Saturday, April 29, 2017


Like many moms of young school-aged children, I liken the act of rising and shining on weekday mornings to herding cats.

No, it's more like playing a game of wack-a-mole.

Wait, wait, wait. Scratch that. 

It's like juggling flaming chainsaws.

Yeah, that.

Because despite being a self-professed master of organization, something--some way, somehow--seems to slip between the cracks. 

I call these tiny earthquakes "fails".

But the small "wins"--the things that go well--make it all worth it.

Here's a glimpse into a recent weekday at Casa de Conover:

5:30 a.m.     My cell phone vibrates. It's time for morning yoga in my yoga den while everyone is still asleep and the house is quiet. I love this time! I crave this time. I press snooze. Four times. (I really need to give up late-night TV.) #FAIL

5:53 a.m.     I tiptoe out of bed, make my way to the other end of the house, turn on my Himalayan salt rock lamp, and twist and bend my way through an carefree, relaxed impromptu flow that makes me feel stretched, light, and ready to take on the day. #WIN

6:35 a.m.    Time to wake up the kiddos. As I open the door to Kennedy's bedroom, I hear what appears to be a moan of despair. Why? She had rolled over and crushed her binoculars in her sleep, which was quite easy to do because her binoculars are actually two empty toilet paper rolls that were duct-taped together, a craft made more than two years ago by Scotty's preschool teacher. (The fact that this mangled contraption hadn't found its way to a recycling bin before now is The Eighth Wonder.) I silently curse myself for allowing her to go to bed with these things in the first place. #FAIL

7:00 a.m.     I head to the kitchen to pack the kids' lunches and feel a wave of accomplishment when I place their lunchboxes alongside their backpacks on the bench by the garage door. #WIN

7:10 a.m.     Now it's time to make the kids' breakfast, and I'm secure in the knowledge that because I had just completed a Walmart run the evening before I've got all the food we need. Except that we don't, because The One Thing I meant to get (frozen cinnamon waffles)...I forgot. And guess what I had just promised the kids they could have. You guessed it, frozen cinnamon waffles! After rooting through the fridge for the fifth time (How could I have forgotten them!?!), I locate a pack of frozen pancakes in a clear, sealed bag. Based on the clearly present freezer burn and ice chips throughout, I surmise that the pancakes might be older than Kennedy. But...they're still edible...right? I mean, really. How bad can they taste? I say a silent prayer, promise not to over-heat them in the microwave, and hope for the best. One minute and thirty seconds later, I realize exactly how bad they could taste. I wouldn't serve these pancakes to a starving squirrel. So in the trash they go:
Toaster hash browns doused in ketchup it is. Sorry, kids. At least they're not encased in a glacier. #FAIL

7:59 a.m.     Both kids are dressed -- and their faces scrubbed clean of ketchup -- with minutes to spare. We're gonna leave this house on time! #WIN

10:11 a.m.    Having dropped off the kids over an hour ago, I'm now en route to the yoga class I teach I'm a mere seven minutes away from the school when I'm struck -- no, overcome -- with a profound sense of fear and dread. You know, that feeling in the pit of your stomach that's liable to induce vomiting: Because I had just realized that I didn't have my yoga bag:
In my haste to usher the kids and their belongings into the car, my bag was left by the wayside. Everything I needed to teach my class was in that bag. It contained my iPod, portable speaker, props, and my mat...and the bag was still on the bench by the garage door. I'm screwed. I'm too far long. I can't turn around and go back home to get it. I'd never make it back to the school in time. #MAJORFAIL

10:13 a.m.    God bless The Hubs. I call him, explain what I had done, and without thinking twice, he grabs the bag and tells me he'll bring it to me. In an act that can only be described as miraculous, he meets me in the school parking lot literally seven minutes before my class is slated to start. IlovethismanIlovethismanIlovethisman! #WIN

12:17 p.m.    My class is over, and I am on a high (Blissed out, is how we in the yoga community often characterize the feeling.) I absolutely love what I do and consider it nothing short of a privilege to share the gift of yoga with individuals, particularly youth. And that's totally a big, fat #WIN:

The frozen pancake debacle.

My epic brain fart.

I don't give a flying flip about either one.

How can I when I've shared energy with these smiling faces:

And after I've picked them up from school at the end of the day, these smiling faces hug me and say they've missed me all day long:

Today was a good day.😊

Saturday, April 1, 2017



Today I'm 40.

And I feel just as I did yesterday at 39! 

But I also feel as though we as a society have been conditioned to believe that when the clock strikes 12:01 a.m. on your 40th, everything will change.

And as hard as I try, I just don't see it.

I remember once upon a time, I thought 40 was, well, old. That 40 year-olds eat differently and listen to different music. That they look different (whatever the hell it means to "look 40") and that they basically live differently.

But there was one thing I had been quite eager to experience.

You hear all the time about how when women turn 40, they instantly become more confident. More secure in their skin. And much less conscious of other's expectations of them.

Man, that sounds divine, my younger self used to think. 

Well, my friends, I'm glad to report that that much is true.

I feel like Carrie Bradshaw when she discovered that Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes do indeed exist, and that they're not just some urban shoe myth.

I am more confident, I am more secure in my skin. And my expectations of myself are the only ones that matter.

But I don't credit today's birthday for that.

The process was gradual. 

It came when I decided I was worthy of a solid, functioning, love-filled relationship.

It came from honoring what felt like a primal calling to leave a job I was unhappy at and instead choosing to pursue my passion of becoming a writer and yoga instructor. 

And it came from birthing two healthy, beautiful, bouncing babies, both of whom I had during my mid-30s.

Want proof of that confidence?

Today, after breakfast, I experienced something I hadn't in all my 40 years: 

I was genuinely thrilled to get a haircut. 

If you're thinking that the above shouldn't have been a big deal, you're right.

It shouldn't have been.

But when you've spent the first 38 years of your life believing that your near waist-length hair possessed super powers -- particularly after you've subjected it to 450 degrees to make it bone straight -- getting a haircut -- and wearing your hair in its natural, curly state -- is like choosing to swallow cyanide. (Suffice it to say, I had issues. It's a rather complicated story, which you can catch up on here.)

But now I love my shorter, curly hair. (It's that whole comfortable-in-your-skin thing.)

Here I am at the salon earlier today with my hair stylist, Melissa, whom I affectionately refer to as my Fairy Curl Mother:

And then I came home to this:

And I put a hurtin' on that sucker with my lovable fam:

Sorry the pic is blurry. When I looked in the viewfinder, I could have sworn it was clear. But, then again, I was on my second (large) glass of rosΓ©...

So, yeah, I feel extremely blessed and very grateful.

Hello, 40, I'm so pleased to meet you!

I'm truly excited to see what you have in store.

Life is good. ✌️ πŸŽ‚ πŸ˜Š ❤️