I was a teenager the first time I ever tasted a carrot pulled straight from the ground in which it grew.  It took me a minute to muster the courage since dirt was always the thing mom violently scrubbed from the bottom of my bare feet like it was a fungus.  We were at my aunt and uncle’s home on sprawling county acres with a view of the snowy mountain peaks in the distance.  They only lived a short 7-minute drive from our small corner lot in town, but it seemed like an adventure to go there, like we were stepping back into another time where men played in their woodshops and women assembled bouquets from the wildflowers that lined the property.

The carrots were delicious—like nothing I’d ever tasted.  Compared to our store-bought carrots these were hairy and grew in odd shapes, like deeply arthritic fingers, but they tasted sweet and earthy.  I walked along the tidy garden rows and pulled up one after another, my mouth a buzzsaw working against the crisp roots.

In the summer we bought corn from roadside stands and blueberries from u-pick farms, but most of our food was harvested from a fluorescent-lit, big-box grocery where high school kids bagged our food for us.  They even offered a drive-through pick-up service.  Clearly, I grew up in the golden era of TV dinners, powdered cheese, and microwaves—a time when convenience trumped quality every time.

The Family Tree

It took the birth of my daughter to change this worldview I had gleamed from a life of processed, prepackaged and pesticide-ridden vegetables.  Suddenly, everywhere I turned, I was warned that plastic containers were leaching chemicals into her baby food, that I should peel all non-organic fruits, and that baby carrots are soaked in bleach to retain their “freshness.”  According to the news, we should fear the presumably healthy foods as much as potato chips and glazed donuts.

But changing my worldview was much easier than changing my daughter’s mind about vegetables, who at age 3 declared she had a “food allergy” to all things fresh, green or leafy.“I’m allergic to salad,” she said in all seriousness.  “But it will go away when I’m 5.”

At 7, my daughter was still afflicted by her allergy.  In fact, it encompassed all vegetables with the exception of canned green beans, poison-laced baby carrots, and “brown beans” (better known ask pork-and-beans, which I’m told by her pediatrician, “doesn’t count”).

A Treasure Box

I tried introducing new foods to my daughter, but unless it was fried, steeped in sugar or altogether unrecognizable as food (hello, dinosaur-shaped nuggets), she wasn’t having it.  Uninterested in having a food fight with my child, I did the best I could. I bought stock in the fruits she’d eat—inevitably only seasonal and expensive varieties like blackberries, raspberries and cherries—and kept challenging her (okay, bribing her) to at least try new foods.

Then a friend of mine started a farm box home delivery service called “Local Organic Moms,” or “LOMs” for short.  I could choose which local organic produce would appear in a crate on my porch each week.  It isn’t cheap, but as I get older, I’m realizing that none of the best things are.  The first day our crate arrived, my daughter ran to it and tore off a piece of the living lettuce and stuffed it in her mouth.  She didn’t gag.  She didn’t die.  In fact, she liked it.

After sampling a piece, I realized why: all this time I’ve been eating—and offering my child—the equivalent of green cellophane.  We ate the tomatoes like apples. My daughter peeled three carrots and buzz-sawed them down with an enthusiasm she usually reserves for cheese puffs.

Now, each week the farm box appears on our door, my daughter unpacks the items, sampling and sorting.  Some of the items were so unfamiliar to our limited palate we had to Google it.  I discovered purple potatoes and about 10 varieties of sprouts.  I rediscovered my love of carrots—real carrots, purple, white, yellow or otherwise, in all their crazy shapes and sizes.

Don’t get me wrong, my daughter hasn’t given up on pressed fruit and yellow #5.  We aren’t about to build a container garden or launch a raw-food diet.  But we are opening our lives to the natural beauty of a simpler, less processed way of living.  We’re supporting our local farmers, our friend’s business and a healthier lifestyle.  Perhaps like bike commuting, composting, and pressing coffee, we’re finally moving away from convenience and back from whence we came: a place of quality and simplicity.  If so, it feels right—natural even.

When it comes to raising kids, you end up learning as much as you teach them—maybe more.  I show Ava how to draw rainbows and floss her teeth and she teaches me patience. I instruct her to say “please” and “thank you,” and she reminds me to lead by example—inevitably in front of other moms. This past week’s lesson: lighten up.

It’s in the Cards
A few nights ago, Ava presented me with the game of Go Fish, which she had been given as a gift.  I don’t like card games—at least I don’t remember liking them the last time I lost to my sister in a heated game of Crazy 8’s back in ’91.  I get all worked up and competitive like my life is on the line, rather than a match-set of guppies.  But when given the option between the card game and watching another episode of Phineas and Ferb (which is not unlike having white noise funneled directly into your brain stem), I reluctantly said, “Game on.” 

My daughter and I huddled around the coffee table and drew our cards. An hour later, we were still at it, giggling and squealing when one of us would lay down a match set.“In your face!” she’d shout, putting down a set of sharks.  I used it as an opportunity to teach her about being a good winner.She responded, “I know, Mom.  Losing hurts”—a lesson I hadn’t forgotten. As adults we try to preempt loss.  We play games that we know we’re good at.  We avoid activities that our years of experience tell us will result in certain humiliation. Like roller-skating.

Roll Playing
When I was young, I’d lace up my white leather skates with the green rubber wheels and pretend to triple lutz around the carport like Dorothy Hamill.  I’d skate for hours, thinking that if my parents would just send me to the Olympic Training Center, I could actualize my natural talent.  Of course, they never sent me.  Instead, they bandaged my skinned knees and palms and sent me back outside. I eventually realized that I wasn’t any good and I hung up my skates. I grew up.

Last week my daughter caught wind of an open skate at a roller rink in town I didn’t even know existed. I told her I would watch safely from the wings, but she had other plans; she wanted to see Mommy skate. And what a sight it was. I was like a cat on stilts, flapping my arms and thrusting my hips in a desperate attempt to stay vertical.  My cheeks and armpits were hot with embarrassment, until I discovered that the only person on the rink who cared what I looked like was me.

Once the pressure to perform was lifted, I started to enjoy myself.  As I whizzed (okay, wobbled) around the rink, I began to remember things that I hadn’t thought of for years—the “rink ref” blowing his whistle at my dad because he was skating too recklessly, sweaty slow-skate handholding with Matt Lopez and the blisters on my feet after a long, hot night in pair of rented skates.  But most important, I remembered that it’s okay to look stupid, to lose, to fall down—because that’s what happens when you play.  And when you think about it, a grown-up life without play isn’t much of a life at all.

It turns out I didn’t outgrow the activities I once enjoyed; I had just burdened them with my expectations. Thanks for the lesson, kid.

Please sit down.  Get your pencil.  No, you can’t use pen.  I need you to focus.  Yes, you can sharpen your pencil.  Okay, go to the bathroom—quickly.  You need to go back and wash your hands.  And flush.  Now, please sit down.  You need your pencil.  Did you seriously just break your pencil…?

This is the homework dance I do with my 1st grader everyday after school.  It’s our least favorite time together.  On the car ride home, she joyfully tells me which boys chased her on the playground, who was assigned the coveted position of line leader for the day and who “moved their clip down”—the disciplinary equivalent of spending a day in the stockades.  When we get home, she skips into the house, hugs the cat and singsongs, “Can I go play outside?”

“Yes—after you do your homework.”

And with that my good-natured 7-year-old transforms into a depressed, apathetic sloth of a child.  Dress her in a black Morrissey T-shirt and she could easily be mistaken for a 50-inch package of pure teenage angst.  She suddenly loses the ability to read.  Her spine can no longer support the weight of her body.  Watching her write her name on her paper is like watching someone try to put toothpaste back in the tube.  And this is a child who excels in school—who likes school.

“I’m just so tired,” she complains. 

Ah, yes, the complex life of a first grader.  At her complaint I want to launch into a diatribe on taxes, mortgages and why-oh-why can’t Daddy unload the dishwasher, but instead I resist the urge knowing that it’s not about me—when dealing with a 7-year-old, it is and probably won’t be again for the rest of my life.

Contrary to her claim, she’s not tired.  If I set her loose outside, she’d do wind sprints for the next two hours, her jacket billowing in the wind like a resistance parachute.  No, she’s tired of listening.  Of obeying.  Of working.  But guess what?  The compensation for unemployed 7-year-olds is hovering right around the worth of a stale animal cracker with broken legs.  So let’s get back to work.

That said, I don’t want to become the Southern equivalent of a “Dragon Mom” (would that be an “Alligator Mom?”).  I want my child to have a healthy relationship with homework, and by extension, me. 

This year I’ve learned a couple of lessons about making the homework experience slightly bearable. 

Set the mood.
Imagine being woken up in the morning with your boss standing over your bed demanding that you draft a report in the next five minutes.  Everyone needs some transition time.  After a whirlwind day of school, my daughter needs a few minutes to get settled—time to take off her shoes and enjoy a snack—instead of me greeting her at the door with pencil and paper in hand.

Make it (relatively) fun. 
This is a little bit like making a visit to the dentist seem like a visit from Santa, but there are ways.  I’ll line up her collection of Barbies to illustrate mathematic equations and I’ll play-act the stories we read to the embarrassment of SAG members everywhere. 

Let it go. 
Sort of.  It’s homework, not a scholarship application to Harvard.  If she writes, “The buney hops akros the rode,” I don’t need to go into hypercorrect mode—a particular challenge to an English major, or really anyone who has respect for the English language.  If she wants to do her homework on her own, so be it.  And, in the end, if we’re running into minute 40 of what should be a 5-minute worksheet, I’ve learned to calmly walk away and in my best passive-aggressive tone say, “That’s fine.  Tomorrow when you go to school you can explain to your teacher that you didn’t want to do it.”

Luckily, she doesn’t call my bluff.  If she did, I’d be completing her homework with my left hand at midnight.  Instead, she grabs her pencil (finally!) and buckles down.

Like potty training and discipline, the best approach to homework differs from child to child.  You have to know what motivates your child and use it to your advantage. And most important, stick with it. 

One year down, 17 to go.

I don’t like to fly.  Coasting above the earth at 500 miles per hour in a horizontal skyscraper—a vessel decidedly not “light as a feather”—makes no sense to me.  I understand very little about the mechanics of flight, but I have enough experience with skinned knees to write the book on gravity.  First and foremost, it’s a constant and no seat belt, air bag or under-seat floatation device is going to convince me that I can outwit it.  Then there’s the issue of being in close quarters with hundreds of strangers—not only are we sharing this experience, we’re quite literally sharing one another’s personal space and oxygen.  What 16A blows out, 16B breathes in.  Consequently, germs coat the surface of the cabin like the thick, sticky glaze on a hot donut.

However, my daughter loves to fly.  To her, flying is magic and like every fairytale she’s ever read, there’s a guaranteed happy ending.  Nothing alarms her—not the sticky glob on her tray, the curly hair on the pillow or the sudden change in air pressure.  Ignorance, in this case, is absolute bliss.

My family lives on the opposite coast, so my daughter has more than earned her wings in her nearly 7 years of life.  Her love affair and experience with flight certainly makes the process easier; we just flew cross-country last week and she sat in quiet meditation for 6 hours only breaking for a nap (no, she wasn’t sedated).  But to help your child reach this Zen state means putting down some ground—er, “air”—rules early on. 

The key to success is two parts: preparation and consideration.

The first time you fly with a young child, just assume that your little angel will transform into the spawn of Satan and that you will not have the opportunity to place her in timeout or “take her outside.”  The two-dozen passengers within earshot will hear your quiet pleas and futile bribes and will be quick to judge, or worse yet, offer advice.  To avoid unnecessary contact with strangers (see above), pack a virtual variety show of props and gimmicks; one act per 15 minutes of flight should have you covered.  We brought it all: wrapped presents, copious amounts of favorite snacks and slow-melting candy, various media devices, and even old-school entertainment—crayons, paper, stickers—for those few but tedious moments when “anything with an on/off switch” must be disabled and your child looks at you as if the air has been sucked from her lungs.  At the end of the show you will be thoroughly exhausted, so if you can divide your time with an understudy (i.e. husband), that’s best.  The payoff is when a passenger leans over to you at the end of the flight and says, “My what a good traveler you have!”  Forget being in the gifted class or ranking in the 95th percentile for height—this feels so much better.

Which leads me to my second point: “cuteness” has a very small window when it comes to children and flying.  Prior to age 2, your offspring can get away with an errant seat kick or a crying jag (which you should always explain away as “air pressure” for sympathy), but once a hotdog is no longer a choking hazard, kids are old enough to understand a few rules.  The most important being: Do Not Disturb.  That means the seat in front of her is not an accelerator pedal and the tray is not Barbie’s makeshift diving board.  And while I’ve learned to appreciate the antics of Sponge Bob, he’s an acquired taste.  Bring headphones.

As for the contaminated Petri dish in which you travel, limit your chances of contracting MERSA by wiping down your surroundings.  The plummeting-to-your-death scenario is a trickier situation and one that you can really do little about.  I spend most of the flight repeating the risk of dying in a crash (9 million to 1) and when that fails, I pray.  Or I drink.  Or I pray and drink.

And if you’ve done everything within your power and your child still refuses to behave, deploy the death-strategy above: pray that she’ll stop and then buy everyone around you a stiff drink.

Every Christmas mom would try to sneak things I “needed” under the tree.  She started small—socks with pompoms, high-waisted underwear and headbands that squeezed my brain like forceps.  “I really needed these,” I’d say politely before I tossed the useful yet unwanted items to the side and reached for what I hoped would be the Snoopy Sno-Cone maker that I had to have and would later use all of once before I realized that shaving ice with a cheese grater was neither fun nor fulfilling.  As I grew older, the gifts mom thought I “needed” grew in size and scope.  A warm coat.  A clock radio.  A set of encyclopedias.  I tolerated receiving these items—after all, I always used them.  And then one day, right around the 5th grade, it happened.  I suddenly liked the boy I had kicked in the crotch the week prior, I started wearing deodorant, and something practical finally topped my Christmas list.  I was growing up.

I remember wanting a pair of boots—these adorable brown leather ankle boots with heavy soles and wool lining peeking out from the tops.  I didn’t merely want them; I needed them.

On Christmas morning, I feverishly tore through every box that looked as if it could hold those boots, my disappointment growing with every pair of high-waisted panties. Soon all the presents were open and I sat there, bootless and broken. And then my mom said, “Oh, it looks like we forgot a present!”

From behind the chair she lifted a box that could only be my beloved boots.  I chicken-danced around the room in my new shoes until I almost passed out and didn’t take them off until the 6th grade.

As I got older, I found myself missing that spontaneous urge to launch into the chicken-dance of joy at Christmas.  I was always delighted by the thoughtful gifts I received, but I hadn’t felt that spastic surge of utter fulfillment from any one gift in a long while.  I began to worry that the magic of gifting was losing its luster.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, my parents flew across the country to share an early Christmas with my family.  As we sat around the tree and exchanged gifts, I enviously watched my 6-year-old daughter rip through each present, breathlessly proclaiming to her grandparents, “It’s just what I wanted!” over and over again.  We laughed at her excitement and delighted in her joy over getting the things she wanted, but didn’t need.

And that’s when it hit me: I have everything I’ve ever wanted.  I have everything I need. 

The chicken-dance may have gone the way of the Snoopy Sno-Cone maker, but there’s no real loss.  When we are young, we simply want things—a big wheel, Stretch Armstrong, the crayon some other kid is holding—and then we get older and start to determine the things we actually need, like food, family, high-waisted underwear … and one day, if you’re really lucky, you wake up and realize that you’re healthy, surrounded by a loving family, have a roof over your head and a couple of pairs of decent boots in your closet.  No one boxed-and-bowed item could elevate your existence any more; your cup already runneth over.

Growing older didn’t tarnish the magic of Christmas; it made it shine even brighter. 

I have no luck with summer camps.  Growing up, I attended two.  The first was a “math camp” where the instructors tried (and failed) to make math fun by using it in game-like situations.  If you want to make something completely un-fun for a 10-year-old, just add math to the equation. It took years to recover from the fear of abandonment I harbored from my mother handing me over to the math magicians, who held me captive for what should’ve been the best days of my summer. 

The second was a volleyball camp I voluntarily attended when I was 16.  I stayed in a dorm 8 hours from my hometown, but begged my parents to camp nearby, just in case I needed them.  I did.  At my request, they showed up to cheer me on during every end-of-day scrimmage, and after the last spike, I fought the urge to leave with them.  See, with my parents, I knew what to expect.  I knew they had my best interests at heart.  I knew they weren’t going to assault me with arithmetic or chastise me from missing a block.

The Endless Summer

What did I do with all that ample time on my hands during the summers of my youth?  I played with my sister.  We ate frozen pizzas covered with dried up cubes of pepperoni in the backyard under a blanket we fashioned into a fort.  We stood gigantic inner tubes on end and rode them like bucking broncos.  Mom filled a bucket with water and declared it our “pool.”  It wasn’t that Mom could afford not to work—she just couldn’t afford to pay for childcare or camp for two children. But Dad and Mom were forced to scrape by on minimum-wage jobs the summer the paper mill went on strike, and consequently it was the only summer I spend away from home.  A friend of my parents offered to watch my sister and me.  For two months she abused us emotionally and physically.  When the strike was over, I ran into my mom’s arms and didn’t leave her grasp until I moved away for college.  It would be years later before she understood why.

Projection Parenting

So when I asked my 6-year-old daughter if she wanted to go to camp this summer and she replied with a firm, “No,” I didn’t push it.  Her friends tried to convince her of the fun they were having swimming, rope climbing and horseback riding, but my daughter would have nothing to do with it.  And frankly, neither would I.  I believe those kids are having a grand time making lifelong friends and learning new skills.  I also believe that my child, like me, would be the kid looking longingly out the window for 6 hours, waiting for my car to pull up and whisk her back to the world that she feels most safe and comfortable in. 

Am I projecting some of my own fears and insecurities?  Probably.  Am I okay with that?  Absolutely.  She’s 6.

The Summertime Equation Solved

Luckily, my husband and I have flexible supervisors who allow us to arrange our work schedules so we can pass our daughter between us like a baton during these summer months.  And I can honestly say that I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  We ride bikes.  We play tennis.  We upgraded from the bucket of my childhood and bought an inflatable pool.  One day, Ava’s friend came over to swim.  She took one look at the pool and said with marked disappointment, “I though you said you had a pool.”  Confused, Ava replied, “We do.”  (The same response I’d give my friends who questioned my swimming bucket.) 

And every night my daughter, sun kissed, exhausted and safe in my arms, asks how much longer before summer is over because she never wants it to end.  I couldn’t agree more.

If you’re lucky enough to have your school-age children breathing down your neck at 7:15 a.m. asking, “What’re we doing today?!”  Don’t waste a moment wishing for the speedy return of school.  Cherish these summer months together.  I guarantee they will.

“Do good things”—that’s the charge pressed into the red rubber bracelet my friend Jamie Deen gave me.

Back in February, Jamie decided to use his celebrity to raise money selling these bands for $1 in support of Savannah’s food bank, America’s Second Harvest. Every dollar goes directly to this charitable organization.

I’ll admit that at first it seemed silly wearing a red rubber band that clashed with every outfit I owned.  It got tied up in my silver bangle bracelets and made my wrist a little hot, as only an accessory in the swampy humidity of the South can do.  I do support America’s Second Harvest, but does not donning the band somehow make me a demi-donor?  A semi-supporter?  Should I instead be wearing a band that says “Do some good things?”  All this hesitancy toward wearing the band in spite of its noble cause got me wondering: has doing good things gone the way of banana clips and spiral perms?  Is the day-glo bracelet a metaphor for how kindness has fallen out of fashion?

“It’s not really a market for good news,” Jamie said to me not too long ago, frustrated with the media that finds the whisper of scandal far more interesting than the hard fact that he’s helped feed over a million people in need.

I get it.  The nightly news is packaged to astonish us and to catch our attention—to throw the unimaginable into our imaginations.  But it’s the good news that impacts us in a big way, changing the landscape of our lives.  The determined junior-college baseball player who made the unmakeable catch.  The child whose lemonade-stand proceeds go to help other children in need.  My friends who are walking across the U.S. to raise awareness about preservation (it’s worth a peek! www.hikingandhoping.com).  The good news is there, you just have to look for it—and sometimes you don’t have to look as hard as you may think.

As of late I’ve been trying to actively surround myself with good people doing good things—people who are creative, inventive, responsible and kind—and distancing myself from the one-uppers whose personal struggles threaten to rain on my otherwise positive parade.  But it’s not enough to simply frolic in the fountain of goodness; I have to do my part.  I thought this would require some effort, but really just required me to listen to the shiny happy voices in my heart.  I’ve tried to be more appreciative and thoughtful.  It’s a little thing that has paid off in a big way with invaluable friendships and unexpected opportunities.  I suppose in the land of Facebook “likes” and Twitter messages followed by “#thankful,” even the effort of a handwritten “thank you” note and 50-cent stamp goes a few miles further. 

A young girl once informed me that handwritten notes were old fashioned and dated (she also said that married women with children should not be allowed to use Facebook because they were no longer interesting).  But if people like her think kindness is no longer in fashion, I’m not longer worried about looking out of date.

Besides, I don’t actually believe that kindness is old fashioned.  Like smiling and saying “good morning,” the new car smell and popsicles, good things are timeless.  More important, I can teach my daughter that doing good things should always be a priority.  And I can begin this lesson by sporting a day-glo band in spite of the aesthetic challenge it may pose to my wardrobe.

Want to be a do-gooder? Get your “Do Good Things” bracelet by clicking here.

My glass is usually half-full.  Things will get better.  The sun will come out tomorrow, so on and so forth.  Granted, sometimes it’s an act.

Like yesterday morning when I stood in front of my full-length mirror, poking at my bloated stomach with disgust.

“Do you have a baby in there?” my 6-year-old daughter asked nonchalantly, slurping on a Popsicle.

“No,” I responded, unable to hide my horror.

She shrugged and walked away, “Looks like it.”

Yeah, I’m aware.  But it’s always nice to have confirmation from someone who won’t get a wrinkle for another 20 years.  I spent the rest of my day stealing sideways glances at myself on every reflective surface.  I sucked in my stomach.  I beat myself up for eating leftover Easter candy.  I vowed to workout twice a day (don’t worry, it’ll never happen).

But nothing made me feel better about myself until I decided to feel better about myself.  I looked in the mirror and smiled at my reflection.  At first it was as genuine as a politician, but somehow the simple act of smiling managed to warm my heart—and I swear to you—shrink my stomach.  Usually smiling is a response to something that tickles us.  Sometimes reversing the order works.
When I ran my first marathon in March, there were moments during the race when I felt very, very bad (okay, lots of moments).  And so did everyone else.  I know, because I could see it on their faces. Slack mouths, sad eyes, furrowed foreheads.  By mile 15 we were a quiet, sullen bunch, shuffling along like shackled prisoners.  Lifting our eyes from the pavement to acknowledge cheering from the sidelines would require too much.  Smiling?  Impossible.

Or maybe not.

Plodding forward with nothing but my thoughts and a heavy dose of lactic acid to keep me company I started to think that maybe smiling—in spite of the fact that my calves were cramping and my lower intestines were barely holding it together—couldn’t really hurt the situation, could it?

At about that moment I heard a guy call out to me over his beer from a lawn chair: “You’re almost there!”  It was a stupid joke.  A terrible lie.  And deeply uncreative.  (When you run a marathon, every third spectator yells this.) While I didn’t think I had the energy to acknowledge him, I did have an overwhelming desire to fold him up in his lawn chair.

Instead, I summoned a tiny reserve of energy tucked away in the recesses of my heart, and smiled.

He practically dropped his red Solo cup.  “Hey!  Mile 15 and you’re still smiling!  Keep it up!”

I did keep it up.  I continued to smile stupidly at every spectator sprinkled along the course.  I felt a little crazy, a little deceitful—and a lot better.

The smile helped.  And it seemed to help others too.  They cheered harder for me.  They believed in my feigned happiness.  Eventually, I started to believe it too.

Sometimes the smallest gestures have the biggest impact.  My legs and my spirit could barely carry me 26.2 miles—my smile had a better go of it.

Two days ago, I completed my first marathon.  Why?  Because I said I would.  I had decided this about three years ago, while I was running a half-marathon.  I came around a corner, and saw my daughter among the crowd that lined the course, smiling at me from the baby jogger.  Willing to accept second place, I stopped to kiss her on the cheek and then pressed on feeling a bit lighter. A bit more fleet of foot.

She proudly wore my finisher’s medal for two weeks straight.  Now 6 years old, she still dons it as an accent to her Cinderella dress-up gown.  Princess meets athlete.  I could not think of a more natural combination, or a better use.

I think it’s important for us to show our daughters what is possible.  She can be an artist, a surgeon, an athlete, or yes, even a princess.  She can be all of these things at once if she wants.  The lesson isn’t in the being, it’s in the becoming.  I didn’t simply wake up yesterday and decide to run the Atlanta Publix Marathon.  I trained for 4 1/2 months, running 4 times a week when I could barely squeeze in a shower.  At the hardest point of the training program, I was running an average of 35 miles a week.  Some of the Saturday long runs took upwards of 3 hours to complete.  Everyone made sacrifices.

“Why do you have to run?” she whines.

“Because I said I would.”

There are a million reasons I could give her, all of which are partially true.  I run for pure vanity, counteracting the unsightly effects carbs have on my thighs.  I run because I paid a $100 entry fee.  I run because I want the t-shirt.  But when it gets right down to it, I run for myself.  On solitary jaunts, I sometimes think of little more than putting one foot in front of the other.  Those runs are a kind of meditation—I’m in the moment with my body and, oftentimes, my pain.  Other times I listen to the voices in my head, giving my thoughts permission to distract me.  I solve problems.  I write stories.  I mentally get back on track.

When I put in the miles with my running partner, Kelly, we cover every corner of our lives—our husbands, our children, the vacations we want to take, the bills we hate to pay.  Sometimes our talk wades in a pool of profundity, but we can also spend an inordinate amount of time discussing our favorite flavor of gel shot (espresso!) or how we should coordinate our outfits for our next race.  Kelly has seen me at my best (running a personal record) and at my worst (let’s just say “runners trots” and leave it at that).  A friendship founded on running literally fills you up.

Those months of “selfish” training carried me to the 2-mile uphill finish on race day. But something else carried me across the finish line.  The muscles at the front of my shins were competing with the back of my calves, trying to determine who would give out first.  The late-morning sun beat on my face.  Salt had crusted on my cheeks.  At one point, I stopped and walked, wondering how I was going to make it another step, let alone another 2 miles.  But then I thought of my husband and daughter looking for me at the finish line. They weren’t looking for a walker.  They were looking for a runner.  “Go.”  It was all I could muster.  “Pain is temporary, pride is forever” would’ve been more inspiring, but the sentence construction was too complex for me at that point.  “Go.”

Up the hill I went, tired, angry and practically broken.  Then, about 50 yards from the finish line, I saw my husband and daughter wildly screaming “Go Mommy!” as if I were vying for a first-place finish. I started to cry.  Not because I was proud of what I was about to accomplish, but because they were.

So, yeah, I trained for and ran this marathon for myself.  But because I did it for myself, I also did it for my daughter. 

My daughter just celebrated her 6th birthday. We rented a little art studio where she and 15 of her friends painted and sculpted. Even though the set up and clean up was taken care of, I still spent the first half of the day frantically running errands. By the time we got there, we were all a little out of sorts. I poured a much-needed glass of wine. But before I found the bottom of my glass, our time was up and I could’ve taken a Disney vacation for what those two hours just cost me.

Ava had fun, but she’s 6—she has fun every day. Which got me wondering if all this birthday party stuff hasn’t gotten a little out of hand.

I think I was 10 years old before I ever had a birthday party with my friends—shortly after I was permitted to wear Jelly Shoes but well before I was allowed to get my ears pierced. Of course we always celebrated my birthday, but we did so as a family. We’d get dressed up and I would choose where we would eat for dinner. Dad would get me a Shirley Temple and order extra cherries since it was my special day. Mom always made my favorite cake: devil’s food chocolate with gooey coconut and pecan frosting, topped with that year’s doll-of-the-moment. I have a summer birthday so we were usually traveling somewhere remote, like the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, or various state parks. Once we celebrated in Hawaii. Mom and Dad rented a Suzuki Samurai convertible and drove around the island—my smile was so big that the breeze wound my long hair into my braces.

I loved my summer birthdays because they were all about me. Birthday parties, on the other hand, seemed to be about everyone else.

I can remember one of my friends snickering when my Mom proudly presented my cake that she had topped with a Jem Doll. Clearly no one had informed me that dolls, like stuffed animals, were things we all had, but could no longer admit to liking. My guests turned their noses up at my beloved coconut frosting. The games Mom devised were fun, like egg relays and three-legged races, but inevitably someone got their feelings hurt because they didn’t win—often that someone was me. And yes, the presents were great except when everyone hurried me because they were bored and wanted their party favors.

A few days later, on Ava’s actual birthday, my husband and I fussed over her much like my parents used to fuss over me. We sang “Happy Birthday” when she woke, teased her about growing so big overnight, and put a special note in her lunchbox. Later, I brought cupcakes to her school and joined her for lunch. Her teacher placed an itchy crown on her head and she wore it all day without complaint. That night we ate at her favorite Mexican restaurant with a couple of her friends and the staff put a sombrero on her head and serenaded her. She glowed. She felt important. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it was all about her.

As a parent, I find myself constantly tripping on that fine line between giving my child what she thinks she wants and giving her what I think is best. Maybe that’s the nature of the birthday beast, but I have a feeling a compromise must exist somewhere. If you’ve found it, I’m listening.