I’m not starting this new job without you. You are with me every step I take, every eyebrow raise, every smirk, and every laugh. Just because we are separated by time and space does not mean our connection is weakened. Our connection just morphs, like the trees that bend in hurricane force winds (a little dramatic) and the blades of grass that rustle in the breeze (understated, of course!). Girlfriends and family, I carry you with me all day.

On Monday, I step back into to a space I stepped out of more than six years ago.  More giddily skipped out of, but who remembers all the details!  I am nervous, excited, nauseous, and thrilled.  I keep telling the boys it’s all about new routines.  They seem to be buying it.  My spouse and I know it’s all about adapting in the face of upheaval.  But we’ve done this before and we’ll do it again.

Please meet me here in this space so we can connect – often, I hope!  Forty minutes into my first meeting yesterday, I wondered why I didn’t write that book when I had some actual time to myself these last several years.  Then I remembered: who has time – or energy – when there are infants, toddlers, and preschoolers to launch into grade school?  Few of us, and I was not one of them!  This blog is my outlet for me – and my gift to you.

My gift to you is that we stay connected.  You get to read my thoughts and I get an outlet in which to put them. I get to believe I’m communicating with the people I care about most.  And if you choose, you get to come along with me.

I’m ahead of my Thanksgiving preparation game. Gamma and my little bro will trek up to our house on Thursday for a festive meal. Four adults and two kids is a very small crowd if you ask me.  I’ve become an old hand at preparing Thanksgiving dinner – sometimes for over 20 – so nothing intimidates me about this meal. The support staff at Whole Foods, aka Whole Paycheck, were pleasant and helpful when I collected my 12 pound free range, organic turkey.  One glance a the pound of prepared mashed potatoes and I knew my people would like to consume a lot more than that, so I exchanged it for two pounds.

Gazing at the bakery items and picking out prepared curry chicken for my treat just for lunch was most satisfying. Volunteer work is caught up; the kids are healthy. I will make pumpkin pie will today; tomorrow I will knock out sausage and apple farro stuffing and a cranberry salsa. On Wednesday, I will brine the bird and make a dressed up green bean casserole (cream of portobello mushroom soup with fresh, not canned beans, anyone?). Life is good.

Then I saw the bags of groceries for sale at the register. Ten dollars to provide a spaghetti dinner for a family of four. And here I am buying $70 worth of organic free range turkey and store brand prepared mashed potatoes.  They is some expensive potatoes.

A portion of my Thanksgiving meal costs could fund seven dinners for four. The cashier didn’t even ask if I wanted to support our local food bank with a purchase. All I could think was how we surround ourselves with convenience items when there are clearly families in need of a break, a job, a home, a meal.

I selected the prepared mashed potatoes so I could avoid the peeling, boiling, and mashing time. I bought a fresh and overpriced young turkey because I’ve always bought frozen and figured this is the year I want to find out if organic tastes better. Translation: because I can afford to.  I donate to the food banks. This time of year, my husband and I donate more in assistance to organizations serving hurting families than we spend on gifts for our own kids, selves,and friends.  Yet, what can I do differently here?

This is the first and last year I buy prepared mashed potatoes. What if I donate more of my grocery bill to the food banks? I can certainly cut back on the excesses and conveniences in which I indulge. I’m not talking about letting go of good wines and fine threads. I’m talking about reducing the amount of food and meaningless junk  that I bring into the house.  I will let you know where this goes.

it’s not often that I experience rude or unruly children.  More often, it is adults committing some appalling offense. This particular moment in time caught me by surprise.

My guys have been taking karate lessons for about two months now.  They love the classes and the instructors.  I am in awe of the human beings that capture and maintain the attention spans of our six and nearly eight year old boys.  The studio – or dojo as it is called – discourages parents from watching their students.  The five foot square waiting area proves that they take that policy seriously.  I’m happy to drop my guys off for the group classes and then have a hour to myself at Panera, or even making calls from the comfort of my car.  You know that’s my mobile office, right?

Well, on Tuesday of last week, I found myself stooping over to help my youngest tie his gi (uniform, pronounced ghee). The small waiting area has two small benches, plus some window seating.  At the time, two Mommies and what seemed like three tiny tots were hanging out.  Those tots weren’t so much hanging out as they were climbing around, being adorable and silly.  I had at least one very busy toddler of my own, so I wasn’t phased by the activity level.  I was leaning over close to Ryan because I want to make face to face eye contact, rather than tower over him.  Then my backside got bumped.  Hello!  It was unexpected so I turn to see which creature collided with me.  Plus I felt I should check for damage: theirs, not mine.  I’m like an that old Chevrolet Bel Air that I drove in high school: made of metal, not much is going to hurt me, but your fiberglass bumper might not stand up to real chrome.

Next thing I know, Little Missy, all long blonde hair and barely up to my knees, looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Stop showing your BUTT.”  Her eyes were bright and she had a megawatt smile that must work well in other venues.  I was unimpressed with her excuse and even more displeased with the lack of parental intervention.  (Oh, jeez, I really am my mother.)  Since I was in a mild state of shock, I pivoted around, stooping low, and gave her the first reply that came to my mind.

“Why, excuse me.  I had no idea your FACE was in my BUTT.”

I pointedly said it loud enough for the nearby parents to hear.  Little Miss was horsing around and had The Nerve to say What?  To me?  If My Kids ever said something like that to a grown up, I would jump up, place my hands on their shoulders and say, “We Do Not speak that way to grown ups!”  But alas, the little lady’s momma didn’t even glance my way.  Little missy was quite proud of herself, too.

I was so stupefied by this (hey, it was a slow week) that after Ryan got off to class, I went outside to phone a most devoted partner in crime to complain.  We had a good chuckle and an extended commentary on the state of parental ignorance.  Whatever is the world coming to if apparent 20- something Mommies let their tots talk this way to strangers?  Is the Generation X the Last Stand?  I’m referring to us older X’ers – you know the ones who graduated just before the recession of he early 90’s, scrambled for menial jobs, watched the first Gulf War on TV after grueling days in lowest man on the totem pole jobs, and paid our dues like generations before us so that we may now have the privilege of managing know it all Millennials in the workplace.  But I digress.

You know how stuff comes back to bite you in the Butt?  Less than a week later, Peter and I are standing outside of the dojo where our two guys are testing for their yellow belts.  The world has changed since a dear friend invited us to watch her test for her first belt.  The days of hanging out in the back of a hot, no seats studio, for what seems like hours on end, are replaced by a strict drop off and pick up schedule.  I like it.  So we are waiting for our guys to emerge and I get to talking with a Mom who reminds me of another woman of whom I am extremely fond.  This chick’s nearly white blonde hair, fair skin, and piercing blue eyes remind me of someone I miss being around, so I am oddly drawn to this “soul sister.”

We chitty chat about the warm weather, the mysterious ‘no parents allowed to watch’ training method and when might the kids emerge.  Down the block, a Dad is serving as jungle gym to a cute and very busy three-ish little girl.  Her delightful chirping resonates immediately.  Little Miss is here and these people are her beleaguered parents.  I recognize the signs of parenting ultra high energy kids: specific redirects (do this, not that); ”I’ statements (“I need you to play over here where it is safe”); and sheer exhaustion (those under the eyes grocery bags come quickly when so much energy goes into not killing your offspring). As a parent of a child blessed with enough energy to fuel a steam engine, I know it’s hard to keep your cool when the kiddos are ultra-active in public.  And I know that this enthusiasm to explore has to be constantly redirected for the first four years of life, because imminent danger is everywhere!  Fearless kids see opportunities.  Parents and caregivers see trips to the ER.

That Mom is just trying to survive the day.  Just like me.  I’ll try to remember to keep my butt to myself.

Perfect.  All things considered, this day was just truly perfect.  I don’t say this very often.  Sometimes – and I know you’ll agree with me – perfect means blissfully uneventful.  Today, I had uneventful with the bonus of contented nuclear family members.

I hit the gym and then treated myself to a rare pedicure.  I say rare because, frankly, it just takes too darn long for someone else to scrape and polish my feet into presentable appendages. I give the salon people credit: they do a far more thorough job than I ever would. (Must be something secret about available attention spans!)  After some time at home to manage a few volunteer team emails, I met the kids after school for our daily 20-40 minutes on the playground.  Friends and families who had not seen each other since before Christmas shared greetings and hugs.  The first day back to work or school is the same everywhere: Welcome back!  How was your holiday?  Are you ready for the New Year?  All of these familiar, warm, sincere – even if a bit clichéd – tidings ground us in the present even when we don’t want to be.

I encountered a friend and fellow board member with her preschooler and the newest addition to their family: an eight-week old Chihuahua puppy!  I tend to not gravitate toward other peoples’ dogs, but this one was so tiny and cute that I could not help myself.  I scooped that little blond sliver right up from the ground.  He was so tiny that his Mom didn’t need to hold the leash; she just rested one foot over it.  It was cold today, and this little specimen was shivering for his life.  And I was under the unexpected spell of “protect, adore, and tend to this little creature, STAT!”  He was so small, it was like holding a kitten.  Another parent walked up and commented on his cuteness.  She then added that she once offered to the spouse that they could have a third child or get a cat.  They got a cat.  When most people approach strange dogs and unfamiliar owners, I hear them ask, “May I pet your dog.” I asked my friend, “If I pick him up, will he pee on me?”  He did not.

What else made this day perfect?  Peaceful children; specifically, mine.  Most days, my guys are reasonably pleased with the world and all that that is amidst.  Being the first day back after a break, I anticipated an after school meltdown.  Not to be.  Eldest was content, playful and cooperative.  He responded to the first notice when it was time to leave.  Often, it takes three announcements and a fair amount of tracking down to extract him from the playground.  My youngest reported two thumbs up when asked about his day.

Dinner was exceptional in that neither the spouse nor I barked at the kids.  There’s a paradigm out there called “Calm Parenting.”  We aim for Calm Dining. The boys ate what they were served without protest.  Did I mention homework was completed before dinner?  I don’t want to get my hopes up, but this is a really exciting start to the new year.

Maybe what I experienced today is a snapshot of how I might experience life in 2013.  I should be so lucky.  What changed in order for me to be so satisfied with such a regular day?  It wasn’t just a regular day:  it was a contented day.  I’ve been working on adapting the way I think about time.  Notice I did not say changing or improving, but adapting.  I used to imagine time in chunks, as in, “I have six half days this week to myself.  How can I cram in the shopping, the cooking, the volunteering responsibilities, the job hunting, the writing, and keep the laundry moving, all in timely and efficient manners?”  Trial and error shifted that line of thinking (and its lack of tangible outputs) to trying to manage time in two-hour concepts.  As in, “I have two hours today.  What is the most important thing to get done?”  You know me and you know where this is going.  Things don’t get done.  They get started or they get left unfinished.  Satisfaction equaled nil and frustration reigned.

Sometime in the last four weeks, I found liberation by creating/ performing/ providing/ doing/ and made stuff happen in ten minute action periods.  This more-forgiving – and  more present – approach hit a genuine stride for me in the week before Christmas.  I concentrated on preparing gifts during daylight hours so I wouldn’t have to stay up late.  And we all know that at 40-something, late equals 9 p.m., sometimes 8 p.m., and once in a blue, 7:30 p.m. is just way too late to make or take calls.  The key word back there was concentrated. I specifically did not say espoused or planned, but concentrated.  And something amazing happened for me.  Stuff started getting done.  Groceries were put away, not lingering in brown paper bags that their non-perishable contents were required.  PTA tasks hanging over my head went out the door.  And people responded.  I felt like I got a few things done for a change.  I made time to write in the quiet of a Sunday morning before anyone else was up.  I allowed myself time to sit and think.  I placed value on dreaming on paper and on relieving little boy bedrooms of the detritus of preschooler-dom.  Productivity returned.  You probably know that strung together, several ten-minute sets lead to 40 or more minutes of actual accomplishments.  I wonder if I couldn’t get to the 40-minute mark before because my own expectations made it too hard.

What am I doing differently for 2013?  I am bringing my art, my way of being, my gifts, insights, and responses to the world and those around me in ten-minute commitments.  Thank you for being there for me.