If I don't say thanks, I'll cry

It’s June 22th, and I can’t believe it. It’s not June’s fault. I’m just amazed that the month is two-thirds over. And since summer is only three months long, two-thirds of one-third equals, like, some significant portion over. There’s a reason Brian does our taxes.

Today also is this sneaky fox's last day of kindergarten.

Marin with fox face paint

Marin with fox face paint

Every time I take a precious minute to reflect on time, I feel a little disoriented and out-of-breath. Still all I feel like writing about today is time and how it’s flying but, I won't. We all know it and saying it over and over again doesn't seem to help. There isn’t a thing any of us can do to slow it down, you know, aside from standing in line at Target with a toddler who has to pee. Unfortunately, I can't do that everyday.

So instead of talking about flying time, I'll do what I think Oprah would want me to do and focus on gratitude. And, what specifically am I thankful for this school year? I don't know- a lot.

While my brain was getting warmed up, I asked Marin in my awkward mom-to-6-year-old concept translation, “what happened that made you really happy this year?” Of course, she immediately rattled off all four of the right answers: her teachers, the fun stuff she got to do, meeting new friends, and lunch. And, of course, she’s totally right.

sikora shazadi kindergarten teachers

Here are her teachers. They’re seriously awesome. These two people are smart, creative, and infinitely kind. And perhaps most importantly if you have to work in a confined space with 24 people repeatedly calling your name, they are a really fantastic team. We couldn’t have asked for a better start for Marin. They’re so great, in fact, that we're hoping to go kindergarten again with them next year when Baya starts school. Yep. It only took about six months for me to do what I said I never would. I became "that parent" and name-requested these teachers for my kid. Actually, I name-requested these teachers for Brian and I. We're not quite ready to leave Room 2. 

To her second point, below are just a handful of the great things she got to do this year. There were field trips, art shows, music shows, high school sports, community events, special classroom guest speakers (Grandma!), and more, more, more. It made me want to be back in elementary school—except as an adult who could drink wine at night with her chicken nuggets after a long day reading, adding, and gluing tiny pieces of paper together.

And yes, she made some new friends. They’re delightful. I get to overhear their hilarious conversations when they compare knowledge on reptiles and Sketchers shoes. They sing loud and demand attendance at impromptu talent shows that, frankly, would benefit from a little more planning and rehearsing.

Lastly, lunch. I guess I understand why she was thankful for food each day but lunch definitely did NOT make my list. Lunch-making must be the most mind-numbing, monotonous task ever. It makes me want to do laundry. Night after night after night, I made the exact same thing: a sandwich with one slice each of ham and turkey (no mayo or nothin’) cut in half and put into the baggie, one bag of Fritos, one Tupperware with fruit, and an occasional stray cookie. It looked nothing like the fresh and colorful bento boxes that all the better moms on the internet were fixing. Sigh.

In addition to Marin's list, there are a handful of other things I’m thankful for…

I'm thankful for the couple extra minutes she and I had by ourselves on my drop-off and pick-up days. I'm not sure what we did with this time except take a lot of silly selfies.

I'm also thankful for these two. Seriously, they’re wonderful friends and are the only reason we never missed the bus. Not once. People who know me know what a truly remarkable feat this is. They’re like a Swiss train and could be counted on to be on our corner at precisely 8:10 every day with a cheerful “good morning!”

I’m also thankful for our community and how everyone just shows up- both literally and figuratively- for our kids and each other.

falls church community school bus stop

Last but not least, I’m thankful for Brian. Few people know his "less is more" communication style was the inspiration behind Twitter’s 140-character limit. And though he says few words, the ones he does make a ton of sense.

So, I might not be able to stop time but I can say thank you for the gifts. Through the blur, it was a truly been a wonderful school year.

Do you have a condiment?

Some people don’t like them, but I won’t eat dinner without ‘em. It’s not just about whining-prevention- they enhance the experience.

The picture below is the line-up from the other night. These jars and bottles are patiently waiting to be transferred to the dining room by wobbly little, table-setting gnomes.

I'm not sure it matters but I'll tell you anyway. We were having salmon, potatoes, peas, salad, and watermelon... and each of these condiments was ESSENTIAL! Here's the issue. I’ve gone way back to basics recently with cooking so I don't have to consult a recipe amidst the chaos that's common in my kitchen. This basics-only approach frees up the time and mental energy I need to repeatedly yell, "BACK up, that’s hot!” 

So, our dinners are super simple: a protein, veggie or starch for the kids, salad, and fruit. It’s like eating an outfit from the Gap. Because the menu is so dull on it's own, accessories become pretty important. That's why at Chez Camarote, we have a "thing" for condiments.

Allow me to make some introductions.

I’ll start with the reining king and queen: ketchup and honey mustard. Purchased separately, these two are always combined on the plate to make “hetchup.” Hetchup goes great with everything. From fish sticks to apple slices, my kids don’t eat without it. These two darlings are so essential to dinner that we keep backups in the pantry. Running out of one would mean one of parents would be running out to the store for more. If you look closely in the picture above, you can see the ketchup top is broken. That was my fault. Those bottles get slippery after being handled by thirty small, slimy fingers. I was trying to put it away the other night when it hit the kitchen floor head first. Now Linc reminds everyone, every single dinner that “Mommy broke the ketchup. It was an accident. No problem.” Aw, thanks bud. It's like he's heard those words himself 1,000 times before.

Butter. While a condiment in most people’s book, butter is considered a side in our house. The dish goes to the table last. Forget knives and matches; my kids require constant supervision around butter. Without one of us hovering, they’d eat an entire stick with their bare hands. We're so proud.

The olives, sundried tomatoes, and feta in the back were for me. I love Greek salad more than I should admit. I have fantasies of someday laying on the beach in Mykonos on a bed of spring mix with a bottle of SPF15 vinaigrette. I'm alone.

Remoulade. I have a problem. I love having stuff and hate clutter at the same time. I’m in a constant cycle of buying and then immediately trying to get rid of whatever I just purchased. I got this remoulade for crab cakes a month ago. It was pretty good, but we’re not getting through it fast enough. In fact, there has been no progress in weeks. I keep just putting it on the table hoping someone (the kids, maybe) will be confused, think it’s hetchup, and eat some. No such luck.

Panera salad dressing. This cutie is just one of five siblings that live in our fridge. One more trip to Target and I'll have the complete set. I love Panera. I love their salads. And, I love that I can now buy their dressings at the store. Store-bought dressings are such a gamble. With these, I already know how they taste. Delicious. 

One of my “go to” homemade dressings, a jar of pesto, and a ramekin of dijonnaise complete the picture.

  • The dressing in this recipe is super simple: lemon, garlic, onion, Dijon, and olive oil. It’s like my hetchup. It truly can go on anything.
  • I’ve talked before about my love of pesto and Ina Garten. I typically use this on eggs, but it can parachute in to save any other boring protein on a moment’s notice. It’s another one that’s always in the fridge.
  • Lastly, I throw together the yummy mayo/Dijon combo just for salmon. If you like patronizing recipes, here’s “expert advice” how to assemble these 2-ingredients from Epicurious. Thanks, assholes.

Salt might be the spice of life, but there are an army of condiments in the running for second place. I don’t know how we’d get through our meals without them.

What about you? What are some of your must-haves for dinner?

How Not to Take a Picture of Your Wife

(especially when she asked nicely, and you’re not doing shit)

I occasionally ask my husband to take my picture like when I've just given birth to our first child, or I just got my haircut. It’s a rare request and here’s why. He acts like a big baby about it and doesn’t do a very good job.

So, when there is an urgent need to document a moment and a random stranger isn’t available, I take a deep breath, quickly lower my expectations, and say, “Hey honey, can you take a picture with my phone?”

A perfectly fine and nice way to ask, right? I think so but...

I know what’s going to happen next. First, I get an eye roll. Next, he puts his hand out like I’m giving him a dirty diaper. And then, I have .2 seconds to get ready. Sometimes, he’s not even looking at me or the camera. I know going in that he only has the energy to take one. It’s like it’s 1987 and we must conserve film to avoid another trip to Rite-Aid in the Taurus. So, before he halfheartedly clicks, I make a little wish to the universe that it turns out okay. It never does. Let me show you.

Below is the picture he took last Saturday of me and my lovely friend and neighbor, Jen. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s Jen. It’s hard to tell because it’s WAY too dark. No filter is going to fix this. Our other neighbor’s house looks great though.

Here’s another example. Now, I should have set this up better and just swiveled around on the stool. I blame both Brian and sleep deprivation for missing this chance to document baby Linc and I bonding over our love of stripes.

Aw, here’s one with me and my girls after hiking up a large-ish hill to see this waterfall. It’d be an okay picture except my eyes are closed. Of course, that’s not technically his fault either. But can anyone explain why he is only capable of shooting a single picture?! Asking for a tap, tap, tap is apparently too, too, too much.

Here’s one of me and my friend Liz getting ready to run a half marathon. I specifically asked him to get the start line in the background. Check. But in the excitement, I apparently forgot to ask for her lower jaw, as well.  She has a chin but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. 

An actual photographer told me once to be careful not to indiscriminately cut off limbs in pictures. Subconsciously, it makes people uncomfortable. I see his point. This picture makes me squeamish, but that might be because I look like a hard-boiled egg. 
Let's move on.

Here’s a recent shot of the extended family heading out for a wedding. It’s not often that we’re all together in metallics. Let me be clear about my issue with this picture. Yes, my daughter Baya was distracted by something on TV. Annoying but no problem. Kids are kids, and they’re notoriously difficult to pin down for posed pictures. I have 7,256 pictures on my phone that prove that point. 

No, my issue with this picture is that a large sea creature appears to be either sucking my brains or telling me a secret. Either way, I don't like it.

Again, I take responsibility for not anticipating this problem with the background in advance. However, a little input from his vantage point would have been welcomed. He doesn't robotically execute any of the rest of my commands so, why just this?
Brian didn't actually take this last example. (I’d already cropped the fuck out of the similar ones on my camera.) However, they're worth including because they illustrate a common problem: WAY too much background.

My otherwise darling brother-in-law, Mike, took these pictures of my sisters and me after lunch (and a lot of rose) at their house. Mike is very smart and has an actual Ph.D.-- just obviously not in photographic composition.

He took a couple pictures and proudly handed the phone back. Upon getting clear and immediate feedback about the amount of brick wall, he did something interesting though. He smiled and took the camera back to try again. He then shot 22 more identically bad pictures, but I appreciated the effort. He’s Canadian.

In the hopes of getting a different reaction to my most recent request, I tried a different tactic. I told Brian that the picture was for his mom. I was thinking he'd see the obvious value in having two women he cares about happy at the same time. No such luck. The words he said back were deeply concerning. “No need. I send her pictures of the kids all the time.”

So, Lynda. Mrs. Camarote. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was happening. If you don’t mind, please delete everything he’s sent you over the years. I'll forward a new batch straight away. Forget whether they’re too dark, too far away, or oddly cropped, you shouldn’t be receiving any pictures that aren't prescreened for cuteness and cleanliness. If any made you think the carpet needing vacuuming, I assure you that’s not the case. It’s an optical illusion created by your son’s crappy photography.

All's well that ends well: Linc's birth story

So, you think YOU’RE a procrastinator? I had this baby in a car.

Lincoln James, May 26, 2014

Lincoln James, May 26, 2014

It was just about 5am, and I was in the front seat. My husband Brian- completely calm- was driving about 80 miles per hour towards the hospital. Though we were only a few miles away, I knew we weren’t going to make it. The speck of my brain that was still thinking rationally was telling me not to push. But when I say I had to, I HAD to. It’d be cliché (and not quite right) to say it was like trying to stop a train. It was more like I’d jumped off the high-dive and changed my mind mid-air. There was just no way to stop this gravity-like force. The baby was coming out whether I was in the stirrups or not.

My body took over, and after a couple of hard pushes, the head was in my yoga pants. Then slip, slip, slip as they do, the rest came out. I pulled the little body to my chest. There was no cry but just the sound of strong, raspy breathing in my ear and my husband casually turning to me to ask, “Is this where we turn?”

Minutes later, we pulled into the ambulance bay at in front of the emergency room. Brian got out to tell someone, anyone. I sat there stunned and alone with this new baby. We were now in the light, and I could see it was a boy. It was Lincoln!

The only thought I had was, “thank god it’s over.” The pain, I mean, the pain. The chaos of the emergency room, the doctors and nurses, the car mess, wondering if my mom had made it to our house, and the transition to being parents of three, three and under was just starting.

Arriving at Virginia Hospital Center

Arriving at Virginia Hospital Center

Within seconds the car was surrounded by dozens of people- including several people who appeared to come from the waiting room (like that guy on the far right!) The emergency room doctor opened the car door and said, “Hi Mom, how are we doing?” And before I could answer he started giving instructions to someone else, “…I need an OB kit with a plastic clamp…”

I looked up at him and said, “The cord is still attached.” The look on his face said, ‘Dumb Ass: You’re the one sitting in the front seat of a car with your pants down in front of 25 people holding a slippery baby. Who’s the idiot here?’ Instead, he just said, “I know.”

From there it was a blur. I got on the rolling bed. Hospital staff checked me, and they checked Lincoln. Fine and fine. They patted Brian on the back and handed him a pack of industrial-sized wipes and wished him good luck with the car. Not so fine.

I briefly wondered if they’d let us stay. They did. (As a side note for anyone considering this strategy to save money, please don’t. You pay twice.) Anyway, we then went up to Labor and Delivery to get our ice packs and paper underwear. We were completely average again.

When I tell people this story, they immediately ask, “Are you kidding?” When they realize I’m not, they ask, “How did this happen?”

My canned answer is that he just came really fast. That’s sort of true. The reality is that I didn’t leave my house in time. It was my third pregnancy and I was totally “fucking over it.” This is the actual medical term for the 40th week of gestation. (The language only gets more colorful for those moms who go into week 41 and beyond.) I was big, worn out, generally sweaty, and anxious to meet this baby.

Leading up to my due date that holiday weekend, I put my multi-pronged eviction strategy into effect. Brian and I did a 4-mile hike and I'd tried on clothes from my Stitch Fix. I’d had labor-induction foot massages and was eating a whole pineapple per day. The day before, we took the girls to the zoo, set them up with art projects outside, and then walked to dinner.I was trying everything Google suggested- except for the “Italian method” which was out of the question.

I was trying everything Google suggested- except for the “Italian method” which was out of the question. The problem with using any multi-pronged approach is that you have no idea what works. So, I’m sorry. When I approach in line at the grocery store with unsolicited advice, I’ll tell you to try it all too.

The night labor started, the signs were there. I’d woken up with contractions. I laid there for a while switching between timing them on my phone and reading about Lucky Lindy in “One Summer: America, 1927” by Bill Bryson. I’d hoped this would be a funny distraction, it wasn’t. The contractions came every 18 minutes, then every 12, then 7. When I got up to go the bathroom and get a drink, suddenly it was 5, 4, 3, 2… grunt. I had the urge to push and knew I then I was officially running late.

My mom wasn’t yet there to watch the girls, our doula was 45 minutes away, and I hadn’t even called the midwife yet. When labor started, I’d hesitated. I knew as soon as I made all those calls, several people were going to spring into action. I didn’t want to bother anyone until I was sure. By the time I was certain, it was too late. I kind of set myself up.

Oh well. They say, and I believe it, that- all’s well that ends well. Linc’s arrival was dramatic but uncomplicated. The girls slept through the whole thing- only waking up after grandma had arrived. Brian was able to trade in the car without having to confess to its gory past. And, of course, we got another great kid to go with a story we’ll never forget.

Back from maternity leave

I got a question from a reader last week about how to prepare for his boss's return to work from maternity leave. I answered here with some help from my little guy, Linc.

For the team welcoming someone back into the office after any extended absence: let them set the pace. Ask when when and how they get briefed on what's happened while they were out and then honor those wishes the best you can. By the middle of the second week, the person transitioning back into work should largely have their routine down and start feeling somewhat "normal."

Answering this question, though made me think about the flip side-- what if you're the one coming back?

My take is this. When coming back from maternity leave, your first two words in the office should be, "thank you." And you should mean it.

Some (thankfully few) returning moms come back with the completely wrong attitude. If you expect to be an exception to the rule now that you have a family at home, think again. Of course, no one would say this out loud. However, thinking you're owed something because you're a mom now becomes obvious when your problems suddenly become everyone else's to solve. Spreading this unique brand of entitlement around the office only fuels frustration and resentment on your teams. And if you're the boss? Woah, it's just worse. Avoid the heartache and hassle with a little appreciation for everything that was accomplished in their absence.

Thank you.

Why metrics matter to me

Performance metrics matter. We know this and yet we continue to track things that have little to do with our goals. The better alternative is to make sure that you're measuring progress against the things that matter most to you and your future. Here are four steps to think through that process.

I'm trying to move away from outputs-- such as number of contracts-- and focus more on outcomes. Did I create a connection with a client? Did a client come back after the project to ask more questions or start another task? Would we both want to work together again?

What do you track on a regular basis?

Small Changes, Big Impacts

Me and Anjali! She's such an inspiration!

Me and Anjali! She's such an inspiration!

This morning, I had the opportunity to talk with superstar entrepreneur, Anjali Varma's Modern Mompreneur Meet-up group about one of the beliefs I hold most dear.

Small changes make big impacts.

I find this to be true in both business and life in general. Dreaming big while keeping your planned actions small helps fight overwhelm, keeps you focused, allows you to switch things up when something isn't working, and makes your day easier instead of more stressful.

As just one example, I heard that a tiny change like eliminating sugar in your coffee could add up to 10 pounds lost in a single year. After trying this myself and feeling better just a week in, I had to ask myself- what other small changes could I make that might pay off big?

Since then, I've applied this to networking, community building, and writing. The result? I'm spending less time battling my tendency to over complicate things and my days are a bit easier.  All of this makes me want to continue towards my goals and resolutions- instead of throwing in the towel a month into the new year as I might have in the past.

So, here's a brief video followed by a recap of what I shared today with Anjali and the rest of the AWESOME mompreneurs there.

Things I believe to be true about goals

  • Goals should be specific and measurable
  • Small actions have a big impact
  • Right for right now
  • Stretchy, but with some built-in flexibility in what success ultimately looks like
  • Integrated into the rest of your life
  • Aligned with your strengths
  • Within your direct control
  • Yours, not someone else’s goals for you

Things I believe to be true about planning

  1. You don’t have to be able to see all of the exact steps to infinity in order to start
  2. Shorter planning windows are WAY more effective
  3. Plans can have flexibility and opportunity built in

So, how might you put this in practice for yourself?

Consider adopting a 21-day cycle to build a series of good habits that move your towards your goals.  Here's a worksheet to get you started.

A big thank you to the ever-lovely Jessica McFadden for the photos and video!  So great to see you!


Up In the Air. Again.

It’s only been six months since this happened. And like childbirth itself, memories of the pain have faded and I’m ready to do it again. I’m taking my kids on a plane. This is something only slightly less frightening than...you know.

We’re off to visit family in Alabama and to celebrate my cousin’s wedding.

Unfortunately, there are no direct flights to where we’re going. This means connecting. I’d rather do just about anything else. I know you would too. It’s just terrible, terrible, terrible. Let’s take a quick moment and pray that I don’t lose it in front of thousands at the Atlanta airport. Ommmm.

Flashback to our June trip. Linc, the lap child, getting comfy in MY seat.

Flashback to our June trip. Linc, the lap child, getting comfy in MY seat.

Unlike last time, there’s no worry about tickets. I won’t have to sneak my 2-year-old onto the plane in a Baby Bjorn while pretending to nurse his hefty, walking, talking body. Thankfully, everyone has a seat.

This time, my worries are more of the garden-variety. What am I going to wear?

Black floral pants?

I've never pined so hard for something so hideous. Normally, this is just not my style. However, I now see the flaw in my thinking. And, it's a little too late- even for Amazon Prime. These pants offer a distracting pattern with enough splotches of color to conceal any smears, spills, or potty accidents that might- scratch that- will happen. Bring on the gummies and goldfish!


Isn't the coupling of floral pants and floral shoes still illegal in most states?

Isn't the coupling of floral pants and floral shoes still illegal in most states?

Big sunglasses?

Yes, yes, yes! And yes, I plan to look exactly this miserable the whole trip. I firmly believe that the key to traveling with small children is avoiding eye-contact with others. I wanted to write "with strangers" but, really, I don’t plan to look at my husband either. We need to focus- and my focus will be on my feet. What other people think of my traveling circus is none of my business.

big sunglasses

Strappy heels?

Yes again. Most people dress for comfort when travelling. Flats and leggings are the norm. Not me. I figure if I’m going to feel cranky and put-out I might as well go all the way. These look perfect- super high, super complicated. And the zippers convey that "don't mess with me little people" attitude I'll be carrying-on.


Well, anything metallic will stay behind. I don’t need anything extra to remove when going through security. Dealing with my complicated shoes will be enough. Anything shiny will be left at home, as well. Kids are like raccoons. When bored, they become fascinated with any sparkling objects- especially those hanging around your neck. If you’re not vigilant, they will strangle you. Of course depending on how much time you have left on your flight, you might not care. I often reach a point mid-air when I wonder if lying unconscious on the floor might be a better way to pass the time.


Wish me luck. I’m sure it’s going to be a great trip… once we get there.

Passive Directives

I belong to a gym. It’s a nice place. There’s not much to complain about. They have a zillion treadmills, offer lots of classes that I never take (but am glad are available), and keep it squeaky clean. There's just one thing. They’re obsessed with signs. It drives me crazy.

To give you an idea, I broke a rule and I snapped a couple of pictures from around the ladies locker room. Don't worry. No one was in there changing at the time.

Here are a few examples...

Now, I don’t disagree with a single thing written on these signs. In fact, I'm so eager to comply that I might be the only member who has read them. I’m a rule follower. I enjoy guidelines that make life better for all of us. For example, I love right on red, no phone calls on planes, and wash your hands before returning to work. All good.

The random, wallpapering effect is my issue. In the locker room alone, there are eight or so unique signs. Some are posted twice or three times. 

The content itself violates a couple of basic rules of, I don’t know, eyesight, adult attention spans, and reading comprehension. The font is tiny and the bulleted lists are long. They’re excessively wordy- not unlike many of my blog posts.

And my biggest issue is that they're 50 shades of the same two rules: Don’t be gross. And, don't overdo it. 

Most of these rules are followed by everyone anyway. The rest aren't followed by anyone, ever. Actual locker room behavior is nearly 100 percent consistent. It's effectively governed by social pressure and basic standards of hygiene. No rules are, in fact, needed.  We could do away with all of this visual clutter.

Here's are some examples.

General locker room rules

General locker room rules

These are the overarching rules. If ever there was a set embodying "arbitrary and capricious," this is it. Actually, I need to take a minute to look up capricious but I'm pretty sure it applies. This gym is located within an office complex. There are rarely children on-site let alone within a two-mile radius of the building. The two top rules about kids just don't apply. Even if there were kids around, the age of four seems a bit random and impossible to enforce.

Regarding towels and trash, there are 35 bins around the room. You can't miss them. Like, you literally cannot miss them. If you happen to drop your towel or trash accidentally it will actually fall into a bin. Gravity is on our side here.

The thing about the health code's age restriction for the sauna seems important. Instead of making this item #4, they could just share this rule with teens when they sign up. The gym manager could then invite them to swing by for a good sweat after going to the DMV to get their license. Win, win.

Everyone ignores the thing about cell phones. Give up.

Feel like swimming or soaking? Just shiver there in your "regular swim wear" for a moment while you read these 19 rules.

Pool and hot tub rules

Pool and hot tub rules

Don't they know that people stop reading lists when they see more than three items? All of those other bullets are wasted.

It's actually fine that you stopped reading because they all say the same thing. In completely random order, there are a few with time and temperature ranges (hope you brought your pocket thermometer!), what to wear, what not to wear, and a burried threat to suspend your membership if you don't comply.

Oh, don't miss the attention-grabbing reference to diarrhea. I have't had my breakfast yet. Thanks.

Bottom-line? Don't be gross and don't be a hero and overdo it. You'll melt or fry or dehydrate into something resembling a dried apricot. Heat exhaustion isn't sexy no matter how "regular" your swimwear might be.

And, oh and this one.  I never see anyone shower before entering the pool. Is management seriously concerned about BO and dry skin cells? Isn't that what chemicals and filters are for?

If this is really a problem, let the lifeguard hose everyone down with his tears of boredom. He's sure not likely to have a big rescue today and is busying himself sorting the lost and found goggles








This one just makes me angry at my fellow members.  If you're paying the monthly dues for this gym, spend the money and have someone else put dye in your hair. Seriously.

And to the gym manager...this obviously happened once and got all over the place- the sink, shower, whirlpool, and sauna!? How awful. It was clearly so scarring that you had to right to work and make another sign.  I get it. Surely it was an inconvenient mess but why punish the rest of us with this nonsense?






I'll stop my little rant here. With all of these signs, the message I'm getting is that gym management wants order without confrontation. These are passive directives and totally not necessary. Sure, it could be awkward to tell someone in a towel with an gaping, open wound to skip the whirlpool that day. But, you gotta do it. Leave the rest of us alone to sweat in peace.

Love Warrior, Special Book Report post

Over the weekend, I read funny mom Glennon Doyle Melton’s book, Love Warrior. I loved the Carry On, Warrior about motherhood and looked forward to her follow-up about marriage. I’m a married mom myself. As a casual fan, I had only the most general awareness going in about Glennon’s marriage- the infidelity, the separation, the reconciliation, and post-publish announcement that she and her husband Craig are re-separating.

I don’t just suspect that many other seemingly pulled-together people are struggling in their marriages. I know it from conversations with friends and the fact that hundreds of thousands of women like me preordered Love Warrior. Glennon’s book was a chance to get a deep, long look into another marriage while not feeling the need to be politely reassuring. It was also a chance to feel a little less alone.

I started it late last week on the day it came out and finished it over the weekend. I read every last word and some twice. I’m glad I did but am I’m feeling conflicted.

First, it’s hundreds of pages of Glennon’s “me, me, me”- which, I suppose, is the point of a me-moir. At times, though, it’s a bit much. I couldn’t help wondering what it’s like to be one of her close, personal friends. Is it as exhausting as it seems? And, her sister, oh my. God bless this woman. Glennon’s sister is some kind of emotional endurance athlete. She’s supported her for years throughout what is amounts to a daily 100-mile introspective race through Death Valley.

What’s more is that Glennon explains her binging and boozing as behaviors driven by the deep-seeded fears of a hyper-sensitive soul. On one hand, it makes sense but on the other comes across as a bit of a post-game analysis and rationalization. I made some bad choices too. Looking back today, they still just seem like bad choices driven by yes, fear, but also immaturity, inadequate life skills, and a limited perspective on the world.

I also feel conflicted because I’m not sure what to do next. I finished it with more questions than answers. Questions like:

  • Is everything “good” now? Is this kind of comeback from rock bottom a one and done- or two and done, in Glennon’s case. It would seem that counting Oprah as a new friend would make life pretty damn good from here on out.
  • Is there ever a time that you can just relax and live or must we always stay on treadmill of greater self-discovery?
  • How too can I have a personal breakthrough filled with wisdom-growing epiphanies? Is binging and boozing to extreme a prerequisite? I fall short in this regard.
  • Should I manufacture a crisis with my husband or just start digging and assume one is buried somewhere in my marriage? If, in fact, a crisis is necessary, where can I sign up for a relatively short and easy one? It seems time-consuming right when I don’t need another “to-do” on my list.

Though questions are swirling, there were a couple of important take-aways.

  1. You see what you expect to see. It’s true of your husband and everything else. What you believe about their intentions can be a misleading, often painful filter from which to view their actions in your marriage. Instead, see others as flawed people who are doing the best they can with what they know.
  2. Anyone who suggests they know God’s direction for you better than you know yourself should be promptly ignored. And if you still reserve your conversations with God for an hour or two on Sunday, you’re missing a much greater opportunity.
  3. You can share your story without sharing someone else’s. Glennon is a skilled and thoughtful writer who carefully and generously tells her side without presumptively sharing any of Craig’s. It’s noteworthy that this serial philanderer emerges as one of the most endearing and sympathetic characters in the story.
  4. You gain balance in yoga which is good for your tree pose and other stuff.
  5. Breathing in a group apparently can make you feel like you’re floating in fluffy cloud of forgiveness. As lovely as this sounds, you’re it also makes you vulnerable to smelling other people’s bad breath. I must not be that bad off because I’m not willing to risk it.
  6. And lots of other great stuff.

When I reached the last page, I was sorry for the book to end. To me, this is a sign of something well worth reading- even through the tedious parts. I admire and appreciate Glennon’s courage and look forward to reading it again someday.