Enoughness, Part One.



I would be sipping a La Croix, of course.


I’m going to blame all of this on Harry and Meghan’s wedding.

And on Lifetime television, which is to blame for so many, many things.

Also, on my children because why not?

Perhaps the dog was involved too.

So, last night as I was sitting on the couch, trying to write an article about prayer and other highly spiritual matters, I flipped on the television (I know. It’s not the best practice to have the tellie on whilst trying to write but it was 8 pm and let’s face it, I wasn’t aiming for a Pulitzer at that point. I was hoping to stay awake and also somewhat intelligible, all at the same time. Thus: Project Runway! It keeps me awake because Heidi’s voice is just scratchy enough in the background to keep the synapses firing. I don’t really watch, folks. I just listen to them cattily eye each other’s work while I type away, until the runway show where they’ve created a wedding gown out of tinfoil and dog food (and yes that has actually happened on that show)

Oh wow. I just put a parenthesis inside a parenthesis without really realizing it. Perhaps I should get back on track. Not even gonna fix it though. I’m gonna own my nutball grammar. That’s how I roll.

Back to me and the couch and scrolling through Lifetime. There it was: that terribly accurate movie about Harry and Meghan. It was just sitting there, in my cue, with the actor/Harry looking all handsome and red-headed and British and royal but yet still rebellious AND sensitive all at ONCE. Yes, also, Meghan actress was great. But HARRY. That’s the stuff, right there. And so, I clicked on it.

But, as so often happens when I just watch something (I put the Pulitzer wanna-be article aside, folks. Harry/actor needed my undivided) I started to feel a bit… peckish.

Ok, that’s not really true. I had a great dinner. I was totally full, actually. But I just wanted to munch, you know?

And then… I ate our kitchen.

If I’d had the chance, and it wouldn’t have been weird, I woulda gone next door (but only during a commercial break!) and eaten their kitchen too.

I am not even going to trouble you with the details of what I inhaled, but let’s just say that Cool Ranch Doritos were involved and I actually don’t even LIKE Cool Ranch Doritos. In fact, I would say? Not much of anything that I scarfed down last night (during the commercial breaks! Of which there were a lot! Unfortunately!) was really all that yummy. I dunno. Is a half of a hamburger bun smeared with honey, yummy? It seemed kinda pathetic, my bun, and all it’s honey.

Backstory: Wayyyyyy back in November I told you about some changes I wanted to make for me. Issues with health and food and my ability to procrastinate so hard on some things that it could be my own Olympic event where I could win GOLD. Which, if you think about it, isn’t so bad… a gold medal and all. But I wouldn’t ever get around to actually winning it.

So, November, I started to do a few things, reallllllly slowly:

  1. I started a running program again. It had been sorta willy nilly until then and did you know? If you try to run three miles willy nilly your thighs say things like, “I don’t UNDERSTAND why you are DOING this to me! This is just mean! Let’s stop right now.”  Thighs that argue? Never good.
  2. I tried to understand that I am actually really and for once and for all a REAL WRITER. Did I mention that BOOK TWO IS COMING OUT? I know. It shocks me still.
  3. I tried to understand food.
  4. And me. Me + food.
  5. Y’all. It’s complicated.

What I’m trying to say here is that I had finally gotten to the point where I needed to address some stuff in my life. And life, as it tends to be, made this hard.

(My husband would like to insert here that it wasn’t “life” it was ME. I make things harder than I need them to be. He says this to me once in a while and I roll my eyes at him and flounce out of the room in a huff. I would like to establish again that it was LIFE that did this to me, and my tendency to overthink and mull and perhaps worry a bit too much had NOTHING to do with it. Flounce flounce flounce. )

The hard truth of it was this: I had gained a heck of a lot of weight and I’m short and I was feeling rather awful about it all – both physically and mentally. You know the feeling. When you avoid reflective surfaces and your pants start saying prayers before you tug them on, and walking the dog makes you question why you have a dog.

Pair all that with this whole public persona thing that goes along with being an author of now TWO books (coming out in August, I promise. I did not make this up). = negative self talk and some really bad choices involving fried chicken.

Y’all. I have issues.

I know this comes as life-shattering news to you.

I think it all sorta stems from the being an alcoholic thing, but I want to tread lightly there, because far too many people in recovery get sober and then think, “Well then! Let’s fix ALL the things!”

No. Nope. NOPETY-NOPE, sober people. Slow down. Getting sober is hard enough.

But, I have some years in recovery, now. And it was time. My heart was telling me. And if I had learned anything in recovery it’s that when your heart says things like, “Dana? You are making yourself sad. Let’s work on this,” I have to listen.

And now it’s May. Seven months later. And last night I ate New Jersey. What can I say? I TOLD YOU I WAS MESSED UP.

I have, also, lost quite a bit of weight since November. I have found muscles again. It has been a process.  A long one. It has involved not a diet or a plan or rice cakes or any of that. It’s involved me trying to figure out me, and that’s not been a heck of a lot harder than eating rice cakes.

Progress, not perfection folks.

I am going to write more about this. I need to. I might even tell you what I did and why and how and all that stuff (people always want to know the ins and outs, and I get that). I just wanted to talk about it what I’ve been figuring out.

It has to do with understanding Enoughness. And yes, that’s a made up word but it’s my blog.

So, this morning, as I am sipping my coffee and contemplating a run with thighs that don’t argue back so much as they did in November, I thought I’d tell you one part of the journey that has finally, FINALLY  made sense to me. And it’s this:

When you eat New Jersey, you don’t have to eat the entire eastern seaboard too.

And you can forgive yourself.

And also? It’s a metaphorical New Jersey, so there’s thank God for that.



Oh and also? I’m just gonna leave this right here:


IMG_7915 2










I will now start referring to myself as, Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Momsie.

Has a ring to it, no?

Flounce, flounce, flounce


How to stop eating your kids’ candy.

I see you there, Reese’s Peanut Butter cup. I see you. Mmmm-hmm.

I know you are chocolatey goodness. I know this ALL TOO WELL.


Halloween is over, friends. Did you know? Last night, as I walked from house to house, holding my hot tea and trying not to stumble over curbs (It was dark! And cold! And I think people who I chatted with thought I was drinking! Because I tripped about five times! But only in their presence! When it was just me, I could walk like a Victoria Secret Model on the runway! But, with more clothes!)*

Halloween is OVER.


Our house currently looks like Willy Wonka blew up all over it. Both children seem to have the genes of their papa, because they have actually acquired more Reeses than I think is even polite. I know at one point that Red actually said, “TRICK OR TREAT WHERE ARE YOUR REESE’S PEANUT BUTTER CUPS, LADY?” whilst we were out last night. Because, you know, he is so polite and well-mannered.

It’s possible we had to stop all trick or treating for a full-on lecture that went like this:


Small costumed Star Wars cherubs: Yes ma’am. We will agree to basically anything as long as we can resume our chocolate safari, ok?

Me: Then perhaps I should also add that you two will detail my car tomorrow, ok?

Small costumed Star Wars cherubs: SURE. WE DON’T KNOW THAT THAT MEANS BUT OK.

Anyhow. We carried on. We got home, cold and tired, after a hard day at the chocolate mines, and proceeded to lose our ever-lovin minds. (Red: sobbing. Blonde: sullen. Me: grim.) Such is the way of Halloween. It always ends with the monsters coming out.

But NOW, I am sitting here, eyeing all that candy, and thinking, if I start in on it, I will proceed to eat my way through my feelings and the feelings of everyone else here, and end up in a pile of fluttery orange wrappers and despair.

I am telling you true; I really need to lay off the candy.

Last week a friend of mine worked on filming me for a promo video for a speaking gig. It was awesome and fun and funny and even involved SOCK PUPPETS. AND ALCOHOLISM. I KNOW. HILARIOUS.

But, as I was watching the video’s final edits… I couldn’t focus on the message at all. In fact, I couldn’t really focus on much of anything except that I had about fourteen CHINS.

I do realize that the camera adds some yardage, but… does it add thirty pounds? and fourteen chins?

I asked the husband: “I look fat. Do I look fat?” He blinked a few times, knowing full well taht answering this will not go well whatever angle he takes, so he simply kissed me and said, “I love you.” Which of course means I am a freaking hippopotamus. But a well loved one.

Sigh. I know. You’re going to say: “Dana, embrace yourself no matter what. You are a child of God. You are beautiful inside and out. Don’t even.”

Well. I KNOW that. Duh.

But. I don’t feel good. And sometimes… do you find yourself inhaling Nutter Butters and they don’t even TASTE all that good? I think I have just lost my tastebuds. They are buried under processed sugar and carbs, y’all.

November. I see you. You are my month to reset, renew, re-imagine…

Resolve some food issues. And I’m gonna do it all here with you as my audience. Because, accountability. Plus, maybe… just MAYBE there are a few of you out there that want to join me?


(Perhaps the first thing I need is to come up with a new title for this. I’m a work in progress. 🙂

Love all of y’all. Anybody out there (*taps mic) feeling tired? Feeling like sugar is taking over? Feeling like you need a little Re-new? What are your best tips for tackling such issues? I’d love to hear from you!



*Halloween so used to be a drinking thing. But, not anymore. We alcoholics in recovery don’t drink on Halloween. Or any other day, for that matter. Just so you know.

Resolutions are not useless and here’s why:


Ok, so I write for a fabulous magazine called The Cov. It’s a good gig. I get to talk about Jesus and often, they allow funny.  At the same time. I have a good relationship with the editors. I know this because I can send them kitty memes about procrastination and they seem to appreciate them.



And this one, which neatly sums up the process of trying to edit:


And this one:


Which really has nothing to do with writing but it cracks me up. Also this:


I know. I need to stop. So, the other day we were talking about a January column and I was all:


And my editor, who I shall call Larry, said,
“Resolutions are hokey.”

Oh, it was on.

Actually, no. It was not on. I was all, “Oh, sure… right Larry, I totally agree.” I didn’t argue because he is kind of my boss, but NOT without muttering under my breath, all passive aggressive:

“You will rue the day, Larry.”

Not really sure where we’re going here, but I made MY OWN RESOLUTIONS ANYHOW ON MY BLOG! WHO’S THE BOSS NOW LARRY? HUH?

I know. I have to assert control somewhere.


  1. Maintain a good working relationship with Larry.
  2. Stop putting my coffee in the microwave, zapping it for twenty seconds, and then leaving it there to ponder its uselessness until forty-eight hours later.
  3. I’m going to use this book on my children. 51MF3u-JPAL._SX348_BO1,204,203,200_-1.jpgI will hold them each in my hands, ponder them for a minute, and ask them, “Tell me, small Red who has once again left a swath jelly behind in the kitchen like its own sticky Exxon Valdez oil slick, DO YOU SPARK JOY? DO YA, PUNK? DO YOU FEEL LUCKY?
  4. I will figure out how to number things on my blog.
  1. I will not actually donate my children, I promise. But you gotta know, MARIE KONDO DOES NOT HAVE CHILDREN. One day, if she does, she will grab some sort of useless plastic toy in her hands and start pondering it, and ask, “Small useless piece of plastic from The McDonalds, do you spar-” and her wee child will start crying and Kondo will just roll her eyes and toss it at the baby. You know she will.
  2. I will brush and floss every day.
  3. Freaked you out with that one, didn’t I? You were wondering… “Wait. She DOESN’T brush every day? Why am I even reading this?
  4. I will stop overusing “skin fixing illuminating age defying serum that costs shackamillion dollars.” I figured since the packaging said it erases fine lines I should just, you know, slather it all over. And now I head out for my day every morning looking like I’m J Lo.maxresdefault.jpg
  5. Actually? Scratch that. If I want to look like J Lo I can. Say hello to my glowy little friend:


10. I will also try to get a handle on this:6a7c885b9a3b9476370d6de5a1b7c0ebd4d3d0359d90b8c1d9693788f25a6482_1.jpg

Betcha can’t guess what type of personality I am? I’ll give you a hint: I often have slanty eyebrows and I rhyme with “SLAY.


12. And finally, as God is my witness, I will stop buying the bargain toilet paper. Life is just too short, people.

Here’s the thing (YOU KNOW I can’t write a post without some sort of “Here’s the moral to the story” moment? Right? Larry tells me I do this. It’s my thing. Alas, I often have no idea what I’m talking about in terms of morals, but I WILL CARRY ON.)

Anyhow, here’s the thing. I think this year I want to stop trying to lose things. I want to not try to lose weight or lose wrinkles or lose the clutter or lose my mind or whatevs.

I want more. I want enough piled on enough.

More, please!

More: Jesus. Family. Special Locked Door Husband time (yes, that’s code for nookie). Laughter. Small children who have impossibly long lashes and a total inability to eat without making the kitchen look like a crime scene.

More cuddling with this huge fat furry fluff of goodness:IMG_6138.jpg

This picture illustrates that Steve is two things:

  •      A bit of a risk taker.
  •      Really doesn’t mind pencils. EduCATed. Har har har.

I will take more naps:IMG_6131.jpg

I don’t have a picture of ME napping so these are stand-in, blurry nappers. Look carefully for the dog, he’s at the end of the couch and is basically really really hurt because Steve has his spot.

Also, we’re so healthy! V-8!

I will take my kids sledding, even when there’s only about 2 inches of snow. We will still attempt it. IMG_6222 3.jpg

I will stay up a little later, act a little sillier, and hug even tighter.

Also, I’ll listen to the Xanadu soundtrack more often.

Oh, and I won’t drink. There’s always that. That’s one minus I will happily keep adding to my life.


And, I will write. I’ll even pen some resolutions. I will always, always love the re-set button that is January 1.

Happy New Year to you. May God richly bless you. You have been a HUGE blessing to me.

Even you, Larry.


That’s not actually Larry. Love you, Larry!

Working Out When Old.

Ok. I’m not OLD old. I’m just, mildly old. Sorta medium old.

On the threshold, so to speak.

Knocking on the DOOR of old. Actually, more like knocking, and then running away because face to face door stuff is hard.

Is this getting old?

Anyhow. I have been running again. And no, not FROM anything. Just running. Just for my own personal enjoyment. Wanna know why?


I mean, really. Why? WHY? Why so fast, Momsie?
I’m not sure. Sometimes I like to pretend I’m being chased by rabid squirrels. Because my life lacks suspense, I guess, and rabid squirrels do the trick. Other times, I just make sure my ipod is on endless repeat of “We Are the Champions” and I pretend I, too, am a champion. And I’ll keep on fighting, ’till the end.

Ok, here’s the deal. I am running again because I actually missed it. I missed the feeling of being fleet and strong and attacking a hill with venom like I OWN that hill, that is MY HILL and RAWRRRR and all that. DEATH TO ALL HILLS! BWHAAAA HAAAAA!S


The problem is -while my HEAD was attacking hills in a sleek pony tail?

The Sledgehammer of Reality is all:


I would like to state for the record that I am not fifty. Not yet. Not that there is anything WRONG with being fifty. Nope. Fifty is just nature’s way of saying, “Ha! Told you!” to all of us.

Really, I don’t want to make fifty mad. If I do, it might come back and bite me in the a$$. Fifty can do that.

So, I continue to run. Yesterday I ate chips and guacamole before going out into the six pm wind and heat, and that run went really well. And for the people who live one street over, I am so very sorry. I don’t even know how to clean that up. I’d like to blame it on my dog but he just stood as far away from me as possible and looked embarrassed. Just pray for rain and avoid your northwest corner.

Also, I now do something called HIIT! (I added the !, for flair) which I think stands for High Intensity Interval Trauma. I think we should just go ahead and add the “S” to it, but you know, it’s not that kind of blog.

I HIIT! things on Tuesday and Thursday mornings and afterwards I do this:img_5863

Here I am, post HIIT! Just trying to stay alive, here. Breathing in and out. Eventually the goal was to get up off the floor because the dog was really worried and one cat was starting to lick my calves, in a “Hmmm, this is sorta like Tender Vittles” kind of way. I figured I better get up, or that’s how they would find me – surrounded by cats and with really bad hair.

I tried to blog. My arms were so rubbery that I basically had to fling my arms onto the keyboard and hope for momentum just to try to type something. Making coffee was harder. I gave up after a bit and just sat on the floor and smelled the bag of coffee beans.

And so, that’s me these days. Just thought I’d let you know.

Someday, someday, as God is my witness, I will go on a run and it will be all Chariots of Fire. Me, on a beach, all smiley and British, in glory.


But until then, I slog on. No Chariots of Fire soundtrack. More like, the intro song for The Muppets. You get the idea.

But, may  I add, no one should EVER run in white. I don’t care how good it looks on a beach, it’s just not a wise fashion choice. Don’t you see all the muck you’re getting all over your pristine white shirt, Mr. Toothy British Guy? Your momsie would be horrified.





6 am is never a time to argue with anyone. #Mommitment

I am not gonna lie.

I am terribly judgmental. I am completely up in arms about how some moms could do it better. Do it nicer. Neater.


And by “some moms” I mean, uh, me.

I cannot even hear the noise of what other moms are saying out there over the bellow emanating from MY inner umpire.

Let me introduce you to what I stared down in the mirror this morning:


I was gonna try to add some cute graphics to this pic but holy hand gestures, I am not risking ticking this guy off. He seems upset.

Anyhow. My situation in the morning is this:

I stumble down the hall and end up brushing my teeth to this guy. It’s not a good way to start the day.

Me: Oh hi. You again. So, how’s things?
Disgruntled Judgy Umpire Guy: You suck.

Me: Wow. You’re just gonna jump right in there. Huh. Dude. Let me get some Crest on my toothbrush first at least.

The yelling continues… The bags under my eyes could be checked by United Airlines. My breakfast for the boys was festooned with too much syrup and no wheat germ. The morning did not involve yoga.

And on and on…

Here’s the thing. When we judge ourselves this mercilessly, the next step is to find some other mom out there who doesn’t seem to be doing it any better than us.

It’s the classic bully thing – we find the mom on the playground who struggles, and we think, “I am better than THAT.”

So, my angry umpire dude is basically an agent, searching out some hapless rookie to join my team.

Team Loser Mom. I am the captain, the mascot, the owner and also, the umpire.

I know, this is getting weird, but I know you get what I mean.

So, this morning, as I am walking in to school with my boys, I see this other mom, in her faded Sponge Bob jammie bottoms and hoodie, unpacking kids from a mini van. And Umpire Guy thunders: “You didn’t wear pajamas to school! You actually have on real clothes that have buttons! You win. SAFE!”

And just like that, I have become the Loserest of them all. I just won the World Series of Loser.

So, spray some champagne on me and call me done. Or, well, maybe not. The champagne thing. I have an allergy. Not a good idea. But that’s a blog for another day.

Ok, listen up. I got a bit of wisdom for you:

Judging begats judging, y’all. I think that’s in the bible.

(Tweet this)

It is USELESS to start the day with all these arguments! Nobody should be yelling at anything at 6 am. In fact, I would venture to say, my umpire should just take a flying leap off a short home plate and shut up forever.

So, Vito says, “You are ugly. You need to lose like forty pounds. Today.”

You say: “Uh, dude? Your voice is uglier. God made me. And what He tells me is that I am beautiful.”

Vito: “Yea, but-”

Me: “My God is bigger than you. He trumps you. He trumps your ump. YOU’RE FIRED.”

“But here. Let me hug you first.”

God makes beautiful things. even at 6 am.-1


I am making a commitment, a #mommitment, to take part in this very important Kindness Campaign. Want to join me and #EndMommyWars. Most importantly, end the ones on ourselves, because:

Judge yourself and you will eventually cave and judge elsewhere, to take the pressure off. It’s Vito’s favorite little spin cycle called:

Team Nutball.

Let’s join a new team. Besides, the Nutball uniforms make me itchy.

Want to know more? Click here to sign the petition and learn about The Mom Movement!

2f8d69866ab50c011295cc076dd9d71b Continue reading

First, when there’s nothing but a slow glowing dream.

Warning: Unless you know your 80s music, this post is gonna make about as much sense as listening to five year old try to describe the Super Mario Dragon Ballz video game he played at a friend’s house. Lotta passion. Not a lot of point.

Walking into Zumba class…

Cue the music…


That your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind

I snap my spandex back into place, check my bangs.

There is music in my soul, but it’s the polka.

All alone I have cried, silent tears full of pride
In a world made of steel, made of stone.
Ok, I get it. This is metaphorical city talk.  She’s alone, in a gritty world of welding and tiny, frayed outfits that only fit on one shoulder.
I live in a small town in the Midwest. There is corn.
Also: I cannot take off my bra while my shirt is still on. If I attempted this while my husband was watching he would:
1. Say, “Oh, honey. You poor thing.”
B. Start laughing because you got the clasps stuck in your hair. Again.

Well, I hear the music close my eyes, feel the rhythm

Nope. Nope. Nope. Well, there’s rhythm and yes I can hear it. But as far as feeling goes? I am still a white girl that has switched from the polka to The Muppets Show theme song in her head.
I am trying to shake my booty. I really am. The instructor is shaking hers. Where is mine? I look about as if it is going to come up and tap me on the shoulder and say, “Hi there. I am your booty. Please SHAKE me and get DOWN with your bad self. Ok? If not, let’s just step-ball-change our ways outta here cuz there is Latin music all OVER the place and you are doing your old drill team moves from 1987. It’s embarrassing.

Wrap around, take a hold of my heart

Pretty sure I shouldn’t have worn a thong under my yoga pants. Alas, yes, there is wrapping. The thong has rhythm, y’all. In fact, I think it’s starting to hum along and is gonna dance for its life right out from under the spandex. It’s facing south, southwest. I am sort just facing west… We are not in sync. But at least it’s taking hold of something, just pretty sure it’s not my heart.
What a feeling, being’s believin’*
Well! That’s true! Whatta feeling!
Now if only I could manage to get everything feeling in the same direction!
Oh Lord have mercy now she’s shaking her bosom all over. And this, I guess, means we are to do this as well.
I look like I’m having a seizure. There is nothing there to shake. It’s like trying to get coconuts down from a maple tree.

I can have it all, now I’m dancing for my life

She just did a grapevine! Hello step aerobics from 1995! I can do this! I am music now!

Take your passion and make it happen
Pictures come alive, you can dance right through your life

Well, I don’t know about passion but I just did a booty shake AND a bit of a twerk in the same 8 count and I think I am just the sexiest thing to happen to middle aged white moms since… I don’t know…  There are no television moms that I can relate to anymore!
Well, not since… Samantha from Bewitched? Or maybe what’s her face, the I Dream of Jeannie lady? And I do realize both of these have supernatural powers so I am thinking there is some therapy that need doing in there somewhere…
OH! I know! Lucy! I am Lucy Ricardo! Because also, Latin music! Now let’s go drop it like it’s hot!
Now, I hear the music, close my eyes, I am rhythm
Don’t, whatever you do, close your eyes. This will only cause me to injure to the other poor souls in this class. Except for the blonde chick who is so good at this that I think I might have to try and trip her before the hour is over. She is all about the rump shaking and I don’t think it’s appropriate.
Great thumping bass there she goes with the hip stuff again. I didn’t know this was Bollywood film, people. I just wanted to lose a few calories.
Hmm. I think I am doing what is called, “Sexy Dancing” now.
It is a moment in history.

In a flash it takes hold of my heart 

Not really my heart. I am thinking I have a side stitch, so that’s all.
My booty is on one side of the room, and I am still over here. That’s different.
Helloooooo chest shaking again. Paired with some “Ieeeayyyyyeeeeeee!!!” That sound does make the chest shaking part work better for some reason.
I can have it all
My Lord. Please forgive me.
I just twerked a little. I really can have it all.
Zumba is fun. But not for the faint of heart. If you have no booty? Dust it off and shake it anyway.
Thank you, Irene Cara for your constant input. At one point in the class I finally, FINALLY started to enjoy myself and let’s just say I started to bounce what the good Lord gave me all about, all willy-nilly. When I did look up the entire class had moved on to a softer, gentler step-ball-change, and there I was all Showgirls in the corner. All I needed was some hair glitter.  “I am a DANCER!” I hissed at the others, and sashayed to the front.
And then reality smacked me upside my vibrating bum,  and we took it down a notch. My bum thanked me later, as we both collapsed on the couch and felt a bit sore. “That was really crazy back there,” my bum said. “Thanks for not, you know, overdoing it.”
“Safety first,” I responded grimly. And sat on an ice pack.
But deep down.. I know. I KNOW. I can have it all.
I am dancing for mah life.
And now I must go. It’s time to shake what my momma gave me. Thank you, Zumba.
*Being’s believin? WHAT ON EARTH DOES THAT MEAN?

Beautiful relief.

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today!

The theme:

Screenshot 2015-04-10 12.51.06

This morning, I went for a quick run on the treadmill before Red woke up. The air was cool and crisp outside, and spring has sprung itself all over out little town. So I did the most logical thing and went down into our scary dark basement and ran on a strip of rubber for 30 minutes while staring at some cinder blocks and a dead cricket.


After the run, I felt all proud of myself and well, studly, and started to sprint up the stairs to the kitchen, all full of vim and vigor and saucy good feelings. “Hi, you!” my muscles all shouted to me, “You cutie pie! You are going to CONQUER THE DAY, I tell you, you saucy thing!”

And then I missed a step because my muscles were too busy talking, and I fell down the stairs.

Let me clarify – our stairs are STEEP and NARROW and rather Silence of the Lambs treacherous, and if you start to fall down them, for some forsaken reason it is rather hard to correct yourself and UN fall.

Or even, really, slow down with all the falling.

Nope. This was a full-out, Gone with the Wind, Scarlet O’Hara tumbling down in her hoop skirt kinda dramatic moment, except I was in some ratty running shorts, plaid socks, and a t-shirt that has holes in the armpits. Don’t know why, really. Evidently when you keep t-shirts for as long as I do, and run in them over and over, they eventually give up on you and disintegrate.  Oh, and I don’t speak in a southern accent or have a penchant for saying, “Fiddley-Dee!” When I was done with all the falling, I should have, perhaps, tried for a “fiddley-dee” but all I could squeak out instead was something unsavory that rhymes with “Sam it! Sam it all! SAM SAM SAMMITY SAM!”

I sighed with enough gusto to blow a few cricket carcasses across the floor, gathered myself from the very unladylike contortion at the bottom of the stairs, wiped off the dust of forty billion dead bugs from my hiney,  and clomped up the stairs.

Not so saucy, anymore, are you? I thought, as my dignity and I limped up to take a shower.

And then, I spied it. A reflection. Of me. In the full length mirror right outside our bathroom door. A very saggy, sore, plaid socks wearing, with bad posture and a bad attitude to match, version of me.

Now let me tell you two things:

1. DON’T ever put a full length mirror right outside your bathroom door. There are just too many incidents where slinking out with a towel, or less, happens, and who really needs to see all that in the garish light of day? Or anytime, for that matter?

2. But, if you DO catch a fleeting glimpse of a sad Momsie, all worn out by life and a treadmill and evil stairs, give yourself a break. Laugh a little. Not in the mean way. More like in the way that those Dove commercials (the soap, not the chocolate) would want you to do.

Why? Well, the part that the Dove commercials always leave out is this: God MADE you. And He is the most beautiful, creative Father… like EVER. So, it follows that: He makes beautiful things.

Is it NOT a huge relief to know this? Especially on days like today.

It is a relief. To know we are so loved. And we don’t have to fix or mend or try or gain or lose or even be balanced and basically graceful.  We can just be loved.

I am relieved. I have no merit badge I need to earn. This is a profoundly good thing, because if my gracefulness was part of the bargain with God? Perish the thought. Sometimes I can’t even walk down a hallway without bumping into a wall. I don’t have to be graceful to have grace. Thank you, Jesus!

And stairs? Stairs are hard, people.

(Oh, yes. Pun totally intended. I may lack the ability to manage straight lines, but, as God is my witness, I’ll never go pungry again.)