Look What You Made Me Do . . .

Look what you made me do.

No, not you Taylor. 

Lisa.

Lisa, look what you made me do.  

Because you did this.

You ran a 10k. Like, 6 miles in a row. At Disneyland.

Let me let you and my other friends out there in on a little secret: I do not love exercise.

My stasis is resting peacefully on a couch with my fingers on a book or keyboard. Not breathing heavy, sweating, hurting, running, pulling ropes, crunching, grunting, jumping, and all other unnatural things.

Over the years I've exercised here and there. I've joined and quit every gym in the area (there are only four.) I've bought and given away two treadmills and currently have a dusty exercise bike in my bedroom. I've even ran a couple 5Ks.

I haven't hated exercise. In fact, twice - yes, literally two times - in my life that I woke up early was excited to the gym. It. Was. So. Weird. 

But here's a secret: I'm turning 46 in one week. That means I'll be closer to 90 than to birth. I realize that I'm officially at the age where I have to stop accepting aging gracefully and fight it. 

And how do I fight it? 

Three ways.

1. Maintain a positive attitude. Easy check.

2. Eat healthier.   Replacing Froot Loops with Eggs. Check.

3. Regular exercise.  Uummmmmmm. 

So, here I am, knocking on the door of ninety, and I see Lisa's happy and healthy mug on Facebook. 

She'd just run in her first 10k race. AND she didn't die.

In fact, she looked happy. Really happy.

And I wanted to feel happy too. No, I wanted to feel the joy of accomplishment that I could see on her face.

So, I went joined yet another gym. (I'd quit my old gym in June because who works out during summer with a wedding and a first-floor renovation? Not this girl.) And after I joined the gym, I actually got on the treadmill and ran. Then walked. Then ran again.

I'll admit. It was hard work for me.

But I did it. And I felt joyful. 

On the way home I got to thinking.

Lisa never once called me up and challenged me to a race. She didn't flaunt her training on Facebook. She wasn't my accountability partner. She didn't directly encourage me to run.  

But what she did to was run herself.

It was her example that moved me to action. I saw the joy and the triumph and I wanted that for myself.

I think it's easy to forget the power of example and influence. We see the things we want for those close to us--happiness, health, success, etc--and we do what we can to help them get those things. We encourage, we plan, we push, and sometimes we straight-up tell them what to do.

And sometimes in our fervent efforts to get others to do what we think would make them happier or better, we actually discourage them or even push them away. Then we are left frustrated, wondering why people won't listen to us.

But people don't want to be ordered. They want to be moved. And sometimes the best way to move someone is simply by allowing them to see what moves us.

That's the power of example and influence.

I came home and told my daughter about it, about how I felt. And guess what. She came to the gym with me for the first time. AND, she ran on the treadmill right next to me. Not because I told her to, but because she wanted to.

That's the power of example and influence. It moves people to action, not forces them. It makes them willing participants in their own growth.

Now, ten years ago I could have jogged four miles without hardly breaking a sweat. My first workout was nothing close to that. But I don't feel bad. I won't let myself take away from my victorious return to the treadmill becasue I left for a while. I am the prodigal jogger, and becasue of the example of a good friend, I have returned.

It'll be a tough road back. I didn't like running today, nor do I ever suspect I'll wake up and think, "Oh my gosh, I lerv this so much. I think I'll run for four hours." BUT, I love that her influence has touched me and ignited the desire to make a goal and achieve it, to do something hard even if I don't love it, because I know she didn't love running.  But she fought, and she won. And found joy in the journey and at the finish line.

And I hope she finds joy in knowing that her example and influence have opened the door for me to find my own.

Disneyland 10k. January 13th, 2018, I've got my eye on you.

Thanks Lisa.

No, really. Thank you. :)

Put the bat down

I've got to be honest here. (Though, I'm always honest in my writing.) I've been in a funk lately. A deep one. And it's been rough.

I drank a dangerous cocktail of lack of sleep, over-working, underperforming, unrealistic expectations, and summer without structure. Throw in a complete downstairs remodel, a wedding, and writer's block, and you've got a hot mess.

This is, literally, a "hot mess" which I found in the bottom of my purse the other day.
It was an accurate, and still delicious, representation of how I was feeling.
And, notice the frayed cuticles. Manicure failure to top it all off.

My oldest brother, Bob, came to visit for my son's wedding this past weekend and we got to talking. It's a tradition in our family to have long, deep discussions. When I was a teen, my father would pull us each aside for one of these long talks where he would delve into our innermost psyche. My four brothers and I lovingly dubbed it, "death by lecture," and often asked if a simple spanking was an option. It never was.

Now that we are parents ourselves, we inflict the same painful talks onto our children. We appreciate it now. They don't yet.

These talks aren't saved for our children only. I love having deep conversations with those I love, those I meet, and, well, pretty much anyone. Forget small talk. Meaningful conversations of self-discovery and learning are among my favorite things.

So, naturally, when my brother came to visit we dove into a shared death by lecture, which quickly turned into a counseling session for me. As I opened up, or rather, unloaded, my thoughts and feelings, he listened patiently and intently. (He's so good that way.)

Finally, he looked at me and said, "I've got one question for you. Why are you so mean to my sister?"

I was like, "What?"

I'm the only sister he's got, so it only took me a second to realize he was talking about me.

I realized then what I'd been doing. Rather than focusing on all the things I've done right, and the positive things about myself, I had take my perceived weaknesses and failures and used them like a bat. . . and I was the piñata.

I shouldn't have been short with my kids. Bam!

I should read my scriptures more. Smack!

I haven't written much lately, and struggle to feel inspired to do so. Kapow!

I emotionally eat. Thud!

I haven't exercised since June. Wham!

I haven't done laundry in two weeks. Thwap!

And so on and on and on.

I'd beaten myself up pretty badly.

As I cried to my brother, (yes, he made me cry. That jerk.) I realized that I had one thing to do:

PUT THE BAT DOWN.

Really. I should have seen what I was doing. I should have know better. I mean, I wrote about
it in my first book. Still, I did it. I picked up the bat and swung it like I was at a ten-year-old's birthday party.

And why?

Because I'm human. And I'm a woman.

Two very fine things to be, but also, in some ways, very difficult things to be.

We women can be so hard on ourselves, even mean to ourselves. We are so good and kind and patient with others, but we often don't give ourselves the luxury of compassion.

We wield that bat of shortcomings and unfinished tasks, weaknesses and faults, sins and poor choices, and even typical human conditions, and let it land on our hearts and minds until we are tired and worn.

We tell ourselves we aren't strong enough, good enough; that we aren't good mothers, that we can't do it all an therefore have failed it all.  We berate ourselves for not forgiving more easily, think more clearly, and cook more regularly. We recognize our human frailty and condemn it, as though it's a failure to be merely mortal.

Well, my friends. If you're feeling this way at all, I've got one thing to say to you:

PUT YOUR BAT DOWN.

Do it. Right now. Put it down.

Be gentle with yourself. You are stronger than you realize. You do more than you give yourself credit for. You are better than you know.

You are not a failure. You have purpose. God knows you, and will speak to you in a language you will understand.

You are not expected to be perfect. Ever. God didn't make us to be perfect in this life, or else why would we need a Savior? Being imperfect is not a sin. It's human. And it's ok.

You don't have to do every. Single. Thing. And be everything to everyone. That's not my job. That's not your job.

You're the mother God wants for you kids. You're the friend your friends are blessed to have.

You have value. You are loved.

You are awesome.

WE are awesome!

Let's be kind to ourselves. And not only that, let's find joy in who we are. Let's  focus on the positive things we do and the gifts God has given us.

Now that we aren't holding our bats anymore, let's use our hands to fold as we pray, hug a loved one, or even pat ourselves on the back.


I'm feeling so much better today. I feel more like me. . . like the me God sees.


And I hope you do too.

Let's save the bats for the game, shall we?

Faye Dancer, All-American Girls Professional Ball League, 1945
Time.org

My kid hates me, and that's ok

Note: This is not my real child, though it very well could have been today. So, this perfect mom thing. The other day I released my e-booklet, THE PERFECT MOM, about how we aren't perfect but we are perfect for our kids. I want you to know that I really believe it. Even today. The day my thirteen-year-old hates me. And honestly, right now, I'm not a fan of her either. I had a talk with God today. More like, I talked at Him and gave Him my thoughts on everything (and perhaps complained a bit. Okay, a lot.) He didn't say much back. In part, I'm sure, because I didn't give Him time to. And, I'm sure, I wasn't in the right mood for answers. But, here's my take away anyway. God gave her to me to raise. I know there are other mothers who are more patient and kind, more intelligent and resourceful. But in His infinite wisdom, He wanted ME to raise her. He must have His reasons, and even though I don't always understand them, I choose to believe that He has faith in me, imperfections and all. I choose to lean on that fact right now, when the warm fuzzies and giggles are gone, because I know tomorrow will be better. And I know that He will help her in the ways that I can't. He and I, we're a good team. Still, it's so easy to doubt ourselves when things are hard, especially when the little ones we love struggle or are angry. We may even think that we are horrible mothers, thinking that if we were good moms our children will always make good choices and be happy. But that's a pile of dirt laundry. Our job is to teach them well. They have the right to choose. We can't force them, but it is our responsibility to enforce what's right. I told a good friend my daughter was upset with me today. She said, "Well, you're doing something right then." Most kids don't like chores, homework, discipline, or even natural consequences. They don't often like rules or limitations. And when parents enforce them, kids get frustrated. Especially as they enter the teenage years. The way I see it, I love my daughter. I'm her mom. Not her friend. Not her buddy. It's my job to teach her right and wrong, to teach her action and consequences, to teach her that doing what's right is better than being right. And sometimes that makes her mad. I've heard that if your kids don't get upset with you once in a while, either you're lucky or not doing your job. I believe it. So, I'm getting the scowls tonight. And that's ok. Being a mom is hard for a lot of reasons, your kids being mad at you is one of them. My kids hates me right now, and that's okay. I'll do my best and trust in God. She'll get over it. And I'll get over it. And we will learn together. In the meantime, I'm going to eat some carrots because today I started a healthy eating plan and I just sent all my ice cream and candy home with some missionaries who stopped by (pretty sure this has to be the most ill-timed diet ever), and repeat the mantra while clicking my heels three times: I'm not perfect, but I'm perfect for her. I'm not perfect, but I'm perfect for her. I'm no perfect, but I'm perfect for her. . . ​ Next day update: In the morning light she loves me again. I will bask in it while it lasts. Ah, teenagers. :)