Signs of (real) Life

An English Teacher's Search for Meaning on a Hallmark Holiday

2012-02-13T19:19:00.000-08:00

This weekend I was going through my lesson plans for the week and realized that Tuesday was Valentine’s Day. Right now in my English class we are working on our Poetry Analysis essay so I thought it would be fitting to find a really, really good poem about love and bring it to class. But then I started thinking, do I know any poems about true love? Is there a poem I could bring to class and say, “Here. This is what true love is all about.”

Well, this poem hunt came up dry, as I couldn’t find any poems that showed the reader what real love was all about. Then I started thinking about what short stories or novels or even kids books I knew that talked about real love. Sure, there’s the one where the little boy grows up and the moms holds him at night and sings the song and then he has to hold his mom and sing her the song, and although I, like every other mom on the planet, ball my eyes out at that book, I had to consider, does that demonstrate love? What do we see the mom do in sacrifice? What does the boy do to prove his love? And then, of course, I had to ask myself, what does this word even mean to begin with. What is love? (Don’t cue the music).

Where do we find representations of true love? Isn’t that what this holiday is all about? But when pressed, I couldn’t come up with any poem or story myself. At Barnes and Noble, the shelves by the register were lined with The Notebook and Nights in Rodanthe. Is that real love? Is that all we’ve got?

When I think about love in my own life, several images come to mind. The first is of my mom in her bathrobe every single morning of my childhood waking up with us, excited to see us, there with our packed lunches (which our dad packed too) and our breakfast. Every day without fail. Now that I’m a mom, I know what it’s like to desperately want to sleep in, to just roll over and shout from your bedroom “don’t forget to brush your teeth.” But love is when you no longer consider your own needs, when you do what needs to be done for others without question or complaint.

A few months ago my family and I celebrated my grandparents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary. My grandfather told me a great story of one day, decades ago when his kids were little, my grandma came home with a new haircut. My grandfather told her he didn’t like her haircut (last time he ever made that mistake). My grandma was so mad she picked up a ripe tomato and threw it at his head as hard as she could. He ducked and the bright red tomato splattered all over their kitchen wall. As my grandpa retold this story on the day of his sixtieth wedding anniversary, he was laughing so hard he could hardly get through it. He had a huge smile on his face because he knew how much that tomato meant, especially knowing they had made it 60 years together. I wish someone had taken a picture of that splattered tomato. I’d call that a representation of love. Even in the midst of paying bills, raising kids, even in the midst of a ripe insult, even when she hated him most, she loved him.

Everyone knows that true love has to sustain, has to survive, has to overcome the obstacles that life offers in order for it to be real. When you see two people like my grandparents, still together after 60 years, you look at them like a piece of artwork. You look at them and think, “maybe if I work at it the rest of my life, maybe I can be that good.”

Unfortunately, I didn’t find an exact poem or a painting, but maybe because I’m an English teacher, I did happen to find some words. In M. Scott Peck’s book The Road Less Travelled he has a chapter called “Love is not a Feeling,” which feels like an odd conclusion considering that the one thing I thought we could all agree on is that love is a feeling. But Pecks explains, “the person who truly loves does so because of a decision to love. This person has made a commitment to be loving whether or not the love feeling is present. If it is, so much the better; but if it isn’t, the commitment to love, the will to love still stands and is still exercised.” Cut to my mom in her bathrobe, cut to the exploded tomato.

Hopefully your Valentine’s Day will involve a lot of chocolate, but I hope it also involves the kind of love you can’t find in poems or novels or movies. Hopefully it involves the kind of love that is memorable and powerful not because it’s perfect, but because it’s messy and real.

Poetry in Real Life

2012-02-08T10:40:00.000-08:00

As an English teacher, I have the task of teaching students how to analyze a text. Without a doubt, I love my job. I will be the first to argue that reading analytically, writing analytically, and thinking analytically are essential to the success of any student in the twenty-first century. This is what we mostly do in my classroom. We read something once, we break it into teeny tiny pieces, then read it again, then put it back together. We constantly ask the questions, What does this mean? What does this show? Why is this significant?

But even as an English teacher, I know there are times when you just want to read something and not analyze the snot out of it. I know it can be more fun and more effective to just look at something once and get stung by it in an authentic and powerful way without torturing the thing to death. Which brings me to today’s post.

In looking through my large stack of poems in preparation for an upcoming poetry essay, I found this one. Sure, it has the capability to be analyzed six ways to Sunday, it is in our Norton Anthology after all, but this poem also has one hell of a zing factor that comes out the first time you read it.

As a mom, I have gotten to know a lot of other moms of all ages who raise kids and animals and husbands day in and day out and often find that their efforts only go noticed when they screw up or forget something. (“Mom, there’s not food in the fridge!”) But the other thing is, the moms I know love their kids and animals and husbands and love their lives, but it can be frustrating. This presents a complexity, which is exactly where the poet steps in. Poets just know how to say it. They know how to reconstruct complicated situations into small, concise spaces that have the ability wake us up in a way that no other medium can achieve. This poem is for my moms out there. Do me a favor and don’t analyze it.

Marks

Linda Pastan

My husband gives me an A

for last night’s supper,

an incomplete for my ironing

a B plus in bed.

My son says I am average,

an average mother, but if

I put my mind to it

I could improve

My daughter believes

in Pass/Fail and tells me

I pass. Wait ‘til they learn

I’m dropping out.

Grief and Pull-Ups

2012-01-30T19:26:00.000-08:00

Some writers dream of seeing their work in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, or The Sunday Style section of The New York Times. But for this writer, whose laptop is just as important as her weightlifting shoes, there's one more publication at the top of my list: The CrossFit Journal.

On Monday, January 30, the CrossFit Journal posted my article: "Grief and Pull-Ups." I currently feel like a million bucks. Click here for the free PDF download.

The World According to Star Wars

2011-12-22T16:32:00.000-08:00

Last night my church held a service called "The Longest Night Service." Every year on December 21, the winter solstice, they have a service focused on healing and hope in the face of tough times and unexpected challenges. At the service, there were three speakers who shared stories of facing adversity and finding hope. I was asked to speak at the service, which was a huge honor. I wanted to post what I wrote and said because I just like to share these amazing stories of people who have helped me over the years. I can't say it enough times to enough people. This is my version of shouting from the rooftop about how much I love my family, my son, and Josh.

Good evening. My name is Natalie Taylor and my story of long nights and dark days began four and a half years ago. When I was 24 years old and five and months pregnant my husband, Josh Taylor, died suddenly in a sporting accident. Josh was 27 at the time of his death and we were four months away from the birth of our first child. We had just found out that we were having a boy. The hours, days, months, and first few years following his death were everything you would expect them to be. Harrowingly sad, bitterly angry, all compounded by being an emotionally volatile pregnant woman and then compounded by being a single mom who didn’t sleep for more than three consecutive hours. My life was a mess. But no matter where I landed on the spectrum of emotions during this time, everything always felt empty without Josh. Beyond empty.

But to be honest with you, I’m not really interested in the story of my own sadness anymore and I certainly don’t want to sit here and tell you the gory details. Instead, I want to tell you about what has also happened in the last four years, about the ways life has surprised me, about how happiness has found me again despite the fact that I thought it was gone for good. Kai is now four and our life now, the life of Kai and me and our family, is exciting, unpredictable, and filled with an overwhelming amount of joy. Anyone who has children can attest to the fact that kids are the light in everything we do, but somehow they are also the force that tests us more than any other. Some days, I have moments where Kai says please and thank you like a perfect gentleman and I think, wow, maybe I am doing something right. Then there was the time when I was hosting a wedding shower in my backyard and right in the middle of serving cake, Kai walked over to the sandbox, pulled his pants down, and urinated right next to the plastic slide. Like I said, joyful and unpredictable is life with a four year old. As much as Kai has brought me back to life, however, there are also a host of others who have had a hand in making our life happy again.

Specifically, tonight I’d like to tell you about something called the Unexpected Superhero Effect. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the Unexpected Superhero Effect, but I am lucky enough to know it in all sorts of versions. Kai is currently completely obsessed with Star Wars and as a result of this, he has come to understand the ways of the world through the context of the story of Star Wars. All of is questions on how things work somehow connects to this story. “Do droids have go to the bathroom? Does Han Solo have to go to the bathroom?” (I should have said yes, but certainly not in a sandbox). “How do you spell Jabba the Hutt?” Because of this constant dialogue, I can often only think of the world in terms of Star Wars, so if you don’t mind I will explain the Unexpected Superhero Effect in those terms. At the end of the first Star Wars movie, A New Hope, Luke Skywalker finds the captured Princess Leia. He is disguised as a Stormtrooper but once he reveals himself to her he announces, “I’m Luke Skywalker and I’m here to rescue you.” The Princess, however, is not wooed or impressed at all. She gives him a once over and even deems him “a little short,” which he is. You see, she did not expect him; she had sent for someone else entirely, a more experienced hero and certainly a taller one. You have to understand that my husband was as close to a Superhero as you could come. He had superhuman strength in both mind and body, he knew when to swoop in at the right moment and take care of things, and anyone who knew him will tell you that once he showed up, you felt like things were going to be okay. So there was no harder reality to swallow than the fact that the guy we all depended was gone forever.

My story of the Unexpected Superhero comes from preschool. At the parent meeting at the beginning of last year, the preschool teachers explained that a few months into the year, they were planning a Preschool Dad’s Night. Although I was three years out from losing my husband, I almost lost it at the parent meeting. I was so sad that Kai couldn’t take his dad. I think about Josh and Kai all the time, but of course something like Dad’s Night only exacerbates the wound. I told my older brother, Adam, affectionately known as Uncle Ads, about the whole situation. Uncle Ads lives in Los Angeles, California. “No problem,” he said on the phone, “I’ll just fly home.” Josh’s little brother Chris, affectionately known as Uncle Chris, lives in Denver, Colorado. He heard about Dad’s night too. “Just booked my ticket,” he told me one night on the phone. So while they didn’t wear capes, they did fly through the night air and come to our rescue. When Dad’s Night came around, two grown men flew across the country to spend an hour and half with my son in his preschool room. If that’s not the stuff of superheroes, I don’t know what is.

I don’t know where any of you are this holiday season. I don’t know if you approach these days carrying a burden, dealing with grief, or looking for light from a dark place. But wherever you are, I hope and pray for two things for you. First, I hope your life is filled with unexpected superheroes. I hope that the Uncles Ads’ and Uncle Chris’ of the world find you and rescue you in your time of need. And just remember, that although they might not be exactly who we were looking for, they still have the capacity to save us. The second thing is for those of you who approach this season without someone. I have to acknowledge that even though I have been blessed with so many who love me and who have saved me, life without Josh is still life without Josh. But a few months ago Kai gave a little insight on the topic of loss and grief. One night my mom was putting Kai to bed and I overheard him talking to his grandma after reading his books. (I have learned over time that sometimes kids don’t want to tell their moms everything—certain questions and truths are kept for the grandmas and are typically whispered in the darkness before bedtime. This situation was no exception.) First he asked if I ever got mad at his dad. My mom explained that although I loved his dad very, very much, I did, from time to time, get a little bit mad at him. Then I overheard Kai ask his grandma, “Did my dad love my mom?” She started to cry and said of course, his dad loved me very, very much. And then there was a pause. Finally, Kai sighed and said, “Just like Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia.” Clearly he understands something incredibly profound. For those of you who have lost someone and have to sit in the space of grief, I just want you to know what Kai knows already. Not only can love span from California and Colorado to Michigan, but it is also strong enough to reach across the galaxy. And if it’s strong enough to do that, it is certainly capable of transcending the great chasm of life and death. Perhaps that’s what they mean when they say, “May the Force be with you.” Thank you and Merry Christmas.

Why I Hate the Holidays

2011-12-07T11:29:00.000-08:00

Okay, I just need to do this once. The holiday season is now in full swing (evidenced by the stacks of catalogues that find my mail slot everyday) and this year I am committed to making a change. For the past several years, I have entered the month of December begrudgingly under the banner of “I Hate the Holidays.” This year, however, I am going to try really, really hard to kick my Grinchy-ness. In order to do so I just need a few minutes to vent and then I will move on and embrace the season (stay tuned for that post). So, in honor of embracing December with a peaceful mind, I’d like to tell you why I hate the holidays. I know it seems counterintuitive, but trust me, we’ll both feel better once I get this off my chest.

A few reasons I hate the Holidays:

It’s not that the radio stations play Christmas music all time, it’s that they play the same six songs on repeat all the time. How many times can I hear Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart and A Wonderful Christmas Time?
The stress of buying for my son, knowing Grandma will crush me no matter what. I know that no matter how hard I try, no matter how big I go, I will never beat Grandma. One mom put it best when she said, “After we do Christmas at grandmas, everything else is a disappointment.” Couldn’t agree more.
The stress of buying for other adults. Sometimes I over think things so much and get so desperate for ideas I just end up buying the most ridiculous presents. (“Remember that one time you ordered a corned beef sandwich on rye? I got you a membership to the Deli-Sandwich-of-the-Month Club!”
Black out moments at holiday parties where you realize you’ve eaten 20 sugar cookies in a half hour. Or is that one just me?
The inevitable argument I get into with the Japanese Maple Tree in my front yard when I try to string lights. It’s a lot like putting together Ikea furniture. It looks so pretty on display but assembly usually ends in tears.

All right, I’m done. I solemnly swear not to curse the holidays again…until the Pottery Barn Kids catalogue arrives and reminds me how much I suck as a provider, decorator, and thus parent. Okay, that was it. Now I’m done.

Nobody Goes Alone

2011-11-09T11:57:00.000-08:00

A few months ago I wrote about a 15K race I did and how it turned out to be a horrific, defeating experience. I accidentally fell across the starting line (literally across the starting line) and then around mile 7 a cup was unintentionally thrown in my general direction and hit me in the face. After the race I realized it wasn't just the unlucky loss of balance at the start or the cup assault that made it a bad race; it was the fact that I ran by myself. I've learned a lot in the last five years of my life and I still feel like I have a long ways to go in terms of understanding the world around me, but one thing I know for sure is that no mile—literal or metaphorical—has to be endured alone. In fact, one buddy usually makes all the difference. This was the case a few weeks ago when I ran the Detroit Marathon. I finished it, but mostly because I wasn't there by myself. I'd like to tell you all about it, but my buddy Mags really says is best. This was originally posted on my sister's website, Fashletics.com, but I had repost it. You'll see once you read it.

Lift

by Maggie Prior

Writing this is one of the most nerve-wracking things I’ve ever done, because I have to admit to a lot of vulnerability. It’s rare that I let people see that – to admit that I have feelings or doubts or insecurities. I’m starting to learn that it really isn’t so horrible if you do. You don’t have to be the strongest person in the world all the time. Actually, you just can’t be. But, the people that love you will step up to the plate and help you out, and you end up just fine. Better than fine; you end up much stronger, with amazing stories and memories of even the smallest things people will do for you that make your day brighter. So, here goes…

I live life at 110 miles per hour. I’m in medical school, do research in a lab part time, am an avid crossfitter, volunteer in clinics and with an afterschool running program for kids and in my “spare” time, signed up to run the Detroit marathon with my best friend. I’ve always been able to handle this much, and I do it on my own. But, any sane person can look at my life and know it’s too much. In fact, when people see my Google calendar, they get so stressed out for me that they have to close it immediately. Lately, things have caught up with me, and I just can’t do everything I want to.

I’ve always thought that if I work hard enough, I can do anything I set my mind to. But, I can’t. I’m spread so thin and pulled in so many directions everyday that I’m worried I won’t succeed, at least to the level that I’m used to and the level that everyone expects from me. It makes me really frustrated, angry, and sad and I’m not used to it. The hardest part for me has been actually admitting that I can’t do this all by myself, and to ask people for help. I have amazing family and friends that I know would bend over backwards to do anything for me at the drop of a hat. I brag about that fact all the time, but never actually ask them to do anything for me - because I thought it was a sign of weakness. But, admitting vulnerability and that I can’t do something isn’t actually the weakness. Not doing anything about it is.

Midway through the marathon last week, during a particular low when I was literally kicking cups on the side of the road in frustration, Natalie made me pull out my headphones and talk to her. At one point she asked me what made me happy and feel better and I said, "Lifting really heavy weight at the box". School is a mind f*#$ when it comes to self-confidence when you are constantly measured against 300+ other students every week on an exam (literally, I am ranked, every week, every exam). So, even when I do well, there's always a reminder I could have done better, and no real sense of accomplishment. I’ve never cared about grades, and can usually tune out chatter about them, but it’s gotten in my head that my best right now isn’t good enough. Not with lifting at the box. Sure, there are a few of us that are relatively in the same range and we trade scores and PRs, but everyone is totally independent and it varies day to day and lift to lift what we can pull.

The one thing that I have in my life right now that I feel like I can really celebrate and take ownership of and not feel like I've half-assed is lifting weight. And, a lot of it. So weird, but so true. Every time I snatch that bar, I concentrate so intently and hard and just will it to come over my head that it does. And there’s a little flash of euphoria and pride in what I've done. It’s for maybe 30 seconds and fleeting, but if I could transform that feeling into every minute of my day I’d be back on track. Little by little, I’m getting there.

After college, a few of my friends rode their bikes across the country. They crossed the continental divide on bikes. A feat that flat out astounds me. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t easy, but they didn’t do it alone – they did it together. I think about them all the time in the middle of physically grueling tasks I’m not sure I can finish. Before the marathon, Natalie and I joked we would trade off pushing each other over the continental divide. And, we did. I couldn’t have made it through miles 14-18 without her next to me. And she couldn’t have made it through miles 22-26.2 without me. Yeah, it sort of sucked, because marathons sort of suck when you’re going through them, but I wouldn’t trade that Sunday morning for anything in the world. I don’t know the next time I’ll have five hours, uninterrupted by life, to spend with her. According to my Google calendar, it’s not anytime soon.

Lately, for a lot of reasons, everyday is like a continental divide for me to get over. A little too metaphorical maybe, but that’s how it feels. But, everyday, someone gets me through it. They stand next to me in the middle of a WOD when I’m exhausted and tell me to pick up the bar over and over and over again when I think that I can’t possibly do it one more time – and because they have faith that I can, they make me believe that I can. They bring me pumpkin spice lattes and put the dog in bed next to me when I’m too overwhelmed to even get up and start my day. They bring me coconut M&Ms when I’m holed up in the library studying because those are my favorite. They stand out in the cold and rain for hours to cheer me on in a marathon (and run a half mile in jeans and non-running shoes with us at mile 17). They lift me over that proverbial continental divide in really little and really big ways. Everyday. I can’t begin to thank them all enough.

I have a “lift” charm that I got this summer, but I didn’t even know how much that word could mean to me then. Now, I wear it as a reminder to ask people to do that for me, to return the favor whenever I can, and to keep lifting really heavy weights.

The Multi-Syllabic Milestone

2011-10-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

Kai is now three, about to turn four, and all sorts of interesting changes are taking place in our home. We're playing different games, we’re trying out sports, we now open the refrigerator on our own and pontificate over snack ideas (most of which are overruled). But one change that I’m not entirely thrilled about is the fact that my name (I go by Mom around here), has now turned into a two, sometimes three, syllable word. “Mom” has turned into “Maaah-aaaah-haaaum!”

In addition to turning my name into a three-syllable word, Kai also says my name all the time. For some reason, sometimes he just says it over and over and doesn’t even listen when I say “what?” Now, I need to digress here for a moment. If you are not a mom, this blog post may make little sense to you. “How,” you may be asking your non-mom self, “can anyone seriously get frustrated with their child simply calling their name?” And sure, in part, I admit this is a minor grievance. There is no sound more magical and wonderful than the sound of my son’s voice. I acknowledge that my existence as a mother is the most important part of my life. Having said that, sometimes when I hear “Hey mom…hey mom…hey mom…mom…mom…mom,” I start to lose it a little bit. There is something about the constant Mom-query that drives me batty.

At first, I thought I was the only mom who was frustrated by this or who has hit the Multi-Syllabic Milestone, but the more I listen to kids and parents, the more I realize this is a universal phase. One of my friends, a mother of four, says she just ignores her kids, most of the time because it seems like they’re just saying her name to say it and if they really needed her, she’d know. Another one of my friends told me when she’s at the grocery store without her kids and she hears someone else’s kid (with a totally different voice) say “Mom?” sometimes she just automatically says, “What?!” and has a pang of fear because for a moment she wonders why her kids have followed her to the store.

And it’s just as funny to talk to kids who understand that their mom is being driven crazy by her own name. And, in typical kid fashion, the thought is not to harass mom less, the thought is to harass her in a different, perhaps more intense way. My cousins said they had to start calling their mom by her first name. They realized “Mom” wasn’t working so they just started yelling, “Barb!” Which of course only turned into, “Baa-aarb!”

I think it’d be funny to do a montage of ourselves saying the word mom from the first time it came out of our mouths through every phrase our life. Can you imagine how the inflection changes? And that inflection really says it all. Baby: “Mah-mah.” (Translation: I love you!) Toddler: “Mommy” (I made a mess!) Big Toddler: “Mom-mee!” (Help! I’m hurt!) Age 3-5 “Maaah-aaaah-haaaum!” (Where is my breakfast?!) All the way to our teenage years: “Ugh! MOM!” (Leave me alone!) And can you imagine how it changes once we become young adults and then from young adult to clueless parent and this magical thing clicks in our brain where we, now the new mom with the baby or toddler, realize our mom really did have the answers all along. Or maybe, despite our change of inflection, we always knew that. Maybe that’s why our kids say it so often. I’ll just start telling myself that the next time I hear it…which should be aaany minute now….

Cheaters Never Win (But wait, sometimes they do)

2011-09-10T18:43:00.000-07:00

“Fair and square” has become a term used frequently in our house. Kai Taylor is now old enough to play games. Because Kai is my first child, I really did not know this was such an awesome milestone. Sure I knew that walking and talking were big deals, going to preschool, but then there are other milestones that came by surprise and have made our time together even more fun and sometimes easier. (Another one of those milestones includes the day when I could say “go wash your hands” and he could go in, reach the sink, wash, dry, and walk out all without my help. Huge.) We can’t get enough of games.

The funny thing with games, however, is that Kai has started to cheat. I don’t see this as his personal problem; I’m fairly certain that all kids toe this line for a significant amount of time, some longer than others (I teach high school, and I suspect it happens as much there as it does at my coffee table). But it’s interesting to watch this happen. Kai is so determined to win that he’ll peek at cards when we play our Bear Matching memory game. He looks at his cards ahead of time during Slamwich. And when he “rolls” the dice, he finds the highest number and places on the table and yells, “Oh look! I gotta six!”

Like all parents, I make sure Kai doesn’t win all the time. Obviously I think it’s important for him to learn how to take a loss and still have fun. (I can picture my brother rolling his eyes right now—Uncle Ads would probably tell me, “But losing isn’t fun, Nat. I never want that kid to think losing is fun.” But now my role in games has shifted from regulating winning to monitoring the cheating. This leads me to wonder if cutting corners is engrained in all of us. After all, no one showed Kai how to cheat. He came by this completely on his own. It makes me wonder if we all want to cheat, but we don’t because of the consequences and if there weren’t consequences, would all try to cut corners? There are a million real-life examples of adults trying to cheat: Bernie Maddof. Major League Baseball. The sport of professional cycling. A few years ago I heard a story of teachers cheating on students’ standardized tests. Kai Taylor isn’t the only one rigging the game. The need to win, to be the best, to get the most, sometimes seems to override all other things in life. But then I can hear Uncle Adam again saying, “And what is so wrong with that?”

“Don’t cheat,” I tell him. Because it’s wrong, because no one will want to play with you. Because it’s more fun when we win without cheating. All of these things I believe, but the weird part is, the older he gets, the more he will see how much people actually cheat and actually win. There is something more admirable, more noble, something that sets you apart when you win without cheating. But when I look out into the world, I wonder if that is a dying quality?

At the same time, however, I know that it just might be the “real world” that teaches him not to cheat—when some bigger kid calls him out on it, or when the group no longer wants to include him because he won’t follow the rules. I am slowly learning that as a mom, maybe I can’t teach him and show him everything in the four walls of our home. Some lessons just might have to happen without me.

“Fair and square!” Kai says again as he sets up the tiles to our Bear Matching game. Then he adds, “Mom, I’ll be fair, you be square.” I nod in agreement. This sounds like a deal to me. Today, this is where we are: Kai is trying his best to play fair and mom, as usual, is being a square.

Forging Elite Analysis

2011-08-29T20:02:00.000-07:00

This weekend I was in Miami, Florida competing in the Summer Crush Games—a CrossFit competition that hosted nearly 300 athletes. I competed on a team with my big sister Moo, big brother Ads, and brother-in-law David. There are a lot of amazing parts to competing in a CrossFit competition and a lot of amazing parts to watching other athletes. But one of my favorite things to do at a CrossFit competition is read the T-shirts. Most CrossFit teams or affiliate teams make team T-shirts. I don’t know how to explain this, but the T-shirt of a team or an affiliate is very, very important. Most T-shirts say some sort of inspiring slogan or phrase, or perhaps the slogan of the gym itself (unless you’re my sister’s gym—South Florida CrossFit Endurance. Their T-shirt said “Everyday I’m Shufflin”).

With only one week away from the start of school, my mind was not only on the Summer Crush Games, but also on the start of another school year. This year I will be teaching Advanced Placement Literature, or AP Lit. For the last several weeks I’ve been reading through released AP exams, staying up late with my Norton Lit Anthology, all while trying to get an understanding of the big picture of the class, the test, and what our year in AP Lit should look like. While I CrossFit by day and Norty by night, CrossFit and AP Lit have started to seem synonymous. Both have high, unbending standards that seem intimidating at first, but deep down we know they are necessary. Both are genuinely difficult in practice and very demanding in assessment. And, like any other “test,” we will spend a lot of time practicing, getting frustrated, making small gains, and then finding days where we PR on either a max lift or an impromptu. The biggest connection, however, is the basis of both CrossFit and AP Lit—both teach challenging skills that are not easy to come by and require relentless practice that is often painful. As we all know, there is no growth without pain. Because of this connection, I had to make note of all of the T-shirt slogans that apply to both CrossFit and AP Lit. Here they are:

“Never fear competition. Welcome it. Embrace it. Then destroy it.”

“Suck it up, buttercup.”

“You can either have results or excuses.”

“Never quit.”

“Don’t wish it was easier. Wish you were better.”

There is something really exciting about walking into the gym or into the classroom and saying, “Well, there’s our mountain, who’s ready to climb?” Whether it’s Games Sectionals or the AP exam (both about 9 months away), the mentality is the same: the only way to succeed is to do the work.

If Looks Could Lift

2011-08-19T05:59:00.001-07:00

“If it’s a matter of performance over beauty, we’ll take both.”

This afternoon as Kai was playing with his Legos, I proceeded to do one of my all-time favorite lazy afternoon activities—flipping through catalogues. Today the new Athleta catalogue came in the mail so of course, that was my top choice. For those of you who don’t make a hobby out of catalogue-flipping, Athleta is women’s clothing line that sells athletic gear and sporty looking outfits.

The opening page of the catalogue contained the above quote and my immediate thought was, “This is what is wrong.”

My older sister Moo (her name is Sarah, but I call her Moo) runs her own small business (Fashletics) where she designs jewelry and clothing for the athletically minded. Because we’re both athletes, we often have this conversation about how the women’s athletic clothing market is awesome (I wore all boy's and men’s soccer jerseys in high school and a few years in college, then some genius discovered that women are built nothing like men), but it also confuses us a little. A lot of the clothes make us feel as if we should be as concerned with how we look as well as how we perform. Should we? Isn’t that a little shallow? But at the same time we think, is that really a bad thing? Certainly not, especially if external appearance fuels the internal confidence of an athlete, which, although we hate to admit it, is sometimes the case.

Having said all of that, having confessed that I love this catalogue, I can’t help but completely disagree with their opening quote. On the flip side, however, what if Altheta changed their opening quote to “Clothes that let you focus on your number one priority: performance.” Would I go, “Yep, that’s me Athleta, and now I’m gonna buy your stuff.” Same clothes, same pictures, different mantra, but all of the sudden I’m interested.

The real problem is the problem of any consumer: to what degree do we allow or need “stuff” to define us? In one sense, we know it’s what’s on the inside that counts. But in the other, if you’ve ever watched “What Not To Wear,” (wish I could put Clint and Stacy in my pocket) you know that outsides sometimes really do dictate insides.

So what do I know for sure: I know that if it is a matter of performance over beauty, I won’t take both, actually. I’ll take performance. Hands down, seven days a week. Because that’s the bottom line: performance is beauty. But exceptional performance requires a tremendous amount of patience, effort, and pain and clicking “add to cart” is a lot easier than gut-splitting workouts. So while I love new gear just as much as the next online shopper, it doesn’t mean a lot if I’m not doing everything I can to make myself a better athlete or athleta.

Oh, and FYI Athleta, “Performance is Beauty” is the tag line. You’re welcome. If only pull-ups and push-ups were as easy as coming up with slogans, I’d be a monster in the CrossFit arena and on my laptop. Sigh. Don’t worry, Athleta, Natalie Taylor is available for hire: my skills include extreme over analysis of just about everything, using too many words to explain simple thoughts, and oh! I am an expert catalogue-flipper.

Find the Reason, Not the Excuse

2011-08-03T19:23:00.001-07:00

I receive a lot of emails from readers who have read my book and it is literally one of the most amazing parts of writing and publishing. Readers tend to articulate things that I have a hard time getting to on my own and I love hearing from other people who have struggled, overcome, and continue to put forth a full effort despite challenging circumstances. Often, I feel like I am the one gaining the insight and wisdom from my readers, and this featured email is no exception. I’d like to start sharing more of what I hear from people (provided they give me the thumbs up) because it’s usually awesome stuff that needs to be repeated. So here it goes:

I recently received an email from a woman names Clair who lives in Australia and read my book. Clair said some really nice things about my book and then told me a little about herself. Clair writes:

“I've been grieving for a very long time and have often worn my grief as a chip or a souvenir. A reason why life and how I am choosing to live it is flawed or why I am not trying as hard as I could. Grief is a reason. Grief has been my excuse.”

After I read that part, I just sat there looking at the computer for a while because I felt I had been hit by a bolt of lightning (the good kind of lighting, not the bad kind).

So many of us, myself included (actually I could be the poster child for this) say to ourselves, “I can’t do that because of” insert crappy, unfair situation here. We see ourselves as surviving heavy hits, treading water, but just barely staying a float. “Once I get through this” we tell ourselves, “then I can really start my life.” But instead of waiting it out forever (because these things tend not to go away), what if we flipped the equation on its head. Clair said it best. What if the excuse turns into the reason? What if the anchor becomes the engine? The baggage becomes the fuel.

Even for me, I still find myself toeing the pity pool of “Maybe in a few more years I’ll feel up to…” there are so many things: traveling, writing fiction, not drowning my sorrows in Primo’s Pizza…the list goes on. We all have a big, ugly word that we’d rather not have attached to our identity: Grief, divorce, injury, illness, all in varying degrees of severity. I see my word everywhere. It hangs over my cup of coffee in the morning, it is splayed out on the dining room table as I pay bills. But now when I see it, I can say, “This is the reason to do something, not the excuse to avoid it.” A pretty powerful thought.

So thanks to Clair from Australia, for her bolt of lightning. I’m just happy it made it all the way across the world.

(On a different note, I racked my brain about which photo to attach to this entry, and then I saw this pinned to my bulletin board. My sister Moo made this for me and others in our family shortly after losing Josh. I’m fairly certain all of us still have it up in our homes somewhere. I have looked at it everyday for four years. So when I looked at it today, I thought of this post. It just seemed to fit. )

And Then I Fell Flat On My Face: This Is A True Story

2011-07-27T09:46:00.001-07:00

(This event took place three weeks ago, but it’s just better if I explain it in the present tense):

On the way to the race, I realize I forgot my sunglasses. For a moment I think about turning around to get them, but then I think no, I do not want to be late. Last year we were late. Not this year, I think, I want to be there right on time.

This morning I am participating in the National Cherry Festival 15K race in Traverse City, Michigan. Last year I ran with my friends Maggie and T.J. We weren’t very prepared and the whole thing ended up being a debacle: we accidentally locked T.J.’s racing shoes in the car (sorry Teej) and nearly missed the start. But it was fun (well, maybe not for T.J.) because we were together.

This year, however, there is no room for being late, no time for amateur antics. Instead of goofing off with my friends this morning, everything has been well calculated. Solid breakfast, plenty of time for the drive into town, I’ve got a new fancy watch, I found an amazing parking spot (although I don’t have anyone to drive me back to the start after the race), and most importantly, I line up in the tightly packed start with the other runners well before the race begins. I’m training for a marathon so I’m taking this very seriously.

The whistle goes off and the crowded pack, with me in the middle, start shuffling hurriedly toward the starting line. Right as I’m about to cross the starting line, I look down to start my watch, to get the most accurate time possible, but right as I look down my foot hits that plastic thing on the ground, you know, the thing that covers all of the wires that activate people’s chips—the plastic cover so people won’t trip over the wires. And then it happens, almost in slow motion. My right foot gets caught and at first I think I can catch myself, but I can’t get my left foot out in front fast enough which is when I think, “This isn’t really happening” and then…I fall flat on my face. Not just a stumble, not just on to my knees. Hands and legs fully extended, chin to ground. Mind you, I am in the middle of a lot of very serious runners who are very concerned with strong paces and good times, and not concerned with the idiot girl who tripped over the start. I hear someone yell, “Woah, watch out!” as they hop over my body. Then, I hear a woman ask in an annoyed tone, “Ugh. Are you okay?” I don’t even look up. “Yeah.” I say. I stand up. My knees and hands are scrapped and bleeding a little. I look over at the parking lot and think about just calling it a day. Runners continue to pass me. I start my watch and go.

Fast forward to mile 7. I’m really hating life when a woman in front me sees a plastic cup fly into the middle of the road. She runs out, picks it up and without looking throws it back toward the side of the road. The cup hits me in the face.

Finally, I finish the race. Once I cross the finish, I enter a huge crowd of tables and people. Everyone is getting water, eating cherries, chatting with friends, and getting ready for the parade. People are hugging each other, high fiving, kids are being carried on parents shoulders. People are running back to the last quarter mile to cheer on their friends. I know no one there. I get some water, turn around, and walk two miles back to my car into the sun, without my sunglasses.

I learned a lot today. I think it’s safe to say it was really more of a learning day than a winning day. Lesson 1: Don’t forget your sunglasses. Lesson 2: Don’t park two miles away from the finish line. Lesson 3: In most of life’s events, specifically a foot race, staying on two feet makes things much easier. Lesson 4: Most of life’s events, if not all, are more fun and more meaningful with your friends, even if they’re just there to laugh at you stumble over your own feet and get hit in the face with a cup. With friends around, potentially pathetic and defeating experiences turn into funny stories and good memories. Not to mention, when we get on our high horses at some point down the road, our friends are always there to say, “Hey, remember when you fell across the starting line? That was hilarious.” Don’t worry about me though, no high horse in sight for a while after this experience…

Because I Said So

2011-07-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

(You’re saying to yourself): Oh no she didn’t.

(I am saying back to you (even though you’re talking to yourself)): Oh yes she did.

Yes, that’s right, I am writing a post about “Because I Said So.” The most cliché, the most overused, the worst of the worst parent lines in the history of parenting. I’m going there, to the place I swore I’d never go, to the place we all promised our teenage selves we’d never go as we slammed the door on our obnoxious parents. I don’t know much about this crazy job of raising a child and I tend to screw it up about 90 percent of the time, but the one thing I do know is this: I believe in “Because I Said So.” And before you get all jugdy on me, let me tell you why. Here it is, the defense of “Because I Said So.”

Picture this: Kai and I are packing up and getting ready to leave from our up north stay. Kai had had a morning full of cartoons, pop tarts, running around in pajamas and other doses of easy living. About 10 am, I ask him to come upstairs to help me pack and help me take our stuff to the car. He starts the thing where he suddenly can’t hear me. I ask him to do something and then, instead of listening, he wiggles around and says something crazy like, “but mom, my leg is broken!” Or, after asking him to go up stairs he looks at me and says, “Your neck looks like a S’more!” and then falls over laughing at his joke. Finally, I say if he isn’t moving toward his room by the time I count to three…still no response…I put him in his room and shut the door…he freaks out yelling and pounding on the door.

Finally, I go back in and hug him and we talk about listening to mom and how we always listen to mom and if we don’t listen to mom, bad things will probably happen. Kai cries and gives me an “I understand, mom” through his tears and we say the next thing we are going to do is pack our bags together.

Here’s the thing. Clearly I don’t need my three year old to help me pack or carry suitcases, but I wanted him to help and feel like he had to do something before a day full of popsicles and play time. Sometimes I just want my son to do something because I said he should do it. This is an important quality to me—not to obey blindly, but to obey someone that you know should be obeyed. And I don’t feel the need to rationalize my thinking. “Why can’t I have another cookie, mom?” “Well, Kai, there is this thing called Type 2 Diabetes and it tends to occur when insulin levels are…” No. You can’t have one because I said so. You pick up your room because I said so. You walk to the car on your own two feet because you’re not Lady Gaga for crying out loud and because I said so. You help me pack because that’s what I asked you to do. End of conversation.

In this world we have this spectrum of Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother and the parent who says, “Jimmy’s just not into listening to the teacher today,” and shrugs as if his/her child is exercising his advanced frontal lobe functions, when really, the kid is being a jerk and the parent is being a push-over. I occasionally have parents at conferences who tell me, “Fred just doesn’t like Shakespeare. He just doesn’t think it’s interesting,” in an effort to explain low quiz grades or late essay drafts. What is happening here, people?! I want to yell. (Yelling is generally discouraged at conferences). When my college soccer coach interrupted practice for sprints, I certainly didn’t say, “Not feelin’ it today, coach. Can we do corner kicks instead?”

The most ironic part is, I don’t actually know if the strategy of having my kid pack his own bag will make any difference. I don’t know if not carrying him to the car will make him any better of a kid. And I bet my coach had no proof or validation that doing sprints would make us better as soccer plays. I whole-heartedly admit, I have no scientific research that verifies that reading Shakespeare will make you any smarter (though I’d probably quit my job if anyone made me stop). But we all know that following instructions without a note of sass or protest is an absolutely mandatory quality. It’s not the thing we make you do necessarily that is the lesson, it’s making you do something you’d rather not be doing that is the lesson. Because we know, we know, that the ability to listen and follow compliantly will make you a better student, a better employee, a better athlete, and a better spouse (and we all know by “spouse” I really mean “husband.”)

So there’s the reasoning. Take it or leave. And I have to admit, although I find clichés to be a completely unacceptable answer to any of life or literature’s greatest problems, perhaps this explanation has proven that although they are overdone, they certainly can be true. Though, to any students taking my class in the future, please note that clichés are not an acceptable response to any analytical questions addressed in class. Why, you ask? Oh, you didn’t hear? Don’t make me say it again…

The Worst Decision I've Made In A Long Time

2011-07-14T15:31:00.000-07:00

Recently I decided to run the Detroit Marathon. (See blog title if you’re interested in how I feel about it).

Lately, my crazy sister has been writing all sorts of things about me training for this and I now feel obliged to sort some things out. So here are some reasons I should not be running a marathon and then I’ll give you some reasons why I am.

Reasons This is a Horrible Idea:

1. I have played soccer my whole life. I look like a soccer player—average height, big legs. (Our coach used to call us—some of her players—“healthy looking” or “sturdy.” If you’re a girl, you don’t need to be a rocket scientist to know what “healthy looking” and “sturdy” are code for. “Sturdy” doesn’t always translate well to things like a prom dress). The point is, I am designed for short distances, like down a field and back. At the beginning of our season in college, all athletes had to run two miles on the track and it was the most feared, most hated challenge of pre-season, especially by the sturdy girls.

2. I ran in ONE cross-country meet in high school and it was awful. Never did it again.

3. When I asked my brother, Ads, about running the Detroit Marathon (he did it a few years ago) he said it was the worst thing he’s ever done to his body and he completely regrets it. “Don’t do it.” Direct quote. That was his advice.

4. 26.2 miles. That’s mostly why it’s a bad idea.

Reasons This is Important and Must Happen

1. I am 28 years old. I have ten fingers and ten toes. I have a beating heart, all working limbs, and a healthy body. If I’m not pushing myself into a physical challenge that I have never attempted before, then what am I doing?

Basically I see it as a critical choice on my part. I can choose to be one of two people. Person number one says, “Oh, running marathons, it’s just not my thing!” and then I commit to a life where I constantly reject opportunities for growth and success by claiming it’s “not my thing.” I continue to close doors, say no, pass on new adventures because I don’t think I’m fit for any activity I haven’t mastered by the age of 28 (which, as you can imagine, is a short, short list).

Or, I can say, “Everything is my thing. This year it’s a marathon.”

Which of those two people would I rather be? Which of those two people would I rather hang out with?

Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like I’m running a marathon. Please feel free to wish me luck. Based on numbers 1-4, I think I’ll need it.

Natalie Taylor Jumps the Pond: Why I'm Really a Brit at Heart

2011-07-06T20:10:00.000-07:00

Today, July 7, 2011, my memoir, Signs of Life hits shelves in the UK. This amazing opportunity to be published overseas has prompted me to consider my intrinsic connection with the UK. Below are six reasons why I’m leaning toward permanently spelling humor and color with the extra “u” and ditching “thank you” for “cheers.” Here’s my salute to the Union Jack:

1. July seventh is my dad’s birthday. He was born in London. His parents were Polish immigrants who moved to the British Isle to escape world war. Thanks for opening your borders and happy birthday Vito!

2. I studied at a small liberal arts college in Michigan called Albion College (ancient name for England). Our mascot is The Britons, or Brits. I affectionately end all alumni emails with a whooping “Go Brits!” The Albion marching band, the British Eighth, wear uniforms reminiscent of the Royal Guard.

3. My brother Adam is obsessed with Pippa.

4. The summer between my junior and senior year, I lived in London. At the time I was studying English and History and therefore had my internship at The Charles Dickens Museum. While the rest of my flat mates had to intern at stuffy banks and offices, I went to work every day at 48 Doughty Street. One of the best summers of my life.

5. My son’s name is Kai Joshua Taylor. Wayne Rooney’s son’s name is Kai Wayne Rooney. Two great soccer/football players in the making.

6. William Shakespeare and J.K. Rowling are two very important people in my life. I typically consult them/their wisdom before making any major life decisions.

The opportunity to publish in the UK is only possible because of my publisher, Two Roads Books. A very special thank-you to Lisa and Vanessa, another great Brit-American duo, for all of their love and support!

All in all, I am thrilled to be on UK bookshelves! Thanks for having me! For more info about the book, click here.

Here are two reviews of Signs of Life from two British readers, writers, and bloggers:

"Making It Up"

"I think I Just Blogged Myself"

That cover is pretty cool, isn’t it? Check out the artist here.

Road Trip: Notes To My Former Self

2011-07-01T19:25:00.000-07:00

The summer always has us (Kai and me) on the road. While we love going up north and visiting family, the car ride can be a hit or miss. Although we did a lot of driving last summer, every summer is a new age for us and thus brings different twists and turns. This summer, Kai is three and we recently had our first long car ride of the year. As usual, I learned a lot. Here are a list of things I would like to have told my former self before putting the car into drive:

Do NOT give the child an object—let’s say a lightsaber—that can reach the front seat and whack mom “on accident.”

Do NOT give the child any food that results in a big mushy mess—say a donut. (It was a bribe. To the Gods of Fruits and Vegetables, I am sorry. Don’t judge me).

Before leaving, explain (perhaps even using a map), how far the drive is. This will prevent the child from asking ten thousand times “Is that the lake right over those trees, mom?” “No Kai, that’s Lansing.”

Lie about the features of the car stereo. Claim that you, driver, cannot play songs over and over but must let the entire CD play before repeating a song. This will avoid listening to the same song—let’s say "Surfin’ USA"—over and over and over again.

“I Spy” is the greatest game ever invented. Tip: Encourage child to point out objects in the car to avoid child “spying” a sign you passed twenty minutes ago.

Despite these few hiccups, we had a great trip and are looking forward to more adventures both in the car and out. No matter what, this round I definitely did not win the “Worst Parent Ever” award. That goes to my brother Adam and his wife Ellie who left their dog, Chubbs, sitting in his Sherpa bag on the living room floor while they headed north. Two hours into their car trip they realized they left their dog at home. Good thing they don’t have kids yet. But hey, we learn with every mistake, right? Try telling that to Chubbs .

Mistakes Have Been Made

2011-06-20T19:32:00.001-07:00

“Don’t worry Nat, it’s not a gun, it’s a blaster.” Famous last words from my older brother Adam as he hands my three-year old son a Han Solo action figure. Up until last Christmas, the word gun was not a part of my son’s vocabulary. “Oh, he doesn’t know that word,” I would say in my self-righteous tone to the other mom on the playground as her son toted an armed policeman figurine. I was so proud of myself for keeping him clear of violence and weapons. That lasted until Christmas.

Uncle Ads had saved all of his Star Wars action figures and toys from his youth (I mean what grown man doesn’t have his stash of Star Wars toys stocked away somewhere in his mother’s house) and he showed all of them to Kai approximately six months ago. Ever since then, Kai has become completely obsessed with Star Wars. I need not elaborate. See accompanying photo.

Don’t get me wrong, Star Wars has a lot to offer us. The epic story line, the creation of a hero, the entertaining cast of characters. Not to mention I often use Star Wars as leverage with simple things like eating breakfast. Just this morning I told Kai that all powerful Jedis eat breakfast. Why do you think they’re so smart and so strong? Why do you think Darth Vadar is so mad and vengeful all the time? Easy peazy--no breakfast.

The thing that I don’t like, however, are the guns. Right now we have two: one is a Han Solo “blaster” and the other Kai calls his Bounty Hunter gun. So there you go, he plays with guns and he knows what a bounty hunter is. Somehow this tells me I have screwed something up. Not to mention, as all parents know, once kids get something in their heads--whether it’s the taste of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese or the idea of a gun—it can’t be taken out.

I know I will continue to struggle with this idea of how much “War” is too much, considering as a woman I think all war is generally a bad idea and chances are Anakin Skywalker could’ve talked through his problems instead of going to the dark side and creating the Death Star. (Clearly he has issues.) But as an English teacher, I also know that ever since The Iliad, there is a primal draw to stories of battle and external conflict.

So, I will find a balance of allowing Kai to be who he wants to be and reminding him that at the end of the day, it is not okay to hurt people. Beyond that, I think it’s also important that for some small moments, I knock it off with the over-analytical parenting crap and just play. The other day he was running around the yard with the blaster and the gun and I stopped him and gave him a serious look. “Give me the blaster,” I said. He handed it over, looking like he was bracing himself to get yelled at. Then I smiled and said, “run.” I’ve never heard the kid laugh so hard in his life.

The Book of Vito

2011-06-18T20:14:00.000-07:00

First of all, yes that is his real name. Well, kind of. Vito is the Americanized version of his Polish name, Witold. But he pretty much looks like what you would expect a guy named Vito to look like. Mustache, hairy chest, a few chipped teeth from some hockey games. My dad pretty much defines the word Dad, but in his own Vito way. If you’re interested in knowing what it means to be a warrior, you might want to take a page out of the Book of Vito.

In honor of my dad on Father’s Day, I’d like to give you the top ten reasons why my dad is an amazing human being.

10. He has two titanium hips and has undergone two back surgeries and still plays hockey. Actually, he had his second back surgery two weeks ago and today commented “it kills me that I can’t get on the ice yet.” Easy tiger. But that’s Vito—physical pain is no match for the need to compete.

9. He has an internal GPS and NONE of his children inherited this gift. I have heard my adult brother (who lives in California) call my dad (who lives in Michigan) and my dad has navigated my brother on the 405. No joke.

8. When we were teenagers my dad concocted the abbreviation “DFWM” which stood for “Don’t F&@$ With Me.” We didn’t. Neither did our friends. Sound harsh? Now that I’m a mom, I call it genius parenting.

7. He loves to walk around topless with his hairy chest smoking cigars.

6. He makes his own flavored vodka.

5. When we were kids, he planned extensive family vacations that usually involved themed history lessons. This earned him the nickname “The Wrecking Ball of Fun.”

4. He will often spoil his grandson with Legos just so he (Vito) can assemble them.

3. He gave the world’s best speech at my wedding about how the secret to any happy marriage lies in two simple words: Chocolates and lingerie.

2. He recovered from his back surgery by lying in bed ordering random toys for his grandson off of Amazon.com.

1. If I or any of my siblings suddenly found ourselves in the clutches of danger and needed a person who could save us—even if it involved running through a blazing fire, fighting a Cossack soldier, dodging poisonous snakes, swinging through trees, swimming through a river of hippopotamuses—we would call the guy with two titanium hips because he would do it. No questions asked. With his combination of utter love and support for his family and his primal instinct to defend and protect (hence DFWM), Vito is the man. Thanks for being you, dad! Happy Father’s Day.

When There Is Nothing Else You Can Do

2011-06-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

Today, June 17, 2011, marks the four-year anniversary of my husband’s passing. Josh Taylor died suddenly when he was 27 years old and expecting his first child. To any of us who were close to him, he is never far from our every thought. But today is a distinctly different day. Anniversaries of any kind, good or bad, whether we like them or not, force us to think about how far we’ve come or how little ground we've made, how much time has passed or how slowly it has gone by, and at least for me, I always think about where we were before this day ever became an anniversary of a life lost, when June 17 was just another day. Now, however, June 17 carries a weight.

Every year I fear this time of year more than any other, and for some reason, I have a huge relief when it has passed. And every year I ask myself, what should I do on this day and on the days that surround it? What is an appropriate way to honor his memory and help myself through these long hours? In years past, I spend time with my family and friends. We prepare and eat a meal together. I spend time alone going through pictures. I spend time with Kai. All of these things seem to be the only thing I can do. But this year, for the first time, I’ve added one more thing to my list.

If you saw my last post, or a few previous to that, you know I do this thing called CrossFit. The CrossFit main site publishes workouts daily (they’re called WODs—Workout Of the Day) and a lot of the workouts have names—Fran, Cindy, etc. There are also other workouts that they run called Hero WODs. Hero WODs are named after men and women who died serving their country in some capacity--overseas in the military, in the line of duty in law enforcement, and so on. In addition to the workout, CrossFit posts a description of the Hero, what he or she did in sacrifice for his or her own life, and names his or her surviving family. Although my husband did not lose his life in the armed services, I have a deep appreciation for the concept of the Hero WOD. I love this concept for a lot of reasons, but mainly because as a widow, I have found that most people feel uncomfortable talking about death and dying, which is of course a natural human instinct to avoid such a dark topic. For me, however, death is a part of my life and although it is sad, it is still my reality and I appreciate it when others bring the topic to the forefront of our daily thoughts. The Hero WOD demands that we do talk about these men and women, because we should. We should look at their picture and feel that tug of sadness in our guts, we should do something to remember them in a way that lets us be together but allows us, even if it is a false emotion, to feel like we are doing something.

The other part of the Hero WOD, for me at least, is that there is some acknowledgement that as a living breathing person, I have the capabilities to put my body through this workout. Sometimes I have moments where all I can do is think about the athletic feats my husband would have conquered had he been given more time here. But he doesn’t get that opportunity. So many people, all too young, are robbed of that opportunity. Because of this, I see it as my responsibility to do something on this day to not only honor his memory, not only to redirect my frustration over his absence, but also to feel my heart pound, to feel my skin sweat, and to feel pain. It is an expression of my appreciation that I get to be here. It is a collision of tremendous sadness and absolute gratitude that I have the chance to live.

Thank you for reading. Here it is:

Josh

100 double unders

10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 of chest to bar pull-ups, burpees, ground to overhead (155, 105)

100 double unders

Going Pro

2011-06-12T18:37:00.000-07:00

This weekend I had the opportunity to compete in the CrossFit Central East Regional competition. (If you’re in the dark about this stuff, just click here or here for the back story). The regional competition brings together the best CrossFit individuals and teams from Michigan, Ohio, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Indiana. I had the honor of competing with my team, Stay Strong CrossFit, who, on a side note, are the best people on earth.

Going into my first workout, I looked around at the other female athletes and could only think about how I was probably the most insecure person there. They all just looked stronger, more confident, more prepared. Then, as we were waiting, all I could think was, “This isn’t a big deal. It’s not like this is my life. It’s not like I’m getting paid to do this or anything is on the line here.” I went in for my first workout and did not perform well at all. (I will spare you the details, unless you want to geek out on workouts, then I’ve got nothing but time). But I knew I could have and should have done better. By a lot.

When I walked away, I was stunned at how upset I was. I had to take some time to just chill out by myself, watch the other athletes go, walk around a little. I was so mad at myself, but I couldn’t believe how emotional I was becoming over this. Didn’t I just tell myself I didn’t care? I’m not getting paid—what happened to that internal monologue? But it was obvious. I did care. I really cared. But I was so scared of failing, I tried to convince myself that failing wouldn’t be a big deal. If I didn’t invest in it, then there’d be no pain when I didn’t do well. But I realized I was fully invested. As I walked around the arena by myself, I came to understand that there is nothing wrong with caring about my sport as much as a professional athlete even though I’m absolutely not a professional athlete. That sense of commitment and passion is not reserved for the super-talented. It is for me too.

Every athletic event for every single human, pro or Natalie Taylor, is two high speed trains screaming toward each other on the same track—athletic events are where limitations collide with possibilities. It’s the one place where you can ask yourself, “What am I made of?” and get an actual answer. In my opinion, there are few experiences that offer that kind of guarantee. And that guarantee is not only for the elites, it’s for people like me. I just have to have enough guts to throw my hat in the ring and really mean it.

On the one hand, the competition affirmed how far I have to go as an athlete, but on the other hand, I am now more like the pros than I was before. Sure I’m not as good as them, sure no one is sending me endorsement offers, but I care as much about my sport as they do of theirs. So what do I do now? What does any athlete do after a failure in a big competition? I’ll do the same thing the LA Lakers are going to do since their game four loss to the Dallas Mavericks, the same thing the Detroit Red Wings are going to do since their game seven loss to the San Jose Sharks, the same thing Federer is going to do since his French Open loss to Nadal. We are all going to do the only thing an athlete can do in the hunt to become a better version of ourselves: Gear up and go back to work.

Pomp and Circumstance

2011-06-02T19:43:00.000-07:00

First of all, I forgot the camera, which is typical of me, but I was still mad at myself when my mom looked up and whispered, “Did you bring the camera?” You see, today was a big day for us. Kai Taylor had his last day of three-year old preschool. Two of the moms from the preschool class bought the preschool teachers flower pots and all the kids put their hand print on the pot. On the top of the pot it said, “Class of 2011.” Eight hours after Kai’s class sang their songs and hugged their teachers, another class of 2011 had a shining moment. Students I met four years ago as incoming ninth graders crossed the stage and accepted their diploma at Berkley High School’s 2011 graduation.

Typically, I’m not usually moved by ceremonies. I’m more of the person that puts the value on the journey it took to get to the ceremony. In the past, especially before I had a son, I would see parents crying at graduation and I’d think, “is this really that big of a deal? You knew they’d get here, right?” But today, when Kai was singing his end-of-the-year songs about flowers growing tall, I started to cry. And when I saw parents crying tonight, I couldn’t help but feel the same knot in my stomach of love, hopefulness, and heartache.

Something weird happens when you become parent and you are able to see life like it’s a VHS tape. See that clip of him on swinging his legs from the wooden bench, waving at the camera with Blue Moon ice cream on his face? And then, someone hits fast forward and there we are at graduation. Time moves at this pace that you just can’t get your hands around, like a slippery fish, and for a parent, that is a beautiful and painful thing. The preschooler and the graduate are inextricably linked.

So why do we cry? We cry because we got here, we cry because we know what it took to get here, and we cry because in a split second, this moment will be gone. I remember when my mom saw me right before I delivered Kai, three and a half years ago. The doctors had just told her I had to have a Cesarean section and I had an oxygen mask on my face when she walked in to the hospital room. She looked at me and started crying. So I did what any daughter would do and I yelled at my mom. “Stop crying! I’m fine!” I barked from behind my mask. But now, I realize she probably wasn’t seeing a young woman when she walked in, she was seeing her preschooler, her high school graduate, a little girl who shouldn’t have to be in the clutches of life’s greatest trial. We can never see our children in any way other than how far they have come and knowing how much more will change before we have time to blink.

And, mom, while I’m sorry I yelled at you, we both know it’s better that the kids don’t get it. It’s better that Kai’s only concern at the ice cream social is if he can have another frosted sugar cookie and it’s better that all we hear from the sassy teenager is, “Just take the picture, mom!” as they get ready to march down the aisle. We don’t want them to get it. That’s for us to handle.

So if you’re a parent of a preschooler, a fifth grader, a high school graduate, or of any other child who is currently moving on from one phase of life to the next, soak in that ceremony. Go ahead and ball your eyes out. They only sing those songs once, they only cross that stage once, and we don’t get to go back. Oh yeah, and don’t forget to pack your camera.

Made for Michigan

2011-05-30T07:30:00.000-07:00

This is Kai's favorite part of a push-up. The part at the bottom that has melted. (When we were little, we called them Flavor Ices; Kai calls them push-ups). He loves drinking the slush at the end. Push-ups have been invading my life in the past few days. He's always holding one when I pick him up from his grandmas and I know with the warm months approaching, somehow the push-up will find it's way into every part of our day. With this in mind, I started thinking of other things I am excited for this summer in the great state of Michigan.

1. Not putting make-up on until the Welcome Back breakfast in August. (I'm a teacher).

2. Having a steady rotation of two cotton dresses as my week's wardrobe. And if you're my mom, you even have a cotton dress that functions as a nightgown, beach ware, or summer-time errands outfit.

3. Preparing for days that require a bathing suit and a hooded sweatshirt.

4. Buying 18 bottles of sunscreen because I keep misplacing the previous bottle.

5. Buying 18 pairs of sunglasses from the dollar store. Same issue as the sunscreen.

6. The smell of chlorine.

7. The phrase "up north."

8. The biggest decision Kai and I have to make all day is what to order from Dairy Deluxe. (I'm a fan of vanilla in a cup with sprinkles).

9. The flip-flop tan on my feet.

10. And, for the love of God, not setting an alarm.

As the neurotic human that I am, however, I do need to acknowledge a few things about the upcoming season that unsettle me.

1. Bees. You can be sure that at some point this summer I will embarrass myself at a barbeque by being the only adult to jump out of her seat and scream "BEE! BEE! BEE!"

2. That one fly in my kitchen that I will spend the entire summer chasing around with a dishtowel.

3. The obsessive need to cover my son with sunscreen. My goal is to keep him as pasty as his December shade of "printer paper."

Either way, summer is a big deal in the state of Michigan and we plan of celebrating it like it's the homecoming of our long lost friend, one push-up at a time.

Money in the Bank

2011-05-15T13:55:00.001-07:00

Kai Taylor, now three and a half, has recently discovered the idea and power of money. A good family friend of ours, who shall remain nameless, came over a few weeks ago and at the conclusion of his visit said, “Kai, I’ve got something for you.” I anticipated a small piece of candy, maybe a quarter. But no, he handed my three-year old a twenty-dollar bill. Immediately, I decided to lie to Kai and tell him the bill was a one-dollar bill and Kai could get one small thing at the store. Once Kai saw the bill, however, he yelled, “Wow! 20 dollars?!” Thanks, preschool.

So then we had to spend it. The next time we went to the store I walked down the toy aisle with him thinking, “This will be a nice lesson in math. Aren’t I a smart mom.” So we bought a Star Wars Lego ship—duh—which was 18 dollars, two less than 20. But now, ever since the exchange of currency for toy, Kai can’t stop talking about money.

“How much money do you have mom,” he asks as I pay for groceries. “Where do you get money from? How do you get more money?” I tell him people go to work, money is hard to get, you have to work a lot to get a little bit of money. “When are you going to work, mom? Why aren’t you at work, mom? Did you make any money at work today?”

Then this morning when we were out to breakfast with friends, my friend Terrah gave Kai her ten-dollar bill to take to the cash register. Immediately, it was a Lord of the Rings “my precious” moment. The longer he held it, the more obsessed he became.

So now, I’ve just resorted to all sorts of other strategies. The stores are closed. We’re out of money for a while. You need to get a job. But, he is relentless. How do I explain that this obsession with currency and acquisition is toxic, not to mention it’s going to attract the absolute wrong type of girlfriend. Guess we’ll have to swap out Harold and the Purple Crayon for Liar’s Poker.

I’ll tell you one thing though, once that kid’s teeth start falling out, the Tooth Fairy most certainly will not be bringing money or he’ll start ripping his molars out. I can see my future Investment Banker with a bloody mouth telling me, “whatever makes a buck, mom!” Or, if he’s really Wall Street material, he’ll start knocking other kids’ teeth out. Kai Ryssdal, please advise. In the mean time, I’ll just keep him away from the green and hopefully keep myself out of the red.

Word To Your Mother

2011-05-07T15:02:00.001-07:00

(I stole this post from my older sister, Moo. I steal a lot of things from her…clothes, jewelry, make-up…don’t worry, she gave me permission to repost… It’s a nice way to sum up our mom’s awesomeness.)

In honor of Mother's Day, I'd like to share with you some pretty genius words of wisdom from my mom. She has always given great advice and also leads by example. She's just way too good to limit it to the traditional top ten list so this one goes to eleven. Thanks mom! Here we go, drum roll please....

1. Three letters: B.A.D. (Boys Are Dumb). This little acronym got me through middle school.

2. Don't buy cheap sheets! Always spring for the higher thread count and never underestimate the benefits of a good night's sleep.

3. You can't change someone's behavior but you can change the way you react to it.

4. Ask questions.

5. On the best days - the ones with the bluest skies and brightest sun - take a mental photograph and file it away in your brain so you can pull it out when the sun's not shining. (That one's really important when you live in Michigan.)

6. Don't drink diet. Real cream. Real Sugar.

7. Our brains are like chests of drawers. A woman's brain has lots of drawers open all at once while a man can only have one drawer open at a time... unless we're talking about the sex drawer. That one is always open.

8. Make everyone feel welcome.

9. Stay out of the pity pool.

10. We are here to unite, not to divide.

and finally...

11. Be a cheerleader! Celebrate everything, be happy and supportive of the goals and accomplishments of others. And don't be afraid to throw out an enthusiastic "WAHOO" (preferably combined with a high kick) every now and then!

We love you mom!

For Mama Bears Everywhere

2011-05-01T19:11:00.000-07:00

As Mother’s Day approaches, I thought I’d provide some guidance on how to handle this holiday. I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, it’s Mother’s Day, I’ll just buy my mom/my wife some flowers.” Wrong. So wrong, it’s not even funny. So, if you are a son/daughter/husband/etc., listen up. If you are a mom, please feel free to copy and paste this into an email to your son/daughter/husband/etc. I’ll be the jerk so you don’t have to be:

Mother’s Day Instructions:

1. Let her sleep in. Absolutely, under no circumstances, should anyone wake up a mom on Mother’s Day until she is ready to get out of bed. Don’t wake her up because you cooked her breakfast. Don’t wake her up because you don’t know where anything is in the kitchen and you need help cooking her breakfast. Figure it out and let her sleep in.

2. Tell her you’ve arranged for her and three best girlfriends to go to brunch and she and they can stay and talk over food and coffee as long as they want. Tell her you won’t call her ten times on her cell phone halfway through breakfast and say, “Mom, what is taking so long?!” And when she gets home, you won’t say, “Good God, how much do the four of you have to talk about! What can you possible say to each other for three hours!” Just let her go, don’t harass her, and let her stay as long as she likes.

3. While she is gone, clean the entire house like you’ve never cleaned it before. Get all the kids involved. Use a mop, get out the tile spray, fold the laundry, run the dishwasher and empty it. Do not make a mom empty her dishwasher on Mother’s Day. That’s criminal.

4. When she gets back, that’s when you give her the thoughtful gifts you’ve bought and the nice stuff the kids made at school. After spending some time together, tell her you are going to take the kids to the park and she can come and play if she’d like, or she can sit in the clean house for a few hours by herself. (She has probably never done this before in the hours of daylight). She can read a book on the couch or take a bath or call her best friend from grade school or whatever, but she is going to choose what she wants to do and you aren’t going to say one word about it.

5. Make certain your mother/wife does not cook or clean up dinner on Mother’s Day. Remember people, this isn’t Mother’s Morning or Mother’s Hour, this is Mother’s Day. So someone else in the house can think of what to cook for dinner, cook the dinner, and clean it up.

6. All evening chores, such as putting kids to bed, taking out the garbage, mining for Lego pieces in the carpet, etc. must not be done by mom. Let her go to bed early or just lay on the couch and watch her shows or read her book, but do not ask her to clean up after the holiday that is honor of her. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Wow, this day sounds like a lot of work. Do I really need to do all of this?” And if you want me to be completely honest, the answer is yes, you do. If, at the end of this day, you collapse in bed and think to yourself how tiring it was to do everything for everyone and make sure everyone is happy and having a good time and it sure is a lot to ask of someone to cook and clean and entertain and be in good spirits all day then my friend, maybe, just maybe, for one day out of 365 days, you have had one sliver of a taste of what your mother/wife has done her entire life. This is a national holiday, people, for a reason.

7. Last but not least, buy her some flowers.

Marking His Territory

2011-04-30T15:16:00.000-07:00

Honestly, I don’t even know what to write for this post. I just know that after I walked into the bathroom, I knew I had to document this. On top of the stickers on the toilet, Kai has left the toilet seat up, as if to say, “Lady, you don’t own me.”

At first glance, it may appear that this is an act of defiance, but actually, I think Kai is clearly just trying to tell a story. Look at the narrative: Two crooks running away from the policeman, the cop caught between the two. Genius.

In an effort to follow up on my instincts that Kai is simply a budding artist looking for the right canvas, I asked him, “Kai, why did you put stickers on the toilet?” Kai said, “Oh, because I…” pause, grin, “because I blah blah blah.” Literally, he said the phrase, “blah blah blah.” So I asked again. Again he said, “Because I just blah blah blah.” I wonder if he’ll be trying the same hocus pocus explanation when he’s sixteen and I ask him why he’s home after curfew. So much for budding artist. Looks like regular old mischief to me.

Do As I Say...

2011-04-24T17:49:00.001-07:00

As a follow up to my last post, I thought I’d relay the details of our Easter Sunday.

Kai did amazing. He ate Jelly Beans in bed after finding some plastic eggs around the house. He then ate a moderate amount of candy interspersed with actual food. No melt down. An all around wonderful holiday performance.

I, on the other hand, did not do so well. My parents gave me a gigantic candy apple as a Happy Easter present. Picture an apple covered in a thick layer of caramel, miniature M&Ms, and then chocolate. This afternoon Kai came into our kitchen and politely asked for another miniature sized Twix bar, to which I said in my most motherly tone, “that is your last one.” After he walked out, I opened the candy apple and proceeded to reduce it to powder (see photo)…all by myself. Hold on, I need a minute to hang my head in shame…

Sometimes I wish I had someone to regulate my own sugar intake. But then I think that would be the worst idea of all time. If any person in my life attempted to say any version of “that is your last one,” I would give them a death stare that said, “oh no you didn’t” and then proceed to explain to them that I am a grown woman and I can eat ten more cookies if I want. “You’re not the boss of me!” I’d yell through a mouth full of cookie. Wow, that sure does sound like something a three-year old would say.

In the wake of the candy apple incident, I am committing to doing a better job with my own sugar intake, not just my son's. I’m going to be super healthy. Tomorrow is day one. All greens in this house from here on out. I’ll be turning away all baked goods, thank you very much. You can keep your homemade chocolate chip cookies, cheesecakes, and cream puffs. I’ll pass on the bumpy cake cupcakes and cake batter ice cream. We’re cleaning up our act around here.

That is until Mother’s Day…then it’s bring on the candy apples.

If you can't beat em'...

2011-04-22T19:01:00.000-07:00

For the last three years, as the parent of a small child, I have approached holidays in the following ways:

I yell at relatives not to send anything big. I instruct grandmas not to buy toys for holidays that do not traditionally merit toys (i.e. everything except Christmas). I refuse to buy my son the stupid things that Target begs me to buy. More specifically, I have never made a big deal out of Easter. I’ve never hid eggs or talked about the Easter Bunny or given my son an Easter basket. I know, don’t I sound like tons of fun?

I won’t bore you with the rationalization, but the bottom lines is, I don’t want my son to go into every major holiday thinking, “well what to I get?” Because as we all know, holidays should not be about getting or even giving, but just taking a day to spend time with our loved ones. Again, philosophically grand, but in practice, not incredibly exciting.

So, today I had a bit of an existential-mommy crisis. I went out and bought an Easter basket, plastic eggs, and Jelly Beans. I even bought a small Lego helicopter—a complete and total violation of my personal code of holiday conduct. I don’t even know why I did this, I don’t know what sparked it, and I’m sure when my son has a complete sugar overload meltdown on Sunday, I will be riddled with regret.

But you know what, this year, this Easter, we’re gonna go for it. We’re going to run around and find plastic eggs and eat Jelly Beans in our pajamas and play with a new toy that we completely did not earn. And then we’re going to go to brunch with our grandmas and grandpa and aunties and uncles and get five more Easter baskets and take pictures with a stranger dressed up as a giant bunny and we’re going to love every minute of it.

So, you can call me an over-indulgent American, you can tell me I’ve got it all wrong and I’m just reinforcing bad habits that will result in a spoiled child with cavities, and I totally agree. But I’m just a little tired of spending holidays saying, “you know everybody, that’s enough!” I’m just going to celebrate this holiday as if it lives up to the word “holiday” and forget the rules. Wish me luck. Knowing my control-freak-ish hyper-neurotic self, I’m going to need it.

You did not just do that.

2011-04-07T13:21:00.001-07:00

Things you need to know about this incident:

1. This photo was not staged.

2. This is Kai’s dinner, which he dumped onto the living room carpet.

3. Right as I set dinner down (before the incident), the phone rang. Kai dumped his dinner on the floor while I was shooing him away in an effort to talk to my brother on the phone.

4. In the middle of my very serious and firm parental explanation as to why it is completely inappropriate to dump your dinner on the floor, Kai farted, started giggling and then asked, “who tooted?”

Things we both learned from this incident:

1. Mom should not pick up the phone in the middle of dinner.

2. Kai should not, under any circumstances, dump his dinner on the ground when he is upset and wants his mom’s attention.

3. Pasta sauce stains do indeed come out of the carpet. While this point was a relief, it is my sincere hope I do not have to test the carpet cleaner on any other dinner sauces (see point 2).

4. Sometimes, fart jokes are just funny.

Signs of Strength

2011-03-30T17:36:00.000-07:00

This weekend I visited my older sister, Moo, in Miami, Florida. Her CrossFit gym, South Florida CrossFit Endurance, hosted its first ever all-women’s CrossFit competition, The Heraean Games. The games were named after the first all-women’s athletic competition, an actual historic event held in ancient Greece.

Moo decided to host the games in honor of female athletes. Moo owns her own jewelry and apparel line and loves promoting women in the athletic arena. We often try to come up with new ideas together for her line. In designing her new jewelry line, Fashletics, at first Moo came up with the phrase, “Strong is the new pretty.” But then, after considering it, she decided it didn’t quite work. “Why does it always have to be pretty?” she asked in frustration over the phone one night. I remember this same question being posed on one of my radio shows. In 2011, women can be anything they want to be—a CEO, an Olympic Weightlifter, a housewife—but for some reason, no matter which you choose, there is still the pressure to be pretty while you’re doing it.

At the Heraean Games this weekend, the last word I would use to describe the event was pretty. Women were walking around with all sorts of words printed on their lifting socks. One girl had a pair that said, “EVIL” in giant red letters, another that said, “BAD ASS.” Mine said “LIVE LOVE LIFT.” But no one cared about pretty.

At the conclusion of the games, there was a three-way tie for second. They announced that in order to break the tie, they had to have another workout. So three women, after doing three previous workouts, lined up for “Fran.” Fran is a benchmark workout of the CrossFit world: 21-15-9 thrusters at 65 pounds (full squat to lock-out overhead), and pull-ups. Most CrossFitters call Fran a lot of bad names when they see her on their whiteboard. Nobody calls her pretty.

The three women to enter the showdown were Natalia from CrossFit Fever, a shorter Hispanic woman with thick, curly black hair; Shondelle from South Florida CrossFit Endurance, a five-foot-nine African American woman; and Karen from IAMCrossFit, a tall, strong woman from with two children in the cheering section. She had celebrated thirty-fifth birthday the day before. The workout was insane and at the end of it, all three collapsed on the ground. Shondelle won, Karen’s kids jumped all over her, and the eight huge dudes from Natalia’s gym that had been with the whole event, surrounded her with applause.

After the Heraean Games, I agree with my sister. It’s not about pretty. In fact, if you could’ve been there for that last workout, you’d know that we have a thousand words that are more important than pretty: Performance, strength, victory, community, the list goes on. In fact, it’s safe to say I witnessed the beginning of the end of the word “pretty.” You can keep it. We don’t want it anymore. Finally, instead judging ourselves and each other on how we look and allowing others to do the same, this event focused solely on the performance of the athletes. Now that’s making history.

Old School Rules

2011-03-23T19:15:00.000-07:00

This morning when I went to open the blinds of my bedroom window, I found this. If you’ll take a look in the lower left hand corner of the photo, on the windowsill, there is a small yellowish, brownish object. It is piece of a banana. My son left it there yesterday. Hold on. Let’s zoom in. Maybe the day before yesterday.

My house can get messy, but this is downright filthy and shameful. How does a banana end up on a windowsill of a bedroom? Rules. My house needs more rules. When a banana shows up on your bedroom windowsill, that’s a red flag that things are getting a little "raised by wolves."

I used to think that my parental decision to allow my son to play anywhere (and snack anywhere, apparently) in the house was me not being so uptight as a parent. When I was younger, I never understood why parents had so many rules. Food does not leave the kitchen table. Kids aren’t allowed in certain rooms. As a kid and teenager, I looked at these old-school rules with a tinge of judgment. Why deepen the divide between parent and child by putting up yellow tape up and barking code violations all the time. Growing up, a lot of my friends had these living rooms that their mothers kept immaculate at all times and some sort of internal alarm went off when any kid or friend of kid stepped into the living room. We’d sneak in and flop on the perfectly fluffed couch and we’d here, “Girls! Not in the living room!” As a youth, I thought this was ridiculous. Why make a room that no one can go in! But now as an adult, I wish I had that magical room where, even if the rest of the house is a mess, I could walk in, look at the vacuum lines, take a deep breath, and walk out.

So now I get it. These rules aren’t meant to make the kids miserable. These rules aren’t even for the kids. These rules are so the parents don’t end up going, well, bananas.

My new Facebook Profile picture

2011-03-20T18:14:00.000-07:00

Please forgive the low-quality of the picture below. If you can’t tell, this is a picture of me in my bathrobe and that thing stuck to me is a packaging sticker. I have no idea where it came from and I didn’t even know the packaging sticker was there until my friend Maggie came in my kitchen and took out her I-Phone and started laughing at me as I was screaming at her to put her damn camera away.

As you can imagine, I am not a fan of being photographed in my bathrobe. Really, only close family and friends have seen me in my bathrobe. Oh, and the garbage men whom I frequently have to chase after at seven in the morning because I forgot about garbage night. Not only have they seen me in my bathrobe, but they’ve seen me run down the driveway in it too as I curse everyone I know for not having the decency to call me the night before and remind me it’s garbage night.

After seeing this picture, I had to post it. Nothing says “Signs of Natalie Taylor’s life” like a random packaging sticker stuck to a bathrobe. But hey, at least it’s not a house coat. Truth be told, if they made fleece-lined house coats, I’d be the first in line. Wait a minute… do they make fleece-lined house coats? Excuse me while I conduct an important Amazon search.

What the stuff!?

2011-03-19T18:41:00.001-07:00

I have a problem. My tiny living room is full of stuff. I have this nice furniture and this little coffee table from Ikea, but you can hardly see any of it because stuff has invaded. Grandmas, aunties, uncles, friends, everyone but me basically, sees it as their principle duty to spoil my three-year old son rotten. Right now there is a giant Millennium Falcon taking up the entire surface of my coffee table. I am so appreciative that so many people love my son, but the stuff is driving me crazy. The worst part is, Kai is getting used to this. He keeps telling me he needs one more thing and when I say “no” he then casually asks if he can call his grandma.

Mama and Papa Bear, where I get most of my parenting advice, call this “a case of the gimmies.” Their solution in the The Berenstein Bears Get the Gimmies is that when brother and sister go to the store, they only get one thing. Although I agree with Mama and Papa on most accounts, this is one where we differ. (Living in the Bear Country, they probably don’t go to Trader Joe’s as often as I do).

Parenting Magazines, don’t even try it. Don’t give me an article on “how to cut down on stuff” when every other page in your magazine or the margins of your website scream to me “You need THIS stuff!” Let me guess, in order to fix my problem, I just need more stuff, like a massive piece of expensive furniture or this toy cabinet that looks so simple in assembly but will only result in an afternoon of mom in tears and son insisting on using the electric screwdriver.

Ugh. So, what’s the answer? By-laws of gift-giving? Presents only happen during certain times of year—similar to how deer season operates? Knowing me, I’ll just wait until I’ve stepped on one too many Storm Troopers and then go tearing through the house with a plastic garbage bag while barking at my son about being more grateful—ironic, obviously, considering throwing toys away is a pretty ungrateful thing to do. (Mama Bear actually does get mad and go storming into the cubs' room with a cardboard box in The Berenstain Bears and the Messy Room, which is why I love her; she’s so relatable). Hopefully I’ll have enough of a heart to hold on to those things with sentimental value, but don’t hold your breath, people—let’s get real, it’s just stuff.

Notes from the center console...

2011-03-08T11:53:00.000-08:00

"Don’t sweat the small stuff…"

"Enjoy life’s little moments…."

Or, stop talking to me in clichés. Maybe then I’d pay attention…

Ever find yourself following all of the “decluttter” advice of every magazine only to find your house cluttered with plastic bins? Have you ever pulled back the covers at night only to find a plastic light saber in your bed? Or getting in bed only to discover you are lying in a small pile of graham cracker crumbs because in a moment of weakness at 6 a.m. you fed your three-year old graham crackers for breakfast and let him eat them in your bed while watching Curious George. Ever find yourself trying to channel the patience of The Man in the Yellow Hat? (How does he never raise his voice at that monkey!?) Ever find yourself having a secret crush on The Man in the Yellow Hat? (He's so tidy!)

Welcome to Signs of (real) Life. I'm not here to give you advice. I'm just here to let you know that if you've spent fifty dollars at Target in the last three months on travel mugs and the inside of your car still looks like mine, you are not alone.