The EOTS is simple – scam your kids into behaving for the entire month of December by telling them Santa’s elf is watching them and reporting back.  Every night he flies off to the North Pole, then returns and finds a different perch from which to spy.  It seemed like a delightful concept.  I read the kids the included book as a bedtime story, and the next morning Emmy burst out of her room yelling, “Mommy!  Did the elf come? Let’s go find him!”  Adorable…until Alex found the elf, took one look and skeptically proclaimed him “not real.”

The next morning I woke up in a blind panic at 4:30, having realized I forgot to move the elf.  Fearful of ruining the Christmas magic and cementing Alex’s theory that the elf was a fake, I tiptoed downstairs, relocated the elf, then stumbled back to bed.

That evening I remembered and perched him on top of a picture frame hanging above our couch.  Later the next morning, I heard thundering feet running, followed by panicked muttering coming from the playroom.  Investigation revealed that Emmy had ignored the rule of “don’t touch the elf” (not my rule, it’s in the book!) and tried to climb up the end table to get to the elf.  When he fell off and landed face first on the couch, she bolted, fearful that she’d killed him, or at the very least taken his magic.  When they weren’t looking, I shoved him in a drawer and told them he must have left to go try and get his magic back.

The next morning he reappeared, again when I remembered to move him at 5am.  (Sensing a pattern?)  Seeing as how I’m running out of places to put him that are both out-of-reach and not hazardous to climbers, I’m thinking this little game should have started around December 15 versus the day after Thanksgiving.

In a spirited frenzy of goodwill and this-is-the-most-fun-tradition-ever, I purchased EOTS for both my sisters-in-law on Black Friday.  I hope they still like me by the end of the month.  I suspect otherwise.

I am a third-generation Penn Stater. My grandfather went there. Both my parents went there. My husband, and my sister-in-law and countless other members of my family and close friends all have Penn State in their hearts.  Being a Nittany Lion is a huge part of my identity, snuggling on my grandpa’s lap to watch Penn State football and shouting “Beat Pitt!” and “Notre Dame stinks!” before I even knew what rivalry meant. Those were the old school rivals, long before the Big 10.

I always knew I would go to Penn State. I wanted to make my family proud. I wanted the reputation and unquestionable value of Pennsylvania State University on my resume. I never wanted to have to explain where my school was or get blank looks from people when I told them where I earned my degree. I loved the atmosphere on football Saturdays, and being able to meet new people every single day. Penn State shaped my identity as a child and as an adult.

The world I am raising my kids in is a scary place. One thing that remained constant was Penn State being above reproach. We were above scandal, and the idyllic pictures in campus brochures told a true story of what it was like to be a student there.

There are few crimes worse than the one that started this. My heart breaks for those kids, and for every child who experiences any kind of abuse – physical or otherwise. I wonder if there is a person at Second Mile who suspected but kept quiet for fear of losing the money or accusing a respected member of the community, and who is now sick with regret. Our job as adults is too protect our kids, and we failed.

Whatever you think of what Joe Paterno should or should not have done, the fact remains that he truly cared about the students in the football program, not just for what they could bench or how fast they could run, but for shaping them as adults. When my mom was at Penn State, it wasn’t unusual to see Joe in the library with the team making sure they got an education because he knew that only a tiny percentage would make a living playing football. Today, it is the library – not the athletic buildings – that JoePa built.

We as individuals and as a society DON’T ALWAYS DO THE RIGHT THING.  For fear we are wrong, for fear of making waves or losing friends, we worry about what others will think and we too often give others the benefit of the doubt when they don’t deserve it. What hurts so much for Penn Staters is weighing all the good that Penn State, and Second Mile, and the Paternos, and the football institution have done for so many people against the horrific events that started it all. There is no winner, only victims. And there are lots of people for whom Penn State is such a huge part of their identity that now they don’t know how or what to feel. Except sadness, confusion, and loss.

The impact of this week to the University and the community that surrounds it will be enormous. Already, high school seniors who have committed to play at Penn State are reneging. Alumni and donors who give millions of dollars every year are questioning whether they will do so next year. The University is trying to assert that it is about more than football. While this is true, the fact is that with an organization like this football and academics are as closely intertwined as DNA. Sadly, this week’s game will be a media frenzy, not because the team has worked hard and deserves attention but because of scandal. Under the glare of television cameras, the school is trying desperately to please everyone and it cannot be done.

If there is anything we can take away from this, if there is anything we can do as Nittany Lions to heal ourselves, it is to resolve to protect those who cannot protect themselves. It is to committ, however difficult, to getting past the fear of what others will think if we speak up. Get past the idea that it it someone else’s job, or that it’s none of our business. Don’t worry about overstepping invisible boundaries or making a scene. Help those who need it. Have no regrets.

• Discover your almost-5-year-old hiding in the pantry scarfing Bunny Grahams like some bulimic cast member of The Hills and then carefully disposing of the evidence, flying the Flag of Fairness in your face after you refused him a snack on the grounds that he didn’t eat any of his dinner.
• Race frantically through the mall in the last 20 minutes before you have to leave for a meeting trying to find something…anything! for your kids to wear for school picture day – TOMORROW because, well you just forgot.  (And you are still trying to make up for spring picture day when the kids get to hold a real live bunny, in which older child is wearing a shirt with a red-eyed cobra on it that looks like it is about to attack the bunny.)
• Learn that your 3-year-old, upon being asked what she liked about herself in a discussion at school on why each child is “special” responds with “I like my BOOTY” as she jumps up and points to her butt. This is recorded for posterity on the preschool wall, next to other children’s comments about liking their hair or knees.
• Then think to yourself that it could be worse, you could be the mom of that kid who exclaimed “I like my privates!”

It’s happening.  The other day I was watching a girl feed her baby the same kind of organic baby food that I used to feed Em and I got a sweep of nostalgia.  Today as I looked through my list of categories over there I realized that I probably don’t need “baby stuff” or “baby firsts” anymore.

I swore this would never happen to me.

Last week, I came to home to a request. Alex would like TWO babies. We already have one, but he would really like two. Preferably another girl. Or boy, depending on when you ask.

I never finished or published that post.

Today:

Nevermind.  For all the nostalgia, I can’t forget pumping.

I was informed the other day at school conferences that Emmy and Alex are both delightful to have in class and that they should do really well when they transition next month.  I had to ask for clarification on that transition thing, and it turns out that Emmy - my youngest, my baby – will be transitioning into the class Alex is in now and he’ll transition to the pre-K class. 

Whoa.  For some reason, this news hit me like a ton of bricks.  I’ve always known that through a trick of  birthdays and September cut-off age for school that Emmy would be a grade behind Alex even though they are almost two years apart in age.  But for her to actually be in the class that he is in NOW, just seems so sudden, doesn’t it?  Like, why rush things?  And what happened to me going part-time and spending days creating crafts and doing memorable, childhood-defining activities with them? 

 Next year, it will be too late – kindergarten is all-day.  There will be no random visits to  Grandma and Grandpa whenever we feel like it.  There will be no crowd-avoiding- family trip to Disney when all the other kids are in school unless we do it THIS YEAR.  (Which is completely irrelevant, as I 1) have little desire to go to Disney and 2) have it on good authority that I am almost guaranteed to come back exhausted and in need of a spa retreat.)  All of a sudden my work and life will be defined by a school calendar.

Now I see.  I see the need for three.  Not that I’m going there.  But I get it.

I’m finding myself lately not really very interested in answering that question.  When you first start practicing yoga, you ride a wave of sudden self-awareness and wonder at the physical and mental aspects of the practice.  Sooner or later, you’ll either become a teacher and the wave gets bigger or you sort of start to question the teachings with a healthy skepticism.  This isn’t good or bad – if you take a teacher training, then the inevitable questioning of your practice/teaching/spirituality may be postponed, but it will eventually happen.  Questioning is good – it forces you to figure out what your values are and what you believe, making your practice much more authentic.

I’ve had several yoga right turns, or near misses – whatever you want to call it.  I started off taking yoga at a gym and started teaching after a weekend workshop in “fitness yoga”.  This was more than 11 years ago.  A few years later I was sore and injured and nothing about yoga was making much sense – I was ready to quit until I happened on my first Anusara workshop.  I was instantly enamored, I felt like I’d found my yoga calling.  Anusara made sense to me and it helped that I got an adjustment that relieved what was almost debilitating pain in my hip.  I was going to practice and teach in this style and my world would right itself.   This was in 2003.  There were no Anusara teachers within 150 miles of me.  So I went to workshops every chance I got.  I became a much better teacher but never got the courage to quit my well-paying day job and go for what was calling me. 

Fast forward to kids – I finally came to the understanding that there was no way I was going to pursue an Anusara training given the time committment and travel that would be required.  A hot studio had just opened near my house and to teach there I needed an RYT.  I sort of gave-in and signed up for a teacher training near home.  It was a better experience than I expected, but nowhere near the experience I wanted.  But you compromise and do what you can given the constraints that you place on yourself.

That’s a key point – the constraints were something I placed on myself, nobody forced me to settle.

I completed my RYT in February of last year, and have been teaching at that hot studio ever since.  I wasn’t sure it was a good fit – I really hate being hot (being a pitta dosha), and I don’t like having to teach what someone else tells me to – but for a while it was good, even great.  Which brings me to the next right turn.

Several things happened at once – there started to be a lot of drama at the studio: egos, personalities, a shift in the energy of the place.  This spring, I went to a workshop and took a flow yoga class with creative, outside-the-box choreography and another set to hip-hop music.  I taught an easier variation of the outside-the-box choreography and got an accusatory reprimand.  I came across a series of articles on Elephant Journal that convinced me that 90% of the people practicing yoga take it way too seriously.  Because let’s be honest – you may find some peace in the present moment and a decent workout, but you aren’t going to find spiritual enlightenment taking class with a teacher who took a 200-hour training and is teaching a formatted series that never changes.

Which brings me to my current disgruntled state and the answer to the question so often posed to me: why should I do yoga?

I don’t know and I don’t particularly care if you do.  I’ve lost that yoga-evangalism so I can’t answer that for you.  Think about why you WANT to do yoga.  Because someone told you so?  Because you’re wondering about this yoga fad?  Because you feel guilty that you run 20 miles a week and never stretch?  You have sky-high blood pressure?

The difference between yoga and stretching is simply intention.  (I borrowed this comparison from somewhere but can’t remember who said it first.)  If you’re stretching, you are sitting there thinking about the workout you just did or what you’re going to have for dinner.  If you’re doing yoga, you are trying to fully experience every cell in your body.  If you’re stretching, you probably aren’t paying much attention to how your body is aligned or how the stretch feels.  If you’re doing yoga, you are constantly pulsing with the breath and using it to find a balance between strength and flexibility, effort and rest.  If you’re stretching, you are entertained by the drama that surrounds you, if you’re doing yoga, it feels like an assault on the senses.

It doesn’t matter if you’re barefoot or lying on a sweaty mat in a room full of lululemon-wearers, if you aren’t trying to be present then you are stretching.  It doesn’t matter if your teacher trained with one of the greats or is spouting off quotes from a book, it is what YOU are thinking and feeling that matters.

#1 Take your clothes for a “test drive” before wearing them for an important event.
#2 When in doubt, don’t wear it.
#3 The more skin, the less power.
#4 Know when clothes need to be retired.

I particularly appreciate number 3.

What would you add?

I’ve been reading old entries and wishing now that I’d kept posting at least once a week.  There is so much I forgot, so many little things that I haven’t written down and now are probably lost forever.  I would like to not only capture new stuff, even if it’s in short posts, but I would like to go back and chronicle the cool stuff we’ve done.  I want to write about the little, day-to-day things – especially the things that seem so huge at that particular moment but a year later I’ve forgotten all about.

So off the top of my head, the roadmap for days I am at a loss for something to write about: the Easter Egg Roll at the White House, the Imagination Movers concert, Alex’s first day of school, the last day at Miss Sue’s, the “no-pants daycare”, the new daycare, reindeer food at Christmas, New Year’s Day brunch, purging of all the baby stuff, taking a workshop with Anusara founder John Friend, turning 35, becoming obsessed with Oprah, my favorite books and songs, Emmy singing the monkey song, princess dresses, turning 2, turning 4, yoga music I love, my vegetable garden, quotes, asanas, Mother’s Day, 10 years, happiness, managerial finance.

Less editing, less overthinking, more hitting “Publish”.

Alex:  Yuck!  I don’t like this dinner!  Will you make me something else?

Me:  No.  I’m not running a restaurant.

Alex:  Yuck!  I don’t like this dinner.  I’m not eating THIS.

Emily Kate (smiling sweetly):  Yummy Mommy!  This is the bes’dinnah evah!

It seems that Emmy has inherited the suck-up gene that Alex hasn’t yet discovered.

I allowed this parental slide to go on through the summer, but now…well…it’s Labor Day, summer’s official end.  Time to face the middle of the night demons.

A few weeks ago, I started talking to her about how it’s almost time to give the nuks to the little babies who need them, like baby Marli from daycare, and that pretty soon we’re going to pack them up and give them to another little baby.  Alex tried to help.

“Emmy,” he said, “You have to give dem to baby Mahli! Da wittle babies need them. You a big gowl now!”

At this point, Emmy’s face crumpled and she burst into tears.

“NO!,” she cried. “I need dem! I NEED DEM! Babies don’t need dem, I NEED DEM!”  She was devastated, tears pouring down her face.  I cracked.

A few days later, I experimentally cut off the tip of one of them.  She continued to suck it lovingly, only occasionally taking it out to look at it as if sucking hard enough would make it grow back.  Finally, she found one that was whole but continued to carry the cut one around, referring to it as “my bro-en nuk.”

I started to wonder if I could paint them with that nasty stuff you use to try and stop biting your nails.  Then in just the nuk of time, I was saved.  I picked Emmy up from daycare on Tuesday, and she informed me, “Soon the nuk goblin is going to come take my nuks!”  I quizzically looked at Miss Sue.

“Did she just say nuk goblin?”

At some point during the day, Alex had spun some sort of tale about a goblin coming to take Em’s pacifiers away.  Where Alex learned the term goblin, I have not a clue.  Dora?  Some other crazy Nick jr. show that I can’t stand to be in the same room for?  Regardless, the nuk goblin seems to be a better alternative than giving the nuk to other, needy babies.

I decided to go with it, tooth fairy-like.  Today, Emmy has told everyone she meets that the nuk goblin is coming to take her nuks.  We’ve explained that the goblin is coming tomorrow and that tonight is the last night she’ll need her nuk.  After breakfast tomorrow, we’re packing them into a box and while she’s at her gymnastics class, the nuk goblin will come and take her nuks and if she’s really lucky leave her a surprise.

“A potsickle?”, she asked me hopefully.

Now it seems, we just need to get mommy to let go.

I had a big meeting today, and yesterday while plotting what I should wear it occurred to me that I hadn’t REALLY done my hair in over a month. My summer haircare routine has been blow dry and straighten my bangs, and let the rest fall where it may. I’ve been working for months now to grow it out and it was finally, FINALLY long enough to get into a ponytail, or twist into some messy version of an updo.  So I looked at it in the mirror and thought, “damn I’m frizzy”.  Spending most weekends immersed in chlorine at the pool hasn’t helped my ends any although my natural color lightened so that part wasn’t too bad.

I called my salon, which is the salon I’ve been going to since I unceremoniously dumped my other stylist of three years, and unsurprisingly they couldn’t fit me in for a cut in the next 2 hours.

Because I am ridiculously impatient, and because I am a hairdresser whore, I decided I couldn’t wait until the proffered Tuesday appointment to go see my regular hair stylist who’s been helping me grow out my layers and who I really like and who listens when I tell her “just a trim”.  So I called up the salon I used to go to knowing my ex-hairdresser had just left there and HOORAY!  They were able to fit me in, see you in 20 minutes!  I explained to the new girl all about growing out my layers and trying to get some length and we agreed on a 1/2 inch off the botton and a little more off the layers since that was where more of the damage was.

As I watched her cut, I noticed that she was going excruciatingly slowly.  Then I saw her lift a section and chop a good 2 inches off.  At that point I carefully inquired as to her last place of employment, which was when she told me she just graduated from beauty school three months ago.  Fighting rising panic, I thought, “Ok well, three months that’s not ideal but she seems to know what she’s doing even if she is horribly slow.”

Turns out she may have graduated three months ago, but had only been cutting hair for a few weeks.  She also apparently had a gigantic problem with me not keeping up my color, and after offering several times to give me a “demi-color” thusly decided to go to town on the trim that I requested trying to cut off everything that was blonder than my roots.   After the clumsiest blow dry I’ve ever had, and a flat iron which she did despite me telling her not to, she turned me around to see the back.

It looked like a lawnmower had run over my head.  A hundred different lengths.  Hair as flat as if I’d been caught in a rainstorm.  Because I am from Upstate NY and we only do big hair, I am not a flat iron kind of girl - I wear big hair to disguise my big head.  By the time one of the master stylists came over to take a look, I had gone from tentatively suggesting that it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to being almost teary and trying not to flip out.  After some discussion of what we agreed upon at the beginning of the cut, new girl was sent away and I was spirited away to a different chair by a comfortingly big-haired master stylist who talked soothingly while she fixed what she could.

6 months of growing out my hair laying on the floor of the salon, and I have the exact same haircut I was sick of when I started growing it.  On the bright side, if there is one, hey- free haircut.  So a note to my future self – that’s what you get for being a hairdresser whore.  Your luck ran out.