Natalie Whatley

Alexander Pope, famous eighteenth century English poet and satirist, once wrote “To err is human, to forgive divine.”  Broken down, it means we’re all going to mess up at one point or another and that it would be of the highest possible testament to goodness if we could grant pardons for true and perceived wrongs while ceasing to be resentful. But I’ve got my own twist, and it may force me to seek chiropractic care in the end.

In the stress-filled world we live in today it’s not difficult, even in a short amount of time, to gather up a pile of grievances large and small. Using an irksome tone of voice after a long day is minor, but depletes goodwill over time. (Raise your hand if you’re guilty of sometimes speaking to strangers in a friendlier manner than family members who share the same home. Sadly, I have both hands up.) And what about the bigger transgressions? How we handle both extremes and everything in between has an enormous impact on our physical and emotional well-being.

There are several “Love Language” books available encompassing many variations of relationships by Gary Chapman, but it was a little different version on the same premise, “The Five Languages of Apology” written by Chapman and Jennifer Thomas, that actually got me thinking about forgiveness and delving deeper into the subject.

What I learned as I made my way through each “language” was that words and/or actions that constitute an apology to one person may not come close for another.  Often times, we go about life thinking something was dealt with while in reality it’s still festering – growing into a barrier that could forever impede forward motion.  Thus the reason genuine apologies are a necessity and in return forgiveness.

Further along in my quest to become fluent in asking others for their forgiveness, I stumbled upon a large impediment to feeling forgiven: forgiving myself. And I’m not talking about excusing behavior . . . more along the lines of, “OK. I’ve turned myself inside out and upside down. Held my feet to fire. Admitted I was wrong and handed down some stiff inner-disciplinary action.” Now what?

It takes some backbone to stand up, look the woman in the mirror straight in the eye, and call her out. She can get pretty testy – may even attempt to look away in the hopes of deflecting my fiery resolve.  But standing toe-to-toe and refusing to drop my gaze, I made my intentions clear: The lashing was over and inner-prison time served.

Shoving pride to the side, she squared her shoulders and stood a little taller. With a shaky yet persuasive voice regrets were expressed, responsibility accepted, restitution offered, and repentance made followed by, “Will you please forgive me?”

A blurred reflection revealed a pile of grievances carried for far too long falling to the floor. A chiropractor won’t be necessary. I feel divine.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

My yard looks awful. Most of the plant life is crunchy, dull brown, and decaying. The only things lush and green are the unsightly weeds that somehow survived the hard freeze.  It’s an embarrassment given the “Yard of the Month” sign has graced the plot of land in previous years.

My personal yard man, Jeff, gathered all my potted favorites prior to the cold-weather event and put them in the shed. The one I most wanted to save (received it at the hospital after the birth of my now 17-year-old) fared quite well, but all of the others, not so much. I’m hoping to nurse them back to health.

The flowerbeds went uncovered as the major occupants are freeze-hardy, and the lesser inhabitants, well, I’ve wanted to dig them out and do something different for a good while.  It seemed harsh ripping up live plants while they still served their purpose, even if they were no longer what I desired. In a cruel act, I allowed them freeze to death. Until very recently, I busied myself to assuage the guilt and turned my eyes from the carnage upon entering and exiting my home.

Since February is knocking on our door, I began my customary early-spring cleaning. (We only get so much sunshine minus the sweltering heat. I’ll not waste one minute of it cooped up indoors once spring has officially sprung.) Worked like a mad woman inside, cleaning this, scrubbing that, gathering up items and clothing no longer wanted or needed, etc.  Long, boring story short, and since I refuse to clean kids’ rooms, I finished with time to spare.

A couple of nice sunshine-filled days prompted Scooter (my guard dog) and I to begin working in the yard – assessing what needed to be done by the resident yard man. (I should mention that Jeff LOVES for me to do this. He more appreciates it when I prepare a written list where he can check items off and track his progress. It’s the least I can do.)

The nice weather also provided me an excuse to stay outside post assessment and actually do some work. I pulled up the victims of my premeditated herbicide and began plucking the weed-infested areas.

True to my form, I started thinking of the parallels between the human condition and nature. (Yes, it’s sometimes exhausting being inside my head. Planning to spend some time thinking about whether or not I overthink things. ) Anyway, it occurred to me that over the course of many years I’ve blown a few of my own arctic blasts – froze a few things and left them to rot.

Through a great deal of reflection and a subsequent thaw, I realized that I had turned my back, chose not help those things recover, or bother to clear away the weeds that nearly choked them out for good.  My flowerbeds have been sprinkled with my blood and sweat on numerous occasions.  I can now add tears to the list.

The upside: as I care for my still-alive plants, I realize that a hard freeze doesn’t necessarily mean the end. Pruning away damage and providing tender loving care makes way for something fresh, new, and possibly better than what was there before. And since I remember how quickly I frosted a few things, I have the added comfort of knowing that rapid freeze-drying actually prevents decay and spoilage – what’s underneath has been perfectly preserved.

So don’t be alarmed if you see a woman watering flowers with tears on a sunny day, she’s pouring out her heart and melting some frosty layers away.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I sort of pride myself on being a repository of useless knowledge. It’s an occupational hazard and probably a danger to what few good brain cells I have left, but given writing’s many other maladies, I’ll take it. Am I living on the edge, or what? 

Unless you’re a podiatrist or in shoe sales, I bet you had no idea that today, January 23, is Measure Your Feet Day. No, I’m not pulling your leg.

Most of us have probably gone through life post-childhood – barring foot problems – without measuring the foundation upon which we stand. I take my feet for granted – file them under “if it’s not broke don’t fix it” – but upon further review, a couple of minutes spent gathering dimensions could be a positive experience. I need all of those I can get.

There are various methods and correlating opinions on what works best given your motivation (shoe shopping or just for grins) for measuring. The Brannock device (that funny looking silver and black thing you see in shoe stores) seems to be the most standard, effective way. If you don’t have one handy, tracing your foot while you stand on paper and measuring from there is also acceptable. Because I never give the size of my feet a thought unless I’m on a quest for footwear, I’ll probably stick to my tried-and-true method of sticking my foot in a shoe. If it’s too big, locate a size smaller and vice versa.

Equipped with pencil and paper, I decided to pay a few minutes homage to my feet and the lesser-known “holiday” mentioned above.  While bent over and close enough for a thorough inspection I became dizzy as blood rushed to my head. Just shy of a hallucinatory state I had a revelation: I was wasting precious time measuring the wrong feet! And you thought the creative process worked in some other mysterious way, didn’t you?

I’m learning with far too great of frequency that life throws curve balls, which disrupt a batter’s timing. The good news: If hit well, that curve ball has the potential of gaining tremendous backspin giving it added distance.  I’d like to think I have it in me to hit it out of the park, but given the speed these things are coming at me I’ve realized my mental foundation needs some bolstering. It’s high time to yank the yardstick away from the list of defeats and measure my feats.

Taking stock of the instances in life that required remarkable skill or valor seems an excellent source of “I’ve done it before, I can do it again” strength.  Each year, it can only get better as I add new feats and see tangible progress and my footing in life expanded.

I hope you’ll join me in participating in this little twist on an otherwise obscure day of observance. Make that list and delight in adding to it each year. Don’t ever take your feats for granted. They’ll carry you wherever you want to go. I’m going to take extra special care of mine—might even treat them to a pedicure.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Since it’s only mid-January, many of us are still bathing in the fresh-start afterglow. Resolutions promise to deliver conditional change if we’re prepared to do the hard work. The result is often a worthy prize and more often than not, way too lofty a goal. It may help to set several mini-goals and remember that the longest of journeys begins with a single step.

The fact that my running/walking route has been more crowded on the days weather permitted proves I’m not alone in my quest to log some extra miles in 2010. It’s said that to fully understand a man, one must walk a mile in his shoes. Thus the reason I’m going to walk several hundred in my own.

Last summer, and for the first time ever, I got a head start (or maybe it was just a very late start to the previous year’s resolution) on what has become an annual New Year’s tradition: promising to take better care of the vessel that dutifully carries me through both tumult and triumph.

I was glad I did it and vowed to get through the holidays without the scale inching higher – realizing that if past behavior predicts future, I could count on failure. But I made it! And I’m not bragging, although I am very proud of myself. I know it sounds a bit cliché, but if I can do it anybody can, because this girl likes to eat!

Having made it over that hurdle, I was on to phase two: pushing myself out of maintenance mode and into things much harder. With the recent spate of frigid temperatures forcing me indoors, I’ve had ample opportunities (my motivational word for a chunk of time that could be better spent) to go heavy on the weight training and spend some time with fitness gurus who motivate me.

Courtesy of Billy Blanks (Tae-Bo), Jillian Michaels (Biggest Loser), and Denise Austin, I hurt in places I forgot I had and amble about like I assume I will 50-plus years from now. (No offense to those blessed to be in their 90s. I bet the spry Gladys “Granny” Adcox of Highlands could run circles around me on my best day.)

To provide more depth to the experience, I’m also working towards increased mental strength. In so many ways, it’s much harder than the physical. I dig deep, unearth regrets, get angry, get sad, cry, laugh, and repeat. Mental gymnastics are exhausting.

Why am I intentionally inflicting pain upon myself? To get something that won’t be as immediately recognizable as a more toned physique. The body will shrink, but hopefully the mind will grow. I know it’s working to some degree as my threshold for discomfort has risen. Naturally-occurring anesthesia gained through perseverance is a wonderful thing.

I’m learning a great deal – mostly along the lines of pain being a great motivator. Running away and cowering from the source doesn’t mesh well with my independent spirit. So, I’ll stand toe-to-toe, look my adversary square in the eye, and turn the tables. Anguish can be a powerful propellant.

When I rise the following morning, stiff and painfully aware of the battle waged, I’ll grin, bear it, and remember no pain, no gain.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

“Whether the weather be fine, whether the weather be not, whether the weather be cold, whether the weather be hot, we’ll weather the weather, whatever the weather, whether we like it or not.” (Author unknown) I don’t know who opened the freezer door and left it ajar, but B-R-R-R-R!  

Being an outdoorsy kind of girl who needs plenty of fresh air and sunshine to survive requires me to keep track of the weather. I recall the last cold snap we had of this magnitude because I was home with a newborn. We curled up in blankets and napped peacefully in between feedings. That was 13 years ago.

So, I’ve had a long run of not being too confined inside my home’s walls during winter. Now that my kids are older and I’m free to roam during school hours, I didn’t take the news that it may be two weeks before we see highs over 60 well.

Meteorologists say that the cold blast reaching us down in Texas is likely caused by El Niño, which makes our winters here in The Lone Star State cooler and wetter than normal. (If memory serves me, El Niño also lessens our threat from hurricanes. In that regard, I welcome its return.) I believe 30 degrees below our “normal” high temps qualifies as “cooler”.

Folks here in these parts aren’t accustomed to these frigid temps. For starters, we don’t have the wardrobe for it. Heck, I’d go buy some thicker clothing for me and the family, but it appears I missed the winter-clothes-shopping window.  

If you haven’t seen, bathing suits are already out in stores. I’ve pointed out previously how this frosts me to no end.  The weeks following the astounding pig-out triad –Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years – are not the time to remind me of swimsuit season. Even though I’m actually in better shape now than I was this past summer, I refuse to go there. It’s the principal of the matter. I will boycott swimsuit purchasing until at least March.

Since we’ve had such a long spell of relatively mild winters, I quit buying standard winter-wear. I lost count of the boxes and bags of clothing donated –tags still hanging from the never-worn garments –because children outgrew something before it was cold enough to wear it, or heaven forbid, it went out of style. Those goofy kids running around in shorts and flip-flops right now . . . mine. And know that they all own jackets and jeans, but adamantly state it’s too hot at school with the heat cranked up. Sigh. I try, but there’s not much fight left in me.

I guess we can all be thankful this round of record lows was forecasted to be without precipitation. How to put this tactfully? Let’s just say that many of us in this neck of the woods can’t drive on ice. And I say that lovingly as I’m included – born and raised in Southeast Texas. We’re not mentally equipped for the task (admitting it is the first step), and most of us don’t own the tools necessary to outfit our vehicles.

Another silver lining: Millions of fleas and mosquitoes will perish. Join me in not shedding one tear.

Even covered vegetation isn’t expected to survive. For years I’ve dreamed of pulling everything out of my flowerbeds and starting over. Sounds like I’m going to get my wish, much to the chagrin of the men in the house who will be forced to provide the labor.

Best of all, it gives us something to talk about – a real ice-breaker to get conversation (or a column) flowing.

“Weather is a literary specialty, and no untrained hand can turn out a good article on it” –Mark Twain.  I tried. And you read it . . . whether you liked it, or not.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I recently read A.J. Jacobs’ The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment, where A.J. makes himself a human guinea pig in “radical lifestyle experiments”. I think he’s on to something. I’m intrigued to the point of wanting to conduct a few experiments of my own.

The title and author, whose other books I’m currently reading, came to my attention during the last Starbooks at Starbucks presentation by Sterling Municipal Library’s Jamie Eustace. Check the library for availability of the book and future Starbooks dates.

A.J.’s intentional shenanigans include posing as a beautiful single woman (he’s a married man) on an online dating service (that should serve as a warning) and following the teachings of the Radical Honesty Movement’s guru, Dr. Brad Blanton.  He lives through each of these little slices of life—among others—for a month and gives hysterically poignant accounts of his findings.  If you enjoy the nonfiction/humor genre – one of my personal favorites as it provides the best medicine, laughter – I highly recommend it.

It was fitting that The Guinea Pig Diaries and the idea of experimenting with life came to me as 2009 drew to a close. I was in a period of intense introspection and was already thinking of trying on a few radical changes. Why not? There are plenty of days when I get the feeling I’m a lab rat – the subject of scientific study on the pliability of the human soul. Any loud “SNAP!” you hear coming from my direction, will be indicative of my personal study’s conclusion if not my demise. Rest assured science will go on as specimens living with teens are in plentiful supply.

For longer than I care to admit, I’ve been scurrying around the bottom of a beaker. (No trying to bust a glass ceiling here – just glass walls, mostly of my own construction.) Some days I felt the Bunsen burner was on its highest setting; I reached melting point and came close to boiling before the gas supply was exhausted. I won’t be refueling that particular device, but must find another source of heat or risk having the contents of my beaker reach freezing point. Science is complicated.

In the spirit of the new year, I’ll be donning a white lab coat and goggles. Please join me with some of your own ventures and tell me all about them. We only get one ride through this thing we call life. Who knows what I’ll put myself and my family through, but it sounds fun.

For all the things that don’t prove to be too embarrassing, I’ll give an account of my findings here, lab-report style – complete with hypothesis, method (to my madness), supplies (this could get funny) and results.  Goodness, just expecting a little unexpected is exciting.

Since it may be impossible to remain objective and avoid skewing data in the roles of scientist and subject, I might ask for outside input from unbiased parties. You’ll know you appear a reliable soul if I walk up and ask you to participate.

Gosh this is going to be fun – sort of like going to the high-school-chemistry lab knowing the potential exists for a spectacular explosion. Happy New Year! It’s going to be a blast!

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Pardon me while I sigh and fall into a chair. I’m going to rest a spell and let my mind and body digest Christmas 2009. Am I relieved it’s over? Maybe. Of course there’s still some clean-up and waiting in return lines, but being over 300 days away from the mass preparations for the next one is a good feeling.

I mentioned in previous columns that the holidays have become too over-the-top for me, and I probably led you to believe that I don’t care much for the season. That’s not the case at all. I do, however, get stressed-out over all that the holidays entail and in this year’s seasonally-induced delirium realized why. (Been digging deep, lately, as I’m sure has been evidenced by my writing. Rest assured my mental health is mostly intact.)

The truth is: I could use a little rationing of the holiday cheer. I’m force-fed large amounts – way beyond the point of feeling stuffed – in too short an amount of time. Why must such a high percentage of all the “good will toward man” be so concentrated and confined to a few weeks out of the year? Seems I require a steady diet of good tidings of comfort and joy and don’t do well with the extremes of feast or famine.

Sure, there are people all over doing nice things and speaking kind words year-round, but it’s not as noticeable outside the November-December realm. Don’t think I’ve ever been told to be “merry” in August. (Yes, I know, it’s a bit steamy here at that time and bad hair days abound, but wouldn’t some “Christmas cheer” make it more tolerable?)

And while I’m on the topic of more equally spreading Christmas, why do certain foods only make an appearance on the holiday menu? I figure if I more evenly distributed my fudge intake through all the months of the calendar, I could avoid tight jeans in January. On second thought, that may not work, and I would look a little strange wearing sweatpants in July. Cranberries on the other hand definitely deserve more space in our diet as they’re full of health-boosting stuff (phytonutrients). But I digress.

Back to the topic at hand, I’m certainly glad the shopping (despise it), wrapping (tolerate it for the sake of surprised faces), and having far too much on the calendar (I’m truly blessed) are over, but I’m not happy the spirit of the season is over. There will be nothing more said after perfunctory niceties as I go about my days, and it will likely be many months before I sit around a table and have actual face-to-face discussions with people whose company I enjoy.

Why don’t we all get together more often, sit and chat over what seems to be nothing but turns into everything – without a TV playing in the room? GASP! Regression back to the Stone Age? Can conversation start without the prompting of “news” regarding Joe Celebrity and Jane Starlet? It might start off a little awkward, but I have faith that some sparks could catch fire. (If you want a full blaze for New Year’s gatherings, bring up health-care reform and call the fire department.)

So, am I relieved it’s all over? Yes and no. Take away all the tangible trappings and wish me merriment when I’m in the throes of starvation and wearing sweatpants in July.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

If you were reading my column this time last year you’ll probably realize that I cheated a bit this week. I’ve been mildly scolded in the past for saying there’s not a thing in the old noggin to write about, but sometimes, ‘tis true. Or, at the very least, some episodes playing in my mind don’t need to find their way to paper – you’d think I have a penchant for the melodramatic. How’s that for exaggerating emotion?

I hope you all enjoy it, again. I had fun writing it even though I shed a few tears. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

‘Twas the week of Christmas, and all through my mind, not a coherent thought was stirring, not even a rhyme. The lights were hung ‘round the house without harm, no body parts broken, or much cause for alarm. Christmas parties were held, social obligations fulfilled, and all I wanted was some quiet and still. The children wrote lists as long as North Main, while dollar signs floated ‘round their father’s brain.

And Papa with his headache, and I with my cat, were hoping one day it’d be possible to just take a nap. When from the upstairs there came a horrid smell. I looked up at the ceiling and started to yell. Away to grab Lysol, I ran a mad dash, began spraying the air wondering which kid to splash.

The light on the carpet outside the bathroom lit the offending parties — they’ll be needing a broom. When what to my frustrated eyes should appear three young people frolicking in good cheer. With an old dog in on the fun, I knew right that moment they’d better run! Faster than lightning the children they split, as they had no idea which gluteal target I’d get.

To a clean bathroom before the herd bathes, I pay homage to my silly rage. So down to the rooms I fly lickety-split, with a few thoughts in mind and envisioning a sit. In that moment, I felt in my heart, the tugging of strings from children so smart.

As I drew in a breath and dared turn around, up in years they went, almost without making a sound. Dressed in much bigger clothes, they’ll all be taller than me. I barely saw it happen. Could it truly be? Larger amounts of knowledge they now hold in their heads. Looks like they’re growing up; it’s full speed ahead.

Their eyes how they wonder, their smiles, how toothy. Their faces are changing, and at times they act goofy. Their mouths sometimes speak in ways that amaze.  And the kind things they do leave me in a proud haze.

With a tiny bit of childhood left, maybe they can handle my not always being deft. The years they’ve gone by faster than I ever imagined, like the blink of an eye, faster than I ever fathomed. It’s had its ups and downs — I always had doubts. And sometimes I cried after filling their day with shouts.

On the brink of tears, and with a new vision in sight, I’ve learned that giving my best would make things mostly right.  They love me anyway, in spite of mistakes. And I’ll see them through no matter what it takes.  Bowing my head, I pray they’ll be safe, while asking forgiveness for decisions made in haste.

Onward and upward, I hope we’ll proceed; it’s not easy being the one in the lead. But a quiet voice tells me as I turn in for the night, it will all be OK, for your path I will light.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

All right, so I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. Actually, and since I’m among friends, a “bit” doesn’t do my funk justice. I’ve spent some time standing near the edge of a black hole, mesmerized by the swirling vortex at the entrance to a place where not even light escapes. Just when I think I may succumb to the intense gravitational pull, the sounds of sleigh bells ringing during “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” (can you hear the song?) take me somewhere else. Whew!  

Since admitting a couple of weeks ago that the holiday season doesn’t exactly put a sparkle in my eye anymore – believe I even muttered a bah-humbug – I decided to take an Ebenezer Scrooge-inspired journey in the hopes of reigniting some personal Christmas spirit.

Christmas Way in the Past: Picture me with pig-tails, teeth missing, and running to a real tree covered with C9 lights burning hot enough to intensify the pine aroma. Life was good on Christmas mornings. The magic started with a very bright Super 8 camera light blinding me almost to the point of not being able to see that Santa brought most of what was on my wish list and few extras on top. And since I’m grown with my own family now, it is a mystery how my mother, the lovely Linda Rowe, managed to look fresh as a flower and fully made-up without so much as a strand of hair out of place while still in her pajamas. Mystery solved: She got out of bed looking that way . . . two hours before the rest of us.

Christmas Past: It was so easy, aside from the lack of sleep. Christmas-morning photos confirm that I looked as tired as I felt. Doesn’t every parent have at least one hold-out child who’s certain he heard Santa land on the rooftop compelling an immediate investigation? (That kid is also the first one out of bed the next morning.) Visions of Legos, remote-controlled cars, baby dolls, and young children rubbing wonder-filled eyes as they made their way down the stairs fill my mind. Life was simpler, wasn’t it?

Christmas Present: It has been said that today is a gift. I believe that, but lately I’m asking where I can return a few. If I can’t give them back entirely, can I at least make an exchange? Surely there’s something that fits a little better. In spite of my lackluster enthusiasm this year, the tree is decorated (but not the mantel), and I’m going through all the motions.  My current mantra: Fake it ‘til you make it! Case of the holiday blues? Nah! Probably my rebellious streak coming out to play. I’ll feel merry when I’m good and ready – not when the calendar dictates.

Christmas Yet to Come: This one gets a little tricky because (gasp!) I can alter it somewhat by my behavior during Christmas Present. That’s an eye-opener and a serious conundrum all rolled into one. If I continue along the path of being the ogre who expects grades, a respectful attitude and a certain level of cleanliness, Jeff and I could spend some holidays alone.  If I throw all expectations out the window and befriend those I was charged with raising, I’ll never have a moment of peace.

I returned from my excursion with Christmas spirit renewed. While the season sometimes seems too much on top of what already hangs from my limbs, time spent with family and friends is a welcomed diversion from that swirling vortex. It’s quite possible that this year I’ve been saved by the Christmas bell.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Imagine if you will a strobe-lit room filled with balloons, streamers, and me throwing confetti above my head. Today marks a special day for me, and I decided to throw myself a little party. Welcome to episode 100 of my column! (I realize 100 is a mere drop in the column-writing bucket, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it this far.) Incidentally, my little celebration is a twofer as I’ll also be observing my very last birthday on Monday. I’m turning 39.

I’ve decided to stop there, because, well, the thought of admitting I’m 40 makes me cringe. I’ve got a year to make peace with it, so I guess I better get busy and seek professional help now.  

I keep hearing that 40 is the new 30, or even the new 20. Yeah, right. I suppose if one’s a multi-gazillionaire and has access to all the latest-and -greatest treatments and procedures, plus on-staff nutritionists, personal trainers, stylists . . . For the rest of us, 40 is 40. Sigh. I haven’t heard the song “Landslide” in quite some time, but for some reason it just popped in my head. And I prefer the Stevie Nicks version:

                Can the child within my heart rise above?

                Can I sail thru changing ocean tides?

                Can I handle the seasons of my life?

                Well I’ve been ‘fraid of changing ‘cause I

                Built my life around you

                But time makes you bolder

                Children get older, I’m getting older too

 As far as I can tell, I’m not buried under a large mass of earth that has fallen down a steep slope, so just maybe this phase in my life will be an overwhelming victory. Only time will tell. Stinks to be impatient.

It seems like just yesterday I was introducing my column and inviting you all along on the ride that’s shaping up to be my midlife crisis, uh, I mean journey to rediscover the parts of me that took the backseat to motherhood.

Putting aspirations on hold – at least temporarily – was a conscious and necessary decision given the particulars of my family. Then I found out like many before me that despite educating myself on the finer points of parenthood and giving it most of what I had, the whole business is a risky, uncertain venture riddled with variables that cannot be controlled.  

Those “variables” are going to force me to ratchet up my maintenance if I’m going to remain 39. Heck, who am I kidding? There’s already too much wear-and-tear.  I might have to revise my plan. Plus, I had some goals I wanted to reach by 40, and it looks like I may need a little extra time.

On second thought, I don’t think I want to be stuck at any age. Through hard-earned wisdom I’ve learned there are some points (possibly years) in life, where it’s desirable to move through a phase quickly. Not that I’m wishing away a single minute. I need to live through it all . . . that should provide at least another 100 columns.   

Thanks for celebrating with me, and for reading. I couldn’t have done it without you letting me know I’m not alone in struggling with the “variables”.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley