Tag: friends

  • What Time do Boys Eat Breakfast?

    What Time do Boys Eat Breakfast?

    This is a photo of the First (left, still asleep) and his friend Jake, who has just spent the night at our house.

    Because I am such an incredible mom (and because Jake is one of my all-time favorites), I often cook a big family breakfast on Saturday mornings for all my guys to enjoy. Pancakes, fresh fruit from the roadside stand, bacon or sausage, the works. I generally count on my three early birds at breakfast time, then the First and his friends much, much, much later.

    Here’s how the conversation went this time:

    Me (upon seeing the First finally descending the stairs for the first time at 1 pm): The dead do walk! I thought you would never get out of bed. I made breakfast for you!

    The First (all grouchy): I know. The smell of bacon woke me up at like, 9 am.

    Me (cheerfully): Sorry!

    The First: Is there anything left?

    Me: Now you know I always make enough and save some for you. I wouldn’t let your brothers eat your breakfast! Although they did want to dig into it around lunchtime. But I threatened to give them a taste of my left hook and they showed me the respect I naturally command.

    The First: (grunts)

    I made him hold the clock up so I could prove just how late he has his breakfast. As you can see he was quite cheerful about it, morning person that he is.

    He can’t fool me, though. I happen to know for a fact that he loves it when I make him a big breakfast, ’cause he eats every last bit. And he thinks I’m the greatest mom ever in the history of greatest moms. And he’s right.

  • Fighting Burnout

    Fighting Burnout

    The following post was written by my good friend June Elliot. June and I both train at the same home gym and have watched each other cycle through the inevitable physical and mental ups and downs in our respective sports. June has studied Okinowan karate, taekwondo, hapkido, Wing-Chun, Chin-Na, Mauy Thai, and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. She’s also a great sparring partner to have in the boxing ring.

    We want to believe we are invincible.

    As fighters, regardless of style(s), skill, or rank we work incredibly hard toward correcting bad habits and perfecting our skills. At some points during our training the hours of conditioning and drilling techniques wear us down emotionally. Occasionally, the ego is deflated quickly through interactions with others more gifted and skilled, or we succumb to the misguided practitioner who abuses a weight or strength advantage.

    I recently admitted to several training partners and coaches that I was essentially worn down. I was feeling pressure to “make water from wine” each training session. I know when people expect good things from me it’s a compliment. But what I do to myself is essentially excessive self-examination.

    The good news is that I’m not the only one. I’m not the only one who walks away from training emotionally beaten down, or heading into it as if it’s a job. I’m not the only one who forgets the reasons I train in martial arts. This same process occurs in other areas of life. Nor is the pressure issue unique to women like myself. Often boys and men try to prove their worth to others in an effort to improve their self-esteem as well.

    Martial arts is both an individual and communal endeavor. As a mixed martial artist I put hours into strength training, cardiovascular conditioning, flexibility, takedown techniques, footwork and striking, agility, and submissions. I coach myself and I am coached by others. When in the right frame of mind it’s a fun escape from the day-to-day world. Students sweat, punch, pout, complain, choke, and bleed together, hence forming very close bonds.  To some degree we get to know our training partners and trainers better than our own families.

    But sometimes we take it too seriously. We think too much and judge too much. This is the dawn of dread.  This is where the fun ends.

    The irony is that when we can laugh at ourselves, when we let go a little and admit that perfection is an ideal and not an immediate possibility, we actually excel! I’ve seen this in my own performance as well as in children and adults I have coached in various athletics, including martial arts. I believe that when any type of performer (athlete, actor, musician) adopts a balanced attitude, one of steadfast effort with humor, they get into a zone. They are in the moment. They are not in conflict internally or with the grand order. Progress often happens when you’re not looking for it. When you least expect it, a new level of skill or a new ability arrives as a pleasant surprise.

    Don’t risk ending up in the vast wasteland of those who have burned out. Keep connected with your training community, maintain your sense of humor, and press onward.

    Image credit: Mike Bitton

  • The Difference Between a Hug and a Smack

    The Difference Between a Hug and a Smack

    I found this photo on my camera recently, and I know what the boys thought when they took it. They thought, “Awww, isn’t that sweet, Henry is sharing his perch with Olive, and he’s patting her on the shoulder! He’s giving her a widdle hug! Awww.” You know how boys are.

    And they are totally wrong.

    Henry is saying, “Kid, it’s bad enough that you came here and robbed me of all peace and quiet. You eat all the white bread (see picture), get in my personal space, and generally piss me off. Now be still or I’m gonna smack you.” And he has his claws poised to sink into her neck.

    But the thing is, Henry is a pushover. Well, at 17 pounds “pushover” may not be exactly the right term. Shove over? Anyway, he’ll never sink his claws into her scrawny little neck or rip out a satisfyingly healthy hank of her fur, or bite her perky little ear off, or even raise his voice to her. He’s the grouchiest old bastard but he’s essentially soft inside. Henry is like an igloo filled with Eskimos. Crusty on the outside, warm and soft on the inside. (I think I saw that in a Far Side cartoon once.)

    Olive can be annoying. You cannot neglect to shut the pantry door, ever: she can drag herself up four shelves high where she stalks, kills, and devours white bread in all it’s forms and leaves the guts everywhere. She is forever pouncing on Henry just as he settles into a nap, and she demands to be picked up in order to watch what’s happening on the stove when you’re cooking. Sweeping is a favorite activity; she pounces on your pile of filth and scatters it in every direction. She waits until two am to locate and bat along the hardwoods the ping pong ball you forgot to put away, and she is particularly fond of launching herself without warning to attack sock feet. Sometimes we humans don’t know whether we want to hug her or smack her, either.

    But we adore her the same way we adore crusty old Henry. Because sometimes love just feels that way.

  • My Shoes Sparklez!

    So November was my birthday month, all Lisa, all month, it was awesome and I highly recommend it. Especially if you can score summa these.

    My friend (also named Lisa, it’s kismet) had listened to me exclaim whenever I saw the elementary school girls at church with those awesome red glitter Dorothy shoes, or anything else remotely sparkly, which of course they didn’t make when I was a kid, and which I never see in Target or Shoe Show in my size. So! She got on the ol’ interweb and got me my very own disco ball shoes and as soon as I ripped open the box I kicked off my boring but beloved Sauconys and determined to never let the sparklies leave my feet. Except that they were bunching up the sheets, so…

    Still. Hat tip and heel click goin’ out to Lisa Shelden, the Rockin-est!

  • favorite quote from LOTR

    “We have followed you this far; you have not led us astray. Forgive me, I was wrong to despair.” Legolas (to Aragorn)

  • It’s my blogiversary!

    Happy blogiversary to me / happy blogiversary to me
    Happy blogiversary to me / happy blogiversary to me

    My blog is one year old today, and my how we’ve grown. The name went from Wishful Blogging (because, I figured, talking about blogging is so much easier than actually blogging) to The Glowing Edge, a move which lost me page rank, but gained me server space on the Wayback Machine. I’ve messed and messed and messed with my template until I finally broke it, and I still haven’t regained my comments feature. I made over 500 blog posts this year on my combined eight blogs (not counting the three YouTube channels), which naturally proves my manhood. Of course, only about 25 of those posts were actually worth reading, but who’s counting? It’s the internet! You can even spam yourself!

    So. On this momentous occasion I’d like to tearfully thank God and the Academy, kiss my trophy, make a fool of myself, and here name the exciting things I have accomplished (which all of you, the fans, made possible). Later I’ll post it to YouTube.

    1. Discovered The Bees, Cake, The Weepies, and Gomez, all of whom rocked my world this year and were widely featured in my playlists.

    2. Got down some of the stories I wanted to write about my life. This is the reason I started a blog in the first place. I write mostly for me, but also in the hopes that someday my kids will enjoy hearing some of their own history.

    3. Found a place to finally integrate my writing, photography, artwork, love of technology, and now, my movie-making. I’m definitely glad to be born in the internet era.

    Thanks to all (three) of you for reading, and once in a while letting me know that you’re reading. I LOVE you!

    This year:

    1. Get better at video

    2. Explore social networking/bookmarking

    Hope to see you around.

  • what’s your crazy thing?

    It came up while hangin wit my tribe this weekend. What would you love to do? What’s the idea you keep stowed away because you think people will laugh or because you think it’s a little out of the realm of possibility?

    The Husband: Not own a car.
    True, he’s a stay-at-home kinda guy. The original homie. (Heh.) Couple that with a desire to save the earth and an absolute adoration of public transportation of every variety and you have a man on a mission. His dream may never become a reality, since he’s married to a raving Scion xB fanatic. (I want an underbody light kit in purple for mine.)

    Jenn: Do a bike tour of Italy.
    A stay-at-home mom, my girlfriend Jenn just decided one day to get in shape and by golly she did. She signed up for a spinning class and hasn’t looked back. When we were walking the five city blocks uphill from the pub where we danced like maniacs until 1 am, I was droopy as an old dishrag and she was smiling and humming and trying not to laugh at the pathetic picture I made. She rocks. She rides. Giro come il vento, donna!

    Fred: Take the fam on a 6 month tour of the USA.
    Or maybe he said a year. The father of a three-year-old and an infant, he may just be insane, or he may go that way during the trip. Although he did say he thought they should be a bit older first. Actually, I think it’s kind of retro-cool. Didn’t families do this in the 50’s? The whole Route 66 thing?

    Me: Winter over at the south pole.
    Like, be a real Polie, not just one of the zillions who flit down to spend a week ostensibly researching while actually sucking down cargoloads of alcoholic beverages and racking up street cred for later. I get excited just thinking about the design challenges of the new Admunsen-Scott station. I have a whole string of ideas like these: hike the AT, climb the 14’s in CO, blah blah blah. Hey, I did three homebirths, I’m obviously unbalanced.

    JD: Tour with a band.
    This is a man who just can’t get enough of the rock and roll life. His band gigs twice a month or more in the area, but the thought of big buses, roadies, and fame-n-glory calls him. Eyeliner? Sure, if it will get him on the tour.

  • mem-ries, da da da da da da daaaah

    What a shock it is when your six-year-old begins to reminisce about his younger days. The other day the Maker and the Ice were in the back seat when something prompted this conversation:

    Maker: Remember when Mom used to make us real play dough?
    Ice: That was awesome! We had to be careful when it first came out of the pan, cause it was so hot. I liked that.
    Maker: Yeah. And we did colors! Every color!
    Ice: And then the food coloring would get on our hands. We had orange and pink and blue hands.
    Maker: That was the coolest.

    My guilt over not having done this for ages warred with my pleasure at hearing the conversation, but I got over it. Here’s the recipe, which is still written on the torn and stained sheet of hot pink notepaper that an intern (who was trying to help me survive my first Vacation Bible School) gave me circa 1994:

    1 cup flour
    Œ cup salt
    1 teaspoon cooking oil
    œ teaspoon cream of tartar
    1 cup water

    Cook over medium heat for 5 to 6 minutes or until dough forms solid ball in pan. Knead with flour if necessary. Add food coloring and let your kids knead it in, thereby putting attractive, highly communicable dots and smudges on their hands and other related body parts.

  • meeting david

    When I was three years old we moved to the place where I did most of my growing up. I can remember riding in the clear-plastic-covered back seat of the realtor’s car to see the new house. As we drove up, a dark-headed five-year-old boy whose skin was browned by the sun stood in the next-door neighbor’s driveway and stared – rudely, I thought. I got out and stared back, hands on my hips.

    “Tell him your name,” my parents prompted.

    “My name is Lisa,” I stated imperiously.

    “Lee-fa?” he lisped.

    “No-o,” I retorted, drawing it out so his brain could better take it in, “Lisa.”

    Now he grinned, and knew he had the better of me. “Lee-fa,” he stated, satisfied.

    And thus began the vigorous and immensely enjoyable battle (in which I got repeatedly stomped in basketball and popping and riding wheelies, but held my own in swimming, running, spitting, “Indian” burns, and most everything else) that lasted for the next fifteen years.