A Resolution Revolution

Like all of you other suckers, I've often been guilty of making New Year's resolutions on December 31. And like 92% percent of the population, each and every time, I've failed miserably within the first 31 days of each new year.

My attempts at past resolutions have included more exercise, less eating, more reading, less cursing, more sleeping, and countless other pipe dreams I cannot recall. You probably have a list of similar good intentions.

Maybe, just maybe, you've even been an 8-percenter and succeeded at keeping a resolution or two.

And if you are among those strong-willed and committed few who eat carrot sticks, love to sweat, regularly expand your vocabulary, are positive role models for your kids, and get 10 hours a night ... well, then, as we say in the South:

Bless your heart.

I, on the other hand, wised up a few years back and began making the only resolution I have ever kept. Actually, I have made it every year since, and I've been able to keep it year in and year out with hardly any effort at all.

My New Year's Resolution is to not make any resolutions.

See how easy that is?

But all kidding aside, as I was eating some kale chips and working out on the elliptical earlier today (while simultaneously reading the new novel I just downloaded), I began to think about the year ahead.

I may be anti-resolution, but that doesn't mean I can't aspire to live my life better in 2015 than I did in 2014.

And that's when I thought about my late father-in-law, Jack Rogers.

Jack, who passed away suddenly in March 2003 at the much-too-young age of 53, was full of life and had an enormous personality.

One of my best memories of him was when he would recite his "Three Rules to Live By."

I can picture him now, animated, emphatic, and dramatic in his delivery:

Jack's Three Rules to Live By

1) Anybody can do anything.

2) Everybody does exactly what they want to do.

3) If you don't get what you want, it's your own damn fault.

Jack's "Three Rules" may not "resolutions" per se.

You may or may not agree with them.

And you may or may not see the same beauty in these rules that I do.

Jack holding LJ, December 2002

They are simple and truthful, and they cut straight to the point. They offer no room for excuses. How you live your life is up to you and no one else.

As the clock strikes midnight and the book closes on 2014, I will -- once again -- stand firm in my resolution revolution. I will not be promising to do anything I know will fall by the wayside before the new calendar even turns to February.

I will, however, be thinking about Jack's Three Rules.

And when things get tough in 2015 and I want to make excuses for why something won't work or why I 'can't,' I will do my best to keep his words in the forefront of my mind.

I will begin my New Year by raising my champagne glass in toast to Jack and his Three Rules, and just as he used to say, I'll be doing exactly what I want to do.

2014: A Year of Surprises

We stopped sending Christmas cards a few years ago. It's not that we don't enjoy receiving them from others, because we do. In fact, we have a nice little Christmas card display thingy that we hang in a prominent place every December. So why did we stop doing them? I'm not sure I have a good answer or excuse, so I won't offer one.

Instead, I offer this "year in review" of sorts. Think of it as our Christmas card in blog form.

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If I had to choose a theme for the Rogers family in 2014, I think it's best described as A Year of Surprises. Some were good -- some not so much -- but in the end, we were constantly on our toes, and found ourselves to be pretty adaptable no matter what life threw at us.

FEBRUARY -- We're Moving (Again)

I suppose it's a good thing we decided to ask.

On a whim in late February, we emailed the property management company for our rental home in Tampa. We wanted to make sure we could re-sign our lease and stay in the home for another year. The family who owned the house was living in South Africa, and as far as we knew (and had been told several times), they wouldn't be returning to the U.S. for at least another year.

Like I said, it's a good thing we asked. 

We received a prompt response that, no, we could not re-sign the lease because the owners would be moving back into the house on July 1.

SURPRISE!

Just 8 months after moving to Tampa, we'd be moving again. Good thing we never got around to unpacking all those boxes.

With Jack headed out of town for three weeks, we had to act quickly. Although finding another rental probably would have made the most sense (we still own our home in Raleigh), I couldn't bear the thought of moving again only to feel "unsettled." So we decided to buy.

Our new home in Tampa

Our real estate agent went into hyperdrive and within 24 hours had lined up six showings in one of our target neighborhoods. The only problem was that, the same day we found out we had to move, I had oral surgery. The surgery in itself was no big deal -- but the reaction I had to the post-op antibiotics? That was ugly.

The accompanying nausea was so bad, in fact, that en route to one of the houses, Jack had to pull over at a busy intersection so I could jump out of the car and puke. Not one of my finer moments.

At each and every house we toured, the story was the same. I would tell our agent and Jack to go ahead of me while I stood in the front yard and threw up.

I just hope none of our new neighbors witnessed it.

MAY -- Two Houses, No Water

For those of you not familiar with Florida's west coast weather, let me acquaint you. The month of May can be hot. May can be sticky. May can be nasty. May in Tampa can remind you of an armpit.

And the weekend we moved into our new house, Tampa was doing its very best imitation of an armpit.

With temperatures and humidity high, so was our stress level. And it didn't help that to save money, we had decided to move everything ourselves -- everything but the very heaviest furniture pieces.

It was slow, arduous work, but we muddled through. By dinner time on the first day of our move weekend, we were making great progress. We stopped to order pizza for dinner, and as I stood in the office and looked out the window adjacent to Jack's desk, I noticed a steady stream of water pouring down the driveway.

Huh.

I raced out to the garage to find the hot water heater spewing water everywhere -- including all over our not-yet-loaded boxes and furniture.

SURPRISE!

Now Jack and I were the ones going into hyperdrive, desperately trying to locate the water shut-off valve. And because it was a rental home and we'd never thought to ask, we had no idea where it was. After 20 minutes or so, we finally found it. But a call to our property manager, and then to their plumber, revealed the earliest the water heater could be replaced was Monday -- if we were lucky.

Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink at our new house.

No big deal, we thought. It's so hot outside we can make do with cold water, we thought. Until we realized that all the faucets in the house were both cold and hot, meaning they didn't work at all.

No water.

Again, no big deal, we thought -- we already closed on our new house. We'll just shower and cook over there. Until we realized the county screwed up and shut off our water instead of transferring it to our account.

So we had two houses but no water. And it was Friday night. There would be no water until Monday.

So how did we get by for the next three days?

Showers at the gym. 

Eating out instead of cooking. 

Dogs drinking Perrier.

Just like we planned it.

JUNE-- Adventures in the Amazon

Although I never finished posting all of my journal entries from our week-long trip to the Peruvian Amazon, it is pretty well documented here on my blog -- both in words and pictures.

Jack with village children in El Chino, Peru

Certainly, the trip to the Amazon was not a surprise -- we booked it the previous October and knew well in advance what we were getting into (sort of).

The SURPRISE! in this case was that we actually went through with it. All four of us.

And we didn't get eaten by a giant anaconda.

Or stung by a bullet ant.

And we not only survived it, but we absolutely loved it.

We joked on the way home from Peru that any family vacation we take in the future will be incredibly boring by comparison -- and it's true.

LJ on the canopy zipline in the Peruvian Amazon jungle.

On how many vacations do you zipline through the a jungle canopy; swim in the Amazon surrounded by pink dolphins; fish for (and then eat) piranha; canoe through nearly impassable river ways surrounded by monkeys, sloths, and tropical birds; and hike through a forest so dense you can't even see the jaguars who are watching you?

A few days ago I asked Julianna to tell me the highlight of her year and she didn't hesitate with her answer.

"Well, duh," she said. "Our trip to Peru."

Duh, indeed.

SEPTEMBER -- The Marriott Miracle

One bonus to living in Tampa is that we have three NFL teams in Florida. That is, of course, if you count our hometown Suckaneers as an actual professional football team. (They are 2-13 as I write this).

As a side note (or rant) ... in the two years we have been Bucs' season-ticket holders, I have seen the team win in our home stadium exactly 1 time. Yes, once. In two years. And that's why we call them the Suckaneers.

Luckily, the not-much-better-than-the-Bucs Jacksonville Jaguars play just 3 hours from where we live. Why is that good? Because they happen to be in the same division as our beloved Indianapolis Colts. And that means, at least once a year, the Colts come to Florida.

LJ at the Colts-Jags game

For the second straight year we bought tickets to the Jags-Colts game. And for the second straight year, we randomly chose a hotel that wasn't too far from the stadium and where we could also use our hotel points and not have to actually pay for the rooms.

When we arrived at the hotel, the place was buzzing. There were lots of people lingering in the lobby. There were temporary black drapes hanging in front of the elevator vestibule. There were security guards sitting near the hallway.

The hotel was so busy, in fact, that we were told there was no way we could get two rooms that connected to each other.

When we pressed for a reason, we were told that the hotel was completely full. There was a wedding happening on site, and there were people in town for the Jags game (like us), and there was also a football team staying at the hotel.

"Which football team," we asked?

"The University of Pennsylvania," the desk clerk said.

I became suspicious. The guys milling around the lobby were way bigger than most college players I knew. And they were certainly a lot bigger than the guys who would play at a Ivy League school like Penn.

These were ginormous, massive human beings. Absolute beasts.

And I was pretty certain that not a single one of them suited up for the mighty Penn Quakers.

Then I noticed a local news guy with a TV camera.

Curious.

Then, some teenage boys asking one of the players to autograph a helmet.

A Colts helmet.

More curious.

Julianna, who was done with all the speculation, decided to take matters into her own hands.

She marched confidently up to one of the players, looked him in the eye, and said, "Excuse me, but do you play for the Indianapolis Colts?"

Julianna and Colts' Head Coach Chuck Pagano

The side of the player's mouth curled into a smirk, and he just nodded his headed up and down slowly.

Julianna stood there, staring at him, mouth agape, and said, "Uh, okay."

SURPRISE!

We had inadvertently chosen the same hotel as the Indianapolis Colts. Who knew they would stay at an unassuming Marriott in an office park just off the highway?

During our brief stay at the hotel, the kids were able to say hello to future Hall of Fame kicker Adam Vinatieri, get a glimpse of Andrew Luck, and even pose for a photo with Head Coach Chuck Pagano.

Oh, and incidentally, the player Julianna questioned in the lobby? That was the starting running back, Trent Richardson.

Best of all, the Colts won big over the Jags, 44-17.

At least a good team plays in Florida once a year.

DECEMBER - Beneath the Surface

In September I had a small spot on my face biopsied. Really, it looked just like a tiny red patch of dry skin on the side of my nose. But the results came back positive for two different types of skin cancer -- basal cell and squamous cell -- and combined they are known as a rare type of cancer called basosquamous.

SURPRISE!

Thanksgiving dinner, pre-surgery

Without going into too much detail, I'll give a quick update of where things stand now. Fortunately, the cancer did not metastasize. And in early December I had two surgeries -- one to remove the cancer, and another to graft skin to fill in the giant hole the cancer left on my face.

The good news is that, although I am probably months away from looking "normal" and going outside without a band-aid over my face, I will be fine.

We've done our best to face this with humor (no pun intended). My Christmas gifts included some fashionable Colts band-aids to cover my wound.

And as LJ so eloquently put it before the surgery, "Mom, this is one time you really DO need a hole in your head."

Touche.

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The events recapped here are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to an eventful year for our family.

There have been plenty of highs, a few lows, and clearly, lots of surprises.

Here's wishing you and your family a wonderful New Year in 2015 -- one filled with love, laughter, and surprises -- but hopefully only the good kind.

Amazon Adventure: Day 2 - The Jungle Love Triangle

During our return trip from Terra Firma, I start to drift off. But I feel the boat coming to a stop so I open my eyes to find us pulling up to the river bank just opposite a small village.

Here, we are greeted not by Peruvian villagers, but instead by three very curious woolly monkeys.

These monkeys have names -- Durilla, Chepa, and Rocky. Durilla and Chepa are female. Rocky is the youngest, and he is male. Durilla, by far the largest of the three, scrambles down the trees toward the boat. But the driver immediately backs away, not wanting Durilla to get too close.

Papaya was very popular with Rocky

Instead, we maneuver to a 3x3 wooden platform hanging from one of the jungle trees. Nelly places several pieces of fresh fruit on the platform. Durilla swings over to scoop up the fruit and then disappears back into the trees.

We steer toward the low branch of a tree that juts out over the river. Nelly tries to entice Chepa with a juicy piece of papaya. Chepa is intrigued by the offering, as is Rocky, but neither takes the bait.

Instead, Durilla comes scampering back through the trees, once again eager to socialize with our group.

As before, the driver instantly backs the boat into the river and away from Durilla.

*******

At a gathering prior to our Amazon trip, I recall Dr. Paul Beaver, one of the co-owners of the lodge, talking about how a gorilla had recently bit one of the visitors. 

I remember being horrified at the thought ... what an enormous, painful bite that must have been! 

Never mind the fact that there are no gorillas in the Amazon basin. 

I didn't really think about that at the time. I was too focused on my fear of being attacked by a vicious, man-eating, 300-lb. beast. 

Think Outbreak, but with me and Jack standing in for Rene Russo and Dustin Hoffman.

*******

The monkeys were just as interested in us as we were in them.

Now, as we play this game of jungle hide-and-seek with Durilla, the woolly monkey, I begin to connect the dots. 

It was Durilla that bit someone. Not a gorilla.

Oh.

Well, that's a little less terrifying.

Nevertheless, we avoid Durilla and continue to try and lure Chepa to the boat.

But Chepa is still leery. Instead, she climbs to a branch about 20 feet above us and hangs from her tail. Nelly grabs a piece of orange and tosses it high in the air. Not missing a beat, Chepa stabs her paw into the air and snares the fruit.

She devours the fruit, discards the rind into the river, and waits for more.

Over and over again, Nelly tosses and Chepa catches.

I am endlessly entertained. 

When Nelly pitches the fruit too low and it splashes into the water, Chepa lets us know she is not pleased, unleashing a series of loud grunts. 

I suppose it's just her way of coaching Nelly to throw the fruit a bit higher ... a little monkey talk.

Apparently this game of catch has made Chepa feel a little more comfortable with all the strangers. She swings and jumps her way toward the river and then carefully shimmies down the low-hanging branch. 

And just like that, there's a monkey in the boat.

Chepa squats on the boat deck and finishes off the last of the papaya, and we humans take turns gently petting her back. She doesn't even seem to notice us.

*******

Up close and personal with the woolly monkeys

As we make our way back to the lodge, we learn that these three monkeys were once pets in a nearby jungle village. Despite what you may have seen on the TV show Friends, keeping a monkey as a pet is a bad idea.

After being rescued, Durilla, Chepa, and Rocky were rehabilitated and released back into the jungle. Durilla and Chepa lived together on their own for awhile. 

BFFs, I suppose. 

Recently, however, Rocky -- the lone male -- was introduced to the mix, and you can guess what happened next. 

Durilla, the eldest female, has become a bit territorial and aggressive -- which is likely why she took a bite out of the jungle tourist. Just staking her claim.

Figures.

Even in the Amazon jungle -- and even within a troop of monkeys -- three is a crowd. 

I guess you could call it a jungle love triangle. 

Amazon Adventure: Day 2 - Termites, Poison Frogs, and Bats

On the Rio Blanco, en route to Terra Firma 

Today, it gets real.

Today, we're going hiking in the Amazon jungle.

We each are issued a pair of rubber boots so as not to introduce foreign microbes into the jungle with our own shoes. We also are told to wear long pants, long sleeves, bug spray, sunscreen, and hats.

I have a bit of an allergy to mosquitoes, so I'm not taking any chances. By the time I am dressed -- in the 90 degree heat and 95% humidity -- I feel like I am sporting full body armor. And I look ridiculous ... sort of like a cross between Panama Jack and Martha Stewart in her gardening clothes.

We head out in the motor boats for Terra Firma or "dry ground." This elevated area is one of the few places that does not succumb to the rising waters during the Amazon's wet season.

Soon, we veer off of the Tahuayo River and onto Rio Blanco or "White River."

The White River gets its name from the color of the water within its banks. It's really just a muddy, brown color -- nothing close to white. But where the Tahuayo meets Rio Blanco, you can actually see the water change from nearly black to light brown.

It's not that either river is dirty -- far from it -- there is no visible litter in or along the rivers. The dark water colors come from the sediment in the river and the decomposition of the jungle's plants.

After about an hour on Rio Blanco, we unload into a clearing and split into two groups for our jungle hike.

LJ at the foot of the Terra Firma trail

This time our guide is Cesar (pronounced Say-czar). Through his thick Peruvian accent, Cesar tells us he's been a jungle guide for nearly a dozen years.

I calculate that if Cesar's been in the jungle a dozen years and he's still alive and well, then I should feel pretty good about my chances of coming out on the other side.

As long as I don't lose sight of him. 

Also guiding us is Celeste (pronounced Suh-lest-eh). I learn that the word Celeste, in Spanish is a color -- essentially what we would call "sky blue" in English. She's only been on the job about 9 months, and appears to be in her late teens or early 20s.

I try to remember what I was doing when I was 20 years old. I'm pretty sure it involved a fake ID and some poor decisions. But I'm also fairly certain it didn't involve machetes, anacondas, and tarantulas.

*******

The humidity in the jungle is oppressive. The air is so thick it feels like a weight bearing down on my upper body. For a moment I wonder if I can possibly survive hiking like this for three hours.

But as I begin to focus on my surroundings and not just my sweat-soaked clothing, I am enthralled by what I see.

I have been on jungle hikes before -- both in St. Lucia and Belize -- but there really is no comparison.

The richness of biodiversity is evident from the moment we step onto the trail. Cesar points out a variety of native trees, including those used for medicinal purposes like the iodine tree, as well as those used for household purposes like the rubber tree.

WHACK! 

Cesar strikes the trunk of the rubber tree with his machete, and a white, milky-looking sap begins to ooze. Cesar places a bit in my hand, and after rubbing my palms together for just a moment, a rubber band appears where the sap once was.

Next, Cesar stops our group at a huge dirt ball that clings to the trunk of a tree.

WHACK!

Bug spray for the brave, aka termites

Suddenly, hundreds of small, red termites swarm from the mound. Cesar summons Jack to the tree and tells him to place his hands over the termites.

This is definitely one time where I'm happy not to be picked first.

Cesar instructs Jack to smash the termites in his hands to make a paste, and then spread it on his arms and neck.Why? Because termite mush makes an excellent homemade bug repellant.

And we Americans think termites are just wood-eating, house-destroying nuisances.

*******

The elusive poison dart frog

One reason we came to hike at Terra Firma is to find poison dart frogs. They are supposed to be plentiful in this part of the jungle, but this has to be a hundred times worse than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.

While brightly-colored (yellow, red, blue, etc.), poison dart frogs are no more than about a 1/2-inch long. So after a lot of searching and even more sweating, I am beginning to feel like this is a hopeless quest.

And then, Colby, one of the boys in our group, spots it.

How, I have no idea. The teeny tiny yellow and black frog was clinging to a tree, camouflaged by leaves. Carefully, Cesar catches the frog by scooping it up with a leaf.

But now, the frog is hopping up Cesar's arm -- and he's NOT in long sleeves. And now it's moved to the nape of Cesar's neck.

And he's cringing.

And you can tell he wants that frog off of his neck -- NOW.

Cesar with the dart frog on his shoulder -- before it lands on his neck

This is because Cesar knows that the poison dart frog -- depending upon the species -- could be carrying a very toxic substance on its back.

One of our group members is able to shoo the frog off of Cesar's neck and back to the jungle floor.

Crisis averted.

Cesar laughs and seems very relieved. He'll live another day -- maybe even see year number 13 as a jungle guide.

I ask Celeste whether she's ever touched a poison dart frog before.

Yes, she tells me. Once she got some of the poison on her hands, and after touching her mouth, could not feel her lips for four agonizingly long hours.

Crisis averted. Truly.

*******

My little super hero braves the "Bat Cave"

Eventually, we approach an enormous, rotting, hollowed-out tree that is sprawled across the jungle floor.

Along with two of the older boys in our group, Julianna -- without hesitation -- crawls inside.

No big deal, right?

Except that this tree is home to a colony of BATS.

Fruit bats, fisher bats, long-nose bats, and even vampire bats. Dozens upon dozens of them hang from the top of the tree's inside.

A closer look at a group of long-nose bats

Despite wading through ankle-deep puddles of bat guano, Julianna emerges no worse for wear.

But I cannot believe what I just saw.

Is this really the same 11-year-old girly girl who's afraid of houseflies?

A Letter to My Son

As part of a family history project for Jack's 7th grade Language Arts class at Academy at the Lakes, parents were asked to write a letter to their child. If you haven't ever done this for your own child, I strongly encourage it. What a wonderful gift for us both.

Jack, I have so many good memories of you that I hardly know where to start. But how about I start with Halloween night -- October 31, 2003?

You were not quite 3 years old but there was no doubt what you were you going to be that night. Your favorite TV show at the time was Bob the Builder, and I can remember watching it with you every afternoon in the den of our home in Greensboro, N.C.

Of course, you chose to dress up as the man himself, Bob the Builder. This was a man who was in charge, knew how to get things done, and was never too busy to lend a hand to friends and strangers alike.

As the theme song says, “Bob the Builder, can we fix it? Bob the Builder, YES WE CAN!”

Donning your blue jumpsuit and yellow hard hat, and with a hammer by your side, you were ready to conquer anything that came your way while trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, Adam’s Farm.

That Halloween, the street of Old Fox Trail filled with children and their parents as they trick-or-treated up and down the road. With you and Julianna being so young, your Ladybug sister sat in a stroller, and you rode in your green and grey Little Tykes Wagon.

What is most memorable about that night for your dad and me was how, at each house we visited, you eagerly jumped out of the wagon, navigated the steps to the front door, and before even asking your neighbors for candy, boldly declared to them, “I am Bob the Builder. I will fix that for you!”

And then you proceeded to hammer their front porch.

Cute story, I know … but why does this particular one stand out for me?

I think it’s because even at the young age of 3, we were beginning to see the type of young man you would become: straight to the point; caring; a “fixer”; and someone who is always was willing to help out a friend or stranger.

Today, I see those same traits in your willingness to help your sister with her math homework; in your genuine love and concern and for all animals and those people closest to you; and in your ability to help me conquer any technological or engineering task.

You’re my go-to guy -- the one who I know can get things done. I can always count on you to “fix it for me.”

Jack, although you are only 13 years old, I have already collected a lifetime of memories: birthdays and holidays; sports games and chess tournaments; talking football on the ride to school; racing at the annual Woolly Worm Festival in the mountains; riding rollercoasters with you until you are satisfied and I am sick … I cherish every moment -- even the ones where I’m nagging you to get out of bed or put away your laundry.

As I used to tell you when you were 3, I love you more than a million hippopotamuses.

And I can’t wait to remember the rest of what’s to come. 

A Teenager's Lesson for Vince Lombardi

"Winners never quit, and quitters never win." - Vince Lombardi

Vince Lombardi (Photo from Sports Illustrated)

If anybody could speak to being a winner, it was Vince Lombardi.

As the coach of the Green Bay Packers, he won two Super Bowl titles and five NFL championships. And the Hall of Famer never experienced a losing season as an NFL head coach.

But thanks to my 13-year-old son, Lombardi's quote now rings a bit hollow for me. Just a few weeks into his first season of conditioning workouts with the school's football team, LJ quit on his coach and his teammates.

And I support it.

In fact, not only do I support it, I can say that I watched my son mature and grow through the process -- even as he pronounced himself to be a quitter.

First, let me say that I absolutely love LJ's football coach. He's the right blend of tough and tender; cares deeply for his players; and always puts academics first. He holds his players accountable for their actions and choices, and as a parent, that's really all I could ask for.

LJ's issue with football wasn't the coach. And really, it wasn't the football.

It was everything else.

Although LJ just began workouts in January, he was already feeling the pinch on other areas -- wanting to participate in activities like Science Olympiad and chess, while also juggling his regular academic load in school. He arrived home exhausted after workouts, and started to feel the effects in the classroom with forgotten homework assignments and careless mistakes.

LJ wondered aloud how he would possibly manage it all when the "real" season began in August with even longer and more frequent practices, late night travel on game days, and an equally tough course load.

But Jack and I encouraged LJ ... told him his grades were fine (which they were), and that he could do it all if he just put his mind to it and just wanted it enough.

The mantra?

Our children will not be quitters.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win.

LJ kept a positive attitude through it all. He didn't complain about sore muscles. He talked excitedly about being part of the team and "earning" whatever minutes he might get on the field. And he began to develop a deep respect for his coach.

But earlier this week, I found LJ in my office after school, when instead he should have been at football practice.

I asked him why he was in my office, and he said, "Didn't you check your email, Mom? I sent you an email."

Irritated and feeling like I was about to hear some lame excuse, the mantra went through my mind:

My children will not be quitters.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win.

I started in on LJ, but his expression spoke volumes, so I opened my email:

Subject title:  I have Decided to Quit Football

"The stress produced from football far outweighs the benefits. This stress has prevented me from performing my best academically. I'm sorry I have had to make this decision but I am too stressed from football to continue."

And then I looked at LJ, curled up in the armchair in my office, and I simply said: "Okay. You can quit."

Future football dreams ... dashed.

With some cajoling, LJ talked to his coach in person, and gave him the same reasons for leaving the team. To his credit, the coach sensed LJ's anxiety, agreed that academics have to come first, and left the door open for him to join the team in future years.

As we walked back to my office, the relief was tangible. LJ's mood was lighter and he couldn't stop smiling.

Watching your child quit something -- walk away without remorse -- now that's a humbling moment. 

But on the inside, I was smiling too. 

Once again, my child had been way smarter than me. He knew his limits, knew when he'd reached the tipping point, and knew when to quit and be okay with it. In this case, quitting equated to winning. 

At least for LJ.

"Mom," he said, "I feel like half of my brain has just cleared out. I can think again."

Not exactly sure what was in the other half of his brain, but I didn't want to press.

Instead, I just gave him a hug and kept my mouth shut.

The NFL Hall of Fame may not be in LJ's future, but this was most definitely a Hallmark moment.

2 States + 650.2 Miles = 1 Common Passion

Exactly one year ago today, my family was wrapping up a whirlwind trip to Disney.

The fam at Disney (2013)

In our four days in Florida we traversed all four Disney parks; braved every coaster worth riding (including Everest three times); took the obligatory photos with us each donning mouse ears; watched a fake Indiana Jones blow up some fake stuff and outrun a fake boulder; rode (and got stuck on) the onetime state-of-the-art monorail; enjoyed over-priced, over-cooked burgers and under-cooked turkey legs; and reveled in the mystical magic of the creepy, squawking birds of the Tiki Room (yep, it's still my favorite attraction after all these years).

It was an exhilarating, exhausting, and sometimes exasperating vacation. But as we left the sunny, 80 degree temperatures of Orlando to return to the dreary, rainy 30-somethings of Raleigh, I turned to Jack and said, "You know, I could really get used to this."

It was a throw-away statement. And I didn't really give it another thought until today.

But today, precisely one year after that family trip to Orlando, I found myself at a Disney resort again -- this time for professional reasons. 

As I was walked to my car after the National Association of Independent Schools (NAIS) Annual Conference, those same, sunny, 80 degree skies greeted me.

And again I thought, "You know, I really have gotten used to this."

Beautiful weather not withstanding, this had a much deeper meaning. 

Since last year's family vacation to Orlando, an unexpected chain of events quickly dominoed into me taking a new job in Tampa -- just a one-hour drive from the Magic Kingdom. And thanks to my supportive husband and children, we all have landed on our feet here in the Sunshine State. 

Except for the Newf -- he's landed flat on the floor. He barely gets UP on his feet here. It's just too damn hot.

Newfs hate Florida

These last couple of days at the NAIS Annual Conference, not unlike our Disney vacation, have been exhilarating and exhausting -- but in a very different way. 

It's given me time to reflect on the last year and on how my career path rapidly wound its way a full 650.2 miles between my home state and my new state. 

I'm still not sure I have all the answers as to why this move made sense. And just like our Disney vacation and the NAIS Conference, this journey has been both exhilarating and exhausting.

But this conference did affirm why I have enjoyed, and continue to love, working in schools.

This conference, much like great schools, pushes you to ask tough questions and examine your own work under a microscope. And I was just one of thousands of people at this conference who were focused solely on making education better for our children, now and in the future.

We hear constantly how our educational system is "broken" and how we're getting passed by other countries in the way we prepare our children for tomorrow's challenges.

2014 NAIS Conference

What was happening at this conference, though, was everything that is right with education. Collaboration, creativity, critical thinking, communication, and most importantly, improvement -- on behalf of all our children.

As with any job -- any career -- some days are better than others. There are ups and downs, frustrations and disappointments. But these days and moments are the exception and not the rule when you work in a place that is filled with people who are passionate for their mission. 

I see the rule each and every day at my job -- in the students my school serves -- and in my own children, LJ and Julianna, who have been blessed to attend two outstanding private independent schools and learn from dozens of passionate, exceptional educators.

No doubt, our schools -- both public and private -- are not perfect. Certainly, we're far from it. But a passion for putting children first?

We could all really get used to this.

Life is a Highway

It was an out of body experience. Or maybe it was in slow motion. Or it could have just been that time seemed to stand still.

Apply any cliche you want to, but it was certainly not your ordinary rest stop.

On our way back from the Woolly Worm Festival in Banner Elk last weekend, we had to pull off of I-40 near Winston-Salem. Some luggage in the back of our SUV had slipped and was crowding Julianna, so we exited the interstate and edged onto the right side of the shoulder about 50 yards from the highway.

Jack opened the tailgate and, just a few moments later, I heard him scream, "Indy, NO!"

Indy must have mistaken "NO" for "GO" because I jumped out of the car just in time to see him shoot straight down the exit ramp like a 100-lb black, furry bat out of hell.

With Indy hurtling at full speed toward his certain demise, a car headed up our exit ramp. Jack waved his arms frantically and the car slowed to a stop, but Indy was not to be denied his date with destiny. Making a sharp right, Indy headed off the exit ramp and across the median directly for the highway.

There was really nothing Jack and I could do but stand helplessly and call his name. This was puppy play, and the "come" command was falling on deaf ears as he bounded closer and closer to I-40.

But he's just a puppy, you say? Surely you could have caught him, you say? How fast can an oversized 8-month old bear be, you say?

Now I do realize that Newfs are not known for their grace or their speed. But for those who believe that giant breed dogs can't move fast, I offer you Indy.

No, really, I offer you Indy. He's already house-trained and I'll even throw in a bag of dog food for free.

My mom calls Indy the fastest dog she's ever seen. Of course, that assessment is based on the time he tore away from her grip to run down a motorcycle in our neighborhood.

Indy may not actually be THE fastest dog ever, but he was certainly fleet-footed enough to escape our middle-aged, out-of-shape efforts. So, clinging to hope alone (and with Newfie fur and slobber clinging to me), I yelled:

"OVER HERE, INDY!"

He immediately stopped, turned and started racing back toward me.

Knowing that I only had one shot to wrangle this steer, I crouched into sumo position and decided I was going for it.

This was my goal line stand. My now or never. My one shining moment.

This was my chance to tackle the Newf.

What came next is a bit of a blur.

There was a collision, a cloud of gravel dust, and a splatter of drool flying through the air.

Then Jack swooped in to latch leash to collar. The near nightmare was over and the lone casualty was a small cut on my knee.

I can only imagine what this whole episode looked like to those watching from their cars. And I do wonder if any 911 calls were placed from drivers on I-40 who reported seeing a miniature black bear attacking a woman on the side of the road.

As we walked an out-of-breath Indy back to our SUV, the driver of the first car that had stopped to avoid hitting him on the exit ramp gave us the "thumbs up" sign and then continued on.

But the next car in line stopped and the driver rolled down her window.

"Everyone okay?" she asked, as she peered from under her sunglasses.

I nodded, smiled, and said, "Yes, thanks."

She just shook her head, pushed her sunglasses back into place, rolled up the window and drove away muttering one four-letter word ...

"Newf."

Who Asked You?

Less than 24 hours after I wrote about the kids still believing in Santa, LJ made me a liar.

On Saturday morning, he came downstairs for breakfast and said: "I'm confused. I went to ask.com and typed in 'Is Santa real?' and I got a bunch of different answers. And one of them said that it's just a character that parents made up to make their kids happy."

Here's the link if you want to see the response he got. (Of interest, note the "related searches" on the right-hand side that say "Is the tooth fairy real?" and "Is the world going to end in 2012?")

The ambiguity of the answers on ask.com only added to LJ's ever-increasing anxiety about whether to believe.

After talking him down from the ledge, I said: "If you think Santa is real, that's all the matters isn't it? Why do you need to know for sure?"

"I just need to know if I SHOULD believe or not," he said.

And he couldn't let it go. The rest of the day he peppered us with questions until we finally caved.

When we told him the truth, a look of relief washed over him -- and his smile was enormous. He seemed genuinely happy that he no longer had to wrestle with the answer to one of life's great mysteries.

Of course, finding out about Santa is like tipping the first domino in a long chain -- LJ then fired away with a litany of other questions:

Easter Bunny? - Of course, that's us too.

Tooth Fairy? - Yep, Mom & Dad. (and sorry about that time I forgot to leave the money)

Elves? Guilty as charged.

Leprechauns? Fake.

Reindeer? Real, but they don't fly.

Man on the moon? - Government hoax.

Elvis? - Still dead.

"But wait," LJ said. "Does that mean YOU are the ones who eat Santa's cookies?"

Suddenly, LJ saw an opportunity. And after swearing up, down, and sideways that he would not tell Julianna or his still-believing friends about Santa, we agreed to let him help us play elf.

At our house, there is no Elf on a Shelf. But there is a rogue band of sneaky little elves that come about once a week during December and leave goodies and make mischief around the house.

Julianna made an intricate little house for the elves complete with table settings, a Christmas tree, and stockings. Unfortunately, the shoe box she used for the elf house was from a pair of shoes I had intended to return to the store.

I can only imagine the look on the cashier's face at Kohl's when I ask for a refund and hand her the unworn shoes nestled inside an elf house.

Last night, LJ got his first chance to be Santa's helper. He had a blast taking tiny bites out of each of the marshmallows Julianna had left inside the elf house for the guests.

This morning, it was heart-warming to see LJ play along as Julianna discovered what the elves had done. It seems like he's taking a lot of pride in playing the role of big brother and he's relishing the chance to contribute to the magic of Christmas. I think, at least in LJ's case, the time was right for him to learn the truth.

And one other good thing has come out of this whole "ask.com" Santa fiasco.

When it comes time to tell LJ where babies come from, I know right where I'm sending him.

Standardized Testing for Parents

Yesterday's mail brought some standardized testing results for Julianna, who's now in first grade.

Like all good, neurotic parents who live vicariously through their children, I was curious to see where she stacked up among her peers.

This particular test was completed on a computer and gauged language arts and math skills. It gave feedback like: "Exceeding expectations," "Meeting expectations," and "Approaching expectations."

Not a whole lot for parents to sink their teeth into.

Nevertheless, it got me thinking ... if I were being evaluated by a standardized test for parents, how would I rate?

I tried to put myself in my kids' shoes to answer the questions ... how would my own kids score my mommy skillz?

My assessment was divided into six critical areas, each of which is expected of mothers -- like it or not.

Here are the results of my self-administered test:

The MOmmy Aptitude Norm (MOAN)

1) Laundry assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Successfully completed 18 loads of laundry in one week. This included correctly matching and neatly balling up 83 pairs of white socks in four different sizes. Slightly impaired in sheet folding, but made up for it by using two kinds of fabric softener. Unable to assess Mommy in the ironing portion of this section because she flatly stated, "If Daddy wants unwrinkled clothes, he can iron them himself."

2) Carpooling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is particularly patient in this area considering that she spends approximately 75 minutes in the car each day while traveling only 12 total miles. Extra points given for tying shoes, distributing snacks and band-aids, and changing music CDs multiple times while navigating bumper-to-bumper traffic. Room for improvement in the area of "SUV peacekeeper."

3) Cooking assessment: Approaching expectations. Note: Loses points because Daddy is the primary dinnertime and breakfast cook. If it were up to Mommy, the family would subsist on pizza, mac & cheese, and Chick-fil-a. However, points were awarded because Mommy packs 10 snacks and six healthy lunches per week. Extra credit was awarded for cookies and marshmallows.

4) First aid assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Excellent at providing ice packs, gauze pads, antibiotic ointment, hugs, ace bandages, anti-itch cream, tissues, and Tylenol for bruises, cuts, aches, pains, and other mysterious boo-boos that appear mysteriously throughout the day and suddenly at bedtime. Also passed the "clean up the puke without puking" portion of this section. Loses points for making Julianna say "ow" when using an ear thermometer.

5) Sewing assessment: Frighteningly below expectations. Note: Mommy is completely incompetent in this area. When asked to sew a button onto a shirt, she was unable to proceed past "threading the needle." Also answered "How do you fix a hem?" portion of the test by snarling: "What do you mean? You just take it to a tailor." Remediation strongly recommended.

6) Snuggling/Cuddling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is in the 100th percentile in this category. Perfect score.

Back in the Saddle ... Courtesy a Dead Sea Animal

It's been a month since I last blogged, but it's not for lack of material. I've just been lazy about getting it all down on paper (or on screen as the case may be).

But since it's spring break, I have a little extra free time ... so I'm attempting to get back in the saddle.

We just returned from a few days at Myrtle Beach. Not surprisingly, spending so many hours with the kids wielded a bevy of memorable moments.

Yesterday, Julianna insisted on a last visit to the beach to search for seashells. And as I walked with her toward the water, a small sea urchin washed up with the tide.

The urchin (or "sea urgent" as she calls it) was dead, and with LJ's empty bucket, Jack scooped it up and rinsed it off so we could take a closer look.

I would have been happy to launch it back into the sea, but Julianna had grander plans. She immediately bonded with the urgent, named it "Spikey" and carried it back to the hotel room.

Once there, she lined her bucket with tissues and gently placed Spikey in his new bed. Then, she surrounded Spikey with three of her favorite shells ... to keep him company.

Julianna requested (and was denied) permission to take Spikey out to dinner with us, but this morning, she was more committed than ever to her new buddy.

After being reminded that Spikey was now in urchin/urgent heaven, Julianna told me that "dead things have feelings too ... Spikey is my friend and I just want to treat him the way I would want to be treated."

Apparently, the golden rule includes making "Spikey and me" signs for everyone in the family and then forcing us to take pictures with the rotting ball of thorns. (LJ refused to pose).

Spikey made the trip back to Raleigh with us and now has a permanent home in a Tupperware container. Julianna has placed the container on display on the console table in our foyer so that "everyone can see him as soon as they come into our house."

She also plans on bringing Spikey to show and tell at school as soon as possible.

Spikey would not have been my first choice for a spring break souvenir. But at least I didn't give in and get her one of those t-shirts ... the one that says:

My mom went to Myrtle Beach and all she got me was this lousy dead urchin.

Hail to the Chief

Although, in itself, having a snow day was terrific, it was made even more special because it was on Inauguration Day.

Regardless of your politics, this is an exciting day for our country, and certainly an historic one on many levels.

LJ and I watched the inauguration while we ate lunch together, and we had a few moments of meaningful conversation about our new President.

LJ loves to ask "versus" questions. For example ...

Who would win one-on-one? Michael Jordan vs. Lebron James?
(Jordan, but I'm a biased UNC devotee).

Who would win in the Super Bowl? Peyton Manning vs. Eli Manning.
(Neither, because you can't get there if you don't win a first-round playoff game).

But this time, LJ's question was a bit more thought-provoking, and an excellent one given the day's events.

Who is more important? Martin Luther King Jr. or Barack Obama?

I paused to carefully consider my answer, and then said: "That's a great question. But, I'm not sure it's one we can answer right now. History will likely be the judge, but regardless, they are both very important men."

LJ quickly responded: "Actually, I know it's Martin Luther King because without him, Obama wouldn't be President."

Once again, my child proves to be smarter than me.

We continued discussing the challenges ahead for Obama's administration, and I said that, no matter who a person supports politically, we always want our President to do a a lot of good things while he is in office.

LJ quickly calculated what this could mean for him personally.

"I hope if he can only do one good thing, he lowers the price of tickets to sporting events."

Ahhh, yes ... President Obama would do well to listen to the 8-year-olds of America.

And while he's at it, I hope he gets us a college football playoff too.















This is a "wordle cloud" depicting Obama's inauguration speech. Click here to view online ... and thanks to Ravenscroft's Jason Ramsden for sharing this with me.

Freeze Frame

Over the last few weeks, Jack has taken on the arduous task of converting our home videos from tape to DVD.

The first conversions are almost entirely of LJ, beginning with when he was seven weeks old. And then seven weeks and one day old ... and then seven weeks and three days old ... and then seven weeks and six days old.

You get the gist.

The first year of LJ's life was marked by nearly as much video footage as dirty diapers.

We filmed everything ... and to us, everything was a milestone. First time reaching; first time grabbing; first time eating solids; first time eating peas; first time eating carrots; first time eating bananas; first time rolling over on his back; first time rolling over on his belly; first time pushing up; first time opening a drawer. Yes, opening a drawer.

You name, we taped it.

Every single moment was equally exciting to us as new parents. And tonight, as I watched those videos eight years removed from LJ's infancy, I found myself surprised at the genuine delight I had in each of these milestones -- no matter how small.

Somewhere along the line ... sometime after LJ's first step on Halloween night in 2001 ... I've become caught up in the finish line instead the starting block. We've gotten so busy with homework, chess lessons, basketball practice, soccer games, art classes, and playdates, that I only focus on getting in done instead of soaking it up.

So, while I cannot possibly commit to making any more New Year's resolutions, I can at least make a mental note to live a little more in "the now."

When Julianna gets upset about something and can't seem to let it go, I frequently say to her, "Honey, you have to be bigger than the moment and just move on."

But maybe that's not really the best advice. Maybe Julianna has it right after all. As a child, each moment really IS that big.

And I've got the videos to prove it.