For my upcoming 45th birthday, I approached my family and told them I would like to skydive. My husband thinks I am crazy. My oldest agrees with his father. My youngest, however, had only this to say: “You can’t.” I am a determined person by nature and when someone tells me I can’t do something it’s tantamount to waving a red flag in front of an already angry bull. Can’t. Ha! Since when does someone 4 feet tall get to tell me what I can and cannot do? Did Willy Wonka take orders from the Oompa Loompas? I think not. In an act of defiance, I started doing research on the best place to skydive from in the area and quickly found one I felt confident about. This morning I approached my youngest again about my intention to exit a perfectly good airplane on purpose. I was hoping to win him over with information about safety ratings.

“Luke, I would like to skydive for my birthday,” I told him again.

“You can’t,” he replied quite matter of factly.

“Actually, I can. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” I replied, hopefully appealing to his inner sense of fairness.

“You can’t,” he simply repeated.

“I can’t this year or I can’t ever?” I questioned.

“You just can’t.”

“When can I?” I queried.

“When I am dead,” came his answer.

“When you are dead?” I laughed. “So that means not in my lifetime, right?

“Yes.”

“Okay. If you’re not giving me permission to do this, at least you can tell me why.”

“I am trying to keep you safe.”

I don’t know why, but hearing that my almost 10 year old son is too worried about me to feel he can tolerate watching me take off in an airplane, reach 12,500 feet, and then fall towards earth at 115 miles per hour made me feel good. It made me feel better than the much needed spa gift certificate I received for Mother’s Day did. Although I am with them day in and day out, I have never before heard such a blatant acknowledgment of my importance to him. I mean, you always kind of just know they love you (it would be a big demotivator to parenting without this type of blind faith) but you don’t often get verbal affirmation of your importance to your little people. As much as it upsets me that I won’t be able to do a jump for my birthday as I had hoped, I can’t see how I would get much satisfaction out of it knowing I’d left my youngest on the ground terrified that he was about to witness my certain death. That would suck the fun right out of it, I think.

Am I giving up my dream of skydiving? Absolutely not. I think I’ll just wait until my 50th birthday. By that time my now reluctant youngest son will be a teenager excited about getting his learner’s permit. After I tell him that he can get it when I’m dead, he might just be willing to push me out of that airplane himself.

The best part about parenting is discovering who your children are, what makes them tick, and what moves them. Joe is intellectual. He’s our serious, deep thinking, curious boy who is perpetually looking to expand his horizons and study new things. He will spend hours perusing Google Earth, studying places he’d like to go. A while back he told me he’d like to visit Nuuk. I had no idea where Nuuk even is. Turns out it’s the capital of Greenland, the northernmost capital on the globe, and Joe had been visiting it virtually to check it out. I told him he could go there with his father and that when he wants to explore the Maldives he can take me. Luke, on the other end of the spectrum, is our creative, fun-loving sweetheart. He’s always up for a hug. He adores his older brother. (Yesterday he told me that if a genie gave him three wishes, he would ask for 3 boxes of each Lego set ever made. Then he would ask that his brother could have a wish. Of course, then he would ask the genie for more wishes. He’s not selfish, but he’s also not crazy.) His heart is gigantic with room enough for millions of people and animals. He once lost one of his favorite stuffies down a vent in our house. It turned into a life-or-death rush to rescue Woofy from the well and heal Luke’s breaking heart.

Last night, I went in to say goodnight to the boys and found Luke all misty-eyed. He was surrounded by stuffed animals on his bed. He had been crying. When I asked what was wrong, he said he was sad that he would have to leave all his stuffed animals behind when he goes to heaven. Earlier in the evening, we’d been having a serious-minded discussion with Joe about heaven and what it might be. Obviously, it had gotten to Luke. This is not the first time Luke has shared this concern with me. He’s mentioned it once before and at that time I assured him that heaven will be filled with the things and people we love and that if his animals are that important to him he will certainly see them there. It seems as if the same concerns surfaced for him again last night. I had apparently not yet finished off that dragon.

Unfortunately, my reassurances didn’t calm him down immediately. He told me that he didn’t have room on his bed for all his stuffed animals (sadly, this is true), so he felt bad that half his animals weren’t getting any love. He got sad eyed again. Oh…this kid turns my heart to mush. As he said that, I revisited all the nights I spent organizing every stuffy I owned on my bed before being willing to fall asleep. I would place them around my body from head to foot so that they formed a plush outline of little Justine. In this way I felt protected. I also knew that I was being a dutiful parent to these stuffed creatures by showing them equal love and appreciation. Like Luke, I had a big heart for stuffed animals. They would call to me from store shelves with their eyes filled with desperation. I couldn’t stand to leave one who called to me behind. I still have several of the plush critters from my childhood. I’m not ashamed to admit they are in my bedroom as an adult, obscured from immediate view but still close by and cherished. So, my heart filled with empathy for Luke’s truly legitimate concern, I did the only thing a mom can do in that situation.

“Would you like it if I took the other half of your critters into my bed and I slept with them tonight?” I queried.

Steve shot me a look to let me know I had lost my mind. I’m sure he wasn’t looking forward to sharing our queen size bed with twenty-some odd stuffed creatures and me. It seems there’s not enough in our bed for the two of us to begin with.

“That way, they won’t feel left out and you won’t have to worry about them,” I continued.

Luke pondered the situation for about a half a second and then nodded his head yes.

“Where are they?” I asked.

“The other half are in the bin in the other room,” he said.

“Okay. It’s settled, then,” I said as I got up from the edge of his bed. “I will take them in with me and cuddle with them tonight.”

Luke looked genuinely relieved. He smiled, rolled over, and told me goodnight. As I was about to exit quietly and leave him to peaceful slumber, he sat up.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Joe’s animals don’t get enough love either,” he mentioned. “Maybe tomorrow night I can sleep with half of them and you can take the other half so they won’t feel left out either.”

“Good idea,” I said, garnering another look from Steve.

So, last night I slept with my patient husband and about twenty stuffed critters, mostly mammals but a few reptiles too. I kept Woofy, the chocolate lab, tucked into one arm crease and Motty-O, Luke’s most precious grey horse, in the other while I slept. For a few minutes before falling asleep, I thought about the silly things I’ve done for my boys over the years just to make them feel safe, loved, and secure. I glanced at the animals strewn across my side of the bed and smiled, knowing I had once again put some of my comfort aside just to be sure that my son was happy and peaceful. Oh. Who am I kidding? Those animals brought me the same peace and security they brought Luke. We both slept great.

As 2012 comes to a close, I considered writing a reflective piece about what I am taking away from this year. But, I decided that this year was too incredible to summarize with words alone. So, hubby and I sat down today, went through 366 days’ worth of photos, and created an end-of-the-year video recap. I wanted to share it with those who took some time out of their busy lives to look into the window of my world this year. Thanks for sticking with me. It’s been one hell of a journey.

Our 2012 Year In Review.

This is why social media is so important. It gives a voice to the misunderstood, the maligned, and the marginalized who get muffled by the sound bytes of those who consider themselves important.

 

An Open Letter to Ann Coulter.

“It’s not who you are that holds you back. It’s who you think you’re not.” ~Anonymous

A couple weeks ago I was chatting with my friend, Edie, via the Hey Tell app. We were discussing exercise. She was telling me how much she hates it and how she wishes she enjoyed it like I do.

“Ummmm, Edie? I don’t know how to break this to you, but I hate to exercise.”

“What do you mean you hate it? You work out like all the time.”

“Well, it’s not all the time,” I admitted….(although it certainly feels like all the time). “But, when I do exercise, I can guarantee you I’m not enjoying it.”

“Really? Because you’re always doing those events. You climb the stairs at Red Rocks and do the 150-mile ride. You did that MS walk a couple years back. Last year you did the Warrior Dash.”

“Oh. I like doing events. I just don’t like training to do events. The training takes too long and the events are over far too quickly.”

“Huh. I always just assumed you like it.”

“I’m on my trainer right now and I can assure you that I am not finding this enjoyable at all. I do like the way I feel afterward, though, and that is usually what gets me through it. Well, that and television.”

“I guess that makes me feel better,” Edie said. “At least now I don’t feel like some folks enjoy it and it’s just me that doesn’t.”

“Edie, I’m sure some folks do enjoy it. I’m just not one of them.”

If Edie needed proof of my assertions, she’d need only ask Steve. Steve could tell her that any time we do a training ride together I complain. I whine as I’m getting dressed before we even get on our bikes. For the first ten minutes we’re riding I will make flippant remarks like, “Wow! This is such fun!” If we’re climbing stairs at Red Rocks, in between panting, I will be bitching about how much it sucks. On the second morning of the Colorado MS150 as we’re beginning the climb up Horsetooth Reservoir and we’re tackling the 9% grade on sore hineys from the previous day’s 75 miles, I’m swearing like a sailor who just hit her head on a steel beam below deck.

But, oh…the satisfaction I get when I fit into my clothes and there is no muffin top, the joy I get when I’m savoring every bite of ice cream after eating pizza for dinner without caloric panic, and the euphoria that exists when I roll under the 75-mile banner for the day….those moments more than trump the amount of hatred I have for exercise. Exercise is the means to an end. I truly dislike dripping sweat as I balance on one leg, twisted like a pretzel in Eagle pose in hot yoga. But, when I put on that dress that hits four inches above my forty-something year old knees and I notice that my legs look pretty darn good, it’s so worth it. It balances out.

So to all you folks who are just sitting around waiting for the “urge” to exercise to hit you this spring, may I politely and respectfully say…”GET OFF THE COUCH ALREADY!” There are a few crazy souls who wake up and can’t wait to get their butts handed to them in an hour-long boot camp. Most of us will never relish exercise quite they way they do. Stop waiting for the urge to exercise to hit you. Put one foot in front of the other and get out on the trail. Or squeeze into those bike shorts and hop into that bike. Dislike of exercise doesn’t make you unique. But, taking the initiative to override your distaste for exercise and pushing yourself to be better does. What are you telling yourself that you can’t do? Tell yourself to shut up, then go out do what you never thought you could.