Desperately Seeking Superwoman

The 7 words that are killing me

May 24, 2018

Me and my best friend Cathy sat toward the front of a big, dark theater, a box of Lemonheads and gigantic soda between us, and waited impatiently for the previews to end. We’d been begging to do this for weeks. Finally, with our matching New Kids on the Block t-shirts and stirrup pants, we looked on as the scenes unfolded on the giant screen before us, lighting up our tiny, freshly freckled faces. I was 9 years old. The movie was the incomparable, the phenomenal, “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead” starring none other than the angelic Christina Applegate.

Stop me if you’ve heard this profound and thought-provoking plot before. Three siblings – a preppy teen, her stoner brother and their tomboy little sister – were left alone while their mom went to explore the Australian outback, as most single moms do. Whilst she was away, the mother hired a 99-year-old babysitter to look after the children. After she, as the title might suggest, passed away, the siblings did as any teenagers would do; They drastically matured. Kenny, the weed-loving brother learned to cook gourmet meals and keep a neat household, while Swell, the oldest sister, took an entry level job as an assistant at a high-profile fashion apparel company.

With her cigarettes, tight french braids, fire engine red lips, and teen gal insights about uniforms, Swell climbed the ranks in just weeks before it inevitably all went to crap when their mom came home to find a raging fashion show playing out in their backyard. Such silly shenanigans!

This walk down memory lane has a point, I promise, and it is this … 7 words, one line. One line that has followed me for 26 years: “I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

There’s this scene in the movie, after Swell first gets the job with Rose, the Senior Vice President of Operations with shoulder pads you could sleep on, where Rose is taking like 5 minutes to onboard her new hire. As a final directive, she tells Swell, “And one more thing, and this is so important … Whenever we’re not alone or I’m on the phone and I ask you something, no matter what it is, you always say, ‘I’m right on top of that, Rose!’ [in a peppy tone] OK?”

via GIPHY

Every single day, in every situation, I am the Rose and the Swell.

I tell both myself and everyone around me that everything is under control, even when I’ve spent all the hypothetical petty cash and I have to clean the happy fat vats. I do it because it’s too paralyzing to stop and assess how I’m really doing. Do I really want to know how far behind I am? How depleted? How frazzled?

“I’m right on top of that, Rose!” is no different than, “Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming,” or “Smile and wave, boys”. These fake-it-till-ya-make-it phrases are all the soul’s rebuttal to high demand when it can’t take on one more thing, or manage what it’s already carrying, but it feels impossible to admit it.

I recently went through an intense period professionally. And I have three daughters, so basically every day of my existence is stressful at home. (Beautiful, but stressful, yes, we all agree.) The only option was to put my head down and walk forward through the mud. Like a pregnant tortoise, no doubt, but forward ever still.

I recognized this chapter immediately because it’s one I’ve lived through before, many times. I tell myself if I can just keep unloading dishwashers and packing lunches. Keep detangling and putting up ponytails and putting away laundry. Keep adding tasks to the list and taking 10-minute impromptu meetings. Keep answering emails and writing words. Keep on keeping on.

Because when I lift my head, that’s when I notice that my to-list is substantially longer than my to-done list. Actually scrolling through it, I feel like it’s going to grow rows of teeth and swallow me whole. Big tasks, little tasks, follow ups, follow throughs. There for a span of about four weeks I was positively pounded with expectation. And subsequently, all the anxiety.

But did anyone know?

“I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

Of course they didn’t. Because that would require me saying no to something or asking for help or acknowledging I ran out of time. And I don’t run out of time! Pulling back the curtain to show the panic and tears and ugliness we typically reserve for our own self-loathing is just way too logical, too vulnerable, too honest. Screaming “uncle!” is weak in comparison to the denial-drenched alternative “I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

And I guess what I’m asking is why we do it to ourselves. I can’t be the only one who spends her lunch hour picking up the dog’s arthritis medicine, 3 poster boards for Star of the Week and the special non dairy cheese, glancing at the clock every 2 minutes to make sure there’s enough time. There has to be a silent army of us out there rounding up the oddities that make our tribe’s globe keep rotating on its perfect little axis.

And it’s not like I’m on an island. I have a husband. A good one, in fact. With a car and legs and a cell phone and a wallet. One who I could send an S.O.S. to at any time, no judgment. But I rarely do. I have friends. Good ones, in fact. With phones and mini vans and basements and vodka. Ones who I could text an S.O.S. to at any time, no judgement. But I rarely do. I have a family. A good one, in fact. With houses and a hereditary obligation to unconditionally love me, my partner and my offspring no matter what, and to show up every time no questions asked. But I rarely ask them.

It’s just insane, guys.

As women, our generosity muscle is strong. It gets worked. We see a weak moment for someone else and we offer to help before even thinking it through. We’re there to listen, cook, clean, fold, drive, whatever they need. But when we feel ourselves slipping, drowning, grasping, we push it down and we walk through the mud. The house is a mess and your cousins want to come over for dinner and I have a freelance story due and the dog has raging diarrhea? “I’m right on top of that, Rose! Sounds great!” I’m going out of town and got pulled into a last minute executive presentation and my oil needs changed and I’m getting a sinus infection. “I’m right on top of that, Rose! I’ve got it. No problem!”

And the people who really pay are the ones we love the absolute most. Hot off a stressful day I will scream at my girls to just “Go play anywhere but here!” while I burn an average tasting dinner that no one is going to eat anyway. But I’ll smile and eat my shit politely when a lukewarm acquaintance assigns me 50 action items for a charity event I didn’t even volunteer for or a stranger steals my parking spot at the grocery store in a thunderstorm. I don’t know why.

What would happen if I dropped “I’m right on top of that, Rose!” from my vernacular? What if we all did? What if, instead of “Sure,” “No problem,” “Absolutely,” “I’m fine,” “I’m great,” “I can just swing by on my way to …” we started saying things like, “Can you please,” and “I can’t,” and “I need,” and “It can wait,” and “Not today” and asking, “Is this really that important”? It would take time and a lot of reprogramming but it has to be possible. I see others doing it. Not many others, but others.

Let this be my confession:
On most days, I am only, at best, mildly on top of things. Other days I’m buried somewhere underneath. If you see me walking fast, I’m likely running late. If my head is down, I’m probably lost or checking to see what I need to do next. If I’m at the drugstore, shit’s probably going down. If I’m at the grocery, I’m miserable. If I’m exercising, I’m feeling guilty. If I’m driving, I’m listening to an audiobook about how to be a better human. I am a woman with her chin sticking just out of the water and I recognize your chin, too.

via GIPHY

I’m thinking my internal dialogue is as outdated as the hot pink and turquoise referee uniforms in the movie from which it came. I’m working to retire my tired ruminations and responses and downshift into more honesty. We’re always going to be hardwired to gather tasks. It’s our instinct to take inventory of needs and check the temperature of the members of our tribe, and there’s likely no fighting that. But I can certainly tap into my army more. I’ve got some pretty great soldiers among my ranks.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 47-52.9

May 13, 2018

I woke up well rested and plenty warm, my knit hat perched unsecured on top of my head and a slippery pool of drool between my cheek and the polyester padding around me. I could hear a different type of trail animal now, rumblings from our neighbors in Popular Stamp Gap. A few feet away, Just Matt was peeling his generous sleeping bag off his sweaty limbs and coaxing Bambi out of their tent.

I sat up and sluggishly pulled my warm legs from their protective vessel. I wielded them around, sat on top of my husband’s unsuspecting torso and poked my toes around until they connected with my slide-on camping shoes. I wrapped my extra blanket around my body and sat on a log next to our urine extinguished fire as one by one our herd emerged from their structures.

We began going about the business of breakfast. Steam rolled through the plastic lid holes of our camp stove, signaling that coffee was just moments away. We ripped open a 2 serving package of Biscuits and Gravy and dumped a few cups of boiling water in. I cupped my stainless steel mug and let the Trader Joe’s instant java with a whisper of box pinot settle into my nose. As if on cue, the sun announced itself over the mountains on the horizon. The trail was waking up and, on this very special occasion, I was fortunate enough to greet it.

In the distance, clouds were sneaking up behind us as we unknowingly broke camp. After a quick trip to the facilities (I chose the fourth tree from the slope 40 paces off the campsite), it was time to step onto the path for our final hike of the trip.

There are certain sounds – the rebellious rhythmic ding of my steel mug clanging against the carabiner on the strap of my pack, the rubber tips of my hiking poles unearthing stones, the gravel shifting under my dusty boot soles – that soothe me with each stride. I am a one-woman band performing for the hidden creatures and frazzled minds of those in these woods.

You have a lot of thoughts walking alone. Actual, full, real, weird thoughts. And that’s when you realize that’s it’s been a really long time since you last had an actual, full, real thought. All day long, people are talking at you … asking for things, explaining things, working through their own things. Sometimes you’re engaged, often times you’re not, but just as sure as you find silence, you’ll find someone who wants to fill it with noise.

But not out here.

Someone said to us once that they were shocked we don’t all walk together the whole time. At any given point on the hike, we could have as much as a half a mile between us. I like to hang back on the steep climbs and let everyone go ahead of me. On this, our final morning on the AT, I found myself gloriously alone on the mountainside, winding my way around and entertaining all the roaming ruminations that entered my finally rested mind.

This was our fourth day of hiking, and by now my body was starting to keep track. If I took a deep breath, I could feel the strain on my lungs, the tissue bearing tally marks of oxygen sucking exertions and 30-degree mountain air. If I straightened my back, the weight of the pack tugged at my shoulders and down my spine and retold the story of strain from the flat ground the night before. It was all there. Adventure feels different at 33 … 34 … 35.

I passed by large, rolling hills with bare tree trunks layered like bristles in Mother Nature’s hairbrush. I thought about obscure things, like how when you drive by a mountain it looks brown from the road. But when you’re on it, you can see each and every branch. You can see their organic tumor-like growths and unsettled roots. You observe the personalities of each plant, which you would never normally consider.

Even silence has a shelf life, and mine was about to expire. I caught up to the boys. Just Matt and The General were standing around in a clearing spitting water on each other like toddlers. I’ve learned that decades can pass, but boys who grow up TP-ing and shooting each other with foam bullets are always going to revert back to those boys when they get together to play in the woods. It’s an immaturity that transcends the power of time.

About an hour into our 8-mile day, a mist started falling. It felt good at first. Almost pretty; casting gray watercolor hues around the mountain tops. When my sleeves started holding the water, I caved and put on my raincoat and pack cover. We passed an older gentleman drenched in a mix of salty sweat and cleansing rain. “I can’t believe I let my son talk me into this,” he said, to all of us and no one in particular.

We came over a mountain and into a wet Celtic landscape. Mossy rocks layered on top of and propped against each other proved slick and challenging for my amateur agility. Despite the fact it felt like we were seconds away from stitches with every step, the scenery was outstanding. By far my favorite of the trip. Gravy and I were alone through most of this terrain. Honestly, I think he waited for me for fear I wouldn’t make it through on my own. Probably valid.

Around the halfway mark, I started to get hungry. And we all know how things turn once my tummy starts talkin to me. We were all waiting for a final climb, which we were told that morning over breakfast would be followed by a long, long descent. It was hard to tell with the growling stomach and the rain and the emerald dressed boulders, what constituted a “final climb”. All we were doing was climbing. If we could get to the top of Blue Mountain we should find a shelter where we could have lunch and a final reprieve before we headed down toward the truck.

I got snappy as we pulled ourselves up the mountainside. I let my husband pass, for fear he might divorce me over the things I was saying out of hunger. I knew, just a few more steps and I would pull out my lunch, have a Snickers and turn back into the Biscuits he could love.

I saw the roof peaking out as I leaned into my screaming thighs and urged them to carry me just 30 more feet. I set my pack down, pulled out a tortilla and pouch of Justin’s Maple Almond Butter and blacked out from the ecstasy of the sweet, carby snack meeting my mouth. It was so dirty. Just me and all the foods I’d stowed away for this final meal. I was having a food fiesta for one and no one else was invited.

I had five tortillas left in my pack and absolutely no need for them after this little lust fest. So, I turned around to offer my stash. I was joined by Bambi, Gravy, a pair of younger thru hikers and – who else – the couple from Canada we’d been leapfrogging since we got here.

The wife politely indulged in a tortilla while her husband – who couldn’t have gluten – told us all about their adventure. Turns out, he made it to Katahdin in 2004 and they’d just wrapped a 90+ mile trek through Scotland. Unfortunately he’d fallen a few days back and had the scars to show for it. He lifted his glasses to reveal a gash on the side of his nose that began just below his eye. They were making arrangements to get off the trail for the night. As we packed up, the gentleman said they were going to come out every year with the intent of going as far as they could go and just see. I envied them.

For our little crew, it was time to bring this thing home. The General, Just Matt and Captain Cordage, with some good momentum and a desire to dodge my car sickness, had gone ahead. They would go get Tank and the other vehicle and someone would stay back to meet us at Unicoi Gap, our stopping point.

After a few manageable climbs we found ourselves staring down at the start of an infinite descent. For a mile and a half we worked our way through switchbacks and across stones positioned as unstable steps and grunted and groaned and gasped.

“I almost just died!” Bambi said behind me at one point, a pair of flat stones set loose down the sloping mountain beside him, 13 years of joys and regrets flashing before his eyes no doubt.

Most people think, and rightfully so, that a decline beats an incline any day of the week. But in actuality, it presents its own set of spirit breakers. For starters, you can’t look up. There’s no way. The second you take your eyes off the wobbly rocks or shifty dirt, you’re done. So you end up with a sore neck and zero pictures to show for it. Then there’s the pressure. In your toes, in the front pad of your foot, in your ankles and in your knees. It’s like strapping a 6 year old to your back and then trying to walk across a tiere balance beam on your toes. Not great.

Eventually we heard the familiar sound of cars zooming by on the mountain highway. We could see the parking lot at Unicoi Gap, and our three trailmates at Captain Cordage’s truck. We were turning on the final switchback as The General and Just Matt pulled out to go retrieve Tank, completely unaware of our proximity.

We came to the road and crossed over, back toward reality and 20 paces closer to the 9-to-5 hustle. Some locals had a tent set up to host a little trail magic for those passing through. I think once upon a time, trail magic was more the love child of of three way involving necessity, kindness and coincidence. Maybe a thru hiker broke a shoelace and a local just happened to be on their way home and felt inclined to give the troubled backpacker their own laces. Or a couple at a local restaurant picked up the tab for a grubby north bounder to free up some of his dwindling cash. Or a cow farmer let a hiker come in out of a thunderstorm in exchange for help feeding the animals in the morning. You get the idea. It was a meeting of people in an hour of need; one with the means to offer relief and the other in desperate need of it.

Now, while I’m sure these rendezvous with fate still occur, it seems to be more common to come across premeditated magic. We saw a few trucks at these points where the road intersects the blazes set up with coolers full of food and boxes of bandages and trail essentials. It’s refreshing to see goodwill in any form, but as section hikers, we felt a little strange taking advantage of the generosity. We were never more than a dozen miles away from a vehicle, so it felt wrong taking a Pepsi and PopTart out of the hands of someone who was days, possibly weeks away from a night in a real bed. So we simply waved and kept moving.

After we politely passed this latest trail magic tailgate, we made it to Captain Cordage who was waiting with warm orange Gatorades and wet wipes. We threw our packs in the back of his truck and made our way down out of the mountains. Soon the brown peaks were in the the rear view mirror, rather than a stone’s throw from my window. We were heading to Hiawassee, Georgia, to regroup at a local Mexican restaurant. I knew before my brother even walked through the door that he was going to want to drive straight through and be back in Indiana before his head hit the pillow that night.

I settled into a bright orange, somewhat sticky chair in front of a mariachi mural and poured over the menu, rich with pale images of impressive combo platters brimming with beans and rice. I ordered a pint of queso paired with a pollo con fresco la margarita de diarrhea-o de something or other and waited for Just Matt to walk in. Sure enough, he had made the decision, though he amended it by saying, “But we can see how we feel.” We all knew what that meant. Saddle up, partners, we’re riding at sundown.

Within hours, Tank, carrying four grimey, groggy section hikers, was barreling through sleet and snow, somewhere in the south. Around 9:30 that night, we pulled off at a Big Boy in Kentucky. This is one of my brother’s only stipulations for these trips; He demands one Big Boy and one Buddy Boy with a side of onion rings. It’s greasy and it’s tradition.

Things got quieter and the temperatures got colder the further up the map we climbed. Less than an hour from home we pulled into a gas station and everyone slipped on ice as they tried to climb down out of the truck. We weren’t in Georgia anymore.

Sweet JoJo was wide awake and waiting when we walked through the door at 2 a.m. She’d made a fort in the front room so she wouldn’t miss us. The next morning, from the comfort of my couch, displayed via my AppleTV, we scrolled through pictures from our trip and tried to recall overlooks and shelters for Hank’s parents. It’s a sharp shift in both directions; from work to wilderness, then back from seclusion to suburbia. It takes a beat. But as our chicks settled in all around us, bickering and beautiful as ever, Biscuits and Gravy went back to being Mom and Dad. Just like that.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 39.5-44.6

May 3, 2018

I have always gotten car sick. Always. Green-faced, barf-in-a-grocery-bag car sick. I can remember hanging my head out the window on the 4-minute drive from my elementary school to our then-house because I was certain my square pizza was going to come back up. If it’s hot, if it’s going to rain, if it’s going to snow, if I’m in the back seat, if I’m facing backward, you name it, I’ll puke all over it.

So when we started out that Thursday morning at 10am, the six of us, all crammed into Tank, barreling toward Hogpen Gap, I knew my dramamine wasn’t going to be sufficient. I think the people of north Georgia purchased all of the warning signs for a double bend in the road ahead that have ever been made. And I’m pretty sure we passed each and every one of them that morning.

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window as Just Matt called out, in a light, annoying tone, “‘’Nother squiggle sign!” “Op, and another squiggle.” What started as a joke for the men in my company soon soured, as I began whining and snapping in my discomfort. If I had to suffer, they all had to suffer. My nephew, crammed in the middle of the front seat next to me, inched closer to his dad, terrified of what might come erupting out of his ancient aunt.

“Just 21 more minutes,” The General offered from the backseat. How could one road bend so damn much and go on for so damn long? We were working our way around a mountain and, if anyone was keeping score, I assure you, the mountain was winning. The curves were kicking my ass.

After the longest drive of my life, we made it to the parking lot at Hogpen Gap. I barrel rolled out of the front seat, the sky and earth a swirling mass of blues, greens and browns circling my head. I knew I was standing still, but I could have sworn I was swaying like a drunk man on a carnival ride.

Everyone gave their packs a once over before positioning them to carry their full weight for the first time since we’d arrived in Georgia two days ago. My brother drug his from the back of his truck cab and wrestled it onto his shoulders.

One thing you might not know is that the backpacking industry is big business. There are countless accessories and gear options all engineered to be as lightweight and functional as possible. When you have 30-50 pounds pulling on your shoulders, you feel every ounce, and so, those who enjoy a nice mountainside getaway will spend big bucks for featherlight products. Unless, of course, they are built like Shrek and stubborn as Trump’s combover. And that, my friends, is my brother.

In the weeks leading up to our trip, I’d check in with him here and there … “Do you have everything you need?” “Sure,” he’d say. “I just need to run out for a few last-minute things,” he’d say. One of those last-minute items was a properly sized sleeping bag. Turns out, the man-child had been carrying a women’s sleeping bag for the past 2 years. Since he forgot to grab one at the camping store, he made an emergency run to the nearest big box outdoor vendor and purchased a synthetic 8-pound sleeping bag (to compare, mine weighs just under 3 pounds). It was huge and heavy and all wrong. Add to that, he was carrying most of the food and a two-person tent for him and his son, a full water bladder, insulated thermos mug and camping stove.

As he heaved it onto his broad back, the straps slapped in front of him with a thud. An involuntary sound plunged from his mouth. He would never acknowledge how uncomfortable it truly was, but he didn’t need to.

His speed that Thursday would tell the story for him. One step at a time, he lugged his tarp-sized sleeping bag and all his essentials up and down, up and over, up and down. To add to his discomfort, the straw of his water bladder was releasing a steady leak of fluid down onto his chest, making it appear as if he were lactating on one side. By the time we found a small campsite to stop for lunch, just over an hour into our day on the trail, he was already drenched.

The boys were checking scores from the Masters as thru hikers sporadically passed by and I wondered if they even realized the tournament was taking place that weekend. As the day went on we’d leapfrog with different groups of three or four backpackers aspiring to go all the way, chatting about trail names and weather conditions. I placed bets in my head about who would endure and who would throw their boots in the tree, so to speak.

We passed a man and his 6-year-old son taking a break after a semi-brutal climb. The boy was smiling, sitting proudly next to his dad. We’d hear the next day they went well past us and camped on ahead, and I couldn’t help but think of how our girls would do out here. If I would want to bring our girls out here. They say the mountains call them, too, and I just hope that desire stays in their hearts long enough for us to feel confident enough to entertain it.

We only had 6 miles to cover for the day, so we reached our campsite at Poplar Stamp Gap (elevation 2990’) at a decent hour. The General and Captain Cordage had been ahead of us for some time and greeted us with the stark white skin of their bare chests. The General, you must understand, is all about “airing things out”. Clothes, skin, gear … whatever it is, he’s airing it out. Moisture is the enemy of hikers. It means chafing and blisters and other unwanted afflictions.

And so the grown men went about hanging their hammocks and pitching their tents, blinding torsos on display for all humans and wildlife who passed to enjoy. I left my sunglasses on and helped Gravy set up our modest little two-person living quarters.

Our tent isn’t much to look at. It’s incredibly light and easy enough to set up, but certainly leaves something to be desired in the square footage. There is room for two sleeping pads, bumped up next to each other, two sleeping bags on top of the pads and two bodies inside those bags. That’s pretty much it. Boots stay outside, and only my bag of clothes comes in and hangs out on top of my feet. Sometimes it literally feels like Gravy and I are just breathing each other’s air.

We noticed the older gentleman from Canada we’d seen the two days before leaning against a log just outside of our camp area, his wife nowhere in sight. Gravy went over and spoke to him. He was feeling a little depleted from their adventure and we worried about how much further he could go. Eventually, he gathered himself enough to press on, his sweetheart from the north waiting up the trail.

Our suite for the evening came together rather quickly, so, when Gravy went to refill our water bladders, I hit a different bladder. Our bag of wine. The crimson juice filled my stainless steel mug and the aroma of alcoholic grapes rushed to my nostrils. I sipped the warm fermented treat, fantastic even at body temperature.

The small bladder was deceptively generous. Gravy and I each had a few cups and, being dehydrated as I was, it didn’t take long for me to feel loose and tingly. I noticed The General’s backpacking chair, a squatty seat with fabric, a frame and two legs, made for balancing by the fire. I’d been wanting to try it since our mountainside evening last year. Two mugs in, the opportunity was now before me, calling to me like a Sharpie to a toddler.

I held it under me, hovering above the weak frame while Just Matt sat scrolling through the Masters scores on his phone. I committed. Dropped my ass down into the seat just in time to see my camp sandals, feet inside ‘em, come up over my head. I don’t know if I even made a noise, but the zip of my puffy down jacket sliding across the twigs on the ground was enough to steal my brother’s attention.

“Jeeeezzzzuusss,” he said. I heard it in my head before he actually said it. I stayed on my back looking up at the darkening powder blue sky for a handful of seconds. It felt so vast up here. From this angle. My flip and my thoughts finally caught up to each other and I started laughing hysterically. What it must have looked like from a sober side view …

Gravy, Bambi and The General came back and we started preparing our dehydrated dinners. Spicy chicken from Hawk Vittles for us, Lasagna for Just Matt and Bambi, homemade chicken tacos for the General and a vegan meal for the Captain.

“We are going to eat every single thing in this bag,” Just Matt said to Bambi, showing no sign of sarcasm. “I’m not carrying all this out of here tomorrow. Here, have another Snickers.” He tossed the brown wrapper to his son.

It was fun for me to watch my big brother and his “little” boy out here. To be a fly on my sibling’s shoulder as his kid pushed himself and found his way was kind of cool. I’ve shared a birthday with this young gentleman for 13 years now, but this was the year he finally surpassed me in height. This was the year he stopped acting shy. This was the year he came out to the woods and killed it, like a teenager on the brink of independence. Bittersweet for sure.

Around 9 o’clock I peed off the trail and the boys peed all over the fire. As soon as I got settled into my sleep bag I talked myself into going No. 1 one more time, just to be sure. In order to get out of our tiny tent I actually had to sit on my husband’s stomach, get my feet out and then maneuver my torso through the door. He grunted underneath me as I searched for my camp sandals in the moonlight.

Empty and slightly buzzed, I got back into my grape-colored Kelty and closed my eyes. I’d opted to carry the weight of both an extra blanket and an inflatable pillow this trip. Totally worth it. I let out a sigh of submission and closed my eyes. Just then, the sounds of wild yips and howls echoed somewhere in the distance. Coyotes, Gravy confirmed. They didn’t sound that far away.

“Um … are we OK here?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. Coyotes don’t want anything to do with people,” he said. I couldn’t see his face.
“Really?”
“Yeah, babe. Just go to sleep.”

And I did. I fell asleep to the sounds of a wild pack of dogs having a moonlight rave just a strong man’s stone’s throw away. At some point in the night I awoke to owls, hooting to each other from branches all around us. I pictured their cartoon-like faces conversing despite their unwanted guests.

The next morning Gravy would tell me the coyotes were “eery” and actually kind of freaked him out. My brother didn’t hear a thing. He was sound asleep under his eight-pound sleeping bag. Not a care in the world.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT Miles 31.7-38.6

April 27, 2018

Here’s a fun fact: A gale is officially defined as a wind of between 32 and 63 mph. A wind blowing from 4-31 mph is a breeze. Interesting, huh? And you know when a gale really feels like a freaking gale? When you’re standing on a mountain ridge with nothing between your pale Midwestern face and the gusts of hell arriving in ripples like mini needle tsunamis crashing against your cheeks. .

I must tell you before you read on, that if you’ve ever associated any of the following adjectives with our group – ”brave”, “tough”, “badass”, “resilient”, “resolute” – those titles will undoubtedly cease after you read this. I apologize in advance for the cowardly, wussified recount that is about to unfold in these paragraphs. Our mismatched posse ranges in age from 13 to 47, and, while not an excuse, it does play a part, though mostly for the four fools who fall in between those outliers.

We woke up to catch the first serving of the Best Western’s finest again at 6:15. Today would be egg rounds and sausage patties on a bagel, with some Kashi on the side. Again the weak coffee. Again the headlines. The softest mist of rain was spraying from the navy sky. I could barely feel it, though I saw the gentle spray falling in the parking lot lights. I recalled hearing thunder the night before, a familiar sound I hadn’t heard since winter’s arrival in Indiana back in November.

I got back to the room and assessed my condition: Small blister on my right toe. Stiff. Definitely dehydrated. I threw a hotel towel on the disgusting carpet and started a weak excuse for a sun salutation. (Sidenote: Who is making these hotel towels and who the hell are they making them for? My left leg? My kids’ Barbies? But like, for real, who is their sample group? I’m all … is this one the rug?) My nalgene bottle was in the fridge and we had a gallon of water we hadn’t used the day before. I started pounding the H2O. I threw down water shot after water shot after water shot. Was there a danger to hydrating too quickly? I figured the benefits outweighed the risks of going back out in my current state. My insides felt like a desert. I pictured tiny vultures circling my deflated organs as I inhaled cup after cup.

The plan was to get dropped off at Neels Gap with our day packs, hike to Hogpen Gap, where we would meet up with The General and Captain Corden, saddle up with our full packs and then hike a few miles until we found a good place to camp for the night. That was the plan.

We made a pit stop at Cabin Coffee Co. on our way out of Blairsville. I’ll go on record as saying it felt a little like a vegan eating a turkey leg. There we were, five tough-as-nails hikers sipping our various milk foam-topped beverages with one pump of this and a frothy dollop of that as we drove toward the mountains to disconnect. That being said, my breve was an absolute delight.

When we got to Neels Gap, I didn’t really have to pee yet, but I figured I should use the port-a-potties while they were there. The door to the soft blue stall slammed behind my husband, who emerged taking a noticeable inhale. Perhaps the first breath he’d taken in 2 minutes. And with good reason. [Omit details here.]

The General pulled away as Just Matt, Bambi, Gravy and I assembled in a staggered line. A thru hiker was filling her dog’s dish with water and rinsing off her camp shoes. A gust of wind ripped through the only covered section of the Appalachian Trail as we passed underneath it.

“Oh shit,” somebody ahead of me said.
“That’s what I was saying all night,” the thru hiker offered. It had not been a pleasant evening in the woods, it was safe to assume.

We began with a manageable incline. I stopped about 20 steps in to adjust my gear. I zipped my raincoat all the way up, pulled the hood over my hat and cinched the cords to secure the material around my face. This wind was going to hand me my ass today. No doubt about it. How could I be sure? If the rainflies on the tents of last night’s scattered campers whipping and thrashing to our right told me anything, it was that Mother Nature was feeling feisty. I imagined the poor thru hikers underneath the chaos – their protective layer the cape, the wind the bull – waiting in their sleeping bags for a sign it was safe to come out. Or that they had to come out.

When we reached the crest of the first hill, it hit me.

“I have to pee,” I said to Just Matt.
“Already? Damn.”

I had him turnaround and watch for other hikers. I’m tellin’ ya, you haven’t lived until you’ve had an arctic blast go blowin’ up your southern hemisphere at 30+ mph with your older brother standing guard. Once i broke the seal, I was stopping every 10 minutes or so. I believe that’s what they really mean by “yellow blazing”. I had over-served myself.

Now guys, when I say the wind was strong, I mean you could lean into it and it would hold you up. Fight you even. It lashed out at my face and bit my ears. There were a handful of times I had to turn my back to the surge and brace myself. One of these instances came before the second climb, immediately following my second pee of the day. My brother and I had this conversation, his phone in his hand. Wind at his back.

“We aren’t sleeping out here,” he said.
“We aren’t?”
“No.”
“The General is going to be so disappointed.”
“No he won’t.”
“Yeah right.”
“He already knows.”
“He does?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“I told him at the car when he dropped us off.”
“Oh.”
“I said, ‘If it’s windy as shit out here, we’re staying in Blairsville tonight.’”
“And …”
“And it’s windy as shit.”

Wind from Courtney Leach on Vimeo.

As he spoke he was texting his friend, confirming the Best Western would indeed be hosting us for a third night. I couldn’t say I was disappointed. I mean, I don’t take a ton of time off work, so this is one of like three mini vacations I would take all year. Did I really want to spend it getting tossed around on top of a mountain like a pebble in a giant’s boot? Not really. We could afford the hotel, we didn’t want to freeze and we wanted the youngin’ (Bambi) to come back next year.

We pressed on to the top of the next climb and found Gravy and Bambi standing next to a tree. At the base stood a tiny fairy house. Flat JoJo was hanging out there for an impromptu photo shoot. I turned and found a second. What an adorable little wink from a past hiker. The dainty, colorful display was such a vibrant contrast amidst the sea of brown trees willing themselves toward spring.

We broke the news to the other fellas. We’d be getting off the trail at Hogpen Gap. Gravy seemed a little disappointed. The kid was just fine with it. Television and restaurants trumped dehydrated lasagna and gusts that rivaled the breath of Satan.

We came to the base of the next mountain and found a heart someone had drawn on the ground.

“It’s that couple from Canada,” Gravy said. “The ones we saw yesterday.” We’d passed the husband just minutes before, and would soon meet up with his wife, about a half a mile between them.

As we caught up to her, she smiled and said, “Is he back there?”
“He is,” Gravy told her. “He’s about 10 minutes from ya.”

Another display standing out among the bare branches; A Canadian love story. Who’d have guessed?

We came to a large rock with a phenomenal view. We were two hours into the day and had reached the first photo-worthy overlook. We sat, congregated on the rock’s ripples and ridges, chomping on protein bars, taking in the blue mountains in the distance and listening to Just Matt bitch about a very intense discomfort he was experiencing (top secret trail talk). His booming tone cut through the majestic scenery like Andrew Dice Clay at a poetry reading. Though you’d never know it from the pictures.

Eventually, we would work our way around to another large rock overlook straight across from where we stood in that moment. It’s interesting, when people ask us why we come out to the AT and squander our hard-earned vacation hours on no running water and a backpack full of jerky, I want to take them to these humbling views that reach in and press reset on your perspective. Hiking is a microcosm for life, as I’ve said here so many times. If you show up, and you do the work and you challenge yourself, eventually you’ll reach the reward. And that reward will be more beautiful than you could have imagined; A masterpiece in God’s greatest art gallery.

Sore and satisfied, we climbed into Tank and drove through the winding pavement back the way we came. We couldn’t get into our rooms until 4pm, so we went to Copeland’s, a short walk up the road. We smelled like 5 days of hard work on bodies that hadn’t been washed in 10. I went to the restroom to wash my hands and held them under the warm water, letting them start the healing process after the morning’s bitter beating.

My brother and nephew split an order of chili cheese fries and then Bambi ordered a burger with chili on top. Let the record show, Biscuits and Gravy cautioned against this bold move. All I could hear in my head was the lady from Mr. Mom … “You fed a baby chili?” He could not be deterred.

We checked into different rooms at the Best Western and went about the business of hauling in packs, redistributing food, etc. My left calf was so tight I was walking like Snoop Dogg. I tried foam rolling it on my nalgene bottle, but it was no use. It felt like I’d been kicked by Clydesdale.

Around 5, showered and somewhat bored, we decided to walk to the local cupcake place, which was open for exactly 2 hours a day. We’d missed the window. So we walked down to some fancy coffee place and picked up a few slices of cake, a scoop of gelato and, what else, more coffee.

When we got back to our rooms, a new neighbor had arrived, as had a certain skunky smell I remembered well from the crowded parties of my youth. Every 10 minutes, like clockwork, he would come out of his room, go get into his truck, start it, and then smoke. Only to repeat the whole ritual 10 minutes later.

By 8, my darling husband and I made the executive decision that our bodies needed greens … roughage … fiber. So, we ordered a salad from Copeland’s to split and Gravy walked down to get it. It was not great and we’d probably have been better off just hydrating the heck out of ourselves, but it was too late for rational decisions. I turned on My 400 Pound Life and drifted off.

Around 3 am I heard the truck start up again.
Then at 4:30 …
Then at 5 ….

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 22.1 – 30.7

April 16, 2018

“Was this the spot?” Hank asked, pointing to a stair step series of stones on the side of a semi-steep mountain.
“Maybe,” I said, slow and uncertain. I didn’t want to admit that these dusty beige stones looked like other stones, like so many stones I’d stepped on today and the two trips before.

It was April 3, and we were doing something no one with an insurmountable goal wants to do; We were retracing steps we’d taken nearly 364 days ago, back on the Appalachian Trail in northern Georgia. It was on this stretch of dirt and rock where I’d wiped out last year, poles flying, palms screaming across the earth. It was a slow motion fall, according to my brother. I’d had enough time to make a sandwich before actually coming into contact with the unforgiving stone, he’d guessed. And the way I remembered it, he was right.

So why would we take a second pass on a path when we had so many miles yet to cover? The very stretch where I’d kissed the ground no less? Well, last year, because of rain, we made our first day an impromptu jog north to south (the wrong way) from Neels Gap to Blood Mountain Shelter and back down the way we came, which we’d intended to do on our last day. If you’re a frequent flier here, you may recall my recount of tornado sirens and slick-ass stones. Well, that left us with 10 miles to make up for from Woody Gap to Blood Mountain Shelter (ending up back at Neels Gap). In other words, we had to do the other side of the mountain. Confused? Me too. That’s why I just show up with my shit and start following everybody.

Unlike 2017, there would be no rain on this visit to Blood Mountain. In fact, it was arguably perfect hiking weather. Low 70s, blue, sunny skies and a slight breeze.

The day had announced its perfection early.

We woke up in Blairesville around 6:10. Enough time to hop in the shower and meet the crew in the lobby of the Best Western for a continental breakfast. Random sleepy eyed strangers stared up at the local news – someone crashed into a pawn shop, a man was shot standing in his front yard – the usual uplifting headlines. I poured a plastic cup full of batter into the waffle iron and turned it before administering my drug of choice: dull brown coffee with one creamer pod. The sweet, synthetic stuff. The waffle iron beeped aggressively. I worked the utensil under the crispy bread pockets, adhered stubbornly to the worn, ungreased machine. The struggle would be worth it. Real butter, fake syrup and not an ounce of regret.

After I’d had my fill of complimentary pastries, cereals and empty calories, I walked up the stairs and across the second floor a few steps. The neon orange sun sent sloppy, glorious brushstrokes across the horizon, just above the mountains in the distance.

I see you.

I’m coming.

We filled our water bladders, tucked them into our day packs with some snacks, lunch and just-in-case items, and threw them in the back of Just Matt’s truck next to our hiking poles. The General drove us to Woody Gap (where we finished last year) and then left Tank (Matt’s truck) for us at Neels Gap. He and his friend, Captain Cordage, had finished this leg of our trip the day before, and his subtle limp now told me it wouldn’t disappoint.

We would be climbing to 4461’ elevation by lunch time, eventually reaching the highest point on the Georgia section of the AT. I needed to use the potty before the impending summit. People always ask me about the bathroom situation on these little adventures, and honestly, it’s a lot of cold pit toilets and pissing so the wind doesn’t blow it back on ya. It’s drip-dried everything and tense thigh muscles. It’s humbling and hilarious and likely exactly what you’d imagine.

We posed for a quick first photo before we officially stepped onto the trail to start Trip No. 3; me, Gravy, Just Matt and a new addition, my nephew, “Bambi” a.k.a “El Nino” a.k.a. “Just Sam”. Four family members with one big ass hill to climb.

They say it takes at least a week to get your trail legs. That is, to get to a point where your quads don’t sting and your calves stop locking up after a few hours of relentless elevation. We would have four days. I watched Just Matt’s mini me stumble and fumble with his poles.

Sweet little beginner.

It felt so good to use my body in the middle of a Tuesday. Everything was tensing and waking up and starting to fire. The intricate matrix of rock and roots reached out to remind me how the trail demands attention at all times. I looked up just in time to see my big brother catch the tip of his steel-toed boot and fall forward.

“Gah! Shit!” awkwardly flew from his mouth.

Sweet big beginner.

Just Matt had officially kicked off his third visit to the AT with a little twist and shout south of his ankle. He was dragging behind a bit, and eloquently expressing his discomfort (read: cussing like a lemon squeezer with a papercut). We were about ¼ of the way through our hike for the day, but he was already telling me I’d have to call Mom that night and thank her for our weak ankles (which I did).

After a lung-piercing climb, we reached a beautiful overlook. I picked my chin up and remembered why people go up toward the heavens in the first place. You don’t get views like this in the office. Or the gym. Or standing at the kitchen sink. We walked onto the rock to take a picture. Hank pulled off his day pack to retrieve Flat JoJo.

Ahhhhh Flat JoJo.

Our oldest daughter’s second grade class was doing a project where they had to make a Flat Stanley version of themselves, give it to someone and have them take the paper person on an adventure. There had to be pictures and a note from Flat JoJo recounting the excursion. This would be the first of many times her dedicated father would pull a one dimensional replica of his firstborn out of his pack and place it carefully into the scenery.

By the time we came back down the other side of our first major climb, I was ready for fuel.

“I’m gonna have to go full lunch,” I announced, to the surprise of no one. “I was gonna just do a protein bar, but it’s not going to cut it. We’re goin’ all in.”

We sat down on a square of downed tree trunks and started retrieving our snacks from our packs. I grabbed a pouch of tuna, condiment packs and tortillas.

Here’s a little inside scoop about my portable trail pantry. The last Friday before we take off, I spread the word around my office that I need everyone who goes down to the cafeteria to grab and extra (or 3) pouches of the following: mayo, mustard, salt, pepper and ketchup. I love this good-natured thievery for so many reasons. 1) It’s an excuse to have one final chat with my coworkers before I leave them for a week. They slide a few packs onto my desk while we rap about spring break, the weather, podcasts, whatev. And I really love those people. 2) It doesn’t make me look like I have a raging mayonnaise habit. And 3) Whenever I pull a condiment out to whip up a gourmet pouch of shredded slop, I think about how someone cared enough to swipe it for me. It truly takes a village to feed a starving domesticated hiker on the AT.

Anyway, back to the tuna. I stirred and mixed it up and then handed the pouch to Gravy so I could fetch a few tortillas. I held them out, one in each hand, and he started spooning it on. And spooning … and spooning … and spooning.

“Jezus!” Just Matt remarked.
“What?” I asked.
“How much GD tuna is in that frickin pouch, man?”
“A lot,” Gravy offered.
“Psh … yeah. Boatloads of tuna,” Just Matt agreed. “I mean, those are literally the biggest tuna piles I’ve ever seen.”
“It said ‘serves 2’ on the package,” Gravy explained, before ending with, “I don’t even like tuna.”.

For some reason, there, sitting on a log with two ginormous tuna burritos weighing down the palms of each of my hands, I started laughing, and I couldn’t stop. It was absurd. The sheer mass of fish I was holding. I finally managed to eat half of it before handing it to Bambi.

“Can you toss this way off down that hill?” I asked.
“Sure,” he agreed, before standing up turning and throwing it right into a tree, about a foot from where some unknowing hiker would pitch his/her tent that night.

That was the day I earned the temporary trail name Big Tuna and likely the night someone got eaten by a bear fresh off hibernation and achin for some fish salad.

We walked on. Just Matt was slothing behind the pack, his tender ankle screaming at him with every stone and every root. I decided to hang back so he wouldn’t feel self conscious. We were working our way through the approach to the top of Blood Mountain when we saw a pair of teenage girls sitting on a tree taking a breather.

“How’s it goin’ –” came cooly from my mouth as we passed, inches from them, and just as the sole of my boot hooked the rubber on my left pole, pulling my torso forward like a 10-foot giant with his shoelaces tied together falling from the beanstalk. I saved myself from a full face-plant, but guys, it was close. Basically, I had looked them in the eyes, spoke to them and then nearly catapulted my body into their laps. All that tuna swimming around must have thrown me off. My cheeks burned from laughing at my brother’s verbal instant replay behind me. Of course, he saw the whole graceful exchange.

Gravy and Bambi were way ahead of us now. We were winding through whimsical green rhododendrons and nearing the top of Blood Mountain. We could hear a loud group hollering from the top. I got eyes on him as we reached the peak. One of my biggest pet peeves is people who like to throw parties in the middle of other people’s backyards. On this sunny day, it was a family from the south, drinking beers and murdering spam sandwiches. This one guy in particular was just shitting all over the scenery with his obnoxious, booming voice box.

We parked on the rocks for a bit, but didn’t linger thanks to Jethro the Jolly Drunk.

The descent was laced with large, flat stones that forced you to shuffle down sideways. I could hear Just Matt behind me, in agony. I caught up to my husband, which brings us back to the stair step stones.

“I’m pretty sure this is where you fell last year,” he said. More than once. “I remember you had a lot of momentum going down and then ‘bam!”

We came across on older couple. She was leaning restfully between two handmade wooden poles, each about 6 inches taller than she was. Her husband was about 10 steps behind her. Day hikers, I assumed. But still, that had to be a challenging climb for them. They stepped aside and smiled as we passed.

Our 11 miles ended at Neels Gap. As we approached the store and hostile, we noticed the tree filled with boots, dangling eerily by their tied laces. Depending on who you ask, you’ll get a different story about the shoes. I first heard that this is where a good number of thru-hikers call it quits. They give up the fight, remove their footwear and toss them into the tree to formally announce the end of their journey. I also heard it’s where they realize they purchased the wrong style, throw them into the tree to demonstrate their hatred for their soles, and then head into the store – Mountain Crossings – which has a surprisingly wide array of gear, and buy new boots. But the store’s owners claim those shoes are the trophies of those who finished the entire Appalachian Trail. Choose your own adventure here, friends.

Gravy had gone ahead to get the truck from the parking lot where The General left it that morning, about ¼ mile from where we were. Just Matt collapsed onto the ground under the boot tree to wait, which wasn’t long. He got up and walked ahead of me to mount his trusty Tank and pound some Powerade.

“What’s on your ass?” I asked.
“What?” he responded, drunk on a dopey cocktail of discomfort, endorphins and exhaustion.

It turned out to be gum, spearmint he thought. It got on the seat of his truck and his hands, among other surfaces.

After driving back to Blairesville, we showered and ate at Monet’s Italian Grill and Pizzeria next to the Best Western. I was famished coming off of the Big Tuna incident and ordered my own 12-inch Margherita pizza, which I ate in its entirety. It was delicious. My nephew, who ordered a stromboli the size of his torso, stuffed with every meat known to man, fell way short.

But the 11-mile day had left us with bottomless guts. At the waiter’s recommendation, we went across the street to Sammie’s Sub Shoppe for brownie hot fudge sundaes because, you know, calories burned must be replaced. It was here, in an establishment operating under wonderful alliteration, where I had possibly the most awkward exchange of my adult life. The gentleman behind the counter, came over as we were paying and handed me a plastic spoon covered in hot fudge.

“Go ‘head,” he said.

I grabbed the handle of the utensil hesitantly and looked back at him.

“You can have it. I get so much of the stuff,” he continued.

It was becoming nauseatingly clear that this mountain man wanted me to lick the spoon in front of him, my husband and 13-year-old nephew looking on. I did what any sugar addict would have done in this situation and I sucked the syrup clean off that puppy, for fear of it going to waste otherwise. But, I admit, it was weird. Really weird. A sentiment Bambi shared as soon as we got back in the truck. Small southern towns, man. Ya just never know.

With a full tummy and a splash of shame, I fell asleep just after 8 to the Roseanne reboot. It just couldn’t hold me, and tomorrow would bring more hills and a face lashing I just didn’t see coming …

Thoughts

It’s not you, it’s … well, sometimes it’s you

March 21, 2018

Dear Desperately Seeking Representation,
Thank you for reaching out to me about this project.

I’m sorry this is a pass for me.

Right now my list is very full, and I’m fortunate that business
is very good so I can pass on projects that are not only
good and publishable but ones I really like. That’s a good
problem for me, but it just stinks from your
viewpoint.

I strongly encourage you to query widely. Other agents have more room
on their lists and are able to take on more clients.

Please think of this as redirection rather than rejection.

Very best wishes to you!

Brenda Boobenshlauts
Literary Agent to the Stars

“Redirection rather than rejection.” That’s some next-level breakup lingo there, folks.

You should know that this is an actual email that I actually received (for the most part). It came in response to a lofty step I took out onto a ledge protruding from the top floor of a building I’d never been in and knew very little about. It came from me taking a chance that didn’t quite pay off or pan out.

It’s cool. I can talk about it.

It’s amazing how ballsy we are in hypotheticals, isn’t it? How highly we think of the three-months-from-now version of ourselves when we’re feeling all big and aspirational. It’s not uncommon for me to set overly ambitious, unattainable goals when it comes to fitness or food restrictions, but when I sat down to make my 2018 resolutions, I wanted to throw something new in the mix. I wanted to get out of my literary La-Z Boy and dip my toes into a new pond. The publishing pond.

[laughing] Isn’t that so cute?

Back in January, I promised myself I would write something outside of this blog space and my day job space, and I would woman up and bravely send it out into the world, no regrets. At that time, I didn’t consider the boomerang laced with dismissal and disinterest that would come back to catch me in the kisser. I wasn’t thinking about the soul-crushing flood of failure that would infiltrate and poison my inbox.

And yet, the flood came.

To date, I have been told “thanks but no thanks” in a dozen different ways by a dozen different strangers. I’ve received short, shitty rejections, and softer it’s-not-you-it’s-me rejections. I’ve been rejected by men and by women. I’ve been rejected from six different states. I’ve been rejected more times today than I’ve used the restroom. Maybe I need to drink more water?

And now that I’ve scraped my pride up off the public bathroom tile, I’m starting to crawl toward the gratitude. I’m thinking that, in a day when we so often only offer our successes and posed portraits to our peers and connections, it’s interesting to explore the unfiltered side for a vulnerable sec. To hold the microscope up to the passes and disappointments, instead. I feel like you can’t really have one without the other. You can’t appreciate cupcakes unless you’ve had anchovies, right? That is to say, you can’t savor an achievement without knowing the taste of failure, too. And boy did I get a pu pu platter this past week.

I sent thirty-something proposals for a side passion project out the door the same week I was talking to the team of a well-respected public figure about another exciting extracurricular opportunity. While, by our third exchange, I think both sides sensed that it wasn’t the best fit, they were the ones to finally call it. Even though I helped slice the lemons, the juice of the rejection still stung. It stung because my mind had created an idyllic version of the situation since I so badly wanted it to fit. And it stung because I was already sipping from the trickle of rejection I’d triggered earlier in the week with my ill-fated proposal. By Friday, I felt like I was drowning in disappointment. Drinking it from a fire hose.

But – here comes the gratitude – the universe has this way of giving and taking. The pendulum tends to come back polished with purpose. It’s rare that hindsight doesn’t hand us some degree of handsome justification. It might take a few years, but a bad break almost always leads to a future happiness. Opportunities are kind of like Dominos in that way; as each one passes, it taps the next one in. Some are good and some are bad, but you can’t get to your future unless you fall down a few times and then put it behind you.

I find this push and pull – these highs and lows – in writing for sure, but also in marriage, in friendships, in parenting and in my relationship with myself. I might look around some evening and all my chicks are getting along and the house isn’t a catastrophe and there’s lots of cuddling going on, and then an hour later Sloppy Joan decides to make cupcakes out of shaving cream and cotton balls. I might get my workouts in six days in a row and finally see the scale move a pound, only to wake up surrounded by Taco Bell wrappers and Halo Top lids on Sunday.

It’s the pulse of life. Success surges and subsides.

And so must failure.

Rejection.

Redirection.

So, what to do after you’ve gotten your ass kicked, wrapped up and handed back to you with a bow on top? I guess, see it as a gift. Gabrielle Bernstein once posted, “ If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.” And I think that’s the faith and the hope that you get to hold onto when nothing else sticks. When your plan falls apart.

So, Brenda Boobenshlauts didn’t buy into your proposal. Or your idea didn’t fly in the staff meeting. Or you ate all of the ice creams. Or you didn’t get nominated or picked or recognized.
You don’t stop trying. It’s not supposed to be easy. You knocked and no one answered. The key didn’t fit. It just wasn’t your door.

Sometimes it’s a product of effort, sure, but sometimes it’s a product of timing. I think about JoJo and Spike. Remember last winter during basketball season, when Spike wouldn’t go on the court? She felt overwhelmed and small and incapable until that very last game when she got out there and flung that ball up toward the hoop. Not one of us cared that she missed.

When Hank asked if we should sign them up again this winter, I was convinced it was a waste of time, but he persisted. Last Saturday was their last game and I was almost sad to see it go. They both did so well, and scored almost every single game. That’s right, Spike scored almost every single game. The timing was right. She’d grown, both in stature and self esteem. She knew what to expect, and that the worst thing that could happen would be that she’d miss. So she shot.

I think about what a loss it would have been if I’d let last year’s poor experience poison this year’s opportunity.

As a writer, I can’t count the number of times a first draft or story idea got shot down like a fat turkey on Thanksgiving morning. But also, how many amazing opportunities and notes of thanks I’ve received. And most of the time, the amazing opportunities come just on the other side of the gut punch. The good stuff takes the sting away when the pendulum pushes back in my direction. I just have to have faith it will come back around.

If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.

Brenda Boobenshlauts was not my door.

The glitzy side hustle was not my door.

Now I have to stand tall on tomorrow’s front stoop and dare to try again. I haven’t sent my last proposal. I haven’t seen my last rejection. But I’ve got a ring full of keys and I’m huntin’ down my door.

(P.S. This was a letter I needed to write to myself, and I thank you for letting me put it here in this space.)

Pages, Wanderlust

Biscuits in the Spotlight

March 13, 2018

So, something really sweet and unexpected happened … I was featured in the Women Spotlight for the March/April issue of kit magazine for my time on the Appalachian Trail! To say I feel undeserving is an understatement, but I’m incredibly grateful for the platform and hope it will inspire someone else to pursue a dream they’re keeping in their back pocket.

There are times still when I can’t really believe we’ve gone on these adventures. And, as we gear up to head back out for our third go of it, times I can’t really believe we’re doing it again. But I count these hours in the woods and on the sides of mountains as some of my most treasured, cold and miserable as they might have been at the time.

If you’re a new visitor to Desperately Seeking Superwoman, welcome! Follow closely and I’ll take you on a crazy journey down a winding, dizzy path of parenting, self discovery and the pursuit of balance. Or just stick around for the hiking stories. That’s cool, too.

For your convenience, I’ve bundled our AT adventures up so they’re a little easier to navigate. And I hope you’ll check back in April to read about our next leg, a 50-mile stint in Georgia.

TRIP No. 1

Makin’ Biscuits in the Woods, Pt. 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Thanks for the Biscuits

TRIP No. 2

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 28.3-30.7 + Springer Mountain
Miles 0-6.2
Miles 6.2-14.3
Miles 14.3-21.1

BONUS!
If you’re old to DSS but new to kit magazine, check out this interesting interview I did for them with Valerie, the minimalist. It changed me into a woman who thinks twice before impulse carting on amazon.

Thoughts

The 36 questions you need to ask somebody now

March 2, 2018

Last Wednesday night, my husband of a decade and I put on our fancy-ish, semi-stretchy outfits and treated ourselves to a gluttonous belated Valentine’s Day dinner. We really don’t date enough. Every time we find ourselves chickless with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine, we rediscover just how much we like each other.

We’ve been sitting at tables with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine (or pizza and soda cocktails, depending on the decade) for more than 17 years. We’ve covered a lot of ground, both in diet and dialogue. As you pass through the seasons of life, you fall into certain conversational potholes. In our teens, it was all who are you and how did you get so amazing? In our 20s, it was all friends and weddings and first jobs and apartments. In our 30s it’s the kids, our jobs, our house and the kids.

I love my girls, my work and our home, but after awhile, talking about only the adult parts of our lives makes me feel ever so slightly like the lead character in an indie film. You know the one … he/she’s disconnected, an inactive participant in the fleeting hours of his/her fleeting years. They typically come alive after daring to pursue a very uncharacteristic journey or relationship. In real life, the plot twist isn’t written in. You have to spice up the script yourself.

About a week ago, a sweet friend from work passed along a podcast she thought I’d enjoy. The Science of Happiness features research-based topics for living a meaningful life and is co-produced by the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley. The episode she recommended was “How to fall in love with anyone” and it led me to the 36 questions.

The 36 questions! It’s starting to get good, guys. Stay with me.

(This is the nerdy, fascinating part.) The 36 questions were originally developed in a lab by a guy named Art. Art was focused on creating, not love, but friendships. But not just any friendships. Friendships between people who otherwise hated each other. People who felt a strong prejudice against a particular group of people. The scientists (Art) wanted to see if having someone who held prejudice complete a get-to-know-you interview with someone from the group which they disliked would change or reduce the negative taste in their mouth. In short, could a good ole Barbara Walters sit down break down racial tensions? And wouldn’t you know … it did. Now, those are some damn good questions.

So, this author, Kelly Corrigan, who was the primary guest on the podcast, took Art’s research-proven technique for feeling closer to the people you hated and applied it to romantic partners and married couples, because, you know, why not?

She focused on couples who’d been together for some time. “You think there’s no discovery left and how sad is that?” she said. Her confident conclusion is that sitting down and asking your loved one the 36 questions will open a whole new can of conversational worms. “The thought of hearing your spouse say something for the first time, not just to you, but possibly to anyone, that’s powerful. Intimacy is predicated after all on telling someone something you wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

See, the trick is: You have to ask the questions.

Remember when you were first dating your husband/wife and you’d stay up late relentlessly probing for every little morsel of information? You collected their history crumb by crumb, devouring the sweet story of their life up until the point you entered it.

And that’s where you grew up? And what was your childhood like? Were you a bad kid or a good kid? Did you have any hobbies? Did you win any awards? And how did that make you feel? Were you close to your parents? Why is that? How would you say your relationship is now? Were you a good brother? What’s that scar? Did it hurt? Did you ever do that again? So you don’t have your tonsils?

When did I stop asking the questions?

If I had to guess, it was probably around the same time we added a second kid, went to man-on-man coverage and took jobs where we had to wear slacks and closed toe shoes, but it’s really a hard thing to gauge retroactively.

I don’t know everything there is to know about Hank. I couldn’t possibly! By our very nature we’re changing every second, in our thoughts, in our cells. I guess I just forgot that it’s my job to keep going back for the crumbs. It’s still a sweet story, his story. He still wants to tell it, even though he says he doesn’t. We all want someone to witness our time here.

There’s a whole process on the website for how you should conduct your interview. Myself, I like to just lob one at the old man when he least expects it, or he’s stuck at a fancy restaurant with me and we have to appear to be having adult conversation to fit in with all the other adults wearing sweater vests and cell phone belt clips.

“So, I listened to this podcast Angie recommended about these 36 questions …” I started [Insert spiel about the premise and prejudice, Art, etc. and so on.]
“OK”
“But I forgot the paper with all the questions.”
“You were going to bring a paper to our Valentine’s Day fancy dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“K”
“Anyway, the only two I can remember are, ‘Have you ever thought of how you would die?’ and ‘What was the last song you sang to yourself?’”
“I mean … really … I’m not good at this stuff.”
“C’mon. Have you ever thought about how you would die?”
“I guess old age, something sudden and catastrophic, or a horrible illness.”
“I hope it’s old age.”
“I know you do.”
“What was the last song you sang?”
“I mean, with the kids I’m always singing something from a Disney princess show or some stupid thing. But just like 2 seconds of it and then another thought pops into my head.”
“I remember another one! ‘What was the most terrifying day of your life?’”
“I don’t really remember that stuff. I know I was scared when you had surgery after JoJo was born (a story for another time). And I’m sure I was scared when Dad had cancer. But I just don’t hold onto those things.”

At this point, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the 36 questions were working their magic whether he wanted to believe they would or not.

We kept on like that through our entrees. Then I veered off script and brought up the subject of getting a new dog when our current dog crosses the rainbow bridge, and things took a turn. But still, 3 of the 36 questions had proven to be pretty dang great.

So now I want more. I want more time (I wouldn’t be mad at more fancy dinners, either) and more crumbs. I want to stay up late rediscovering my husband of a decade and all the strange, phenomenal thoughts that go through his 30-something head and settle back into his soul a bit. I mean, if I don’t ask him the questions, who will? Our children? Their major inquiries of late revolve around gravity and the purpose of butts. Someone has to steer this ship in a deeper direction.

You can find the questions here and the podcast here. I hope they help you reconnect with a parent, sibling, friend or partner. Maybe even try them on someone ya hate! Happy discovery and conversation, friends.

Thoughts

Peace by piece (let’s make it a thing)

February 13, 2018

I have, through a series of fortunate events, been introduced to and befriended a mindfulness expert, Dr. Dave. I just love the guy. He’s one of these folks who holds people with his eyes and controls your attention through the inflection in and pace of his voice. He slows way down when he’s making the point he most wants you to absorb. It’s like performance art, watching this guy explain the overthinking mind, I tell ya.

All that to say, he’s a pretty captivating soul, but mostly, I love the guy because he does beautiful shit like this …

A few weeks back, a group of us were working on a video project with Dr. Dave at his house, which is always kind of a rewarding exercise in itself because his home is very curated and collected and cool. It spawns a lot of creativity, which is my currency of choice. Plus, interview someone on a chair in a lobby and then interview them on their couch in their living room and just see which comes out more engaging. It’s a pathetic contest.

Anyway, we were standing in his kitchen, contemplating his gracious offer to make coffee, when he threw a standard Dr. Dave curveball out. “Guys, I want to start today by setting an intention.” Aw yeah, here we go! Intentions! [Oprah voice] He reached into his pocket and pulled out three puzzle pieces. He placed one very deliberately in my hand, then each of my coworkers’ hands.

“I want you to look at the glossy side of the piece. What colors are on it? What textures did the artist capture? What bigger image might this piece be a part of?”

We all obediently ran our fingers over our pieces, quietly, pregnantly.

“OK, now turn it over. What do you notice about the other side? What does it feel like?”

We complied. It looked and felt like cardboard.

“Now, I want you think about a word. One word. I want that word to be your intention for the month of February. Think about something you want to work on or focus on. What is your word?”

We only get one?

“You know,” he continued, “sometimes it can be hard to see the big picture when we’re only focused on one small part of it. But if you set your intention, it can help clear out some of the noise and give clarity.”

Classic Dr. Dave. That insightful son of a …

This was the shot from the gun at the starting line for me. Not the idea of setting an intention. I mean, I employ mantras in loads of different ways: To get through a long run … “one more step, one more step, one more step …” Or a long car ride with three tiny, disgruntled passengers … “you’ll miss these days, you’ll miss these days, you’ll miss these days … Or even to walk away from breakroom brownies … “skinny jeans, skinny jean, skinny jeans …” But this was more complex.

Strap on your seat belts, guys. We’re going full speed into Metaphor Town!

Let’s say life is a puzzle, with, we’ll call it 100 different pieces (if you’re lucky), and each piece is a different intention; A different facet of your character, awareness or behavior you’d like to strengthen. If you invested a bit of yourself in every single one of those pieces, you’d feel pretty great about the project by the time it all came together and it was ready to be put away, right? Do you smell what I’m steppin’ in? What Dr. Dave was steppin’ in?

You can set an intention for the day.

Set an intention for the week.

For the month.

For the year.

You could take everything apart, figure out what needs fixing or focus and then fix or focus on it. Piece by piece. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. Year by year. However much you can break off and handle at one time, handle it. Maybe it’s one small thing – like an hour more sleep – and that’s all you want to focus on for 365 days. I think that would be lovely!

This whole thing – this puzzle – might just be the secret to realistic change. It’s a guide to showing yourself grace and getting down into the gritty work in digestible, manageable doses. Every yahoo with a 50+ piece jigsaw under their belt knows that big results don’t come together by dumping the whole mess out on a table and going hog wild. No! Things really only start to come together when you have a plan. A strategy. They come from pulling all the edge pieces out first and starting there, maybe from a corner.

Yes, a corner!

Think of what your corners might be … C’mon, what are your biggies? For me, it’s patience, presence, health and growth. If I can get to a good place in those four areas, I think I can love with as much love as my heart can hold and live with as much life as my spirit can imagine. Maybe start there. With your four corners. The “need to haves”. Then … break it out from there with the “nice to haves” that tie back to your “need to haves”. What are the other pieces of the puzzle for you?

My intention for February is “awake”. (Remember, Dr. Dave only gave us one word.) It’s a state of being that often eludes me. I’m upright. I’m dressed for the part. I’m crossing everything off the list, but I am not always seeing things. I’m not always tuned into the people I’m doing things for or the reasons I’m doing things to begin with. I’m a frequent flier on the autopilot express, and my intention is to quit hitting snooze and wake the F up. Most importantly, the word “awake” ties back to one of my four corners: Presence.

So, now it’s your turn. I mean … if you want it to be. You could even go so far as to buy an actual puzzle from an actual store and write actual words on the backs of actual pieces. It’s your call. Blow it up and put it back together, word by word. An intention isn’t a contract or obligation to anybody but yourself. You can pick what those pieces say and you can pick your pace for putting it confidently into place before picking up the next one.

It’s your life, your puzzle. Eventually, it all comes together.

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Kids

Jealousy and a tough awards season

February 1, 2018

Jealousy. The green-headed monster. Riding the bitter train to Envy Town. The desire to possess what someone else possesses or garner the attention someone else has garnered is a totally natural, entirely ugly impulse.

I still remember crowding around a modest 20-inch television in the corner of our kitchen, the camcorder hooked up to the inputs, to watch a video of my older sister reading her winning entry for the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. essay contest. Mom had tears in her eyes. Dad got nostalgic about his writing days in college. At school, they announced her name over the loudspeaker. She had a certificate with a gold seal on it, which made it worth a million dollars in my mind. I was in third grade, she was in fifth, and all of this was very much a big deal.

When I won the same contest two years later, it just wasn’t the same. The shine of victory had been dulled by repetition. There were no tears. Hell, i think we even skipped the banquet where the winners read their essays. It wasn’t the first time my sister did something ahead of me, better than me. But it was one of the first occasions I can recall vividly. That sting of a sibling outshining her housemates. The taste of ice cream in someone else’s honor.

Everybody has those memories! We’re born with comparison and competition coursing through our veins. I remember thinking the attention I received for my own accomplishments just wasn’t as significant as the embarrassing amount of praise my brother – the football player and only boy – or my sister – the equestrian with the shy disposition – got. Of course, their memories are likely skewed the other way. And, in hindsight, the truth is, we were all loved an appropriate amount for three children who experienced predominantly mild, occasionally notable success, and acted like jerks much of the time.

But see, the trick to that clarity rests in the hindsight. When you’re in it, you can’t see it through the green. These days, my view is from the other side of the fence. The parents’ side. And it ain’t pretty, folks.

Last week, Hank and I received an email from the principal at the girls’ school:

[Paraphrased]
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Spike’s Parents,
It is my pleasure to inform you that your kindergartener, Spike, will receive our Perfect Panda award for displaying this month’s life skill, integrity. Please join us at our school assembly to surprise your child and present her with her certificate on Tuesday, January 30.

Sincerely,
Spike’s Principal

I closed the email and immediately jumped on chat. He was already there …

Hank: Go Spikey!
Me: Right?!
Hank: JoJo’s gonna be pissed.
Me: Right.

See, what you don’t know is that the school gives out these awards every month throughout the school year. And every month for the past 2.5 school years, our JoJo has come home with a sad, shattered spirit after learning she, once again, was not named a Perfect Panda. Spike, as the universe would have it, came in and cleared one just five months into her academic career. That burns a bit on the way down.

This was tricky. As the parent, you certainly don’t want to detract from one child’s accomplishment. But when you have an emotionally fragile child, you don’t want them spiraling, either. What to do … What to do …

I took every opportunity to initiate damage control early. For instance, when JoJo scored in her game Saturday, but Spike did not, I was quick to point out that Spike cheered for her big sis even though she didn’t get a bucket earlier in the day. JoJo nodded and smiled at her sister across the backseat. Then returned to her pack of Oreos. (Quick side note: What the hell is going on with the snacks at youth sporting events guys?)

Then I turned things up a notch. It was Sunday morning and all three of the chicks were tearing each other apart. I hit that boiling point that all parents hit after so many consecutive minutes of tattling and whining and sister-on-sister hate hitting.

“Go get your sisters and get in here!” I spewed to Spike.
[The three girls filed in, noses to the floor, and sat down in a row.]
“Mom, she–”
“I don’t care.”
“But she–”
“I don’t care.”
[sighs]
“Here’s the thing, ladies” I began. “We are a tribe. The five of us. We don’t hurt each other. We don’t put each other down and we don’t touch each other out of hate. Over everyone else, we have each other’s backs. Do you understand?”
[hesitant nods]
“Who knows what integrity is?” I asked. (Remember, Spike didn’t know she was getting the Perfect Panda award yet. Pop quiz, suckers.) JoJo raised her hand.
“OK, what is it?” I prompted.
“It’s how you follow the rules.”
“In a way. It’s also what people think of when they think of you as a person. So, let me ask you … What kind of person do you want people to think of when they think of you? You want them to think you are a _____ girl.”
“Brave and kind,” JoJo said.
“OK, brave and kind. Good. Do you think a brave girl calls her sister stupid?”
“No.”
“Do you think a kind girl calls her sister stupid?”
“No.”
“How about you?” I asked, pointing to Spike.
“Kind and does the right thing.”
“Great. Does a kind girl say she hates someone?”
“No.”
“Is telling someone you hate them doing the right thing?”
“No.”
“And you, Sloppy Joan. What kind of girl do you want to be?”
“A princess girl.”
“K. Do you think a princess gets to be mean to people?”
“Yes.”
“No. She doesn’t! So, here’s the bottom line. Stop before you say and do things and ask yourself if a brave girl would do that, or a kind girl would say that. Got it?”
They gave a collective, half-hearted yes, but I wouldn’t be satisfied until they gave each other the obligatory forced group hug. I made ‘em hold it, too.

(Happy byproduct of this fairly typical Come-to-Jesus exchange, it had never occurred to me before that moment to ask them what kind of person they wanted to be. I’d always just told them what kind of person they should be. It was interesting and worth revisiting.)

The momentum from the atta-boy lasted into the evening. They even had a party to celebrate each other, including Hershey kisses on toothpicks and glow rings strung together to form a disco light. I felt like Carol F-ing Brady. I was riding a high, though history told me it was temporary. I even convinced myself that JoJo might just surprise us, I truly believed it. I wanted to believe it.

One Manic Monday later, the day of the ceremony arrived. At 1:50 p.m., we sat waiting in a room adjacent to the gymnasium while all the students got settled into the bleachers. We lined up outside the doors. Two children from each grade would be recognized, and, of course, kindergarteners would go first. I was fidgeting. “Calm down, mama,” Hank warned.

Then he turned to the roars of cheering and applause coming from the gym. “Man, the principal is like a rock god. I wonder if he goes home and tells his wife he totally killed it.” It was true. The dude was absolutely slaying the 5-11-year-old demographic. Every punchline landed.

“And February 12 is Mooooovie Night!” [roaring applause]
“Don’t forget we’re collecting Box Tooooops!” [cheers and high fives]
“And on March 1, the middle school orchestra is cominggggg!” [losing their minds completely]

Then it was time. “Alright, it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. We’re going to honor our Perfect Pandas now. These students demonstrated integrity in their classrooms during the months of December and January. Let’s start with kindergarten … Spike! Come down and receive your award from a surprise guest!” Out we walked, to a sea of tiny smiling faces and frantically clapping hands.

Our girl was waiting at the bottom of the steps, wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and nutella remnants on her cheeks. We leaned down, hugged her and took our place on the red line, facing the crowd.

“I don’t see her,” I said, through my teeth, scanning for JoJo. “Do you?”
“I’m looking.”
“Oh, there’s her teacher.”
“Op, there she is.”
“She’s crying.”
“She’s definitely crying.”
“Oh, she’s losin’ it.”

We kept smiling. Everything’s good here. Nothing to see. It’s all happy joyful love in our house.

Once they’d made their way through the fifth graders with integrity, we took a seat to watch the rest of the program. Jon Bon Jovi came back to the mic. “Now, to introduce our new life skill, respect, here is the entire second grade class.” Ohhhhhhh shoot … I had completely forgotten about the song! JoJo had to come down and sing in front of everyone! She’d mentioned it this morning. The only question now was, could she rally?

She couldn’t.

With her fingers firmly in her mouth and cherry juice-colored tear tracks down her cheeks, my eldest daughter stood in front of the entire student body and barely mumbled through “It’s about respect, check it out, check it out.” . Her eyes were locked on us, her trader parents and her award-winning little sister. I gave her the best thumb’s up I could muster. Hell, I even shoulder shimmied a little to try and hypeman our way through this nightmare. Nope.

When the program finally came to a close, we walked to the group of second graders. As I approached JoJo, her teacher stopped me.

“She was already having a bad day,” he warned. “Then she took this pretty hard. I think it sent her over the edge.”
“We anticipated that. Thank you.”

He’d barely walked away when I felt her bury her hot crying face in my thigh.

“Hey, JoJo! You sang so well!” I lied.
“It’s no fair that Spikey got a Perfect Panda,” she said, putting all her cards right down on the table.
“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” Hank said.

But the torture wouldn’t stop there. JoJo stood and looked on as Spike posed for group photos, then parent pictures, and then one with the rockstar himself. It was almost too much for one girl to take. How do those Oscar losers do it?

On our way back to the car, I hung back with my big girl. I put my finger under her chin and tilted her face up toward mine. I could see straight through her eyes down into her heavy heart.

“Hey you. I know this is hard, but it would mean so much to your sister if you told her you were proud of her.”
“OK, Mama,” she said.
“You don’t have to. But I know she wants to hear that from you.”

And that brave little girl, she did just that. She got the words out, whether she meant them or not, and I was proud of her. Really proud of her.

Of course by the time I got home that night, JoJo’s true fury over her sister’s recognition had boiled over and we were facing a full-blown hatefest. She didn’t want to see Spike’s certificate again. She didn’t care about the stuffed animal they gave her. She thought it was crap we were having dippy eggs and bacon for dinner just because Spike picked them. Why does she get everything? My third-grade self totally got it.

But I made the decision not to let jealousy hijack this moment for Spike. She’d earned that award. She was killin’ it in kindergarten and that was something to celebrate. So, as we all sat down to our sunny-side up entree, I raised my glass and asked everyone to join me in congratulating our Spikey on a job well done. No one took a knee. The tribe showed up.

Afterward, JoJo came into the basement with me so we could work out; beachbody and American Ninja Warrior training, respectively. As I got all my gear lined up, I decided to try to parent my way through this thing just one more time.

“JoJo, can I tell you something?”
“Sure Mom.”
“You love our family, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well a family celebrates each other’s victories. They’re there for each other when someone is down, and they’re there for each other when someone is up. Today, it was your turn to celebrate your sister. And maybe tomorrow she’ll be celebrating you. It’s just the way it goes, honey. Try to remember that, OK?”
“Yeah, OK,” she said, before ninja kicking a tower of blocks across the room.

Sometimes I think parenting is like American Ninja Warrior. Maybe even harder. Obstacle after obstacle, with water hazards all over the damn place. You can strategize all you want, but odds are, that shit’s still gonna get ya.

When dealing with a sensitive soul, the big questions become: When do I shield? When do I step back? And when do I support as needed? My JoJo, with her tender skin, has some pretty rough days, but her sister winning an award for integrity just shouldn’t be one of them. A win for someone in our home should be a win for all of us.

One day, she’ll see that. When hindsight’s on her side.

Older Posts

Newer Posts

Six moons

Sisters say what? (Vol. 10)

Am I crazy, or is everybody reading?

The Christmas gift that made me cry

Yes, we’re back from Ireland – The Cliffs of Moher and more

The 7 words that are killing me

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 47-52.9

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 39.5-44.6

Biscuits back on the AT Miles 31.7-38.6

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 22.1 – 30.7

It’s not you, it’s … well, sometimes it’s you

Biscuits in the Spotlight

The 36 questions you need to ask somebody now

Peace by piece (let’s make it a thing)

Jealousy and a tough awards season

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