Learning to Slow Down
DEBORAH
Taxicab Therapy
#MiamiMornings Cabbing it out round town since 8 am because I’m bored! On some “taxi driver be my shrink for the hour, leave the meter running” type s**t #WhereAmIEvenGoing
Rihanna Tweet August 12, 2013
By now it’s probably clear that I have a special bond with New York City cabdrivers. If I am not involved in some kind of conversation with them, the ride just feels sort of empty.
Over the years of living in New York, I’ve discovered that cabdrivers are some of the greatest psychiatrists and philosophers. That twenty-minute ride can be better than a therapy session, and cheaper too. Many a time have I gotten into a cab driven by a great conversationalist with provocative views on politics or life. We might talk about the driver’s home country or what it’s like to be a female cabdriver, or who should be the next president or the mayor of our great city. Cabdrivers are often a kind of touchstone—straightforward, plainspoken and honest. As a reporter and a Southerner, I appreciate that.
Once, I was running very late for a lunch meeting and the driver could see I was agitated in the backseat; I was looking at my watch every few seconds and straining my neck to check the traffic. I could see him staring back at me in his rearview mirror, which made me even more uncomfortable. Finally he said, “You’ve got to breathe, because at the end of the day, it’s not about this stuff.”
He told me about his children who were now in college and how happy he was to have come to this country from the Middle East, where he could work at often backbreaking jobs in order to make a better life for his family. Suddenly my lunch at an expensive Manhattan restaurant didn’t seem so important. As we talked, I found myself relaxing with every click of the meter.
“You’ve got to breathe. I can see you back there. You’re not breathing!” he’d say periodically while telling me his story.
Twelve minutes later, as I reached my destination, I left the cab feeling so much better. I felt more gentle, compassionate and grateful for my life, pressured as it is.
You never know where you will find little pearls of wisdom or moments of inspiration throughout the day. They’re hard to come by in New York City, for sure—but they do come. It all boils down to your attitude and openness to receiving these messages of positivity.
Life is fast.
Especially if, like me, you’re a career mom juggling family, deadlines and travel. On any given day I am getting children off to school, working logistics for school plays and competitions, doing interviews and editing, maybe giving a speech and, if I’m lucky, squeezing in a run through Central Park or a quick workout at the gym.
Whew!
Like most people, I need reminders from time to time to slow down and check myself.
If not, life will pass me by—and what a shame that would be.
And usually, just when I need it most, God offers a moment of humility. Not long ago, I rushed out of my office to flag a cab because I was late to do an interview.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said. “Is this Columbus Avenue?”
I noticed her white guide stick and realized she was blind.
I said, “Yes,” and offered my elbow to help her cross the street.
“Thanks a lot,” she said with a smile, and was soon on her way.
Suddenly my stress over being late didn’t feel as important or urgent. I truly believe that God puts people or circumstances in our path to keep us in a spirit of grace.
Even jarring New York moments like the angry man who banged on my window because he didn’t like the way I was driving on Sixth Avenue, or the homeless man who is always plopped on the sidewalk near my local coffee shop with a sign saying “Will make you a hat for money” or the news of a colleague who was laid off in a round of downsizing—there are so many events in life that remind me to be in the moment and to count my blessings. I am aware that for all my stresses and disappointments, I have a good, fulfilling and happy life and that so many people have it much harder.
As my wise makeup artist Nancy said one day when I was complaining about a babysitter, “Those are uptown problems.”
And she was right.
Not a single day goes by that I don’t realize how blessed I am. Reporting the news means focusing largely on the negative, on episodes of violence or evil in this world. But there is often something redemptive to be found. I’ve interviewed a despondent mom whose son was killed in an accidental shooting, an African teenager who lost both parents and yet found the strength to excel in college, and a brave woman who lost her leg in the Boston marathon bombing, yet found the resilience and courage to not just walk but also run again! These are people of spirit and inspiration!
Sure, I’ve covered some things I wish I’d never encountered. Recently I was shaken up by my interview with a woman in prison who had tried to hire a contract killer to murder her boyfriend. And I still recall my rattled nerves while covering the Persian Gulf conflict, between the bomb sirens and walking through an active minefield. But just as my dad told me then, I always feel God beside me on this journey. I say a prayer when taking off for an assignment or before I go on the air for a live report, believing that God will guide me in all things. Thanks, Dad, for the reminder that I never walk alone. And, of course, if I get distracted or find myself momentarily harried, there’s always a good cab therapy session, which sends me on my way with pep in my step, reminded that life is indeed good and I have much to be thankful for.
DEBORAH AND AL
Oh! Christmas Tree
AL
Each year around Christmas, we do our best to get into the holiday spirit. Deborah is especially fond of setting the tone by playing Nat King Cole albums—over and over. Many years ago, she got the wonderful idea that we should plan a family outing to cut down our own Christmas tree instead of buying one in the city like we usually did. I agreed it sounded like a great adventure.
DEBORAH
It was a classic December weekend, crisp and cold beneath a clear blue sky. That Saturday morning felt like the perfect day to get in the holiday mood and find just the right Christmas tree. I could already smell the fresh scent of pine as we headed out to our weekend home in upstate New York. We were all bundled up in our warm wool hats and scarves. Within an hour we had left our hurried and hectic world behind and were walking along the narrow paths of a huge Christmas tree farm.
Our first challenge was deciding what kind of tree we wanted.
A Fraser fir or a Virginia fir?
Long needles or short ones?
Tall and narrow or average and wide?
Who knew there was so much to think about in selecting a Christmas tree?
The choices were dizzying. As a result, Al and I had trouble agreeing on the perfect tree.
You see, we had never discussed our personal preferences, which meant a certain, um, escalating difficulty coming to a final decision.
Like a lot of couples before us, we’d soon learn a valuable lesson in the art of communication.
’Tis the season!
I tried to explain that when I was growing up, we usually had a small Virginia fir. That’s before my parents gave in to the idea of saving money with an artificial tree (including a glittery silver tree we had for a few years back in the seventies).
Each year, as I run my fingers through those prickly, compact needles, I drift back to a time of wonder in my small Georgia home. That dazzling scent of fir was usually complemented by the fragrance of Mom’s cakes and pies baking in the oven and the sound of laughter that always filled our small kitchen. That’s how I knew Christmas was officially under way!
So as Al, Leila and I wandered the tree farm that day, I was partial to the Virginia fir for sentimental reasons. Once I shared my childhood memories with Al, of course, he finally gave in.
When we found a row of trees we liked, the man at the farm handed us a saw and said, “Here you go.” Somehow I thought he was going to help us, but he quickly disappeared into the sea of green branches. I looked at Al, and he at me.
“Okay!” I said, holding the trunk while Al sawed.
Leila, who had just turned three years old, was running around in circles, singing and laughing, playing hide-and-seek behind the rows of trees, having a wonderful time.
“Fa la la la la, la la, la la,” I caught myself singing.
AL
The temperature had dipped quite a bit while we looked for the perfect tree. And though we had hats and scarves, for whatever reason, we didn’t bring gloves. That was our first huge mistake when it came time to saw down our tree. Soon my frozen hands were killing me from the back-and-forth motion of cutting through the thick base of the tree. When it finally fell over, some of the needles clipped me across the face, and in the commotion, we lost Leila somewhere among the thick brush. Luckily, she wasn’t far, but for a moment I was panicked. I grabbed her in one arm and our tree in the other and began dragging it over to our car, wishing we had a minivan.
“Where is that tree man?” I thought to myself.
Actually, I was thinking something far worse, but this is a PG-rated book.
Deborah and I struggled and tugged until we finally reached the car with our prize. What had started out as a fun family outing had quickly become an arduous excursion that had put me in a pretty rotten mood.
DEBORAH
The tree was unwieldy and I couldn’t feel my hands anymore in the biting cold. I jumped in the car, started up the engine and blasted the heat to warm up. Al, with his sore hands, was doing his best to hoist our large tree over the top of the car and tie it up. At this point, we all just wanted to get home. Al was crabby, and Leila was now cold and crying. I wasn’t sure who was being a bigger baby! It wasn’t the joyful experience I had envisioned when we left the city that morning.
Once we were all settled back into the vehicle, we drove in silence most of the way home. Surprisingly, the tree stayed on top of the car—which is where it stayed for the rest of the day, even after we parked, until Al could bring himself to cut it down and set it up in our house. Not exactly a Bing Crosby moment.
We vowed to never cut down our own Christmas tree again!
And that was fine by me.
All was not lost, though; there was still plenty of holiday spirit left in our home. Our new family Christmas activity going forward would become decorating the tree!
Not so fast.
Yes, when our kids were younger, decorating the tree together was a fun and festive activity we all looked forward to doing. However, the older they’ve gotten, the harder it has been to keep that Christmas cheer going. These days, Leila will grudgingly participate while blasting Beyoncé and Drake through her earbuds instead of “White Christmas” or “Jingle Bells.” She’s far more focused on texting her friends than on placing ornaments. And Nicky is definitely more interested in playing video games than he is in handling tinsel. But whether they want to or not, I like to get the Christmas carols going on the speakers, light a roaring fire and try to create another holiday memory around the tree.
Oh well. At least I get to hold on to those moments with the hope and wish that someday they might look back on these days and nights with the same fondness that I have.
Being from large families, Al and I both have a deep love for the Christmas season. Trimming the tree and, especially, having our children near us still create feelings of wonder around the holidays. In my heart, Santa is as real as ever and the spirit of fun and laughter is everlasting.
AL
I harken back to the days when Leila was barely two years old and for the first time was helping us hang ornaments on our Christmas tree. Everything for her was low-hanging fruit because she couldn’t reach any higher! Chipper and excited, she’d do her best to place an ornament on a branch and we would hear, crash! One by one, the glass ornaments were shattered in tiny pieces on the ground. But it was so sweet because it was Leila’s first time decorating the tree and she loved it and therefore we loved it. Unfortunately, Deborah hates my taste in Christmas ornaments. In fact, she once told me that she was embarrassed by the carton of plain brown balls I scored from the drugstore. She was convinced that if we had people over, my balls “would ruin the look of the tree.”
DEBORAH
It’s true. I can’t stand Al’s balls!
You see, while Al would be content with buying boxes of plastic ornaments and throwing them up on the tree, I love the special homemade kind and the ornate, specially crafted keepsakes we’ve collected over the years. I have ornaments from my days in Georgia, Florida and Tennessee, all places I lived before moving to New York. Every single one has significance and meaning. They spark memories and warm my heart. I don’t know why this is important to me, but it is, and I wish Al felt the same way.
AL
You would think that I would have learned my lesson from chopping down that tree so many years ago, that I would never return to the scene of the crime unless I was absolutely forced to under duress or by threat of something worse—no Christmas tree at all. And that is exactly what nearly happened in December of 2013.
It was the weekend before Christmas and Nicky and I were heading to our home in upstate New York ahead of Deborah and Leila, with the idea of giving the ladies a few days in the city together and us guys a few days in the country to hang out. Our only mission was to get the Christmas tree for the house. Again, we didn’t discuss this idea very much beforehand, which would lead to trouble later on.
The next morning Nicky and I got up with one thing on our minds.
The tree.
The only question?
Fraser fir or a balsam?
Perhaps a Norway spruce?
Oh, right.
I’ve seen this movie.
We went to our local nursery, where we usually have great luck. When I pulled into the parking lot, I stopped short and stared with my mouth open, aghast. The lot, usually lined with trees of all different types and heights, was empty. Not a tree. Not a wreath. No roping. Nothing! For half a second I thought, “Are we in a time warp? Did we miss Christmas?”
I went into the shop and must’ve looked like a crazy man. “Where are all your trees? What happened?”
The nice lady inside explained they’d ordered fewer trees this year since they got stuck with a lot of leftovers last year. They had sold out of everything a week ago.
“No problem,” I thought.
There was another nursery across the street. So off we went.
Uh-oh.
They were also completely sold out.
It’s beginning not to feel a lot like Christmas.
That’s when I knew I had to call Deborah with the news.
A lot of times when I call home, one of the kids will pick up the phone. When I ask to speak to Deborah, I usually hear my wife in the background saying, “Just find out what he wants.” If I wanted to convey a message without speaking to her, I would have just sent an e-mail! Things get lost in the translation when I speak through one of the kids. And this time was no exception.
What I said to Courtney was, “Bad news. I’ve been to the usual places and so far everyone is sold out. I am about to go to one more store. If they don’t have one, I am going to go cut down my own. Tell Deborah what’s happening and that I’ll check in as soon as I can with an update.”
DEBORAH
Al generally calls me several times a day. Usually, he’s just checking in to say, “Hi, how’s it going?” So when I am busy chopping vegetables or about to take Pepper for a walk, I will ask the kids to take a message so I can finish up what I’m doing. If it’s important, naturally I’ll pick up. But I guess important is in the eye of the beholder, right? This time I should’ve picked up the phone. Instead I relied on Courtney’s relayed version of events.
“Dad’s got a problem,” she said. “He sounds stressed because he can’t find a tree.” So, of course, I got upset. I had no idea he didn’t have things under control.
Earlier in the week I had suggested that we ask a friend of ours to locate a tree for us or that Al should call the nursery that sells trees and reserve one. Despite my pleas, he insisted it wouldn’t be a problem.
“No trees? What do you mean there are no trees?” I said when Courtney delivered the news.
Christmas was only a few days away. Given our disastrous tree hunt years ago, it didn’t occur to me that Al was going to head back to the cut-your-own-tree place!
AL
I hadn’t forgotten about the last time we had gone to cut our own Christmas tree. But now that we were in this bind, I looked at this as an opportunity for a do-over. I was actually looking forward to it, an adventure with my son. The first time, we weren’t properly prepared. We weren’t wearing boots or gloves, there was snow on the ground, Deborah and I were sniping at each other and we briefly lost Leila! That was the antithesis of the wonderful cut-your-own-tree experience Nicky and I were about to have. I would make sure of it!
Given the elevation of our upstate home and the usually frigid temperatures, we almost always end up with a white Christmas. There’s normally at least three to six inches on the ground by the time we arrive for the holidays.
That was not the case in 2013. It was a record-setting brutal winter, but there was a three-week period of pretty mild weather leading up to Christmas. So it was an incredible sixty-five degrees when Nicky and I headed out in search of the perfect tree. I was in my best Everybody Loves Raymond look: jeans, a checkered shirt over a short-sleeve T-shirt. And this time I had all of the proper gear. It was fantastic! Best of all, it was dirt cheap! Cheaper than any tree I’d ever bought. I wanted to buy two.
Nicky and I each had a bow saw and walked leisurely around, debating the pros and cons of the different trees we saw. Eventually, we agreed on a terrific eight-footer. Unlike the last time, my hands weren’t freezing, my feet weren’t blocks of ice in the snow and I was enjoying this special time with my son. We were laughing and pretending to be lumberjacks in a great Canadian forest.
“Timber!” Nicky called out as the tree tumbled to the ground.
Our tree was a beauty!
And the best part was that we’d cut it down ourselves.
“I’m doing this every year!” I said to Nicky, as we both stood there for a moment, taking great pride in what we had just accomplished together. We even taped a selfie video of the entire experience and texted it to Deborah.
All in all, it was a really good day!
DEBORAH
I’ll admit, I should’ve called Al back right away. But I assumed that I knew exactly what was going on: Al was miserable and panicked, we had no tree, and I needed to do what I usually do—jump into action. I am nothing if not a problem solver! I was going to have to save the day and rescue Christmas! Of course, not only was I stressed out over the lack of tree, but I was even more annoyed at Al! Hadn’t I asked him to take care of the tree earlier in the week? Leila and Courtney rolled their eyes along with me as we all agreed that Dad had really messed this one up.
I began calling shopkeepers and neighbors near our place upstate to see if someone had a line on a Christmas tree for us. Finally I found Peter, the cheerful owner of an outdoor retail store not far from where we live. I pleaded with him to help me find a nursery or a group of Cub Scouts who had Christmas trees for sale. He promised to call me back shortly. Two minutes later, bingo! Not only had he located a tree, but he offered to deliver it to our garage to save Al and me the trouble. What a great guy. Christmas was saved!
Relieved, I called Al right away with the good news, privately gloating how it took a woman to turn a near catastrophe around. Once again, it was Mommy to the rescue. So I was flabbergasted by his chipper tone.
“We don’t need a tree. We got one! Look at your e-mail,” Al offered in a matter-of-fact tone.
I had been so busy tracking down a tree I hadn’t checked my messages for an hour. When I looked at my phone and saw Al’s e-mail, I was stunned. There was a photo of him and Nicky grinning and high-fiving as they showed off a beautiful Virginia fir. They were having a great time and even sent a little video of the two of them growling in excitement like two mountain men. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.
“It’s the holidays! Chill out! It’s all fine. I’m a lumberjack, and guess what? I’m okay!” Al said, quoting Monty Python.
AL
Deborah was seriously annoyed until she realized what a great time Nicky and I had had. The holidays can be a hectic time and can bring out the anxious side in all of us. I have found the secret to getting through the harried and trying moments is to remember that things have a way of working out. Even when someone has a full head of steam and the temper train has left the station, just take some deep breaths and let them vent until the moment passes.
Sometimes the most unexpected moments produce the very best memories, even—or should I say, especially—during the holidays. When things don’t go the way you planned, be open and be flexible. They might turn out even better!
I hadn’t planned on cutting down my own tree, but there we were, smelling the fresh pine, with sap all over my hands and pants and loving every minute of it. It doesn’t get more authentic than that. Nicky had a great story to tell his friends, and we had an amazing father-son experience doing something neither of us will ever forget.
The best part of all?
This time I had a minivan and didn’t have to strap that damn tree to the roof!
DEBORAH
Al and I learned a lesson about the importance of communication. Or I certainly did, anyway. If I had simply taken Al’s call or if we had thoroughly discussed our feelings about either buying a tree or getting it ourselves, we could’ve avoided a stressful afternoon. I also learned that the two words “communication” and “information” are often used interchangeably but they really aren’t the same. “Information” is about giving out and “communication” is about getting through. In the end, family harmony is all about talking to each other even when you don’t think it’s important. After twenty years of marriage, one thing I have learned is that communication is always key. Clarifying what you want and taking the time to listen can solve a multitude of problems and misunderstandings. It takes only a few minutes to talk things through. But it can take hours to smooth out a problem.
Family moments are not always going to be tied up with a beautiful, shiny bow. But cherish every one just the same. They become lovely memories even if they didn’t unfold exactly as you thought they would. In the moment they may be exasperating and chaotic, but appreciate that you are together. For most of my life I was the type of person who wanted everything to be perfect, beautiful and seamless, like the advertisements for Hallmark cards I grew up with. That was my picture of a happy life. But the truth is that happy is sometimes messy and disorganized and definitely imperfect. Moments that are disappointing at first can turn into the funniest and fondest memories.
DEBORAH
What’s the Hurry?
I am a very high-energy person, maybe even a bit manic at times! After a jolt of coffee, I generally hit the ground running first thing in the morning and just go, go, go. When it comes to getting things done, I’m a lot like that famous athletic swish—I JUST DO IT! I have a daily regimen mapped out that I follow on a regular basis. Sometimes the details change, but the routine primarily stays the same.
I am one of those people who rarely use an alarm clock. I have a middle schooler who gets up at about five forty-five or six a.m. So the minute I hear those footsteps upstairs . . . BAM! It’s go time. The Energizer Bunny’s got nothing on me! I get out of bed and within minutes my mind is racing with ideas and questions about the day ahead.
What blouse should I wear to interview a police detective?
Did I remember to move the parent-teacher conference since I’m shooting today?
What about the expired car registration? Is Al handling that or should I?
Remind Leila—again—to turn in the note for her excused absence.
And did we get a gluten-free cupcake for Nicky’s classroom celebration?
Oh boy. So much to sort out!
But after a cup of coffee—half caffeine only (doctor’s orders)—I’m good to go.
After making breakfast for the kids and sending them to school with our sitter or dropping them off myself, I have forty-five minutes of “me time” for a workout.
No matter how chaotic it all is, exercise will be squeezed in somewhere. It is my secret weapon. Since college, I have been an avid runner. When I worked at a local station in Orlando, I ran 5 and 10Ks on weekends. Running is my sanity. Twice a week I wedge in a forty-minute trek through Central Park. No earbuds, just the gentle sounds of birds and ducks, punctuated by an occasional screeching cab in the background. There’s nothing like that burst of adrenaline I get while pounding the crunchy dirt along the bridle path or around the reservoir. Some days it’s a tough slog. My stomach feels tight and I can barely get my achy knees to move forward, but somehow I do. And as I round the corner toward my turnoff, that dopamine, the happy brain chemical, kicks in. I am overcome with an exhilarating feeling of victory. My mind and spirit take charge. Now I can face other obstacles!
Running is like brain medicine for me, but these days my body doesn’t take the pounding as well as it used to. I’ve had shoulder and knee pulls. So I’ve been spending more time on strength training and floor work. I’m fortunate to be able to splurge on a personal trainer at least twice a week to punish me with twenty-pound weights, boxing gloves and killer plank exercises. By eight a.m., I’m usually asking myself, “Why would any sane person invite someone to inflict early-morning physical torture!” But within fifteen minutes, my brain fog clears and I have found a happy place.
By nine a.m. I am physically pumped, clearheaded and energized for my day. Within minutes I am showered and out the door to ABC, where that strength training really pays off.
• • •
Don’t ask me where this blast of energy comes from. I call it mania. Maybe it is a chemical imbalance. But I have been driven for most of my life, which helps, given my unpredictable schedule. Recently I left the house at five thirty a.m. for a flight to Columbus, Ohio, to interview a man suffering a rare illness. Five hours later I was back on a plane, flying home so I could be there to see the kids off to school the next day. As hectic and tiring as it was, it was worth it! My producer and camera crews don’t always see it that way when I ask to keep rolling, but when I offer to spring for dinner, all is usually forgiven.
I’m just as aggressive outside of work as I am at the office. If a cabdriver is taking Sixth Avenue instead of Madison Avenue to get uptown, it drives me nuts. The green lights are so much longer on Madison. I thought everyone knew that?
But this same trait that helps me manage my busy life has a negative side. For example, Leila routinely calls me out for finishing her sentences. “Mom, let me finish, PLEASE!” she begs.
My teenage daughter is also quick to point out how annoying it is when I talk over people—even if it’s out of enthusiasm. I try to catch myself, but I have to admit, she is right.
I am learning to slow down and reel it in a little, but it’s an effort. I try to listen patiently, but sometimes I want the short version. Let’s cover this subject and move on to another.
I often complain to Al that we don’t spend enough time sharing the details of our day. In an effort to share with me one night, he began to tell a story about a shoot he had that day with the cast of Ghostbusters for the thirtieth anniversary of the movie’s debut.
“Bill Murray was running late,” he told me, and then rattled off lots of details about what he, Sigourney Weaver and the others had chatted about before the cameras rolled.
As Al went on and on with his story, my eyes began to drift and my mind wandered. I really was interested in his day, but I was also waiting for an opening to say Pepper still had to go for a walk before we got into bed.
Yikes!
I was doing it again. I was allowing my thoughts to race ahead and not really listening. This is such a negative habit—one I’d like to break. My son can attest to this for sure.
Since Nicky struggles with learning and processing delays, he takes in information at a slower pace than many of us. It also makes it harder for him to express his ideas, and he’ll stammer through an explanation or a story. But I’ve come to realize that I can be part of the problem! Maybe it’s doubly hard to process language when the other person is speaking a mile a minute. A few weeks ago, he was telling me about a book report he was doing on Jackie Robinson. After a few ums and uhs, I started jumping in to fill the gaps. “So you need pictures? Will you talk about his wife, Rachel?”
“NO!” he finally said. “I already have a plan.”
“Oops.” Suddenly, embarrassingly, I realized that if I just slowed down, maybe he’d feel more comfortable explaining it. I took a breath and slowly asked him to tell me all about it, hanging on to his every word. And sure enough, he articulately detailed his plan for the essay. I was so proud of him. I was also proud of me. My son had taught Mom a serious lesson. If I can just slow down, I can enjoy my kids and maybe even the world a bit more.
I actually love getting critical feedback from my kids, and I take it to heart. As the old expression goes, “Out of the mouths of babes . . . wisdom comes.” Both of my children can be so wise in their observations and interpretations of life. They are in tune with their feelings and are brave enough to share them (when they can get a word in edgewise). Sure, there are times I walk away feeling bad, hoping my children won’t grow up with memories of a hard-charging mom who was more of a talker than a listener. But I think lately I’m showing them that I’m willing to try harder and to change.
Last summer I made great progress. One Saturday Leila and I were home alone. Al had taken Nicky with him on a trip to Washington, DC. After a rare day of sleeping in and a run through the park, I came home to find Leila still in her pajamas and making a smoothie.
“So what shall we do today?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe just sit around and chill.”
Hmm.
Later, I joined her on the couch for an episode of The Real Housewives of New York City. As Ramona began lighting into someone, I couldn’t take it anymore. I suggested we go for manicures or to the Jeff Koons art exhibit. Then Leila offered a firm dose of wisdom.
“Mom, why can’t you just be?” she pointedly asked. “You know you don’t always have to have a plan . . . or something to do. Sometimes life is calmer if you can just do nothing.”
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. My sweet daughter was absolutely right. There is no reason that every single moment of every single day must be filled with something. When it’s time to work and do . . . boy, do I work and do. She has seen me in action many times and even told me how much she admires my work ethic. But it’s just as important that my children know that I value calm and peace.
For the rest of the day, Leila and I did nothing. We made tea, watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s and chilled.
It was wonderful.
My friend Brenda, who has two grown children, recently told me that your family feeds on your energy. How right she is! My goal is to make sure that my energy is positive and calm. I know that there will be days when we are running late for the dentist or tae kwon do. But it’s up to me to help make those frenetic moments less stressful and even meaningful.
I think I am on my way.
Nicky started a new school in the fall of 2014. On his first day, the bus was very late and he was anxious, so I calmly offered to get the car and we drove. As he fretted, I relaxed, telling him that finally I would see what it’s like to get to another part of the city in the morning traffic. We laughed and he relaxed. When we finally pulled up in front of the school, we gave each other high fives. I offered him a drink from my water bottle and he sprinted up the stairs.
“You okay?” I called.
“Yup!” he shouted with confidence.
Maybe I’m getting the hang of it.