turned three, Chloe was a newborn. Lily loved to snuggle with her mama; but also began to show her true self--a little spitfire ready to fix it all, help with her baby sister all while dreaming up fantastic art projects and imaginary friends.

And now Chloe is that magic age.

Chloe with her raspy Bea Arthur voice talks in her sleep about CoCo Chanel, Minnie Mouse and puppy dogs. Her dreams must be as vivid as her waking hours--when she shuffle-taps and twirls her way through the day. You can never, ever change her mind. It is focused, sharp as a tack. Chloe makes up new songs at the dinner table each night, usually centering around Minnie Mouse. She found her first best friend: Eloise, who we talk about non-stop. Chloe won't wear jeans (they are not pretty enough); prefers dresses to pants and carries no less than two puppies in her handbag. She loves a good steak. She has nicknames for everyone. She always has a story to tell--words pouring out of her like a waterfall. She eyes strangers with suspicion. She narrows her eyes at nonsense. Chloe will not smile on command; but when the mood strikes and Chloe smiles, her eyes sparkle like jewels.

And when she finds something she loves, Chloe, my daughter who taught me how to love wastefully, throws her full self into it. Lily Lou--her sister and her playmate; Eloise--her best friend; her Dad; her Grandmom; her Grammy, her Papa; her GiGi; and well, me.

When Chloe hugs me, she melts into me. She has this way of making herself heavy--she always has. When she was a mere three pounds and change, a little bit of nothing, Chloe would melt her entire self onto me--making herself as heavy as my favorite down comforter. Chloe loves with her whole being--there is no halfway for Chloe. To be loved by Chloe is magic--it is as if God's love is pouring through her eyes and arms.

It always reminds me that I am loved. That's my magic, beautiful Chloe: God with a raspy voice in tutu twirling through my living room.

Happy Birthday magical, beautiful Chloe. You are so loved. You are such a gift. And we love you, just as you are.

A Penn State Moment

2012-01-23T07:26:00.000-08:00

I promised myself I would never write about Penn State (or all those what's-their-names) because, really, what more can be said? But, alas, I am constantly breaking my promises.

This morning, as I walked Lily into school and down to her Kindergarten classroom I witnessed what could be classified as "sort-of-a-fight" with a side of "school-teachers-and-staff-ignoring-yelling-students -and-a-parent" in favor of "talking-about-nothing-remotely-related-to-the-fight-happening-right-before-their-averted-eyes."

Here's what happened:

I walk Lily down to her Kindergarten classroom almost everyday. As we got close to the Kindergarten hallway I hear two boys, arguing over the presence of the guidance counselor. It was a nine-year-old boy level debate.

Boy 1: He isn't here

Boy 2: Yes he is

Boy 1: No he isn't

Boy 2: Yes he is

Boy 1 was blocking the path to the counselor's office. Boy 2 wanted to get there. Pushing and debate continued. I would characterize the incident not as being a fight deserving of punishment, but an opportunity to teach these boys the appropriate way to argue (i.e. you don't push each other and why aren't you in your classrooms?).

Alas, I witnessed the fight and I am not one to be quiet about anything, ever. I told the teachers standing outside of the teacher lounge, right next me. I said:

Me: "There are two boys fighting over Mr. X"
Teacher: "Oh, I don't think Mr. X is here"
Me: "Yeah, THERE ARE TWO BOYS PUSHING EACH OTHER."
Teacher: muttered something and continued speaking to other teacher
Me: "Do you allow children to fight in the hallway? They are pushing each other"

The teachers ignored the boys and me. I am fuming. Lily told me to count to ten. (She is like a little blood pressure cuff.)

It was a Penn State Moment--the moment when bad behavior is right in front of your face. You see it; you hear it; you've been told about it and you have to decide what to do with it all.

I could have just walked around those boys. No one was in danger. But, I have a big mouth and if those were my children, I'd want their teachers to teach them how to behave. To remind them that they are better than pushing and yelling.

It was a Penn State moment for those teachers. I have no idea what they were talking about. I don't care. All that I care is about is that unless they suffer from a hearing impairment, they could hear those boys arguing. They could hear me say, "They are pushing each other." But, for whatever reason, they chose the easy, non-messy, non-confrontational way of living:

Do nothing. Pretend it is not happening. Avoid the mess.

I know that two boys pushing each other in an elementary school is no where near the same thing as a boy being sexually assaulted in a shower. But, the lesson is the same: adults need to listen. Adults need to take the messy route when it means doing the right thing. Little things become big things. We teach with our action and our inaction. And all children are our responsibility.

We are the grown-ups, for pete's sake.

And the other lesson: As a mother I need to teach my daughter to tell the truth over and over and over again. I need to teach my 35-pound peanut, that she needs to use her loudest voice and risk getting in trouble to tell an adult when something dangerous or improper is happening. She needs to stand her ground always when she knows the truth should be heard. That no matter how big or little or dangerous or minor the incident is:

Do something. Speak loud, until someone listens. Don't be afraid to get a little dirty. Because often, adults don't listen.

You should know, that as the fight rounded into the kindergarten hallway, one of the Kinder teachers spoke up--without my prompting and sent those boys back to class. The teachers, who ignored the incident? Well---one took away a "responsibility point" (whatever this is) after the fact (in response to my refusal to move from the spot until they addressed me or the situation).

So those boys will be fine. But what happens if the incident is bigger? What if a big mouthed lunatic like me is not there? What then?

My MLK Jr. Resolution.

2012-01-16T12:50:00.000-08:00

I don't know much about Martin Luther King Jr. I know the basics--the social studies and evening news version of his life. I can't quote him beyond, "I have a dream," without Google. And I can't say I am the daughter or granddaughter of civil rights protesters. I am certainly not qualified to tell my children his full story without the Wikipedia article open on my computer.

But, I do know one thing: Reverend King inspired people of all ages, races, religions and backgrounds to stand together. Every word of his mouth was a reminder that God made each and everyone one of us. It is a call to live life remembering that God loves us all the same. God loves those we don't have the strength to love. God loves those who do evil, as much as those who do good. God loves us whether we are fat or thin or black or white or Jewish or Christian or Muslim. God loves us whether we win the game or loose miserably.

And God asks us to do the same--love like it is going out of style. To love those we love and to love those we are called to love. It is one of the hardest pills to swallow as a human being--especially when people are irritating or do stupid things or behave in ways we don't like or do horrible, horrible things.

But, it is also freeing. To love those who are unlovable by human standards--frees us up to love ourselves--even the parts of us we don't particularly like. It multiplies love--it is healing and gives all of us a chance to live knowing that we are okay, just as God made us.

During His ministry Jesus spoke to his disciplines and taught them, saying "The Beatitudes."

Here is a snippet:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.. . "

It is one of my favorite pieces of scripture. It is a reminder that we are loved and in turn, are called to love. That we are all blessed, just the same. We are all God's children. To quote MLK Jr,

"their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone."

This is the truth--whether speaking about race relations or playgroup relations. No matter who we are, we are loved. We are blessed. We do not walk alone.

Since I seem to like making resolutions on everyday except for New Year's Eve (see Chinese New Year), I have decided to make this year about walking the walk-teaching my children to love all and accept all. This year, I will remember every time some steals my parking spot in the school parking lot that God loves them. This year, I will bite my tongue when someone irritates me. This year, I will open my heart, my home and my wallet to those who God calls me to love--whether it is someone in need of a meal or someone simply who needs a friend. This year, my eyes and heart will be open.

And when I fail, and I will fail (I seriously just called someone an idiot while writing this), I will start over. Because God loves me, even when I don't love everyone else.

And maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of MLK Jr's legacy will live on in my children, so one day I will know enough to tell his story, because it became a part of my own.

Happy MLK Jr. Day.

Ode to a Life: Farewell to One Life to Live.

2012-01-13T10:16:00.000-08:00

Like my faith, I often hide my love of One Life to Live.

But, I am no longer ashamed. For all of my 34 years (ouch, am elderly), I have had One Life to Live playing in the background.

I grew up on a steady diet of Sunday school, the Brady Bunch, Legos, playing school with the neighbor kids and watching One Life to Live (OLTL). The Buchanan and Lord families were practically my own (and just as interesting as the Carrington's and Cox's). My mother would shoo me out of the room during "love" scenes; I'd hide at the top of the stairs and listen. I would love half days and summer days--2 p.m. EST could not come soon enough.

In junior high, I spent many days watching OLTL and then about three hours on the phone with my best friend Karen discussing Todd, Vicki and her personalities and whatever intrigued us, enraged us or made us laugh. I delighted in the stories of multiple personalities, tried to make sense of rape plot lines and wept as women lost babies and lovers. I remember when Jessica had a Canadian accent and then finally had some voice lessons and sounded like she was actually from Llandview.

In college, I planned my class schedule around the show. At my internships and first jobs, I read the recaps and spoilers on SoapCentral.com during my lunch break (alright, while I was working). I discussed the show with my Aunt Barbara Ann and kept my Mom up to date (she had to work). I taught Mike the names of the characters and their back story.

And then I met a work colleague and good friend, who shared my love. We spent hours rehashing the show, catching each other up (we had TiVo and Soap Network to help us keep up) and recapping history.

When I gave birth to my girls--there was OLTL on the hospital TV at 2 p.m., waiting for me, like an old friend--a distraction from it all.

It has always been there, when I needed an escape. Chloe and Lily know the theme song by heart. And even when I find the plot line unwatchable, I still watch, because OLTL and I are family.

Today, One Life to Live airs its last episode. And that is it--the end of one life.

Here are my favorite, favorite things about One Life to Live--and scoff if you want, but you know you love it and if you never watched, you would have loved it.

OLTL made being two or more people okay through its multiple personality disorder coverage. I loved Nicki/Vicki and the most incarnated Jessica/Tess (Tessica for short). This stuff is ridiculous. It is also TV gold.
It taught me forgiveness and, somehow, the writers have made me fall in love with a former rapist (Todd Manning).
It made me laugh with David Vickers and Dorian Lord. The original Summer-Winter romance between a giglo and a society lady.
It made me realize that even the most desperate housewife can wear a ball gown on a Tuesday afternoon while fighting over the affections of the police commissioner with her archrival who is in the midst of a personality crises and also her aunt and half-sister all at once.
And finally, who knew that paternity could be such a complicated matter? It seems everyone has a lost heir. It gave me hope that I might find my real family someday and that they are rich and own a desert island and a newspaper.

But, my favorite thing: we all shared One Life to Live together. All of us, even those of us who are still in hiding.

Jesus and Those Blind People, Part 1

2012-01-12T15:06:00.000-08:00

Jesus heals eight blind people in the Bible. Plus there are all those other lepers, heathens and other undesirables that He saves with His miracle, healing touch. The hand of God placed right on your decaying body and voila: you can see. you can walk. you are healed.

When I was a kid these stories always seemed completely bizarre to me--it reminded me of those exuberant televangelists that convinced my Grammy to send them all her money. Jerry Falwell, Oral Roberts, Jimmy Swaggart and the Bakers booming on the TV, healing, saving and praying--if you emptied your old lady handbag into their hands. To me, Jesus healing people was old news--any real life healing was a lie. Jesus--He was dead, even though He was "alive" in heaven with God the Father. He was not here--He was not here for healing.

We were left on our own.

I believed, sort of. Or so I thought. I didn't really fully believe. After all, my mother and father prayed their hearts out--prayed until their knees bled for my brother to be healed. David was six months old when his world changed--an allergic reaction to a vaccine and voila: he can't talk. he won't ever live on his own. he won't ever be healed.

So, yeah, I thought Jesus and his healing was history.

Then I became a mother--in a dramatic, terrifying night--Lily born 11 weeks too early. She is sick. I am sick. And I have nothing. There was nothing for me to hang onto--but hope and prayer that we would be healed.

And we made it through. And yeah, Jesus did not swing into the NICU and say: "Rise up Sister you can breathe." But there were these incredible doctors who saved my baby's life. There was my doctor who saved us both with an emergency c-section. And yeah, my minister Bill Getman, swung into the NICU--putting on scrubs, washing his hands and prayed with us. He reminded us that Jesus is not dead. That Jesus is in his hands. Jesus is in the doctor's hands and Jesus is in my hands.

We totally thought we were home free. Then, 14 months later, a brain tumor for Lily. And I spent days on my knees. First, I cursed God out--I did. Then, I begged. Then, I bargained. Then, I had nothing, again.

When I was at the point of rock bottom, when I thought I was actually in Hell, Pastor Bill walked in, closely followed by the CHOP hospital Chaplin. Both men just showed up. I had asked the nurse to get me pills--lots of good drugs that would make me forget I was in Hell. But God had other plans. He listened--he knew I needed something concrete.

And with Lily lying in her hospital bed, fighting to survive--we all prayed. And this time, I felt it: the hand of God placed right on my shoulder and voila:

I was saved. I was healed. I had the strength to make it through for Lily.

"Jesus and Those Blind People," is Part 1 in a series in Yoke on my Faith. I realized that while my heart believes and I try to remain faithful, I don't share my faith enough. And for me, a writer, that is akin to hiding in a closet. So, here it goes. I hope God is good with it all.

Chest deep.

2012-01-11T13:04:00.000-08:00

I am chest deep in procrastination.

my own personal swamp

It is like wading through a pit of mud and muck, and well, my desk looks like a swamp.

And the procrastination is so thick, that I have neither the resolution nor the energy to perform simple tasks like dialing the phone or charging one of my fifty i-products. In fact, I had to chug 16 ounces of coffee just to have enough strength to turn on the computer.

This has been going on for three days.

On Monday, I thought, well this is what the Monday blues feel like.

On Tuesday, I thought, well maybe, just maybe I am suffering from some sort of seasonal mood disorder. Yet, I lacked the self-concern to Google the symptoms or actually contact a medical professional.

And today, my husband asked me if I was applying to be on Hoarders.

While I secretly would love to be considered for a reality program showcasing insane people, I am just procrastinating; avoiding several elephants in my room that need peanuts or that little spot behind their ears scratched. It is the start of a new year--which means new projects, old projects and just projects. The list contains no less than 553 items. Nothing is crossed off. And everything takes more than five minutes to complete. Everything is as big as an elephant and just as stinky.

And I don't want to do anything.

That list is heavy. It weighs me down. It is like wearing a pair of cement shoes in a hot tub--you cannot get out, yet you are not really in danger of drowning; you are just getting all pruney and sweaty.

I hate prunes. I hate that list. I hate procrastinating. And I actually hate Hoarders.

So, enough with it all. No more pruney fingers. No more lists. I am burning my to do list. (figuratively, I am actually just not going to look for it in the piles on my desk. Me + Fire= the fire department).

I am going to start with three goals a day--no more, no less. If all I do is three things, so be it. If more gets done, I'll make my children throw me a parade. Bonus points if I manage to switch the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer.

It's been a while since I've had a good egg roll: the book.

2012-01-03T11:13:00.000-08:00

Always talking that one.

When I set my Chinese New Year 2012 book deadline way back in the good ole days of 2011, my father was not dying nor was he dead, as he finds himself now.

Don't you love a little frank morbidity at the start of the year?

All funeral dirges aside, y'all should know that while my handsome and tolerant husband has always been my very noisy cheerleader, my Dad was my quiet, yet most loyal supporter. I always thought he wanted an architect for a daughter (that was my first major at Temple). I always thought if that did not pan out that he would want a mathematician or engineer (we shared a certain love of a good puzzle and numbers). What I failed to realize, is that my Dad just wanted me--plain jane or fancy shmancy with a side of glitter-- just me.

And while I will not devote the rest of my life to mourning him--that would indeed be ridiculous--I have reached a certain clarity in my life. This clarity only came through truly realizing the inheritance my father gave me--his second, yet if I do say so myself, most interesting child. He gave me the gift of gab--the gift of filling the world with words--good ones, sometimes very bad ones and sometimes funny ones. He gave me verbs and pronouns and expletives. He gave me plots and conflicts and resolutions. I've inherited scores of characters, motivators and epilogues.

My inheritance is burning a hole in my pocket.

I have 20 days until Chinese New Year. I am terribly behind schedule. But, a deadline is a deadline, right? So if you don't see me or I seem distant or I seem stranger and more anti-social that usual--apologies, I've got an inheritance to blow.

Happy 2012.

Where.

2011-11-17T13:42:00.000-08:00

There were, the very day my father died, signs that maybe something was going on in my parents house--the house my Dad had built way back in 1950s. The switch to the hot water heater was switched off--randomly. Mike discovered it, when there was no hot water. Sitting right next to the water heater: my Dad's gloves and a screwdriver. He always left the proper tools with the item that might need fixing.

My Mom decided it was a sign. A week later, someone reset the outlet used for the home phone. And then, some how the furnace was shut off. It could have all been flukes. Or maybe, like my Mom believes, these were signs that my Dad was still around--tinkering, communicating and checking in.

The week before his funeral, my cousin Sue went to the racetrack and bet on a horse named "Bill's Presence." My Dad was her Uncle Bill--and the horse won, against the odds. I have the $100 bill on my bookcase--I can't spend it.

But, all these signs--all these little glimmers seem to belong to someone else and not to me. My Dad never said, when I die you will see a rainbow or a bird. He never said I will be watching over you. He never said that he was going to go a better place. Those things--those things were not my Dad, who was always so hooked into the here and now. My Dad, my Dad was always present.

I've had one dream--just one--featuring my Dad. We were sitting in church. My Dad was sitting criss-cross applesauce, something he was last able to do in the 1970s. Next to me was my brother. My Dad spoke to the faceless minister, "I know I have to go, but I don't want to." Then he cried. We all cried. I haven't stopped.

And that was it. But where is he now? Where did he go? Where didn't he want to go? At least ten times a day, I say out loud, "Where the heck are you Dad?"

It is not that I don't believe in heaven or the life everlasting. I do. But where is this place? If he is watching over me, as every sympathy card, friend and good hearted stranger tells me--where is he watching from exactly?

Sometimes I turn around in my desk chair and expect to see him.

But he isn't there.

Miracle Giggles.

2011-11-03T19:29:00.000-07:00

I have this friend Jessica. I met her in Second Grade. We instantly tried to one up each other with nonsense. Within ten minutes, we were best friends and totally ruled the school.

We spent most of our early years getting into trouble (minor trouble, we were sneaky and our mothers were up to their own ridiculous hi-jinx, like running naked through locker rooms during their kid's swimming birthday party--seriously).

But what we really did best, was laugh. At everything. At everyone. And Jessica's laugh, it is infectious. It is a gift--something that I hear in my head when days are tough or when people are just idiots. I hear it when I have the choice of throwing a fit (which I am naturally prone to do) or just making fun of it and laughing my ass off.

This shared laughter we inherited from our mothers. When they ran naked (yes, naked. I am still traumatized.), they laughed their bare asses off. When a skunk sprayed my back porch and the smell was noxious, my Mom and Mrs. D. laughed too--through bandanas tied around their faces and with hands covered in tomatoes. Our mother's laughed it up so much that I was certain they were drunk.

This past week, Jessica finally met my two girls. And I took this picture:

I love this picture. You can practically hear the giggles, the hysteria, the pure ridiculousness of moment. It is a miracle, these giggles. It is a legacy, passed from mother to child, from best friend to best friend.

And when my ridiculously enormous dog finally gets sprayed by a skunk and I am outside with my face wrapped in a bandana, cleaning noxious odor and considering torching my home--

I will just whip this photo out of my underpants and giggle until I pee.

Practice. Interrupted.

2011-10-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

Hoodlum. Total hoodlum.

As I eased out of my final upward facing dog pose and prepared to cool down on my belly, I felt one with the universe. The air temperature was just right. It smelled like fall. Henry, my usually irritating yoga practice companion and the original up-dog, was curled up under the magnolia tree dreaming of chasing squirrels. Chloe, my 2 year old, had been amazing through a full hour and a half yoga practice. Playing quietly. Mimicking my poses. And dancing in the Indian summer air. It had been perfection and really, I was feeling, so, well, perfect.

I slowly lowered my head on the mat and took a deep breath.

Then that little stinker threw her Minnie Mouse car at my head.

It hit me in the nose. I could feel a bump already forming. I bit my tongue (to stop from yelling Motherf!!!!) so hard it bled.

Seriously. Who does that?

I went from bliss to rage in about a millisecond. Blind, vein popping rage. Chloe screamed. I stuck her in time out. She threw more things. I fumed. Then after two minutes (1 minute per year of life, right?!), we regrouped. I super-nannied her with eye contact, explanations and of course, a hug.

Everything was fine, again. Our mats were right where we left them. Waiting for us, like always. And we returned to our practice.

Our whole lives are exactly like this. Long moments of bliss. Days of content. Months of happiness. Years of joy. But there are those blimps in between--those long pauses of discord. Those years of strife. Months of worry. Days of anxiety. We struggle through. Like my yoga practice today, our lives are constantly interrupted.

And then, like magic, we go right back where we were before--to the contentment, to the good stuff. We always go back--because that is our true nature--to be at peace. This time on earth--it is about the practice.

We practice perfection and bliss. Then we are interrupted by challenges. Then we practice again. As I sit at my desk--Chloe is drawing on the walls (sobeit), Henry is chewing a marker (oh well), and I am rubbing the new bump on my nose. It is all good. Our mats are always waiting. There is still more practice to be done.

Because he is the sh!t: Happy Birthday to Mike

2011-10-03T14:56:00.001-07:00

I have always enjoyed joking that Mike was a meconium baby. (if you don't know what this is, Google it. I, for one, hate talking about poop in detail).

What does meconium have to do with my husband? Well, it would seem that since Mike was born he has been, quite literally, the sh!t.

He also waded in his fair share of do-do (typically because of me).

We've been partners-in-crime since 1994. Affiliating oneself with me, is not for the faint of heart. As you can imagine, there have been hot messes, really hot messes and messes that I can down only disclose because my father is dead.

Like when Mike hid in my bedroom closet, terrified my Dad would kill him (he would have). Or that time we clogged the toilet at his parents house with hair dye and toilet paper, sending dye colored water through the ceiling and into the living room (Mike's parents are still alive, sorry). Or when we got caught by the police making out in the backseat of his Cutless (so glad my mother is not on the internet).

And while he weathered all these little dramas with his trademark humor and occasional panic attack--the real life stuff is where my Mike has found his time to shine.

Like when we found out that I had preeclampsia and Mike was about to become a father--via emergency c-section. We had not even taken one birth class. We were not ready to be parents. But Mike became a father with 3 hours notice and held me up when my body was failing. I'll never forget watching the video tape of Lily's breathing. I was confined to a hospital bed and Mike made sure I could be a mother even when I could not get to Lily's side. He learned with me how to breastfeed, researched breast pumps and joined me in my insane breast milk production competition in the NICU (no one else was aware. I won. Mike threw the parade).

He did the same with Chloe--rushing out to get me memory foam pillows and protein shakes when I was on bed rest. Using his lunch hour to kangaroo-care Chloe--holding her close to his heart.

And of course, during our biggest, scariest challenge, Mike was my hero. He prayed with me. He sang to Lily. He held my hand. He let me rage. And he still holds my hand. He still lets me cry in his arms when I remember the dark days. And then he makes me stop and pushes me forward.

He is the kind of son that helps his father-in-law to the toilet and gives his disabled brother-in-law a shave. He is the neighbor who lends his tools and time without reserve. Mike is the guy who stays loyal to his Temple Owls through wins and losses. Mike can build anything. He can fix anything. He is the man who will do anything and support those he loves because he believes in dreams.

Mike is the kind of guy who can weather any storm--but still come out laughing and joking on the other side.

He is the sh!t.

So to you, my sweet, handsome, meconium-baby, dream-loving husband: Happy Birthday. Wishing you many, many years of hot messes. And hoping you are always the only sh!t in the room. We love you. Even though you smell like cabbage.

xoxo

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Eulogy

2011-09-27T19:14:00.001-07:00

From my Father's service on Sept. 24. It was an honor to speak about my Dad. It is an honor to be part of his legacy.

Thank you all for coming today.

In his lifetime, my dad, William Hunter Carrington, the man who always has the coolest name in the room, did it all. he was the oldest of nine, he was a hitchhiker, hitchhiking his way to Florida one winter to caddy, a landscaper, working on Wanamaker Estate in Elkins Park, a merchant marine, a salesman who could sell water to the ocean, a fire fighter (a little known fact!), a husband, a father and a father in law, and grandfather to my two girls.

He played football, traveled, sailed the seven seas, golfed, grumbled and loved his away through 91 years.

But, I think the best stories start right in the middle--the story of my Dad--his story as my father-started right in the middle of his life. My Dad was 57 when I was born--already an old timer by some standards.

And while some older fathers might feel a kick to their ego when people mistook them for a grandfather--I am quite certain my Dad did not mind much--his only irritation would be at the tedium of correction--he, at least the Bill Carrington who was mine, never gave much attention to what others thought of him. He never choose a political party--always registering as Independent, not in the Ross Perot way, but in the Bill Carrington way. Take Bill or Leave him--to him it was all okay. And I should note, you usually took Bill, how could you not with that thick head of hair and deep hazel eyes and his ability to talk you into anything.

Watching his unshakable confidence, his stoic grace, his easy way of being so sure of himself--taught me one of my first lessons in life. My Dad taught me that it was always 100-percent okay to me and most important--it was okay for everyone else to be themselves too. The lesson: You can take or leave each other--it is okay. But know that you are no better than your neighbor--just different.

I used to think that maybe this was the Carrington gene, as most of my aunts, uncles and cousins are among the most confident people I have ever met. But, now I realize my father learned this lesson from his parents and I will pass it to my children. It is a legacy. And that is another lesson my Father taught me--to share your whole life with your children.

My Dad shared it all with us--he was born in 1920 in Philadelphia--a time of prohibition and speakeasies---there were still Civil War Veterans alive and living in his neighborhood. My Dad was always a walking history lesson. He lived it. He saw it. He was part of history.

I would sit with him for hours grilling him about the Depression, his hatred of asparagus (he grew up next to an asparagus farmer), world war 2, his travels, his jobs--there were so many and my favorite: life as the oldest of nine children. I loved hearing stories of summers at the beach, adventures on the trolley (especially with his younger brother don) and life sneaking into ball parks and trying to climb over prison walls to see what was inside.

His stories of WW2 intrigued and scared me. My Dad wanted to join the air force or the navy, but he was def in one ear following a childhood illness and no one would take him. He was about to drive to Canada, because Canadians are too polite to say no, to join the Canadian Royal Airforce. But then he found out about the Merchant Marines and the rest is history. He sailed all around the world--Casablanca and England were his two favorite spots. His story of wanting something that seemed impossible--to fight with his country--taught me something else: that anything is possible.

For my dad, possibility was directly connected to prayer. Every night, my father prayed. Most nights on his knees. He always looked up before he looked out--he always taught me to appeal to god before appealing to my own mind. god first and always. When Lily was diagnosed with a brain tumor, on my Dad's birthday--i told my dad, I did not know what to do. He reminded me that Every night as a child we all gathered to say the Lord's Prayer before my mom or brother (the early birds in our house) went to bed. So, the night of Lilys diagnosis should be no different--i needed to pray for healing, pray for wisdom and pray for Lily. Dad was humble. He loved his God and that is the one if the richest gifts he left us.

My Dad was not just my dad. He was a father to my brother David--in fact, he was more than a father--he was his caregiver, his best friend, his advocate, his hero, his playmate. Watching my Dad love unconditionally and fight for my brother--that lesson gave me the tools I needed to fight for my own children. It also taught me how to be a caregiver--he took care of us all and never complained as he worked multiple jobs and always came home ready to help with math homework or built a fort.

My Dad was far from a saint and he had a temper that could shake the roof off the house. I've inherited his fire as well--but he taught me well-you never go to bed angry--you never hold a grudge. You stew, you scream and then you apologize, say I love you and live to fight another day.

And some of his lessons have less conventional applications. he gave me a very unique vocabulary to draw from. he always greeted friends and guest with a "hiya" he called Italian salad dressing, eye-talian. He referred to toiletries as lotions and potions. He gave me words like rungy-bungy and film-flam. He often exclaimed Jiminey crickets. I can hear him saying for Pete's sake in exasperation. I can still hear him saying "It's a bunch of baloney," when someone was being ridiculous. And he often referred to things giving him the Heebee-gee bees and pancakes, served every Saturday, where always hotcakes (with a side of scrapple).

He taught me the rules of the buffet: no bread; dont load up on starches; always eat the shrimp and carving station items and above all: take your time, eating at buffets is not for the speedster eater.

One of my Dad's favorite past times was trying to make all the traffic lights on North Board Street while driving to Temple. One time he did and he was like a kid at Christmas.

He gave me his love of a good story--whether in a mystery novel or in an old black and white movie or told around a dinner table. One of my favorite moments: when my dad. Beaming with pride, told my mom i stayed up past midnight reading a judy blume novel. Saturday nits were father-daughter date night--we gave me access to movies none of my friends knew: doris day, arsenic and old lace, 7 brothers for 7 brides and breakfast at tiffanys. He gifted us all with his love of the beach. He always made me laugh when he drank a Red Dog beer over ice. He had to shave to run a quick errand to Kmart. He wore his watch everyday, yet was never on time. He loved to build things--building a beautiful built in book shelf and barn and a chimney and countless other projects, that may or may not be finished. He was meticulous--and once Mike helped him with cutting a board. mike showed him the board, asked him if it was good. My dad said: well, I guess we will have to go get more wood.

My dad loved, loved, loved life--and he was always a dreamer and a planner. He dreamed for himself. He dreamed for my mother. He dreamed my brother. he dreamed for me. And he dreamed for my girls.

When the end came for my Dad his body was tired. So tired. For months, it had been hard to look at--hard to really see my Dad in his frail uncooperative state. I kept thinking, how is this it? Where is my father? Where are his boots?

You see my dad always said, "I am going to die with my boots on." he made each of us promise if he ever stopped trying at living his life to the fullest, that we would hold him accountable, that we would kick him back into action.

Seeing my father as an old man felt like a failure.

But in his last days, when he was hospital bed bound at home--when I finally sat still and held his hand, I realized, my Dad never took his boots off. His legs weren't quite working, his mind was disconnecting, but his soul was still hard at work and it had been for months. He worked until the end; he died with his boots on, just like he promised he would.

And that's the last lesson my Dad taught me. You never break a promise.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Ten Reasons Why My Life Could be a Reality TV Show

2011-09-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

Me, as Junie B. Jones, apparently.

Everyday things become slightly more surreal and everyday I wonder, what is the point to all this drama, exactly?

And then my TiVo reminds me: the potential for a reality TV show, of course.

Although I am not certain which network would pick me up, I am certain that my life could be a reality TV show. Here are my top ten reasons (subject to change, depending on how the wind blows). *

1. I am now a half-orphan (I refer to myself as the Orphan Carrington-Adkins). Like Annie, I have a dog. Unlike Annie, I am not a redhead (but could be, if you want me to be). Fortunately, my singing voice requires some electronic enhancements like Luanne (the Countess) on the RHofManhattan.

2. Once, not so long ago, family members refused to attend my own darling father's funeral (see #1). This was because I have an evil half-sister who everyone is afraid of (perhaps my show could be on the Disney Channel, it is all very Cinderella). Please note: the evil half-sister is also invisible and was not at funeral. She does not even know about it, unless she does actually have that crystal ball.

3. My mother wants to move in with us--but only if there are two different Dollar Stores within one mile of our home. If not, she is willing to move in with my 3rd cousins who are afraid of mythological half-sister (see #2).

4. There is the whole kid with a brain tumor thing and the constant fear of more brain tumors. Scary, real shit.

5. My youngest daughter likes to dance on a pole (she is 2 1/2) and refers to herself as CoCo Chanel. My oldest daughter likes to dress in furry costumes ( Clifford, Donald Duck, Care Bears) and wants to be Rachael Ray.

6. I am without meaningful and steady employment. Like everyone else in reality, I am writing a book. I am not against writing a cook book. I've worked for Australians who required me to drop the F-bomb (for emphasis) during conference calls with the World Health Organization. I've worked for bosses who require me to help their children puke. I've written about meat, wine, cheese and school boards. Once, I had to teach a yoga class and pretend I was Skipper, Barbie's younger sister. And yet, I still require an intern to manage it all, which I will find on Craigslist and who, if their home is ideally located (see #4), will take in my mother.

7. I often curse while praying. I am not sure what God thinks about the F-bomb, exactly. But if he is anything like the World Health Organization, he will accidentally kick me off the conference call. However, I am persistent and faithful.

8. It is not unreasonable to believe that I could be arrested for something. Nothing serious, but something strange. I lack an example or the specifics, but trust me, it is entirely possible and will most likely involve a school official.

9. I am building empires, that are as disconnected as my electricity with be if I don't get a reality show soon. Like knitting hats that look like cupcakes (my knit hat empire), making homemade fudge (fudge empire), teaching yoga to brides (yogini-wedding-empire), writing books (author empire) and starting new brilliant blogs (brilliant blog lady empire).

10. My husband asks dead people for advice, including Abe Lincoln. Maybe it is an ex-Illinois boy thing or maybe our reality show will appear right after reruns of Paranormal Activity.

*Note: If you think I am crazy, wait until you meet my friends.

The Things They Carried.

2011-09-21T20:45:00.000-07:00

"They carried all the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing--these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight.

I think the most unexpected thing about grief: it never ends.

When I was 5, I lost my little orange teddy bear as it fell out of my Holly Hobby handbag from the 3rd floor of the Willow Grove Mall. I cried myself to sleep for months. It was one of my first grief experiences and once I realized that things could really be replaced, I let go of my hysteria and moved forward onto the brown teddy bear who had been languishing on my shelf. But I still remember. And now with Lily and Chloe, I have an eagle eye on their favorite things--just to protect them from the fate of my orange bear.

I know I am still grieving over lots of others things: deaths of grandparents, pets, aunts and uncles. Deaths of dreams--perfect pregnancies, career dreams and even friendships. Instant grief over harsh words spoken to a stranger that can never be taken back. And of course, I will always grieve the death of my own easy motherhood--stolen the moment Lily was diagnosed with a brain tumor.

Grief is sticky. There are so many things we loose along the way. Of course in loosing we gain. We gain understanding, we gain space for something new, we gain appreciation for life and we gain strength in thick loads.

One of my favorite books is "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien. A collection of short stories taking place during the Vietnam war this book centers around the stuff soldiers carried--from weapons to photos to good luck charms and all those things we can't quite see, exactly. Things like fear, shame and grief.

I realize as I age, I will always carry my grief. And that is okay. We are all walking wounded--and for me, at least, accepting that I can be whole and happy, even with grief in my back pocket is a revelation. My grief is insight. It is strength. It is not a weakness. It is not negativity or pessimism--it is one of the truths of this human existance. We love. We loose. We grieve. We love again. We loose again. We grieve again. Grief does not stop us in our tracks. It might pause us--caution us to slow down and reflect. But, we pick up again.

Because we never grieve over something we did not love.

It is meaningful knowledge to know that my grief does not ever have to expire--it will fade, it will change, but it will always be one of the things I carried.

The end.

2011-09-17T18:48:00.001-07:00

Living 91 years is living a good long life.

But the tricky thing: I only got my dad for 34 years. So the pain and loss is as raw as if he was 60. His age matters in the big picture. In my picture, I feel cheated of 30 years.

This week we made the decision to bring my Dad home from the hospital, on hospice. I never thought he would die this week. In fact, I thought maybe, at some point, he would no longer qualify for hospice. And while, I knew his life was coming to an end, I just could not grasp how quickly the end would come.

Since I decided his end was just as important as his beginning--I cannot forget a moment.

Thursday, he came home in an ambulance. A hospice nurse settled him into home. We learned all his heart medications, minus aspirin, had been stopped. She ordered morphine and handed us a packet of information that included a pamphlet of information about the process of dying.

I realized this was really happening.

My dad was alert, talkative and himself on Thursday. He wanted to get out of bed. We talked about where he was. I told him I loved him and for the last time, he told me that he loved me too--so much. He was happy to see Chloe; happy to get a kiss from his youngest granddaughter.

I held his hand all day. He let me lay on him and hug him--this level of cuddling, is not something that comes easily to my Dad or I. Affection in words and deeds always flowed freely between us--but both of us liked our own space. On Thursday, we shared space.

Mike and Lily came after dinner. Again, my Dad brightened at Lily, he said his classic: "who is that cute little girl?" to her. Then he said, "look at her," beaming with pride. My Dad knows that Lily is a miracle--a sign of hope and the ultimate underdog.

Then Mike sat with him--my husband who is as much my Father's son as I am his daughter. They talked Temple PSU football and my dad laughed. He asked Mike where his harem was--referring to high school when Mike was often surrounded by me and my girlfriends. My Dad loved to tease--in his limey, sarcastic, brilliant way.

I made him butternut squash soup--he tried it, but said too much ginger. He apologized with a shrug--and now I know he only tried it to humor me. His appetite was leaving--chocolate pudding and yogurt were his choices.

Thursday night, the moaning and talking in his sleep began. It was horrible. I held his hand and place one hand on the crown of his head--trying to give him comfort. He was still with us, but slowly slipping away. Henry, my dog, snuggled with him. The signs were there--detachment, periods of apnea and blotchy skin.

I don't know when it happened, but at some point Thursday night into Friday, he became nearly unconscious, still gripping my hand and squeezing in response to my voice and questions. His eyes were glassy. He moaned and called to something unseen with every breath. Hospice came and went Friday morning. I came home to Jersey to grab some things and take a break. The four of us returned that evening.

My Dad was still completely unsettled. He would be calm during short periods of apnea, only to resume breathing and speaking into thin air. I wish I knew what he was saying. There was blood in his mouth, so our private caregiver Deanna called Hospice. The nurse came. She noted new changes in his breath. We opened the hospice emergency kit--another sign. I asked Wendy, the nurse, as she was leaving when, when would my father die?

Her answer: a day or tonight.

And I broke.

Deanna got my dad comfortable. I stayed upstairs while he was sleeping working on favors for a friend's bridal shower, that I would never go to. At 2 a.m., I went downstairs, held his warm hands and kissed his cheek and said: "Goodnight Daddy, I love you."

Upstairs, Mike and I joked as we cuddled on a couch that we were "making a love nest," referring to a statement my Dad made to us in high school. I told Mike that my Dad had given him an end of life zinger--when he teased him about his harem. I fell asleep.

Twenty minutes later, my Dad took his last breath. I woke up to Deanna telling us that he was gone.

I still don't believe it. He looked asleep. I kept watching, waiting for him to be breathing. His hands were already cold. His head still warm. I said goodbye, but he was already gone--off to where his soul goes next--heaven, I suppose. Lily believes he is playing fetch with our dog Lexus, who died last year. I have not begun to believe anything, yet. I still hear his voice. I still looked for him in his chair in the rec room.

I write it, so I believe it.

William Hunter Carrington
May 16, 1920- Sept. 17, 2011
My dad. My hero. My first best friend.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Beginnings. Endings.

2011-09-16T06:32:00.001-07:00

"let's go."
"where are we going?"
"come on, let's go."
"dad, we are home."
"then what are we supposed to do?"
"I don't know."

We've had this conversation about six times tonight. Dying is new to both of us. Neither of us have a clue what the heck to do. It is all so strange. It is not what I pictured--it is something else entirely. I think for my Dad, living to 91 is not exactly what he expected either.

Right down to our thick nearly black (for him, now white) hair, I am my father's daughter--salty and introverted one minute; kind and outspoken the next; deeply strong and shallowly weak. He can be the life of the party or the wall flower---never the in-between. When it comes to any activity in which he has to pick aside--join a club, pick a team, pledge allegiance, he is never all in; except when it comes to God and family, then his loyalty is unshakable.

My Dad and I have been in this life together since my beginning in 1977. I imagine, that he knew exactly what to do with a baby--after all he is the oldest of nine and I was his second daughter. But, as the mother of two, I know each new soul is different. I wonder, did we spend nights like this one together then? Was I restlessly sleeping in my crib, while he sat watching and listening to each breath? Did he hold my hand while I dozed in my infant sleep and squeeze it? Did I squeeze back?

I have decided to believe my beginning will be much like his ending: A shared confusion with a large side of knowing everything will be okay. There will be lots of hand holding. There will be tears. There may be spit up. There will be loads of uncertainty. There will be moments when we both know exactly what to do. There will be surges of unconditional of limitless love. We will be in this together, just like at the beginning.

Because he is my dad and I am his daughter. Always.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

It just sucks.

2011-09-15T07:38:00.000-07:00

Singing Lily to sleep. One of my favorite memories--because he sang me to sleep too.

My father is 91.

He is dying. He is not dying from cancer or liver failure or even heart disease (although he has a bad ticker). He is dying because he is 91. And that is what most 90-somethings do--they begin the process towards the end.

It just sucks.

For a large part of my life, I have prayed for more time with my dad. When I was 8, I realized, because of some asshole grown-up at my church who talked too loud, that my dad was an old man. He was born in 1920. I was born in 1977. Often people thought he was my grandfather.

And to an 8 year old, whose friends were loosing grandparents like Barbie shoes, all I could think was: My dad is going to die.

That is when I became hooked on prayer. I would pray constantly. In the bathroom, in the morning, in the evening, in my dreams, for my old man to live like the young men.

And of course he did. My Dad was always active (exercising every morning, even right after he had knee replacement surgery). My Dad was young at heart.

The year before Mike and I got married, my Dad had to have bypass surgery. So I prayed some more. Begging God to let my Dad walk me down the aisle. I told God I would not get married without my Pop--so he better keep him ticking, we had already made a deposit on the reception hall. And, of course, my Dad walked me down the aisle, yelled at me for stepping on his toes during our dance and nearly had a heart attack when he got the bill. Everything the father of the bride is supposed to do.

Then I was pregnant with Lily and I prayed for him to be there. He was--he was right in the NICU, checking on Lily. So scared for us. Then I prayed for him to make it through his third knee replacement surgery (a revision, he only has two legs like the rest of us!) and be there to see Lily turn one and help her blow out the candles. My Dad spent Lily's first birthday in a rehabilitation center.

And I have to admit, I was pretty pissed off. It sucked. It sucked to celebrate without him. But, then, I kept praying and he was there for her 2nd and her 3rd. By the time Lily was turning 4 and Chloe was turning 1, my Dad was starting to fade away. My prayers for him started shifting from "please God let him be here," to "please God where is my Dad. Who is this person who sleeps all the time? Who is confused? bring me my Dad"

And in small bits, my Dad came back. But never fully. And now, as I get ready to drive to Jamison and meet the ambulance who will bring him home for the last time, I have no idea what to pray for. I, for the first time in a long time, have no words.

It just sucks.

Fringe.

2011-08-17T21:31:00.000-07:00

The other day, I thought about going back to my old life.

Me. Circa 2004. I think my title was Director of Something important.

I looked at a job site and thought about applying for a real job. Like one in an office. With start and stop times. And a regular pay check. And a real boss. And benefits and pensions and staff meetings. And a communal coffee pot. And a dress code requiring suits from Banana Republic, J.Crew and Ann Taylor. And bagels on Friday in the break room. Perhaps a communal monthly birthday cake. You know, all that stuff regular people do--all the stuff I did a long time ago.

Of course I immediately stopped submitting my resume for a job called "Director of Something," or "Coordinator of Something-Else," because, well, I bought a fringed shirt at Urban Outfitters. And you cannot wear that while coordinating something and directing something else. It is just impossible.

When I first started conceptualizing this blog entry, I thought I'd write something whimsical and funny about my new quirky lifestyle. My free-spirited, freelance writing, yoga teaching, book drafting, cooking, pickling, stay at home mom lifestyle-as if I am some sort of bohemian, anti-establishment younger version of Auntie Mame.

The truth is, I just like fringed shirts. And I am always late to everything. And well, Lily has therapy during the day and I am scared shitless of being separated from my children.

At work, today. Notice, no hosiery. And my boss is shorter than me.

Right before Lily was diagnosed with a brain tumor, she attended daycare four days a week. She started on August 15, 2006; Her last day was May 15, 2006. Nine months. 36 weeks. 144 days. All this time in daycare and something was brewing in her brain. I know I could not stop it. I know working for your family is part of being a parent. And I know it all worked out. But it is that time I missed, that haunts me--because what if, what if our outcome was different? What if that brain tumor did what it set out to do?

You can never get time back.

So, here I am. Lily is skilled at conference calls and can offer meaningful critiques on articles I read aloud (her favorite comment: it does not flow). Chloe teaches her collection of Minnie Mouse dolls yoga (downward mouse). And for better or for worse, I am home. Working. Sweating. Wearing fringe. Using my children as excuses for lateness.

Job title: MOMMY! (typically screamed at the top of someone's lungs while I am interviewing the Mayor)

Puke.

2011-08-15T19:48:00.001-07:00

This morning, Lily woke up and puked.

Lily is fine. Chloe puked the day before. Mike is probably going to puke. Maybe, if God really wants to make me feel secure, I'll puke before noon.

God really is that good.

And when I say Lily is fine, it is on our eff-ed-up-brain-tumor-life-death-shunt-meningitis-infused standards.

Four years ago, when Lily puked it meant her shunt could be malfunctioning and she could need brain surgery. It meant she could have meningitis. It meant that a tumor could be growing.

But today, it means her stomach is upset, not her brain. Today, it means pedialite instead of an IV cocktail of steroids, electrolytes and antibiotics. Today, it means I rejoice in a family of stomach viruses. Today, I joyfully Lysol the toilet.

Today, it means Lily is a little girl with a belly ache.

Despite God's backhanded assurances via communal puking, morning puking always disrupts the time-space continuum for me. One morning of Lily vomiting, one slight gag and I am Alice tumbling right back into freaking hell.

It all rushes back. I used to cry and pace during the rush, trying to stop my descent into the madness. More recently, I shut down and sit quietly. I let the entire "thing" flash before my eyes.

So here it is, today's flash:

The weeks before Lily's diagnosis. The mornings of hearing her puke on the baby monitor. My frustration at the pediatrician (really, a month-long bladder infection?). My frustration at Lily (please stop puking, I have a deadline at my stupid job.). My fear (more accurately the bone chilling, cold sweat inducing terror that my baby would die.). The month at CHOP. The weeks in Houston, giving Lily a midnight bottle in her crib, because she would not be allowed to eat until noon the next day. Waking up every single morning, tying our shoes, brushing our teeth, changing Lily's diaper, then handing her over to Dr. Woo and crew to have her sedated and to have radiation aimed at her beautiful brain.

It is so abnormal. It is not what we signed up for. I signed up for mornings spent dropping Lily off at daycare. Afternoons spent rushing to pick her up. Evening dates with Mike. Weekends at the pool or the pumpkin patch. I signed up for the toughest moment and biggest parenting challenge to be the first time she took a sip of alcohol or when her best friend stole her boyfriend.

But for right now, I let the normal wash over me. Puke. Belly aches. Emergency trips to the potty. Little slices of normal. And one day, the normal may stop of the rush of the abnormal. But for now, I pick up my Lysol, wash the sheets and thank God for germs.

The eyebrow incident.

2011-08-10T18:12:00.000-07:00

Today there was an unfortunate incident with my eyebrows.

It involved hair dye. Hair dye left on for two hours. And lots of exfoliating with straight up kosher salt.

I would have used dirt if we were out of salt.

It was that bad.

The dye, left on for 4x longer than recommended, had adhered to my skin. It created the effect of painted on eyebrows which reminded me of Bert (as in Bert and Ernie), but as my dear friend pointed out to me, I looked like Uncle Leo (see the YouTube clip if you don’t recall).

Since had my tirade at lunch time yesterday, I am certain my children did not say anything for fear of making me angrier than I already “appeared” (literally).

Anyway, this got me thinking about all the things I do to change myself--to draw myself away from my au natural state.

I dye my hair. I have forever--first I dyed it fake red in college; then summer highlights as a career girl; now, I just color the gray away. I’ve dyed my eyebrows for an eternity (they are blond, my hair is nearly black).

But the outside stuff, well, that is just nonsense--sometimes it borders on art--much like a tattoo in the form of hair dye, painted toe nails and new lipstick. It all washes away--even if it an arduous and lengthy process. No matter how many times I dye my hair, it always fades back to exactly where it wants to be.

I try to change my insides too. Almost daily.

Like times when I don’t say what I really think because it takes too much energy. Or I talk too much and listen too little because I am scared someone might say something I don’t like. Or times when I let my temper cloud my genuine love for my family. Or when I let my fear of failure stop me from querying an editor. Or when I get caught up in gossip and forget how deeply I love each and every human being on this planet.

Or when I let my own life experience disconnect me from my friends. When I pretend to feel connected, when I just don’t.

All these things--the silence, the noise, the temper, the fear, the gossip and the disconnect--these cloud who I really am. These shields hide my truest self. To be my self, to be who I am at my core, I don’t have to change--I just have to shed the garbage.

It is like a spiritual weight loss--burning through the gristle to get to the lean, mean and healthy me. Maybe this all starts with accepting my blond eyebrows and my nearly salt and pepper hair. Or maybe it just starts with letting go of one shield--just one at a time. Maybe it just takes a little faith that the shields I’ve built for myself are completely unnecessary.

Because no matter how much you try to hide and change, you just can’t change the truth.

It always pops up, just like a gray hair.

Gentle Hearts

2011-08-09T21:32:00.000-07:00

I am the first to admit that I am tough on my girls.

On the days when I am firm in my resolve, the rule is one warning and then the consequences. And if it means the big one misses out on a fun time at the park because the little one is a terror, well so-be-it. If I miss out on seeing my mom friends at a playdate, well life isn't fair.

I can take it all--the complaints that I am mean, unfair and not nice. ) I can take the tears (and occasional fit of hysteria). I can take it, because in my heart I know I am parenting my children the way they need to be parented.

But then we had lunch.

The big one was whining about some nonsense related to the grill marks on her grilled cheese and the little one was shaking her juice and laughing. I asked the big one to stop and to eat. I took the little one's cup. The little one began laughing and pointing to the big one in mockery. The big one cried and wailed. Then the little one spit out her sandwich and laughed.

Seriously. (they look so adorable in photos).

And, as I choked on my perfect BLT (which had a bite missing from Henry, our dog), I lost it.

My tirade was loud, mean and mostly loud. I am certain I was purple. It included screaming. Eye bulging. And stomping (I seem to have these fits at the dinner table, quite frequently).

Then both girls were quiet. Silent. And I saw big tears fall from Lily's eyes onto her plate. Big, silent tears. Silent, heart breaking, earth shattering tears. The real deal. My heart broke. My rage seemed like a bad dream.

Of course, I hugged her. Hugged them both--the big and the little, my darlings.

My gentle hearted girl--with all her bravado and drama--she is tender. All children are tender, gentle souls who require gentle voices. They require gentle voices when they are at their most wild--when their misbehavior is the most egregious, when they are completely out of control.

My hug was like a blanket of calm on all three of us.

What I learned today--something my mother taught me long, long ago--kill them with kindness, hug them until your arms hurt and above all, be gentle--hearts are a fragile thing.

Yoga, Big Macs and one Crap-tastic Night's Sleep.

2011-08-04T21:20:00.000-07:00

Confession:

Some days I don't want to teach yoga. I don't want to do yoga. I want to just sit in my yoga pants, with the elastic waistband and eat Big Macs and drink milkshakes and shove Oreo's in my mouth like I am in a food competition.

Milkshake + Yoga Clothes = Dysfunction

Today was one of those days.

Let me set it up for you: It started the night before. It was one of those toss-turn-toss-curse-pee 85 times kind of nights. I could not sleep. I did not want to sleep, but I did not want to be awake either.

I was in the midst of one of my random panic attacks about Lily's brain tumor--the kind of panic that I never tell Mike about (because I know he has them too and does not need to share in mine). It is the kind of panic that sometimes sends me right to the internet to Google, "ependymoma," like a maniac. The kind of panic that has my heart racing, my breath escaping me and my mind--my terribly cluttered brain--trying to use logic to fend off any possibility of a reoccurrance.

At some point, Lily wandered in, following a bad dream. She climbed into bed and I had to watch her sleep for 2 hours, just to make sure she was breathing.

And you should know, that Lily is doing great--better than great--she is healthy. And beautiful and smart and a royal-pain-in-the-fanny, just like every other 5-year-old. I am just crazy.

However I had to sleep. I had to get up early and drive to Pennsylvania to meet with contractors and electricians and flooring guys who were all giving me quotes on the renovations to my parent's house. I had a full day of painting ahead of me. My parents were depending on me. My Dad, my elderly, slightly senile, beloved Dad and my Mom--oh my Mom--they needed me.

But, there I was, listing all the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad things that could happen, instead of resting. There I was stressing about the unknown--the future--how terribly unyogic.

My bad night's sleep became a bad attitude--snide remarks to my parents, intolerance with electricians and angry painting.

So today, the day I teach my favorite adult class, I did not want to go. At all. I was tired. I was cranky and I was covered in paint. Then I thought of Paulette--one of my students and happily, a new friend. I thought of her favorite pose (Half-Frog) and I knew, I had to put the Big Mac down and get on the mat.

The truth is I need my students more than my students need me. When my days are bad and I show up at class, I know I have a job to do. It is my responsibility--my solemn oath to teach yoga and teach it the best I can. I have to check all the crap at the door and be Trish, yoga teacher.

And by sharing good thoughts and gentle words and laughter and my truth, I forget that girl who was up all night making nonsense out of nonsense. I forget the worrier. I forget the snotty lady. I somehow, become more myself and for a couple moments, I believe everything I say--that yes, in this moment, this very moment, everything is perfect.

And yes, yoga pants are elastic--for stretching; not eating.

Waiting

2011-07-22T14:06:00.000-07:00

At the nursing home where my Dad is residing for the second time this year, everyone is waiting.

They wait for meals, some with expectation others with trepidation. They wait for therapy sessions. They wait for visitors. They wait for medication. They wait for sleep. Some wait quietly. Some wait with laughter. Others with rage. They all wait to leave.

My Dad has been waiting to leave for days.

Some days he wants to go home. Because he has a project to complete.

Other days he wants to go to the shore, because it is the end of July, for 80 years he spent every late-July at the shore. Childhood in Wildwood Crest at his grandmother's house. Young adulthood in the Crest torturing his sister when she waitressed at all-you-can-eat pancake Sunday's. I always spent my childhood birthdays at the beach--building sand castles, eating hot dogs, clamming, riding boats, jumping waves and soaking up my father's history.

I imagine the only time he was not on the sand or the boards was during World War II--but knowing my stubborn old man--I am certain he found some beaches in Morocco or Panama or where ever his merchant ship took him.

But now he just waits. There are no beach chairs to load in, no sandy kids to toss in the back of the station wagon, no seagulls trying to steal our clams, no tidal pools to splash in.

Those things are all there, but my Dad is here.

He could not leave if he wanted to or if by some miracle, he could sneak away. He is a flight risk and his chair is alarmed--one step out of his wheel chair and the alarm goes off.

He is a prisoner to old age. So for now, we all wait. We wait for my dad to break free of old age. For the warden to release him from this prison of eternal waiting. We wait for the beach.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Just like that.

2011-07-20T14:27:00.001-07:00

I have had a terrible, rotten, no good, very bad day.

It has been filled with ridiculousness, assholes, ingrates, feral cats (otherwise known as my children), a very large adolescent dog that eats crayons and a killer sore throat.

Five minutes ago, I was ready to run away to an ashram (as long as there is a drop zone with 30 miles).

But, then in one moment everything changed. Lily, my oldest, traveled right to me (sulking and stewing in a chair) and whispered in my ear: "I love you. I love you so much I just want to eat you up."

And just like that, today will go down as one of my best memories ever.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Smitten, Bitten at 13,500 Feet

2011-07-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

I am smitten. And totally bitten by the love bug.

I am head over heels in love with sky diving.

It feels insane. But undeniable. You can't help what you love, right?

If you don't know (because you blocked me from your Facebook feeds or something else unimaginable), I jumped for Alex's Lemonade Stand on Saturday with my good friend (and now, fellow skydiving addict) Kerri. Kerri did all the work--got most of our sponsors, made the reservations and I just showed up (in shock, I mean, really, what mother of 2 jumps out of an airplane?).

yeah, there's me, mark and jason. totally fab.

The day was long. We waited a lot. Our kids, husbands and bestie Miranda's clan were there. I peed a lot. Nearly vomited once. Thought about stealing the car keys and driving to Canada. But mostly, we waited and tried to remember our blood types for the 45 page release forms. I don't remember much else about the before--it is the during and the after that has me wandering around like a love-sick teenager and completely unable to think of anything but going back up to 13,500 feet and jumping.

My family thinks I am totally insane.

My tandem instructor Mark Kruse (who is also technically my hero, because I lived) and my photographer Jason Aubin (who I spun around with in midair during my 60 second-ish free fall, he's got BFF status now) made the plane ride up a piece of cake. They were calm, so I was calm. And then, I jumped first.

Which is the way I like it (I am a front of the class kind of girl, keeps me honest.).

The free fall is incredible. There is nothing like it. It is so loud (you are falling at 120 mph), but so quiet. My mind was focused on one thing only, the fall. It is the most perfect meditation technique I've ever encountered. The roaring wind (much like Ujjayi breath) quiets your mind. The pure rush of the free fall silences any wandering thoughts. And the knowledge that you (or my case, Mark) are responsible for your own life becomes ingrained in your bones.

Because you have to open your chute.

Then after all this noise and quiet and rush--you are suddenly floating above the earth. It is silent. Pure, beautiful silence. It is a time of reflection. I remember thinking, "Yeah, I just jumped out of a plane--and look at the world beneath me."

It is a moment when you realize anything is possible--like maybe now I can truly believe that Lily is cured. And that Lily will live to be 110.

I wrote Lily's name and Owen's name on my two fists (Owen is another brain tumor survivor, a rock star like my Lily). I still have the faint outlines of their names on my hands--a visual reminder that they came up in the air with me and came back down too. That they fought cancer and won.

Safe and sound.

Coursing through my memory is the loud rush and the quiet float--two reminders that noise can exist right beside quiet. That hope can exist in the midst of fear. And that I will jump again. And again. And again.

I have no other choice. I am in love.

Mama Body

2011-07-15T04:04:00.000-07:00

It has taken me a long, long time to love my body.

I remember days before I had boobs, hating that I had none. And then, when I had boobs, hating them so much I wanted to stuff them somewhere (perhaps in my back pocket, because goodness knows I have no ass to speak of). I remember feeling like my legs were too skinny and then when I was pregnant, that my legs were too fat.

Body image really has nothing to do with your weight or the size of your boobs or the shape of your figure. It really is all in your head.

In May, I wrote my Patch column about Beach Body Yoga (Check out: Beach Body Yoga: It's not what you think). After writing it, I remember a simple formula for my body hating days, which come and go like the seasons. When I don't love my body, my body image suffers. When I love my body--by resting, eating well, laughing, exercising, trying to do my best everyday and always giving myself permission to not over think food--my body image is on top. It never matters what the scale says when I truly love myself.

A blogger that I know over at Six Year Itch has started an amazing Love Your Body project. Drop by, read the pieces (they are great) and check out this fabulous VLog entry, which really rang true in my heart.

On Saturday, join the Twitter Conversation at 10 p.m., using #geekher.

And love your body--it is yours to love.

Namaste.
T.

Afraid of the Ball

2011-07-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

I am

~~scared~~terrified
v.v.v.v.v..v.v.v. afraid scared sh!tless of THE ball.

Naturally I joined a softball team.

I have never been a member of a team. And I am generally terrified of the ball in all games involving balls like kickball, dodge ball, basketball, volleyball, soccer and of course, softball.

(sidenote, I was beat up by the softball team in college, reaffirming my general fear).

The ball, as it flies through the air, is like a grenade headed right for my head. My fears: my teeth will be knocked out or I will try to catch it and miss it and look like a big jerk or worse--I will stand motionless, frozen in a state of psychosis, unable to attempt to catch it and just become the biggest disappointment on the team. The weak link. The girl on the bench, who spent too much money on her cleats (sidenote, my cleats are super cute).

What am I supposed to do with this thing?

I've avoided team sports my entire life.

As a result, I am a 30-something who suffers from generalized confusion about how to behave during a game. Do I run for the ball? Or do I let a stronger player run? Do I swing the bat? And when? And then what? And what is an appropriate level of team spirit? And do I look ridiculous? Like a total pretender who is trying to be sporty girl, but really is just a general fraud?

It makes everything a bit more difficult. It is also something I never want my children to see. My girls--who can be sporty or not--they can be anything. They can be everything. If they see me shrink away from softball--they will know they can avoid things that might not feel natural (which is totally not allowed in my-life-without-limits-parenting-style)

So, I joined a softball team, with an obscene name (Moustache Rides) and with Mike (who is sporty, v. sporty and coordinated).

I am really trying hard not to run-like-a-girl-who-just-stepped-on-a-bee-during-a-fire-fight when the ball is headed my way. I am dressing the part (yes, with the cute cleats), but also with a glove, a bat, a hat and some war paint (not necessary, but maybe no one will recognize me if I am in disguise). And I am resisting my urge to go all evangelic-yoga on my teammates--demanding meditation and asana before game time.

But I am tearing a page from my yoga playbook. I've learned that showing up on my mat--even when I don't want to, even when I don't think I can even attempt crow or headstand or handstand or wheel--is all that matters. It is the action and the attempt--not the outcome that makes us winners.

I am showing up tomorrow, 9:15 p.m., when the Moustache Rides take on the Swingers (seriously, who named these teams?). I'll be the girl in the cute cleats.

Missing Person

2011-07-07T20:20:00.001-07:00

These days it feels as if my Dad is missing.

Like he is away on an extended trip or maybe working on some sort of project outside or simply running errands.

But, instead, he is the room, but not in the room. His body is there and he is aware he is there and his mind is there, but my Dad, the very essence of my Dad seems to be, well, out.

There are the moments when he brightens--when Chloe dances into the room or Lily says something brilliant and blows her Grandpop a kiss. I see my Dad flit back into the room. His pride evident in his eyes at my daughters--the apples of his eye, but then in a flash, he is missing again.

Or when I bring him fresh Jersey tomatoes and for a moment, we are having a full conversation again about old school Jersey Uglies, which look so damaged, but taste like heaven. And we both reminisce about summer days spent eating tomatoes like apples--because even though my father's childhood was in the 1920s and mine in the 1980s, this is a common thread in our childhoods--a gift passed through generations. But then, quite suddenly, my Dad leaves.

He naps a lot, in a chair without planning or warning. He always seems to know where he is and what day it is and when it is time to eat and occasionally he goes to the bathroom without nagging or prodding. He keeps up with his beloved Phillies. He remembers to say grace before eating. He wears his watch. All those basics--name, date, time--he's got it.

But his truth, his very soul is slowly vanishing from my view.

It is as if the pathways in his mind are slowly disconnecting, reassembling and taking him elsewhere. I imagine all those electric brain paths, fraying, showing their wear after 91 years. His thoughts have led him away from us or maybe his thoughts are what keeps pieces of him present, while his soul is being called somewhere else.

I sit here thinking--is this what 91 looks like? A body that won't always cooperate, but still trucks along, as if it is an old battered car, that still goes from place to place, but the radio is broken and the windows won't roll down and the a/c stopped working years ago? Is this what I prayed for--a long life for my Father? Was I not specific enough?

Because who I want is my Dad--the man is more soul than body. The Dad who tucked me every night. The Dad who sang my girls the same songs he sang to me. The Dad who fed my appetite for reading with new books everyday in the summer. The Dad who was the first person to tell me I was a good mother. The Dad who cried when my daughters were born, the Dad who enjoys his beer with ice, the Dad who never backs down from an argument. The Dad who wants to die with his boots on--only now there are no boots on his feet.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Fatherhood.

2011-06-14T17:15:00.000-07:00

I don't know anything about fatherhood.

I imagine it to be a difficult proposition. You are at once the breadwinner and again an enlightened man, changing diapers and sewing ballet costumes. You still feel a need to provide for your family and while it does not matter who makes more money, it does, because you are the father. You are a husband, a best friend and still a son. And while a mother can wear pink or blue, a father, well he cannot wear pink. And well, don't we all have some ghosts of the 1950s in our blood confusing us with black and white notions of gender roles?

Or maybe I have it all wrong, entirely.

Either way, I will never really be able to walk in my father's or my husband's fatherhood shoes.

For my dad, his fatherhood was incremental. First, an older half-sister born in the late 1950s and then me in the 70s, followed by my brother in the 80s. Three very different (and albeit equally high maintenance) children. Three souls all yelling, "Daddy, daddy, " all at once, while my father worked two jobs and still made it home for dinner, every night.

For my husband, Mike, fatherhood has been a crash course in survival. First, the shocking and early birth of Lily, followed by the devastation of a brain tumor diagnosis, followed by the joy of survival, the fear of another preemie and then the joy at Chloe's survival. While this life-death drama played out, Mike was still the breadwinner, the enlightened man and the husband. He put on his work shoes in the morning and then scrubbed up for the NICU at night. He did it all, seamlessly.

I am occasionally jealous of Mike's ability to "escape" to the office everyday, to eat lunch with adults and then to come home and be off the office clock. Often, I forget, no matter where Mike is--whether the office or at a ball play or in our living room, he is always a father. There isn't an escape and he is not looking for one. Instead, he is working until it is time to come home and be with us.

I really don't know anything about fatherhood. But, I do know, that Mike is one of the great ones.

Set UNrealistic Goals

2011-06-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

I have a deck of cards called the Writers Deck. Mike gave it to me in college. Pick a card and you get a little piece of inspiration.

Today I picked:

"Set Realistic Goals."

My reaction: a roll of the eyes and a half-smile.

Because I have not set a realistic goal in my life.

Ever.

Instead, I operate with a TO DO list that consists of Three Goals, plus three sub-goals, plus three second-tier sub goals and sometimes I include three more primary goals, just in case I get the others finished. I operate under the idea that I will accomplish everything and nothing. And well, that is okay.

My parents were always big on realistic goals. Like when I wanted to take singing lessons, my father said, "let's be realistic, you are not going to become a professional singer."

Or even when my mom said, "you can do anything you set your mind to, but be realistic, you are great at math, be an engineer."

Or my Grand father, who maybe saw a little bit more of the real me than my parents did, "Be realistic, you go to college, you become an architect, because you like art and making things."

We are all surrounded by those realistic voices--the ones who simplify things down scientifically. You are good at this; therefore you are this. The voices that cite statistics and odds. The ones that tell you how it "really" is.

We have those voices in our heads too. About 5 minutes after I found out Lily had a brain tumor and surgery was scheduled for the next day, the question I had: "Well doc, it is brain surgery, what will her deficient be? will she walk? will she talk?"

Because realistically, Lily had a brain tumor, so therefore she would be damaged, somehow, right?

You see, these realistic voices are always wrong. They are limited. They based in data and lines--rarely is realistic thinking wavey or oval. Realistic voices don't tell you how it REALLY is, they tell you how is really could be, if you choose to walk straight and think straight; if you choose to stay within the lines.

But if you choose the other way--the way that is paved with hills and twists and turns and hope--the way that is UNrealistic, that is the way that leads you somewhere that you've never imagined. It is a place where miracles can happen, just because (no explanation required).

Let them eat cake: Because I hate dinner time.

2011-06-02T11:24:00.000-07:00

Here's the deal:

1. I love to cook.
2. I love to eat.
3. I love to have good conversation with dinner.

Here's what goes on in my house:

1. The kitchen is always a disaster, so I cook around the mess, which creates more mess. And in turn, creates a stand-off between my husband and I over who should clean up.

2. My children eat everything and nothing. We have created math games and tricks to get them to take bites. In the midst of our mealtime carnival games, the little drops her plate on the floor, the big one has to go to the bathroom a record 21 times and Henry, our enormous dog (who will not stop growing), is the only one who really gets to enjoy the meal I cooked.

3. Because of 1 and 2, I typically end up yelling or requesting that everyone remain silent so I can stew in my rage.

It is all very non-yogic.

They are so content with cake.

There are nights, when I prepare everyone's favorite meal of spaghetti, when everyone eats happily. The pre-meal blessing is honest--because, well, everyone is thankful for garlic bread. The discussion about how to make tomato sauce is delightful and we all marvel at the versatility of tomatoes. And when some spaghetti drops on the floor, we all laugh and call for Henry, who leaps in to save the day.

But, alas, we cannot live on spaghetti alone.

Last night was a dinner breaking point for me. No one was behaving particularly horribly, but I could feel the premature tension in my shoulders, the quiet irritation bubbling up as one kid banged a fork on the table and then I snapped. I yelled. I threatened. I yelled some more.

I decided that I was done with family dinners; that I would never, ever eat like that again. I may have stomped and made strange animal noises.

It was the kind of behavior that leaves you feeling hung over the next day.

Mike thought I was crazy. (which might be a valid point). And I thought, wow, Trish, you are so non-yogic.

The good thing about rock-bottom--the only way is up--so tonight (and every night going forward)--we will do everything I tell all my students to do: Eat a plant-based diet, say blessing, eat with gratitude, chew every bite and take our time.

But we will do one more thing: We will let go of all expectations. I am done eating dinner with the mother who watches every bite, who lets rage bubble up and who expects an uninterrupted mealtime.

Instead, I am bringing my best self to the table, expecting nothing, except for the rest of my family to show up.

And if all they eat is cake for dinner, so what? (i'll hide pureed brussel sprouts in that cake, if I have to). I surrender.

And maybe, my least favorite thing, will become my favorite.

Or I will end up eating all alone in the bathroom.

Chinese Takeout: The Vote

2011-05-25T11:42:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one having nightmares about dragons?

I am sure you recall my insanely ambitious goal of writing a book before next the Chinese New Year.

Earlier this year, I provided y'all with an update and a plea that I be harassed. I am happy to report, that no one has harassed me; yet I've become so paranoid, that I've harassed myself.

Like yesterday, when I spent an hour starring at myself in the mirror and silently screaming--your book, your book, GO WRITE YOUR BOOK!!!! Or last week, when I refused to look in the mirror because I was afraid of getting yelled at.

The book has slowly transformed into two very separate books. And, while I am one to jump into the impossible with an optimistic attitude, I think two books before the Year of the Rabbit concludes is a tad bit unreasonable.

Now I am left with the ultimate decision: do I order egg rolls or spring rolls? Which book do I write? Which book do I save for a rainy day?

I am decidedly unable to make any sort of decision. (This is chronic. I've been known to wear one outfit and bring another with me in my handbag, just in case I change my mind.) Therefore, dear Yoke-sters--I need your help.

I need a vote. What do you want to read? Since I am paranoid, I cannot reveal too much (and yes, I know, no one is stealing my ideas. no one is stealing my unique life experience. and there are no monsters under the bed).

What I can reveal is this:

Book 1, which I refer to as the Egg Roll, is a bit of a memoir. It is about cancer, motherhood, surviving and yoga.

Book 2, which I refer to as the Spring Roll, is also a bit of a memoir mixed with self-help mixed with how-to. It is about motherhood, chaos, peace, survival, a little bit of cancer, but mostly pausing.

What will it be? Egg Rolls or Spring Rolls?

xoxoT.

Good Works: The Sparrow Fund

2011-05-24T21:10:00.001-07:00

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There are so many amazing individuals and organizations working to make this world a beautiful, loving place.

One of my new favorites: The Sparrow Fund.

The Sparrow Fund provides encouragement and support to families as they prepare for international adoption. The Fund provides grants to qualified families--grants that can help cover medical, adoption and other expenses. Grants that make for one less orphan and one more beautiful family.

The Fund was started by two very amazing parents--Mark and Kelly Raudenbush. The Raudenbush family includes a beautiful little girl adopted from China. Kelly and Mark returned home from China changed and with a resolve to help parents find those beautiful children who need them.

There is nothing quite as amazing as becoming a parent. The Sparrow Fund makes for more mothers, more fathers and more families.

I love it. Until the end of May, you can shop and help the Sparrow Fund raise money for its grant programs. 33 businesses have committed to donating 10-percent of their total sales through May 31. A full list of businesses is here. There are oodles of fabulous retailers. The best part: guilt free shopping!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

The Gift

2011-05-19T10:33:00.000-07:00

Way back, when I was a PR girl, I had to do a PR girl training with a fancy corporate media consultant (who was brilliant, if not a little sinister). The consultant kept telling us all when faced with a difficult question don't answer. Instead, find the gift.

You see, there are gifts in every question and in every bad situation. Someone asks you why did $1 million go to Africa instead of Haiti. You say, "We are so excited and filled with hope at the generosity of our donors who raised $1 million." The gift is the ability to talk about the good stuff--to share the light, instead of admitting any darkness.

I think about this concept daily and use it on my children non-stop. When Lily is disappointed a friend cannot come over, I tell her: "Find the gift. Now you have time to do an art project." It is sort of like looking on the bright side or seeing your glass as half full.

Finding gifts in bad situations is a beautiful practice in gratitude. We've all heard it when our house is a pit and we are considering torching the place: "Be grateful you have a home to clean." But finding the real gift is much deeper than making cleaning fun or cheering up a 5 year old.

Finding the real gift is a bit of a game of connect the dots crossed with the Kevin Bacon game crossed with slightly over thinking it all. Gifts come from good and bad life experiences, equally.

Start with a a major life change--the birth of a child, the death of a grandparent, a new roommate, a new pet, a new job or an illness. Anything. And then think it through. . .

For example (it is long, so bear with me). . .

Lily had a brain tumor.
Then I joined a playgroup. In the playgroup was a wonderful woman named Dana.
Dana's husband's cousin was a sweet little boy who was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Dana referred me to her cousin-in-law and I found Catherine--another mother, who like me, was on the front lines in the fight for her child's life.
Then through a Facebook post on Catherine's wall I found Dina, another cancer mama.
Now I have Catherine and Dina; Lily has Owen and Drew. Two people who know that my post-tramautic, crazy late night tumor researching, cancer-hating and maniac behavior is normal. Two women who are by my side and in my heart at all times. And we don't even know each others favorite colors. . We all have each other--and someday when our children are all grown up and we are all hanging at the retirement home pool sipping cocktails, Catherine, Dina and I, well we will have each other and our friendship.

That is the gift. So when someone asks me, "Gosh, that brain tumor thing must have sucked, right?" My answer, "The brain tumor was an amazing opportunity to find gifts and friendship."

So, I challenge you to find those gifts. Lift up those rocks, dig deep, connect the dots and find the treasures in it all.

The Hundred

2011-05-17T13:48:00.000-07:00

When we first settled on a goal of $10,000 for this year's Lemonade Stand, I have to admit I thought we were crazy.

Lily, of course, thought $10,000 was not nearly enough. She is always committed to raising a million-zillion-trillion dollars, because Lily is an eternal optimist and if anyone will help find a cure, it is that little spitfire.

Now that we are in the midst of Lemonade season, $10,000 seems extremely possible--because well, we have all of you kind, generous and genius individuals ready to join what I am calling:

The Hundred

You see, $10,000 is quite a lot of money for one person. But, for The Hundred, it is a piece of cake.

Here's how it works:

If 100 of our friends commit to raising 100 or more, we will reach (and maybe surpass) our $10,000.

If 100 of our friends ask 10 of their friends to donate $10 or more, we will reach (and surpass!) our $10,000 goal.

That's it--100 of our friends ask around for $10---and voila: $10,000 to help cure childhood cancer. $10,000--an amazing sum of money--which could be the last $10,000 needed to find a cure. You never know. . .Lily, my eternal optimist taught me that!

To join The Hundred, just get rolling. Email your friends!Donate online! Spread the word! Share the hope.

Lemonade: For Our Heroes

2011-05-10T19:58:00.000-07:00

This year, Lily's Lemonade Stand is for her friends.

When you buy a cup (or 100 cups, please!), you will be sipping in the beautiful stories of some of my favorite people in the world, my heroes. In honor of all those children, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters who fight, have fought and will continue to sell lemonade for their friends, until cures for pediatric cancer are found, I ask, I beg you to raise a glass to these amazing blessings.

For Avi, Lily's proton radiation buddy. Avi is alive, thriving and in remission from a brain tumor. His mom, Yael, always reminds me with her grit and determination that this is a fight we can win, if we stay strong.

For Devon, the first little girl Temple Lacrosse adopted. Devon, who to me, is like a sister for Lily, albeit from heaven.

For Charlotte, who is perhaps the kindest, most delightful child I have ever encountered. From the moment Lily meant Charlotte two weeks ago at a Alex's Lemonade Family picnic, Charlotte was her hostess--inviting her to play, giving her the scoop on what activities were happening and then during a lemon hunt--giving Lily one of her lemons--so Lily would not only have one in her bag. That sort of generosity does not happen on the school playground.

For Cassie, my cousin Jen's daughter. Cassie, who is beautiful, strong and a leukemia survivor. Someday, I know she will be there when Lily is grown and beautiful and needs another survivor to lean on.

For my dear friend Dina's son Owen, who is quiet possibly a genius. Owen had a brain tumor; now he is a light in every room. I never knew Dina before cancer--she, too, is one of those lights that shines in the darkness--everyday I thank God for her open invitation to vent.

For Drew, beautiful, beautiful Drew. His mother Catherine, always reminds me that we have to keep moving forward and we have to pray for each other.

For Calla. Calla, another ependymoma survivor and a preemie just like Lily. Calla is briliant--and her mother Shanda was my first brain tumor friend. She broke me in, taught me the ropes and is still my constant role model.

And there is my hero, Liz Scott, Alex's Mom. She saved me one day at CHOP--I was done--and there she was standing up in front of loads of people--telling us there was hope, telling us that we could do it and Liz Scott is right, we can do it--together.

See you June 11. If you can't make the date, donate online and we will save you a glass of lemonade.

Lily's Lemonade Page:

http://www.alexslemonade.org/mypage/70462

Motherhood: A Yoga Reading List

2011-05-05T12:09:00.000-07:00

Is it an avocado? Or a peach? Or a baby?

The first book I received when I was pregnant with Lily: "What to Expect When You are Expecting."

"What to Expect" is the maternal equivalent of Bride's magazine. Holding that book in my hands on the train or in a waiting room, was like shouting: "I am fertile! I am not just a little fat! I am not bloated from too much salt! I am allowed to shop at Maternity stores for pants with panels!"

It makes you legit.

It also made me crazy. It gave me panic attacks, nightmares of things like miscarriage, Placenta Previa, Club Feet, Preeclampsia (okay, so I had PE, twice, but paranoia did not help anything) and it made ask my sweet suffering OB: "Is the baby a size of an avocado? Is it? Is it?"

Then your baby comes. And there are a million, a MILLION parenting, motherhood, babyhood, toddler hood and life books out there (that you don't have time to read). Maybe even more like a TRILLION MILLION MILLION (as Lily would say). There are books that guide you on how to specifically raise "Your quiet child," "Your energetic child," Your inner child." Books that scare, bully and add guilt. Books with no content and just series of unrelated inspirational quotes. Books with sage advice carefully hidden in humor. I've read them all.

In yoga, we talk about union (yoga does translate to mean "to yoke" or "to unite"). Motherhood is the ultimate union. It begins with a union of cells and then merges into a union of Momma and Child. It is yoga. Breath (even if you find you only breathe when you have to yell) synchronized with movement (seriously why can't my children sit still, even for a minute?) that eventually leads us to a place that is holy. A place of pure, never ending, wasteful loving.

Here is my official Yoga Reading List for Moms, read in good health, but don't read too much (skimming is totally permissible). Our kids grow up in the blink of an eye.

1. Mom-to-Mom Blog
Linda Anderson is my girl. She takes the Bible, even the scary parts, and applies it all to Motherhood. For me, Linda has made the Bible my go to book in times of crisis. She focuses on legacy building--how we pass our faith (and I think no matter your faith, the principles apply) to our children. It is good stuff. Read her blog (which also includes a reading list). And find a Mom-to-Mom study group. Women can be wonderful in groups.

2. An Innocent, a Broad
Written by Ann Leary (wife to Dennis Leary), this book is hilarious and heart warming. I picked it up because Lily was a preemie and I was searching for something that did not contain medical advice and mentions of complications. Read it. No matter how old or young your child is, preemie or full term. The message: we don't get to pick how or where we become mothers. We just have to roll with it.

3. Enlightened Motherhood
Jessica Berger Gross, author and weekly Yoga Journal blogger, gets it. Her column covers everything from practicing yoga to taking me time to being a mother, while juggling a husband, career and budget. If you love her blog, pick up her book (which is how I first found her) "EnLightened: How I lost 40 pounds with a yoga mat, fresh pineapples and a Beagle Pointer." It is a fabulous anti-weight loss, get healthy memoir--perfect to help you appreciate your beautiful body for what it is: beautiful/

4. Yoga for Women
I had the extreme honor and pleasure of studying children's yoga with Shakta Kaur Khalsa. Shakta practically glides into a room and makes everything that seems arduous, simple. Her book "Yoga for Women," covers it all--pregnancy through menopause and everything in between. The book is a simple reminder that YOU are important. And the poses and yoga kriyas are positively yummy.

5. The Parent's Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for Modern Parents
This way more than just a book of random musings and quotes. It is real advice. It is profound. Buy and keep it in a safe for the moments when you consider running away to China. My favorite:

"Go for a slow and mindful walk.

Show them every little thing that catches your eye.

Notice every little thing that catches theirs.

Don't look for lessons or seek to teach great things.

Just notice.

The lesson will teach itself."

It is that simple. The book for Motherhood: the one you are writing right now, with each breath and each movement.

Surviving May

2011-05-04T07:30:00.000-07:00

May 27, 2007. Lily, hanging in the PICU.

Four years ago, on my Dad's birthday, we found out Lily had a brain tumor.

It felt like a cruel joke.

In high school, my best friend and I always used to irrationally worry about things like brain tumors--like if we had a headache or felt dizzy. I think about this everyday. Like, somehow I knew this was coming. Or somehow I brought it to my front door.

May is always a dark month for me. The day Lily was diagnosed, May 16, I felt terribly alone. It felt like I was abandoned by God, my God whom I had loved so much. The tumor took our safety away. It took away the cushion, the padding, it burst a bubble, it ruined everything I planned and hoped for the future. What Mike and I had planned for our daughter--little Lily, who had already survived preemie-hood, who was always the brightest light in the room and who was still giggling and laughing, even as the emergency room doctor said, "There is a mass. Neurosurgery is on the way down."

Then I did not know that somewhere, maybe even in that same hospital, 9 other mothers heard the same news--"Sorry, your child has a brain tumor." And that every day in May, June and every single month of the year, 10 more mothers would hear that horrible diagnosis. I did not know that just a few floors above me, a child was dying from a brain tumor. I had no idea.

Brain tumors happen to children--10 a day, 3, 750 a year. There are 28,000 children in the United States living with a diagnosis of a brain tumor. These are children you see at the grocery store; they are in your child's class at school; they go to your church; they live in your neighborhood. These are babies and toddlers and preschoolers and tweens and teenagers. They are children.

The reality makes it hard to wake up some mornings. But then I hear Lily, bellowing from her bedroom, asking me to help her find an outfit for school. That is my after-tumor reality--that is my hope for the 10 mothers who today will feel like all hope is lost. It is the hope and a prayer for a future, for a cure and for an end to dark May days.

To Olga, on her birthday

2011-05-03T05:33:00.000-07:00

The thing is, Olga is fabulous. And well, as fabulous people do, she has everything. While she loves all that fun girly stuff, there really is nothing she needs.

If I was a millionaire, I'd fly myself, Mike, my girls, my beautiful sister-in-law, brother-in-law and their kids, to Texas and be there in time for a family breakfast. We would stay the day and share an Appletini while teasing our husbands, for their adorable Adkins-male traits, while my girls danced and sang, "Grammy, Grammy." Then Olga would laugh, her sweet laugh--the kind of laugh that one can only describe as tickled--and then there would be something amazing--like glitter nail polish or a fort or a "chuck-chuck," because Olga was born to be Grammy to my girls.

Olga was also born to be a lot of things--like my mother in law and my best girlfriend.

The day Lily was born, Olga booked tickets and flew to New Jersey. She fed us. She sat by my side while Lily was on a ventilator. She learned how to breast feed a preemie, right along with me. Olga made us laugh when things were not so funny. And she listened. She lived with us for over a month. Dropping her own life for ours. She made me lay down when I did not want to. She hugged her son when he was crying because his daughter wasn't yet 3 pounds. She did it all again for Chloe--jumped right in, as an experienced NICU vet. This time, taking care of Lily too.

The day Lily was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I called Olga, because there was not no else who could make it all okay. She arrived, with Bob, within a day. And she did not leave, not until the day Lily was being discharged. One month in New Jersey. One month all alone, in our home, while we lived at the PICU. She did our laundry and cleaned my closet. She made us meals. All the while, it was her granddaughter fighting for her life.

She was our rock and our hostess through 7 weeks living in Texas for Lily's proton radiation. She did our laundry, cooked us meals, made us drinks. She made a visit for radiation seem like a vacation. I've learned where ever Olga is, well, that is a refuge. She is a safety net. A pillar.

And then there is the day-to-day stuff. Olga always answers the phone. She listens to every problem, every drama, every frustration without a word of judgment. She laughs with us, even when she is in pain.

Olga can take a piece of steak and an apple and suddenly, you have a feast worthy of a 5-star restaurant. Olga is the original Fancy Nancy-someone who takes plain and makes it magical.

When we go to Texas, I cannot wait to hang out with her. When I feel totally off-kilter, Olga is who I want. She is my bestie, with a word of encouragement at all turns. I trust her completely.

She is proud of me like I am her daughter--making me so duly blessed, because a mother's pride is unmatched. She loves her sons--Mike and Jon--to the moon and back. The evidence--how deeply my husband loves me and his girls. Olga is the mother-in-law all my girlfriend's dream of, but she is all mine.

So, Happy Birthday dear Olga. The world is beautiful with you in it. Your light shines through it all. And we all adore you. Wishing you at least 100 more. xoxo

On Bin Laden. . . .

2011-05-02T15:31:00.000-07:00

There is no doubt that Osama Bin Laden was an evil, evil man. A man, who at some point, choose to walk with the devil and turn his back on the light. His crimes are numerous. His actions unspeakable. He was a cancer, a disease. There is no doubt.

But why do I find myself feeling a sense of loss today? My sadness feels deep and quiet. I am sad for the world. I felt this way twice before.

The first time: September 11, 2001. We all remember where we were. I was in Vermont, on a conference call. A colleague kept interrupting me and I was frustrated, until finally I read her Post-it. It said, "Get off the phone. Planes crashed into the World Trade Center." Everything that followed that day was scary. The clogged phone system, which did not allow me to call my parents and hear their voices. The fear that someone I loved somehow was on a plane or in NYC or the Pentagon. The roaring of the National Guard planes leaving Essex Junction to head to New York. The rumbling military trucks racing past my apartment in Fairfax to secure the Canadian border. We thought we were so far away--at home in Vermont. But terror and evil were knocking at our doors.

I was sad. And quiet for a long time.

The second time was December 2006--we were in Ohio. It was Lily's first Christmas and New Year's. I remember we were preparing for a night of lobster tail and steak. The news came on. Saddam Hussein was executed. People cheered. I felt quiet.

The thing with it all--to say that I am sad about the death of Saddam or the death of Bin Laden is incorrect. Their deaths are just deaths. But my saddness is at the joy of others around the world; the dancing and cheering like the Munchkins singing, "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead." I am scared of the shouting and cheering and photos of blood spattered rooms. The glorification of death, of killing. No matter what the cause--the gang mentality and language of violence and redemption and punishment--it is scary.

It feels like a crowd who could turn at any moment--a crowd that could begin crying for more blood and more hatred and more violence.

When we celebrate death and killing, we lose something in the depths of hate. We become no better that those who wish to bring on terror to our back doors. Killing requires no explanation. A death is a death. A life is a life. To feel joy at a death, is to become dead ourselves. We lost so much on 9/11 and everyday since--so many beautiful men and women fighting in the Middle East. So many souls--spirits and hopes just gone. There must be a better way.

When I explain these moments in history to my girls, I will tell them about the thousands of innocent people who died in the Twin Towers, at the Pentagon and in Pennsylvania, because of hatred. I will tell them that Saddam HUssein, a criminal and evil man, was executed, because that is the law. I will tell them that Osama Bin Laden was killed by the U.S. military, who protects us, but who was also ordered to kill Bin Laden, because they felt out of options--they felt his death was the only solution. I will tell them that we live in a confused world--a world where violence is okay when there is a reason. And I will tell them that we can live in this world, but we don't have to be of this world. I will tell them that we all must say no to violence--even when it knocks on our door.

And I will tell them I am sad.

Lenten Lattes

2011-04-20T13:42:00.000-07:00

I never given anything up for Lent.

In the beginning, I was simply stubborn. Then I got lazy. And then I became apathetic.

Who really cares if I stop drinking coffee? The barista at Starbucks? God certainly has other things on His mind besides my caffeine addiction.

And I do lack discipline at my very core. This makes sticking with anything completely impossible.

Excuses aside, I do actually have oodles of Christian guilt about my lack of giving up for Lent. This year, I attempted to stick with the Catholic tradition of no meat on Fridays. I totally broke down one Friday night at Pei Wei, when I had to have the orange peel beef.

A complete failure.

Then I started thinking about the Easter story. Lent, which begins on Ash Wednesday, symbolizes Jesus' 40 days in the desert, where the devil tempted him in all sorts of ways.

Seems given my track record with Lent, that I would have gone to the dark side super quickly.

Devil in a Latte.

But Jesus is the Son of God. And Jesus seemed to have the actual devil in front of him with bread. The devil is a bastard, isn't he?

And I don't think of barista Linda as the devil, even when she is waving a Venti Skinny Latte at me.

That just seems mean.

But, all Jesus had to give up was some bread and water and comforts. Not much, when you consider that later his Father would force him to give up his body and breath for all of us.

Jesus had 40 days in that desert. And then when He emerged, He began His ministry and His life work. He had 40 days to figure out what to with it all.

So this year, I am giving myself the full 40 days to figure out my sacrifice--one that is full and real and for God. God made this gigantic, epic sacrifice for me--his Son's flesh. Anything I choose will pale in comparison and that is just how God wants it--he is the big kahuna after-all--the one and only. And my latte, well, that might be just enough for Him.

Update on Chinese New Year and other chaos

2011-04-13T19:00:00.000-07:00

I could totally write a non-celebrity cookbook, right?

The first quarter of the Chinese Year of the Rabbit is almost over.

And the truth is, I had to Google when the Chinese New Year was, because I forgot.

If you all remember, way back in February, I boldly announced my resolution to write a book. I thought maybe you'd all like an update.

1. I have been writing, nearly everyday. Now, sometimes this writing might be witty emails to friends or rants about various members of the administration at Lindenwold School 5 or something for the Gloucester Township Patch or maybe something blog-tastic in Yoke, but I have been writing.
2. I think I know what I am writing my book about (did I really say, "my book?" eeek!!).
3. Despite many of you who have recommended that I merely write down stories of people that I meet or recap my childhood being raised by delightful and well-meaning, yet slightly off-kilter parents (spinning all this chaos in fiction), I have decided to write about motherhood, cancer and yoga.
4. I think this is what I am writing about, but maybe not. Perhaps a non-celebrity cookbook?

In the category of chaos, when the heck is 90210 going to be back on? I need blog content.

And finally, please harass me. Ask me about my writing. Ask me how I spend my days and keep reading Yoke. It boosts my ego. It makes handstands a little easier.

As always, save your dollars. Because each of you have to buy at least 3 copies of the book.

xoxo
T.

Yoga for Japan: Saturday in Haddonfield

2011-04-12T12:57:00.001-07:00

We've all been emotionally touched and shaken by the earthquakes, tsunami and continued nuclear crisis in Japan. Our brothers and sisters oceans away are suffering. Together, we can make a difference.

Join me for a Yoga and Meditation class this Saturday, April 16, at Haddonfield Presbyterian Church. The class is free--just bring a cash donation or assemble a hygiene kit to support those in Japan.

Hygiene Kits can mean the difference between health and death in those facing natural disasters and poverty. These kits are collected and distributed through the Church World Service, an organization that works with local partners all around the world to eradicate hunger, promote peace and aid those facing disaster.

The kit contents are available here

If bringing stuff is not your thing--all cash donations will be directed to the Church World Service to support their programs in Japan.

Class is all levels and appropriate for ages 10 to 110!

Held on the 1st and 3rd Saturdays of the month, Yoga and Meditation classes at Haddonfield Presbyterian Church are always free with a donation. Donations will be earmarked for a specific charity, like Church World Service or donated to Haddonfield Presbyterian's mission fund.

Class is in the Church Parlor at 9 am. Bring a mat, some water and be prepared for some great community and fellowship. Any questions? Just drop Trish an email (triciacadkins (at) comcast (dot) net).

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Shhhhh don't tell anyone, but. . .

2011-04-12T09:09:00.000-07:00

Motherhood has opened an entirely new door of gossip potential. In the past gossip centered around romantic entanglements, drunken escapades and career scandal, now gossip has even more fuel. There are people's homes to critique, husbands to speculate about, parenting styles to criticize and even children to whisper about.

And really, I thought gossiping was reserved for the sorority house and maybe, when I was 80, the retirement village.

For better or worse, most of us do it. We gossip. We listen to gossip. We read gossip. We pass tiny little judgments that spiral into enormously malicious spoken words.

Maybe we think we are just venting. But we all know it takes one little nugget of not-so-nice-knowledge to destroy a reputation or a friendship.

I am certainly not innocent. I am completely guilty of gossiping, but I like to believe in my heart that I vent or I share information that does not hurt anyone or harm anyone or have any meaning.

Of course, I am fooling myself.

Even when we just read a story about Brad Pitt in US Weekly and then forward the story to a friend we are harming someone. We are passing along something that is absolutely none of our business and spreading the bad words along, encouraging the conversation about something that does not matter at all.

Or when we decide someone has slighted us and we decide to take our case to the streets. We tell our friend that Sally-Jo is a snob and then well, Sally-Jo, becomes a snob in the minds of everyone who hears it.

And then did I mention that our children are watching all of this. Listening to every word, working out in their minds how gossip can be social gold.

It is nasty stuff this gossip. As a recovering gossip addict (who slips off the wagon from time to time), I'd like to share the lessons I have learned from Christ, yoga and motherhood. Here are my top 3.

1. My Aunt-in-Law Lydia, put it best when she quoted Joyce Meyer: "When you have a problem, go to the Throne and not the phone." Take your judgments, your concerns, your slights to God, to Christ, to whomever your higher power is. Think before you act--then decide, do I need to share this information with anyone, ever?

2. Know the difference between good and bad gossip. Good gossip: Did you hear that Sally-Jo got a new job? Bad gossip: Did you hear Sally-Jo has to go back to work? In yoga, we talk about Ashimsa--non-violence. Good gossip is not violent. Bad Gossip is.

3. Love all. Fully and openly. My children taught me this. They could care less about the price tag of someone's car or their career. They love all; and in turn, they don't have a bad word to say.

Photos of the Day: Walking in the Rain

2011-03-31T06:42:00.001-07:00

I love a rainy day.

I remember one rainy Spring day when Lily was two. We were running errands and she saw a little girl, her age, with rain boots and what Lily called a "brella." Lily wanted an umbrella and she wanted so badly a pair of ticky tacky rain boots to splash around in.

The thing is, you cannot wear Sure Step braces inside rain boots and you really cannot hold an umbrella when both your hands are on a therapy walker or when you are army crawling on the floor. And even when your hands are free, you cannot manage the careful balance of an umbrella, when you don't have any balance to spare.

This year, Lily still wears Sure Steps, but she can also walk without her braces. She has not used her therapy walker for a year and the only time Lily crawls is when she is pretending to be Clifford, the Big Red Dog. She can balance on one foot, carry an enormous school bag and walk in the rain.

Rainy days are my favorite days. These days are reminders of the simple things like splashing in puddles and pretty pink umbrellas--the miracles of childhood.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

St. Patrick's Day Yoga

2011-03-17T11:54:00.001-07:00

I love a good party--and my Yoga Kids do too. Tonight in my Pajama Yoga Class we will celebrate all things Irish with some fun St. Patrick's Day inspired yoga.

Since leprechauns are notorious for creating trouble and shenanigans, we will start in savasana, or as we call it: spaghetti.

We will center and become limp, loose and ready to focus on some fun Asana, like:

1. Backwards sun salutation-starting and ending in Downward Dog.
2. Upside down rainbow--bow pose
3. Lucky horse shoe--play with backbends--camel, bridge and wheel
4. Irish Potato--knees to chest and rolling all around.

Then maybe a game, like my St. Patrick's Day spin on the Intuition game, called Find the Pot of gold. One student leaves the room, while the rest hide a gold coin underneath one of their mats. The student returns and uses their intuition to find the coin.

Then some meditation--we've been working with mandala's all month, so maybe we will make our own shamrock inspired mandala's and go out into the world feeling lucky to our yoga practice and each other!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Five Years of Lily

2011-03-12T21:46:00.000-08:00

Before there were years.
My sweet Lily was entirely planned. I had one pregnancy before Lily, a surprise and one that resulted in a very early loss. It was that loss that led to Lily--the lost prospect of a child made me realize how deeply I wanted to be a mother.

After that first pregnancy ended, we went to the Philadelphia Flower Show. I remember one picture of me, in front of lilies and roses, I am sort of smiling, but my eyes are sad. I looked at that picture nearly every day until Lily was born--and that is how she became a Lily--she put the light back in my eyes.

Year One-The Breath 2006
In retrospect, it does not surprise me that Lily was born 11 weeks early. I think some part of me knew this was our shared destiny to be NICU Mother and Daughter--an underdog team from the start. Even during the early days when Lily's lungs were so sick and I could not hold her--she would hold me with her doll-sized hands and each labored breath. Then when I held her finally, Lily let me and she nestled in and breathed, beautiful perfect complete breaths.

Year Two-The Pause 2007

We had just hit the anniversary of Lily's homecoming from the NICU. Lily vomited, randomly. She stopped crawling. It was like someone hit the pause button on her development. I was so irritated--then I was terrified. But never in my wildest did I think the diagnosis would be brain tumor.
It all worked out--this forced pause delivered in the form of an ependymoma, brain surgeries, PICUs, radiation and oncologists--the three of us paused as a family. We fought as a family and Lily led us to a place of love, healing and health. This second year of Lily's life will always be about the quiet, the stillness and singular focus on hope.

Year Three--The Rock, 2008
In summer of 2008, when I found out I was pregnant with Chloe, I was terrified. I was so scared for another NICU stay--scared that this time around, my baby would not make it. Lily was 2 1/2. There was no way to explain to her what the stakes were--there was no way to say--"Hey, Lily, Mommy is scared that preeclampsia will rear its ugly head again and your baby sister--well she will be born way too early." But Lily, my wise, kind, rock, held my hand at every perinatologist appointment. She reminded me to take my blood pressure. She cuddled with me while I was on bedrest. Lily was my rock--she was exactly what I needed. I often wonder what I was to her.

Year Four--The Walk, 2009

Lily's walking has been the source of constant work for us since her brain tumor. In our hearts, we knew she would do it--despite some nay-saying from doctors and despite the nagging doubt in our minds. For about a year, Lily was adept at walking with her therapy walker or cruising or holding our hands. We did not have any independent steps, until Black Friday. The four of us (now with Chloe in the mix) hit Nordstorm and Lily, well she wanted to go purse shopping. Lily walked and walked and ran away from us. Chasing us, laughing and finally we saw our Lily as free--she could walk on her own and Lily taught us how to walk. She taught us to walk our own walks to be independent of the things that hold us back. She shed her brain tumor--she shed her walker--she shed all her limitations. She walked.

Year Five--The Bloom, 2010
Like all beautiful flowers, my Lily needed her time to bloom. This last year, I've watched Lily walk, run and learn to dance. I've watched her sing in front of 100's of people at church. I've seen her make friends and boss those friends around. I've watched her hold Chloe in her arms, when Chloe has fallen. I've held my breath while Lily trotted on Clementine and I've comforted her after she tried out a (very scary) kiddie rollercoaster. I've lost arguments with her. She walks, she talks and she is blooming. In this past year, that I've realized what an honor it is to be chosen as her Mother. Lily and Chloe are my daughters, but they do not belong to me. This year, Lily showed me how much she belongs to God, how much she belongs to this world. She has started to open and become her own beautiful flower. It is Lily who continues to teach me how to be my truest self.

Happy Birthday to my Lily. Wishing you at least 100 more. We love you.

Clean out those closets and swing on by for some FREE yoga!

2011-03-02T07:18:00.000-08:00

Who doesn't love free? Who doesn't love getting rid of stuff?

On Saturday, March 5 and March 19, I will be teaching a Yoga and Meditation class at Haddonfield Presbyterian Church at 9 am. The class is free--just bring a donation for Cradles to Crayons, a fantastic non-profit that collects new and gently-used items for children and distributes them, free of charge, through existing social service agencies that serve children who are homeless or living in poverty.

This is their 1st Annual Spring Greening drive! Clean out your kids closets, the playroom, the coat closet and gather all your gently-used items for kids ages 0-12. Then swing into yoga on March 5 and/or March 19 in Haddonfield for an amazing (and fun) all-levels yoga class. Class ends with a meditation session.

Cradles to Crayons is based in Conshohocken. I am so excited to be able to support this great organization! If you cannot make yoga class, but still want to donate, just drop me an email!

Held on the 1st and 3rd Saturdays of the month, Yoga and Meditation classes at Haddonfield Presbyterian Church are always free with a donation. Donations will be earmarked for a specific charity, like Cradles to Crayons, or donated to Haddonfield Presbyterian's mission fund.

Class is in the Church Parlor at 9 am. Bring a mat, some water and be prepared for some great community and fellowship. Any questions? Just drop Trish an email (triciacadkins (at) comcast (dot) net).

Yoga for Kids: Celebrating the Presidents

2011-02-24T13:18:00.000-08:00

I am always trying to give my tween (ages 9-12) yoga class a fun and educational theme. Some weeks are easy--Valentine's Day, Chinese New Year, Ground Hog's Day--but this week post-President's Day was a little rough. My students have come to expect something super fun and related to something going on. And since we all learn best through play (yes, even 30-something me!), I thought we could celebrate a bit of our country's political history with some fun presidential yoga.

The Obama's hosted a yoga class on the White House lawn during the annual Easter Egg Hunt two years in a row. So I thought we'd start where we are now with our 44th President Barack Obama.

43 Yoga Jumping Jacks
why? While Obama is our 44th President, he is typically only the 43rd individual to serve as president. Grover Cleveland served two non-consecutive terms.
how? Stand with legs far wide and arms parallel to the floor. Jump feet and hands together, clapping. Jump apart. Repeat 43 times. (I am sure my girls will be laughing, exhausted and will never forget the jump 43!)

Warrior I
why? In honor of our current President, who like all presidents is a leader. Warrior I is a pose that challenges your sense of presence. It is easy to lean forward (to the future) or fall back (to the past), but the pose is perfection when you center your torso with your hips.
how? the classic Warrior I

Cherry Tree
why? For our first President George Washington and the legend of the Cherry Tree--you know, "I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the Cherry Tree"
how? Take tree pose. Practice falling out of the pose and being okay with it--being honest about your balance, about how high you can place your foot.

Airplane Pose
why? Thomas Jefferson, our 3rd president, was the primary author of the Declaration of Independence. Airplane pose teaches us to fly to independence, while balancing on one leg.
how? Airplane Pose is really Warrior 3. Practice on both sides

Squat
why? James Madison, our 4th President was the shortest at 5'4" He graduated from Princeton.
how? step feet hip distance part. keep a tall spine and squat down, with hands in prayer position.

Warrior 2
why? Andrew Jackson, our 7th president, was the first President to serve in two wars--the Revolutionary War and the war of 1812. He had a bullet lodged in his chest, near his heart. I always think of Jackson as a warrior, with a strong heart.
how? take Warrior 2 pose. roll your shoulders down and back, opening your heart center. Close your eyes, breath and connect with your heart.

Tadasana Stretch
why? Abe Lincoln is our most beloved and our tallest President, towering at 6'4" (without a hat). Celebrating his height is a beautiful way to celebrate our own and for young girls, to learn to stand tall, instead of slouching into themselves.
how? take a tall tadasana (mountain pose), inhale and slowly lengthen your arms up high. Swan dive into forward fold and reverse back up again. How does it feel when you are tall and open? How does it feel when you fold?

Bear Walk
why? In honor of our 26th president Teddy Roosevelt, for whom the Teddy Bear is named. Who doesn't love a teddy bear?
how? Take downward facing dog pose. Bear Walk on your hands and feet for 26th breaths. Take breaks in between.

Savasana
why? Savasana is in honor of all the hardwork we all do--Presidents, citizens, all of us.
how? rest quietly, connect with your breath, think of nothing.

Are there any fun spins on Presidential Yoga that you can think of?

Bug Yoga

2011-02-22T15:19:00.001-08:00

I adore the work of Donna Freeman at Yoga in My School . Whenever my girls are not around to inspire me, I can count on Donna to offer up something fabulous. Tomorrow I get to teach a mini yoga session in Lily's preschool class as part of Community Helpers Day. I wanted something new (and Lily's favorite ABC yoga is too long). I stumbled upon Bug Yoga.

Even my girly girly loves being grossed out by bugs. And she is still young enough to enjoy singing the Itsy Bitsy Spider. Since Lily loves the very Hungry Caterpillar, we are going to start out like Caterpillar (on our bellies in baby cobra, creepy low to the ground), read the story, curl up in our cocoons (child's pose) and emerge as beautiful butterflies and moths. Then
wrap up with Donna's fabulous lesson, ending with the Itsy Bitsy Spider--the one who comes down to meditate!

Namaste.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

How I made Crane my Valentine

2011-02-15T19:55:00.000-08:00

I've been engaged in a three way argument with crane pose and my body since 2001. I first saw the pose on the cover of the April 2001 Yoga Journal and I fell in love. It is beautiful and challenging and I had to have it.

Crane is powerful. It looks like a pause--a very, very pregnant pause. It is a still moment, full of potential. It looks like the start of a hand stand or maybe the beginning of a jump through into stick pose. But it is neither--crane is something all of its own.

And did I mention, that I wanted it?

Over the past 10 years or so, my attempts at owning Crane have gone something like this:

"F$$$$$, my wrists, screw you."

"God dammit. I just hit my forehead on the floor."

"I love you CRANE, why, why, why"

And there was that one time that I rolled up my yoga mat, during children's yoga teacher training, and went to the bathroom to vomit and to punch the walls.

I felt rejected. So I cut my losses and forgot all about my beloved Crane. On occasion, a student would ask me about the pose and I'd pretend to be hard of hearing (sorry).

Then on Valentine's Day, I flopped myself onto my mat in a morning vinyasa class. We flowed through the standard sun salutations, the warriors, the binds, the triangles and then suddenly we were squatting.

And I was bored. Sweaty, but so bored. I think squatting is just dull.

Then my lovely teacher (who is so not boring), began talking about lifting our pelvis and bringing our head down, about reaching our pelvis down and bringing our head up. Then darling Melissa said,"Lift your feet off the floor"

And I did.

And then she said, "you've now found Crane" (or something about Crane. I am hard of hearing, this might not be an exact quote).

And then I fell.

On my forehead.

But, I got back up. I lifted my pelvis and let my head fall down. I let my head bow down to Crane and to myself for all my many limitations. And I lifted my feet off the floor. There it was my very own pause and I felt light, yet full of potential and of love.

Now I know that Crane has always been waiting for me--I just had to love myself enough and check my gigantic ego, pretend hearing problem and potty-mouth at the studio door. I lightened up and I flew--just for a moment in that beautiful, powerful pause that is Crane, my Valentine.

Handstands and motherhood

2011-02-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

I work on my yoga handstand a lot. Once I kicked right up into it--cold muscles, without fanfare and then I walked around for about 72 hours as if I was the leader of the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Every other time, my handstand has been a production. Either I have to find the right wall space or I am shakti and shiva kicking myself in the ass trying to get up. And I get up, but I feel like a sweaty loser. And I know, I know, feelings of self-loathing are so un-yoga. And I know, I know, it is the journey, the practice that makes the pose, not the pose itself. And I know, I know, I KNOW, ego has no place in yoga--it is the very thing that screws everything up.

Ego, it seems, has no place in my life as mother. The perfect births I imagined--yeah, that turned into emergency c-sections and the rest has been an episode ever since. I remember, once, when Lily was 13 months old and driving me crazy with teething, mess making and just being a toddler, thinking to myself, "Really, it was a good run, but I suck as a mother." One month later, my motherhood journey took a drastic turn and well, I had to hold my world entire up, even when the world seemed upside down.

Trust me, learning that your child might die, is a real kick in the ass.

Then learning that your child will live, but knowing that other kids will die. Well, it makes you realize that you are nothing special. That, while you are a good mother and a good person, so is everyone else. That perfect mother ego needs to shakti kick itself to the curb.

And then there are the motherhood moments when you realize your youngest has been eating dog food all week and that she has been painting the walls when you weren't looking. And you realize that maybe you weren't looking a lot of the time. You make it to the end of the day, but you feel like a big sweaty, exhausted loser.

But then, your 2-year old looks at you and says, "I love you," and then the 4-year old runs to you and says, "Mommy, what do you want to do tomorrow?" And you realize, yeah, I am a bit sweaty and slightly disheveled, but, I am able to hold myself up, even when I am upside down--even if it took all day--and that's pretty good.

Egg rolls, an agent and a book

2011-02-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

Since it's Chinese New Year and I love egg rolls, chinese lanterns and fire works (in that order), I've decided to announce my first official Chinese New Year resolution.

But before the big reveal, some back story.

A long, long time ago in the year 1999, my then-boyfriend (and now husband) gave a me a gorgeous black business suit (it still fits) and a copy of the 2000 Writer's Market for Christmas. (Note, my parents, gave me nothing. I don't even think they said Merry Christmas. Apparently they were sick of the whole 5-year college plan and the corresponding tuition.) For those non-writers out there, the Writer's Market is the ultimate bible of potential freelance writing outlets--publishers, magazines, newspapers and the internet. The 2000 edition is over 1,000 pages.

Mike inscribed the book with: "From Your Agent Michael J Adkins." For me, an aspiring writer, Italian-leather-handbag connoisseur, PR girl and Jersey housewife in the making, that inscription was the equivalent of a marriage proposal. The path to writing is paved with procrastination, starvation (it does not pay well unless you are Stephen King) and dysfunction. To have a boyfriend say he was willing to stick by you, support you, believe in you and take 30% of all earnings, was an amazing declaration of faith.

Fast forward a few months and I finally graduated from Temple, moved myself to Vermont to work for the International Ecotourism Society and launch an e-zine called the Ecotourism Observer (which is no longer published). Then I am not sure what happened, but suddenly I was no longer a writer, I was a PR girl--hot on the trail of corporate dollars and world domination via communication manipulation and lots of smiling.

It was hardly my truest self. I hate excessive smiling.

Somehow I've finally found myself right where I belong, writing. Getting paid for it (sometimes) and also with a burgeoning expertise--healthy living, motherhood, yoga, cooking and brain tumors. (I call it HLMYCBT for short). I also find myself realizing that my favorite teacher (in the world, for all time) Dr. Marra, was right: "To write about life, you have to live it."

Are you ready for the reveal?

My Chinese New Year Resolution for the year of the Rabbit is to write a book. It might take me until the Year of Ox, but this year I will begin to diligently and fully to write a BOOK. Yes, a book. I've never actually said it out loud to the world before, but yes, I not only aspire to be a published book author, but I will be--if only to squash that inner voice in my head that says I can't, I will. I will write a book.

So, save your dollars, because I expect all my Facebook friends to buy it.

90210

2011-02-01T18:46:00.000-08:00

I love the new 90210. I love the old Beverly Hills 90210. I even had a roommate who looked like Dylan McKay, but was named Brendon (close to Branden, right?). I cried when it ended and rejoiced when it came back--cheesier, trashier and completely nonsensical. When it comes down to it, I love the TV. This is one of my deepest truths and I know it really makes me very non-culturally creative and so not PBS (because, yes I know PBS is great, I do like it, but love it, not so much).

Last night the show featured yoga--so I loved it a little more. The girls (who apparently have no discernable parents) escape their terribly stressful existence to hit a yoga retreat. There was this story about two wolves, some Native American tale, that may or may not be real. Apparently, according to a fictional guru (who will later turn out to be a cult leader on the show, so riveting, right?), we each have two wolves inside us. There is the good wolf-who is fab, godly, sweet and full of love. And of course, the opposing bad wolf--who is basically a giant a-hole and jerk--feeding us with negative thoughts. The wolves are engaged in a battle and the winner will be the wolf we choose to feed. Profound for 90210-right?

It made me think about so many things. Like my bad tendency to enjoy gossip (I like to believe everyone enjoys it) and my tendency to make everything a competition. I realize that I've come a long, long way. Before kids and all the trauma, I was pretty much feeding my bad wolf a lot. I was a shark at work (successful, but unhappy). I was a terrible friend (sorry girls, but I sucked). And I sure Mike thought about kicking me and my bad attitude to the curb. I really could have been one of those snot-nosed rich kids on 90210.

Then really bad stuff happened in my life. I got sick. Lily was born at 29 weeks. Then she got a brain tumor. Then I got sick again and Chloe was born at 31 weeks. And the PR girl in me kicked in--telling everyone, "Hey, it is all okay. Everything will be great. Stay positive." And the competitor in me thrived--like when a doctor told me Lily would never run a marathon (this was before she was even born) and I vowed that Lily would do what ever she wanted. I found hope, because I had nothing else. And slowly, but surely, I was feeding my good wolf.

What I've discovered, wolf-wise, is that whatever you tell yourself is the truth. It is the only truth. If you tell yourself that in order to be successful, you have to squash and oppress those around you--well, then you will be the oppressor and thus oppress your inner goodness. But if you give yourself hope and light--then you will be hope. And I really like being hope. And watching TV.
( :

The thing with normal

2011-01-18T10:12:00.000-08:00

I find that I get peace in 6 month increments. I get those blissful 6 months in between Lily's MRIs to live like a normal person--those people I see at the grocery store or at the mall or out to dinner. Those people who are certain in their hearts that their children will survive and outlive them. Those normal people who have never seen or heard the things I've seen or heard--those normal people who can watch a movie with a sick or dying or distressed child and not completely freak out. Those normal people who seem to get peace in limitless increments--or so I assume--because isn't it normal to have unlimited peace just waiting for you?

The thing with normal is, I don't know what normal is. Is normal a messy house or a clean house? Is normal lying awake at night worrying about your kids? Is normal praying and thanking and raging and begging God all at once? Is normal knowing dark, horrible things? Is it normal to want to give your child everything all at once, in case a future does not come? Is it normal to weep when you see a disabled child, one who is in a wheel chair and can't walk or speak and know that you were just millimeters from pushing your own child in that chair? What is normal? It has been so long without normal, that I just can't quite put my finger on it.

Shaky

2011-01-12T20:58:00.001-08:00

Monday Lily asked me, "why am I shaky when I wake up? My friends aren't shaky."

It is a question I was completely unprepared to answer.

Lily is shaky when she wakes up because she had brain surgery. She is shaky because the brain surgeon had to go through her cerebellum to remove a 3 cm tumor. The result was a healthy, breathing Lily with ataxia, a condition that affects her balance and often, makes her entire body tremble after a deep rest. But I have no idea why she had to have a brain tumor. It is a question I cannot answer.

When Lily was 2, I taught her to wake up her muscles every morning with yoga and massage. We made it fun and routine and she never noticed that others were not shaky. But now she is nearly 5 and her body, which once mine in so many ways, is becoming hers. And Lily, my smart intuitive girl, is starting to notice things.

I never really answered her question. To say something generic like, "everyone is different," is insulting. To say the whole truth, well, I cant even handle it and I really can't answer why Lily had a brain tumor. There is no answer.

So, for now, I told Lily that we are all shaky sometimes. For Lily, it is after a long rest, her body needs to warm up. For some, it is after heavy lifting. For others, it is before a speech. For me, it is those moments when my little girl asks those big questions, those questions I can't answer.

It is that shakiness, the shakiness we all experience, that led me to yoga in the first place. While we shake and tremble and loose our balance, we can find it again--because it is ours. It is Lily's. And that is one thing the brain tumor can't take away.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Party

2011-01-05T07:33:00.000-08:00

Unwittingly, I've raised a daughter who thinks everyday is a celebration. When Lily wakes up in the morning, she says, "What are we going to do today? where are we going? I want to be really fancy!"

Somehow, even at 4, Lily knows that each day is a milestone. For Mike and I, it is one more day cancer-free, one more day that signifies that brain tumor is gone. For Lily, it is a party--an adventure.

With everything new thing--I am reminded how close we came to no new things--all these things are bonuses--not rites of passage, like I once believed.

The first day of school is not just a new start--it is a sign that my baby is actually growing up. And there were so many days when I did not know if she would grow up. To keep my hope alive, I used to plan her birthday parties in my head. Her 2nd party, was at home--a cowgirl theme in honor of our time in Texas. The 3rd--a princess party. Her 4th was princess and the frog. Her 5th, would be a blow out, pizza, princesses balloons, everything. Her 6th, perhaps a bowling party or ice skating. Her 10th would be her first sleep over birthday party. When she turned 16, we would throw a bash worthy of MTV. Lily's wedding--well--that would be whatever she wanted, as long as I was there with my best friends and family--all those who watched my baby beat cancer and grow up. I planned all these things--because--well, if I plan it, it will happen. Cancer is no match for my compulsive party planning.

If only it were that simple--plan a party, plan a future and it will come. I know we are so lucky--so blessed--and that sometimes a party can be just a party--sometimes, it can just be the first day of school.

Sit Down and Be Quiet: Your guide to peace, presence and presents.

2010-12-22T13:57:00.000-08:00

I often, well, actually, I frequently do not take my own advice. This Christmas season found me avoiding my yoga mat, skipping sleep and completely disorganized. I've missed appointments, lost my life-book (filled with yoga class lessons, article notes, recipes, knitting patterns and a haphazard calendar, that would scare you), purchased wrapping paper and promptly misplaced it, been grumpy and today, I noticed I was full of self-loathing at my un-Martha Stewart like holiday behavior.

I needed an emergency intervention.

Of course instead of heading directly to my yoga mat (like every other good yoga teacher), I decided to ramble through Facebook, call friends to complain, drink way too much coffee (extra energy, right?!), think about having a midday glass of wine (can you say dysfunctional) and then called my Dad, who is 90 and always free to yell me back to reality.

I told him I was sort of out of control and miserable. I told him about my growing to-do list and the inevitable deadline of Christmas. And he told me to just sit down and be quiet.

He is a wise old bugger, isn't he?

Of course, this advice came at 3 o'clock, right when I had to pick up the big one from school. Luckily, my Lily is a sucker for a yoga class, delights in the challenge of being silent for meditation and loves to watch my belly breathing during savasana. And as an extra bonus, the little one was napping.

Taking my Pop's advice, I sat. I was quiet. And I noticed all sorts of things. . my shoulders were scrunched up to my ears. My hips were completely unbalanced. My jaw was rigid and my eyes, even when closed, felt like they were hard at work at something (perhaps giving dirty looks). I was even holding my knees up in easy pose--a simple closed legged pose--I was resisting gravity--which is absolutely the work of a crazy person. Who am I to resist nature?

Lily told me to breathe and to do it loudly, because it makes her laugh. This loud breath--it is called Ujjayi and is performed by constricting your throat while breathing through your nose. It is loud, but it quiets the mind by drawing your focus to the smooth ocean sound. There's another wise soul, that Lily. Before I knew it, there I was sitting down and quiet.

When I felt finished, I opened my eyes. I still feel the peace and the presence, just a few minutes gave me. Those few minutes are the best Christmas gift I've received in a long time.

Go sit down and be quiet.

Merry Christmas.

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-24T08:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, when the girls think I am doing something else, I watch them play. It is awesome-these two little girls, who were so little when they were born. Lily was 2 lbs 14 oz and Chloe was 3lbs 2 oz. Tiny little nothings who are growing into great big somethings.

Watching them, even when they are yelling or dancing or being completely wild, is sort of a meditation. They don't see me yet and my whole focus is turned to whatever creative scheme Lily's dreamed up and recruited Chloe for. Maybe Lily is trying to teach Chloe ballet or french. Or maybe she is trying to convince her to sit on a sheet and be pulled around on a magic carpet ride. Or they are simply laughing and tearing the house apart. It is like a movie to me and since my mind is never, ever still, I find myself wandering backwards.

I remember a time, when I was not a mother, and when I lived only for myself. I remember when Lily was born--I was so scared for her and for me. And I remember when I held her in my arms, 2 weeks after she was born and all 2 lbs of her crawled up in my arms like a bug and we were one again. And when Lily first said Mama and how she would smile at me every night from her crib before I said goodnight. I remember the fear when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor and the joy when we felt when we all left the hospital together. I remember her first days of school, dragging the therapy walker in and hoping that she would adapt. And I remember Lily walking, for the first time all by herself, in the handbag department of Nordstroms last Black Friday. I remember her face when she first saw her baby sister and I remember how Lily held my hand at every single ultrasound and told me she loved me--always so wise, even when she was 2.

In Chloe, I remember the surprise pregnancy and all the fear and joy and hope. I remember my pride that my 3 lb baby girl could breathe on her own and eat like a champ. I remember her first steps, the first time we heard her little Bea Arthur voice and the old lady handbag she carries around. I remember the first time she smiled at me and I knew that we were one too. I remember how she laughs when she sees a picture of herself, still so intrigued by technology. I remember how much she still needs me, even though she is this independent tiny girl, and that someday when she is old and married, she will still need me.

And in those girls, I see myself and remember what it was like to play and to have the whole world at your fingers tips. The promise and new discoveries and the endless possibilities. I see Mike and I see the boy I fell in love with and the man I adore. I see my parents and my brother. My grandparents and my cousins. I see my best friends, old and new, and remember all those days spent laughing and fighting like sisters.

I see in those girls every single moment I cried and every single moment I laughed. It is all there, always a part of the picture, even when you can't see it. This year, more than any other year, I am thankful for those memories. Those memories are a life--a life that will go on when I am not here.

I am thankful for my girls, who are my legacy, a legacy that God entrusted me to protect. It is with humility and pure gratitude that I say thank you this year for memories and life and legacy.

National Childhood Cancer Awareness Month

2010-09-15T09:22:00.000-07:00

It is mid-September--mid-National Childhood Cancer Awareness month. It surprises me that I am still uncomfortable with cancer and truly being honest about the toll this disease has taken on my family.

Daily I find myself retelling bits of Lily's story, explaining to someone on the playground why Lily does not move exactly like the other kids, insisting at nauseam that Lily is just like all the other kids, only different, that she is not retarded or slow or "special needs" (this term makes me sick), that Lily is just a kid, who happened to have a brain tumor, and no, we don't know what caused it and no, it was not her prematurity, and yes, she is fine now.

After I explain the bits, I find myself back in the familiar territory of making everyone feel better. Insisting that it was a big deal, but it is no big deal now and yes, it was tragedy, but see, everything is okay. It is sort of the ultimate PR job--making strangers and friends and relatives feel better and hopeful about Lily's health history. I've taken the role of cancer cheerleader--it is like staring in one of those hopeless and predictable inspirational movies about a poor football star or an injured horse. I am the narrator and I have to make sure everyone arrives at a point of being okay with it.

The thing is, I am not okay with it. It is not alright that my beautiful and perfect baby had to have brain surgery. It is not alright that she had to have radiation aimed at her brain. It is not alright that everyday we work and sweat and fight to get Lily to walk and run like all her friends. It is not alright that Lily knows that children get sick and die. It is not alright that somedays I just want to wallow in pity and fear and darkness. And most importantly, it is not alright that 36 children are diagnosed with some form of cancer everyday and that cancer is the leading cause of death by disease in children. It is not okay.

Childhood Cancer awareness month is more than just spreading the word--it is about finding a cure, helping families affected and ultimately, it is about kicking cancer straight back to hell.

This month take a minute to read the stories of inspirational cancer heroes on the Alex's Lemonade Stand website and check the stories of children with brain tumors on the Friends of Jaclyn Foundation's website. Read the stories, be inspired to join the fight, donate generously, spread the word and let's cancel National Childhood Cancer month.

Life on skates

2010-07-26T19:14:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, Lily roller skated for the first time. I thought she would be scared or cry or avoid the challenge. She kept insisting that she wanted to skate. We got out on the rink (I totally thought I was going to die-death by roller skate--some grizzly accident akin to dying during any extreme sport).

Lily had no fear. Her legs would get ahead of her or behind her. Lily brought them back. She would loose her balance and Lily would find it--because it was hers. When she fell (just once), she stood back up, like she always does.

Lily's whole life has been on skates--the ground constantly shifting out from under her, just when she got comfortable. First, an emergency birth--then, an emergency brain surgery. Later, waking from brain surgery and seeing the world spin through eyes that would not work together and focus on one spot.

Her vertigo was so bad that Lily would scream when I lifted her out of bed. The transition from laying down to being held was painful--especially for my heart. I wanted to hold Lily and make her better. But it seemed I just hurt her. It was a hard time to be a mother. Gradually, I got over my fear of upsetting Lily. And Lily got over her fear of being moved and got used to the new normal--life in a spinning, shifting world.

On roller skates, I entered Lily's world--the world of shifting and spinning and teetering. My legs did not seem under my control. It took so much thinking to move and not fall. And when I did fall. Lily laughed and reached out her hand to help me back up.

My wise, young Lily seems to understand that falling does not matter much. What matters is standing back up. It is a lesson on and off the mat. On the mat--it is obvious--take the risk and do the inversion, the balancing pose, the backbend. So what if you fall--you can try again and again and again. That is the practice of yoga.

Off the mat--it is the same--take the risk and fail. Everyday, wake up, strap on your roller skates (death by skate hysteria be damned!) and fall. Then stand back up and go again. Maybe you will find that miracle you've been looking for--maybe the miracle will be the falling--because you tried or the standing back up--because you fell. Whatever it is, it is yours to find.

Meditation: Make it loud

2010-07-16T11:57:00.001-07:00

I like my music loud and preferably some sort of alternative, 1990s grunge rock, typically Pearl Jam and yeah, did I mention it has to be loud? I take my music in floods--I want the sounds to envelope me, embrace me and change my cells completely. I love the silence that comes from the noise--there is nothing to be heard except the song I am playing.

When I was about 6, I used to wait to hear Michael Jackson and Cyndi Lauper songs on the radio and tape them. When I was 13, it was New Kids on the Block. Then I one day, I saw a photo of Eddie Vedder on a magazine at the grocery store. I fell in love. The hair, the flannel and then I heard their song, "Jeremy." I was forever changed and a whole world of music revealed itself to me. Nirvana, Counting Crows, Live, Soundgarden, Green Day, Screaming Trees, Smashing Pumpkins.

My music was loud and frequent. It, at times, consumed me. My bedroom became a fortress of grunge. My father, who was in his 70s in the 1990s, stopped wearing his earring aid. My mother gave up trying to control the car radio. And I was happy.

What I never knew is that I was meditating this whole time. I did not figure it out until I was sitting in an Ayurveda class with the fantastic Corinne Corcoran. We spent most of the morning doing Kirtan with a Krishna Das CD. Kirtan is call and response devotional chanting--seemingly opposite of anything I had in my iPod.

I sat, closed my eyes and began singing along. At first, I felt like some freaky member of a 1960s commune in California-Om-ing and Hare Krishna-ing. I remember thinking, "If my mother knew I was doing this, she would totally freak." The thought of making my mother freak out led me to enjoy the kirtan even more (I live to terrify her. She loves it.). I joined in the tide of everyone's voices and suddenly I realized I had gone deeper into myself than ever before.

My intention was to meditate and the rich tones of Krishna Das pulled my mind away. The music drown out my wayward thoughts and drew me inward, to the present and to my truth. It was a game changer for me.

Music changes us on the cellular level. The smallest bits of our body move and clear the way for our minds to delve deeper. Music draws us to our truth. It is like this outer music revs up our inner music and urges us to listen. We all have different outer music that speaks to us--after all our souls are all different and crave different things.

I have two favorite songs to meditate to. First, is my old friend Pearl Jam and a newer song of theirs, Unthought Known. As Lily says, "This is a good song."Lyrically, it is beautiful. Pure poetry. Musically it is delicious. The music layers, bass, guitar, piano, until you are enveloped in the sweet center of a rich dessert. It is decadent. And it is true. Listen to Unthought Knownhere.

My second song is Mountain Hare Krishna by Krishna Das and Sting. Regardless of your faith, you can embrace kirtan. Words are just words--you give them an intention. As Corinne taught me, Hare Krishna can mean whatever you want. It is a tool to draw you deep within, closer to your truth and closer to God, whomever you believe God to be. For me as a Christian, I take Hare Krishna and focus my intention on Christ. Take a listen here to Mountain Hare Krishna.

Try my favorite songs. Pick your own. Listen to it loud. Sing along. Bring your kids. And meditate.

Under the Sea: a mini-adventure on the mat

2010-07-11T10:12:00.001-07:00

Today I asked Lily to close her eyes and imagine the beach. With one eye closed, she ran away to the bathroom, laughing hysterically and brought back a towel.

Lily sat on the towel and asked if we could do some yoga--at our imaginary beach. Here's our mini-adventure. Try it-the whole practice takes about 20 minutes.

1. Get in a beach state of mind

Sit on a beach towel or yoga mat with your child. Face each other and close your eyes. Imagine you are at the beach. Ask-what do you hear? What do you smell? What do you see? Let the answers flow-no matter if they are beach appropriate or not. (Today Lily

heard a moose at the beach.)

Then do a little breath work with Ujjayi breath. Ujjayi is also called Ocean breath because of the audible noise produced when you breathe through nose and slightly constrict the back of your throat. For your kids, simply ask them to breath only through their noses and to make an audible noise. Pl

ay with it and be noisy--you are the ocean.

2. Travel in style

Now that you are in a beach state of mind, you've got to get to the ocean. Take some imaginative modes of transport.

Try a bumpy camel ride. Sit with your legs crossed and place your hands on your knees. Round your shoulders forward, like in Cat pose. Then open your chest and roll your shoulders backward li

ke in Cow pose. Keep moving from Cat to Cow in a seated position. Imagine yourself bopping on a bumpy camel ride.

After that, if you have not arrived at the beach (it typically takes us many poses to arrive), try riding a bike, taking a train or even running. Let your child make up the poses--there are no rules!

3. Go for a swim

After your camel drops you off at the beach, dive right in for a swim. Stand up tall and lift your arms above your head. Exhale and dive into a forward fold (making splashing noises all the way). Inhale and rise back up. Exhale and dive in a again. Repeat several times.

And then swim. Make big swimming arm movements while standing. Or lay belly-down on a mat and swim in place, kicking your legs and paddling your arms.

Stand up tall and finish up with some Surfing. Stand in Warrior 2 pose-legs spread wide, toes facing forward and front knee bent. Stretch your arms out long and pretend to surf.

4. Float away

After so much beach fun, it is time to relax and float away on a raft. Lay side by side on yoga mats. Close your eyes and pretend to be floating. Talk about how the raft feels, the water all around, the sun and clouds above, the sound of the ocean, the wind on your skin. Use a soft voice and encourage your child to talk about the sensation of floating.

When you are finished floating, wake up. Face each other and greet each with Namaste!

If you love it--try Family Yoga, every Tuesday 9:30-10:15 am at Veteran's Memorial Park in Gloucester Township. Classes are $6 per family. For info, email: trinitasyoga@comcast.net

The Daily Breath: Cool down

2010-06-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

I love the summer--the sun, the heat and days at the beach. But when temperatures rise to over 100 degrees and my children stop cooperating, I get hot.

No one likes a cranky 32-year old. In yoga, breath exercises are called pranayama. Try this cooling pranayama called Shitali Pranayama. In sanskirt Shitali means: "cooling." This breath is like diving into a cool lake. It cools your breath, your body and your mind. Jump in and cool off with Shitali and watch all crankiness dissolve.

All you need in a few minutes, invite your kids--they will love it! Sit in a comfortable position-cross legged, in a chair, where ever. Take a few deep inhales and exhales through your nose.

Then roll your tongue, curling the sides in towards the center. Purse your lips in an "O" shape and stick the tip of your rolled tongue out slightly. Since everyone can't roll their tongue--you can also practice Shitali by just pursing your lips and keeping your tongue down towards the bottom of your mouth.

Inhale through your mouth, through the tube made with your rolled tongue (or pursed lips). Exhale through your nose. And don't worry if it seems you exhale through your nose and mouth--the pranayama will still work beautifully. Take long, full complete breaths; breathing deeply and inflating your lungs completely.

Practice a few rounds, like 5-10. Notice the cooling effect--isn't it wonderful?

Feel free to practice this cooling pranayama anytime you feel overheated--summer or winter!

Lemonade Part 4: Mindful Drinking

2010-06-11T15:41:00.000-07:00

There is an activity I do with my young yoga students. I give each child an orange. We talk about where the fruit came from--where it really came from--from a seed in a farmers field, to a blossom waiting to be pollinated to a ripe fruit ready to picked. And we talk about how it got into our hands--it was shipped and unboxed and displayed and purchased and driven and then finally placed in their hands.

During these exercises, I notice the kids getting excited about all the steps and all the work that goes into a ripe orange. They remember things I forget--like how did the farm worker get to the farm? Or what kind of truck drove the fruit to market? Or how big was the bee that pollinated it? Was there lots of rain or lots of sun? Was there a bird's nest in the orange tree? For kids, the details are limitless and they can truly imagine the journey of the orange.

After we talk, we all say a blessing to thank everyone and everything for their part in getting the orange to us. Then we eat. We eat slowly; mindful that each bite is precious. We eat with gratitude. And we eat the sun, the rain, the hard work of the farmer, the work of the bees and the energy it took to bring that orange to us.

This morning I made my favorite-hot water with lemon or as Lily calls it, Lemonade Tea. As I waited for the water to boil, I thought about lemonade and Lily's Lemonade Stand. I thought about every person who devoted their energies and generosity to make it a smashing success. Lemonade Tea will always be mindful drinking for me--an exercise in gratitude and joy. It will always be a sip of all the people who made Lily's Lemonade Stand. It will be each of you--

Sweet Alex Scott, who was smart and had a plan. Sweet Alex who in so many ways saved me from fear
Liz and Jay Scott, who work everyday to end pediatric cancer, so that other children may live
Kicking off the weekend by almost reaching our goal with online donations--and ending the weekend knowing we nearly doubled our goal
Jackie painting faces for hours in the hot sun
Sleeping Beauty reading Alex and the Amazing Lemonade Stand to the girls
Miss Theresa smiling and tearing up and watching with true joy
The Lindenwold Fire Department surprising us with the fire trucks and putting the call out to everyone to come buy Lily's Lemonade
The Laurel Springs Fire Department who was just out for a drive and stopped by
Toasting pink lemonade with Aidan
Rachel and Joe serving up cups
Olivia and Maddie serving lemonade
New friends, old friends, friends to be all spending part of their weekend with us
Seeing our neuro-oncology social worker, outside of CHOP, on our front lawn and hearing him remind me that he is always our social worker
Kimana asking everyone to put another $1 in the jar
Lily running and laughing and being a kid without limits
The beautiful lemonade stand Mike built
Chloe as a toddler-when last year she was an infant-sipping lemonade with her sister
Katie who devoted hours and dollars to our stand and created the most beautiful Lily Stepper
Julie and her beautiful Lemonade Hair Clips
Jon for his endless ideas and support and outreach
Balsamo's pizza, Betsy Brody and the Battleship NJ for gift certificate donations
The beautiful blog Megan wrote
The endless support from Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation-particularly Gillian, Shirley and Melissa
Lily painting Brittney and Kellee
Amelia and Colin hosting a satellite lemonade stand
Friends and family driving for hours to make it and buy a cup
Karen and her beautiful yellow hair clips
Lily's teacher Ms. Shepherd, taking up the cause and bringing it to School 5
All of Lily's teachers, current and past, who came to the Lemonade stand
Our Temple family--the Lacrosse team and their parents and our Temple Football family--for making long, long drives for us
All the Facebook shout outs--logging on each day and seeing the Newsfeed filled with Lily's Lemonade posts
Radio shout outs thanks to Tina and Danielle
The beautiful photography of Amy, Tami and Sheri
All of Lily's friends who came and helped and played
Meeting Owen, another young survivor, who's light and brilliance is blinding

Most of all, I'll drink the love and the hope.

With endless gratitude and love.

Lemonade Part 3: Lily's Mom

2010-06-10T10:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Mike and I got to spend some time with our heroes--Liz and Jay Scott, Alex's parents. It was awesome. Liz and Jay not only raised Alex Scott to be the inspiring force that she was, they parented Alex through cancer, lost Alex to cancer and everyday keep her spirit alive through Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation.

I have one of Liz's business cards from Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation. Her title on the card is: "Alex's Mom."

It is the most honest business card in the whole world.

Something happens when a woman becomes a mother. I don't even think I have the words to describe it. There is a quote I run into once in while, from Elizabeth Stone:

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. "

How true--right? You carry this little life inside you for months--and then, quite suddenly (even if your labor is 36 hours!), they are outside in the world, with germs and danger and mean people and dark, scary things. And you are a mother. You are "Mom." There are million parenting books written, there are loads of lovely role models and people waiting with advice; but there is no way to really learn motherhood. You just have to do it.

There is absolutely no how-to guide for mothers of cancer patients and survivors. (I've looked, extensively). There are medical books and other pieces entitled, "So, you have a brain tumor, " or one of my favorite things--the "Welcome to Neuro-oncology gift bag," that included a stuffed dog and a book called "The Jester Lost his Jingle." The book is cute--but it does not even come close to telling parents how to be cancer parents. It is a lonely place.

But there are mothers like Liz Scott, who exhibit courage and strength along with vulnerability and fear. When I first heard Liz Scott speak, I was inspired to take up my cross and fight. I was reassured that everything I was doing was okay--because I loved Lily. I was also reminded that Lily has cancer and so do thousands of other children--Lily's fight would reverberate--and we weren't just fighting for our daughter--we were fighting for all the children and their mothers. And most important, while I would fight for my daughter--it was her fight and her victory. I was reminded that I am Lily's Mom.

Lily's Lemonade Stand on June 12, is her stand. Mike may have cut the wood and built the stand. And I may have sent out a million emails and two million press releases. But the lemonade you buy--that is Lily's Lemonade. And in her words, "All the sick kids drink loads of lemonade and they will get better."

It is as simple as that.

All of my love and gratitude,

Lily's Mom

Lemonade Part 2:Love + Gratitude

2010-06-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

We always refer to both our girls as miracles. Both were preemies-born way too soon. And then Lily, of course, battled a brain tumor, won and took the spoils--her life and her joy.

The truth, however, is that the real miracle is love. I've written about love before--loving wastefully, knowing that you have enough love for everyone. I could write about love everyday, all day--because love is a miracle. Love is air, water and sustenance. Love is in every breath and every blink. It is warm. It is cool. It is everything.

Everyday someone reminds me to love wastefully by giving me love. Whether it is a quick smile from Lily's teacher, a wet kiss from Chloe, a text message from my husband or during lemonade season, a donation to Lily's Lemonade Stand; I am reminded that there is no limit to love and that I also need to love wastefully--to love how my family has been loved and to love how I want to be loved. This lesson and this love is a miracle.

Love led us to Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. Love led the world to pray for Lily (and I do mean the world--across continents). Love led our brain surgeon to successfully remove a whole tumor. Love led our oncologist to thoughtfully choose a treatment protocol that worked. Love held us up. Love hugged us. And last year, love led us to raise $3,000 during Lily's Lemonade Stand for Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation. This year it will lead us to raise more much needed funds for childhood cancer research. In the coming years, love will lead the world to a cure.

That is the miracle of love. It moves mountains. It heals sick babies. And it never runs out. Love is limitless. Thank you for wasting love on us. I am eternally grateful.

Seven lessons from my Dad

2010-05-12T11:44:00.001-07:00

My dad is as old as my charming little bungalow. Born on May 16,1920 in Philadelphia, my Dad has all the rough edges, chipping paint and other oddities that my bungalow has-along with the charm, beauty and history.

When my Dad was born, there were still Civil War veterans in his neighborhood. The year he was born, the first commercial radio station was also born--and families suddenly had in-home entertainment. The year he was born, women were given the right to vote. A child of the roaring twenties, he grew up in the great jazz age--the era of big bands and what his parents probably considered to radical and crazy music.

He was alive when there was not Rock n Roll and alive when it was born; when Pearl Harbor was bombed; when we walked on the moon; when the Berlin Wall was built and when it was torn down.

To me, my Dad has always been a walking history lesson. Sure, I can read a million books--my Dad lived it. He saw it; he is part of history.

In his lifetime, he has been a big brother (the oldest of 9), a hitchhiker (he hitch hiked all the way to Florida to caddy), a landscaper (he worked on the Wanamaker Estate in Elkins Park), a merchant marine (serving his country during WWII), a father (3 times over) and a grandfather. He's played football, traveled, sailed the seven seas, golfed, grumbled and loved his way through lifetimes. He was my first teacher, along with my Mom.

The lessons I've learned from my Dad are endless. Here are Seven of my favorites--my go-to lessons in times of chaos.

Seven lessons from my Dad

1. Never do what everyone else does.

This was often heard in my home--"So what if they like to do that, do you? Never do what everyone else does." For me, this was a savior--it allowed me to be creative and be okay with sometimes not being "normal" or part of the latest trend. It gave me permission to embrace my truest self. And it gave me the strength to support others who aren't doing what everyone else is--even when I disagree. It is all okay.

2. Everyone might call you a procrastinator, but beauty takes time.

Anyone who has ever been to my parents house, will notice some half-finished projects. My Dad, who is a perfectionist, always endeavors to make something amazing. Whether it is his barn in the backyard, custom kitchen cabinets or a fabulous build in bookcase--sometimes these projects do not get done quickly (or ever). But it is okay. My Dad taught me that it is the process of making beautiful things that matters.

3. Treat your children equally and differently.

My Dad was 57 when I was born; 60 when my brother was born. He already had an adult daughter. The three of us are all completely different and have been parented differently. This lesson is invaluable to me both as a mother and a friend. I love my girls equally--but they are both very different and need different things. I love my friends equally--but sometimes my friends need different kinds of love.

4. It is okay to cry, even if you are a big tough guy, even in front of your children.

I've seen my Dad cry exactly three times. The first time, his sister Dolly died. I saw him crying in a chair in his bedroom. I instantly loved him a million times more than I did previously. I was 14.

The second time was at the death of his mother, my Grammy--a feisty old broad who was the Queen Bee. Grammy was beautiful and herself, all the time, no matter who was in the room.

And then he cried on the phone when I told him about Lily's brain tumor. It was his birthday and Lily was his girl.

My Dad's tears gave me a window into his heart and soul. I saw that he was strong--so strong that he could cry in front of his daughter. When I cry in public, which happens more often than I'd like, I always remember to feel strong in my tears, not weak.

5. Die with your boots on

For as long as I could remember my Dad would say, "I am going to die with my boots on," meaning, I am going to keep working, keep moving, keeping doing until my last breath. This has taught me that it is never too late to change or start something new. Each breath is a gift-don't squander it waiting for your last.

6. Fight. Then forgive.

My poor husband has had to endure about 500 heated discussions at my parent's dinner table--whether over politics, finances, living arrangements, college majors or what type of cole slaw is best--my Dad and I fight. We yell and stomp and scream. But then, we apologize, love each other and forgive. We never give up on each other or our relationship. This has taught me to never give up on anyone and to forgive even before I get an apology. We all misbehave; so we all must forgive.

7. Pray.

Every night, before bed, my Dad kneels in the living room in the dark and prays. He is devout. I used to hear him whispering my name and my siblings' names in the dark. He would ask for protection and strength and love. My Dad, who has always been my Super Hero, always appeals to God for guidance. He always looks above, not within. And when times are rough, sometimes all we have is prayer. And it works. The world is a living example of that.

This morning I asked Lily if she knew her Grandpop's age. First she said, "I don't know." Then I asked again and she said, "Older than me. But smarter than you."

And that's my Dad. He is older than most of us and smarter too.

Happy 90th Birthday Dad. Wishing you many more.

"Mom"

2010-05-05T21:27:00.000-07:00

I was always so shocked when the doctors at CHOP referred to me as "Mom" and would ask, "Where's Mom? Let's see what Mom wants to do." I'd hear it and think,"hmmmm, I wonder where Mom is?" And then I'd realize that, I was "Mom" and that I had to make decisions and have opinions and then I'd remember that it was up to me and Mike to save our daughter's life.

Lily was only 14 months old and I really did not have any practice at this "Mom" stuff. The words, "my daughter," still sounded unnatural--after all, I was hardly mother material. My closet was constantly a mess, as was my check book, my calendar and my car. I hid from uncomfortable situations and pouted like a teenager when things did not go my way. And I still knew nothing about parenting and discipline and rules and time outs. I was not a mother--I was just practicing, waiting to get good, waiting to become the perfect TV mom, with all the answers and with a great script, pre-written with a perfect happy ending.

But there I was signing permission forms for multiple brain surgeries. Updating our world on Lily's condition and prognosis. Teaching my daughter how to sit up again. Fighting for her when the nighttime interruptions were ruining her sleep. Learning that playtime was also occupational therapy. It was all so ridiculous--I was so unqualified to decide these things and definitely not capable of protecting another life. All I wanted to do was retrace my steps, backward, to her very conception and figure out exactly what error I made to land us at CHOP, in the PICU and with a brain tumor. Figure out how I screwed up being a Mom and to determine why this was happening.

Of course there was no error or reason (even though some asked what caused the brain tumor--was it genetic? was it because she was a preemie? was it environmental?), there was just shit luck, some sort of errant and rebel cell growing where it should not in my daughter's brain. And there it is, my daughter--I was her Mom and I was the only woman responsible for her life.

In a week, we hit the 3 year anniversary of Lily's diagnosis--the day that we saved our daughter's life and the day that I became her Mom, officially.

Go hide in the bathroom

2010-04-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

The question my students ask me most is how to meditate. There are about 500 million ways to meditate--but my students, particularly those with children--they really want to know where and when and how the heck do I get my children to leave me alone for 5 minutes. My answer is always, "Go hide in the bathroom."

I know this sounds very crazy. Perhaps a little gross. And a wee bit extreme. But, I have a long history of hiding in the bathroom. I hid in the bathroom when I was so tired of being yelled at for screwing up during an elementary school game of volleyball. I hid in a powder room when I was uncomfortable meeting Mike's extended family for the first time. I hid in my parents bathroom when I broke curfew (secretly hoping, they'd give up and fall asleep before grounding me). I hid in the bathroom just last week when the Mormons came knocking.

I also find myself locking the door and taking a hot, long shower and just well, breathing. The children have to fully occupied, but if they stray (because when they want me, Mike is powerless to stop them), the shower is running and the door is locked and well, I can't hear them.

Other times, when the girls are being chaotic and crazy (their natural disposition), I take 30 seconds and hide in the bathroom. I just pause and I breathe. I compose myself. Ask for patience and a kind-heart and then I go back to the fray.

The bathroom is sort of my sacred place. Weird, yes. But it is highly functional. The 5 minutes in the shower or the 30 second pauses--those are like the "thinking before I speak," moments for my soul. I emerge from my bathroom meditation, a little kinder, a lot more patient and a tiny bit closer to bliss.

So, how do you meditate? Just go hide in the bathroom. Everyone has one. No special equipment required.

Play lacrosse. Love wastefully.

2010-04-26T11:09:00.000-07:00

Today Lily will be officially adopted by the Temple Women's Lacrosse team through the Friends of Jaclyn Foundation. FOJ is an amazing organization that matches children with brain tumors with collegiate athletic teams. The children and their family get a support system and in Lily's case--25 amazing, inspiring sisters, who happen to be kick-ass athletes; 3 talented coaches and all their extended families. It is big.

This relationship is still new--we've been to just 3 games since Easter. Earlier this year, I wrote about loving wastefully--throwing love around like it is limitless. The Temple Lacrosse Team and their families love more than anyone I've ever encountered.

Friday, I received a Facebook post from one of the team members that ended with, "I love you." There it was, in black and white, a declaration of Love from a woman, who I met only a handful of times. I wrote, "I love you"back. It made my day to love someone who I just met, because, well, it was easy. Throwing love around is the most wonderful feeling. Having love thrown at you is like Christmas. It is magic.

So many of us agonize over 'I love you.' In a romantic relationship, it is a turning point, a commitment to a future. In life, 'I love you,' is medicinal--it is the fuel our souls need to soar, to wake up in the morning and face the day and for our family (especially for me), "I love you, " is all the hope I need. Where there is love, there is joy and when there is joy and love--mountains move, miracles happen and we all love wastefully.

To our new Temple Lacrosse family--We love you. Thank you for this gift and for a place in your family. xoxo

The Blissful Bride

2010-04-23T08:32:00.001-07:00

I have to admit that I am certain I may have bit a teeny bit crazy when I was planning my wedding. I was completely overwhelmed. I hadn't found yoga yet and certainly did not know how to meditate.

Planning a wedding is like planning a royal ball for all the most important people in your life. It is a memory that 150 of your closest friends and relatives will talk about at cocktail parties.

And then of course there is the small detail of planning a marriage. The marriage is absolutely life changing--you are uniting your soul and your life path with another person. A person who may steal the covers at night or who may leave loads of dirty dishes in the sink. A person who may not care about the difference between crimson roses and hot pink hydrangea. A person who you love in spite of all this. The person who wish to live with forever.

No matter how much help you have-family, friends, wedding planners and therapists-it is overwhelming. You spend all your time looking outward and no time with your inner self.

To find your inner blissful bride, try yoga and meditation. Each morning and each evening, take 5 minutes. Pause. Sit still. Close your eyes. Inhale and exhale. That's it. Pure bliss, in a breath. Maybe your mind wanders a little in these 5 minutes. Call it back in with your breath.

And try a class with me and my company Trinitas Yoga. I am so excited to debut the Blissful Bride yoga at the Spring Soiree in the City on Sunday, April 25. You spend hours and weeks planning the perfect event, why not take an hour just for you. Whether you want to tone up and look great in your wedding dress or you are in some desperate need of some downtime, yoga is an amazing way to address your personal wellness goals. Become a Blissful Bride and watch your inner goddess walk down the aisle.

See you at the Soiree!

The why

2010-04-20T19:46:00.001-07:00

To say I became a yoga instructor because I love yoga is too simple.

My first yoga class was in Vermont and it was impossible. I could barely forward bend. I could barely cobra. And downward dog was a disaster. Something about it had me intrigued however, I think maybe it was the instructor telling me I could do it. Reminding me that with my breath, all things were possible. And also saying that yoga was the hardest thing in the world--harder than throwing the winning pitch or winning a nobel peace prize. Yoga was so hard because it was real. It was breath, movement and soul all wrapped up.

I fancied myself a yogini after one class. I entertained myself by attempting handstands and crow. I took yoga classes all over the place--where ever I lived, I yoga-ed, sporadically. Then Lily got sick and I abandoned it all completely. Then Mike reminded me that I had a yoga mat and a book of baby yoga. His simple reminder changed everything.

We did the simplest yoga poses with Lily. Poses for newborns and nearly newborns that required nearly no physical participation. Lily could barely move. We could not pick her up without her crying. Her vertigo was so bad that even turning her over in bed would cause her to scream and try to fall asleep and vomit. It was heartbreaking. But then everyday, we did yoga. The three of us, on my purple mat on the Oncology floor at CHOP. And then one day, after her final brain surgery for a shunt placement, Lily woke up from the anesthesia crawling and writhing in bed. My girl was back. She could crawl, she attempted to sit and she was feisty. Lily somehow reconnected her body with her mind and her spirit.

I really felt like I witnessed some sort of miracle. Then months later, I started back into my yoga practice and working with my own body. A few times, I felt the connection--I felt my mind linking with my spine that was bending into cobra and it was as if my soul was opening. It was perfection for a split second.

There are times when I teach that I witness a student find the same connection. It is amazing. They just get it in Warrior 1 or I can see them relax into downward dog, like it is an old friend. It is a miracle; this mind-body-spirit connection. So, that is why I am a yoga instructor. I am hungry to witness miracles.

Lemonade, Part 1

2010-04-05T20:27:00.000-07:00

I bought my first cup of Alex's Lemonade at Children's Hopsital of Philadelphia on June 8, 2007. Lily was upstairs in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, preparing for yet another brain surgery.

That Lemonade tasted so good. I was hooked. I proceeded to purchase about $200 in Alex Lemonade Stand Foundation gear--t-shirts, pins, books, tattoos and bracelets.

Later that day I snuck downstairs and listened to Liz Scott, Alex's mother, speak. She spoke about cancer and Alex and research and well, I was in awe that she could speak of "it," of pediatric cancer.

No one talks about pediatric cancer enough. Pediatric cancer research is consistently underfunded as compared to adult cancer research. Yet, it is the leading cause of death by disease in children under the age of 15 in the United States. It is the second leading cause death overall, only behind accidents.

Everyday 36 children are diagnosed with cancer. Every year 12,000 children are diagnosed in the United States. And 2,500 of those diagnosed won't survive. All of those diagnosed are changed forever and in for a bumpy, terrifying ride.

Lily is on that ride. We thank God everyday for her remission and beg for it to continue. We know so many survivors and fighters--Cassie, Avi, Calla, Drew--so many sweet children who just need a cure.

This year, Lily (and Chloe) will host the second annual Lemonade Stand for ALSF. Lily's goal is to sell some lemonade and help her friends--those she knows personally and those she knows need her help. She also wants to help her teachers and her doctors. This is the beauty of Alex's Lemonade Stand Foundation--it is about children helping children. Lily's stand will be on June 12, all-day at our house. This year, we hope to raise $5,000--money that will go to fund pediatric cancer research, support families during treatment and find a cure.

Please come, buy some lemonade (or make your donation online now!) and help Lily's friends. Visit Lily's Lemonade Stand at: http://www.alexslemonade.org/events/lily-adkins-lemonade-stand-0

To Lily, on her 4th birthday

2010-03-09T15:50:00.000-08:00

All yogis refer to their teachers--whether it is the woman whose class they have been taking at a local center for years or a master teacher based in India or a series of various teachers. Yoga is a tradition that is taught. Teacher to Student and Student to Teacher.

My teacher is Lily.

When I lost my job, Lily said to me, "Mommy, I'll help you find it."
When I was scared during my pregnancy with Chloe, Lily said to me, "It will be okay. I will hold your hand."
When I was upset with my father and left the room, Lily said to me, "Just go back there and listen. He loves you."
When I was scared to hold her--when she was so tiny at only 3 lbs, Lily nestled in and I watched her vital signs stabilize.
When she was recovering from her third brain surgery in one month and I was at my breaking point, Lily smiled and laughed and played.
When I get frustrated and can't figure out how do to something, Lily says, "Just try your best."
When anyone cries, Lily is the first responder--she rushes to the injured party's side with a baby doll and a hug.
Whenever someone is sick or sad, Lily can't make them a homemade card fast enough.

There is this saying that God shines through a cracked pot. In the darkest of times, when the damage seems catastrophic, God's light shines through. My Lily; she has faced difficult times--born 11 weeks too soon, 10 days on a ventilator, 7 weeks in the NICU and then a brain tumor and all the surgeries, radiation, therapy and follow up that goes with it. I used to fear that Lily would be permanently scarred--angry, frightened or depressed.

But Lily has always been the brightest light--she is brighter than a million stars. When I look at Lily I see God. I see purpose and love and hope. When Lily and I have our late night talks, cuddled up in my bed, when Mike is traveling or we are away on some adventure, she whispers to me. She tells me about her friends and her favorite books. She asks where we are going next--to the zoo? to Chicago? to Salt Lake City? She tells me that she loves my eye brows because even when I am mad, those eye brows stay still. Lily often whispers, "Guess what? I love you."

In those moments, I forget she is a little girl. Lily has taught me the meaning of God. God has no age. God loves us all-sick or well; sad or happy; beautiful or scarred. She showed me the light that I ignored for so long.

Happy 4th Birthday to my light, my teacher, my love. Dear Lily, the world is forever changed and forever brighter with you it.

The Club

2010-02-18T07:15:00.000-08:00

When Lily was first diagnosed, I never, ever, ever said, Lily has brain cancer. I would never say that word. I mocked my mother's whispering of "cancer." I refused to use terms malignant or benign. I did not even want to speak to an oncologist--just a neurosurgeon.

Cancer is something that happens to other people. Not to my daughter. It is something that happens to adults, old people. Not a 14 month old. Plus, hadn't we paid our dues to the universe? Lily was a 29-week preemie (as a result of my preeclampsia)-who spent the first 10 days of her life on an oscillator--not in my arms. Wasn't that enough?

When we were inpatient at CHOP, Mike's Aunt Lydia encouraged us to reach out to other parents. I refused, I never, ever, ever wanted to see any of those people again-those cancer parents. I did not feel dislike; I just decided that I was not a part of their club. In truth, I could not allow myself to love anyone else who had a brain tumor. I could not do it. I was raw. And if their child died, what did that mean for Lily? I could not predict the outcome for their child-therefore--I could not predict our friendship. I had no strength to give.

Then one day, I googled, "Ependymoma and Preeclampsia, " and I found Shanda and her beautiful daughter Calla. Calla, the same age as Lily, was a preemie. She had an ependymoma. And she was okay. It was my first step into acceptance of cancer. Shanda, to me, is a Hero. She knows other cancer moms. She has accepted her membership into the cancer club and in doing, so, she helps someone everyday learn the ropes. She has taught me so much.

Slowly, others have trickled in--amazing beautiful parents of brain tumor survivors. Slowly, I've realized that this cancer club is really a Survivor Club. A club of veterans and heroes. It is not a club of darkness and despair. It is not where cancer is--it is the very absence of cancer. It is where we grow strong and healthy. It is where faith resides.

Last week, I signed up to be a Parent Ambassador for Alex's Lemonade Stand. I am terrified. I don't know the outcome--I don't know if I have the strength. For better or worse, I am part of the club and I know I am not alone.

Skip ahead

2010-02-16T17:17:00.000-08:00

I have always been a skip ahead kind of girl. When I play Candy Land with Lily, I always feel a deep thrill when I draw the Ice Cream Cone card and can skip ahead. I hate to rush, but love to get there. In an effort to avoid the rush, I just skip all the steps and head right where I want to be. Fake it until I make it, cross my fingers, stomp my feet, hold my breath and call it a day. My mother always referred to me as confident and imaginative. When really I am just scared and impatient.

It is a terrible habit, one that got me thrown out of architecture school and still stymies me in many endeavors. This is why I need yoga.

As a college freshman, I majored in architecture. My second semester, I sat in studio sketching the space around a dancer. At the time it seemed like the most idiotic and ridiculous thing. I wanted to be sketching buildings or gardens or sky scrapers. The 20 year old spinning around in ballet shoes was the furthest thing from architecture. My eye rolling, blank sketch pad and general aura of disrespect, led me to my professors office and eventually right out of the architecture program.

It took me until today, 14 years later, to understand why I had to sketch that dancer. This afternoon I set off to work on crane pose. Crane Pose is a challenging arm balance that loosely resembles a cross between hand stand and frog stand (remember in your elementary gymnastic days). It is hard. You cannot muscle into it. You cannot just stretch your way into it. You need the perfect balance of strength and flexibility. Over lunch I read what Yoga Journal had to say on Crane, Googled it, searched through my library and then sat on my mat. I centered, meditated and then decided to head right to crane.

I've never actually done Crane before. I've had it taught to me, but I've never really found Crane.

Ignoring everything I read, I just tried to jam myself into Crane. One article wanted me to work through navasana (boat pose); another suggested that I open my hips; yet another prescribed a month-long practice of core and arm strengthening. I ignored it all. After all, I am a yoga teacher. I am flexible. I am strong. I can do Crane.

As you can guess, I couldn't really do Crane. Jamming myself into Crane was ridiculous and frustrating. I walked away from my mat. I only came back because I had a lesson plan to work on. Going through the lesson, writing down some key points for my students--I thought back to that dancer and my ill-fated year in architecture school.

I was a student-a cocky, impatient and scared student. Scared that if I did not rush into "it", some how I would miss "it."

One of my favorite Shakespeare quotes (often used in yoga), reminds us: "How poor they are that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" We have good days and bad days in life and in yoga class. But, we can't give up because we don't understand or don't have the patience to understand.

Yoga asana is a constant lesson in patience. This afternoon I went back to my mat. I made my intention to forget about "it," to forget about Crane and just follow a sequence of poses and see where I ended up. I did not make it to Crane. It might take 10 years. It might take a month. I have no idea, but now, finally, I have a little patience.

Engaging

2010-02-11T16:45:00.000-08:00

My engagement ring is still beautiful. I don't really know the size or cut or clarity of my ring. I couldn't tell you its retail value. It has not been cleaned since the week before our wedding in 2003. It is a diamond ring; simple, plain jane and sparkles when it gets wet.

Mike and I were engaged a couple days before Valentine's Day. We lived in Vermont. Our unhealthy bank account led us to be creative--we got my ring with cash and credit cards when Service Merchandise was going out of business. Everyday for a week, Mike would go to Service Merchandise on his lunch break and look at the rings; investigating when the final clearance reduction would happen, so we could snag the ring for a rock bottom price.

It was a Saturday. We got the ring--using both our ATM cards to withdraw our daily cash limit, plus a couple separate transactions on various credit cards. The long drive to our apartment felt like an epic journey. Mike had an engagement ring burning in his pocket. He asked if he could propose at a truck stop. (haha) We held hands most of the drive. I kept looking at our hands and thinking-these hands are about to be engaged, what will they look like?

Mike proposed that afternoon in our living room in Fairfax. Our celebration dinner was something from the Steeple Market (a former church turned deli in the middle of town). It snowed.

Eight years later, we are still holding hands, even when in different time zones. And together, we always seem to pull off the impossible--even when it takes 2 bank accounts and a little lunch time detective work.

Refuge

2010-02-10T16:18:00.000-08:00

As everyone knows, I think being snowed-in is, perhaps, the most delicious treat.

The snow is so quiet. Have you ever gone out in a remote area where there are layers of fresh snow? It is silent. The snow is the most perfect insulation from all noise. It feels like the world has actually stopped. There is no chaos. No sound. No distraction. Just snow.

I think I fell in love with snow (and Vermont) after my first excursion snow shoeing. Two of my best girls Rachel and Lynniare will attest that our snow shoeing was not all peaceful (there was some hysteria about frost bite, night fall and getting trapped/lost on a mountain); but there were these remarkably quiet moments, when no one was speaking and all around me was just snow.

Often, I try to visualize myself back on the side of Mount Mansfield, before the climb got too challenging, right in that moment of perfect peace. The snow was so high; that when I stood on it my head was in the tops of the trees. The climb-up was a struggle. The breaks between the climb were such a sweet reward; the only sound was my breath.

Linda Anderson, the creator of the Mom-to-Mom ministry, says we all need a refuge from overstuffed lives. Anderson says we need "connection amidst the chaos" and to find "islands of sanity and security."

That memory is a refuge from the chaos of my life. Somedays I take refuge in Chloe's laugh. Or when I dance to Cyndi Lauper with Lily. Or on my yoga mat. Or during late night talks with Mike. Or in the car with Pearl Jam blasting. These moments are the escape from chaos. These moments are my pause button. Sort of a mindful meditation amidst my very overstuffed life.

sNOW

2010-02-05T13:52:00.001-08:00

I cannot recall ever having cabin fever. Just the opposite: The weather forecast calls for snow and I am instantly infected with a serious case of hyper anticipation. Joy fueled by the prospect of blizzards and snow thunder and 10 foot high drifts and impassable roads and states of emergency. Bring me snow storms. Bring me blizzards. I want to be trapped in the cozy, calm goodness of home. No plans. No appointments. No knocks at the door. Nothing.

Perhaps, I do have some serious issue with Stockholm Syndrome and continue to love anything that captures me. Perhaps I have avoidance and procrastination issues. Perhaps I am a homebody. All these disorders might very well be true: but I know that my deepest struggle is with being fully present.

Ask me what I am thinking-right now--well I thinking that I love Skittles, even though the sugar is definitely rotting my teeth. I thinking that I have to call Lily's teacher tomorrow. And I still have to finish my website. And I have a grant to write for a band in Ohio. And what would I write in my essay to apply to seminary. And the dog needs her nails trimmed. And, and, and, and, and, and, and. . . .I, me, the truest of me is absent. I am not present. I am either in the future or the past. The NOW is elusive.

Being snowed-in is delicious, like when you bite into a fresh apple, right off the tree. For just a split second, you can savor the sweet, crisp flavor. You are totally and completely tasting the apple, nothing else. You are in the NOW and the NOW is the apple.

When snow is announced, I sense a reprieve from all those things that keep me from the NOW. I can't leave. No one can leave. It is like time stops. And I have is NOW. I can just be still. Meditation in the cozy goodness of home. Shoveling, planning, shopping and thinking can wait. I can be my truest and my best, because there is nothing to interrupt the NOW. There is no where to go.

The NOW is always there, sometimes I just need mother nature, a weather man and a couple feet of snow.

Trish Adkins isn't defined yet

2010-02-03T08:18:00.001-08:00

Today, I was enticed by a Facebook status challenge:

"Go to Urbandictionary.com, type in your first and last name and post the definition in your status."

I went. Popped in one of many pseudonyms. The variations of my names are endless. Lately, I've been Trish Adkins.

The response: Trish Adkins isn't defined yet.
Seriously? I am so unimportant that I am not defined.
Then I entered in about 33 other variations on my name

Trish A. Adkins
Trish Carrington
Tricia Adkins
Tricia Carrington-Adkins
Patricia A. Adkins
Patricia Carrington

The list went on and on. The response never changed, "not defined yet." I clicked on the hyperlinked "yet" and got a form to define myself. I had no idea where to start. Should I say, Trish Adkins (noun): mom, wife, best friend, super star, something fabulous
or
Trish Adkins (verb): to procrastinate and slouch
or
Trish Adkins (adjective): spirited. grumpy. happy.

I honestly have no idea how to define myself.

Everyday I go to my mat and looking for me. I never seem to find all of me, just the bits and pieces. I discovered this month that my hips are actually naturally flexible and my abs are not as weak as I thought. I've found that I when I feel negatively about someone, I feel negatively about myself. Yesterday, I accepted the fact that I am scared of having my eyes closed for long periods of time--I feel totally out of control. All of these revelations are the pieces.

So for now, Trish Adkins (and all her alternate names) isn't defined yet. And that is exactly how it should be. Otherwise, I could just pack my mat up and do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then Trish Adkins would be (adjective): dull. uninteresting. incomplete.

WLFF

2010-02-01T13:55:00.000-08:00

Like so many things on my desk, this entry sat in the queue marinating or whatever un-posted blog entries do in their endless spare time. I wanted to write about my victory over Prasarita Padottanasana (Wide Legged Forward Fold).

I really, really dislike this pose. I could strike it from the list of classic asana, erase it form the minds of teachers, eradicate it from all history. All in all, my dislike and desire to conquer is very un-yoga like.

Wide Legged Forward Fold (WLFF) is a foundational pose. You stand with your legs wide and hinge at the hip, folding forward, keeping your spine long, your ribs lifted from your waist and you fold. Fold all the way down, down so your hands touch the floor, your elbows bend and your head is on the floor. You can use blocks to shorten the distance to the floor, placing your hands and head on the blocks.

When I enter WLFF, first my ankles hurt. Then, my back instantly rounds and I can't breathe. Suddenly, my ribs are frozen. My hamstrings scream and threaten to walk out on the job. The floor seems very far away. And I feel ugly. Crunched up, rounded, awkward and ugly.

I've had fellow teachers modify the pose with blocks, chairs and the wall. I get so frustrated that I've been known to cry, throw yoga blocks and take my mat and go home. That ego of mine has led me to whip myself up in handstands and wheel and other advanced poses to prove to WLFF that I am the boss. It is all very sad.

I've stomped my feet (unproductive to say the least). I've heard all the language, watched the demos, but I just can't do it. I can't.

Last week I dedicated my practice to WLFF. I opened my hips, my hamstrings and worked through my pranayama (breathing). I did back bending poses. And then, finally, after all this preparation, I grabbed about 45 yoga blocks, my full length mirror and worked on WLFF. It still looked awful, felt awful and completely shamed me.

Somewhere around hour 7 of obsessing (and calling my long suffering husband 77 times to discuss my hamstrings ), WLFF and I came to an understanding. I ditched the blocks. I moved away from the mirror and closed my eyes. And well, I folded. I have no idea what I looked like. My back was a rounded mess, my head was not on the floor. But I could breathe. And I could smile.

WLFF and I aren't necessarily a match; but we can hang at the same cocktail party. We dislike each other--but that is okay. No ego, no drama, no conquering. No yoga imperialism.

This morning I did WLFF. I just did it. I have no idea what it looked like. It felt great. More than great. It felt like the start of a beautiful friendship.

Because trees sway.

2010-01-29T07:30:00.000-08:00

Today Lily showed me how to meditate. We often play yoga. I am always the student, Lily the teacher.

Lily meditates in Tree pose. I asked her why. She said because Tree gives her "proper balance."

When I teach Tree pose, I always quote Erich Schiffman, a master teacher. Schiffman says it is okay to sway in Tree pose, because trees sway. My intention has always been to give my students permission to be imperfect. They can feel free to fall in and out of Tree pose, as long as their intention is to be balanced. I also invite them to take the balance they find in Tree to their lives off the yoga mat.

When I teach meditation, the class sits quietly with crossed legs on the floor. I guide my students to focus on their breath or to focus on a sacred word. I've never taken meditation off floor and into Tree, because Trees sway. Swaying was a distraction.

Trees do sway. So do people. We have to find flexibility in all things, even in meditation. Our minds will wander. Our legs will cramp. Our chins will itch.

Meditation has so many gifts-it makes us pause, it forces a stoppage--a strike, a walk-out against the oppressive thoughts swirling in our mind. It draws us closer to God--He is waiting for us to listen. And it balances us and makes us more us. When we pause and meditate, our truest selves emerge and we can re-enter the mad, mad world with a sense of truth. We are balanced. The good sits with the bad. The still sits with the frantic. We are at our very root, true.

It does not matter HOW we meditate. We can meditate in lotus. We can meditate while we mop the floor. We can meditate while walking the dog. We can "sit" quietly in Tree pose. We can find stillness in movement, because Trees sway--but Trees do not topple. Trees remain rooted.

This week, I plan to take my teachers advice. Instead of sitting, I'll stand and see what is waiting for me.

Loving wastefully

2010-01-18T17:16:00.001-08:00

When I was pregnant with Chloe, my biggest fear was not that I'd have another preemie. My biggest fear was that I would not be able to love my second child enough. Lily was my heart and soul. Would there be room? Could I make any room in my heart to love another a child?

Then Chloe was born--9 weeks early, weighing 3 lbs and change, feisty, spirited, beautiful. And I loved her. I loved her fully and completely. I loved Lily more and then Chloe more and then Mike more. Love was in loads. There was more and more and more and more. A tidal wave of love. A deluge. A flood. A bursting dam.

Bruce Main, from Urban Promise Ministries in Camden (a fabulous man and ministry), often speaks on loving wastefully, calling all to love like love will never run out. Main says that Christ continues to pour love on us; His love is never ending and as Christians our mission is to love wastefully. Main invites us to throw love around, to waste it.

I get it now. I understand how to just waste my love--how to just toss it out. It is so easy. The more I love, the more love I can waste and toss around.

I love the school crossing guard who constantly harasses me about dressing my children in warmer clothes. I love my challenging family who demands the world of me. I love my neighbor-I don't know her name, but I love her. I love each and every soul--the good, the not-so-good--all of them. I love myself-even though I have so many flaws. And on the days I feel self loathing, when I want to scream at the crossing guard, or mock my neighbor; I can just glance over at Chloe.

Chloe taught me to love wastefully. She taught me that I will always have enough love to give. Love does not spoil. It does not run out. It does not need to be budgeted. Like the proverbial money tree, there really is a love tree growing in your backyard.

The moment I saw Chloe--and it was only a moment before she was whisked away to the NICU--I felt the peace in her presence. There was my daughter, straight from God, her first moments in this world and I could feel her love for me. I felt the love pouring down on me. A gift from Chloe. A gift from God.

Happy Birthday sweet Chloe. My blooming flower. My love.

Find the pause

2010-01-14T18:26:00.001-08:00

I loved the oncology floor at CHOP. So much so, I secretly wish I could recapture my time spent holed up in our spacious and sterile room (minus a sick child, of course).

I thought maybe my love was some sort of Stockholm syndrome--we had been captives of a brain tumor for weeks. We were held against our will. We moved to the rooms we were told to move to. We ate what was given to us. We waited with bated breath for news, visits from therapists, procedures and whatever else the hospital had in store for us. We were kidnapped.

I used to believe that my love of this time stemmed from a sort of adoration I developed with our kidnapper. CHOP and all its team provided us with life for our daughter: therefore, I adored CHOP and adored being its captive.

But, really, I never, ever want to be back on the pediatric oncology floor.

When we were trapped at CHOP, something remarkable happened. The only thing that mattered was the health of Lily. Everything else dropped away. There was no time to worry about taking out the trash, preparing reports for conference calls, doing laundry or anything remotely "normal." All that normal stuff, all that noise, went away. We were forced to hit the pause button and for those 4 weeks at CHOP, we were still.

It was the first time that anyone ever gave me permission to care about just one thing-my child. From the moment I was pregnant with Lily, I lived distracted from Lily. I was pregnant, but I had to work; I had to ensure everyone knew I was committed to my career. At home, I planned the nursery, searched for baby names and distracted myself with knitting projects. I never just focused on Lily and only Lily. When my sweet girl was diagnosed with a brain tumor, finally, I felt what mattered--finally I understood and so did everyone else. My focus was singular--heal Lily.

At CHOP, I remember waking up each day, fearful of what horrible thing might happen, but feeling focused and still. I had no where to go. Mike was asleep in a chair; Lily in her hospital crib. I remember spending afternoons on a gym mat in our oncology room, working with Lily and my "Itsy Bitsy Yoga" book. It was Mike's idea. We taught Lily how to sit up again. Lily taught us how to stand tall and face everything--no matter how evil or dark. We taught Lily how to conquer her vertigo--a side effect of having your cerebellum severed. Lily taught us how to untie our hearts and open up fully to God and to faith.

Those were dark days. Those were also my best days--days that I will forever remember with fondness. That pause, that quiet focus--that is where God is waiting for us to listen.

Pauses are remarkable. Pauses are still, but not stagnant. They are quiet, but not silent. Psalm 46 says: "Be still and know that I am God." T hich Nhat Hanh writes, "When we are still, looking deeply, and touching the source of our true wisdom, we touch the living Buddha and the living Christ in ourselves and in each person we meet."

Lesson 3 (or 3 million)from the mom of a brain tumor survivor: find the pauses each and every day. Take 1 minute, be still and ask: so, what's next? And then listen.

I wish it were a pop quiz

2009-12-08T06:53:00.000-08:00

There was no time to think. The air was sucked out of the room. She had a brain tumor. My brain was in complete shock. My heart, well, my heart knew the diagnosis long before the CT scan. I just knew. I just knew it was bad. I just knew she was sick. And now, it was not just my reality, it was everyone's. The world knew. I couldn't hide it. I couldn't protect everyone from the horror. I couldn't pretend.

Friday, is Lily's 10th MRI. I was always been a test worrier and avoider. Send me a pop quiz, I'll ace it. Schedule an exam--I consume myself with unnecessary (and sometimes, unhealthy) preparations. My test preparations this time have included: avoiding scheduling the MRI, writing long emails about Lily's greatness to her oncologist with the irrational hope Dr. Minturn will just cancel the MRI based upon my ramblings, planning which toys to bring for Lily, planning post MRI festivities, praying nonstop, asking others to pray nonstop and in general, hiding.

None of these preparations will change the outcome of the scan. It is completely out of my hands. However, I continue on.

Today I'll waste at least an hour deciding which book and which knitting project to bring. This afternoon, I'll spend an hour staring at Lily, searching for the sign of illness. Tomorrow, I'll scour my closet for the most comfortable, yet cute outfit to wear. Thursday, I'll take Lily to Target to pick out one special distraction toy for the MRI. That night, I'll stay up late watching the Golden Girls or something nonsensical until I am too tired to fight sleep anymore. Friday, I'll wake up early and plan breakfast, fighting off my anxiety-driven nausea. And then once I get to the hospital I'll busy myself with paperwork.

I wish this MRI were a Pop Quiz. I wish I just woke up one morning and Dr. Minturn rang, saying, "Hey, pop quiz time! Bring Lily to CHOP for a quick MRI." I'd be scared that morning; but the days leading up to the MRI would be filled with productivity. I would not waste precious time preparing for a test for which there is really no sufficient or necessary preparation.

My wise cousin, also the mother of a childhood cancer survivor, gave me some advice: "Just remember you're the mom & you would know if anything was different."

There is a lot that is different this time around. Lily is 3 1/2. She can walk. She can talk and argue like a 3rd year law student. She draws beautiful pictures of our family everyday. She is the most popular girl at preschool. She is Chloe's first best friend. She is my best friend. She is healthy. She is healed.

Letting go of fear

2009-10-22T13:43:00.000-07:00

A year ago, I was sitting in the exam room of a Doctor of Rehabilitation at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia talking about my daughter Lily. Lily, who was 2 years old at the time, is a pediatric brain tumor survivor. When she was just over a year old, she had brain surgery and proton radiation therapy. Lily's life has not been typical. The brain surgery damaged her cerebellum--as a result Lily was not yet walking; she suffered from low muscle tone, lack of coordination and ataxia (shakiness).

This doctor told me that most pediatric patients progressed as far as they would progress one year out from their surgery--which meant that he believed Lily would never walk on her own. I sat there and choose to ignore him in the moment--to acknowledge what he said would be acknowledge how I felt about his declaration. I felt angry, scared, indignant and I knew he was wrong. So I said nothing, went to my car and wept. I hate crying in front of my children. But I had no more strength left.

I decided that day to never, ever tell Mike exactly what the doctor said. To tell Mike would be to give my fear even more life--it would pass the fear to Mike. I had to protect him. Through out the coming weeks, I told Mike bits of vague pieces, but never the full story. I told one close friend, swallowed it, stuffed it down and shoved it out of my mind.

During my meditation and yoga nidra practice, I made my intention: "Lily can walk." I repeated it, prayed for it, breathed it, lived it and wholeheartedly fought the fear, quietly. And today, Lily took 30 steps, all by herself. Last week, it was 20 steps. A month ago, 10 steps. Three months ago, 6 steps. One year ago--one week after I saw the doctor, she took 2 steps.

If anything squelches the horrible fire of fear--it is reality. Right now, today, my daughter can walk. She can. She is. She does.

Lily has been my best teacher. Today when something scares you--negate it. Face it and say no. Make it untrue. Because right now, in this very moment, everything is okay. We cannot stop time--but we can live in it.

Namaste.

Blissful Beginnings

2009-09-30T10:13:00.000-07:00

Some days, I wake to complete chaos. The baby is ravenously hungry (the 5 overnight feedings did nothing to squelch her insatiable hunger); my 3-year old is demanding candy canes for breakfast (in May, where does one locate seasonal candy in May); the dog is having a nervous breakdown; my husband lost his keys; no one has matching socks and the cat has vomited in the 3-year old's shoes.

Love them or hate them, mornings are something you can't avoid. There is not much you can do to stop the chaos of a family. But there are loads of things you can do to rise above the drama and find a blissful beginning.

The ancients believed that the morning is a magical time. During the predawn hours, the world is quiet. This is the best time to meditate, to practice yoga, to reconnect with your inner voice and clear your head to begin the day.

Some of my best morning memories are during these early, quiet hours. I remember waking early at my home in Vermont and just sitting on the porch listening to a babbling creek and knitting. This summer, while on vacation in Ocean City, I woke up while everyone was sleeping and took my yoga mat to the deck. I had the sweetest practice while the sun rose and the air warmed.

So you aren't a morning person, yet. But you can be! Here is my simple formula for a blissful beginning!

1. Dedicate yourself to a mindful morning
Make having a good morning your priority. We've all had mornings when we've overslept, wasted time or were just dysfunctional--the rest of the day feels like we are just playing catch-up. Make these mornings a rare occasion--not the norm.

A morning can only be as good as the night before. Prepare the night before-lay out clothes, find matching socks, check the weather, pack school bags, find your keys. Avoid caffeine in the evening. Get 8 hours worth of sleep--do your best to rest--know it is money in the budget for the morning!

In the morning, avoid distraction. Be mindful. In my house, there is no TV or computer or cell phone until we are ready to leave. It can all wait until it is time to go. Don't let the stress of outside influences invade your blissful beginning or distract you from the moment. Take this mindful attitude throughout the rest of your morning.

2. Make a morning budget--one you can live with!
If you are like me, you have more than just yourself to care for in the morning. I budget 30 minutes per child, 45 minutes for myself and another 15 minutes of slush time (for last minute hysteria, disaster, and things out of my control) If I have to be out the door at 8:30, to have an ideal morning I need to be awake at 6:30. I can get by in less time, but the sheer emotional stress of rushing and the pressure just puts me in a tailspin and sets the tone for a rushed, hurried day.

I always try my best to get up first--before the children and the dog. By being honest with time budgeting, you can set yourself for a productive day.

3. Let the morning greet you.
Alarm clocks (or dogs, screaming children and construction) are realities of our fast paced lives. But, we don't have to wake up to an irritating voice on a talk radio station or some blaring music on the radio. I used to specifically wake up to most irritating radio station I could find--because I dreaded the morning. I literally made myself uncomfortable enough that I had to leave my bed.

A happier, healthier way is to let the morning greet you. Pick a soothing radio station, choose a CD of your favorite tunes or invest in an alarm clock (HoMedics makes a great one) that has the option of nature sounds as a wake-up call. Whatever you choose, make it a warm, welcoming greeting.

4. Be gentle with yourself.
Part of my morning budget includes 5 minutes of gentle stretching. Before your head even lifts off the pillow, gently wiggle your toes, your finger tips, do ankle and wrist circles, and reconnect with your breath. Make your inhales long and deep, filling your entire torso. Exhale fully and completely. Inhale peace. Exhale tension. After a few rounds, you've meditated! Return to your natural breath and bring your awareness to sitting up, to waking up. Be mindful just of the moment. Forget your shower, forget packing lunches, just be present.

Then gently slowly, bring yourself up to a seated position. Stretch whatever feels tight. Then rise, mindfully waking and blissfully enjoying the quiet of the morning.

5. Sip some ginger.
Hold off on the coffee--instead pour boiling filtered water over diced or grate some ginger root and have a cup of fresh ginger tea. Fresh ginger root is inexpensive, invigorating and energizing. Delight in the warm spice of the tea--smell it, taste it, enjoy it. Ginger tea leaves you feeling refreshed and awake without the side effects of caffeine or the sugar of energy drinks. It gently wakes up your digestive system.

Ginger is also amazing for pregnancy--it is a fantastic morning sickness fix and a great alternative to coffee.

Don't like ginger? Boil hot water and pour over some organic lemon slices. Lemon, another natural refresher, helps wake up your liver and entire digestive system.

6. Wake up your skin
Treat yourself to this simple spa treatment before you hop in the shower: using a loofah or natural bristled brush, start on the bottom of your feet and brush yourself in circular motions moving toward your heart. Continue up your legs, your abdomen and your chest. Start on each of your palms and brush up through your arms, always towards the heart. By doing this dry exfoliation you wake up your skin, stimulate your circulation and remove dead skin cells. Then hop in the shower. Be sure to follow with a sesame oil massage or your lotion.

7. Sit down for breakfast.
One of the reasons for the morning budget is to make sure you have enough time for breakfast. Like all your meals, breakfast should be plant based. Have some hearty grain bread or cereal. Have a nice sized portion of fruit. Pick from what is in season and local. Have yogurt or a hard boiled egg for some protein. Avoid fruit juice--opt for vegetable or spring water instead. Fruit juice is fruit without the fiber--your body absorbs the sugars rapidly, leading to fluctuations in the level of sugar in your body, which can affect your appetite, mood and energy.

The most important thing is to sit. Take a moment to be thankful for your food. Enjoy it. And if you want, have your coffee or tea. Just one cup.

8. Go outside.
Take a couple minutes to be outside every morning--whether it is January or June--fresh air is a natural detox to our system. Take a walk, take a run or simply sip your ginger tea outside. You can do this at any point in the morning--alone or with your family. If you can, walk to work or your kids to school. Use this time to focus on the quiet of the morning. Listen to your own breathe. Be thoughtful, present and mindful. Don't worry about the destination--you will get there.

Mindfulness is infectious. You have a mindful morning and then suddenly your entire day is like a meditation--you are focused and flexible; driven and relaxed; fluid and at peace. You are all things, all at once. Such is yoga. Wishing you many, many blissful beginnings.
Namaste.

Sweet Surrender

2009-05-14T12:26:00.001-07:00

Yoga literally means "to yoke," as in bringing it all together--uniting that which was not united. For the past month I've been struggling with how to bring it all together--motherhood, wifehood, girlfriendhood and lifehood. Thinking about how to write, pray, teach, stretch, grow and mother. My biggest struggle has been with trying to get to the very essence of Yoga--how to bring into my life the stillness I find in Tree pose or Warrior 1.

I've searched through the Bible, turned to the wisdom of the Gita, prayerfully meditated on Thomas Merton's words, read as many Thich Nhat Hanh books as my library can hold and then one day at church, my pastor hit on it--he said, we do everything can to keep God at arms length. We keep him "over there," separate from our day to day. We fail to surrender to God. We fail to love our God with our whole hearts, as he loves us.

By searching, reading and working so hard at it, I missed what is always there for me--God's love, my love for my God and the sweet serenity that comes with surrendering. That's how it all comes together--by letting it all go.

Namaste.
T.