Observing my kids over these past twentysomething years has found me many days scratching my head. These envelope-pushing-willful-behaving-socially-flying creatures that I could not in my wildest imagination conceive when I was a teen several decades ago, have left me positively bewildered on more occasions than I can count on my elbows-fingers-knees-and-toes.
And then, some days, everything about them seems golden.
I enjoyed that wonderfully-blissful refreshing shower of abundance this past week. Our second son, who is a plebe at the United States Naval Academy, tried out and passed the first round of competitive entry into a combat squad he hopes to be a part of, and called us as we were trying to fall asleep to tell us the good news.
The very next day, we got a call from our oldest son telling us the great news that he got accepted for the hoped-for part-time job teaching inner-city middle schoolers English and Math, while simultaneously studying through his senior year of college, working as a lab assistant, preparing for the GRE and applying to grad schools.
One day later, our daughter’s photo showed up in our small town newspaper, showing her digging a volleyball during one of their varsity games; our youngest son’s football plays were highlighted in the same newspaper in an article featuring eighth grade sports.
It was a good week. I beamed ear to ear with joy at their accomplishments and felt my heart take a literal leap.
More than twenty years ago, when I voluntarily derailed out of my corporate career on Wall Street to enter into the whole new world of at-home motherhood with back-to-back pregnancies and a wardrobe of maternity clothes (that became my permanent wardrobe for nearly a decade), I had no idea how the seeds we planted would sprout. Many, many times it seemed as though the seeds were thrown into frozen soil. The terrible two’s never lasted for just the second year of life, but stretched well into the “terrific” three’s and tug-of-war four’s. The “golden years” of five and six (or so I remember our pediatrician calling them that) never seemed particularly easy either. During middle school, I faced many days when I wasn’t quite sure I was going to make it. Head-scratching indeed.
And then somehow, with that mysterious unseen alchemy of sunshine, water and several spikes of high-packed vitamins, those seeds took root and one day, taking us all quite by surprise, sprouted. They grew and they grew. Trunks came up too. And became shockingly hardy. And then the trees bore fruit. Plump, juicy, savory fruit.
We happy parents are not bragging nor boasting. No. We’re simply delighted that our kids’ wings have taken hold and, sturdy and strong, have lifted them to heights not particularly on our horizons and directions never programmed into our mental GPS’s.
These past few weeks have left me facing dizzying news in the capital markets, disequilibrium with these historically unprecedented times and frustration with the irrational and illogical unfoldings on the financial and political scenes. If you are feeling the same way, try to take some time out to look for slivers of light. For moonbeams in parenting. Positive energy in your workspace. Words of encouragement from your colleagues.
I sense an overall edginess in our nation. An uneasiness with things on multiples fronts. My friends report difficulty sleeping. Worrying about their futures.
Looking for progress—large or small—is one of the joys of investing time and talent into other people. Of working with them to use their gifts and talents for the betterment of the world.
As you move forward these next few weeks, take a deep breath. Or two. And try to take time to savor the fruit. Juicy fruit is your sweet reward.
Blessings on your week,
Carolina
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Surprised by Joy…in Vermont
You only have a few weeks—or days—left to find joie in fall’s foliage. While you might be witnessing it in your own neighborhood, or perhaps have even driven somewhere close to home to see it in all of its glory, I can practically guarantee that you will not fully experience it unless you visit Vermont,
I traveled there a couple weekends ago when I took my daughter college-shopping throughout New England. As if the trees on the drive through Connecticut and Massachusetts weren’t breathtakingly gorgeous enough, with their brilliant golds and burnished reds, they left me practically gasping for air once we crossed the line into Vermont.
I can’t say that I’ve ever really traveled much throughout Vermont. A couple of ski trips there in the dead of winter were wonderful in their ski-resort campyness and exhilaratingly crisp still air (not to mention competitive downhill runs.) But fall in Vermont? Oh my goodness……
Tourists come from across the country and indeed, around the world, to visit Vermont in the fall. I’ve read about this for years of course. Always wanted to see if it’s what it’s cracked up to be.
It is. Trust me. Go see for yourself. Here’s what we did:
Burlington. We visited UVM, or Universitas Virdis Montis, the University of the Green Mountains. Set against the backdrop of Lake Champlain, between the Adirondack and Green Mountains, it is, without a doubt, one of the prettiest university towns in the country. Walk Church Street and take a peek inside the funky clothing stores, high end April Cornell, the candy shop (try the homemade dark chocolate bark studded with almonds!) and the chock-full-of-great-finds women’s consignment store. I picked up a Ralph Lauren cabled cotton sweater in the United States Naval Academy yellow for fall football game good cheer. It was a veritable steal! Eat outside at Leunig’s Bistro (115 Church Street). Authentic French bistro with inspiring food and charming décor. We had a perfect dining experience during our one night in Burlington, and my daughter and I created a lifelong memory there. A terrific escape.
Middlebury. Home to nationally-ranked liberal arts Middlebury College, this tiny town is as quaint as they come, being settled right after the end of the Revolutionary War. Downtown streets are lined with expensive boutiques and coffee shops, which are all within a short walking distance to the fabulous Middlebury Inn. If you get the opportunity to travel to Vermont, please call well ahead for a reservation, and try to stay at the Inn. Otherwise, you’ll be forced to stay at either a Bed & Breakfast (of which there are plenty) or drive, as we did, in the middle of the night in search of the last remaining room within a one-hundred mile radius of the town.
Killington. We wound up spending the night at Summit Lodge here, a ski lodge the sight of which was the prettiest one for sore eyes we could recall in recent memory. Having reserved a room at a B & B twenty minutes outside of Middlebury College, only to arrive to an empty house in the middle of nowhere (that might be where that Middlebury name thing comes from) with no locks on the room doors, no locks on the front door and not one person or dog in sight (leaving my sixteen-year-old daughter who had seen far too many horror movies in her short little life scared out of her mind at the thought of spending the night there). Our night at the lodge in Killington worked out just fine. Dated but charming in its campy simplicity and full of roaming Bernese Mountain dogs, the beds are warm, the food is hot and homemade and its in a well-situated spot in the green state.
Woodstock. Driving from Killington towards Boston, to continue our college tour schedule, we passed, quite unexpectedly, through Woodstock. My daughter had just fallen asleep, but had it been otherwise, I would have jabbed her ribs with my elbow and made her get up and walk around the town with me. It was as good as Vermont gets. The Woodstock Inn is picture perfect with white picket fence and symmetrical Colonial architecture. If I had been better prepared, I would have reserved a room here and spent the entire weekend strolling through this town. My jaw stayed open as I wove through its few narrow streets. Perfect shops and perfect homes line perfect streets. If most of Vermont strikes you as too “Vermonty,” then this town is for you. Plan a visit here for next year; I’ll be booking my room this week for ’09. It was crawling with tourists by 9:30 on Sunday morning before anything even opened.
Quechee. The home of Simon Pearce Glassware in the Historic Mill. A destination of its own. Travel to Vermont just to visit the restaurant and shop. Watch the potter at his wheel, take videos by the water wheel and dine in the renowned restaurant. A short drive from Woodstock and one which you will cherish for years to come! Simon’s hand blown glassware has been on my radar for more than twenty years and I am still kicking myself that I did not start collecting it back then when I had the chance to buy it wholesale. I can’t touch it now (except the the “seconds” pile.) Fabulous wedding registry and corporate gift center too.
If October is one of your favorite months, as it is mine, enjoy the way the earth laughs out loud during its next few remaining days ahead. And if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford the time away, make it an escape to Vermont. It is one of creation’s true masterpieces.
Until next week, all blessings,
Carolina
I traveled there a couple weekends ago when I took my daughter college-shopping throughout New England. As if the trees on the drive through Connecticut and Massachusetts weren’t breathtakingly gorgeous enough, with their brilliant golds and burnished reds, they left me practically gasping for air once we crossed the line into Vermont.
I can’t say that I’ve ever really traveled much throughout Vermont. A couple of ski trips there in the dead of winter were wonderful in their ski-resort campyness and exhilaratingly crisp still air (not to mention competitive downhill runs.) But fall in Vermont? Oh my goodness……
Tourists come from across the country and indeed, around the world, to visit Vermont in the fall. I’ve read about this for years of course. Always wanted to see if it’s what it’s cracked up to be.
It is. Trust me. Go see for yourself. Here’s what we did:
Burlington. We visited UVM, or Universitas Virdis Montis, the University of the Green Mountains. Set against the backdrop of Lake Champlain, between the Adirondack and Green Mountains, it is, without a doubt, one of the prettiest university towns in the country. Walk Church Street and take a peek inside the funky clothing stores, high end April Cornell, the candy shop (try the homemade dark chocolate bark studded with almonds!) and the chock-full-of-great-finds women’s consignment store. I picked up a Ralph Lauren cabled cotton sweater in the United States Naval Academy yellow for fall football game good cheer. It was a veritable steal! Eat outside at Leunig’s Bistro (115 Church Street). Authentic French bistro with inspiring food and charming décor. We had a perfect dining experience during our one night in Burlington, and my daughter and I created a lifelong memory there. A terrific escape.
Middlebury. Home to nationally-ranked liberal arts Middlebury College, this tiny town is as quaint as they come, being settled right after the end of the Revolutionary War. Downtown streets are lined with expensive boutiques and coffee shops, which are all within a short walking distance to the fabulous Middlebury Inn. If you get the opportunity to travel to Vermont, please call well ahead for a reservation, and try to stay at the Inn. Otherwise, you’ll be forced to stay at either a Bed & Breakfast (of which there are plenty) or drive, as we did, in the middle of the night in search of the last remaining room within a one-hundred mile radius of the town.
Killington. We wound up spending the night at Summit Lodge here, a ski lodge the sight of which was the prettiest one for sore eyes we could recall in recent memory. Having reserved a room at a B & B twenty minutes outside of Middlebury College, only to arrive to an empty house in the middle of nowhere (that might be where that Middlebury name thing comes from) with no locks on the room doors, no locks on the front door and not one person or dog in sight (leaving my sixteen-year-old daughter who had seen far too many horror movies in her short little life scared out of her mind at the thought of spending the night there). Our night at the lodge in Killington worked out just fine. Dated but charming in its campy simplicity and full of roaming Bernese Mountain dogs, the beds are warm, the food is hot and homemade and its in a well-situated spot in the green state.
Woodstock. Driving from Killington towards Boston, to continue our college tour schedule, we passed, quite unexpectedly, through Woodstock. My daughter had just fallen asleep, but had it been otherwise, I would have jabbed her ribs with my elbow and made her get up and walk around the town with me. It was as good as Vermont gets. The Woodstock Inn is picture perfect with white picket fence and symmetrical Colonial architecture. If I had been better prepared, I would have reserved a room here and spent the entire weekend strolling through this town. My jaw stayed open as I wove through its few narrow streets. Perfect shops and perfect homes line perfect streets. If most of Vermont strikes you as too “Vermonty,” then this town is for you. Plan a visit here for next year; I’ll be booking my room this week for ’09. It was crawling with tourists by 9:30 on Sunday morning before anything even opened.
Quechee. The home of Simon Pearce Glassware in the Historic Mill. A destination of its own. Travel to Vermont just to visit the restaurant and shop. Watch the potter at his wheel, take videos by the water wheel and dine in the renowned restaurant. A short drive from Woodstock and one which you will cherish for years to come! Simon’s hand blown glassware has been on my radar for more than twenty years and I am still kicking myself that I did not start collecting it back then when I had the chance to buy it wholesale. I can’t touch it now (except the the “seconds” pile.) Fabulous wedding registry and corporate gift center too.
If October is one of your favorite months, as it is mine, enjoy the way the earth laughs out loud during its next few remaining days ahead. And if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford the time away, make it an escape to Vermont. It is one of creation’s true masterpieces.
Until next week, all blessings,
Carolina
Sunday, September 21, 2008
How To Cope When Life Comes At You
My friend, Hattie, corrected me once when I complained about being stressed out from over-extending myself. “Darling,” she gently scolded, “don’t say that. It’s negative. Just admit that life is coming at you.”
Such was this past week. I witnessed things as never before professionally. Many of its events were historically unprecedented. I sat at my kitchen table early Saturday morning with a piping hot cup of joe, staring into space, needing the time to just sit and sip in silence. It was my simple kitchen table that served as the shock absorber on life’s past five bumpy days.
We all need coping mechanisms for when life comes at us. Be it a health scare or a horrifying diagnosis, loss of job or loss of spouse, wayward child or ailing elderly parent, when life comes at us hard, we need to sort things out. My strategies:
Crack of dawn exercise. My morning swims keep me sane. Long and private, wonderfully monotonous in the repetitive motions of a swimmer’s stroke, they free my mind to focus on the task or problem at hand. I solve most of life’s urgent dilemmas in the pool. Most of my articles and books are composed while swimming, sorting it all out in the water, and simply putting my thoughts down on my laptop later.
Protein at breakfast. Two hard-boiled eggs are one of life’s simplest remedies. With a little salt and pepper. Get that protein in and get it now. You can nosh on emergency dark chocolate a couple hours later.
Water and coffee by day. Drink organic. As much as required. With a little real cream. No sugar. No chemicals. No diet sodas. No sodas at all. Just the real stuff. (It puts hair on your chest.)
Radio during your commute. And by day. No TV. (Save that for just before bedtime.) And no fluff. (Just give us the facts please.)
Wear high heels and your favorite clothing. You’ll walk taller. And feel better.
Get mani-pedi’s in advance of tough weeks. In happy colors. Bright pink usually does the trick.
Deal with your hair . Add more highlights. (Don’t ask me why. Platinum just works.)
Walk the stairs or around the block. Running up a couple flights instead of taking the elevator will give you the mid-day rush of oxygen that your brain needs as well as five minutes of thinking time.
Keep a cool head. Realizing that you can only do your very best will be a huge step towards framing your anxiety. You can’t control the world; it’s going to spin well beyond your grasp. You can only control how you respond to events. Calm, cool and collected are usually the passwords here.
Employ a diligent work ethic. Time spent at the water cooler is time spent away from the task at hand. Plan your work and (faithfully, cheerfully) work your plan.
Maintain your calendar. Keep your appointments, dropping only the optional ones and keeping all of the others. The world will still spin on its axis. People need to see you. And you them.
Get some sleep. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night, tempted to check email and turn on the news, I force myself back to sleep, knowing that I need physical fortification.
Pray. And allow others to pray for you. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes. One of my clients told me she wakes up at three every morning and prays for me; another prayed with me on the phone on Friday, when life came at me especially hard.
Take the weekends off. Do all the stuff that keeps your household running smoothly. Like laundry. I visited the shoe cobbler with a couple pair of shoes needing attention; the flooring contractor to return unused wood; the grocer to stock up both pantry and fridge. As much as my brain told me to haul my body up to my study to immerse myself in my newest book project, my mind hadn’t yet caught up with last week. I needed quiet time. And I allowed the drive time running errands to be just that. No radio. No ipod. Just me and my mind and the gorgeous Connecticut countryside. Time to reflect on the fragility of life.
Go solo when need be. Stay in. I skipped a concert I was supposed to go to Saturday night. Couldn’t quite deal with people or crowds. Cooked dinner for me and my hubby and loved cocooning inside my own home. Phoned our sons who are away in college and enjoyed more than ever hearing their voices.
I enjoyed my family and my church today. I taught my three year-olds in cherub choir. Watched my son play football. Spent some time in the fresh air.
Shakespeare said that life holds more tragedy than comedy. Whether or not that’s true, we’ll never know. But we know for certain that life holds both. And requires, from each of us, mechanisms for coping when life comes at us.
As you witnessed history this past week when life came at you to one degree or another, I hope you dealt with it graciously. And I pray you will stay connected and will share its lessons with those whom you most love.
Blessings,
Carolina
Such was this past week. I witnessed things as never before professionally. Many of its events were historically unprecedented. I sat at my kitchen table early Saturday morning with a piping hot cup of joe, staring into space, needing the time to just sit and sip in silence. It was my simple kitchen table that served as the shock absorber on life’s past five bumpy days.
We all need coping mechanisms for when life comes at us. Be it a health scare or a horrifying diagnosis, loss of job or loss of spouse, wayward child or ailing elderly parent, when life comes at us hard, we need to sort things out. My strategies:
Crack of dawn exercise. My morning swims keep me sane. Long and private, wonderfully monotonous in the repetitive motions of a swimmer’s stroke, they free my mind to focus on the task or problem at hand. I solve most of life’s urgent dilemmas in the pool. Most of my articles and books are composed while swimming, sorting it all out in the water, and simply putting my thoughts down on my laptop later.
Protein at breakfast. Two hard-boiled eggs are one of life’s simplest remedies. With a little salt and pepper. Get that protein in and get it now. You can nosh on emergency dark chocolate a couple hours later.
Water and coffee by day. Drink organic. As much as required. With a little real cream. No sugar. No chemicals. No diet sodas. No sodas at all. Just the real stuff. (It puts hair on your chest.)
Radio during your commute. And by day. No TV. (Save that for just before bedtime.) And no fluff. (Just give us the facts please.)
Wear high heels and your favorite clothing. You’ll walk taller. And feel better.
Get mani-pedi’s in advance of tough weeks. In happy colors. Bright pink usually does the trick.
Deal with your hair . Add more highlights. (Don’t ask me why. Platinum just works.)
Walk the stairs or around the block. Running up a couple flights instead of taking the elevator will give you the mid-day rush of oxygen that your brain needs as well as five minutes of thinking time.
Keep a cool head. Realizing that you can only do your very best will be a huge step towards framing your anxiety. You can’t control the world; it’s going to spin well beyond your grasp. You can only control how you respond to events. Calm, cool and collected are usually the passwords here.
Employ a diligent work ethic. Time spent at the water cooler is time spent away from the task at hand. Plan your work and (faithfully, cheerfully) work your plan.
Maintain your calendar. Keep your appointments, dropping only the optional ones and keeping all of the others. The world will still spin on its axis. People need to see you. And you them.
Get some sleep. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night, tempted to check email and turn on the news, I force myself back to sleep, knowing that I need physical fortification.
Pray. And allow others to pray for you. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes. One of my clients told me she wakes up at three every morning and prays for me; another prayed with me on the phone on Friday, when life came at me especially hard.
Take the weekends off. Do all the stuff that keeps your household running smoothly. Like laundry. I visited the shoe cobbler with a couple pair of shoes needing attention; the flooring contractor to return unused wood; the grocer to stock up both pantry and fridge. As much as my brain told me to haul my body up to my study to immerse myself in my newest book project, my mind hadn’t yet caught up with last week. I needed quiet time. And I allowed the drive time running errands to be just that. No radio. No ipod. Just me and my mind and the gorgeous Connecticut countryside. Time to reflect on the fragility of life.
Go solo when need be. Stay in. I skipped a concert I was supposed to go to Saturday night. Couldn’t quite deal with people or crowds. Cooked dinner for me and my hubby and loved cocooning inside my own home. Phoned our sons who are away in college and enjoyed more than ever hearing their voices.
I enjoyed my family and my church today. I taught my three year-olds in cherub choir. Watched my son play football. Spent some time in the fresh air.
Shakespeare said that life holds more tragedy than comedy. Whether or not that’s true, we’ll never know. But we know for certain that life holds both. And requires, from each of us, mechanisms for coping when life comes at us.
As you witnessed history this past week when life came at you to one degree or another, I hope you dealt with it graciously. And I pray you will stay connected and will share its lessons with those whom you most love.
Blessings,
Carolina
Monday, September 8, 2008
What’s the Difference Between a Hockey Mom and a Rocket Mom?
Mascara. Rocket Moms have always worn lipstick.
By now, the whole world has heard the line about the only thing separating a hockey mom from a pit bull being lipstick. Sarah Palin, the woman everyone knows about after being thrown into the national spotlight seemingly overnight, personifies feminine spunk that you just gotta love. Regardless of your politics, regardless of your stance on the working-versus-stay-at-home debate, regardless of your judgment on the teenage pregnancy thing. You just gotta hand it to her.
And if you’ve been reading my ROCKET MOM! Newsletters for the past four years, you know that I’ve always advocated wearing two things…if nothing else. Lipstick and mascara. So here we have it: hockey moms. Rocket Moms. ALL decent moms. Fighting to be the best they can be. And wanting to hear more of this woman we hardly know.
And now with Labor Day behind us, and my promise to once again renew the weekly dollop of “joie” via these email Newsletters, just how do we discuss what’s been on my mind these past ten days in light of the fact that some of my readers are faithful because they like a weekly mommy-motivator, while some of you are with me because you are part of the design-chef-francophile crowd following the release of Country French Kitchens? An interesting mix, to be sure. But let’s face it: we’re all in need of nurturing both hearth and home, be it via parenting tips or marriage notes or simply advice on how to get dinner to the table. So if this is not your cup of tea, please forgive me. Delete this newsletter and wait until next week. Because I feel the need to talk about this with you.
This time of year finds me re-thinking my A-game. How to effectively go into fall with personal and family game plan in hand. Charting football schedules against volleyball games, out-of-state visits to our two college kids against client dinners. PTA involvement with board meetings. Figuring out an exercise and grooming schedule.
Now here’s where Palin fits in. She’s not just a hockey mom. She’s a rocket mom of the nth degree. And she gives us plenty of tips on just how to get our A-game on the docket now that Labor Day and beach excursions are behind us.
What I’m learning from Sarah:
She’s got the multi-tasking thing down pat. Sarah usually has her Blackberry in one hand and something of her child’s in the other. Be it a ponytail she’s shifting into a ribbon or homework needing a quick check, she does it with her mind ready to jump to the next task at hand. One might find contradiction to the idea of “being in the moment” or of being into the thing you’re into. But Sarah seems to have figured out how to immerse herself into what she needs to and get her mind…and hands…prepared for what will inevitably come next, be it an executive meeting, a kid’s play-date, dinner preparations or a conference call.
She’s figured out that the best stress-reliever is physical exercise. Sweating at the gym or during a midnight jog is how Sarah best gets rid of the stresses that go with the job. Rocket moms have known this for years. We’re into strength training and aerobic activity to tone lumpy thighs and keep arms and abs strong. Sarah kept her fifth pregnancy a secret not because she necessarily wanted to, but because her abs were so tight (after four babies!) that she was able to.
She’s perky despite obstacles. Thrown into controversy both from her years as governor as well as parent to teenagers, she knows all too well that some things are beyond one’s control and spin outside of one’s reach or influence. In spite of it all, she stays cool under pressure and maintains a charming, can-do attitude even when the odds are stacked against her.
She’s kept her priorities straight. Husband and kids first. Everything else falls into place once these priorities are set. As much as she loves her role as governor, she loves being a wife and mom most of all. (Love that.)
She’s committed to service. Those who challenge her ability to be wife, mom and veep need to remember that she didn’t choose to run for the vice presidency. She was chosen. Opportunities come to those who are prepared. Be it in your professional or personal life, your role at your church or house of worship, or the corner of the world in which you roam, opportunities to increase your reach will come your way if you do your homework and work your tail off. Embrace them. Your territory for influence will expand exponentially. Guaranteed.
She’s intellectually and morally strong. I love strong people. Strong personalities. Can’t help it. Always been attracted to strength. Sarah sticks to her convictions unapologetically. If she believes in a cause or a point of view, stemming from conviction based on faith or experience or pure world view, she does not let others deter her from meeting her goal.
She’s embraced her femininity. Wears attractive clothing, an attractive hairstyle and obviously utilizes a fabulous skincare regimen because her complexion is flawless. Excellent personal grooming is a hallmark of all rocket moms, and while you might not prefer pink nail polish on your toenails (as do both Sarah and I…check out OPI’s “Calypso” for one last hot pink late-summer fling ), you certainly keep them in good shape. And, I know you are already wearing lipstick and mascara….
There’s more to learn over the next couple of months about this fascinating woman, Sarah Palin. I will be on the lookout for details, as I am always interested in reading about those women who might be role models for me. If you get any tidbits that you’d like to share, feel free to email me.
Until then, let me leave you with one last thought. My minister shared a true story about an itinerant preacher, Jesse Lee, who is the namesake for the church where my family and I worship in our own small town. Unqualified, without credentials or pedigree, he simply rode—horseback—from village to village talking with others about the Gospel. He held up an apple to one of these crowds in one of these towns and noted that we can all count the number of seeds inside an apple…but only God knows how many apples will grow from the seeds.
As you strive to go into the fall with your A-Game, contemplate the number of apples that might grow from your seeds. Your seeds of energy. Of wisdom. Of compassion. Of conviction.
All blessings,
Carolina
By now, the whole world has heard the line about the only thing separating a hockey mom from a pit bull being lipstick. Sarah Palin, the woman everyone knows about after being thrown into the national spotlight seemingly overnight, personifies feminine spunk that you just gotta love. Regardless of your politics, regardless of your stance on the working-versus-stay-at-home debate, regardless of your judgment on the teenage pregnancy thing. You just gotta hand it to her.
And if you’ve been reading my ROCKET MOM! Newsletters for the past four years, you know that I’ve always advocated wearing two things…if nothing else. Lipstick and mascara. So here we have it: hockey moms. Rocket Moms. ALL decent moms. Fighting to be the best they can be. And wanting to hear more of this woman we hardly know.
And now with Labor Day behind us, and my promise to once again renew the weekly dollop of “joie” via these email Newsletters, just how do we discuss what’s been on my mind these past ten days in light of the fact that some of my readers are faithful because they like a weekly mommy-motivator, while some of you are with me because you are part of the design-chef-francophile crowd following the release of Country French Kitchens? An interesting mix, to be sure. But let’s face it: we’re all in need of nurturing both hearth and home, be it via parenting tips or marriage notes or simply advice on how to get dinner to the table. So if this is not your cup of tea, please forgive me. Delete this newsletter and wait until next week. Because I feel the need to talk about this with you.
This time of year finds me re-thinking my A-game. How to effectively go into fall with personal and family game plan in hand. Charting football schedules against volleyball games, out-of-state visits to our two college kids against client dinners. PTA involvement with board meetings. Figuring out an exercise and grooming schedule.
Now here’s where Palin fits in. She’s not just a hockey mom. She’s a rocket mom of the nth degree. And she gives us plenty of tips on just how to get our A-game on the docket now that Labor Day and beach excursions are behind us.
What I’m learning from Sarah:
She’s got the multi-tasking thing down pat. Sarah usually has her Blackberry in one hand and something of her child’s in the other. Be it a ponytail she’s shifting into a ribbon or homework needing a quick check, she does it with her mind ready to jump to the next task at hand. One might find contradiction to the idea of “being in the moment” or of being into the thing you’re into. But Sarah seems to have figured out how to immerse herself into what she needs to and get her mind…and hands…prepared for what will inevitably come next, be it an executive meeting, a kid’s play-date, dinner preparations or a conference call.
She’s figured out that the best stress-reliever is physical exercise. Sweating at the gym or during a midnight jog is how Sarah best gets rid of the stresses that go with the job. Rocket moms have known this for years. We’re into strength training and aerobic activity to tone lumpy thighs and keep arms and abs strong. Sarah kept her fifth pregnancy a secret not because she necessarily wanted to, but because her abs were so tight (after four babies!) that she was able to.
She’s perky despite obstacles. Thrown into controversy both from her years as governor as well as parent to teenagers, she knows all too well that some things are beyond one’s control and spin outside of one’s reach or influence. In spite of it all, she stays cool under pressure and maintains a charming, can-do attitude even when the odds are stacked against her.
She’s kept her priorities straight. Husband and kids first. Everything else falls into place once these priorities are set. As much as she loves her role as governor, she loves being a wife and mom most of all. (Love that.)
She’s committed to service. Those who challenge her ability to be wife, mom and veep need to remember that she didn’t choose to run for the vice presidency. She was chosen. Opportunities come to those who are prepared. Be it in your professional or personal life, your role at your church or house of worship, or the corner of the world in which you roam, opportunities to increase your reach will come your way if you do your homework and work your tail off. Embrace them. Your territory for influence will expand exponentially. Guaranteed.
She’s intellectually and morally strong. I love strong people. Strong personalities. Can’t help it. Always been attracted to strength. Sarah sticks to her convictions unapologetically. If she believes in a cause or a point of view, stemming from conviction based on faith or experience or pure world view, she does not let others deter her from meeting her goal.
She’s embraced her femininity. Wears attractive clothing, an attractive hairstyle and obviously utilizes a fabulous skincare regimen because her complexion is flawless. Excellent personal grooming is a hallmark of all rocket moms, and while you might not prefer pink nail polish on your toenails (as do both Sarah and I…check out OPI’s “Calypso” for one last hot pink late-summer fling ), you certainly keep them in good shape. And, I know you are already wearing lipstick and mascara….
There’s more to learn over the next couple of months about this fascinating woman, Sarah Palin. I will be on the lookout for details, as I am always interested in reading about those women who might be role models for me. If you get any tidbits that you’d like to share, feel free to email me.
Until then, let me leave you with one last thought. My minister shared a true story about an itinerant preacher, Jesse Lee, who is the namesake for the church where my family and I worship in our own small town. Unqualified, without credentials or pedigree, he simply rode—horseback—from village to village talking with others about the Gospel. He held up an apple to one of these crowds in one of these towns and noted that we can all count the number of seeds inside an apple…but only God knows how many apples will grow from the seeds.
As you strive to go into the fall with your A-Game, contemplate the number of apples that might grow from your seeds. Your seeds of energy. Of wisdom. Of compassion. Of conviction.
All blessings,
Carolina
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Yearnings for Home
Last week gave me the distinct pleasure of focused time with family and friends. Out-of-state travel. The wedding of the babysitter who helped me raise our kids. Tucking our son safely into Plebe Summer at the United States Naval Academy. Reuniting with Nick, who has been away at summer school. Visiting old friends from Kentucky who have relocated to Nashville, and connecting nearly two decades worth of memories with up-to-date goings on in our now separate lives.
I could write a book on the Academy’s Induction Day alone. The final hug with our son as a civilian. The formal swearing-in ceremony. Twelve hundred freshly-shaved heads donned in sailor caps sitting quietly in lawn chairs on the expanse of lawn in front of the giant building where important people spoke. That last half- hour together. Watching him get in line with his platoon. And then that final sight—permanently imprinted in my brain—of twelve hundred men and women marching through the arch. Into what may well be the most grueling six weeks of their lives. The pain of that separation. The sullenness of our moods that night. Of lump in throat and flop in stomach.
And then on to D.C. where we witnessed yet another July 4th celebration on the mall. Sitting on blankets underneath the stars and the rain. With soaked bodies and slightly soaked spirits. Trying to energize ourselves with one less kid in tow. And enjoy the fireworks without confessing out loud about how much we missed our sweet Ben.
My husband drove the two remaining kids in our brood back home, while Nick headed south, once again to college for a new round of summer school, and I headed west to visit two cherished friends in Nashville. Graciously both housing me and giving me the grand tour of a city I did not know, their hospitality brought something to me which I needed very much at the moment. Still suffering sharp pangs of homesickness for my son, the plebe, I needed at that moment—but did not consciously realize nor acknowledge it at the time—the warmth of the cocoon of home. Of familiar friends and familiar shared pasts. Of deep-seated memories. Of laughter. Recognized southern accents (something I have not heard much of in these past five years in Connecticut). Of hanging out in jammies over breakfast. Of watching the wedding video of their son, a wedding I regret having had to miss, and crying together over its tenderness. And rejoicing in its promise of a bright future for two terrific newlyweds. Of meeting their new grandchildren. And catching up with their now-grown daughter and her new husband.
And on to the wedding of our dear Hannah. Now twentysomething and movie-star gorgeous. Thin as a noodle and looking more than smashing in her white fitted gown, veiled head and drawn-up hair with perfect make-up revealing none of the t-shirted and blue-jeaned past when she protected my kids while I dated my husband. Eating wedding feast burritos—a Hannah favorite—with her older siblings brought a floodgate of memories, as we noshed on chips and sipped on wine while catching up with every important detail of our lives.
This weekend reinforced the notion of home for me. It helped me realize more than ever that the intergenerational transfer of family ties—and of deep friendships—do not happen by chance. Or by legal transfer of title. Transfer of warmth and love through generations happens by the simple yet thoughtful acts built into the daily rhythms of life which, through years of repetition, hard work and discipline, grow into something powerful.
Not all families survive the marriages of our children. The in-laws sometimes hate the outlaws. The mother-in-laws sometimes buck heads with the daughters or the sons. Not all friendships survive hundreds of miles of geographical separation. Dinner dates are fewer and far between. Celebrations of life’s important events are sometimes missed. Catch-up phone calls are delayed. Birthdays are forgotten.
But it is this thing we call home that is the most important thing of all. Not the physical home to be sure. Homes come and homes go. Upholstery fades and the china breaks. But the substance of home remains embedded into our cores in a way that can not easily be forgotten or ignored. It is the smells. The visuals. The colors. The accents.
The hugs. The time spent. The sacrifices to personal issues made. Meals get shared and photos get exchanged. Lives get caught up on.
It is this that sustains us. That allows us to find and follow the joy.
I’m getting ready to take another trip this weekend. This time to see my aging mother. And meet up with my brother and my sister and their kids. To clean out the family home where we all grew up in order to move her into smaller and quieter quarters. One with wheelchair access and a handicapped sign in her own little spot in the parking lot. The circle of life goes on. Intergenerational transfer of love. Of care. Of yet another way to define home.
As you travel this summer to visit family and friends, I hope that you, too, fulfill your yearnings for home. In whatever way you define it.
Godspeed.
Carolina
I could write a book on the Academy’s Induction Day alone. The final hug with our son as a civilian. The formal swearing-in ceremony. Twelve hundred freshly-shaved heads donned in sailor caps sitting quietly in lawn chairs on the expanse of lawn in front of the giant building where important people spoke. That last half- hour together. Watching him get in line with his platoon. And then that final sight—permanently imprinted in my brain—of twelve hundred men and women marching through the arch. Into what may well be the most grueling six weeks of their lives. The pain of that separation. The sullenness of our moods that night. Of lump in throat and flop in stomach.
And then on to D.C. where we witnessed yet another July 4th celebration on the mall. Sitting on blankets underneath the stars and the rain. With soaked bodies and slightly soaked spirits. Trying to energize ourselves with one less kid in tow. And enjoy the fireworks without confessing out loud about how much we missed our sweet Ben.
My husband drove the two remaining kids in our brood back home, while Nick headed south, once again to college for a new round of summer school, and I headed west to visit two cherished friends in Nashville. Graciously both housing me and giving me the grand tour of a city I did not know, their hospitality brought something to me which I needed very much at the moment. Still suffering sharp pangs of homesickness for my son, the plebe, I needed at that moment—but did not consciously realize nor acknowledge it at the time—the warmth of the cocoon of home. Of familiar friends and familiar shared pasts. Of deep-seated memories. Of laughter. Recognized southern accents (something I have not heard much of in these past five years in Connecticut). Of hanging out in jammies over breakfast. Of watching the wedding video of their son, a wedding I regret having had to miss, and crying together over its tenderness. And rejoicing in its promise of a bright future for two terrific newlyweds. Of meeting their new grandchildren. And catching up with their now-grown daughter and her new husband.
And on to the wedding of our dear Hannah. Now twentysomething and movie-star gorgeous. Thin as a noodle and looking more than smashing in her white fitted gown, veiled head and drawn-up hair with perfect make-up revealing none of the t-shirted and blue-jeaned past when she protected my kids while I dated my husband. Eating wedding feast burritos—a Hannah favorite—with her older siblings brought a floodgate of memories, as we noshed on chips and sipped on wine while catching up with every important detail of our lives.
This weekend reinforced the notion of home for me. It helped me realize more than ever that the intergenerational transfer of family ties—and of deep friendships—do not happen by chance. Or by legal transfer of title. Transfer of warmth and love through generations happens by the simple yet thoughtful acts built into the daily rhythms of life which, through years of repetition, hard work and discipline, grow into something powerful.
Not all families survive the marriages of our children. The in-laws sometimes hate the outlaws. The mother-in-laws sometimes buck heads with the daughters or the sons. Not all friendships survive hundreds of miles of geographical separation. Dinner dates are fewer and far between. Celebrations of life’s important events are sometimes missed. Catch-up phone calls are delayed. Birthdays are forgotten.
But it is this thing we call home that is the most important thing of all. Not the physical home to be sure. Homes come and homes go. Upholstery fades and the china breaks. But the substance of home remains embedded into our cores in a way that can not easily be forgotten or ignored. It is the smells. The visuals. The colors. The accents.
The hugs. The time spent. The sacrifices to personal issues made. Meals get shared and photos get exchanged. Lives get caught up on.
It is this that sustains us. That allows us to find and follow the joy.
I’m getting ready to take another trip this weekend. This time to see my aging mother. And meet up with my brother and my sister and their kids. To clean out the family home where we all grew up in order to move her into smaller and quieter quarters. One with wheelchair access and a handicapped sign in her own little spot in the parking lot. The circle of life goes on. Intergenerational transfer of love. Of care. Of yet another way to define home.
As you travel this summer to visit family and friends, I hope that you, too, fulfill your yearnings for home. In whatever way you define it.
Godspeed.
Carolina
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Good Foundations
Driving back from my mom’s house in Pennsylvania a couple weekends ago—after cleaning her out and moving her into a new, smaller apartment—I sang to the happy summer tunes of the Beach Boys. “Good, good, good…good vibrations” played over and over in my head.
And for some bizarre reason, I switched it in my brain, focusing suddenly on “Good Foundations.”
One of my mantras—as a parent of four anyway—has always been “good mattresses, good books, good shoes.” No one ever got hurt by sticking with great foundations. More than that, instilling good foundations into the core of your children—and indeed, into your home, your wardrobe, your relationships, your life!—is an enduring hallmark of a life well-lived.
So it was with this mantra in mind that I reflected on the work that my brother and sister and some of our kids performed, cleaning out our mom’s home of forty-six years. I mentally searched for those solid foundations that helped grow my siblings and I into the spouses, parents, friends and colleagues that each of us are today.
My mom’s house was built of stone. In the early 60’s. This wonderful Pennsylvania stone has proven harder and harder to come by, and it has retained its value and its charm these nearly five decades later. Its color and its texture still resonate. Inside closets are floored with hardwood. The basement never leaked. It holds both upper and lower registers, so that, depending on the season, one can turn off a register and let hot air or cold escape or rise as need be.
Investing in value is as popular today as it was in 1962 when my parents bought what would become the only home I’ll ever remember living in until I grew up and married and bought nine of my own. Sitting on a large level lot, it seemed a good investment decision at the time, and has proven so nearly five decades later, as judged by the three purchase offers and the dozens of curiosity seekers driving—or walking by—unable to ignore the many members of our extended family arsenal moving in and out for one solid week, of condensing forty-six years of memories and memorabilia into boxes in order to quickly transition my mom into her new quieter and simpler life.
And, with the house now completely empty and in need of some serious freshening up, I’ll head back down this weekend to work with her builder in finalizing decisions in the cosmetic renovation work that we’ll pursue together in the next month or so ahead: we’ll choose new toilets and new faucets; fresh paint and fresh carpeting; stainless ovens and range and dishwasher; and updated tiles and countertops. We’ll tackle the pleasant job of updating a classic in order to appeal to this generation of homebuyers who demand natural stone instead of formica; low-VOC “green” paint instead of oil-or solvent-based; industrial-strength appliances instead of avocado-enameled; and bamboo or sisal instead of hardwood or shag.
Updating from one generation of quality into another is a good thing. For as time passes, technology improves, and tastes change and sophistication in style emerges and fresh color palettes dictate and, well, things move forward. I can hardly wait to roll up my sleeves and dig in! To wade through design centers in search of bathroom tiles. To scrutinize appliance configurations for someone’s kitchen re-do other than my own. To flip through flooring samples in search of that perfect one which thirtysomethings everywhere crave.
And always—always!—choosing quality. For quality never goes out of style. White porcelain sinks: a classic. Polished nickel faucets: who could argue with those?
If you are in the middle of a renovation (seriously did that five summers ago and last summer too), you no doubt understand the angst. Choosing tiles for more than one bathroom alone could throw the most rational person over the edge. (4 inch squares or rectangular subways? Colored or white? Relief or flat?) Flooring options, too, can drive one completely nuts! (To carpet or hardwood? Pre-finished or cut on site? Oak or bamboo?)
In your quest for quality, never lose sight of your need for individuality. Follow your nose. Your eye. Your gut. A house needs to look like a home. And only with your unique stamp, your taste, your hand, will it stand out from the pack.
Good mattresses, good books, good shoes. Good sinks, good faucets, good flooring.
Good stuff—good collections—usually reflect, in one way or another, precious memories. And precious memories always start with those whom we most love.
A good house is a great start for a good home. I hope you are continually moving in that direction. And as I help to feather my mom’s new calmer and smaller nest, I hope to give her, in what may be her final home, that which each one of us, in our hearts, seeks as well.
All my best,
Carolina
And for some bizarre reason, I switched it in my brain, focusing suddenly on “Good Foundations.”
One of my mantras—as a parent of four anyway—has always been “good mattresses, good books, good shoes.” No one ever got hurt by sticking with great foundations. More than that, instilling good foundations into the core of your children—and indeed, into your home, your wardrobe, your relationships, your life!—is an enduring hallmark of a life well-lived.
So it was with this mantra in mind that I reflected on the work that my brother and sister and some of our kids performed, cleaning out our mom’s home of forty-six years. I mentally searched for those solid foundations that helped grow my siblings and I into the spouses, parents, friends and colleagues that each of us are today.
My mom’s house was built of stone. In the early 60’s. This wonderful Pennsylvania stone has proven harder and harder to come by, and it has retained its value and its charm these nearly five decades later. Its color and its texture still resonate. Inside closets are floored with hardwood. The basement never leaked. It holds both upper and lower registers, so that, depending on the season, one can turn off a register and let hot air or cold escape or rise as need be.
Investing in value is as popular today as it was in 1962 when my parents bought what would become the only home I’ll ever remember living in until I grew up and married and bought nine of my own. Sitting on a large level lot, it seemed a good investment decision at the time, and has proven so nearly five decades later, as judged by the three purchase offers and the dozens of curiosity seekers driving—or walking by—unable to ignore the many members of our extended family arsenal moving in and out for one solid week, of condensing forty-six years of memories and memorabilia into boxes in order to quickly transition my mom into her new quieter and simpler life.
And, with the house now completely empty and in need of some serious freshening up, I’ll head back down this weekend to work with her builder in finalizing decisions in the cosmetic renovation work that we’ll pursue together in the next month or so ahead: we’ll choose new toilets and new faucets; fresh paint and fresh carpeting; stainless ovens and range and dishwasher; and updated tiles and countertops. We’ll tackle the pleasant job of updating a classic in order to appeal to this generation of homebuyers who demand natural stone instead of formica; low-VOC “green” paint instead of oil-or solvent-based; industrial-strength appliances instead of avocado-enameled; and bamboo or sisal instead of hardwood or shag.
Updating from one generation of quality into another is a good thing. For as time passes, technology improves, and tastes change and sophistication in style emerges and fresh color palettes dictate and, well, things move forward. I can hardly wait to roll up my sleeves and dig in! To wade through design centers in search of bathroom tiles. To scrutinize appliance configurations for someone’s kitchen re-do other than my own. To flip through flooring samples in search of that perfect one which thirtysomethings everywhere crave.
And always—always!—choosing quality. For quality never goes out of style. White porcelain sinks: a classic. Polished nickel faucets: who could argue with those?
If you are in the middle of a renovation (seriously did that five summers ago and last summer too), you no doubt understand the angst. Choosing tiles for more than one bathroom alone could throw the most rational person over the edge. (4 inch squares or rectangular subways? Colored or white? Relief or flat?) Flooring options, too, can drive one completely nuts! (To carpet or hardwood? Pre-finished or cut on site? Oak or bamboo?)
In your quest for quality, never lose sight of your need for individuality. Follow your nose. Your eye. Your gut. A house needs to look like a home. And only with your unique stamp, your taste, your hand, will it stand out from the pack.
Good mattresses, good books, good shoes. Good sinks, good faucets, good flooring.
Good stuff—good collections—usually reflect, in one way or another, precious memories. And precious memories always start with those whom we most love.
A good house is a great start for a good home. I hope you are continually moving in that direction. And as I help to feather my mom’s new calmer and smaller nest, I hope to give her, in what may be her final home, that which each one of us, in our hearts, seeks as well.
All my best,
Carolina
Monday, June 30, 2008
Swimming for my Kid…and Maybe Yours Too
“If your actions inspire others to dream more and do more, you are a leader."
John Quincy Adams
This weekend found five of the six in our family swimming or kayaking in the chilly waters of Long Island Sound for one of our own: Nick.
You might know that our son, Nick, was successfully treated for leukemia and, off chemo for a year now, is doing fabulously well. If you have been reading my newsletters during these past four years, you’ve followed the “Nick Notes” as well as our own family’s particular journey. And you know that he is a rising senior at Wake Forest University, and is in school there this summer taking a full course load to ensure graduation “on time” with his classmates.
So when I was asked last year to swim in the Inaugural Swim Across America in Greenwich for the Alliance for Cancer Gene Therapy, I replied with an eager “absolutely!” having never done anything like this before in my life, blindly believing that my morning hour-long laps in my gym’s heated pool would prepare me fully for the event. But I had no idea. A mile-and-a-half. In open water. At 58 degrees.
That was an interesting swim to say the least. The first twenty-five minutes found me unable to put my face in the water, it was just that cold. I cried. Hyperventilated. Swallowed a lot of salt water. Almost threw up. Had early stages of hypothermia. Felt dizzy upon finishing. Couldn’t feel the knuckle in my pinky finger for nine full months afterwards. But I swam for Nick. I kept reminding myself with each stroke in those chilly waters that my discomfort was but a fraction of what he endured for thirty-two long months of treatments.
And so it was with anxiety and, frankly, fear and trepidation, that I enrolled once again for this year’s Swim. I can’t say that I looked forward to it, because I didn’t. Can’t honestly say that I wanted to do it. Because I knew how difficult it was for me and I really sort of dreaded it. But I knew that I had to do it and so I signed up with a lump in my throat and did everything I could to prepare myself physically and mentally for it. And my husband signed up for it, too, as did our sons, Ben (who at eighteen is leaving for the US Naval Academy tomorrow for Induction Day) and Victor (who at thirteen was one of the youngest swimmers entered). Cristina (at sixteen) kayaked and helped to keep us swimmers lined up between the buoyees as well as anyone in distress. We represented “Team Nick” and, hesitant as we were about the swim ahead, we did it cheerfully for not only our son and brother, but for the thousands of people who are courageously fighting various forms of cancer and its treatment each and every day.
And what a glorious swim it turned out to be! Blue skies and slightly warmer temperatures were the morning’s greatest gifts. And the water looked like a piece of glass! It was calm. A tad bit warmer. Smarter this year than last, I wore a full wet suit (instead of the flimsy shortie that I wore last year); I put in my contacts so I could actually see the finish line as we got closer to it (a mentally exhilarating thing to be sure!); and I splashed around in the water for a few minutes before the swim to let me body get a little used to it before diving in.
I found myself enjoying it. Truly enjoying every minute of it! I enjoyed swimming with the other swimmers, most of whom swam in honor or in memory of a loved one. I enjoyed the sun hitting my face. The vast expanse of the open water and the freedom that came with that. My strokes. I was downright in love with the Swim. I felt my body gliding through the water in thanksgiving for the gift of life. The gift of Nick. The gift of excellent health that allowed me to do such a thing.
When I hit the finish line, I was practically giddy. Big smile. Sense of accomplishment. Good time, too, coming in a full five minutes ahead of last year. Landed squarely on my feet, without fatigue or deep-seated chills. Just proud to be a part of something so large.
I would love for you to check out the Swim Across America web site. And our family’s personalized page, too. Chances are, someone you love deeply has been affected by cancer. And I would love to swim in that person’s honor or memory next year. When I swim once again for Nick.
Perhaps you too, can take part in something large. Relay for Life or a Triathalon perhaps. Something much larger than yourself. In honor of someone you love, as well as the thousands whom you will never even meet. The sacrifice will prove exhilarating. Meaningful. Very real.
Please let me know how I can make it more real for you. It would be my honor.
Wishing you all blessings on your week. We leave tomorrow for Annapolis. To send off our second son who has decided to dedicate his life to service to our country. And to you.
Until then,
Carolina
John Quincy Adams
This weekend found five of the six in our family swimming or kayaking in the chilly waters of Long Island Sound for one of our own: Nick.
You might know that our son, Nick, was successfully treated for leukemia and, off chemo for a year now, is doing fabulously well. If you have been reading my newsletters during these past four years, you’ve followed the “Nick Notes” as well as our own family’s particular journey. And you know that he is a rising senior at Wake Forest University, and is in school there this summer taking a full course load to ensure graduation “on time” with his classmates.
So when I was asked last year to swim in the Inaugural Swim Across America in Greenwich for the Alliance for Cancer Gene Therapy, I replied with an eager “absolutely!” having never done anything like this before in my life, blindly believing that my morning hour-long laps in my gym’s heated pool would prepare me fully for the event. But I had no idea. A mile-and-a-half. In open water. At 58 degrees.
That was an interesting swim to say the least. The first twenty-five minutes found me unable to put my face in the water, it was just that cold. I cried. Hyperventilated. Swallowed a lot of salt water. Almost threw up. Had early stages of hypothermia. Felt dizzy upon finishing. Couldn’t feel the knuckle in my pinky finger for nine full months afterwards. But I swam for Nick. I kept reminding myself with each stroke in those chilly waters that my discomfort was but a fraction of what he endured for thirty-two long months of treatments.
And so it was with anxiety and, frankly, fear and trepidation, that I enrolled once again for this year’s Swim. I can’t say that I looked forward to it, because I didn’t. Can’t honestly say that I wanted to do it. Because I knew how difficult it was for me and I really sort of dreaded it. But I knew that I had to do it and so I signed up with a lump in my throat and did everything I could to prepare myself physically and mentally for it. And my husband signed up for it, too, as did our sons, Ben (who at eighteen is leaving for the US Naval Academy tomorrow for Induction Day) and Victor (who at thirteen was one of the youngest swimmers entered). Cristina (at sixteen) kayaked and helped to keep us swimmers lined up between the buoyees as well as anyone in distress. We represented “Team Nick” and, hesitant as we were about the swim ahead, we did it cheerfully for not only our son and brother, but for the thousands of people who are courageously fighting various forms of cancer and its treatment each and every day.
And what a glorious swim it turned out to be! Blue skies and slightly warmer temperatures were the morning’s greatest gifts. And the water looked like a piece of glass! It was calm. A tad bit warmer. Smarter this year than last, I wore a full wet suit (instead of the flimsy shortie that I wore last year); I put in my contacts so I could actually see the finish line as we got closer to it (a mentally exhilarating thing to be sure!); and I splashed around in the water for a few minutes before the swim to let me body get a little used to it before diving in.
I found myself enjoying it. Truly enjoying every minute of it! I enjoyed swimming with the other swimmers, most of whom swam in honor or in memory of a loved one. I enjoyed the sun hitting my face. The vast expanse of the open water and the freedom that came with that. My strokes. I was downright in love with the Swim. I felt my body gliding through the water in thanksgiving for the gift of life. The gift of Nick. The gift of excellent health that allowed me to do such a thing.
When I hit the finish line, I was practically giddy. Big smile. Sense of accomplishment. Good time, too, coming in a full five minutes ahead of last year. Landed squarely on my feet, without fatigue or deep-seated chills. Just proud to be a part of something so large.
I would love for you to check out the Swim Across America web site. And our family’s personalized page, too. Chances are, someone you love deeply has been affected by cancer. And I would love to swim in that person’s honor or memory next year. When I swim once again for Nick.
Perhaps you too, can take part in something large. Relay for Life or a Triathalon perhaps. Something much larger than yourself. In honor of someone you love, as well as the thousands whom you will never even meet. The sacrifice will prove exhilarating. Meaningful. Very real.
Please let me know how I can make it more real for you. It would be my honor.
Wishing you all blessings on your week. We leave tomorrow for Annapolis. To send off our second son who has decided to dedicate his life to service to our country. And to you.
Until then,
Carolina
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