Rites of Passage

When Tucker was a little guy, he’d fashion fishing poles out of sticks and string and hang his “rods” over the back of the kitchen sofa. A bite from a big one, would require great effort and lots of groaning until he successfully reeled in his imaginary catch.

His first “real” rod was red and all of three feet long, with Mickey Mouse on the reel and a little, yellow rubber fish attached to the line.

It wasn’t long until the reel without a hook was no longer satisfactory, and Tuck graduated to a new real rod, hook and all. He learned how to put on worms and release the fish he’d caught. Every vacation, he made sure his fishing pole was the first thing in the car.

But as he grew older, his interest in fishing waned, replaced by more active endeavors like skateboarding, biking and basketball.

Yet just this past Memorial Day, there he was casting a line way out into the water. “I haven’t seen him fish in ages,” I said to my husband who was sitting nearby, changing the lure on his rod.

“Look at the picture on the camera and you’ll know why,” he said.
Rites-of-Passage2I turned on the camera and saw the picture they’d taken just before releasing the large-mouth bass Lee had caught.

“No wonder he’s inspired,” I said.

By late afternoon, Tucker had caught five small perch.

“He won’t let these fish go,” Andie complained, staring into the bucket where the six-inch fish were swimming around.

“I want to cook them for dinner,” Tuck said, flipping his hair out of his eyes, which were big with excitement. I noticed the sun had lured a few new freckles out on his nose.

“Dinner?” I asked, thinking of the nearly packed car and the early bedtime I’d wanted for the kids.

“Yeah.  I’ve made dinner before, but that was food from the grocery store. This is dinner I caught for my family.”

Looking into the wide eyes of my soon to be thirteen year old son, I knew this was a significant event.

“OK,” I said. “Go ask Daddy if he knows how to clean a fish.”

Andie was distraught. “You can’t kill those fish,” she cried.  “I won’t eat them.”

“Andie you love fish,” Tucker reminded her.

“Those are fish from the store,” she said, prompting a discussion on food sources. Later she “accidently” let one go, but Lee helped her catch a replacement, which she reluctantly put in the bucket with the others.

As Lee and Tuck covered the picnic table with newspaper and sharp knives, Andie hovered nearby.  She squealed when Tucker cut the heads off the still wriggling fish, but his squared shoulders seemed to be say Look at me providing sustenance for my family.

Five little perch isn’t a lot of sustenance, but with baked beans and left over pasta, it amounted to quite a meal.

We each had a few 1×3 inch fillets that Tuck had dredged in milk and breadcrumbs and fried in butter.  Andie, who wasn’t going to eat her little friends, pleaded with everyone to share a little more off their plate with her.

The fish was truly delicious. But even more delicious was witnessing my boy take a step toward manhood, swelling with pride as he demonstrated his ability to care for those he loves.






Rhubarb1If you’ve read my blog entry “Getting Dirty” you know I’ve been inspired to become more agriculturally astute. My latest lesson was about rhubarb. I’d never cooked with it and frankly, had no desire. Then my kids and I had the experience of plucking it straight from the field and learning that as an early spring crop, it’s loaded with nutrients (vitamins A & C, potassium and calcium) that we need after our long, cold northeastern winters.
Rhubarb2After tossing the toxic leaves on top of the compost heap, and gathering up the long red stalks, I asked what to do with them. Do I peel the long strings off? Nope. It turns out that after a wash, all to do is chop into 1/2 inch, ready to cook pieces.

Is it a fruit or a vegetable? I asked. Not finding that answer in the field, I turned to Wikipedia, where I learned that rhubarb was considered a vegetable in the U.S. up until 1947. Then a New York court decided that becasue it was used more like a fruit (pies and jams), it should be deemed a fruit, and thus taxed like a fruit (lower than veggies I assume).

Armed with more “Dirty Life” knowledge, I was ready to bake and found a recipe for a Strawberry-Rhubarb-Crumb Pie that truly couldn’t be easier or more delicious. So if you bump into rhubarb at the grocery store or farmer’s market, don’t run the other way! I’ve now made this pie four times! Not only are my kids eating it for after school snack and dessert, they’re having it for breakfast, too!
Rhubarb3I buy ready-made frozen pie shells (I don’t eat wheat, so I substitute gluten free pie shells and flour in my pies). For the crumble, use cold butter. If you have one of these tools it makes cutting in butter really easy. Otherwise use a fork and your hands!

Serve with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and you’re a hero!




  • 1 egg
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 3/4 pound fresh rhubarb, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
  • 1 pint fresh strawberries, halved
  • 1 (9 inch) unbaked pie shell
  • 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
  • 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
  • 1/2 cup quick-cooking or rolled oats
  • 1/2 cup cold butter


  1. In a large mixing bowl, beat egg. Add the sugar, flour and vanilla; mix well. Gently fold in rhubarb and strawberries. Pour into pastry shell.
  2. For topping, combine flour, brown sugar and oats in a small bowl; cut in butter until crumbly. Sprinkle over fruit. Bake at 400 degrees F for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees F bake for 35 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly. Cool on a wire rack.

Getting Dirty


On a recent morning visit with my friend Eleanor, I sat on the loveseat in front of her warm woodstove and picked up a book from the coffee table. The cover was a photo of a woman in jeans and clogs leaning against hay bales in the loft of a big red barn.  The Dirty Life: A Memoir of Farming, Food and Love by Kristin Kimball, I read. “I’m only half way through, but I think you’ll love that book,” Eleanor said.

She went on to tell me the premise. (Eleanor is from Tennessee, so feel free to hear the words in a delectable southern accent.)  The author was a stylish Manhattan journalist writing an article on the growing local food movement. She ventured to Pennsylvania to interview a hunky farmer running a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) and on her first day ended up helping him slaughter a pig in her white designer blouse.  Before you know it, she’d fallen in love with the man and his livelihood, trading in her city life for life on the farm.

Eleanor read me one of her favorite passages about the author’s visit to her parent’s suburban home for Thanksgiving. As Eleanor read (don’t forget the accent) I closed my eyes and pictured the entire scene unfolding in my parent’s very clean, very white kitchen.

“We arrived loaded with food. I was full of the zeal of the newly converted, eager to show off the  gorgeous vegetables my boyfriend had grown… Mark had helped his Amish friend slaughter turkeys that  week, and he’d brought us one… I’d forgotten how very clean my mother’s world is until we walked in  with those boxes, which were smudged with field dirt, a few limp leaves clinging to their bottoms. It appeared we would contaminate any surface we put them on, so Dad directed Mark to the garage, and  my mother asked me quietly if I was sure it was safe to eat the turkey, which was wrapped in a drippy  white shopping bag, its headless neck sticking out obscenely.”

I couldn’t wait to read it, but Eleanor needed a couple of days to finish. So I went out that afternoon and bought a copy of my own.

I could fill the page with my favorite passages, but I won’t. I will say though, when I finished that book (after two days in which I occasionally forced myself to set it down), I was looking at the world through new eyes.  Kristin Kimball’s love for Mark, farming and food were contagious. For the first time in my life, I thought about the rich soil hidden beneath our grass covered lawn and fantasized about a vegetable garden. Her descriptions of the beautifully nourishing meals they created were palpable on my own tongue, and renewed my love and appreciation for the foods we are so blessed to eat. I joined our local CSA and ordered ¼ of a locally raised pig (which was the best bacon we’ve ever had). We trimmed our apple trees in hopes of pressing cider this fall, we’re planting raspberry and blueberry bushes this summer and plan to tap our Maple trees for syrup next spring. We’ve even talked a bit about raising bees and chickens (separately, of course).

While most of my changes are newly instituted or future possibilities, Eleanor and her family have been walking that walk for some time now. They drink milk from their cow, Clover, eat eggs from their chickens (or the ladiesas Eleanor calls them) and harvest veggies and fruits from their extensive gardens.  In fact, I just got off the phone with Eleanor who reported that their evening meal consisted of their first asparagus of spring and a frittata that was bright yellow because the chickens are free ranging on the dandelions in their pasture. After hanging up, my mouth was watering, and I made a little wish that maybe someday, if I’m lucky, my life can be just as dirty as hers.

Mom Memories


As Mother’s Day approaches, I’ve been thinking about my role as Mom and wondering what childhood memories will really stand out for my kids as they grow older.

I assume it would be those really extraordinary times, the ones that take lots of planning and big effort…

The trips into Boston to the Museum of Science, the Aquarium, Faneuil Hall, Fenway Park… that Mother’s Day when we all dressed up and went to the Museum of Fine Arts and then that pricey South End restaurant…

All those holidays where I shopped, cooked, baked and decorated to make it all just perfect and special and unforgettable…

Or the birthday parties… the one when Andie invited every single kid in her class and quite a few from Tucker’s, the bowling alleys, the moonwalks, the gigantic cakes…

Or the vacations we saved for, the gifts, the fancy outfits, the expensive restaurants…

I brought up some of those special occasions with the kids the other day and was met with mostly blank stares. After jogging their memories with key details about each event, they both said variations of Yeah, I kind of remember that, offering me sympathy pats on the shoulder and saying That was fun, Mom.

So, I started thinking back on what I remember most from my own childhood. I closed my eyes and allowed memories to wash over me… appreciation

Sitting on our front flagstone steps next to my mother’s tanned legs while she flipped through that day’s mail and turned the pages of the evening newspaper. 

Mom and I stretched out on the camel back sofa in our den drinking rainbow sherbet-ginger ale floats, watching the 1970’s game show To Tell the Truth. 

A Friday night, I was really young, but we stayed up late and ate a steak dinner with garlic bread and sat around the table so long that the mushroom shaped candle burned right down to a pile of wax. 

Mom’s pink and white striped collapsible lounge chair, the kind that made the click, click, click noise when it was opened or folded up, and the smell of her Hawaiian tanning oil floating in the air.

My backyard birthday party when Mom joined in the relay race and had to sit on a big balloon to make it pop…

As memories continued to flood in, I couldn’t help but notice just how ordinary they all seemed. They were just everyday moments I spent hanging out with Mom.

And then I got it; maybe it’s not about creating memories, it’s about just being with my children and allowing memories to happen.

So in honor of my mom and just in case the kids want a delightful memory to store away for someday, I made root beer floats and we all curled up on the couch to watch Wheel of Fortune. Can’t blame me for trying.
momHappy Mother’s Day, Mom.  Thanks for the memories.

By the way, if you’re looking for a wonderful Mother’s Day gift, check out my friend Katrina Kenison’s book The Gift of an Ordinary Day. She writes so beautifully about her young boys growing into adolescence and beyond, and her longing to capture those wonderfully ordinary, everyday moments.



Every year we take the kids to Florida for spring break. We stay with my parents and lounge on the beach, swim at the pool, hit tennis balls and bike to the nearby café. The kids love it, I love it, Lee loves it (even though he can only come for a few days) and of course my parents love it, too.

I started looking at dates and airfares in early March while the snow was still falling and we were packing up every weekend for another ski race. A couple of times I came close to pressing the “reserve tickets” button but for some reason I didn’t. Something was holding me back. My dad kept asking if I’d booked the tickets, and by the end of March, I still hadn’t. As the price of oil went up, so did those tickets, and I still hadn’t made any reservations.

And then I decided that this was the year we just wouldn’t go.

Everyone was disappointed. I tried to explain how the winter had been so long and exhausting, seeming as if it would never end. We even had an inch of snow on the ground the day before Easter! But warm southern weather is exactly what you need everyone argued. And I agreed, but try as I might, I couldn’t muster up the energy to even think about the trip.

So we stayed home. A “staycation,” my neighbor called it.

Staying home is really a whole new concept for us. We usually don’t have time to unpack our bags from one weekend driving here, there and everywhere before we start packing for another.  But as vacation week arrived, and we had no suitcases to pack, no time schedules to adhere to, I felt my tense shoulders start to relax.

As the days have passed, we’ve turned off alarm clocks and become reacquainted with our pillows.  The kids have rediscovered their love of Lego building, modeling clay and drawing comics.  We’ve replaced the wordsneed tohave to or must with the words feel likewant to or maybe. We’ve eaten lots of thick slices of French toast with strawberries and syrup and the cold sore on Tucker’s lip has finally cleared up.  We’ve played wiffle ball and taken lots of slow walks in the woods and watched the first Harry Potter movie during a big, loud thunderstorm.

I planned to take the kids to the coast or into Boston to the science museum, but even traveling just over an hour from home somehow seems too far.

Our big outing yesterday was to the local diner in the next town over. After the kids devoured their chocolate chip pancakes, we wandered around town and discovered a park tucked behind the main street. We followed the path that wanders along the river and dropped in leaves to watch them float down stream. We even caught a glimpse of a beaver running along the opposite shore.

We walked to the town green, and I snapped pictures of the kids sitting on benches next to the bronzed statues of children that we’d never even noticed before. I wondered if the statues were new, but realized we usually cross the green to the chant of Let’s goCome on or Hurry as we run in to pick up take out or cross some other errand of our list.

As the kids posed for the photos, Andie said, “Mom, we’re like those people who travel somewhere and take lots of pictures.”

“Tourists?” I asked.

“Yeah, tourists,” she said.

And I realized she was right. We are tourists, finally discovering this whole new world that’s been hidden right in front of us, waiting for us to slow down enough to see it.




Marathon Mentality


As I listened to the news reports about the Boston Marathon earlier this week, I thought back on all the years when we lived outside of Boston and took the kids to the race. It began in the town next to ours and our friend’s office building was right on the main street, providing a wonderful place to watch the start and store our sweatshirts, water bottles and sunscreen.

Thousands of runners, who’d been there since the pre-dawn hours occupied patches of grass on beach towels spread beneath trees. Their nervous tension mingled in the air with the smell of fried dough and sausages and onions wafting from the food carts lining the town green. The atmosphere left me jittery and awestruck, but the kids sucked it up like juice through a crazy-straw. I had to suppress my desire to approach runners and launch an investigation into why they would possibly put themselves through the rigors of running a marathon. The longest distance I’d ever run was 5 miles, and I swore I’d never do that again.

One year in particular stands out in my memory. The kids were young, maybe around three and five. A runner from the Children’s Hospital Team ran in Andie’s honor. We met Vicky at the start and she had Andie’s name written on her arm in the same black oily crayon football players draw under their eyes.  When I asked Vicky why she ran, she said that running brought her great joy and that children facing adversity inspired her.
marathonAfter we snapped a bunch of photos of Vicky hugging Tucker and Andie, we took the kids over to the official start.  They stood on the bright blue painted line and posed for a few quick pictures with their friends Matthew and Jack.  Soon runners began lining up between the metal cattle fencing lining the start of the course.

Just as the race was set to begin, the kids ran to the fence and stood on the lower metal bar so they could reach over the top rail and high-five passing runners.  As the hoards slowly began moving forward, many runners moved from the left side of the course over to the right just to meet the kid’s hands. I could see Lee working just as hard I was to hold back his tears.

The kid’s bodies hung uncomfortably over the rail by their armpits and as the bib numbers reached into the thousands, Andie’s arms started to look noodley and she soon jumped down from her post. Matthew and Jack lasted a few thousand runners longer, but eventually they’d had enough and jumped down, too.

“If I know Tuck,” said Matthew and Jack’s mom, Karen,  “he’s not coming off that fence anytime soon.”

And she was right.

We watched as the bib numbers climbed into the eight thousands, nine thousands.  The payment began to heat up, but Tucker’s little body continued to hang over that metal bar.  And there he stayed until every single runner, well over twenty thousand had moved past him and through the start of the race.

When he finally turned around and hopped of the fence, I realized I didn’t need to interview any of the runners to gain insight into their marathon mentality. My little boy had shown me that focus, purpose, perseverance and a willingness to see things through to the end seemed to be the necessary requirements.

The Name Game


As a young, newly married couple, Lee and I spent many a weekend driving to visit family and friends. As soon as the tires hit smooth highway, I’d want to play my favorite road trip game Let’s Think of Baby Names. We were nowhere near the point of starting a family, and Lee was not into naming something, someone that didn’t even remotely exist. But I rattled off names anyway ignoring the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned a bluish gray.

Years later, when my growing middle proved that a baby was no longer a hypothetical, Lee surrendered and played Name That Baby. We settled on a boy’s name quickly – a first and middle name after his brother and mine. The girl’s name didn’t come as easily but that gave me the chance to write long lists of names that I no longer remember, yet have saved in my pregnancy diary buried somewhere on my overflowing bookshelf. Toward the end of my pregnancy, I’d flip-flopped though a dozen different girl’s names. Lee continued to smile and rub my back. Then just days before my due date, I picked one (which I can’t even remember now) and Lee happily agreed. We were ready. Until… I decided the boy’s name no longer felt right.

What?”  Lee asked through his end of the phone line. “You want to change the name now?”  His voice came through in a panicked work whisper. I looked at the books spread across the kitchen table –100,000 and 1 Names for your Baby, The Baby Name Bible and The Best Baby Name Book Ever and nodded into the phone.

After going through all the books and not finding a single name, I called my friend Shandy. She’s the one who found my wedding dress when she stormed into the back room where customers weren’t allowed.  It took her no more than 45 seconds to say the name I hadn’t seen in any of the books – Tucker.  Just like the wedding dress, I knew instantly.  When Lee answered the phone I whispered the name.  “That’s the name,” he said without missing a beat.
nameAndie’s name is a whole other story entirely. You’ll have to read about that one when my book comes out.

Which brings me to why I’ve been thinking about the subject of names in the first place. As I begin this new phase of my book’s journey, sending out query letters to agents, hoping to find the one who will find the perfect home for my book so it can reach all of the folks meant to read it, a new title blew in with the first warm breeze of spring.  When I heard the name, short and simple yet so encompassing of the whole story, I felt the same certainty I felt when I first heard the name of my boy. So please dear readers, join me in visualizing the book Preemie, a memoir on bookshelves all over the country, heck… let’s visualize it all over the world!

So you’ll see a few changes on the website this week as I prepare to move forward and begin the next chapter of this premature journey!

Shark Meat, Cat Poop and French Toast or Just Another Thursday Morning at our House

I swore I would not get involved in son’s science fair project. Yet there I was, 6:30 in the morning, up to my elbows in yellow rubber gloves standing at the kitchen sink scraping shark meat away from shark skin. This was after last week’s trip to the craft store to buy clay for the model of the shark skin, blue paint to decorate the display board and the dried greens to hot glue on as seaweed.  This was also after my seven phone calls and two trips to the super market to see if a New Hampshire grocery store could somehow get a piece of shark meat (with the skin still on) in the middle of March.

So much for not getting involved.
glovesWhen Tucker learned that shark skin was used like sand paper by ancient cultures, his eyes got really big like they do when he’s excited, and I couldn’t help but getting excited, too. So I found shark meat.  Then the only catch, getting the shark meat off the skin. “Pee?” I asked. “The shark meat has to soak in pee?” “You should call it urine, Mom,” my son said trying to sound more scientific.

So while my kids wiped sleep from their eyes, I scraped the previously soaked shark meat (which I’d washed several times in antibacterial soap), took off the rubber gloves to whisk eggs for French toast and endured the cat rubbing around my legs in response to the smell of the shark meat. At least I thought it was the smell of the shark, until I glanced over and saw his empty food bowl as well as the long, chunky poop lying on the floor right in front of his bowl.  “It’s actually throw up, Mom,” Andie said upon closer examination.  “And it has mouse guts in it,” Tucker added.

I slid the shark meat away from the stove to make a spot to set down the bread and egg mixture while I explained to Andie how to turn a plastic bag inside out, stick her hand in and pick up the throw up without ever letting it touch her hand.  But Andie’s a gagger. “It’s warm,” she half gagged, half screamed, as she dropped the bag and ran into the bathroom where she dry heaved over the toilet bowl where the Tupperware bin and shark meat had not too long ago rested.  “Oh for God’s sake,” I said, wiping away my tears of laughter, flipping the French toast, and picking up the bag to scoop up the mouse laced throw up. I was back at the stove while Tuck donned the rubber gloves and had a go at scraping the sharkskin. I moved the pan to a burner further from the sink when I noticed bits of shark meat flying in the general direction of the stove.

Andie was back from the bathroom. Tucker was peeling back the smelly yellow rubber gloves and I was putting French toast on the table.  And then all at once, it hit me – the smell of the shark meat, the feel of the cat poop, the look of the gooey egg mixture. My stomach clenched, my throat tightened and… I gagged. Then I gagged again. The kids stared at me wide-eyed, wondering at the possibility of what might happen next.

But before we could find out, I pointed to their coats, headed for the back door and with my hand covering my mouth managed to mutter, “We’ll get breakfast on the way to school,” and wondered what adventures Friday morning could possibly bring.


At the urging of my publisher I began writing a blog to promote my book before it was published.  “You need to build a platform, an audience,” the publisher had said. But I don’t want to write a blog I whined in my mind, and then I began a blog. And a funny thing happened.  I discovered that I absolutely love keeping a blog. And then a not so funny thing happened.  My publisher, like so many others, was looking at an uncertain financial future. Which meant that my book was also looking at an uncertain future. More to the point, it meant I was back at square one looking for a new home for my “baby.”

More often than not, I’m a “look for the silver lining” sort of gal. Yet, this time, as much as I tried saying out loud, “I’m sure my book will end up in an even better place!” I had a terrible stomachache and even whispered the words, I don’t care if the book ever gets published and I don’t want to write anymore.

I tried pulling myself out of the shock, depression and grief, but long walks, frequent naps and chocolate bars only left me feeling more sick, exhausted and hopeless.

When I went into premature labor with Andie 10 years ago, I looked desperately into the eyes of a nurse and said things like this don’t happen to me and she looked right back at me and said they do now.
march29Now, 10 years later I’ve learned that the book about my daughter’s uncertain birth faces and uncertain birth and I cried to a friend and said, things like this don’t happen to…  and even though I caught myself before I could finish, it didn’t matter. My friend and I laughed at what I’d almost said. And I know now, as I knew then, that yes, things like this – uncertainty, grief, sorrow, trauma – do happen to me.  And that I am strong and that I can overcome and that I must trust and believe and know… that anything is possible.

Playing the Percentages

tennisI think of tennis as my sport. I love the dark green courts and crisply painted white lines. I love opening a new can of balls and hearing the sound of the built up pressure hissing out. I love to breathe in the smell of that fuzzy yellow ball and feel like I’m eight again, standing on a sun soaked court in my worn out Tretorns. And I’ve always loved the feeling of smacking that tennis ball as hard as I possibly can.

The problem is, as much as I love tennis, I always seem to leave the court drenched in sweat, rubbing either my back or shoulder, sometimes both, and shaking my head because yet again I’ve lost to a player I was sure I could beat.

“How does this woman or that hit those soft shots and continue to beat me?” I’ve asked coach after coach for years.

“Put more spin on your second serve.” “Get to the net sooner.” “Work on your consistency.” Are just a few of the advice catch phrases I’ve heard over the years.

Recently, a new pro offered something I hadn’t heard before, “60%,” he said. When I tilted my head in confusion, he clarified, but not much. “Just take something off the ball. Don’t go at it 100%. Just 60.”

“Ok,” I said with a smile, but was thinking Why would I go out on the court and half-ass it?  No way!

So I continued to go out and give it everything I had – 100% – leaving nothing behind and still leaving the court with my same old frustration due to another injury or loss.

And then I got it.

I was upstairs in the restaurant that sits above the tennis courts. From my bird’s eye view, two men were playing a singles match on the court below. I recognized the younger 20 something guy. He’s a power player with a huge serve and ripping ground stokes. His dad is a pro at the club. His opponent had to be well into his 60s. I wondered as I looked at the older man’s braced knee and taped wrist if he knew what he’d gotten himself into. “What a mismatch,” I said under my breath.

But to my surprise, I watched the younger man race all over the court, hitting every ball with all his strength, while the older gentleman utilized the younger man’s power, returning his shots with grace and ease, controlling the match and winning nearly every game. I realized what I was watching – a match between 60% and 100%. Guess who won?

The next day, I returned to the court a different player. I was focused and steady, hitting most of my shots cleanly and consistently and for the first time in years, I walked off the court without any pain, feeling like a winner.

Then an interesting thing happened. I got in my car and noticed I was driving more slowly and deliberately. I wasn’t trying to get to the kid’s school as fast as I could, pushing the speed limit, repeatedly checking the clock.  60%.  And while making dinner, I noticed I wasn’t rushing, grabbing food from the fridge while stirring onions and loading the dishwasher virtually all at the same time.  60%.  I didn’t try to carry two loads of laundry bigger than me or speed clean every room in the house. Even during yoga, I wasn’t pushing myself harder and deeper into every pose.

And I wondered Why had I been killing myself?  60% allows me to get the job done well, really well, maybe even better than my crazy, give it everything I have and then some 100%.

So, I think I’ll continue to give this 60% thing a try. Except…I’m definitely not sharing this one with the kids. I can already see it.  “But I did empty the dishwasher. That’s 60% empty.” “I did clean my room – that’s 60% clean.” No way.  This is one lesson I’m keeping to myself.