Boot Camp Conversion

By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)

I can’t walk. Or climb stairs. Or bend to pick a shred of lint off the carpet. Or apply deodorant without groaning audibly.

Don’t be alarmed. I brought this misery upon myself.

Last Saturday morning I enrolled in my first-ever session of Boot Camp. The name, of course, should have been the first hint, but I figured I could handle it. I’m a runner right? How hard can “Boot Camp” be?

Yeah. Pretty hard. Especially when the instructor is the son of Satan. Seriously. Combine medicine ball thrusts, squats, lunges, jump roping, running, push-ups and the plank with suicide sprints, bicep curls with resistance bands and  “burpees” (don’t ask), and then– if you’re me – when it’s all over return home and paint your entire bedroom. Not just a touch-up job, mind you – I painted the entire bedroom, on a ladder, with a roller…after Boot Camp.

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The Do-Nothing Kid

By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)

I'm not one of those overzealous moms – the ones who enroll their kids in every next thing: soccer, T-ball, French horn, yoga for toddlers, Portuguese, Tai Chi.

Don't get me wrong – it's not because I'm self-righteous and virtuous and protective of my children's childhood. It's because I am simply lazy. The thought of schlepping Noah and Rowan back and forth, night after night and weekend afternoons to games and practices and recitals, combined with work and grocery shopping and Walgreens and trips to the post office paralyzes me. Frankly, I'm much too self-centered to spend all that time shuttling my children.

Yet I do strive to involve them in some activities, because heaven forbid, I wouldn't want them to become "nothing kids."

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Be Gentle

By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)

I stop short in the driveway and stand staring. It all looks so normal, so everyday, I think to myself, observing the potted impatiens she planted in front of the garage, the Windexed windows, the kitchen light glowing inside. Who would know what goes on behind that front door, between those brick walls? Who would guess there is grieving and sickness, tears and joy mingled bittersweet?

I watch the grandkids play tag, climb the river birch tree. They yell and laugh, scream and fall in piles on the grass.

A neighbor drives by, slows, points to my husband’s uncle’s car – a 50s Chevrolet convertible parked in the driveway – gives me a thumb’s up. He approves of the car. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I don’t care a bit about that car, about its funky tail fins and genuine red leather interior. He doesn’t know that I don’t even see it.

This neighbor can’t see the real story, of course. All he sees are grandkids leaping on the lawn, neatly trimmed shrubs, the classic car, a beautiful house bricked shut.

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Backyard Anniversary

By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)

One year we spent five days hiking Acadia National Park in Maine.

Another year we kayaked around the San Juan Islands and ate freshly caught salmon at dockside restaurants.

Yet another year we bumped along a dirt road in a horse-drawn wagon to a tiny log cabin nestled amidst wildflowers beneath a looming Colorado peak. That evening I ate grilled bison for the first time.

This year we celebrated our anniversary in the backyard.

Earlier in the week we’d decided dinner out wasn’t in the cards. Our thirteenth anniversary fell on the same night as the elementary school open house. Brad was vigorously prepping his classes for fall semester. The boys started school that Wednesday. And I was putting the finishing touches on the debut issue of a new magazine at work. We had a lot on our plates.

Yet I was frustrated. We had to do something. Didn’t we deserve at least a little time to celebrate 13 years of marriage?

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The Overnight Guest

By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)

Recently my friend Sarah’s daughter stayed with us for two days. And I’m going to state this honestly, without fear of offending Sarah, because good friend that she is, she knows me oh-so-well: I did not look forward to the experience. Not because I don’t love Laini – I do – or because Laini’s not a great kid – she is – but because the visit interfered with my finely orchestrated life. It was different; it strayed from the routine. Laini’s visit required that I step out of the box, shake up the system a bit.

I said yes because I genuinely wanted to help my friend Sarah, who had to travel out of town for a conference. I said yes because I love Sarah and her daughter. I said yes because I knew Sarah would do the same for me, without a moment’s hesitation. I said yes out of love, sure, but also out of a sense of duty and responsibility.

What’s funny is that in saying an obligatory yes, I was the beneficiary in so many unexpected ways.

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