Accrue

Talk is not cheap, although it can feel like it sometimes.  Our teenagers often devalue our words, responding with contemptuous, disrespectful or dismissive behavior.  I’m sure it’s happened to you as well in other walks of life.  You’re leading a team at the office and not everyone is on board with your way of doing things, or you’ve got a brilliant innovative idea but your boss has killed it on the table, supplying a slew of reasons why it will surely fail.  It’s frustrating enough to make us want to zip our lips shut or slap a piece of duct tape over our mouths.  Who needs to be told, tacitly or outright, they are misguided, mistaken or missing the mark?

From my vantage point, there is hidden power in our words to influence and persuade, to steer and guide others to move along the course of action we’re mapping out.  Some of us do this better than others, having been gifted with the ability to discern what protégés and peers are feeling, apply the empathy that engenders loyalty and have always at the ready the unique blend of words that inspire and motivate a myriad of individuals.  But if we’re not born with these skills, it doesn’t mean we need to raise the white flag.  We can make this work for us if we can find the confidence to trust what is inside of us, and carry on in spite of sometimes overwhelming negativity and apparent apathy.

It takes courage to be a great leader, to be able to put your words out there, have faith that your direction is true and trust that the desired result can be achieved without ever firing your own rifle.  There’s a great scene in “Band of Brothers”, my all-time favorite movie about leadership, when Major Dick Winters is confronted with the full magnitude of his talents.  He’s interviewing for approval to redeploy to the Pacific.   The officer reviewing his resume is quite impressed to discover Winters withstood Bastogne, the infamous Battle of the Bulge, on the line with his battalion, without taking a shot himself.  The officer says he “can’t think of a tougher test for a leader, having to sit through a siege like that, under those circumstances” and exhibit the control to leave the fighting to his men.

Life with teenagers is its own troubling siege, as can be a leadership position at the office where you are accountable for results delivered by the team.  In these situations, we simply must place certain action in the hands of others.   Many of us don’t know how to use our words to influence, and can feel worthless or forgotten when we’re no longer working with our hands, so to speak.

Speaking with the power to influence is an art to be mastered.  It takes an inordinate amount of patience:   A willingness to listen really hard, an open mind, the acumen to know precisely when the opportune moments present themselves for you to insert your views, the control to say just enough when your words need time to simmer, and the faith to be able to walk away accepting that its okay your foe or charge may not yet be ready to surrender or accede, you’ve moved him a step or two closer.

For me, although it is hands down the most difficult time next to the potty training experiences I suffered through, I’ve often felt I’m a good match for adolescents.  It’s an endurance challenge, a marathon, not a sprint.  As Winters was tested in Bastogne, parents are tested every day to unearth the tenacity that every great leader possesses. Years ago, when my boys were very small, I remember a colleague who attended countless project meetings I ran telling me that my kids were lucky, that I was going to be a good mom during those tumultuous years.  It’s interesting that he saw my potential, but of course, having no idea what was in store at the time, I laid his words to the side. 

Now I get it, and I’ve drawn strength from his observation countless times. I find myself looking to my experience at work as a team leader. It’s become an invaluable training ground for raising my kids, and a source of proven tactics to adapt.  It’s a place where you somehow need to keep your cool in order to keep your team on-board.  Yelling and screaming just doesn’t cut it in the office.  Yet it’s a place where I’ve seen success and positive outcomes through my words.  My sense that these behaviors are transferable is slowing being proven true. 

I’ve applied my leadership methodology over and over again with my boys. I’ve come to believe this is the true source of my power with them, although, many times I leave a conversation, hanging my head, certain I will never get through to them.  It takes everything I’ve got to sit tight and watch them fight their way out of the cocoon. I know, of course, too much pride is at stake to concede, in the moment, to the validity in my words. And sometimes they just haven’t lived enough life yet to know they should heed. It doesn’t mean my message is worthless.

I recently read an article in the Sunday paper about the dangers of synthetic marijuana.  Wanting to find a time and place to discuss this with my boys, I left it open on the kitchen table, as a reminder to bring up the subject.  I broached it with Nick, explaining my salient points, and my ever-present concern over health and safety. He assured me in a language that I’ve come to understand as truth, that it’s illegal now, and most importantly he doesn’t believe in it. 

This is where it gets hard.  The mother in me always leaves room for the shadow of a doubt. We can say it; we can believe we’ve been heard, and even that we have concurrence.  But how will we ever really know if they are acting on it?

I came downstairs a little later to find him tearing the article out of the paper.  He has a friend who he thinks needs to hear this message.  I could have demanded to know who it is.  I could have pressed for more information and watched our conversation escalate to anger and then deteriorate into silence.  My son is nothing if he is not loyal.  Instead I told him how proud I am that he cares enough to help a friend out in this way.  I reminded him of the power his words hold and how he can affect positive change.  I reiterated his obligation to call in special forces, in the form of adults, if someone's safety is in jeopardy. And I left it in his hands.  I believe Nick’s voice will resonate.  It has to; he is an unwitting answer to a desperate parent’s prayers.

The newspaper is still on the table, open to the page where the article was printed.  The torn edge of the newsprint makes me smile.  It’s my reminder that talk is not cheap.  It may feel like it as the words come out of our mouths, but they are earning interest at a rate far greater than we could ever imagine, increasing in value exponentially as new messengers pay it forward.

Sustenance

Last weekend I sat outside sipping my after-dinner glass of 2004 Fess Parker Syrah rescued a few months ago from a liquor store bin for a song.  Anymore, I open good wine whether or not there is a special occasion; every day is a celebration in my book.  What am I saving this for?  In this case, it wasn’t a minute too soon.

As the cork rose out of the bottle I thought this wine may have passed its prime, the watermark at well over 50%, staining its tip a deep and seductive crimson. But after a breath of fresh air in my stiletto-stemmed wine glass with its bulbous bowl; I was pleasantly reminded that aging can be a good thing.

Caught in the nick of time, this wine paired perfectly with my summer meal. Nate and I sat down to a feast of grilled flank steak marinated in cherry rosemary vinaigrette, baby thin asparagus steamed to crunchy bright green perfection and lemon pepper linguine.  While Nate romanticized the scent of his pee after consuming asparagus, he confessed he doesn’t care for the tips.  Secretly hoping there is sufficient nutritional value in the stalks alone, I gave him permission to drop the guillotine and abandon the severed heads at the side of his plate.  He was thrilled, and ran for the bathroom shortly thereafter.

Sometimes it surprises me that we dine this divinely at my own hand. Cooking was one of the bigger gaps left in the wake of my broken marriage.  It was never my responsibility, and never a place I wanted to go. 

I fought it tooth and nail.  We spent the first several years existing on grilled cheese sandwiches and breakfast food. While I had children to feed, it was months before I myself was truly hungry, sustained by the enormous pit of guilt and self-pity that had taken up residence in my stomach.  Followed closely by the dawning awareness that my dance card would not be filling up anytime soon and the shiny new party dresses in my closet would likely be renewing vows with their price tags.  I was certain I’d never eat again.

Donning the chef’s hat and giving cooking serious attention was akin to admitting defeat, my ineptness at attracting a mate who could do this for me, or any mate at all for that matter.  If I mastered the art of cooking, what other gaps would I start to fill and what space would that leave for a new partner if he somehow managed to fall into my lap?

But having dinner with my boys mattered to me, I desperately needed some familiar element of family to ground my new world view. Eating dinner together was a mainstay growing up.  Dad would walk in the door sometime shortly after the whistle blew signaling the start of the 5PM daily episode of the Flintstone’s, Fred flying out of his crane at the rock quarry, hopping into his car and shooting home to shout “Wilma!” as fast as his fat feet would take him.  We dined at the round table Dad had crafted out of wood to accommodate our growing brood of seven. And if you wanted any mashed potatoes, you needed to get to the bowl before my brother Mike did.

I started replicating the meals I had eaten at home all those years ago, religiously following the recipes transcribed in my mother’s loving hand.  The outcome wasn’t always pretty, particularly when I realized she had omitted a key ingredient, like water, and I ended up with pasty sauce for my beloved meatballs and noodles because I was such a novice I didn’t even realize the obvious was missing. 

But I figured it out, and have expanded my repertoire considerably.  I taught myself how to grill so that my carnivorous tastes could be satisfied outside of a restaurant.  And as I’ve incorporated running into my life, I find myself gravitating toward healthier and eclectic choices, creating a whole new vocabulary for comfort food that is completely my own.  Nate exhibits culinary skill, too, often requesting to be the guest chef, creating his own surprisingly tasty albeit obscure concoctions. 

Dinner at my house is no more than ten minutes some nights. Moments after I finally get settled, boys are asking if they can be excused.  “Of course you can” and “It was a pleasure dining with you” is my pat response.  It’s not the length of time I get with them. It’s the time itself.  And more often than not, they’ll linger long after their plates are empty, chatting with me as I work through mine.

Sometimes when I haven’t seen my teenagers in what seems like ages, I’ll send a text message announcing I’m cooking a meal and would love to gaze at their handsome faces across the table.  It’s not an order to come home for dinner, although they always obey.  I like to think that on some level they enjoy the time as much as I do.

Upon finishing a virgin dish I always ask if it was good enough to make again.  They are very honest in their assessment but appreciative of the time I’ve put in, thanking me for making it.  We’ve been through some tough times together, the three of us.  They’ve never said it, but they know how hard I’ve worked to hone this skill, and how difficult it was for me to take those first steps beyond the refrigerator and microwave.

I see now that cooking is another creative outlet for me, and a surprising form of power, moving me deeper into the realm of independence.  Maybe that guy I meet someday will want to stay home and cook a meal with me.  I could even cut the tag off one of those dresses and wear it in the dining room.

I can be a little hard-headed.  I can think I know exactly where I’m going and believe I’ve plotted the only sensible course.  I’m glad I finally acquiesced with this one.  It’s one of the accomplishments I’m most proud of.  Not because I wanted it so badly, or worked so hard to get here, but because I’m enjoying it in ways I never thought I would, and I took on something I was afraid of out of love for my children and what is best for them.

And I ‘m not really sure I’m talking just about the food, anymore.

At the end of day, we want them to come willingly to the chairs, whether they are of the folding, dining, deck, arm or lounge variety.  We start in the kitchen because we think it’s the food that gets them there. But I’ve learned, like all of us, they’ll sit just about anywhere love is served. 

Glean

A small piece of farmland sits at the east end of my street, a stone’s throw away if you have a decent arm.  Having grown up in the shadow of corn fields, this sliver of familiar Americana within my reach somehow contributed to the karma, or maybe, it was feng shui, that told my internal compass years ago this was the place to set down roots for my young family. 

The 2009 harvest was so noticeably late I would often comment to my boys about this anomaly. I remember vividly dragging them to the field, camera in tow, long after fall plowing should have occurred, thinking I had lucked out with a holiday card design concept I may never have imagined had the corn not been there to inspire me. While the card never came to fruition due to my extremely uncooperative subjects, I do have an illustrative study of awkward, indignant and exasperated boys against a back-drop of seriously yellowing husks.

We’d drive by, day after day, well after the winter solstice, to find the stalks still standing, shriveled, brown and dry.  My farming friends explained that the year’s soggy autumn had caused two problems:  Fields too wet for the equipment and a slower drying time once harvested, which meant the dryers couldn’t keep up with the demand.  If the corn wasn’t dried within a certain window of time after being pulled out of the field, the entire harvest could be lost, which meant the yield had no choice but to remain stoic in the fields slowly dwindling and decaying, discomfited and defeated.

This week at my company the annual officer level promotions were announced. This is always a time of inner turmoil for me. While I am pleased to see so many of my deserving colleagues make the list, each year my name is absent, I get a little wistful and take stock in myself. Yes, it is true I was on the list last year and it is virtually impossible anymore in my organization to rise so quickly you’d be promoted in consecutive years.  But my desire to move up will not be ignored, as ferocious and palpable as my growling stomach when I’ve yet again pushed eating down to the bottom of my priority list.  The ink is barely dry on the announcement before I am consulting the qualifications for a step up and looking for ways to amass the experience I need to achieve the next rank.

I realize; however, that it is more than aspiration and talent, it takes significant and measureable results to be considered.  Anything less than a bumper crop leaves you in the dust.  And mine was a year perfectly healthy, proud crops were left standing, through no fault of their own, helpless in tacit humiliation, in jeopardy of rotting in the field.

None of us are immune to the occasional disappointing yield. It’s what we take from it that makes the difference.

It’s tough not to feel a little sorry for yourself. We all want to be successful, to be on the winning team, to have our work matter.  We worry about how outsiders will view the situation.  Will they assume the outcome was a result of a poor performance on our part?  How will this affect our chances for future opportunities?  And what does this do to my personal bottom line?

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t do some serious soul searching.  What I learned about myself is that more than anything, my personal disappointment was around the fact that the circumstances I was in didn’t allow for me to use the full breadth of talents I have to offer, to employ any of the skills I love to use, those which differentiate me and really make me shine. While I tried, my attempts were futile.  Like the corn crop teeming with harvest to bear, I was stranded in the field holding on to that which has no purpose unless it’s shared with others.

Armed with that knowledge, I’ve challenged myself to look at my skills from the 50,000 foot level and think about how to apply them in areas I’ve never considered in the past.  Just because I don’t have a team of direct reports right now doesn’t mean I can’t lead a team of colleagues in other pursuits.  I’m still the one who brings my unique blend of critical thinking, intense organization, and drive to completion that spells success.  While my harvest was paltry, I’m sowing seeds at a faster rate and in more fields than I ever thought possible. 

Some years we grow up; the reach of our new branches so extensive that the world can’t help but notice, like when my son wakes up in the morning and I would swear he grew overnight. There is an avalanche of recognition that comes with such obvious progress:  Awards, accolades, promotions and bonuses.

Other years our growth is not so visible, our root structure is spreading deep beneath the surface.  While it all happens under cover, this is truly the watershed.  All those seeds we planted, they’re germinating.  Some will take and others won’t. And we’ll be surprised when the ones we thought for sure would make it die out, while others we didn’t think had a prayer will take us on a path we’d only dreamed we could follow. 

Pulling into my neighborhood in the early evening darkness in January 2010, I noticed the light of a tractor in the field and corn kernels littering the street.  A smile of relief crossed my face, as I knew immediately what was happening, the corn was finally being plucked from our prying eyes, mercifully put out of its misery at last. I wondered how much the farmer had lost.  A few days later, my boys presented me with handfuls of this symbolic souvenir rescued from the road, a tender and salient gesture of atonement for the photo shoot debacle that did not go unnoticed. 

The vestiges of this extraordinary harvest sit on the potting bench in my porch now, a treasured reminder of so much:  A lifetime of residing on the periphery of an increasingly scarce and confined form of art. Evidence that tangible rewards do come, although not always in the prescribed window of time, or as plentifully as assumed.  That even in a bad year, when so much that’s out of our control takes us off course, there is something salvageable if we look hard. 

And most importantly, even when we’re certain what we have to offer is not being accepted, acknowledged or absorbed, we should never stop putting it out there. It often comes back to us in rewards delivered by unexpected bearers paying rapt attention all along.

Indivisible

As the sun rises on Independence Day, it may be tempting to sneak in some work before the festivities start.  Landing on the most inopportune of days, right smack in the middle of the week, it could easily slip by like any other work day if you’re not coupling the holiday with a few additional adjacent vacation days.  You’ll tell yourself, sipping your morning coffee and checking e-mails, that you can still make it to the late afternoon parade, barbeque and fireworks.  Your family and friends won’t even notice.

Today’s message is targeting my loveable workaholic friends, you know who you are, who like to use holidays to catch up on the non-stop flow of business responsibilities that never seem to vanish from their perpetually heaping plates. 

We miss you!  We do notice.  We love you for your commitment to your job and the rewards you bring home that allow us to lead the vida loca, but it’s really not as much fun without you. Really. 

I think I can get away with embedding the link to my latest favorite song to bring my point home.  You’re not in your office today, so you can safely hit the play button without worrying you’ll need to scramble for the volume control if Josh Turner’s country crooning comes screaming out of your speakers. I’ve been playing this so often recently that it is at serious risk of being covered in mocking falsetto by my boys.  They are quite talented in that way.
   
http://in.news.yahoo.com/video/ramcountry-27082960/josh-turner-time-is-love-29807834.html#crsl=%252Fvideo%252Framcountry-27082960%252Fjosh-turner-time-is-love-29807834.html

Use this day to tackle instead a heaping plate of hamburgers, hot dogs, and that really awful store-bought potato salad that’s probably been out in the heat a little too long.  Get a little color on those pasty legs.  Show your family and friends what they mean to you by giving over this entire day to them.

Feed your union. Time is love.

Trenchant

Sometimes we just want it to not be so hard.

We don’t want to hear about benchmarks and bands, pay grades and scales, maximum percentage increases, the acceptable ratio of base pay to bonus or annual cycle times for compensation adjustments. We just want to get paid what the guy next to us is making for doing the same job as well.

We don’t want to wonder whether you are asking us to get you coffee or order lunch, make copies or schedule the conference room, take the meeting minutes or dial the phone because we’re women and you assume women just do those things.  We don’t want to feel obligated to fulfill your request or worry you’ll think we’re overreacting by refusing.  We just want you to ask that those tasks be done by the person with the job description to match.

We don’t want to play golf.  We don’t want to watch you play golf.  We’ve worked as hard or harder on the presentation as you did.   We just want to be on that same level playing field when it comes to the social side of business.

We don’t want to worry about what we are wearing at the company social event or how you‘re looking at us or whether you’ll want to sit next to us at the dinner or what you’ll think of us if we leave early or stay late or have one drink or ten drinks.  We just want to let off some steam and celebrate our accomplishments.

We don’t want to be at the meeting knowing we are included because it “looks good” to have a woman there or because our client has women on their side of the table.  We just want to be invited because we have what it takes to present to win and represent our company well.

We don’t want to hide or delegate our family responsibilities to get ahead at the office.  We don’t want to accept that the only way to achieve our career goals and aspirations is by sacrificing personal relationships and the pursuit of other creative outlets.

Sometimes we’re exhausted trying to be who we’re not.  We just want to focus our energy on doing the job really well.

Will that ever be enough?

Scalar

When I think about dating, I’m really excited by the idea of the beginning, that chapter or two when you spend time solely with each other, not yet required to take your infatuation to the outside world.  Who wouldn’t be?  I like the idea of exclusivity, without the distractions and ensuing judgment and expectations that come once we’re out from under the covers.  I worry about what will happen when we’re forced to assimilate into each other’s worlds, and he’s suddenly not just for me anymore.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh offers an interesting perspective on this in her 1955 book “Gift from the Sea”.  Yes, I did say 1955.  I, too, was wondering how this could possibly be relevant today, but it really is.  She says we all desire to be loved alone, meaning we all crave the 1:1 experience; the time spent as just the two of us. She goes on to describe that this isn’t just romantic love.  Our children crave this mutuality from us, somehow subconsciously wistful and yearning for the nascent mother-child connection that has faded over time.  And even a close friend or a direct report at work basks in the time devoted solely to her.

Lindbergh asserts there’s nothing inherently wrong with desiring this unqualified attention, it all goes awry; however, when we believe our relationships can sustain this on a continuous basis.  

When you think about it, this makes a lot of sense.   At the beginning we’re creating a bond:  Wife to husband, mother to child, friend to friend.  We deliberately and selfishly filter out all of the distractions.  That’s the way it’s supposed to be.  We haven’t entered each other’s worlds yet, we’re in a temporary space, almost like a suspense account or a holding tank, a fleeting utopia that gives us time to cement our connection. Sooner or later, life breaks through.

As new people enter our formerly secluded space, whether we create them together in the form of children, or blend our work lives, friends, family, hobbies, and passions, the relationship can’t help but change.  And we can’t get back, ever, to what it  was before.   Because now we’re trading that exclusivity for everything else that makes up our lives.  Clearly, those scales don’t balance.  Maybe this isn’t a startling revelation, but for me, it helps me see that relationships don’t have to be especially demanding to be fulfilling.  It’s our belief that anything less than the steady drip of exclusivity we started with means the relationship is not what it should be that trips us up.  

It also means there is room to follow our own personal dreams.

Women, especially back in 1955, thought they needed permission to even think about hopes and desires outside the home, let alone act on them.  So when they joined forces with a husband and he retained work and other creative outlets, women felt lost, disillusioned and empty without really knowing why.  While society and even our partners have come a long way in the 57 years since Lindbergh wrote her love letter to herself, still today we aren’t unequivocally giving ourselves permission to make our dreams a reality.

The epiphany for me in all of this is that the impossibility of sustaining the exclusive attention that brings us together is not a problem, it’s a relief!   It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other anymore.  It doesn’t mean we’ve lost interest.  It doesn’t mean there’s someone else.  It just means we need to come to a new understanding around how much 1:1 time each partner needs to nourish the bond and what is possible in our busy lives. The amount of time we spend alone together ebbs and flows alongside, not to the detriment of, the other priorities in our lives. We need to make a commitment to find pockets of time to be alone together in order to break the vicious cycle of disappointment that comes with expecting a steady stream. What needs to be continuous is the calibration of time we spend in all corners of our lives. 

We spend those early days anchored together, learning how to wear each other well, so that when we’re ready to set sail in different directions, we can always find our way back to each other. We’re supposed to want to be our own people, to have lives and interests outside of each other.  Women do themselves a disservice by trying to shoe-horn personal pursuits like careers in around the relationship.  Each deserves equal importance and consideration when striking a balance.

I’m intrigued by the idea that we all crave this absolute attention, even in non-romantic relationships.  Now I’m thinking about what I can be doing to covertly infuse myself into life with my boys in this new and different way.  With Nate going out of town with his dad next week, I have Nick all to myself.  I’ve been expecting that we’ll be two ships that pass in the night.  I need to find a way to give him more of me this week to feed the need for my undivided attention he’s probably not even aware of. And I bet I could help myself in dealing with the letting go that is part of adolescence, by accepting that right now I likely need more alone time with them then they want from me. The balance will surely shift as we move through time.

A few years ago I shared with a friend my angst over what would happen to the relationships I’ve carefully cultivated with my boys if I fall in love with someone and want to let him out of our secret space.  He assured me that the new guy may seem alien at first, but he’ll see how I am with my boys and want to be part of it. That idea makes me smile. 

Salve

They call it The Wifflot; I call it Salvation. A field of dreams conceived by a group of budding entrepreneurs caught in that space where playful boys transform into fine young men, it is where mine are spending nearly every waking moment of their summer.

By the time we slog to the finish line of another punishing school year, I am overjoyed to be freed from my role as resident nag:  Rousing languid boys at dawn from a deep and persistent slumber and the endless pursuit of missing assignments that I can’t evade thanks to my electronic nemesis, otherwise known as “PowerSchool”.  It’s like the skipping needle has finally been lifted from the deep groove worn into the LP.  I look forward to being reunited with the gym suits, as we haven’t seen each other since the beginning of the year. 

I enjoy a few days, maybe a week of bliss until I notice the dishes piling up in the sink, remnants of snack foods in the most unexpected places, and the distinctly frat-house look my family room takes on as it converts to sleeping quarters for nocturnal boys.  Oh, yeah.  I don’t like this either.

Each year brings new challenges in terms of keeping these guys busy, especially given that they couldn’t be more different.  Nick goes out of his mind spending more than five minutes alone, while Nate could hole up in his room with electronics for the entire 100 days of summer and be happy as a clam.

When Nick mentioned that his friend had permission from his dad to parcel off a chunk of their property to create a baseball field, my response was something along the lines of a dismissive, “That’s nice, honey”. It wasn’t until they came home with a detailed game schedule through the end of July and informed me they had both paid $20 to become league members, that I started paying attention.

If I told you this is an incredible experience for my boys, it would be the understatement of the season.  Every day, and yes, I mean every day, around noon they pack up a cooler and head out.  Game times are at 1PM and 6PM generally, and last maybe an hour, but they are at the field all day.  They arrive home, sweaty and exhausted, with smiles that are as difficult to wipe off as the ground-in dirt.

It’s more than just the fuel that comes from sunshine and exercise, but lessons in responsibility, accountability, organization, team building, coaching, strategic planning and profitability.  My boys don’t know it, but they are an integral part of a start-up business. 

Nick is a team captain, responsible for motivating and coaching his players, with all the administrative duties that come with the job:  Finding replacements when players can’t make it and making the difficult call to suspend a habitual no-show.  The leaders of this organization take on many tactical responsibilities, as they are a lean team, striping and preparing the field for play, staining the left field “party deck” and soliciting donations like outdoor furniture and an umbrella. 

Nate is thriving under the wing of his coach, an older boy who has taken a genuine interest in him.  The first two weeks of the season Nate’s bat never left his shoulder, I’m told.  Now with the tutelage of a patient mentor, he has transformed into a respectable hitter.  I can’t help but think that spending time with these older boys will ease his transition into high school in the fall. 

On Father’s Day, Nick organized the Kids vs. Dads game complete with a cook-out.  Grandpa was invited to take in the games while staying at my house a few weeks ago.  I’ve never seen the boys more appreciative of a gift, than when they opened a box containing a 12-pack of regulation wiffle balls, compliments of my dad.  And the fourth of July will not go by without a fireworks display and All Star game.  They’re tracking stats for every player, and they tell me 300+ have been through the gates already and we’re not yet out of June.

Is this all too good to be true?  Maybe.  My shadow side can’t help but think this could be a well-orchestrated charade, reminiscent of that Paul Newman-Robert Redford movie, “The Sting”, but I doubt it.  I would be remiss if I didn’t concede that there are likely a few unsavory activities going on.  They are teenage boys, after all.  But the ostrich in me is willing to live with a little sand on her face.  The benefits far outweigh the risks.

What I am most grateful for is a short respite, the chance to let down my hair and breathe a little. They are busy and content with something meaningful. I’m thinking about how I make the connection for them, to help them see what happens when they use their powers for good rather than evil, that they can conceive of a dream and turn it into reality. 

I also love that I am here, in it with them.  Whenever I receive a text requesting a ride home, even though it’s only a five minute long-board skate away and they could surely manage on their own, I hop in the car.  There is nothing better than getting the lowdown on a day at The Wifflot while the excitement is still brewing, stories spilling out as fast as wiffle balls fly out of the park.  I missed being in the moment all those years I spent in an office.  I’m not missing it now.