Birds, Bees and Me

Every summer, I take a little time to have "a talk" with my son.

I was inspired by a dear friend who shared how she used to have "grown up time" talks with her son each summer as he grew through the years. She started simple with a very basic "bees" talk, that continued to expand. I loved this idea -- it sounded very warm and encouraging. A special bonding time to be had with mom and son.

Every year since he was 7, we have had our little "talks." Some may think 7 is way too young, but I want my son to hear the words from me, not some trashed up version from friends or the media. I didn't want my son to have it like I did, never from my parents, mostly from slumber party conversations among girlfriends. As a young girl, my wisdom was given in bits and pieces -- found in the library books all the other girls checked out, gossiped about in secret, giggly conversations.

I wanted my son to "know" from a wholesome standpoint that all of this life, sex, puberty stuff was completely normal, natural and the way God has gifted us. But more importantly, to know in a way that honors things, not shames it up or makes it feel weird or guilty.

Recently, I took a trip with my son, now almost 9, to North Carolina's Outer Banks. We were walking along the majestic sand dunes of Jockey's Ridge, one of the largest naturally occurring sand dune along the East Coast. The beauty of the moment must have inspired me as I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for this year's "talk."

So I immediately launched into "important discussion mode" -- reeling off facts, information, details about the human body and things I felt like he needed to know. He listened patiently for awhile, nodding his head like a serious scholar. He didn't say much, but waited until I was done with my monologue. I paused and he took his chance to say, "Okay mom, that's enough. You can stop talking now."

The moment stunned me. Busy with all of my reasons, facts, details, I never stopped to wonder if he really wanted to know. I told him because it's what I wanted as a child, but he did not. Yet. I realized he was okay with not knowing all the grown up stuff. In that precious moment, I was grateful my son wished to remain a little boy for another year.

Waking the Grateful Dead

I've been working on a grateful experiment lately.

Garbage in, garbage out was how it got started. I was stringing together too many days of negative attitude and something was beginning to stink (me). So I decided to start thinking differently. I'm always telling my son "use your mouth to speak blessings" -- it was time to walk my talk.

It started small. Little things that made me thankful, small ways people were a light to me, and kindnesses I could bestow -- anywhere I could find a chance to express gratitude, I did it.

Here's a few examples:

--The school band at the art festival -- I wrote them a note to thank them for their beautiful music and inspiring youth.

--The farmer's market co-op -- acknowledging them for doing such a good job in supporting local farmers and bringing me amazing treasure week by week.

--The friend you can count on -- thanking her for always being there and reminding her of all the radiant qualities that make me glad she is in my corner.

--My husband -- writing a note to express gratitude and adoration for planning a fun date night.

--My son's teachers -- celebrating them for the love they lavish on all the kids, including mine.

The response I got -- in a word: shock.

Most people are knocked over when you take a moment to notice them in their gifts. To stop and truly see how people are making your little world a more wonderful place requires a different way of seeing. My encouragement is to try out the "grateful experiment" for yourself. I did it for selfish reasons, but the reward I received was a surprise. I was done with the garbage. Grateful in, grateful out was a much more fragrant way to operate.

Go On, Smell the Honeysuckle

Have you ever time travelled? I tried it out this week during my morning walk.

Trudging along my typical path, I got this overwhelming hit of honeysuckle, now blooming like crazy in North Carolina. All of the recent rains and quick humid weather have flushed out this tropical gem.

Inhaling deeply I was transported back to the 1980s. There I am, 10 years old and watching my older sister getting ready for prom. She wore a heavy perfume that was all the rage back then, Jungle Gardenia – which happens to smell just like our honeysuckle. I watched her in awe, donning makeup, putting on her amazing dress and wondering if I would ever look that beautiful or go to the prom.

That honeysuckle whiff sent me tumbling back to childhood – I am 12 and stealing mists of my mom’s perfume. Then transported again to visiting family in Puerto Rico -- exotic flower blooms mingled with my aunt’s rice and beans. Next, I’m in high school at my brother’s wedding – listening to my mother’s too loud laugh as she donned a corsage of tropical flowers. So much emotion and wonder and dreams and delight wrapped up in the power of smell.

People always talk of stopping to smell the roses. But if you ever cared for anything beyond a shrub rose, you know it’s complicated. You know about the endless rounds of chemicals and fertilizers and pruning and fuss fuss. On top of all that, most roses don’t really smell all that much.

For me, honeysuckle is the true beauty. It grows naturally on it’s own without much trouble. You come around a bend and it surprises you. Just as summer begins to unfurl in full dramatic stride, honeysuckles demands your notice. With it’s heady lushness, you close your eyes, breathe deep and are transported again.

Bad Mommy

I was a bad mommy this week. I actually sent my son to school without lunch, without snack and without his schoolwork. Why? Because it’s his responsibility, not mine.

I know, I know, he’s only a child, he can’t keep up with all these things all the time. But my thought is, why not? I think he should be able to remember without 16 reminders. Furthermore, am I doing him any favors by giving him 16 reminders?

The “mommy to the rescue” approach was not building any worthwhile qualities in myself or my son. After all, the school years are truly about teaching children preparedness for life. Planning ahead, problem solving and the consequences of forgetting your backpack are also part of the learning.

Lately I have been noticing all the little ways I have made myself a slave to my child’s needs. I was doing things for him that he can very well do himself. The greater mommy lesson is I was robbing my child a learning opportunity by doing everything for him. Snowplowing my child’s path wasn’t contributing to his sense of confidence or independence.

As I dropped my son off empty handed and he tried bravely to wipe away his tears, my heart broke for him. To face a full day without his schoolwork, without a snack and lunch might seem pretty scary to him. But I was confident that it would take only take one time of forgetting for this lesson to take hold.

I knew the school wouldn’t let him go hungry. I knew his teachers would help him along. But I wanted him to know certain things are up to him. If it takes the bad mommy to show my son how capable and smart and wise he is, so be it. Because I know he is. And now he does too.

Defunkify Thyself

I've been in a funk lately.

I'm not sure why or what it is about. Call it post-break blues or pollen brain. Whatever the name, for some reason I have been struggling with my attitude and spark for life. I can't even blame it on anything good like Seasonal Affective Disorder or the winter blues. I just feel funky.

So in an effort to defunkify, I have decided to make a list of good ideas to improve my cause. In other words, I'm trying to write myself out of my funk. We'll see if it works. Maybe you have some suggestions too -- please pass them along. Hopefully this too shall pass.

My Best Ideas to Get Out of a Funk

Move.

Walk, run, bike, anything. Even if it's a walk around the yard, movement is key.

Get the junk out.

Clearing away the outside clutter is a nice way of also clearing away inside clutter. Set a goal to get rid of three things a day for a week.

Change.

Literally. Try doing everything different for awhile. Take a new route home, say yes if you always say no, find a new hangout, wear different clothes.

Eat Really Well.

Your mom called, she said to eat your vegetables.

Treat Yourself.

What would be a small thing that would make you smile? For me, it's firecracker pops. You know, those red, white and blue popsicles that everyone eats for the Fourth of July? I just ate one yesterday with the neighborhood kids on the back porch on a sunny day. I felt like I was 12 ready to take a spin on my 10-speed bike.

Hang out with people that love you.

These are the kind of friends that you can say "tell me three things that you like about me right now." Everyone should have at least one person who can give you real encouragement. If you don't have that, imagine your Creator whispering in your ear and reminding you of your gifts and talents.

Laugh.

Go ahead, rent your favorite movies that make you laugh. I love watching When Harry Met Sally or Pretty Woman or even The Sound of Music. Renew your happiness quotient with your favorite funnies.

Be a Slug.

A "do-nothing" day can do wonders for the soul. A day where you get to stay in your jammies, eat pizza or whatever you love. Read the entire paper, get lost in a book, meditate, pray or lay around. The day is your gift. Give yourself permission to do whatever you want, even if it is absolutely nothing.

Do Something You Really Love.

What makes your heart sing? Do that thing. Maybe it's gardening, golf, painting, going to exotic restaurants, having a lovely cup of coffee while staring at art. Whatever your fancy, commit to finding time for that one thing you love every day. Even if it's just scheduling it, thinking about it, reading or learning more about it. Keep your passions alive, they are what define your soul.

Operation Beautiful

On a recent Sunday morning visit to the gym, someone left me a secret message.

I have to say it put a smile on my face and a curiosity in my mind. It left me wondering how many lives could be changed with the power of a little encouragement.

I opened my gym locker to find a note saying "don't ever let anyone tell you that you aren't beautiful. Pass on the message that you are beautiful and keep it going." from www.operationbeautiful.com.

I grinned like a high schooler. I immediately put it in the locker of the girl next to me and witnessed her shine too. It was funny to me how a small anonymous note made my day, perhaps my week.

But isn't that what every girl wants? To feel beautiful and for others to notice it too? I couldn't think of a more perfect place for Operation Beautiful to be in full affect then at the gym. Sometimes women can be our own worst enemies, especially in our heads.

I spent some time checking out the Operation Beautiful website and enjoyed reading all the fun ways other women had come up with passing on the beauty effect. I immediately made a mental note to pick up some fun post-it notes to become an ambassador for the cause.

The world could use more beauty in it, especially beginning in our own hearts.

To learn more, visit www.operationbeautiful.com.

Casserole Season

It’s been casserole season lately.

Winter’s final exhale has brought a mixture of bittersweet to my circle of friends. There’s been a layoff, a cancer diagnosis, a divorce, a heart scare and a new baby. Along with these changes, comes the ever-present casserole. It is simply the right thing to do. There is something wonderful about a square of comfort delivered by loving hands.

The casserole once was an important reassurance for me. When I was in middle school, my dad was in a life-threatening car accident. My days were filled with school, followed by the long drive to the hospital and back home again. Exhausted, worried and scared, I remember coming home and seeing the casseroles spread out on our kitchen table. Their well wishes brought kind relief and warmth that is hard to explain.

Miraculously, beautifully -- the casseroles kept showing up on our kitchen table. Sweet encouragement from friends, neighbors, church ladies, people I didn’t even know. I have never been more grateful for such kindness.

When you are beat up by life, a casserole might be the best thing you can imagine. It is a glimmer of hope when none can be found. More than food, casseroles say “hang in there, you’re gonna be okay, kid.” It is a high honor to give someone that kind of hope, even if it’s only a casserole.