Un-Balancing Act

There isn't that much to juggle. My career is enjoyable, I work from home. I hardly ever put a suit on let alone makeup. I have only one child - really a young man who is old enough to do most things for himself. My partner helps where he can, and I don't even clean my own house. But I am sitting here like a nuclear reactor about to go into the red zone because I can not motivate my child to focus on his school work. We have been through so much together. My delivery can be harsh and can often lack the tenderness I am sure he requires. I am awaiting an evaluation appointment that I wish we didn't need. Not because I am ashamed or disappointed in any way but because I selfishly wish this could be a simple fix that doesn't require him to expose himself, doubt himself, or finally - for me to doubt myself. I don't want my child to think there is something wrong with him however I found myself asking him on more than one recent occasion, "What is wrong with you??...

I was riding my bike around this little sleepy neighborhood, with more visible construction workers than actual residents, when I smelled it. Out of the side sliding door of a white van I detected the familiar smell mixed with the upholstery, cigarette smoke, and heat in the air - it was most certainly a Vanilaroma tree. We are hundreds of miles and a few decades away from the nostalgia to which this scent transported me. Gas was 99 cents per gallon at Jersey Oil. My friends and I mostly drove hand me down cars from our parents, or a practical, barely functioning version of what we could all afford at the time. It was cool to know how to drive a stick shift. It was ok to scoop ice cream, bus tables, or fold sweaters at the Gap in order to make enough money to buy that gas and some Taco Bell after school. When Spring Fever started creeping in you could smell the story of these teenage owned cars in the fabric of the seats - intermingled with the musky flavor of your tree of choice. Mi...

It means a great deal to me when I hear another mother say how hard things are, how tired she is, or how overextended the family schedule has become. There's a feeling of kinship knowing I am not the only one that doesn't have it all "together". Still, though, it somehow makes me question my own resolve. They have more kids then me - of course they are tired! They commute to work each day, no wonder they struggle to get a great dinner on the table. All those sports they tote the kids around to must be exhausting! What's my excuse? I have one child, work from home, have very few responsibilities that require my time away from my family.... I must be lazy right? Why is it that one moment I can take pride in an accomplishment but in the next split second feel a deep sense of inadequacy? Was I trained this way? Is this something else I should blame on my mother? My commitment to myself this week will be to relish in my accomplishments. Whether it is making a great d...

5 months ago when I set out to accomplish what seemed like a simple fitness task, I blatantly proclaimed that "it's not like I want to run in an organized event or anything." The routine seemed mundane at first, a boring repetition of short jogs on the same route. I tried to fast forward and failed because there's clearly a method behind the plan. There was a time I laid in a hospital bed feeling sorry for myself because the feeling of being paralyzed made me long for the ability to accomplish something I felt would be impossible for my body to tolerate. Shame on me for taking that moment of clarity for granted by forgetting it so quickly once I could use my legs again. So I got my partner involved and we went from "Couch to 5k" in the prescribed 8 weeks. I cursed and cried, almost bitter about my own ability to perform such a task burning inside with the frustration of the challenge and fear of failure. But when the clock ticked at the 8 week mark I lifte...

A few months ago, when it was finally time to strap on the athletic shoes, and tighten up my armband, pump up the motivational music, and head out for some exercise, I had a very specific vision in my mind. It was that of a fit, tan version of me wearing a bra top and spandex shorts prancing elegantly through the canopy of trees while my longer than real life pony tail bobs left to right with the rhythm. The reality has been more like a fully dressed mom in physical recovery purposefully engaging every muscle and posture depicted in "how to run well" guides. The look on my face is strained as though it will help the calories burn faster. What I am really thinking is, "Can I make it to the next mailbox on this street?" In moments of sheer exhaustion I have found myself buying into the "walking is better for your body" propaganda. Thanks to my partner, I have not given up. We started a couch to 5k app on our phones, and through days of excitement and dread...

I am thinking Happy Hour means a martini with my sister at a bar with some interesting snacks... but will translate it into a yoga studio with some strangers and a beverage portable enough to keep cold while I sweat and bend and stretch? Having a flourishing social life outside my family living room has never been a priority to me. The risk, the time commitment and the drama that usually comes along with having a select group of girlfriends is as nearly unattractive to me as a visit to the dentist. I say that but what I do treasure is coexisting with other women that have similar interests. This yoga thing is new to me and I am not a die hard by any means. Getting my work done in the first half of the day will always take priority to flushing out an hour on a mat, though when I do the reward is great. So today two worlds come together - "me" time on a yoga mat, and happy hour. Much thought isn't required but with more than an hour and a half before the start time I alre...

Are we allowed, when things are sad or beautiful to express ourselves through tears? I wonder because I try so hard to swallow that feeling in most settings that when I arrive at those private moments when no audience is present it feels like a true release. It reminds me of children who act out and are told to use their words rather than being physical. Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes there is just a feeling and that feeling manifests itself as a well of emotion in one's throat, slowly radiating through the chest, sometimes to the stomach, swelling the heart and falling from one's eyes as a tear.

It's yet another cycle I go through, living in denial for things I don't care to deal with and then procrastinating until I have absolutely no choice but to do it. Usually it's a financial thing. I work pretty hard for my money and have done so since I was 15... The difference between now and then is that I am much cheaper and more reluctant to let my money go. Of course now I have actual responsibilities and not just a pair of gap jeans calling my name. But this isn't just about money. It's about laundry, dishes, ordering a new remote when my guy throws the old one out the window in a fit of rage, and this morning it is about packing. I hate leaving my family for work trips. I admit there's a certain something that seems fun a first: interacting with other adults, dining, exploring and networking. But really it's just me leaving them to it on their own unable to micromanage the day to day in our house. So I check my flight schedule. It's about eight h...

I am a glutton, and I flounder around the emotions of guilt and rebellion, not sure if I want to hate myself for eating a good portion of the french bread before it hits the table for dinner or love myself because the only reason I care is the fact that some people say white food is bad. It's quite a feeling when you know the bread is fresh, you open the package and just tear off one little end, and then a little more, dragging it along the softened butter on it's way to your mouth. I mean it's REALLY good. We aren't talking about crystal meth here, but I can not help myself. The same goes for my regular afternoon pig outs of cheese followed by the evening flow of wine steadily from my fridge to my glass. Just a little Chardonnay really softens the remains of the day! It really is ok, despite what any one resource tries to tell us, to just enjoy what you like. Certainly I don't love the idea of constantly working out and worrying if my pants fit or not - but when ...

It happens. It's possible I've long mistaken my ability to recognize a bad idea for issues with committing to long term plans. Yes that's it - I simply realized after hours of pain and as my insides revolted against me that a juice cleanse was not a good idea. Other things prove on the contrary to be great ideas. I was just laying here in bed thinking about my ability to move my recently broken inflexible weakened body into locust pose like a grasshopper. From the back of the room it didn't look that hard but the first day it felt impossible. It seemed like a good idea to keep trying. Sounds simple and it is. Listen to your body. Good ideas feel good and bad ideas feel bad. The old fashioned way of doing things is generally a pretty good idea. Yoga is ages old and it's still around. Clearly the cave men didn't have diet pills and juice cleanses to make themselves feel good. Not saying I'm going all paleo - again too extreme for me to maintain. But I thin...