Look at Yourself

My parents, bless them, had three teenage daughters at once.

When I turned 13, my sisters were 15 and 17.  We shared clothes, friends, inside jokes, an older brother, and a bathroom. And in that bathroom, we shared Vervé perfume, Paul Mitchell hairspray, Avon makeup, and a Nike ad.

The ad was placed there by our mom. She had torn it from a magazine and taped to our mirror. It featured a woman in Nike leggings and a tank top, running alone down a wooded path, and across the top it read:

I believe that if you can look at yourself and see what is right, instead of what is wrong, that is the true mark of a healthy individual

From my freshman year until I left for college, this quote stared back at me every time I looked in that mirror.

Four years of waking up at 5:00 am for early morning seminary. Four years of transitioning through adolescence and navigating precarious teenage relationships. Making new friends, losing old ones. Dating, breaking up. Four years of testing boundaries, developing a sense of autonomy and dealing with teenage insecurities. Braces, breakouts, perms and unflattering trends. Four years of high school tryouts and elections with all of their inherent vulnerabilities. Of summer camps, first jobs, and college applications. Four years of both achievements and rejections, underscored by all the emotion of leaving behind my childhood.

Four years.

Look at yourself.

See what is right.

Instead of what is wrong.

I'm no biologist, but I think there are times in our lives that our brains visit neurological tattoo parlors. Certain phrases and life lessons we pick up along the way are permanently etched in our minds, in scrolling fonts and sometimes with iconic symbols like bleeding hearts, angel wings, roman numerals or Smokey the Bear's face (a childhood story for another day).

That Nike ad is tattooed in my mind, with the image of the woman running alone down a wooded path. It's not a concept I've perfected by any means, but it has been a significant contributing factor to my happiness. After reading it, over and over, for four formative years, my brain seems to understand that my emotions aren't dependent on my circumstances, but are instead shaped by my perspective.

Am I self-conscious of my worst features, or proud of my best ones?

Do I focus my energy on people who don't accept me, or count my blessings for the ones who do?

Should I mutter about the messes and unfinished projects in my home, or delight at the sight of the paintings I have hung, and evidence of a thriving family?

Do I complain about our student loans, or am I grateful for our education?

Bemoan the division in our country, or celebrate the freedom to disagree?

Indulge in self-pity over my child's deficiencies, or pride in her accomplishments?

I think that the true mark of a healthy individual, according to Nike in the 90's, is worth some reflection. Perhaps the one your teenage daughter sees in the mirror.

Toss Your Hats and Your Heroes

Next week is high school graduation here in Utah, and also for my niece in California.

This has prompted me to consider what advice I could offer the Class of 2018, should they ask, and I decided if the opportunity presented itself I would begin by telling them about Joe Paterno.

Joe Paterno, as they may not be aware, was head coach of the Penn State football team for 46 years, and is the second winningest coach in college football history.  In 2001, a 7-foot bronze statue of him was unveiled at Beaver Stadium in recognition of his contributions to the university and because, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Ten years later, in light of his involvement in the Penn State child sex abuse scandal, the statue was removed, and replaced by trees. The lesson? Don't erect a 7-foot bronze statue in someone's honor while they are alive, and still have a chance to prove you wrong.

I learned my own Joe Paterno lesson in 1993. At the time, I was finishing 8th grade and asked to give the commencement address at the Copperwood Elementary School graduation. My speech, like Joe's statue, seemed like a good idea at the time.

Here is the introduction to it, which I excerpted from what was then my favorite book by Dan Clark. Keep reading until the end. The end is the best part.

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"In 1957, a ten-year old boy in California set a goal. At the time, Jim Brown was the greatest running back ever to play pro football, and this tall, skinny boy wanted his autograph. In order to accomplish his goal, the young boy had to overcome some obstacles.

He grew up in the ghetto, he never got enough to eat. Malnutrition took its toll, and a disease called rickets forced him to wear steel splints to support his skinny, bowed-out legs. He had no money to buy a ticket to get into the game so he waited patiently near the locker room until the game ended and Jim Brown left the field. He politely asked Brown for his autograph. As Brown signed, the boy explained, "Mr. Brown, I have your picture on my wall. I know you hold all the records. You're my idol."

Brown smiled and began to leave, but the young boy wasn't finished. He proclaimed, "Mr. Brown, one day I'm going to break every record you hold!" Brown was impressed and asked, "What is your name, son?"

The boy replied, "Orenthal James. My friends call me O.J."

O.J. Simpson went on to break all but three of the rushing records held by Jim brown before injuries shortened his football career. Goal setting is the strongest force for human motivation. Set a goal and make it come true."
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Ah, my hero.

Susan B. Anthony? No. Martin Luther King? Nope. Sandra Day O'Connor? Keep guessing!

Oh I don't know...the first woman in space??

No sir! MY hero was OJ Simpson.

A year after I gave that speech, on a blazing hot day in June, I returned home from summer camp to find my family glued to a white Bronco chase on TV. In the backseat of that Bronco, I was told, was my hero, having been accused of murdering his ex-wife and her companion. A year and a half after that, sitting in the back row of a portable classroom at Ironwood High School, I watched as his verdict was read, and heard an outcry of reaction from the diverse group of students around me.

Thirteen years to the day after that, while my two young children played in the next room, I read on The Drudge Report that he had been found guilty of twelve counts of robbery and kidnapping, and sentenced to a minimum of 9 years in prison.

He was my hero. Until he wasn't.

In light of this turn of events,  I would like to offer the Copperwood Elementary School Class of 1993 the following addendum to my commencement address, which I hope can also give the Class of 2018 something to think about.

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There was a time when "famous" and "hero" were synonymous, because people became famous for doing heroic things. Abraham Lincoln was famous, because he was a hero. So were Susan B. Anthony, Helen Keller, Amelia Earhart and Neil Armstrong.  All heroes. All famous.

Today, it's different. Today, all you need to be famous are a cell phone and a social media account. As a result, we are living in a culture saturated and obsessed with celebrity. A 2012 UCLA study found that becoming famous was the number one aspiration among children 10-12 years old, surpassing their desire for financial success, achievement, and a sense of community.

That group of children, who were 10-12 in 2012, now comprise the Class of 2018.

So Class of 2018, what is your number one aspiration today? Are you more concerned with your future success, or your Snapchat streaks? Do you dream of being a YouTube star, or a youth leader? Followed on Twitter, or as a teacher? Do you spend more of your time seeking inspiration, or scrolling Instagram? Counting likes, or living life?

Being famous is easy. Being a hero is hard, and we could all do well to identify the ones that most people have never heard of. Your mother, who taught you the value of sacrifice. Your father, who taught you the value of hard work. The coach who pushed you to be better, youth leader who inspired you to be kinder, or teacher who motivated you to dream bigger.

Henry David Thoreau once wrote, "The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men."

In 1862, he died.

A century later, a 7-foot bronze statue of him was unveiled at his former home on Waldon Pond.

It still remains today.

38 Things I Learned From My Mother

1. Listen more than you speak

2. Write thank you notes

3. Wait a few seconds after the light turns green before proceeding into an intersection

4. Get ready every day, even if you have no plans to leave the house.

5. There are few problems that can't be solved by a day at the mall with your sisters

6. The best food is Mexican

7. How to make the perfect chimichanga

8. Be your child's parent first. If you do that right, you can be their friend later.

9. Never leave for vacation with a messy house

10. Always have one book on your nightstand that you're currently reading, and one on hold at the library that you plan to read next

11. Control your day, or it will control you. Before you do anything else, make your bed and a to-do list

12. Iron your clothes. Rowenta irons and velvet hangers are best

13. There's a Seinfeld quote for every situation

14. The most important occasion of the day is family dinner. Make something delicious, set a beautiful table, and don't let anything take priority over it

15. Stay informed on world affairs and current events

16. Wrap presents beautifully, and when giving someone food you can do better than paper plates and saran wrap

17. See's Candy has medicinal benefits

18. Lock your doors

19. Dress according to your season. Warm undertones look best in warm colors, and cool in cool

20. The person in front of you takes precedence over the person calling on the phone

21. When your house is clean your mind is clean

22. Family before friends

23. Quality friends above quantity

24. Things are funniest when they're not supposed to be funny

25. Homemaking is a science guided by the five senses. What does your house look like? How does it smell? What do you hear? What do you taste? How does it make you feel?

26. Vacations aren't about where you go, but who you're with

27. Beaches are nice. Mountains are better.

28. There's a season for everything in life. The season for raising young children is fleeting and critical, so go all in. There will be plenty of time later for other pursuits

29.  It's better to be overdressed than underdressed

30. Lipstick isn't for everyone. Just people with lips.

31. Isn't your dad wonderful? Aren't we lucky?

32. Less is more. If you don't love it or use it, donate it

33. Children gain confidence from predictable routines. They should always know what to expect, what comes next, and what are the consequences of their choices.

34. Santa Clause is generous

35. Work before you play

36.  When your husband or children walk through the door, stop what you're doing, welcome them, and let them know you're so happy they're home

37. You are only as happy as your saddest child

38. Call your mother every day

Mom, thank you ♥ (#2 ✔️)

Ms. Pettibone

My 11-year old daughter Leah has had quite a year. There has been school of course, and her weekly tumbling class, but she also learned to fish. And came within three feet of a brown bear. After that she got her first job, at a bakery, but took time off for a trip to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and then CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. In between those, she managed to squeeze in a Queen P concert, trip to South Korea, where she competed in the Winter Olympics as a figure skater, and shuttle to Mars.

Really though.  I can prove it.

To do so, I have to go take you back to August and set the stage. Literally. A black, wooden, custom-built stage with glittering tassels and bright lights that sat in anticipation, ready to illuminate the stars as they arrived.  Not actors in a play, but ten and eleven-year old children who had been cast in the coveted role of students in Ms. Pettibone's fourth grade class.

Leah is one of those students. The stage is just one of countless ideas dreamed up by Ms. Pettibone to allow children like her a chance to shine. When another teacher asked why there was a stage in her classroom, she replied, "Why isn't there a stage in your classroom?" It's part of her daily, tireless effort to ensure that every student feels important, appreciated and capable.

As the mother of four children who have attended five schools in three states, I have observed over 30 classrooms, and never seen anything like the phenomenal environment created by Ms. Pettibone.

Ms. Pettibone or, I should say, whoever happens to greet the students on a given morning.

Once, for example, it was Her Honor Pettibone, sitting at her judicial bench ready to to prepare the class for a writing test by hearing persuasive evidence they gleaned and presented from a text

On another day, it was Queen P, a rapper whose forte is multiplication 

and PV, a bear who roams the forest teaching place value 

Last week, students arrived to discover that she had mysteriously been replaced by Nikki Watts, a special agent from Washington DC. The classroom had been transformed into the CIA, and as they entered it they were digitally "fingerprinted," issued security badges, and given the task of saving hacked files by practicing their language arts. With highlighters. Beneath a black light. After navigating through a maze of glowing lasers. 

In February, they stepped through the doors of Room 304 and into South Korea, where they were named athletes in the PyeongChang Winter Olympic Games. The wall was covered with pictures of every student as a gold medal athlete. Each subject was tackled as an event, and thunderous applause could be heard as they beat personal records.

On another occasion the room was "Text Structure Raceway." Students sped around the room with toy cars, reading and studying informational text in order to cross the finish line and earn a trophy. 

Or the time they left earth, landed on Mars, and were challenged to find their way home. 

I could go on, and on. Leah and her class have also learned while baking pies, completing scavenger hunts, and fishing from inflatable pools.

Ms. Pettibone is remarkable.

And, remarkably, her creativity isn't the quality that impresses me most.  She once said that she understands the struggle with self-esteem that can affect her students, and has therefore made it her mission to ensure that each of them feels important.  She writes  heartfelt personal letters enumerating their strengths, attends their extracurricular performances on weekends, and makes sure they have a friend to play with at recess.  At parent teacher conferences, she goes beyond test scores and quantitative measurements, and talks to parents about their child's kindness and confidence, the joy they bring to her life, and their unique talents and potential.

Once, Ms. Pettibone mentioned during a lesson that she needed a good night's rest to be ready for her job, and a baffled student replied, "You have a job!?"  It was the perfect indication of the way she is perceived. Not as someone who simply shows up for work every day, but as a beloved part of each child's life - Teacher, mentor, advocate, cheerleader and friend.

When you have a child that struggles academically and socially the way Leah does, the thought of sending them to school can be agonizing. The gift of Ms. Pettibone is that her classroom is the place where Leah feels most confident. She has made more progress this year than any prior, and I can say that without considering a single grade or test score.

They say that teaching is a thankless job. Thanking this teacher enough is an impossible one.

Dr. Shame

When my daughter Leah was in first grade, she was prescribed a patch to correct the vision in her left eye.

The first time I put it on her, I told her two things.

First, I promised that if anyone made fun of her for wearing it, I would personally come to the playground and watch them "accidentally" trip and land on their face.  She was horrified, but I swear I meant it.

Then, I told her that I was so, so sorry.

Leah has a neurological disorder. I could write an entire book about her, and someday might, but for now suffice to say that she is the most adorable thing you'll ever meet, but that life has handed her a multitude of hurdles to clear.

Her deficiencies manifested one by one from time she was born. It took years to diagnose her, and just as long for me to obsess over where I had gone wrong. First, I decided it must have been mercury exposure from the tuna I ate when I was pregnant with her.  When that theory didn't pan out, I decided it was the medication I took for morning sickness. Or the helmet therapy we elected to correct her skull shape.  Maybe exposure to mold in our California apartment? For every moment I watched her struggle, I found new ways to incriminate myself.

Then, when she was in first grade, we added vision to her list of battles. Her pediatrician noticed her straining to read the eye chart and suggested we have her evaluated, so I scheduled an appointment with a pediatric ophthalmologist at Children's National Medical Center.  This is where she was diagnosed with amblyopia, a condition where the brain favors one eye over the other, and prescribed a patch as treatment.

I had never heard of amblyopia and had a thousand questions, none of which the doctor had much patience for. He spoke mostly over my head except for one thing he made very clear. "You shouldn't have waited until she was seven years old to bring her in," he told me. "If you hadn't, this could have all been avoided."

Then he handed us a box of patches, told us to come back in six weeks, and left the room.

I hated that doctor, whom I would thenceforth refer to as "Dr. Shame," and Leah hated those patches. They gave her headaches. They hurt to peel off. Kids stared at her when she wore them. And it was all my fault. If I had brought her in at an earlier age, like he said, like a good mother, it could have all been avoided.

It weighed on my conscious for years. With every patch, pair of glasses and ophthalmologist appointment, Dr. Shame's admonition echoed in my head.

Until, one evening, I went to dinner with my cousin.

Her challenges are far more consuming than mine. Thirteen years earlier she received a misdiagnosis during pregnancy, and as a result has a child with a serious disability. His diagnosis was followed by years of whys, what-ifs, medical record procurement and malpractice attorneys. She said she became obsessed with receiving justice for her son until one day, after another legal dead end, a nurse at the malpractice firm told her that in her opinion, what had happened "can only be classified as a fluke."

That was the turning point for her. After all the confusion of consultations, files, x-rays, lawyers, etc., she said the only thing she knew for sure was that her son was not a fluke. No child is a fluke.  He is exactly the person he is supposed to be, and even with all of his challenges she wouldn't trade him for anything. She said she hung up the phone, dropped the case, and made the decision that from that moment on she would transfer all the energy she had exerted seeking justice for her son, into loving and enjoying him exactly the way he is.

This was a turning point for me too.

I wondered, what if Leah is exactly the way she's supposed to be? What if the eye patch, the amblyopia, and the learning disabilities are all perfect components of the life she was meant to live? And subsequently, what if none of it could have been prevented or changed, no matter how much tuna I ate when I was pregnant, or what age I took her to the ophthalmologist?

When I considered it from this perspective, I could say without reservation that I wouldn't have Leah any other way. She tests my faith and patience, but is the very reason I've been able to develop both. She thwarted my plan to be a perfect mother, but instead allowed me to raise a perfect child. She's naive but innocent. She's often ostracized, but is incapable of excluding others. It takes her longer than most to understand things, but when she does the joy is tenfold.

My opportunity as her mother isn't just to tolerate her challenges, but to embrace, learn from, and celebrate them.

I am the luckiest.

I suppose I can even celebrate Dr. Shame. Depending on how I reflect on his comment, it can either be a prescription for resentment or healing, and I choose the latter. At the end of the day it's all patchwork isn't it? I'm grateful for what he helped me see more clearly.

The Yawn Effect

When I was sixteen, my parents went to dinner at the Red Robin where I worked as a hostess. It was a Friday night and we were slammed, which meant that even with the preferential treatment I was not above administering, they waited in the lobby for over twenty minutes to be seated.

As they did, they said, they noticed something strange. The couple in front of them both yawned, as did members of the family next to them, and several people that walked in after.  Yawns are contagious of course, but this was more like an epidemic.

Just as they were beginning to suspect carbon monoxide poisoning, I called their table. As they stood to follow me they turned, looked past the partition adjacent to which they had been seated, and saw this

It was was an enormous print, framed and hanging just within eyesight of everyone that had been facing them as they waited.  They were so amused, that my mom tracked the picture down and bought a copy for me to hang in my room at home.

She gave it to me with a lesson. This, she told me, is to remind you that you're affected by the people around you, whether you realize it or not.

As I mentioned, I was sixteen at the time, an age when friends can make you or break you. And this wasn't just wise parenting. It was a scientific fact.

Research suggests that others' moods can spread as infectiously as their germs. Psychologists call it emotional contagion, a process by which feelings and emotions transfer from one person to the next, causing them to unconsciously copy one another.

Or, as I've heard it put another way, spend time with bank robbers and pretty soon you'll be driving the getaway car.

We've all felt it. People can inspire you or deplete you. When I spend time with someone whose spirit animal is Eeyore - pessimistic, gloomy, complaining - I notice every dark cloud on the way home.  On the contrary, what a joy are people who are joyful. I have smiled because someone else was smiling, heard laughs that have elicited my own, and caught the bug of other people's infectious enthusiasm, optimism, or capacity to dream big.

This phenomenon also applies to social networks. A 20-year Harvard study concluded that if neighbors within a mile of you see an increase in happiness, you are 25% more likely to see one too. Your tribe matters. I never thought I would get hooked on dirty sodas or wear jandals with socks, but I moved to Utah two years ago and guess what?

For better and worse, I have seen evidence of the yawn effect throughout my life. It's been said that you're the average of the five people you spend the most time with, which means that when I was a teenager, I was the average of Katie D, Amy, Tanita, Jack, Stacey, Jeffrey and Eli (I never was good at math). They were happy, confident, inclusive teenagers with an unwavering sense of right and wrong. To this day I'm grateful for their influence.

When I went away to college and my circle of friends changed, I developed a more competitive nature. After moving to California and enlisting with yet another tribe, I learned to be more laid back. Surrounded by accomplished mothers in DC, I tended more toward self-improvement.

In no other circumstance however, has the yawn effect taken on as much meaning as it has since becoming a mother. When I yawn my kids yawn, proverbially. When I'm unhappy they're unhappy. When I sing along to the radio and point out how beautiful the mountains are, they sing and appreciate mountains. When they step on a Lego and mutter an expletive? Yawn effect.

Twenty-plus years later, the yawning girl is now the screensaver on my phone. She still serves as a reminder of the effect we have on others, though when I look at her these days she doesn't elicit a feeling of caution as much as she does a sense of responsibility.