I am flying down the snowy trail behind my daughter, Lucy, our first run of a gorgeous day. The spring skiing conditions today at Wildcat – our home mountain nestled in the heart of Pinkham Notch, New Hampshire – almost make up for all the icy, cold, snowless days we’ve had during one of the toughest ski season I can remember. The sunshine is intoxicating and the snow feels like butter under my skis. In a flash, I see her brother, RJ, bump into Lucy, who crashes. When I reach her she is crying and pointing to her leg. I un-click her skis, and we scoot to the side of the trail, out of the way of other skiers.

She’s not seriously hurt, just upset. A ski patrol happens to pass by, and he is silly and distracting when he chats with her. After promises of hot chocolate at the bottom of the run, she clicks her skis on.

Back in the lodge, hot chocolate steaming under her nose, she begs me to let her be done for the day.

“Lucy, we’ve only taken one run. It is our last day to ski on our vacation, and we have only skied two days. We finally have a sunny day.”

“But my leg hurts. I don’t want to.”

Though I generally attempt to see things through my kids eyes, this time I knew I needed to get her back out there, to not be afraid, and to enjoy the beautiful day.  Cue the getting back up on the horse speech. I opened the map of the mountain, and showed her the trail we were going on next.

“It’s green all the way down, I promise. It will be really easy to ski.”

She wasn’t happy, but she came back out with me. Flashes of her teen years ran through my head.

We road up the chair lift with my husband and other two children behind us. We all turned and headed down Polecat, the longest green trail in the East at 2.75 miles long. A gorgeous view of Mount Washington weaves in and out as you wind your way down, with Tuckerman’s Ravine – the famous huge white bowl that zealous skiers hike up and ski down to earn bragging rights – taking up a third of the sky. (My husband skied it three times last year, he would probably want me to casually drop here). Having grown up in the Midwest, it is impossible for me to take this view for granted. The fact that my kids get to fills me with a kind of breathless gratitude.

We eased our way down the hill, and the conditions were just what I thought they would be. We were floating on hero snow, so you could get into a rhythm and let your mind wander along with your skis. It was such a contrast to the icy and cold and bare runs we had been skiing all winter. We had had a few inches this week, the mountains had made what snow they could, and all of our shlepping skis and kids and gear finally paid off to get to this day.

I skied a little ahead of Lucy, gushing about the sunshine and the mountains and the snow. She barely cracked a smile. We got to the end, and we didn’t ask her if she wanted to go again, we just got in line. I waited for her to protest, but she didn’t. When we got to the top, her dad and siblings wanted to go down another trail, but I told them I would go with Lucy down Polecat, because I knew she needed easy.

My husband’s passion for the sport had infused first me, then our oldest son and daughter with a strong love for skiing, all of its ritual and tribe and tired muscles at the end of the day. I know there is a chance that when Lucy grows up, she might not have the same passion that we all do. (I comfort myself with thinking that if that happens, she is passionate about cooking, and perhaps she will have a delicious dinner waiting for us if she doesn’t want to ski.) But right now, I was going to do my best to try to show her the joy of skiing.

We kept traveling down the trail, and as I looked back at her, her skis gliding easily under her, shoulders square and in control the whole time, I smiled. Hero snow makes everyone ski well. I gushed some more when we made turns that opened up new views of the mountains.

“Hi Mountains! Hi Trees! Hi Sun!”

I saw her crack a smile.

“Wait a minute. Is that a smile? I think I see a smile.”

We raced down the last stretch of the trail, and met up with the other part of our family in front of the chair lift.

“They want to go in for lunch,” my husband said. We had started the day late, and each run was a solid half hour, so their bellies were pulling them. But the gorgeous day was pulling me.

“I’m gonna take one more run,” I said. My husband and I always tried to let each other take solo runs when we were skiing with the kids so we could go as fast and hard as we wanted. “Go ahead, Lucy, you can take of your skis and go with Dad.”

And then it happened.

“I wanna take one more run too,” she said.

I stopped and turned. Small victories.

I reached to give her a high five. “Well alllright. Let’s go,” I said. “Lucy and I will be in after one more run.”

One of the best thing skiing teaches me is how to overcome fear. An icy ledge to negotiate at the top of a trail. A tight mogul patch your only option down. Getting up after you take a bad fall.  Seeing my kids learn this too makes every early wake up, every two hour drive, every ride up the magic carpet, totally worth it.

We rode to the top of the mountain, the whole valley stretching out below us. We took off again down Polecat. Flying down the snowy trail behind my daughter, her blond hair flying, looking as golden as the sun to my happy heart.

^Baby Slinging With A Smile

It is almost Christmas, and lately I feel so blessed to go through this season with little people. All the magic of hope, all the moments of joy. It got me thinking about the times that motherhood hasn’t been this sweet. When Christmases were a blur of newborn baby or everyone was sick.

Before I became a mother, I looked at the role with reverence and awe. Being a mother seemed powerful to me. So much potential in your words and actions, how they scattered on little people like rain on fertile fields. To be a mother seemed sacred and purposeful. I was very content to work- I loved teaching philosophy and learning and writing. But to be a mother? That was a calling.

Fast forward to actually being a mother. When my second baby was a glorious, pink, ten pound girl with a name I adored and eyes that I adored even more, she had a weak valve in her stomach so that she frequently emptied her tummy full of breastmilk all over me (projectile vomiting is the official term). When she was two months old she came down with RSV, a virus requiring many babies to be hospitalized. She stayed healthy enough with just a nebulizer treatment at home every four hours.  So she was eating every three hours, but if she threw it all up she was hungry again in two, and needed a breathing treatment every four. I had an 18 month old who woke up at 6 on the dot (still does) and I was flying solo with a traveling husband. No matter how many times you crunch that equation, it adds up to no sleep.

Where was all the power I had seen mothers have? All the purposefulness? I was mostly aware of the fact that the laundry basket got filled with my clothes, my daughters clothes and whatever blanket we were laying on three times a day, that my postpartum clothes didn’t fit, that I would trade my wedding ring for sleep, and that my oldest son was cute as a button but a runner. I barely left the house.

I know that many mothers encounter far worse scenarios for far longer periods of time, but I point to that moment in time just to say that motherhood can break you. Some parts of it are really really hard. And when it does, right when you think all is lost, and your life is in shambles just like your house and you can’t go on another day – make that another hour – you find out what you are really made of. You dig deep.

What I found out was that motherhood seemed powerful to me because mothers had to find that strength inside them. And it seemed purposeful because the only thing that really gets you through the hard times is being aware of your sense of purpose. But they don’t come first. They come later. They’re the fruits of hardship and sacrifice. They’re the gifts of motherhood.

But of course I didn’t know that. Instead I kept thinking it was going to get easier. It took a long time to realize it wasn’t going to, and that I had to change.

So I went through the usual rituals of adulthood: I lowered my expectations. I stopped worrying about what other people think. Really. Like, deep down stopped worrying. I celebrated small victories like making dinner and taking out the trash. But most of all, I had to become my own best friend. Because the only thing that makes this motherhood journey harder is if you don’t have your own psyche in your corner. Rooting for you, championing you, showing you the grace and mercy you deserve. If you are doing all the hard parts and dealing with a mean voice in your head that says your not good enough, tall enough, thin enough, rich enough, smart enough, _____ enough, then life takes on the bitter taste of resentment and despair. And watch out: mean voice can be sneaky. Wherever you are weak, which mothers are often, that is where it will work its way in.

So here is to the gift you can give yourself – wherever you are at – of kindness and compassion. Because you SO so so so so so so so deserve it. Really. Honest.

(Photo Credit: www.abovethelaw.com)

I have been putting shoes on my toddler all week that are too small.

He has red scabs on his heels and little blood stains on the back of his shoes that I didn’t see.

Naturally, I feel horrible.

So when I read over and over again about how we are too obsessed with perfection, how learning that one can’t be perfect is a big insight, I am a little bit like, who are these people? Who is under the impression that they could be perfect? I am presented with my blatant failure on the daily and I sort of want to know – who isn’t?

I recently read an expert of Mindy Kailing’s new book that I loved. Because it hinted at this dilemma around the ideas of perfection and confidence. She says that confidence really only comes from hard work. So when people encourage others to know that they don’t need to be perfect to be comfortable with themselves, I think, no they don’t. But they will definitely be more comfortable with themselves if they are getting better. On some level. Even if it is just bowling.

On most days, I have plenty of reasons to embrace imperfection, but I am always in search of reasons to embrace discipline, to keep all kinds of atrophy at bay. And all this talk about not being perfect seems like it confuses perfectionism with improving. I am writing all this not because I want to discourage people who are helped by being reminded that perfection is not the goal. I get that being comfortable with your self, loving your self, right where you are, is behind it. It is just that it doesn’t help me at all.  I am well aware of this fact. I respect my learning curve. But the reality of life as a mother, daughter, sister, wife is messy and bumpy. I need to be strong to deal with it all, and that means striving. That space where what your doing hurts a little, pushes you out of your comfort zone, and challenges you – that’s where my muscles grow. That’s what helps me deal with all the imperfections of life. Along with coffee.

Growing is often hard work. And sometimes, I will cave from doing this hard work when I hear messages like, ‘life is hard, don’t expect too much from yourself, here, have a donut.’ I need to hear messages like, ‘just do it’ and ‘no’.  Because I am the strongest version of myself with discipline.  I am inspired by the stories of people who weren’t trying for perfection. But they were trying for their best.

It might just be how I am wired. And on the off chance that someone is wired this way too, I am writing this for you.

I find peace in the place where effort meets reality. I like hard work, especially the kind that changes you as you do it. When I am running and I am conditioning my lungs, it sucks right then but it will make my next run better. When I clean and stock the fridge even though I really, really want to be lying on the couch eating fudge and reading a novel, I am setting up feeding my family healthy food. It is not fun. It is not pretty and I am not trying to be perfect. It is hard work. And that’s fine with me. Because it will make tomorrow better. Not perfect, just better.

^^Lucy, age 9 months, visiting a lake cottage. Where we went with lots of sippy cups.

When I was a new mother, with 3 kids 3 and under, nothing could make me fly into a pint of ice cream faster then a travel magazine. Pages filled with gorgeous meals, usually things like seared salmon on top of a gorgeous puree with micro greens, a glass of white wine catching the light just so, mahogany four-post hotel beds with crisp white sheets, and beachs with golden sand, and a boat off on the horizon.

These things were the opposite of my reality, which was diapers and sippy cups and trashed play rooms, tantrums and teething and mind-numbing sleep deprivation. It was enough to make me fling the glossy pages across the room. France and Italy pictures or articles were particularly painful, since my longing to visit there grew as my love of cooking grew. And if there were cooking or writing classes involved, forget it. I had to pull my comforter up over my head until the din of Dora the Explorer and the prospect of mac and cheese for dinner didn’t feel quite so painful.

Eight years later, we are gearing up for a trip to France.

My mother-in-law can comfortably watch my youngest two, so it will be just the longer-legged, broader-palated children coming with us. As I plan and pack for this trip, I realize that something has changed for me. Yes, the world is a big exciting interesting place. Getting to seeing such an amazing country and having fantastic food is the stuff of dreams. But I am starting to see that happiness is complicated and simple at the same time. The complicated part is what you have to say no to. Dying to the parts of you that want Rome, sleep and stimulating conversation is hard. But the simple part of happiness is that it mostly exists right under your own roof. You don’t have to go anywhere.

My young family is easing into another stage, another chapter, less about sippy cups and more about homework and baseball practice. And happiness now is seeing how interesting and funny and loved my kids are, their little personalities oozing out of every pore, their enthusiasm and sense of humor making me feel less alone then I did in the early days. Looking at them makes me feel like I am already on a journey. With them. With who they will become. They are more interesting – more meaningful – then any trip I could ever take. They are my ancient ruins and my waterfall, my hammock and my vineyard.  They are a terra firma all their own.

I learned that the four walls you are surrounded by every day and the people in them are a much better barometer of happiness then the glossy pages of a travel magazine. The crazy dance parties while you wait for spaghetti to boil, the snuggles first thing in the morning with chocolate milk cups and lovey blankets, reading one more board book when you are bone tired but you still notice your toddler belly laugh again and again at the snake behind the flap in their favorite lift-the-flap book. These things sit just a little deeper in my heart then Minding the Gap and tasting French butter.

They don’t have a brochure for parenthood. There are no travel agents for being a mother. Your itinerary may look the same on the surface of everyday, but if you look closely, there are new, spectacular things happening right under your nose. Their first bike ride, the rosiness in their cheeks after they’ve been playing in the yard, when they eat lobster with you or ask you about infinity or how crayons are made. It’s magic.

The rituals of your every day life, in the same old surroundings with Lincoln logs and Cheerios scattered on the floor more days than you care to admit, are happiness within the strain. Joy within the fatigue. It is hard to see. But the ordinary life stuff might just be better then the trip of a life time, when all is said and done.

Love is its own destination.

**We won staying at a house in Dinan, in the Brittany Region, at an auction for Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, and the money we spent will go to fund the medicines they are researching to extend their time with their families and improve their quality of life. If you want to learn more about this cause, click here. 

We are going to a friend’s 40th Birthday party tonight, and my husband and I have our’s right around the corner.

 I’ve been reading some good writers who are *cough* turning 30.  It got me thinking a lot about the last 10 years, mainly because I can barely remember them. Didn’t I just get married? Didn’t I just turn 30 a few months ago?

So I decided to list a few things I learned in the last 10 years, just to help me shake off some of the child-rearing amnesia.

1) You will under appreciate how good you look right now. The thing that really stings is how good 30 looks, which you don’t appreciate because you’re too busy worrying about losing 10 pounds. When you’re 40 you realize you have 20 pounds to lose and a waning metabolism. Just my wrinkle-free skin alone makes me want to sit my younger self down and say, honey, have some gratitude. Youth was most definitely wasted on the younger me.

2) But, you really do grow comfortable in your skin. The cliche is true. As you creep towards 40, you really do care so much less about what other people think, and you know yourself so much better. You can actually look back and laugh at what gave you anxiety at 30. And 35. And 37, because in my experience you finally start to stop caring right around then because it gets too annoying.

3) You will still care about cellulite. That never goes away – both the feeling bad about it part and the actual cellulite.

4) Don’t let numbers define you. It’s not the whole story. What your scale says, or your bank account, or the number of likes or followers or emails today – it is all too easy to get consumed by them. But you’ll be miserable if you do. And it is the lie of omissions, since letting a number define you leaves out your spirit.

If you’re a parent, you’ll stop doing this in your 30s because you see the gorgeousness in your own kids’ spirits. And you figure out that we all have that inside of us. As a little thought experiment, imagine for a moment if we defined kids with numbers. How much they weigh, what their test scores are, how many friends are coming to their birthday party, what size they wear, what grade they should be, how many cavities they have, what their IQ level is. Spirit crushing horror is what that would be. But we do it to ourselves all the time as we are growing up. So try not to do this.

5) Invest in really good bras, really good books, and really good friends. No matter what life throws at you, these will be your main source of support, so your gonna want to make them strong.

6) When you feel bad, make a list of what you are grateful for. Gratitude is a depression buster every time. Also, clean your room. You’ll feel better. Better yet, spring for a housecleaner. They will instill a gratitude in you so deep you will won’t be able to live without them.

7) Make peace. With your self, with others, with life. Then you can direct your energies towards the really good stuff instead of letting anger and resentment fill you up. If they are, see #6.

8) Never eat gas station food. Unless you are in Spain, where they have delicious rustic homemade gas station food.

9) If they don’t love you, you can’t make them. Cue Bonnie Rait on repeat until you feel this in your bones.

10) When in doubt, take a walk/run outside. It is life’s reset button.

11) When you are overwhelmed, take 10 minutes to yourself. Just 10. Not 8, or 5. 10. The gift of time is the greatest gift you can possibly give yourself. And I don’t mean checking email and folding laundry. Just lay down with the thoughts in your head and nothing else.

12) Lose Yourself as often as possible. In art, in cooking, in gardening, in running or tennis or golf, in crosswords. The more you can drown out that record of mental chatter that plays endlessly, the better your spirit will be.

13) This too shall pass. The darkest grief, the deepest hurt. They will all lessen with time. Every single day is new, a clean slate. The Lord’s mercies are not exhausted, ever.

14) Invest in one good dress. And heels, and lipstick.

15) Call your mother.*

*This one is totally self-serving. I always call my mom but just wanted to remind my kids.