What should one expect to happen on a trip to a South African game lodge and safari? I thought I knew, but reality trumped my expectations.

We woke early, dressed and met the Lion’s Roar van at the entrance to our hotel. Immanuel, our driver, answered our questions about Port Elizabeth and the surrounding coastal country as we drove the 50 minutes to Hlosi, SA.

Upon arrival, we were met by Chris, an Afrikaan who was obviously nervous. He kept wringing his hands and had a difficult time meeting our eyes as he introduced himself and the lodge.

The lodge was beautifully and simply appointed with fine dark-wood furniture, comfortably cushioned chairs with hand-carved frames, and a wood fire burning in a two-sided fireplace. All of the doors and windows were opened to allow a 60* breeze to move throughout the house.

Salani, one of our hostesses invited us outside to the back deck for “high tea.” The sun was just coming up behind the ridge of mountains in the distance, and began to warm sections of the deck. Malik, my younger son and the pickiest eater of the crew, reluctantly tried what appeared to be a palm-sized pancake with cream and jam on top. “Mm,” he proclaimed, and I released the breath I was holding. My younger child hadn’t eaten more than 1 full meal since we’d left the U.S. 3 days before.

“You’re our only guests today, so the lodge is yours to explore and enjoy,” Chris told us as we finished tea. “Anytime you’re ready to go, just let us know.”

Our safari was scheduled to be a mini three-hour driven tour of the South African countryside. Not like the multiple day tours where visitors sleep outdoors in the wilderness and interact with wildlife. So I didn’t expect much more than a guided tour similar to the safari drive at Animal Kingdom at Disney World in Orlando.

Harry, our tour guide, told us to climb up a ramp to step into an open-air hummer. Once my husband, mother, two sons and I were in, Immanuel, our driver from the hotel, decided to join at the last minute. I got the feeling he didn’t usually do this type of thing, but Harry, a pretty cheerful guy, was more than happy to have him along.

Already, the winter morning had warmed to about 65* and I was able to remove my shawl as we drove over a dusty, bumpy dirt road and passed an odd-looking animal Harry called Sneezy. He sneezed at us and we drove away.

For 10 minutes, we drove over hills and around curves before we came to an abrupt stop at the end of the dirt road. We were perched on the edge of the mountain overlooking a huge valley that reminded me of a scene from the movie Avatar. It was breathtaking and all of us were speechless. I tried to take a picture, but the image looked flat and didn’t really capture the depth of the mountains, valley, river and trees spread out before us.

After a few minutes of moving around the ridge taking pictures and video, we climbed back into the jeep and Harry bumped us down the side of the mountain. We came to another clearing where huge, sturdy mounds covered the ground as far as we could see. Harry stopped, hopped out and grabbed a chunk of one the mounds.

“This is a termite mound,” he explained. He described the type of termite found in this region of SA. “They’re a great source of protein,” he said as he picked one out of the chunk of earth and put it in his mouth! Ew. Time out.

“Are any of you interested in trying one?”

Silence. No one moved, we just looked at him like we couldn’t understand his accented English. Even Immanuel sat like a rock in the front passenger seat.

“I’ll try, why not?”

Who said that? Was that my husband? I thought to myself, “I will never kiss him again if he puts that termite in his mouth.” But… ew, I’m gagging… he put it in his mouth and started to… chew.

“Hm, it tastes minty.” Whatever.

But then, here comes my older son with that look on his face. The look that says, ‘if he can do it, so can I.’ Sigh.

“Just bite the head off, Man!” Harry said cheerily.

A bite and a chew later, another termite gone from the face of the earth. “Hm, it does taste minty!” I’m disgusted and ready to go. So we left and moved on.

Out of nowhere, a huge black ostrich jumped into the path and started running in front of us. Next to us, a small family of warthogs scampered into the brush. As we rounded a curve, the brown dirt of the road changed to white and became soft. Harry pointed and we could see the backs of elephants moving through the trees below. The white dirt turned instantly back to brown and rocks were imbedded in it. We bumped up and down along the path until Harry slammed on the brakes.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “A nursery.” Sure enough, an adult giraffe was surrounded by 3 or 4 baby giraffes. Their necks looked short and their heads small compared to the mother giraffe. “This a female giraffe watching several babies. She’s probably not the mother of them all, but it’s her job to watch them for the herd,” Harry explained. He spent another couple of minutes educating us about how they sleep, the difference between the male and female and their eating and mating habits. Cool.

Eventually, Harry decided it was time for us to take a break. He stopped the jeep, pulled out a cloth and spread out wooden dishes and bowls. Out of nowhere he fills them with fresh veggie slices and pieces of dried meat. Amazingly, it didn’t feel strange to be eating eggrolls and samosas a few yards from a herd of zebra drinking from a water hole along the path.

Another hour and several animals later, we witnessed a zebra, an ostrich and a gnu standing together like they were sharing a joke during a coffee break at work. We saw all kinds of unique animals and birds – some I’d seen, but several I’d never even heard of. The 3-hour trip had turned into several hours of excitement and exploration. It was all so interesting, we didn’t realize how much time had gone by until Harry announced our return as the sun started going down behind the mountains. We had to have been out there for about 4 or 5 hours.

I thought the whole thing was over and we’d drive back to the hotel, but we were asked to wash up for dinner. Andrew, our chef, was perturbed that we’d taken so long and allowed his specially-prepared dinner to get cold, so we had to rush the “wash up.”

We were served a four-course meal that included grilled ostrich, roasted stuffed chicken, and an assortment of vegetables prepared in various ways. Our dessert consisted of chocolate mousse and an exquisite date pudding.

OMG! The date pudding was so good. I made Andrew come out from the kitchen to explain how he made it, show me the ingredients from the kitchen and, in the end, put it in a disposable container so I could take it with me. Delectable. Only Malik was displeased, but Andrew made him a last-minute fruit plate with fruits Malik hadn’t eaten before. So everyone was happy in the end.

After dinner, Chris took us to visit the cottages. They were simple but plush. Each cottage had a queen-sized bed with a pillow-top mattress and mosquito net around it. Each bathroom had a brand-new claw-foot tub, glass and marble shower and the floor was made of heated stones. It opened to an enclosed patio with an outdoor shower, Jacuzzi and a stone bench for sunning or air drying after a shower. No televisions, no internet, no telephones. A male ostrich chased a female across the lawn as we stepped onto the back porch and sat in outdoor chairs at one of the cottages. A monkey scampered up a nearby tree and a herd of zebras ran past in the fading light. I wanted to stay, but reluctantly followed Chris back to the main lodge.

Chris. The Afrikaan had originally been nervous and uncomfortable around us. Now he was making jokes, tickling Malik, and telling us about his life. He told us about moving to Port Elizabeth from “Jo’Berg” (which everyone in SA calls Johannesburg) because it was too fast-paced. He shared how much he loved the relaxed and laid-back nature of Hlosi and the surrounding small towns.

We stepped into the lobby as the sun finally disappeared. I asked Immanuel what time the soccer match between Brazil and Portugal started. He glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. If you’re not in a hurry, I’d rather watch it than listen to it on the radio.”

Ten minutes later, Immanuel, Harry, my older son and I were perched around the bar at the back of the lodge watching the plasma perched above the counter. Salani served beers to the men, wine to me and a South African guava juice to Little Maurice (my kids’ new favorite drink). My husband and mother had fallen asleep by the fire in the library. My younger son was outside chasing a monkey and an ostrich.

During half-time, Salani shared her story of moving to Hlosi from Zimbabwe because of social and economic unrest in her native country. She gave us a real-life account of living in a land of fighting and governmental instability. Her mother and brother were still there, but she and her sister had come with thousands of other refugees to South Africa to look for work and a better life. They were both working and sending money and food home to their mother.

I asked Harry if they often had Black Americans visit at the resort as guests. “No, not really. Blacks from America tend to go other places for safaris and tours.”

“What about Blacks from the Caribbean?” I asked.

“Almost never. Their travel agents and tour guides connect to other townships and countries.”

Is this why we were being treated like family instead of visiting guests? Is this why we were still here when our visit was supposed to have ended 6 hours earlier? Is this why I felt like I was visiting my family in South Carolina instead of a game lodge in South Africa?

When we finally got ready to leave, it was like leaving family friends. There were tight hugs, Facebook names and email addresses exchanged, and it took another 30 minutes to actually get out the door and in the van.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to go back to the Radisson Blu in town with its American/European amenities and W décor. I wanted to stay at Lion’s Roar where it felt like home.

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I was in the last city of our visit to South Africa when I realized it - my first child is now a man. This realization is different for every mother of a son. For some of my girlfriends, it’s a sad time… one of loss. For others, it’s with a sigh of relief. And they can’t wait for his big rusty butt to get out of the house.

For me, it’s a weird, strange feeling. Almost like I don’t know who he is or where he came from. He still has the same round face, the lashed brown eyes, the happy smile, and that charismatic personality that allows him to make friends with anyone anywhere at any time. He still hugs me, and kisses on me, and (tries) to sit on my lap.

But now, he’s my height and almost my weight. He’s wearing men’s sizes in clothing and shoes. He’s very discerning in what he’ll wear and how he’ll wear it. He walks with that male assuredness that women find attractive – it’s almost a pimp. Barack Obama – style. You know what I’m talking about.

In South Africa, he was protective of his family – grandparents, mother and younger brother. He was very confident as he walked around and directed my mother and me through a large mall when we’d lost our way. He always opened the door for us and stood back to allow us to go before him – looking around as though he would take someone out if they tried to harm us.

He and I had to share a room for a couple of days during our trip to South Africa. When he was sleeping was the only time I saw my baby boy. My first child. I could see traces of the infant they placed in my arms to suckle for the first time in the hospital. But then, he turned over, grunted, scratched and woke up. The baby was gone and the man was back. I continued to stare at him in… what - Confusion? Wonder? Amazement?

When did it happen? I had definitely seen glimpses of it on occasion. But I hadn’t had a chance to really sit still, be quiet and absorb it until our trip to Africa.

This man-child transition happens at different times for boys. And a lot has to do with the home situation. Single-parent? Older sister? Older Brother? No siblings? Younger sibling? Multiple siblings? A father in the house? A father who cares versus one who doesn’t? A mother that treats her man-child more like a child than the man he eventually becomes? Cherished versus un-cherished?

Age has nothing to do with it. Experiences, circumstances and lifestyle have everything to do with it. Because of this, I won’t even discuss my son’s age in this blog – it has nothing to do with it. All I know is, he’s a man and I’m stepping back to allow it.

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I’ve blogged quite a bit about my family’s trip to South Africa – what we’ve seen, done, and experienced. But I skipped a very important piece – how personally unprepared for this trip I was.

I think it’s a mistake most wives and mothers make… we take care of everyone else before ourselves. In case of emergency, we hear the attendant on the plane instruct us to cover our face with oxygen first, then attend to our children. But in real life, we would instinctually do whatever it takes to save our babies’ life, even to the loss of our own.

All of this explains how I’m in South Africa in the middle of the winter completely unprepared.

The Background Story

I love to watch sports. More than my husband. He’ll try to watch an NFL or NBA game on television, but inevitably, he falls asleep – every time. I on the other hand, sit in rapt attention to my favorite team’s match against an arch rival. I’m not a big fan of NBA play, but I love NFL football and I am newly addicted to soccer.

I had my son record the world cup matches I was most interested in seeing. And at the end of the day, after everyone was fed, the house cleaned, and all of my responsibilities as a wife, mother and business owner were complete… I’d get comfortable on the sofa with my pillows just so and watch all 95 minutes of whatever match I’d missed during the day.

I would yell and shout at the screen – at missed passes, poor ref calls, and inept blocking by the goalies. The goal scored against USA by England in the first 7 minutes of play at the beginning of the World Cup almost sent me to the hospital.

But what does any of this have to do with the weather, you ask. Everything. When I watched all 95 minutes of those matches, I noticed that all of the spectators were wearing scarves, earmuffs and wool hats. I remember seeing Desmond Tutu in a triple fat goose 3/4 coat with scarf, hat and muffs and thinking, I’ve got to rethink my wardrobe for this trip. So I did. I mentally began preparing my clothing choices. The main problem was that all of my winter clothes were packed into storage bins in the basement. It’s the middle of summer in Atlanta, GA. The weather has been a sunny 85-90*F every day. So I waited to pack.

I tried to discuss our travel itinerary with my husband. “Where exactly are we going? How long will we be there?” Stuff like that. Because in my mind, South Africa is a big country and we were going to be traveling to the far north, east, west and south. The weather could be different in every city. I needed to be prepared – especially for my children.

“It’s winter in Africa, not Chicago,” my husband responded. “It’s going to get to 70* every day. Don’t worry about it.”

And I partially believed him. I packed my children’s suitcases with care. Some short-sleeved shirts and a couple pairs of shorts each. But I filled their suitcases with light-weight long-sleeved shirts, jeans, and thick sweatshirts (just in case what I was seeing on television was more accurate than what my husband was telling me). I also pulled out their fleece jackets that could easily be rolled up and stuffed in a backpack. They were good no matter what the outcome.

I, on the other hand, had a bigger issue. How would I put together winter ensembles without the matching boots? Most of my winter-wear including a matching pair of boots and purse. But I knew we’d be walking a lot and I couldn’t wear my favorite Franco Sarto heeled boots on a safari in South Africa, so I opted for fitness clothing. Stretch pants with light sweaters, and jeans with turtlenecks. All things I could wear with my sneakers.

Problem… the turtlenecks and sweaters I wanted to pack were too thick, and I couldn’t get more than 2 of them in the case along with the rest of my clothing, a pair of shoes and my toiletries. So I trusted my husband and left the bulky sweaters and sweatshirts behind, and opted for thin, long sleeve shirts that I could wear under my fitted vests. Instead of a coat or jacket, I packed 2 wraps – one in beige and one in black. They’d go with everything I’d packed and they kept me warm through most of the Georgia winter, so they’d be perfect for the trip.

First problem: my husband forgot the kids’ jackets on the plane from Atlanta to Johannesburg. So there were no fleece jackets for either of my sons from day one of the trip.

Second problem: it was freezing cold in South Africa – North, South, East and West. It got down to 35-40* every evening around 6:00pm and stayed cold throughout the night until about 11:30am the next morning. So my husband was partially correct – it did get warmer in the middle of the day.

Third problem: we couldn’t get adjusted to the 6 hour time change for about 5 days, so we never woke before 2:00pm. Most of our awake time and activities were during the cold-weather hours.

Fourth problem: the only game we had tickets for was in the warmer city of Port Elizabeth along the southern coast. Great. But when we found out that Ghana was playing the US just 2 hours north of Johannesburg, we traded in our game tickets and boarded a plane for the northern, mountainous city of Johannesburg. We then rented a car and drove 2.5 hours north to Rustenburg. Finally, we sat in an outdoor stadium at 8:30pm to watch the 2-hour match. We then stood for 45 minutes in a queue (outside in a field) to board a shuttle to our car. By 11:30pm, I was frozen stiff in my thin turtleneck, vest and black pashmina wrap.

Now, outside of the point of my being a cold-natured person who is rarely warm enough for comfort; and despite the fact that it was truly quite cold in every city we visited in South Africa; and regardless of the reality that it was windy in and around the mountains and off the ocean (which pretty much covers everywhere we went)… I was also upset because I didn’t look very nice.

In case you don’t know, I’m a relatively natural girl. I don’t wear makeup very often, and when I do it’s only eyeliner and lip gloss. I have long “dred”locs and I simply pull them back into a ponytail or let them hang loose. I don’t really spend much time on my appearance.

However, I do like for my outfits to be complimentary and complementary. That means, my clothes have to fit me well and match. Sneakers with stretch pants is not the latest fad in America or South Africa. In fact, it was African Fashion Week in Johannesburg while we were there. So all of the ladies were wearing skinny-leg jeans or leggings with knee-high or thigh-high flat boots. They had several layers of light-weight long-sleeved shirts and it was covered by short, puffy jackets, scarves and smart hats. Ooohhh, how I longed for my boots in the bin in the basement. And I have short, puffy jackets – at home in the states!

Sigh. I know it’s all vanity, but who wants to be out during fashion week in another country and look like a bumpkin. Just not my style.

To further my anguish, my mother protectively suggested to me before we left to leave my rings at home. So I did. All of them. Diamond, wedding band, silver funky costume rings. Everything.

So… I’m a makeup-less, no jewelry-wearing, sneaker with jeans woman. I look so young, the people in all of the hotels where we stayed kept asking me if Malik (my younger son) was my younger brother. They thought I was traveling with my parents (my husband and my mother who looks young enough to be my sister) and my siblings. Only one man thought my mother was my daughter. Sigh. I just can’t win on this trip!

Last thing – I have no purse. That’s right. My mother scared me so bad, I left all of my purses (big, medium and small) in Atlanta. I didn’t want some petty thief to snatch my Coach shoulder bag. So all I have is a small wallet with a wrist handle made out of pleather with a cracked mirror embedded in the side. To make matters worse, the wrist handle broke during one of our excursions and I had to tuck the wallet in the waist of my stretch pants (no pockets and no purse).

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am having the time of my life. Literally. The things I’m seeing, experiencing and doing are life-altering. I don’t take it lightly that I’m here with my husband, children, mother and father-in-law. This is an opportunity many dream about and may not ever experience in their entire life. I’m cherishing every sunrise over the mountains and sunset into the ocean. I just wish I looked cuter in the photos.

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Most of my friends and acquaintances know that I like adventure. I like interacting with nature and hanging from cliffs over deep canyons and diving around reefs in the ocean. Maybe I should amend my joy of adventure to only natural adventure, because I obviously don’t like the kind of adventure we ended up taking in South Africa.

My husband, Maurice, excitedly applied for his international driving license before we left the US. As we packed and prepared for our trip, Maurice and I perused maps and discussed driving from one township to another during our 2-week visit to South Africa.

Upon arriving in Johannesburg’s airport, we went to the car rental and retrieved our Kia minivan. We stuffed our bags in back, got my mother and kids situated in the middle, and climbed into the driver’s and passenger seat on opposite sides of the car from what we’re used to doing in America. We were fine until we looked down…

“Is this a stick shift?” I asked him cautiously.

“Uh huh,” he answered me tentatively.

It’s not that he couldn’t drive a manual shift, it was simply the odd feeling of shifting with the left hand while also getting accustomed to driving on the left side of the road that was concerning us. So he spent a few minutes playing with the gears, adjusting his mirrors and getting his mind right.

Eventually, he looked at me and we held hands for a minute – he said a prayer for our safe travels. Little did we know how much we would need that prayer before the night was over.

Tentatively, he put the car in first, released the clutch and we crept forward a few inches. We turned into the left lane and slowly started to move forward. Maurice and I smiled as he successfully maneuvered out of the rental parking lot.

“Stop by the booth and grab me a map, Maurice,” I said as I played with the GPS monitor.

“No problem,” he replied.

Problem number one: no booth to check out; therefore, no map.

Okay. No problem. The GPS was working and Maurice was handling the road well. We followed the road signs onto the “motorway” and onto the various side streets indicated by the GPS. Thirty minutes later, we were at the Holiday Inn Express just outside Johannesburg.

We unloaded, unpacked and changed to prepare for the United States vs. Ghana FIFA match in Rustenburg, a nearby city. The game was scheduled to start at 8:30 pm. Maurice had timed the drive from Johannesburg to Rustenburg to be about 2 hours. So, at 6:00, we piled back into the van, Maurice programmed the GPS and we pulled out of the Holiday Inn’s parking lot.

Everything was fine for the first 30 minutes until Maurice realized we were avoiding the motorway N4 that he had seen several times and we were on several streets with lights. We stopped, reprogrammed the GPS and agreed to take tollroad N4, which would be a direct route into Rustenburg.

Problem number two: toll roads in South Africa are not like toll roads in the United States.

We drove for several minutes, then smiled and congratulated each other as we merged onto the N4. Immediately, we saw a pair of highlights headed straight for us. Uh oh.

“Maurice! You’re not in the lane! Go left, go left!” I shouted.

“I’m in my lane, I’m in my lane!” he shouted back, but he swerved out of the lane and the path of the oncoming car.

We rode on the dirt shoulder, spitting up dust for several yards while large trucks and miniature cars zoomed past us in the lane where we originally were.

“Get over Maurice. This isn’t a lane.”

“I’m trying! I can’t get back in now!” Maurice yelled back at me in frustration, as he leaned forward over the steering wheel. I could see the intensity in his face.

Maurice was gripping the gearshift so hard, I could see the skin stretched over his knuckles. My palms were moist with perspiration and under my arms was suddenly wet. The spot on the inside of my elbow where my nervous rash pops up when I’m stressed started to itch. My mother began giving directions and suggesting things from the middle of the back seat.

Eventually, Maurice was able to get back in the lane and we all calmed down a little. We nervously giggled and joked about the confusion of the lines on the road as we moved forward.

Suddenly, a slow moving truck swerved to the dirt shoulder, kicking up rocks and dirt onto the windshield. Oh $#!&.

“What’s he doing?” I shrieked. Maurice started gripping the gearshift again and sat up straight.

“I think he’s letting us pass,” Maurice whispered, more to himself than to me. He swerved quickly around the car, and as we looked back, the truck smoothly moved back into the lane behind us.

Hm. Okay. We got it. There was only one lane going in both directions, so if you were going slow, you pulled over onto the shoulder and let a faster car pass you. Cool.

Problem number three: There is not enough room on the shoulders of the N4 for a car to pass without going into oncoming traffic.

Considering the fact that there was not enough room on the shoulder for a car to pass without heading into oncoming traffic, your pass had to be timed perfectly. This wasn’t easy on a toll road as busy as GA400 in Atlanta.

How much longer would we have to be on this road? I glanced down at the GPS. 89km. What?! Oh no, I wasn’t going to make it. It was pitch black, the road was packed with cars, and my husband was determined to get to the Royal Bafokeng Stadium to see the kickoff of his team, Ghana, against my son’s team, USA. He swerved around a slow-moving 1984 VW Golf barely missing an oncoming minivan. This was going to be a long trip.

Problem number four: wild fires are purposely burned intermittently along the roadsides of streets, motorways and toll roads throughout Johannesburg and the surrounding cities.

About 20km down the road, Maurice sees a faster car coming up behind him. As he decides to pull onto the dirt shoulder to allow the car to pass, he sees one of the wildfires up ahead. At the same time, a line of cars is coming toward us.

I’ll spare you the details of the remainder of this trip. Just know, we eventually made it safely to Rustenburg and found a parking lot several kilometers away from the stadium. I scrambled from the van, thanked the Lord for our safe arrival and happily joined the other people walking toward the shuttle bus.

Problem number five: after the match, 35,934 people had to take shuttle buses back to their cars all at one time.

At the end of the game, my mother, husband, two children and I left the stadium in high spirits. We’d had enjoyed the game, made friends with people in the crowd and danced in the stands. We continued to be excited as we filed out into the field outside the stadium gates. We were still feeling good as we moved past crowds of people to the gate marked M104 North. The happy feelings ended as we queued up with about 800 other people to get through one small opening big enough for about 5 people to pass at once.

We were pressed tightly together with diverse people speaking many different languages, some drunk and high. Others were angry that the US had lost. One group of men started arguing with another group of men about whether it was nicer to live in America or England and why. 45 minutes later, my family squeezed through the opening and made it onto one of the shuttle buses.

I was happy until I remembered – we had to drive back home.

Thankfully, God heard my prayers. The GPS brought up a totally different route to return home. Even better, it allowed us to bypass all of the stadium traffic that was completely stopped on the N4 (remember it was only a one-lane road with toll booths). We could see it from the access road we were coasting on.

Just as we were getting comfortable with the drive, we noticed the road we were on was winding, twisting and going up.

Problem number six: South Africa is a mountainous country with small windy, unlit roads that go on for 100s of miles.

I have a problem. My problem is that I love to drive. I love to drive because I like to be in control. In control of when I go and when I return. In control of how fast or slow I’m driving. In control of which lane I’m driving in and when I’m going to switch. I love driving fast and weaving in and out of traffic on freeways.

This is a problem, because when someone else is driving, I feel like I have no control. And I didn’t have control over how Maurice was driving on this dark, winding, hilly road. Sometimes, I felt like he was driving too fast, or passing unsafely, or too close to the left side. I kept telling him, “you’re not in the lane.” But I’m not sure he was really listening to me.

Earlier that day, a brick wall was right on the line of the left shoulder. I tried to tell Maurice that he was too close, but he wasn’t listening to me and… grumprhhhtwphhh. The van slid along the brick wall. I didn’t have to tell him again after that.

But now, we were way up in the South African mountains at midnight. And all of a sudden, we were heading straight down, coming out of a curve at the same time, and there was a huge body of water lit by the moonlight in front of us. I couldn’t help but yell out.

“Oh my God! Maurice, you’re making me so nervous!”

Maurice yelled back at me that I was making him nervous by yelling at him that I was nervous. He wanted me to BE QUIET. So, I sat on my hands, prayed, and bit my lip for the next 1.5 hours. I have never been so happy to see a Holiday Inn Express in my life.

I’ve always respected my husband. He’s a wonderful person, man, son, husband, and father. But after the death-trip of SA2010, I hold him in a new level of esteem.

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How is it possible for a 16-hour flight to be more comfortable and less boring than a 5-hour flight to Vegas? My mother and I chalked it up to the days of mental preparation we’d put ourselves through for the non-stop flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg, South Africa’s international airport.

As my family and I got comfortable in our seats, I struck up a conversation with a lovely Afrikaan family from Durbin, SA who told us about their trip with their grandchildren to Disney World. They asked us about our trip and gave us tips and pointers about traveling in Zimbabwe and Victoria Falls. We talked with people who were natives of the US East Coast who had simply packed up everything and moved the whole family to suburbs around Johannesburg. The diversity and pleasant lifestyle were reasons they gave for the move. I couldn’t help but wonder about the possibilities of relocating my family here. What would schools be like? Would there be opportunities for Maurice and me in our chosen industries? What about the post-apartheid relations among the various South African races? I can’t wait to explore and find out more.

3 good meals, 2 deep sleeps, 4 movies and 16 hours later, we were coming into view of the southern tip of Africa. As we began our decent over the edges of the continent, the sun was beginning to go down, even though it was only 11:00am back home in Atlanta. Vibrant golds, fuchsias, oranges and pinks fused together over the outlines of mountains, ocean and grassy flat lands. I don’t know what I expected the city to look like as we descended closer to the airport in Johannesburg, but looking at the city below looked just like flying over central Florida – homes evenly spaced on flat land with tiled roofs and blue pools enclosed in back yards. Busy highways showed traffic slowly crawling through rush hour traffic. A van had flipped over and smoke was swirling into the sky as cars piled up behind it and snaked into the single lane left open.

Tears came to my eyes as we landed on the runway in Johannesburg. I don’t really know why – I can’t explain the feeling that came over me, but it was definitely palpable.

In the Johannesburg airport, a lively group from Germany drunkenly hugged each other’s necks as they sang the German Futbol fight song. South African porters and airport staff joined in. It was one big party of different languages and ethnicities united by the sport of futbol.

We’re currently on a South African Airways flight to Port Elizabeth along with several people from Uruguay, some Americans that now live here, and native Afrikaans and Africans. I’ve used more Spanish here already than I've used in the past 3 years.

I couldn’t help but have a flashback to pre-9/11. It was a breeze getting through security (I got to keep all my clothes on!). And they still serve full meals on all of the flights – whether your flight is 16 hours or 1.6 hours. And the food was actually good (or maybe I was just hungry?). In fact, my mother and I enjoyed delicious complimentary South African wine during our short cross-country flight from Johannesburg to Port Elizabeth.

I can’t wait to experience life outside the airport and on the ground. Stay tuned for my updates and some photos... more >>

I love surprises. I love keeping secrets about surprises for other people, and I love to be surprised. I'm always disappointed when a surprise for me is spoiled.

For instance, when I got married, I told my husband to keep where we were going for the honeymoon a secret.

"Just take me to the airport blind-folded. Don't tell me a thing!"

But days before the trip, the travel agent called me to confirm our trip to Trinidad & Tobago. Sigh...

Or what about the time my husband (then boyfriend) tried to throw a surprise birthday party for me when we were in college. I decided at the last minute to throw my own party and called the DJ to see if he was free.

"Yeah, I already discussed it with Maurice last week. I planned to get there around 9:00 to set up," he said, without thinking that I may not have known about the party to begin with. Sigh...

Anyway. This is isn't about me, it's about the biggest surprise EVER for my kids. A secret surprise that almost killed several people in its enormity. A secret surprise that got out a little too soon.

When the world starting getting exciting about the World Cup soccer tournament taking place in South Africa, I remember talking with my husband and saying... "wouldn't it be cool to go there and take the kids?" A year later, my husband announces that he's in the pool to get tickets to a match in Johannesburg. Huh?

For months, he had secretly been working on flights and hotels and travel between South African cities for the kids and us. When he explained the whole thing, I thought to myself... what a fantastic secret surprise. I didn't tell anyone. I started strategizing with him on how to make the trip well worth the expense, time and energy. By April, everything was finalized and we told our parents and my brother. First mistake.

Despite our telling my mother this was a secret surprise for the kids, she announced the trip to her brother and his children who promptly sent me a Facebook post exclaiming... "World Cup?! When are you leaving?"

Since my older son and all of his friends are my Facebook "friends", I had to quickly delete the post, and send the first of several messages alerting the family that this was a secret surprise. Sigh...

Next, my brother, who has adult attention deficit and a very poor memory, asked the kids... "Are you excited about going to South Africa?" They stood there looking at him dumbfounded. My husband gave my brother the "shut up" face and the two of them made up some silly story to cover up my brother's faux pas.

My husband later reported that one of the kids asked my older son, "what's your uncle talkin' about? Are you guys going to the World Cup?"

My older son responded with a shrug and a, "I don't know what he's talking about." And they proceeded to play a game of soccer in the middle of the street.

As damage control, I waited until weeks later and, while we were watching an opening match on television, I nonchalantly said, "Hey, I talked to your uncle yesterday. Can you believe he thought we were going to the World Cup?!"

"Yeah! I know. He said something to me too!"

"Your uncle's crazy..."

Sigh...

As we got closer to the actual trip, it became important for me to share the secret with those I worked with and the babysitter and the neighbors. Imagine trying to get all of those people to keep such a huge secret from my kids when they see them every day. There were several close calls, and I grew at least 4 more gray hairs in the the 2 weeks before the trip.

Four days away and now I have to figure out how to pack for winter in Africa when it's 90 degrees in Atlanta. More importantly, I had to get the older child to actually try on jeans and sweatpants because he has outgrown all of his clothes and keeps getter taller every month. He hates trying on clothes. He hates shopping for clothes. His brother hates waiting for him to shop and try on clothes. Long story short - shopping was not fun. 2 more gray hairs. Secret still safe. (chalked it up to school shopping while winter clothes were on sale - yeah, I'm good)

Three days away - my family are at dinner with my girlfriend and her family. She gets excited and loudly exclaims to her aunt and uncles, "They're leaving for Africa on Wednesday!"

I punch her firmly in the arm, the table goes deathly silent, she drops her head, and my husband turns to stone. My older son narrows his eyes and surveys the scene. My younger son continues to play his DSi, completely oblivious to everything taking place. Sigh...

Deny, deny, deny. That's my husband and my motto for this whole fiasco of the secret surprise. We pretend like nothing happened at dinner and go about our business without comment.

The Monday night before the trip, I'm doing laundry and folding clothes when my older son nonchalantly asks me, "Why does everyone think we're going to South Africa?"

This time I literally sighed out loud and sofly said, "Oh, Maurice."

He knows how much I love secrets and surprises. He knew I was sad that the secret was out. He knows me so well, he didn't ask me anything else and completely changed the subject. I love that kid.

Last night, my mother - who is going on the trip with us - arrived from Miami with her car loaded down. And when my older son heard that my husband was picking up my father-in-law from the airport, the inquisition began. I received a sad phone call from my husband as he was driving home from the airport, "We have to tell them."

My husband checked to make sure the video camera was charged, then he nodded to me. We went into the kitchen, gathered our parents and the kids and made the formal announcement. My older son had the decency to look somewhat incredulous. However, our younger son really had no clue. He was truly surprised and the look on his face made it all worth it.

My older son began going through all of South Africa tourist books my father-in-law had brought with him and my younger son began interrogating me about flight time, accommodations, the language barrier, and his selective eating habits.

Even though we were unable to keep the secret, our children are just as excited as they would have been if they hadn't found out until we arrived at the airport. This trip is an adventure and memory that will last all of our lifetimes. What we experience as individuals and a group will be shared with family, friends and those who don't even exist today.

My motto has always been to live without regrets and do everything I can while I'm able. This trip has meaning on so many levels, I cannot begin to put it into words. All I can say is I appreciate my husband and the spirit that allowed this to be, and I can't wait to blog about the experience... more >>

Yesterday was my 14th wedding anniversary. To some, that's a long time and to others, we're still babies with some "stuff" to go through. I started reflecting on my husband, Maurice, and my parents and grandparents. My parents made it 16 years before they ended everything in divorce. Maurice's parents were married for 29 years before the untimely death of my mother-in-law. But our grandparents - that's a different story all together...

My grandparents on my father's side were not only married forever, but when my grandmother fell ill from a stroke and needed 24 hour care, my grandfather stayed by her side for YEARS, nursing her, bathing her, feeding her, watching television with her. His love and allegiance was not only in words, but he showed it in his deeds. My grandmother passed away a few years ago, and my grandfather is still going strong at the age of 90.

My grandparents on my mother's side were also married forever. They were hilarious because they were COMPLETE opposites. My grandmother was loud, boisterous, and big. My grandfather was soft-spoken, a man of few words, very strong (physically and mentally) and extremely thin. I loved laying in their bed because you could tell where she slept (big dip in the mattress) and where he slept (higher than the rest of the mattress). They had 13 children, but 3 died before I was born. The remaining 10 included 7 boys and 3 girls, one of which is my mother. Those 10 were SO close-knit and supportive - I've lived with two of them and consider all of them my surrogate fathers and mothers. Their children are more like siblings to me than cousins. And we cousins have continued the tradition of closeness. 3 of my younger cousins have lived with me for various reasons and I've become like a surrogate mother to some of them. My children and my cousins' children are as close as I am with my cousins. My mother's parents provided a real-life example of what family is. We stand up for one another, we're there for each other, and we help each other whenever it's needed... even down to raising each others' children if necessary.

But the real reason for this blog is Grandma Alice. My husband's mother's mother. My grandmother-in-law. She died earlier this month at the age of 90. Maurice, the kids and I went to be with her during the Easter Holiday, because she'd fallen very ill and the doctor's didn't think she'd make it long. A month later, 12 of her 13 children and their spouses and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were gathered together in a small church on a hill in the heart of Vicksburg, MS for her homegoing services. It was truly a celebration as we sang, clapped and laughed at memories of a diminutive woman with a sweet voice, but a quick and, sometimes sharp, tongue. She said what was on her mind, but said it with the sweetest smile.

I named this blog "Shero" because Grandma Alice and her late husband Monroe did something I've never known anyone in my life to do. They raised 13 Black-American children in segregated and racist Mississippi in the 1940s, 50s, 60s and 70s. Not only did they raise these children without one dying, but each and every one of the boys and girls were educated and went on to some level of success. A doctor, successful business men and women, honored military officers. Not one of them a criminal, not one addicted to drugs or alcohol, not one a high-school or college drop out. Now, some families may be able to boast of this, but how many would also be able to say they are as close-knit as my mother's family? The 13 children were present and supportive of each others' college graduations, successes, marriages, and the successes of their children. Even though they're spread out among Texas, California and Mississippi, 2 or 3 live in the same cities to be a support for one another. And like my mother's family, their children know each other more like siblings than cousins. My kids cried when we had to come home from Mississippi earlier this month. They didn't want to leave their cousins and the activities in which they were engaged. That's what family truly is.

I couldn't stop thinking about the challenges that Grandma Alice and Grandpa Monroe must have faced living in racist and rural Mississippi throughout the 1930s before they moved to the city of Vicksburg. I thought about the stories I'd read and heard of lynchings and brutality against Black people in cities throughout Mississippi from slavery to present. I'd heard of a lack of amenities like running water and, in some places, electricity. And the education system was and still is one of the worst in the nation. But despite all of these statistics and facts, a Black couple with dark skin, short and stocky in nature, African features and not much money birthed 13 children from the 1930s to the 1960s, educated them, taught them values and love, and didn't lose one to the negative statistics of the time and place. They typical reasons Black people give for their failures, the Williams family overcame - 13 times - and more with the grandchildren they also raised.

Times are different now, but are they really? There is still blatant racism and segregation all around me in my little southern community of Lilburn, Georgia. I spend the majority of my time with my boys teaching them respect and love for each other and their peers. Unfortunately, I also have to explain why someone may look at them differently than the White children in their class or in the store, especially since they both have "dreadlocks." My husband and I have to teach them to be strong in their values and beliefs, know the history of Black people in America, and value education in all forms. Just like our parents taught us, we're teaching them they have to be better than good, because good is simply not good enough.

I have only a couple of heros - people I admire for doing things against the odds. Grandma Alice is right up there with Malik el Hajj Shabazz in my mind and heart. But because life is different for a woman than a man, she gets the higher distinction of being my Shero. I'm glad I was able to experience a few years of her light before she moved on - I am encouraged to keep teaching love, values, education, and strength to my sons because of her example. more >>

My mother’s 2007 Christmas gift to the children sat in our garage until April 2009. If I told you why, that would lead to another story, and I want to stay focused today. It was a trampoline for my sons. It was the largest, most industrial, safest trampoline my mother could find, because… “I don’t want my grandbabies getting hurt out there.”

I remember the day my husband and brother put the trampoline up. It was so large, we couldn’t find a space in our back yard – which is a wooded forest – to put it. When we tried putting it in a clearing between our house and the neighbor’s, we received “feedback” from the neighbor. So, several tree cuttings later, the trampoline sat squarely in the middle of our back yard… in direct view of my bedroom windows.

When you were a kid, do you remember the house where all of the kids from the neighborhood hung out? Well somehow, that house became my house. When the trampoline first went up, there were no more than 3 kids allowed on it at any one time, and the older kids directed which children, based on weight and height, could participate at the same time. It was very systematic and I proudly watched from my bedroom window as they fairly managed equal amounts of jump time.

In the beginning, there were only 5 or 6 boys gathered in my backyard after school. But as the school year ended and summer rolled around, the number grew to 10, then 12, then more – girls too. And eventually, the restrictions lessened so that about 6 - 8 kids of various sizes were jumping at once. One day, as I watched with concern, two children aimed balls at the jumpers and they began a dangerous game of Jump-Away-Dodge-Ball. Instead of running outside and putting an end to the risky business, I watched, mesmerized, as the kids were actually able to dodge the balls and flip and fall and get back up. They laughed and high-fived each other as the ones that were hit were replaced by the ones aiming balls into the pit.

Winter soon rolled around, and I was sure the trampoline would be forgotten as the weather turned cold. But the creativity of children is amazing. They found that jumping and falling and bumping into each other with thick, fat coats on was even more fun than jumping without the extra padding. A new game of Bumper-Bodies was created and whoever fell off, was out. Now this may sound unsafe, and it probably was. But as I watched from my bedroom window, ready to spring and run to save a hurt child, they would bump someone off the edge and, he or she would roll softly onto the bed of dead pine needles and leaves. Unscathed, they’d get up, dust off, and get back on.

In January, it snowed, and this brought on a new game of See-Who-Can-Make-The-Snow-Bounce-Highest. That game was combined with Bumper-Bodies and Jump-Away-Dodge-Ball (note: balls were replaced with snowballs that week). And the kids never stopped coming.

One day last month, I noticed there were no kids jumping in my backyard. For the previous 12 months, there had been kids moving vertically in my backyard every non-rainy day. So the absence of bouncing children was a bit strange. Upon closer inspection, I noticed there was a strange dip in the normally taut material in the center of the trampoline. Hm. Eventually, my sons and 4 of their partners in crime trooped into the kitchen with serious faces. “Uh, Mom…”

I’ll spare you the lengthy details of 6 boys trying to explain how they broke the trampoline, but I will tell you that it involved a highly complicated game of heaviest, largest children on one end all jumping as hard as they could at once while small children lifted the rim on the opposite end. Don’t ask… I still don’t understand the concept.

I knew this would be the end of the trampoline and my backyard as the clubhouse. And I have to admit, I was actually a little sad. I would miss seeing how the kids communicated and interacted. I would miss watching them argue and then figure out solutions to their disagreements. I would miss watching new children become part of the Trampoline Family. But most, I would miss watching how innovative they were as they created fresh new ideas for games and activities on the trampoline.

So, you can imagine my surprise when the next afternoon, there were at least 7 kids in my backyard. I stopped what I was doing and sat, mesmerized again, as they worked like little ants to carefully take apart the trampoline. Over the next week, they pulled, pushed, propped, and pitched the poles and metal from the rim of the trampoline. Then they stretched the fabric and netting over the corners of the poles and rim. By the next weekend, they had a covered clubhouse. The twins from up the block brought chairs, and another child from across the street brought an old wooden crate his parents had thrown out to be a makeshift table. Children from everywhere brought books, and toys, and stuff, and things. (I’m not sure how I feel about all that stuff in my backyard, but we’ll discuss that at another time.)

There is a lot to learn from observing children. My sons and their neighborhood friends clearly demonstrated three important facts:

1. When you get tired of playing the game, create a new one. It can be just as much fun as the old one – maybe better.
2. There’s room for everyone to get in the game if you take turns and follow the rules. You don’t have to turn anyone away.
3. When the game becomes obsolete, reinvent it.

Our house is still the house where all the neighborhood kids hang out. And I think I like that… more >>

I’m planning my 40th birthday celebration. It’s not until December, but I like to plan. Because I’ve started so early, I find myself reflecting on the last 20 years. It’s strange for me, because I don’t feel like that many years have passed. It feels like I did a whole lot of stuff in just a few years.

For most of the people I know, they become morose and depressed as they reflect on the shoulda, coulda, woulda’s of their lives. When I think about my last 20 years, I smile, laugh out loud, shed a tear, and wonder – “How did I do that?”

I didn’t leave college with a plan. I just did what was expected after you leave business school – I went to work for a major company in their management development program. All of my peers did the same thing, and many of them are now Directors, VPs and top executives at companies around the world. But I knew early on, it just wasn’t for me. I hate pantyhose – always have. I love to wear heels, but not the kind that are appropriate for Corporate America. I like to wear suits, but my taste is a bit more colorful, shape-showing and sometimes Bohemian. Not exactly the right fit for a Fortune 500 company. So I left the rat race – against the advice of my peers, friends and mother – and started teaching aerobics and personal training in a gym. I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

I didn’t have a plan for a relationship or it’s future. I just did what felt right. I continued dating my college sweetheart after graduation and between multiple long distance moves, because no one was better than he was and is. When he asked me to marry him, I was shocked because - unlike most of my college friends - I wasn’t trying to hook a man, I was partying and enjoying life. So... we got married. I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

When we found out I was pregnant, we – and my entire family – were completely surprised. My family was concerned because I loved to travel and get lost and end up in weird places and explore and come home whenever I felt like it. I loved to party and sleep and get up whenever I wanted to and… just be free to be me. But sure enough, along came my first son, and I fell in love immediately. And he simply traveled with me and got lost with me and explored the world with my husband and me. Having a child stifles some people. For me, it made exploring and learning even more fascinating because I experienced the wonders of life through my baby’s eyes. And I didn’t stop partying - I just got a babysitter and kept on dancing with wild abandon to drummers and house music and hip hop. I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

I decided to take advantage of an ad I saw in a fitness magazine for aerobic instructors to teach while traveling. So, I taught Yoga and dance and water aerobics at resorts in Jamaica for many years. I got free vacations, made wonderful friends that I still talk to and visit in Jamaica, and I feel like I have another home to go back to. I explored Jamaica with my husband and my son, and had one of the best girlfriends' parties ever there. I was REAL happy and having LOTS of fun and that’s what life is about.

One year, I thought I could make a fitness video just like Donna Richardson. So I did. In fact, I made six of them that sell internationally. And I made a television show that aired for two years. And I hosted the fitness segment on the weekend news for over a year. And I started presenting on the fitness conference circuit. So what if I was pregnant with my second child and raising a 3-year old toddler. I did it all anyway. Why not? I was happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

Who decides to pack up their entire life – spouse, children, tv career, local fame – and move to another state and start all over again? Me. And it was the best move of my life. I spent a year getting my children settled in a new house, in new schools, and personally making new friends. Then I thought about what I hadn’t done in life and still wanted to do. I wanted to open my own fitness studio. So I did. The classes are packed, we’re hosting private exotic dance parties almost every week, I get to do Yoga every day, and I’m positively changing peoples’ lives every day. I am happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

Who thought a woman that likes to dance barefoot, water ski in a thong bikini, and knows more hip hop history than most men raised in the 80s could be a community leader? Not many people. But sure enough, I’m the president of the a local business organization, a regular fixture at the county’s Chamber of Commerce, a former representative for the school board, and very involved in local economic development. I am happy and having fun and that’s what life is about.

Was it all good times and easy street and fun? No. There were - and still are - challenges, struggles, mistakes and painful endings. But those things make life interesting and colorful. They also make the good times feel so much better. They create character, empathy and understanding. They keep hypocrisy at bay. Most importantly, they offer wisdom that can only come from personal experience.

So here I am. 8 months shy of 40. I’ve done more with my life in the last 19 years than most people do in a lifetime. I have absolutely no regrets about any of my decisions in life. I’ve experienced life as a single person and a married person, a mother of a newborn and a mother of a son as tall as I am, an employee and a business owner, a face in the crowd and a leader in the community, a shy wall-flower and a party animal, a student and a teacher, a magazine reader and the cover model on a magazine, an avid reader and a popular writer. I don’t have limits. I don’t allow people to tell me what I cannot do. More importantly, I don’t allow me to tell me what I cannot do. I live every day like a new opportunity to create an adventure without restrictions. I am happy and having fun and that’s what life is about. more >>

I know better than to think that 15 minutes is more than enough time to gather my notes, computer, fix myself up, check on the kids home from spring break, and drive to the studio for my private training client. I'm right.

3:40 pm
That's what the glowing red numbers indicate on the digital clock beside my bed. I had come home from work since the boys were home for spring break. They were doing their usual thing - picking on each other, screaming names at each other, throwing pillows and sharp objects across the landing and down the stairs at each other. Nothing special. So I had holed up in my bedroom, spread stacks of papers, receipts, invoices and contracts around me on the bed, and propped my cute little MacBook on the lap desk my mother gave me for Christmas.

(Note: I LOVE my lap desk. My mother loves holidays and preparing gifts - especially for holidays (see my blog "Vacation"). What makes her even more special is that she knows her targets well and always gives gifts her recipients will use and cherish. Hence my appreciation for the lap desk - she knows I love to sit in my bed and she knows I love to work on my laptop. Now I do it on my lap desk.)

As I finish paying the last invoice online and noting it in one of my many black cash books, I glance at the clock and see the time. 20 minutes before my next client.

3:45 pm
I file and repack all the stacks and zip my precious Apple notebook into my computer bag. I (reluctantly) climb down from the bed and go to inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. Everything looks good, so I smooth down my shirt, blot a little shine from my face with a hand towel, and exit my private sanctuary grabbing my computer bag as I go.

3:48 pm
"Mommmmm, my eyes are BURNING," my preteen says as he rubs his red, puffy, allergy eyes. Tears leak out of the corner of his left eye as he tries to see through his swollen lids.

Sigh... I run back to my bathroom, dig through my makeup case until I find the bottle of Allergy eyedrops. As I run back out and tilt his head back, my cell phone rings. I prop the phone between my shoulder and ear and start whisper/pointing directions to the preteen who really hates getting drops in his eyes.

Soccer coach wants him to play a tournament in Charlotte, NC next weekend. Can he make it? Hm, can he drive himself up there? Sigh... I'm holding my computer bag, two purses (one black, one brown - I have to match and I haven't had a chance to switch them yet), a cell phone to my ear, squeezing a bottle of eyedrops into a squirming preteen's eye and trying to think of my husband and my work/travel schedule for the next weekend. "Uh, can I check with my husband and get back to you by 5:00 today?"

3:55 pm
I put the bottle of drops on the table, ask the boys not to fight until I get back home (yeah, right), snatch my keys off the counter and run out the door. I have exactly 5 minutes to drive 6 miles through stop lights to my 4:00 client. I can do it!

3:58 pm
I am cruising through the 1st of 3 stop lights and talking to my husband on the cell about the soccer tournament when I notice a huge gold and black wasp as big as my pinky finger sitting calmly on my leg.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGGRRRRRRHHHHHHHAAAA!"

I beat, slap and pound on my leg with the cell phone. The wasp and my cell phone go flying across the car. As the protective case around my cell phone smashes apart (thank goodness for those hard plastic cases), my mind registers that I am driving 45 mph down a two-lane street. I look up and notice I am careening into the other lane and swerve back into mine. Then I hear my husband's tiny voice somewhere in space - "Thea, Thea, Thea!"

I grope around on the floor of the passenger side with one eye on the wasp climbing the passenger-side door and the other on the street. I calmly smile into the phone, "Oh, hi Maurice. Sorry about that. A wasp was on my lap." Out of the corner of my eye, I see the wasp climbing to the level of the window. "Uh, I have to go now. I'll call you back, okay?" I drop the phone on the seat next to me and check the time on the dashboard.

4:01
Normally my being a minute or two late wouldn't be a problem. But our studio isn't open until 5:00pm in the evenings. That means my client will be waiting outside of a locked, dark studio in the heat and pollen. We don't treat our clients like that.

So... I start to calculate. I am now 2 miles from the studio and the wasp is resting peacefully on the ledge between the door handle and window of the passenger side. I figure I can make it. I keep driving and hoping...

4:02
The wasp gets caught in a breeze coming through the window and flies across the car toward me. I scream again - louder and longer than last time - and start flailing my arms around my head. Yes, I'm still driving - without hands. My good sense gets the best of me, and I grab the steering wheel with one hand and grab a bunch of my long dredlocks with the other. I start swinging my hair like a weapon, not knowing where the wasp is or caring - all I know is that I can hear it buzzing so it's too close to my head for comfort and it MUST GO.

My mind starts to work again and I see a driveway into a neighborhood. I slow down, pull in and stop right in the middle of the lane. Too bad if someone is trying to come home, I can't move right now. Shaking, I scan the car with laser-like vision and listen acutely for the buzzing I know so well. Nothing. Then I start itching. I feel like the wasp is climbing up my arms and down my back and across my neck. Ew.

4:03
I pull cautiously out into the street and finish the commute into the parking lot of my studio. I see my client peering through the front door window and I imagine her wondering if I've forgotten our appointment or whether she has the right time. I take a second to glance at myself in the rear-view mirror, tuck a stray loc, smooth down my eyebrows (they always stick up anyway), and pick up all three of my bags and parts of my cell phone.

4:05
"Hi Patti!" I say brightly, like nothing has happened. "Sorry I'm late - come on in and let's get to work." more >>

My husband and I have never been traditional holiday people. We may not put up our Christmas tree until Christmas Eve - not because it's a ritual or anything... more likely because we are so busy, we just don't get around to it until the last minute. We don't celebrate Valentine's day or exchange gifts on our birthdays or go out for our anniversary - not because we're making a statement or anything... we are literally so busy traveling around the world, running multiple businesses, volunteering with organizations, doing stuff with our kids and extended family, that the event creeps up on us and we just don't have time to prepare.

To make up for our lack of gift giving and scheduled celebrations, we party and gift-give for no reason at all, any time we feel like it. The thought of a unique gift my husband picks up for me in a Yoga Studio in Japan during his travels has real meaning and becomes that more special.

It wasn't until our first child became old enough to understand and experience Christmas that we actually had to spend time advance-planning gift purchases and making an elaborate display of putting up a tree. That first year didn't go so well. I remember stressing over what to get for him and our tree was a naked, hot mess. My brother, mother, and father-in-law had to come to town to help us hippy, rogue parents get our #%*! together. We've come a long way since then, but only with the children.

We started planning vacations 2x a year for places and activities the kids would love. Skiing with their god-brothers in the mountains of Virginia, flying in a helicopter over the Grand Canyon, swimming in the ocean waves of St. Kitts & Nevis with their cousins, throwing slime on each other at the Nickelodeon Hotel in Orlando. They've seen and experienced more in 11 and 7 years than most adults do their whole lives. And my husband and I love creating the adventure.

But there comes a time when Mom and Dad need to get away... alone... with each other. We've had plenty of opportunities over the years. When we drop the kids off in Miami to stay with my mom for a few weeks in the summer, we could fly down to the Caribbean for a few days of R&R, but we never do. When my father-in-law comes to visit for a week during the winter, we could drive a couple of hours away to a bed-and-breakfast in the mountains, but we never do. In fact, I started thinking about all the times my husband and I have enjoyed a trip alone since our first son was born in 1998. I came up with 3x - Montego Bay in 1999, Negril in 2003, and San Diego in 2004.

FACT: My husband and I are work-a-holics. We know this. Others know this about us.

My husband's job requires him to fly to far-reaching destinations like Hong Kong, Barcelona, and Tai Pei on a regular, weekly basis. I own and run a Yoga & Fitness studio and manage my fitness outsourcing company keeping me on my toes about 12 hours a day, 6 days a week. In between our hectic work schedules, we are the parents you see on the soccer field every weekend and volunteering in the classroom once a week. Additionally, we both hold leadership positions with organizations unrelated to work and our kids.

We need a vacation at least once a year.

Two weeks ago, I decided I needed to get away and shut it all down. The meetings, the classes, the presentations, the clients, the laundry, the homework (that's getting harder and harder for me to remember), the fights to break up between the kids, the grocery shopping... I had to get away. My husband has been in three different time zones in the last 10 days. He's been presenting, meeting, and networking with 3 different cultures for more than 4 weeks straight. He needs to take a break. His last conference for the month was scheduled to be in Las Vegas ending on Thursday 3/25, and we decided on whim that I would come and hang out on Thursday and we'd vacation with each other until Monday.

Las Vegas. The last time we'd been there as a couple was in 1995 when we played hooky from our respective jobs and he drove in from LA and I flew in from Baltimore. We finagled our way into a suite at the MGM Grand, scored free tickets (which we sold on the street) to the Jackson Family Reunion concert, and my husband was interviewed by MTV on the strip. (It aired that night, his co-workers saw him, he got in trouble... but it was fun).

15 years later, I'm sitting in the picture window of a suite on the 28th floor of The Palazzo Hotel on the Las Vegas strip. Yesterday, I slept about 10 hours straight, ordered room service, then slept another 2 hours. Today I am scheduled for 3 hours of spa treatments at the Canyon Ranch spa located in our hotel, and my husband is going to enjoy a couple of the treatments with me.

We've dined at fabulous restaurants without fighting with a child about eating his vegetables and reminding the other to chew with his mouth closed. We've partied until 4:00 am without stressing over a babysitter. We've shopped in stores that don't have video games and toys. We've slept until 10:00 am without being awakened by Spongebob Squarepants on the television and a wrestling match in the bed next to ours. We're actually vacationing like two grown adults without a care in the world.

While I do feel completely relaxed and stress-free, I have to admit that I miss my babies. Everything I see makes me think of them, and a little part of me wishes they could be here, too. But, for once, I'm practicing what I preach to my clients and workshop participants all the time: Take a little time for yourself so you can be a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend to those around you.

I'm doing me (and my husband, too;).

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There are two kinds of moms in the world. Moms that were born to mother daughters and those that were meant to mother sons. I’ve always known I was the latter. I don’t mind dirt and bugs and wrestling in the house – I’d prefer those things weren’t in my house, but it doesn’t bother me when they appear. In fact, I enjoy kicking off my shoes and engaging in an impromptu foot race through the dirt or rolling down a hill into a pile of leaves. I prefer wearing sneakers to heels, and I refuse to wear hose.

One Saturday in March, I enjoyed a proud-mother-of-a-son moment at the GSA soccer field. As my older son fervently ran up and down the field, my 7-year old struggled to climb over the chain-link fence separating one field from another. Other boys climbed up and hopped over, but my little one kept falling back in frustration. After a few failed attempts, my husband said, “When you get to the top, grab the bar and push yourself up with straight arms. Then step on the bar with one foot and you can swing over to the other side.”

Miraculously, my son climbed to the top, pushed himself onto straight arms, stepped on the bar and jumped over onto the ground below. My heart swelled with pride as I shouted, “Good job, Man!” and turned back to the game.

The following Sunday, I drove my older son and his teammate to a game about an hour away. It was a cold and rainy day, so I sat in the car on the edge of the field and tooted my horn whenever they made a good play. At the end of the game, my son and his friend raced to the car, got in and we headed home. The next morning, he came to me and asked, “Have you seen my cleats, Mom?” Red flag alert. Warning, warning.

For any other child, this wouldn’t be a major problem. Cleats missing? Just buy new ones and keep it moving. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy for us. My son has to special order his cleats because his feet are extra wide and flat. Additionally, he has special orthotic inserts that were made for him by a therapist in Maryland.

Like any good mother, I asked the coach, emailed the other kids’ parents, and even the called the other team’s coach to see if anyone had picked them up. No luck. Unfortunately, no one had a telephone number to the soccer field either. So, I got in my car during a 2-hour break between appointments that Monday morning and drove 45 minutes to the field. When I got there, the field was closed and locked… by a 6-foot chain link fence. I parked my car, got out and stared at the fence. Could I squeeze through the small opening between the two fences that were chained together? I tried and the immediate answer was... no.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the fence with both hands and poked the toe of my left sneaker into one of the links. I talked to myself all the way up the fence… “come on, you can do this. Pretend like you’re on the Amazing Race.” You know, stuff like that. When I got to the top bar, my husband’s voice came into my head like Obi Wan Kenobi from Star Wars. “When you get to the top, grab the bar and push yourself up with straight arms.” My arms were shaking from the climb, but I DID IT! I stepped on the top bar like he said, but there was NO WAY I was gonna jump down 6 feet – I’m not the Bionic Woman or the Six Million Dollar Man. So I gingerly stepped over onto a metal support bar and jumped 4 feet down instead.

It would have been great if the adventure ended there, but you know it didn’t. The field was more than a quarter mile away and my time was running out. I jogged across the parking lot and gingerly picked my way over the muddy field to the bench where the team had sat the day before. No cleats. Nothing. I sighed and turned around to go back, when it hit me. I would have to scale that fence again to get back to my car, and there was no support rail on the other side. I’m a praying woman, so prayer seemed appropriate at that moment.

Amazingly, as I jogged back, a truck came lumbering down the drive and parked behind my car. At first, I thought someone had seen me and reported me to the police and they were coming to drag me away for trespassing. But no, it was the Port-a-Potty clean-up man. He unlocked the chain and opened the fence, and I thought I heard angels singing and playing harps at that very moment. Not only did he let me out, but he also had a telephone number that went directly to the field director.

Some people might say this story is nothing more than luck, but I know a few things:

1. I have never scaled a fence in my life and I have never received instructions on how to do it. One week after I hear instructions on how to scale a fence, I had to do it.
2. I would have broken something I need to walk if I had jumped off that fence to the other side. The cleaning company came and unlocked the fence just as I prayed for assistance.
3. No one had a telephone number for the park and none was posted at the fields. The clean up man had a direct number to the Director of the field, and the Director was able to check the lost-and-found.

Call it what you want, but I didn’t miss the power of multiple coincidences. And, as always, I’m thankful for small blessings. more >>

I recently had a flashback to Fall 2002. I was living in Baltimore and my fitness outsourcing business was just beginning to grow. I had 2 corporate contracts and new companies were calling me to hire teachers for their fitness centers. There was a fantastic Pilates and dance instructor I'd been dying to bring on board, but we could never seem to get our schedules to mesh.

"Can you do 11:30 on Monday?"

"Uh, let me see... nope, my oldest has a playdate. What about 5:30?"

"Nope, soccer practice at the Y. How about Tuesday at noon?"

"Can't. The 2-year-old has TumbleTina class. Can you do earlier at 9:30?"

"Uh-uh. Sesame Street 9-10." (sigh)

Finally, we agreed that the only way we would be able to meet was to schedule a business playdate at the local Chuck E. Cheese. I don't like to use the word "hate", so I'll say, I truly dislike attending functions at Chuck E. Cheese.

Anyway, Chuck E. Cheese it was on a weekday around 11:45 am. Our 4-year olds chased each other in the jungle gym, while her 2-year old tossed colored balls into the mesh netting enclosing the ball bath. We each held a child, nursing, to our breast as we wrote quickly into our Franklin Planners and notebooks (yes, I was still doing Franklin Planner in 2002. I'd had a bad experience in 2000 when my Palm Pilot died unexpectedly and I didn't know when or where I was going and couldn't find numbers to call anyone to find out. It was 3 years of fear and mourning before I could return to electronic scheduling).

An hour and a half later, our meeting was done, the kids had all been fed, and a playdate had been knocked out all at once. Triumph.

Fast forward to 2010. A contact from the Chamber of Commerce called me and indicated we needed to meet immediately. Both of our schedules were booked solid with meetings, luncheons, and presentations. We both sounded fatigued and stressed as we scanned our Blackberry and Outlook calendars, trying to find any open 2-hour slot in the next few days.

Suddenly an idea came to me. Jeju Spa. The Korean bath house located only minutes from both our homes. Jeju is not your typical American spa. Yes, it has saunas, whirlpools, steam rooms and massage. But it also has wifi, CNN on plasmas, and computer work stations tucked quietly behind gigantic saunas Jeju refers to as "igloos."

"Can you meet me at Jeju tomorrow morning? I have a window of time between kids leaving for school and my first presentation at 11:45am."

"Perfect. If we meet at 8:30, I can fit in accupressure and still make my 11:00 meeting at the Chamber."

When I combine relaxing barefoot on a heated marble floor with closing a business deal as the scent of jasmine and sage float in the air... bliss is the only word that comes to mind. The spa is my golf course, and it's definitely a step up from Chuck E. Cheese.


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Each and every one of my days is scheduled from waking to sleep. Not like my husband's schedule in which he is constantly in fear of a flight cancellation between Amsterdam and Barcelona or Tai Pei and Hong Kong. His scheduling concerns are bit more lofty than mine, but not nearly as complicated. Why not? Because he only has to worry about his own schedule.

Not one of my days looks anything like the next day or yesterday. And I like that. Being a Sagittarian that craves variety and freedom and excitement and hustle, I love planning my days with the anticipation of something new and different coming up in a day or a week. But anything I schedule for myself also involves some major arranging (and rearranging) for my sons and their activities.There's that one time I was called by the casting director of Tyler Perry studios to be an extra on a taping of The House of Payne and I spent the majority of my day on set in makeup and wardrobe. And that time I decided to teach for a week once a month in Jamaica. It took 4 months before I grew bored and stopped going.

The point is, I need variety in my mommypreneur lifestyle. For me, but not for my kids. My older son is a lot like I am - he's a free spirit, always ready to go anywhere, for any reason, with anyone. My younger son... not so much. He craves routine and schedule and order. And as a responsible mom, I provide it for my kids even though it goes against my natural character.

Each and every day of the week and weekend has a routine. Tuesday for instance is 3:45 - younger son home for snacks, homework and mom time. 4:20 - older son home for snacks, attacking younger brother, and talking non-stop, while I multi-task clean-up, dinner, and prepare to leave for classes at the studio. 5:30 - babysitter arrives. 5:45 - I leave for work. 6:30 - older son leaves for soccer. 7:00 younger son and babysitter interact. 8:00 older son home from soccer. 8:30 we all eat dinner, kids shower and get ready for bed. 9:30 I start yelling to the kids to stop talking and playing and "go to sleep." 10:00 I repeat yelling to the kids. 10:30 I may possibly still be yelling to the kids to "GO TO SLEEP! I MEAN IT THIS TIME!" Every Tuesday looks just like that without fail. It bores me to tears to have that much routine, but it's perfect for the boys.

Last week, I decided the kids (and I) needed change and fun and excitement in our schedule. We needed to rekindle our relationship as mommy and boys just like a married couple needs variety to keep the relationship interesting and fresh. I struggled to remember the last time the boys and I had been on a road trip together or racing each other in go-carts or doing any of the things we used to do on a whim. Not in a long time.

Last Wednesday, my night class at the studio didn't start until 7:45 and neither child had practice or something scheduled to do. So, at 5:30 I announced... "Hey guys, grab your coats and wallets. Let's go the mall." Now I know the mall is not really a big deal to most people. However, getting to spend an hour or two just walking through the mall for no good reason is not something I ever do and definitely not with my kids since they grew out of the stroller.

By 5:50, we were at the mall and the boys were excited as they punched each other through the sliding glass doors. We started with the indoor skate park where teens were skateboarding and blading over smooth hills and high-fiving on ramps high above the ground. Then we went to the book store (my boys and I are all book worms. I could have stayed in the bookstore for the rest of the visit, but alas it only lasted 15 minutes) where the boys discussed the latest release of Diary of a Wimpy Kid and the new book and movie series that looks just like Harry Potter to me. My older son wanted to spend all of his money on 3 books in the new like-Harry-Potter series, while my younger son discussed the merits of saving your money and checking in the library first as he resolutely returned his book to the shelf (at least I got one to carry on my genes for spending wisely). We then spent the next 5 minutes at the register as I turned my older son's POS into an extended math word problem. I apologized to the people standing in line behind us, but if you don't teach them early about money, tax calculations and change, they'll be fools as men, and this momma is not raising any irresponsible fools.

We eventually left the bookstore to walk and window shop. Our next stops included the Lego Store, the Japanese import store (they carry real swords and Japanese comic books which were both of major interest to my sons), and the candy store (where I refused to allow them to buy handfuls of sugar). As we stood at a kiosk purchasing a new wallet for my older son who recently lost his wallet full of money and gift cards (sigh), the younger one saw a trampoline and trapeze at the end of the hall. His little face lit up and he started to dance.

"Oh Mom, can I jump on that thing?" he asked excitedly pointing to a little child jumping barely 2 feet of the trampoline.

I thought about it. Normally, I would say no and we'd rush out of the mall to the next scheduled appointment. Looking at my watch, I quickly calculated the time we had left. There was time. So why not?

"Sure, Honey. Let me finish working with your brother on this wallet thing, okay?"

He started to dance and spin and hum, which he does when he's really happy. We made our way to the booth and saw that there were two activities that could be purchased for one price. The boys calculated the per person fee, put their money on the counter and raced into the kiosk kicking of coats and shoes as they went.

After 5-10 minutes of back-flipping, jumping to the ceiling of the mall, and sliding through elastic bands, we were finally able to pack up and leave - right on time to put me back on schedule for my class at 7:45.

On the way home, the boys talked about how much fun they'd had and tried to remember the last time we'd done something fun for no reason in the middle of the week. They couldn't. Neither could I.
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It's Friday night and I'm doing what I love to do most... sitting quietly in my bed without any demands on my time and energy from work, family or friends. Tonight, I'm alternately checking all of the emails that have backed up over the week and updating my social media pages.

During my email review, an email regarding my son's soccer schedule peaks my interest. Why? Because anything dealing with soccer seems to affect my entire life. Parent meetings, player evaluations, training schedules, tournaments, away games in thunder storms that aren't canceled until we drive about an hour from home in the downpour. Crazy little things like that seem to take me away from stuff I like - teaching Yoga, networking and socializing, laying in my bed to read a good book, etc.

Anyway, the point of this particular blog has nothing to do with emails, soccer or my desire to do what I want to do. It has to do with butt fat. Stay with me for the correlation...

So, I'm reading this email about the upcoming Spring soccer game schedule when my son comes barging into the room and starts animatedly describing how he's slaughtered and demolished his father in a game on the PS3. He jumps around showing me exactly what happened on the screen, and when he finally slows down to take a breath, I interject...

"Honey, I think you need to take a look at this schedule. There are some conflicts on here that we need to discuss."

He stops mid-slide, picks himself up off the floor and lopes over to where I'm sitting comfortably against some pillows in the bed. He looks at the computer screen and absentmindedly begins to poke softly on a tiny bed of fat that has spread out from the side of my buttocks to peek out of the top edge of the comforter. As he keeps reading and poking, I look down at the little ripple of fat that he's poking. He notices me looking at his finger sinking down into the pillow of brown and says...

"It's just so pokey, Mom." Like that explains everything.

Hm. Pokey. Is that how I want the extra inch of meat extending from my hips to be described? As I'm contemplating this, my husband comes into the room, sits down on the other side of me and starts to mimic my son, pressing gently into the butt-fat on his side.

"Ooh, it is soft."

I just sit there in confusion. How do I really feel about having hip-butt-fat to poke on? Every woman wants curvy hips, right? But how much curve is just right and how much is too much? Should I be concerned about this and start a new exercise program to focus on hip-butt-fat, or should I embrace the softness that screams "I AM WOMAN!"?

Almost simultaneously, they suddenly stop poking, get up, and start punching each other and yelling about who's better at Super Mario Bros on the Wii as they tumble out of the room.

And I'm left to look at my hips. Hm... more >>

I have a perfectly legitimate reason for standing in the front office of my son’s elementary school in my robe and a raincoat this morning. See, what happened was…

My husband, being the kind and considerate man that he is, quietly prepared for work without waking me. Before leaving, he reset the alarm clock for 8:00 am – the time my older son needs to get up and get ready for middle school. Slight problem… I needed to wake up at 7:00 am to start getting the younger son ready for elementary school.

At 7:45, I woke slowly and blinked uncomprehendingly at the alarm clock. Did the clock mean 7:45 as in the bus would be pulling up to pick up my younger child in 10 minutes? The child that was still slumbering peacefully upstairs?

Since I wasn’t scheduled to teach or attend any appointments until 11:30 am, I could wake him, get him ready and drive him to school. No problem, right? Right. I put on my red and white flowered robe, went upstairs, woke both kids, talked with them while they got ready, and made them breakfast as we packed lunches.

I glanced at the clock, saw that I had 15 minutes before the drive-thru child drop-off lane at the school would close, and leisurely suggested my son grab his coat and backpack since we only live 5 minutes from the school. I put on a pair of black sneakers with my red and white robe and threw on a short, hot pink raincoat. I thought to myself, “thank God for the drive-thru child drop-off,” and proceeded to reach for my keys in the key jar.

Keys. Where were the keys? I looked around the key jar, I dug in the bottomless pit of my mom-purse, I searched my coat pockets from yesterday. Nothing. Nowhere. I glanced at the clock. 5 minutes had elapsed. Only 10 minutes left. The keys had to be somewhere. I searched the kitchen table, the family room couch, and the floor beneath the dining room chairs. Nothing. Nowhere. 3 more minutes gone. My younger son began to feel my mood changing and he became tense. “Mommy… am I going to be late?” This was not a question I felt like answering right at that moment.

Just then, I saw my husband’s house keys on the dresser in our room. If his keys were here, that meant… Yep. He’d taken my key ring to work. My ring with the van key on it. Where in the world were the spare van keys?! I dug everything out of the key jar until I found it and raced out the front door with my son jogging breathlessly behind me.

Sigh… the last car was pulling out of the drive-thru child drop-off lane onto the main road just as I was pulling in. I had no choice but to drive up to the front of the school and park. Then it hit me – I was still wearing my red and white flowered robe with black sneakers and a short hot-pink raincoat. I blinked twice, took a deep breath and walked proudly into the school’s crowded front office like it was normal for a woman to be dressed as I was in a public place. I signed my son in, kissed him goodbye and walked back to my van with my head held high. Just then my cell phone rang.

“Hey Althea, the 9:30am Yoga teacher just canceled. Can you get here and teach her class in 20 minutes?” Sigh… more >>

The last thing I did before going to bed last night was mentally go through my schedule of activities for the following day:

7:45am Attend Governmental Business Meeting
11:00am Conference Call w West Coast
12:00pm Teach Corporate Yoga Class
2:00pm Conduct Audition & Interview for New Studio Instructor
3:30pm Get Younger Son from Bus & Mommy-Time
4:30pm Older Son Home & Mommy-Time
7:30pm Lead Meditation Discussion Group at the Studio

Here’s what actually happened:

6:45am Younger Son Vomiting & Diarrhea

7:00am Older Son Disgusted & Concerned at the Same Time

8:00am Washing Younger Sick Son's Soiled clothing and Linen

9:00am Consoling Sick Son, Cleaning Poop Off Floor & Arranging Doctor’s Appointment

9:30am Paying Bills Online, Typing Newsletter, and Responding to Business Emails

10:30am Rushing Sick Son out of Bathroom to Make Doctor’s Appointment on Time

10:45am Late for Doctor’s Appointment & Stuck Behind Slow-Moving Cement Truck

11:30am Still Sitting in Dr. Waiting Room While Sick People Cough Around Me (Ew)

11:45am Using My Cell Phone in the No-Cell Phone Zone in Dr. Waiting Room To Find A Sub For My Yoga Class

11:46am Staring Down Angry, Coughing Man That’s Staring At Me For Using My Cell Phone in the No-Cell Phone Zone

12:00pm Soothing Crying Sick Son While Dr. Flanges His Ears and Swabs His Throat

12:30pm Dropping Off Sick Son’s Prescription @ Drugstore

12:45pm Enjoying Chinese Food with Sick Son Who’s Not So Sick Anymore

1:30pm Rescheduling 2:00 Audition, Writing a Magazine Article, and Folding Laundry

2:30pm Returning Missed Phone Calls, Preparing Notes for Meditation Class, and Entertaining Sick-Not-So-Sick-Anymore Son

4:30pm Discussing Why Preteen Girls Need to Work Their Triceps in PE with Older Son

5:30pm Cleaning Kitchen, Cooking Dinner, Responding to Emails, Updating My Company’s Facebook Twitter LinkedIN YouTube SlideShare Blogger and Wordpress Accounts

6:30pm Kissing Husband, Asking Him About His Day, and Smiling As I Listen Attentively

6:45pm Printing Handout for Meditation Discussion Group

7:30pm Using my Soothing Voice to Lead 12 People Through Breath and Visualization Exercises in the Dark

8:45pm Discussing My Favorite Topic, Mind/Body Connections, With Meditation Class Members

9:00pm Listening to Mom Chastise Me For Letting Her Grandson Get Sick

9:30pm Walking Around in Circle in Kitchen Confused About Where I Should Be and What I Should Be Doing

10:30pm Looking With Dismay At The Mess of Papers and Bills and Crap I Left On My Bed at 9:30am

10:31pm Leaving Bedroom Because I Cannot Handle the Mess and Clutter Right Now

11:00pm Blogging About Today Because I Can’t Get In My Bed To Go To Sleep more >>

I knew when I looked out the window at the kids having a snowball fight at 9:30pm last night that there probably wouldn't be any school today. The temperature was dropping and snow was still falling, clinging to cars, trees, grass and the street. In Georgia, this is a strange and rare sight.

Secretly, I hoped it would keep snowing so my babies could enjoy the outdoor activities they loved when we lived up North. But the business side of me needed for the snow to stop, the temperature to hold, and schools to open today so I could go about my daily business.

Fast forward to this morning at 6:40am when my alarm went off. As I blinked, stretched and starting groping for the remote control to confirm if schools were closed, I heard a strange rustling and movement in the house. I don't have pets and my husband is out of town, so I was immediately on guard. I froze, listening to the continued movement. I grabbed my cell phone and a weapon as I crept to the bathroom to call 9-1-1. I was alert, ready to spring and fight when my 11-year old knocked lightly on the door calling, "Mom?" As my heartbeat returned to normal and I disconnected my 9-1-1 call, I looked at the strange apparition of my pre-teen son standing alert and awake at 6:50am on a school day. My mind couldn't comprehend the reality of this. Was this the same child who I have to shake, prod, push, and repeat "wake up, wake up" to about 20 times at 8:00am every Monday - Friday? What was he doing here? How was he able to wake up?

By the time, I found the remote, and turned to the news and opened my computer to check the status of school openings/closings, the 7-year old miraculously appeared in the doorway too! What strange phenomena was this? What magical power had sprinkled wake-up dust on my children while they slumbered?

After I confirmed that schools were indeed closed, the 11-year old broke into song... "JOY TO THE WORLD, THE LORD HAS COME..." and his 7-year old brother began to dance around him, stopping to pose in the mirror and smile at himself. I paused and looked at them in wonder, then I glanced at the clock. It was only 7:15am. The last time this miracle happened, it was Christmas Day.

I recently led a meditation discussion group where we discussed the power of the mind. We talked about the reality of being able to do anything you want to do if your mind allows the reality of it to exist. My kids proved that point perfectly this morning between the hours of 6:50 and 7:15am.

As I complete this blog, my children are playing together without fighting (another interesting development to note) and singing Jingle Bells. I have some work to do, but for the next few minutes, I'll allow January 8, 2010 to feel like a repeat of December 25, 2009. more >>

Last month, I heard a radio DJ ask the question, “Why can’t we stick to our resolutions, people?” Immediately, a faint memory came back to me…

I have a penchant for gummy bears. Black Forest Gummy Worms are my favorite. I also have a weakness for Publix brand yeast-rise glazed doughnuts. They come in a half-dozen box with a little cellophane window showing the crust of the glaze reflecting the lights from Publix’s 20-foot ceiling. Mm. Typically, when I crave gummies or a box of doughnuts, I make a quick trip to the store and pick up a bag or box and eat most of the contents on the way home. Once I get home, I let the kids or Hubby finish of the bag or box, because I’m satisfied. As a matter of fact, I might not even think about gummies or doughnuts for another 2-3 weeks until the craving hits me again.

One day, I had the bright idea to abstain from eating these sweet, high calorie, unhealthy items, because I’m a fitness professional and I should be setting a good example, right? Right! So - in all my infinite fitness consultant wisdom – I decided to simply stop eating them. Period. I was proud of myself and held my head high as I drove past Publix on my way to a meeting. But something interesting started to happen. All through the meeting, my mind kept wandering to thoughts of green and red striped gummy bears. I actually thought I could smell their fruity sweetness at one point during our discussion. Weird.

As I drove home, I couldn’t stop thinking that I needed to pick something up from Publix. Maybe some milk or bread for the kids’ breakfast. I swerved into a space, walked boldly into the store, and purposely strode past the bakery section – which is on the opposite end of the bread and milk - to show myself how strong I was in my conviction to stop eating the perfectly glazed yeasty treats. I made it home that day without the doughnuts or the gummies, but I couldn’t stop thinking about them! I stood in the refrigerator and pantry looking for something to snack on, but nothing would suffice. I shut the door in frustration and pushed myself to do something – anything – to get my mind off the two objects I wanted more than anything at that precise moment.

Two days later, my desire to taste the flavor of Black Forest gummies and Publix doughnuts was so overwhelming that I caved. I got into my car at 8:45 p.m. with the sole purpose of purchasing and consuming gummies and doughnuts. I bought 3 bags of worms and a box of doughnuts. I ate 2 full bags and the whole box of doughnuts that night.

Why am I telling you this? Because I think someone reading this blog at this very moment is wildly craving something no longer allowed as a New Years resolution. Unfortunately, I think our minds are wired to crave what we can’t have. So instead of telling yourself “no,” enjoy in moderation and make eensie, teensie little changes that your mind and body can tolerate. Cold turkey changes may work for a few, but definitely not for most. Enjoy the start to 2010 and allow yourself the time and patience to make realistic and subtle changes that will last a lifetime… Happy New Year everyone!

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This afternoon, I lay in my bed looking out the picture window to the leaves falling in the backyard. I was deep in thought when the voices of about 5 little boys running through the leaves distracted me. I watched as my sons and their friends dodged and ducked each other, running between trees and jumping over exposed roots.
Eventually, they all clambered onto the trampoline – and my heart skipped a beat. Normally, only 2-3 kids jump at once, but there were 5 boys ages 7, 9, 10 and 11 jumping at once. All of a sudden I heard my 7-year old scream out and fall to the side. The other kids stopped jumping and ran to his side. I don’t think I took a breath during the 30 seconds that he lay still. All of a sudden he jumped up, laughing and screaming, “I got you, I tricked you!” And my breathing returned to normal and my heart starting beating again.
I continued to watch as they created games – grabbing stray balls from the ground below and aiming them at each other as they jumped and flipped on the trampoline. It was dangerous, but they didn’t care. They played with total abandon, not worried if 1 of them fell off. I watched amazed as 1 boy then another would topple over the edge onto the ground. He’d gingerly pick himself up, dust off the dirt and leaves, and climb back up to return to the game.
I immediately thought of my life as an adult. When did I stop playing with abandon and fear? When was the last time I allowed myself to fall off the edge, get up, dust off, and climb back in the game? When had I faced an oncoming ball head-on and jumped and dodged to stay out of the way, but was still laughing and excited about the challenge?
Sometimes I revert to the child I was. Playing hard, laughing hard, not caring if I fall down or get cut and bruised. But sometimes I’m concerned about how the game might affect my budget, my roles as a wife and mother, my position as a business owner and community leader. The trick is to find the balance – balance between playing with abandon and enjoying all that life has to offer (both the jump over the ball and the fall to the ground), and being mindful of the realities of being a responsible adult.
I’m determined to treat my current journey like a wild game of dodge ball on a trampoline with too many people. Bring it! more >>

December 23rd, 2008
Journaling. It wasn’t called journaling when I was teenager, though. I kept a diary back then. I’ve kept a diary or journal since I was in the 9th grade. I’ve lost many of them, but the journals I recorded for both of my kids and the journals of my growth as a mother and entrepreneur are all in drawers in my bedroom.
Every once in awhile, I like to go back and read some of the early entries. My 10-year old loves it when I read to him from an entry I recorded when he was 1 or 2 years old. He can’t believe he did or said some of the funny stuff he did back then. The same is true for me. But let me digress for a minute.
I love to read. Everything and anything. Historical fiction; old English literature (especially Jane Austen and Joan Aiken); chick lit; biographies; English fiction (hilarious stuff out of these new fiction writers hailing from England); African American fiction (love that Eric Jerome Dickey); religion (all religions), philosophy, astrology and human studies (extremely interesting to me); inspirational; anatomy and kinesiology (it’s my business - gotta stay up-to-date, right?). I’m always totally engrossed in some deep tome.
Deepak Chopra. If you know who he is, heard one of his tapes or ever read anything by him, you understand why I can stop with simply writing his name. Deepak Chopra - the man is deep and he’s on point.
A couple of years ago, I picked up The Seven Spriritual Laws of Success by Mr. Chopra. It was on a table of $3 books at a going-out-business sale. I spent a month reading the book - a couple of days to read and digest each chapter. My plan was to put the 7 laws into practice a day or so after marinating on the content of each law. Right. I thought I was so deep and in-tune and all that. I didn’t know what the Hell Deepak was talking about in a couple of the chapters. And I was extremely frustrated that I couldn’t follow the 2 or 3 simple rules for putting each law into practice that was carefully outlined at the end of each chapter. (sigh). I put the book on a shelf and went on my busy wife, mommy, entrepreneur way.
Every once in awhile, I’d pull it out and review the outlines at the end of the chapter. But for a year, it was still frustrating that I didn’t believe that people (read I) couldn’t really live like that. Trusting, believing, giving completely of myself, living only in the moment, etc, etc. Now don’t get me wrong… I was GOOD on a couple of the laws. Take the Law of Pure Potentiality. You’re supposed to be still 2x a day and take moments to commune with nature - listen to water or a breeze, watch the sunrise or set. I’ve got that thing down to a science and it’s easy and comfortable for me. It’s the other 5 and a portion of 6 that was bringing your girl down.
I put the book on a table at the studio and didn’t read a page in it from February (when we started construction on the studio) to December 21. During that time, I kept two journals - 1 to chronicle every step, word and deed of opening the studio and the other was my normal “diary” journal.
Yesterday, I spent a quiet day in my studio wrapping up some loose ends before the holidays. I took care of some accounting and bookkeeping issues. I shipped off some videos and final holiday cards. I cleaned out my in-box and updated my calendar for the week of my return to the office. I returned about 50 past-due emails. I reviewed some legal documents. After posting a “Closed for the Holidays” sign in the window, I drove home to heat up leftovers for my lunch.
I’d brought Deepak’s book home in my cleanup of the studio. It was lying on the table next to my placemat. So, as I consciously chewed my food (I’m really in to paying attention to flavors and textures while eating), I slowly reread each of the outlines at the end of each chapter. What was crazy is every word made total sense. Each bullet point was something I am currently practicing in my life. And I get it. I really get it.
After lunch I wrote some of my thoughts about the year in my journal. Then I took a moment to read a couple of entries from a year ago. I compared it to what I’d been writing for the last couple of months. It was like reading entries written by two different people. The current entries were full of hope, faith, excitement and promise. The entries from a year ago were full of fear, frustration and being overwhelmed. A recently a friend asked me if I’d always thought and acted the way I do now, and I didn’t know the answer. Now I do.
Sometimes, we think we’re grown, but we’re not really grown. Someone can’t tell us we’re not grown, though. We have to experience something personally to know that we’re not grown. Growth is a continual process - it’s the purpose of life. Gaining wisdom through experience. I couldn’t understand some of the principles in Deepak’s book, because I hadn’t grown through certain experiences yet. The challenges of the last year of opening my studio while still being a parent volunteer in both of the kids classes; community volunteer; running the household while Big Maurice traveled for work; networking my butt off for the business at breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, happy hours, etc; teaching 10 - 13 classes a week, personal training clients, and listening with true care to the troubles and challenges of each student and member at the studio; being a good friend, sister, daughter, wife, mother to the people I cherish in my life. The balancing act would have been impossible to pull off well if I didn’t use the laws. And the personal changes required to make it happen was apparent in my journaling.
I don’t know what 2009 will bring me. Life is full of challenges, surprises (good, bad and in-between), and experiences. What I do know is I will have a chronicle of the journey to read and reread like the outlines at the end of a chapter. more >>

May 28th, 2008
Last Friday, my husband and I drove the kids to Dallas, Texas for my sister-in-law’s college graduation. I love to road trip - I like seeing different places and trying new adventures with the kids. And the destination always seems to end up in some type of party. We like to party almost as much as we like to road trip - okay, more.
Anyway, after the graduation, we went to one of our relative’s house for a barbeque. The kids jumped on a trampoline outside and the parents flowed from kitchen to family room meeting, greeting and eating.
Now, I’ve never really been the type of person to eat large quantities of food at one time - I’m more of what you’d call a grazer. I pick and snack in tiny quantities all day long. At large gatherings, like this barbeque, I usually get a plate with tiny amounts of salad, chicken, collard greens - you know… whatever is there. And throughout the course of the day or evening, I’d go back for another little bit of this-and-that. And I love dessert. I’m picky about the type of dessert I like, but homemade cakes and muffins and sweet rolls - mmmmm. Again, I normally cut a little sliver of this and a corner of that and walk around until I see something else I might want to try.
Well, something about this particular barbeque in Dallas had me doing more than swiping quick little bites here and there. Maybe it was the perpetual smell of roasting rib meat, or the aroma of homemade barbeque sauce, or the sight of barbeque baked beans in a huge roaster prepared for the mass of family and friends that would come through the kitchen in the coming hours. I don’t know what it was, but I could NOT stop eating! I mean I ate non-stop for about 2 hours. And it wasn’t healthy food either - it was straight meat and cake! I don’t even eat that much meat on a regular basis, so it was really weird.
I felt so guilty, I made my father-in-law take me to the grocery store to buy veggies for a salad, 2 bags of cherries, a container of strawberries and some baked tortilla chips and pretzels. Guilt and the fact that my 6-year old doesn’t eat meat and would starve if I didn’t get him something he would like.
Back at the house with my bags full of goodies, I felt better. I washed the fruit and mixed them in a colander. I tossed the veggies for a salad in a big bowl and put it on the island with a couple of salad dressing options. And I started eating - again. At least it was healthy food my body was used to consuming, so I didn’t feel so bad.
When the kids came in from outside, they didn’t ask for chicken, or ribs, or baked beans. They went straight for the fruit and bottled water and chips and pretzels. Within two hours, all of the healthy food was gone!
Now, I don’t know what any of this means, but I told my husband the next day (as I lay back in the bed holding my aching stomach), “I truly understand how challenging it is for some people to change their eating habits. If I lived in a house where the main food choices were good smelling, delicious looking, unhealthy food and there were rarely healthy options, I’d find it a real challenge to lose weight and stay healthy.” I think I have a better understanding of some of the challenges the kids and participants in my fitness classes and healthy living programs are dealing with.
I felt really guilty as I was continuing to cut bigger and bigger slices of lemon pound cake onto my paper plate. I kept eating even as I felt my stomach angrily growling and rolling over while I continued to eat the ribs and baked beans. I knew I was full and, yet, I still went back into the kitchen for more when the conversation in the family room ended. Stuffed to the max, I kept picking up chips from the dish on the table and munching on it as we sat around and talked about current events. If people feel like I felt those two days in Dallas every day, I can only imagine the guilt and frustration plaguing them.
Well, I’m back home now. I would like to report that I immediately went back to my healthy eating ways, but I can’t. My 12-year wedding anniversary was Monday and, of course, we had to celebrate. We had two different kinds of cakes and they were both delicious!!! But I only ate 2 pieces yesterday, and I haven’t had any today. I ran my usual 3.2 miles this morning and I’ve been busy in the office all day. I’m back on track with my eating and exercise routine, but I now have a better appreciation of the struggles to eat healthy.

Posted by Altheatized at 1:20 PM 0 comments more >>

February 15th, 2008
My family moved around a lot when I was young. No, my dad wasn’t in the military or anything, but we did relocate several times for various corporate opportunities that came up for him. Some people think that’s a hard life to have as a child, but I didn’t know anything different. And now it makes it easy for me to adapt to any environment and converse with many different people as an adult.
What’s interesting is that music was one of my only constants back then. Certain songs remind me of cities, activities, and trips. For instance, when we would roadtrip from Indiana to South Carolina in the 70s, John Denver or the Eagles would often be on the radio (if we got a radio station). I love the song Hotel California because it reminds me of beautiful mountain scenery while I relaxed in the back seat of the car. I think I love jazz because my father would play Take Five on his trumpet or listen to Herb Alpert and Chuck Mangione albums. My favorite jazz musicians are gone now, but I still lovingly listen to Grover Washington Jr and George Howard because of the appreciation I learned for it in the 70s. Additionally, my parents listened to old music like Motown groups and the Stylistics and, still a favorite, Sam Cooke. Those songs remind me of family and love.
Now I’m close to 40 years old with a husband, children and a mortgage. Interestingly, not much has changed in my taste in music. I still jump up and gyrate when XM radio plays Me So Horny by Two Live Crew. I still chill to Grover Washinton Jr’s Mister Magic. I still close my eyes and imagine the mountains when I hear the words “summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowin’ through the jasmin in my miiiiind.” I still shake my head at what I was wearing in 1985 when I hear Duran Duran’s Hungry Like The Wolf. I still get angry when kids call a DeBarge song a Biggie Smalls’ songs. I still want to head bang when I hear “… with a rebel yell, I cry more, more, more” by Billy Idol. I can listen to hours of mixed house music by artists and DJs like Lil Louie Vega or my good friend, DJ Oji. Living in Baltimore introduced me to B-more Club music, and I have wonderful flashbacks when I hear old Miss Toney songs (God rest his soul). I still throw my hands in the air when the go-go song by DJ Kool commands “put me in the water!” Visions of many dancehall parties (both in Jamaica and in the states) still come vividly to mind when I hear a Stone Love mix of old Tiger and Buju Banton songs. The combination of R&B and jazz created the wonderful genre of neo-soul, and I sometimes have to stop in my tracks to dance and sing out loud with Jill Scott, Erykah Badu and Raheem Devaughn. Like Erik Sermon said in his song with Marvin Gaye - “I wish music could adopt me!” And, speaking of rap music - part of the reason I fell for my husband as a teenager was because he looked like my favorite rapper of the day, Big Daddy Kane.
(sigh) I just realized there isn’t enough time or room for me to talk about all of my favorite songs, artists and genres of music. So, I will just give a shout out to two of my favorites which were not mentioned earlier in this blog: my favorite artist of all time - Prince. And my favorite album - Keith Sweat from 1988. Wait, maybe my favorite album is any album by LL Cool J. Ugh, I don’t know… I just love music.
My iPod and Apple TV are full of classics and new jams from a variety of genres of music. My mind is full of memories associated with every song I hear. Music is as essential to my life as the water I drink every day. I couldn’t imagine my life without it (and neither could my family and friends). more >>

February 10th, 2008
Prior to 1997, I was a rather messy person. I’ve never been one to spend an evening or weekend mopping, vacuuming or dusting. My bedroom was usually cluttered with mounds of unfolded laundry and shoes and purses and receipts and college memorabilia - well, you get the picture. But something happened. Well, 2 things happened.
First, my husband and I moved into our first real house. It was the cutest little brick cottage on an acre of wooded land in a wildlife preserve in a Baltimore suburb. We loved that house - therefore we took care of it and I kept it clean. But then the second thing happened…
I had no idea I was pregnant as I mountain climbed, played tennis, lifted weights like a body builder and danced like an Alvin Ailey wannabe. The realization hit us like a ton of bricks. What did we know about raising a child? But the baby came and we got the gist of what to do pretty quickly (we didn’t really have a choice).
I realized I had a compulsion in the last trimester of my pregnancy as I folded and refolded my coming child’s onesies and placed them lovingly in the cherry wood dresser we’d purchased just for him. My compulsion is folding laundry. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. In fact, I decided to write this blog because I just spent the last fifteen minutes carefully folding shirts from the dryer.
Compulsive behavior or a compulsion is defined as a psychological and usually irrational force that makes somebody do something, often unwillingly. I don’t just fold laundry - I make folded shirts look like a table in Abercrombie & Fitch. My folded towels look like a window display for Bed, Bath & Beyond. If I put the laundry away and find rumpled shirts in my sons’ drawer, I have to stop (no matter how late I am or what I’m doing) and refold everything and perfectly align them in the drawer before putting in the newly cleaned and folded shirts. It’s totally compulsive and irrational. My mother and brother tease me because they know I’m always doing laundry and folding clothes. I don’t even want anyone to help me because they never seem to get the crease right in the shirts. Or the the seams are not properly aligned on the washcloths when they’re stacked up. I know - crazy.
Now, I have no qualms about sharing this compulsion with you because I don’t think it’s a bad compulsion to have relative to some others I’ve observed and heard about. I do have others - music has to ALWAYS be playing around me, I MUST have popcorn at the movies, the kitchen HAS to be clean in order for me to cook in it - but they’re all pretty tame. And, I can survive for an hour or so without music playing, I can watch a movie without popcorn (if I’m chewing gum), and I can cook dinner without cleaning the dishes if I’m in a hurry or preoccupied. But the rumpled, wrinkled shirts or improperly folded pants and towels - naw. Can’t do it. I’ll start twitching or something. Seriously.
So now you know a secret about me. Don’t tell anyone. more >>

February 5th, 2008
Like many kids this past Christmas, my boys got a Wii. As is typical with the kids’ video games, I didn’t have a clue and didn’t WANT to have a clue about how it worked or what the objective was for any of the games. But, like in the past, I let them talk me into learning how to play a game with them. I wasn’t thrilled about how long it took to create Mii - a little person saved on the Wii that’s supposed to look just like me - but the little brown woman with long hair and big eyes did look a little like me when we finally got done fighting over the features.
The first game I played was bowling. It wasn’t hard and it was something I could do with my 5-year old - no problem. Over New Years, we went to visit family in Mississippi and all of the kids were playing Dancing With The Stars on a cousin’s Wii. Now THAT was fun. But don’t think I just jumped in there with the 15 and under set… no, I watched and waited and shimmied in my chair until the older kids left and only the 8 and under were trying to figure out how to get the maximum points from doing the Cabbage Patch that I decided to jump in and “help.” 15 minutes later, I was actually perspiring a little! Maybe it was the cute little fur vest I was wearing and refused to take off because it matched the rest of my outfit, but whatever - I was warming up and working out.
I would have been fine if that were my last experience ever with the Wii, but what happened after New Years is the real point of this whole blog… One day my husband, a new-to-exercising former couch potato, was watching our boys run a Wii 400 meter hurdles against the neighbors kids when he decided to compete in a race. It was comical watching him tower above the heads of the young boys working his arms as fast he could. About 10 minutes later, he was losing a boxing match against our 5-year old. A few minutes after that, he was earnestly trying to win a Mario race against 7-year old twins and our 9-year old. That evening at dinner, he kept rubbing his upper arms. “Wow, I really got a workout today,” he exclaimed.
For the next week or so, my husband played the Wii like other people go to the gym once they start seeing results - religiously. I even got in on the action and raced him and the boys in a 100 meter dash and, I’m proud to report, I even won the 400 meter hurdles! (They only let me do that once.)
I’ve heard the reports of people throwing out shoulder joints and going to the emergency room with injuries, but in my household, the Wii is a pretty good substitute for a missed gym workout - at least from my husband’s point of view. more >>