A few of my favorite bloggers have done “A Day in the Life” posts lately, and since I have enjoyed those behind-the-scenes glimpses so much, I thought I’d put a similar post together for you.  Indulge me.  Or forgive me.  Or both.  This was Thursday, and, for better or worse, pretty typical.

5:45 a.m.  My alarm goes off and since I am 86 and went to bed at 10 p.m. last night, I have no problem getting up.  I have a big cup of coffee and a homemade protein cookie (I’m obsessed with these) and I truly enjoy my alone time with God.  I read my Bible and my devotional (I love Jesus Calling and anything by Joyce Meyer).  I try and share something encouraging on Facebook and Twitter (yay for morning fellowship!) and lace up my tennis shoes.

6:20 a.m.  I run to my gym.  It’s about a mile away and I jog slowly, listening to K-LOVE all the way there.  There’s something about being out in the sunshine and listening to inspirational, uplifting music—it’s the perfect way to start my day.  Once at the gym, I switch over to NPR’s “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me.”  This and The Colbert Report are admittedly my only news sources.  Everything else is too depressing.  I do about 40 minutes of weights, chit chat with the other super sweet elderly people who work at at that hour, and then put K-LOVE back on and walk home.

7:50 a.m.  It’s chaos.  Lulu is still wearing her pajamas, complaining about how hungry she is, even though toast and fruit are sitting at her place at the table where Pea Daddy has lovingly left them.  Gigi is simultaneously trying to jump rope, read Little House and stay out of the way of her own awesome bed head.  We have about 30 minutes until Lulu has to leave for school, so I quickly get her to eat breakfast, get dressed and brush her teeth.  I comb her hair, pack her snack and send her out the door with Pea Daddy.  Whew.

8:30 a.m.  I have another cup of coffee and tame Gigi’s hair.  I make sure she has her lunch, backpack, water bottle, and gym shoes and we walk to school.  Hugs are exchanged.  I exhale.  I am alone.

9:15 a.m.  Breakfast, finally.  I’m starved.  Feeling adventurous, I try these Carrot Cake Pancakes that my friend Tonda tipped me off to. They are insane, and that’s a good thing.  Normally, I’d finish breakfast and use this time to cook something for the blog, but since I’ve cut myself a little slack lately, I use this time to return emails, shop online for Gigi’s birthday and then do something truly novel: shower.

11:15 a.m.  I drive across town to pick up Lulu from preschool.  She is in a mood.  Her lips are chapped, she’s hungry, she wants to watch a TV show, she wants to play Angry Birds, she just wants to be anywhere but the car.  We stop at our local health food store where I restock our yogurt supply, buy Lulu some chapstick and get her some Barbara’s Baked Cheese Puffs, to hopefully alleviate the constant begging I’ve been getting for Cheetos.  She complains that the chapstick makes her lips feel worse.  I pull out the big guns to cheer her up. (Click on this link at your own risk.  Trust me, I spared you my version from the driver’s seat.  Yeee.)

12:45 p.m.  We are finally home.  I make Lulu lunch, a sandwich with cheese, hummus and pickles, with a side of cheese puffs and fresh strawberries.  I pack Gigi’s lunch at the same time so I only have to do the job once.  I make myself a Hugh Jass salad and I follow it with a cup of green tea and another homemade protein cookie.

1:35 p.m.  I clean up from lunch and read a few stories to Lulu, who is in a slightly better mood.  I flip through this month’s Cooking Light for some inspiration (Veggie Grilled Pizza?  Yes, please!) and start a menu plan/grocery list for next week.  Lulu and I head outside to draw with chalk, hula hoop and ride bikes until it’s time to pick Gigi up from school.

3:20 p.m.  We walk to school to get Gigi, bringing Lambie and Blankie with us.  We chat with friends who have girls the same ages, one who has Gigi’s real name and the other who has the exact same Blankie.  And they have a dog who tolerates Lulu.  This friendship was meant to be.

4:00 p.m.  We’re home and it’s snack time.  I make Cake Batter Green Smoothies for us all and my aunt comes by for a quick visit.  We talk about American Idol, Dancing With the Stars and other crucial current events while the girls put on a gymnastics demonstration.  They’ve never taken gymnastics, so it’s brief.

4:50 p.m.  I frantically get the girls changed and head out for ballet class.  Our Spring Recital is in three weeks and we have all-day rehearsal on Saturday.  I’m class coordinator for Lulu’s class.  As a result, I’m packing heat.  And by that, I mean baked cheese puffs and chapstick.

6:15 p.m.  Pea Daddy arrives at the ballet school.  God bless him.  He stays with Gigi for her class and Lulu and I head for home, hitting the store on the way for the essentials:  more lip ointment and dinner.

7:30 p.m.  We eat pizza and salad (romaine, apples, balsamic, almonds and blue cheese) and I have a glass of wine (both the pizza and wine are atypical…the salad is not).  We make plans for Gigi’s birthday next week.  I’ve got some cake baking to do.

8:15 p.m.  Bedtime.  It goes like this.

9:00 p.m.  I return a few more emails, approve and respond to blog comments and check Facebook and Twitter. On a night I’m blogging, I’ll edit photos, write and get a post up.  Tonight, though, is an “off” night, so I’m ready to shut down the computer, have a cup of tea and watch TV with Pea Daddy.

9:45 p.m.  I usually have a bowl of protein ice cream, write out my workout for the morning and read (my current selection) until I fall asleep.  It doesn’t take long.  As you recall, I’m 86.

You had no idea it was this exciting.  But you know what?  It’s my life.

And I love it.

********************

The winner of the Rudi’s Let’s Doodle Lunch giveaway is Kristen!  Congrats!  Please email me your address to peasandthankyou@hotmail.com and we’ll get your prizes on their way.

Even though Sunday won’t be my first Mother’s Day as a mother, it still feels very strange to me that there is a holiday that honors me for getting to experience the greatest blessings of my life.  For someone to give me a gift on top of that feels a bit silly.

That’s not to say that motherhood hasn’t had its difficult, gut-wrenching and even nauseating moments.

I can recall far too many ER visits in the past seven years.

An ill-timed blowout during my grandmother’s funeral.

The near daily exasperation from both girls’ inexplicable aversion to book jackets.  Every single book we own is naked.  And there are book jackets coming out of couch cushions, toy boxes and sock drawers.  I don’t get it.

But it’s better than being covered in poo during a eulogy.

No matter what kind of day we’ve had, whether we’ve lost teeth or just tempers, the girls and I have our nightly ritual that brings me right back to that spot I need to be as a mother.  A place of love, appreciation and silliness.  And it’s not just because I’m giddy that it’s bedtime and I’m guaranteed ten hours of peace.

My favorite part of our routine is after we’ve read our devotional, Gigi having explained effortlessly, with words that can only come from above, what the Bible verse we’ve read meant.  Meanwhile Lulu has done upside down “headstands” off the back of Gigi’s bed, her nightgown falling over her head and muffling her prayers.  Bless her.  Please.

I tuck them into their beds, their blankets up to their chins, a worn Lambie, ratty-haired Rapunzel and greying Blankie tucked under their arms.  Their freshly washed hair is splayed out on their pillows and I smell the sweet mingling of  shampoo and toothpaste.

A pair of little arms goes around my neck and a voice commands, “Eskimo kiss!”

We rub noses.

“Butterfly kiss!”

I flutter my eye against a small cheek.

“Real kiss!”

I press my lips against a small pair, a pair that presses back hard, in the hopes of capturing some gloss or lipstick.  Most nights I’m a disappointment in that regard, to daughters and husbands.

And then the final command:

“SNACK!”

We erupt into giggles, knowing there will be no snack, but amused by the nightly request nonetheless.

There’s a final “good night,” an “I love you,” and I turn out the light.  I glance back in the room as I shut the door, feeling grateful for the night light’s view of my sweet daughters burrowing in their covers, snug and most importantly, smiling.  They drift off feeling love and feeling loved.  As we all should.

Happy Mother’s Day, to my mom, and to all the other mothers out there.  May your day leave you feeling love and feeling loved.

And a snack wouldn’t hurt either.

On Wednesday, I’ll be 34.

And since birthdays are all about indulgence, I hope you’ll forgive me if I indulge myself for a minute here.  I promise there’ll be cake in it for you later.  Just not the corner piece.  That’s mine.

Pea Daddy and the girls have been trying to get me to tell them what I want for my birthday, but it’s nothing they can wrap up and tape their homemade card to.

They can’t buy what I want.

I want to shamelessly wear even more pink.

I want the patience to wait with a smile for shoes to be tied on their own, even if it takes twice as long as doing it myself.

I want to walk to the park, even if it’s chilly and rainy and my hair will frizz and my nose will run.

I want to go out for ice cream.  I want to ruin my dinner.

I want to smile so big my eyes squinch up and if it gives me wrinkles.  I want more smile lines.

I want to read one more story, even if it’s late and I’m tired and hoarse from doing the voices.  I do the best grandma voices.

I want to continue to share my life here, without fear of judgment.

I want to continue to share my life here in a way that brings me joy and just maybe someone else too.

I want to concern myself less with myself and concern myself more with Truth.

I want to measure my success by how my husband, my daughters, that woman in the mirror and my Creator feel about  me.  And only by that.

Nothing.

Else.

Matters.

I want to love this beautiful life even more.

At 34.

At 64.

At 94.

And that is all I need.

Well, that and a homemade card.

And the piece of cake with the most frosting.

Thank you for reading.  Thank you for letting me share.

Thank you for helping me grow.

Originally posted April 24, 2011

Overheard on the stairway this morning.

Before the sun had completely risen.

Before a single plastic egg had been hunted.

Before a single jelly bean had been eaten.

Before a single chocolate bunny lost his left ear.

A quiet little voice squeaked out in the silence.

“Thank you, Jesus.  For all you did for us.”

–Gigi, Age 5

Amen.

I hate running.

I always have and I always will.

Even though I fought it, I came to this conclusion very early on.

First, when the mean girls in grade school would walk around the track and chat.  Whenever I would get near them to join, they’d take off sprinting.  I’d go panting after them in my worn-out Keds, without a prayer of catching them.  Good times.

Then, when my older brother won every cross-country meet, was the anchor on his 4×400 relay team and even went to the Junior Olympics.  He was a track star, with the nickname Fast Eddie.  You know what that made me, right?  How unfortunate that both the word “slow” and my name start with an “S.”

It sealed the deal for me when I was always the last person to cross the finish line in shuttle runs, 100-yard dashes and basketball conditioning sprints.  In middle school.  In high school.  In college.

So mortifying.

And yet, I’ve always been the type of person that makes up her mind about something and then goes and gets it.  I kind of like that about myself, and I’m not too modest to say that.

I did it–I made myself a runner.  In 2009, I trained for and completed three half-marathons in a year, with quite decent times, if I do say so myself.  And then I blew out back (my disc at L4/L5), and my running career was over.

Thank the Lord.

I was not running for the right reasons.

Here are the wrong reasons to run:

• Because everyone else is doing it.
• Because you want a collection of “free” t-shirts, participation medals, race bibs or the right to put a sticker on your car that says “13.1” or “26.2.”
• Because you want an excuse to eat a bunch of junk food and/or massive quantities to “fuel” your runs.
• Because you want an excuse to eat jelly beans on Saturday mornings at mile 7.
• Because you think it makes you a better athlete or even more ridiculous, a better person.
• Because you want friends and family members to line up in the cold to make you feel loved by holding up signs for you and cheering.
• Because you think the only way to be the size or level of fitness that society and/or you are convinced is “ideal” is to torture yourself by pounding mile after mile on the treadmill or the pavement.

Here are the right reasons to run:

• Because you love it.

That’s it.

(And coincidentally, that’s the right reason to do pretty much anything in life.)

So that takes at least 50% of us out of the running game.  I suspect it’s even more, but that’s for you to figure out for yourself.

Just because you can admit that you’d rather kick rocks than go for a run, that doesn’t mean you don’t want to be fit.  I’ve come to appreciate that I can actually be healthier in every sense of the word without running.

A big turning point for me was when I read Mark Sisson’s article, A Case Against Cardio.  (Thanks to Heather for alerting me to it.)  The main point of the article is that plodding along on our treadmills or sidewalks has created a nation of “overtrained, underfit, immune-compromised exerholics.”  Mark asserts that the path to true fitness can be found by combining some low-level cardio (think walking), some short, intense cardio (think sprints) and some lifting of heavy things (think weights and/or resistance training).  And perhaps most importantly, enjoying it.

I’m sold.

While I used to run 5-6 days a week, proud that I’d logged 30-40 miles, it’s rare that I hit 2 or 3 miles now.  In a week.

Three days a week, I lift weights.

One or two days a week, I do sprints (run as fast as I can for 30 seconds, then walk for 30 seconds and repeat 6 or 7 times) or intervals (I either cycle, walk, jog and sprint, or use the elliptical for 20 minutes, varying my rate of perceived exertion from 5-10).

At least one day a week, I don’t plan a workout, but I’m just active (Pilates, a short walk, a trip to the park with the girls or a living room dance party).

And on Sundays, I do absolutely nothing.

By my calculations, that’s about 24 minutes of “running” per week, at the most.  And that’s mostly just sprinting and then walking.  That’s more than enough for me.

I’m physically stronger than I’ve ever been and getting stronger every day, since cardio isn’t eating up my hard-earned muscle.  My back is pain-free since I have developed the core strength to support my spine and don’t have the constant jarring and pounding of long cardio sessions.

I spend less than four hours a week working out.

And when I do, I enjoy it.

I’m not trying to slam all you runners, especially those of you who really do love it.  I’m just trying to speak to those of you hate running and are trying to make yourself into something you’re not.

Stop it.

There’s an even broader message for us all in this—life is too short and too good to spend doing something that doesn’t make you happy, just because you feel the pressure (self-imposed or otherwise) to do it.

Don’t be afraid to switch things up if something isn’t working for you.

I never have been.

I kind of like that about myself, and I’m not too modest to say that.

It’s the perfect kind of snowy day here.

The kind where it’s the first day of Spring Break anyway, so there’s no worrying about school delays or slippery roads.

Yes, it’s Spring Break, baby!  Here’s fair warning that you may hear a little less from me this coming week as I spend my time with the girls.  (But don’t worry, I’ll share that sourdough recipe in our next post.)

Meanwhile, bikinis, sunshine and wild times shall ensue.

Or not.

Luckily, Pea Daddy was home when the storm hit, meaning I didn’t have to freeze my badonkadonk off during snowman construction.

The snowman keeled over exactly when he got his picture taken.

I never knew you, poor soul.   Rest in peace.

At least it was snowy enough to sled for an hour and then, like beautiful magic, the thaw began, leading to me finding my children topless in the garage, putting their pajamas back on right when I got home from the gym.

I told you there’d be wild times.

Fortunately, I was there to make the perfect mug of hot cocoa for all.

Sugar-free Hot Cocoa

Serves 1

Print this recipe!

• 1 c. non-dairy or organic whole milk
• 1 1/2 T. cocoa powder
• pinch of salt
• stevia to taste

*I suggest starting by using two packets of stevia.  If you don’t care for stevia, you can substitute maple syrup or agave to taste, but then it wouldn’t be sugar-free.  If you do dairy, I suggest using whole milk from the best source possible.

Combine all ingredients in a small saucepan and heat over medium heat, stirring frequently.  I like to give the cocoa a quick run through the blender before serving to make it extra frothy.

This is the good stuff, friends.

The bright white sunshine streaming in on my girls’ rosy cheeks as they thaw their little fingers on hot mugs filled with rich, creamy deliciousness.

No other pressing need than to just keep their mugs and their hearts filled.

Yes, it’s the perfect kind of snowy day indeed.

There doesn’t have to be any specific reason for a husband and wife to enjoy a night out together.

But in this house, I have a long list:

Gigi’s renewed passion for the recorder.

Lulu’s absolute meltdown every time she sees a Disneyland commercial and realizes there are no plans in our immediate future to go make lasting memories there.

The pathetic statistic that both adults in this house were passed out simultaneously at 8:45 p.m. on both Friday and Saturday night.  No Irish beverages involved.

We needed a night out.  Without wind instruments, OneRepublic montages and worn in, kitty-destroyed couches that sedate us.

Tonight we saw an excellent movie.

And ate at an excellent restaurant.

Keep your fancy sprouted, dehydrated, shi shi poo poo restaurant food.  Give me a huge scoop of guacamole and a fork at an establishment with integrity and I’m happy.

But with a silent movie and satisfied stomachs, the writing was on the wall for dual narcolepsy episodes.

Fortunately, I’d done my research.  I’ve seen several pins lately referencing anywhere from 30- 50 questions to ask your spouse on a date night.

That sounds like a lot of work.  Plus questions like “What one thing do you wish you could change about me?”would inevitably lead to only one of us sleeping on our kitty-destroyed couch.

I weeded out the questions I didn’t like and added a few of my own.  The resulting ten questions seem a lot more manageable and are quite telling.

So tonight we took the test:

1.  What do you fear the most?

2.  What do you look forward to the most in the future? 

3.  What things do you enjoy doing the most with me?

4.  If you won the lottery, what are the first three things you would do? 

5.  What is one personal goal you have for your life in the next year that I can help you accomplish? 

6.  How would you describe me to someone who has never met me? 

7.  What would you say are the priorities in my life based only on your perceptions?

8.  What is currently your favorite movie?

9.  What would you change about yourself if given the chance? 

10.  What is the best thing about our marriage?

Excellent.

We talked the whole drive home and I gained a new appreciation for my husband and our marriage. And a new date set to play basketball and watch The Godfather.

If only we can stay awake.

One of my favorite parts of the week is when I get an email from Lulu’s preschool teacher telling me her version of what they learned this week.

Rarely does her story match Lulu’s.

Frequently I’m the one who learns something.

The dramatic reenactment below is based on Lulu’s chapel lesson this week, as relayed by her teacher.

Seeing that today is the start of Lent, I thought the message was quite relevant to the next six weeks of our lives, and in my case, hopefully much longer.

Today I got up and had breakfast.  It’s National Pancake Week, so I had a heaping stack of fluffy pancakes, doused in sticky, delicious maple syrup.  I was running late and had to get Lulu to school, Gigi to the dentist and myself to the gym, so I just left the plate on the counter.

For lunch, I came home and threw together a big, fat peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it on the same plate.  I had a bunch of emails to return, a few Facebook friends to stalk and some pigs in helmets to exterminate, and so, running late, I just left my plate on the counter again.

Dinner came around, and in between carpooling and sending Twitter updates, I threw together some veggie burgers and fries with lots of ketchup.  Lots and lots of ketchup.  After updating the blog and responding to comments, packing lunches and reading bedtimes stories, I was too tired to wash my plate, so I just left it on the counter and went to bed.

What a mess.

Well, if you haven’t figured it out, the plate represents a day in our life.

All the crumbs, slops and drips on the plate are fear, stress, negativity and shallow worries.

When we pray, it takes everything in our heart and makes us fresh and new.

But we rarely take the time to slow down and clean our plates.  We just keep tacking things on until all we have left is a big mess.

Worse still, we can’t taste any of the good things that life has to offer because we are just piling them onto our dirty plates.

Just like our plates need to be cleaned, so do our hearts.

It may mean giving up a few of the things we feel we “have to” do to take the time and do a few of the things we truly “need to” do.  But it’s worth it.

I’m willing to sacrifice some things.  I want a clean plate.  I want to taste all life has to offer me.

Guiltlessly.  Unapologetically.  Fearlessly.

Because I know how truly delicious life can be.

Let’s talk hair.  Just for today.  Then we’ll make donuts tomorrow.

Promise.

It’s been over two months since I last flat-ironed my hair.  Who am I?

Though I’ve definitely had my share of bad hair days over the last few weeks, I don’t miss it a bit.

Because I’ve gotten so many emails and questions, I want to share a little behind why I hung up the flat iron and how I’ve learned to embrace my curls.  Maybe you’ll be empowered to embrace yourself a bit more too.  Because life is too short and too sweet to spend trying to fight nature.

Why go natural?

Hair has always been a big deal to me.  Literally, a BIG deal.  I think I must have about twice as much hair as the average person.  Growing up, I’d watch my mom put hot rollers in her hair to smooth it out every day.  I felt so grown up when I’d gotten old enough to set my own hair every morning before school.  This was in the days before flat irons and if I blew my hair dry and then set it in rollers, I could get a smooth finish for about, oh, a half an hour.

After reverse perms, chemical straighteners, crimping irons and sponge rollers, I thought my miracle had come when the flat iron was invented.  Really though, I just became a slave to it.

I avoided swimming.

I avoided rainstorms.

I avoided Florida.

And even when I told Gigi everyday how beautiful her curls were, I still would spend a good chunk of my morning trying to eliminate any trace of mine.  Hypocrite.

One evening I was trying to get a comb through Gigi’s tangled, wet hair when frustrated she said, “I hate my hair.  I wish it were straight like Lulu’s.”

So that was it.  The next day I put my flat iron away, and I haven’t touched it since.  Well, except to iron my shirt.

The Curly Girl Method:

After I put Gigi to bed that night, I started researching about curly hair.  I found the site naturallycurly.com and quickly learned of a method that many curly-haired women use to rejuvenate their curls, return their hair to its natural state and bring out the best of their God-given texture.

The method is outlined in the book Curly Girl, by Lorraine Massey.

Though you can learn more about the method in the book and also here, the basics are this:

• Stop blowdrying and flat ironing your hair.
• Stop using hair styling products with silicone in them.  These weigh down your curls.
• Stop using hair cleaning products with sulfate in them.  These dry out your curls.  You need the sulfates to remove silicone, so after a final wash with sulfate shampoo, stop using silicones and sulfates.
• If your hair is wavy or curly, you probably do not need to be shampooing it, or at least not shampooing it very often.
• A light, natural, sulfate/silicone free conditioner is enough to wash your hair with.  Yes, wash your hair with hair with conditioner.  (I feel guilty for teasing Pea Daddy for unknowingly doing this for several months when we were first married.  But then again, he doesn’t have curly hair.)
• Do not dry your hair with terry cloth towels.  Use a microfiber towel or a t-shirt.
• Put a good amount of styling product (silicone free, of course) and allow it to air dry or diffuse it, if you must.  But keep your hands off.
• Do not comb or brush your hair.
• Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize.  Use conditioner, leave-in conditioner, essential oils and whatever means necessary to keep your curls hydrated.

What We Use:

We’ve been washing our hair every second or third day with a light conditioner.  I’ve been using the very cheap Suave Naturals in Tropical Coconut.  It costs 99 cents.

I’ll rinse it out after rubbing it into our scalps and then I’ll “condition” our hair with a heavier conditioner.  We’ve been using Tresemme Naturals, which is also really cheap and can be found at most drugstores.

Every other week, we’ve been using a “low-poo,” basically a sulfate-free shampoo that will get rid of any styling product build up that the conditioner might not eliminate, but that won’t dry out our hair.  Our favorite is the Nourish brand from Trader Joe’s.

For a full list of sulfate and silicone free products that can be found at drugstores, see here.

For control, we use both a silicone-free gel and a finishing spray.

The Herbal Essences gels are also very reasonably priced and can be found at most drug stores, but I found them to have less hold than I like.

I splurged and bought some Deva Care Arc AnGEL at Ulta.  Deva Care is the line of products started by Lorraine Massey in conjunction with the Curly Girl book, and I really prefer the hold of this gel.  For me, it’s worth the extra expense (especially with all the money I’m saving on shampoos, haircuts and coloring), but if you are wanting to save money, the drug store products will suffice.

The lavender flax seed gel I make is also great for hold.

I finish with the Aussie Sprunch spray for extra control.

Styling is pretty simple.

After co-washing our hair, I scrunch it up with a microfiber towel or t-shirt.  Then I put in our gel and pile our hair on top of our heads with the towel or t-shirt (also known as “plopping”).

I’ll usually leave my hair up in the towel while I finish the rest of my grooming.  Then I’ll take it down and wrap the curls around my fingers to give them a bit more definition.  I’ll spray it with the sprunch spray for extra hold.

Then I just go about my day and let it dry naturally while I carpool, bake and write.

If I have to be somewhere, I’ll diffuse my hair so that I don’t go out with a wet head.  I use the alligator clips to lift my roots and then I use a method called the Pixie Curl method to dry my hair.  Essentially I leave the dryer off, scrunch my hair up with the fingers of the diffuser and then turn my dryer on.  I leave the dryer in the same spot for a couple of minutes (using the cool setting if it gets too hot) and then turn the dryer off before removing the diffuser fingers and moving to the next section.  I then finish the look with sprunch spray.

Gigi and I have both been using these methods for the last several months and have noticed a big difference in the condition of our curls.

I can’t tell you the hours I’ve saved on fighting with my blow dryer and flat iron.

What I can tell you is how much I’ve enjoyed swimming and walking in the rain.

And how much I’ve enjoyed just feeling like me.

And helping Gigi continue to love herself.

Self-acceptance is a hard lesson, especially as women, especially in our society.  But I feel proud of the progress we are making, learning to accept ourselves more, just as we are, every day.

It’s having an impact even beyond the two of us, though.  My mom showed up at our house this weekend with her own head of curly hair.  I can’t help but think we had a little something to do with it.

And she looked beautiful.

I’ve been talking to myself lately.

There is a beauty in having one or more children with you at all times because if you are in public, people assume you are having a conversation with those children and not singing a little ditty about toilet paper, glass cleaner, orange juice and razor blades.  In the Everglades.  I am a crafty songstress.

But when I’m not singing grocery lists to myself, I’m saying affirmations.

Like pickup lines I use on myself, they are cheesy, but effective.

Today’s was, “You don’t have to do anything.”

Oh sure, I have responsibilities.  But not every thing has to be an obligation.

I didn’t have to pluck all the grey hairs I discovered in the mirror this morning.  So I didn’t.

I didn’t have to take the car into the auto shop even though the check engine light came on.  So I didn’t.  (Shhh…don’t tell Pea Daddy.)

I didn’t have to wear two earrings.  I returned home after many interactions with many people to discover I was sporting one large cubic zirconia stud quite obviously with my slicked back ponytail.

Arrr, matey.

None of these things matter truly.

As long as do the best I can today to love my children, my husband, God and myself, I am accomplished.

I am nourished.

I am enough.

And so are you.

Coconut Collard Greens with Roasted Kabocha Squash

Makes 2 main dish servings or 4 side servings

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• 1 1/2 c. kabocha squash*, peeled and cubed
• 1-2 T. coconut oil, melted and divided
• coarse ground sea salt and pepper
• 1/2 c. sweet onion, chopped
• 1 bunch collard greens, cleaned, trimmed from stem and chopped
• 1 can coconut milk (full or reduced fat)
• 1 T. tamari or soy sauce
• 1-2 t. brown sugar or maple syrup (optional)
• 1/2 t. freshly grated nutmeg
• 2 T. unsweetened coconut, toasted

*Kabocha squash is a sweet, tender winter squash also known as Japanese pumpkin.  You can find it at some natural food stores or Asian markets.  I encourage you to try it, but if you can’t find it, you could substitute butternut squash or even sweet potatoes for this part of the recipe.

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Toss peeled and cubed squash with a pat of coconut oil and place on a baking sheet.

Roast for 20-25 minutes, stirring at least once halfway through.

Place a deep skillet or pot over medium high heat and add remaining coconut oil.  Sauté onion until starting to soften and brown, about 4-5 minutes.  Add collard greens that have been trimmed from the stem and cut into 1×2 inch strips.  Toss to coat with coconut oil, adding slightly more if necessary.

Pour in coconut milk, tamari or soy sauce, brown sugar or maple syrup, if using and nutmeg.

Bring to a low boil, then lower heat and simmer for 15-20 minutes, or until greens have softened but are still vibrant.

Add roasted squash to greens and place in a serving dish.

Top with toasted coconut.

If you think you don’t like greens, this recipe is for you.

Combined with sweet, tender squash, rich, creamy coconut milk and a toasty, crunchy finish, who knew collards could be so heavenly?

Oh yeah.  Me.

You could serve this over brown rice or quinoa, if you like, or add in some tofu or tempeh to make it heartier.

Today, though, you don’t really have to do anything.

But you do have to eat.

And drink orange juice on a caboose.

See you at the Grammys.