Titles used to mean a great deal to me. When I worked as the marketing manager of a private school, I desperately wanted to add the word director after marketing. I asked supervisors for the change and even appealed to the school's headmaster, but no title change was ever given during my five years there. It was a little devastating to me at the time. The title meant so much. I think it's safe to say I still had a lot of growing to do. Fast forward to a recent promotion I earned in . . .
"She's obviously going through a phase," I stated emphatically to my husband earlier this week. "Surely this won't last." This I speak of is my nearly 3-year-old's unruly, controlling behavior. Her need to dictate everything we do is beyond ridiculous lately. "Give me the rectangle graham cracker, not the square one. I SAID NOT THE SQUARE ONE!" "I want Mommy to put on my shoes. No! I want Mommy to do it. Mommy! Mommy!" "Let me open the door. Let me get in my seat. Let me buckle up. I . . .
Graham and I went away to New England this weekend, just the two of us, for his 40th birthday. We passed through Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Vermont, settling in Stowe, an idyllic mountain town just about 100 miles from the Canadian border. It was such a sweet time for our marriage. We literally needed fresh air and a chance to lay down our work and domestic roles for a few days. I took the opportunity to celebrate my guy in the ways he appreciates: time spent out of doors, good food . . .
Eighteen months ago, shortly after I had dropped out of the running for a prestigious position in my organization and asked to go part-time to be more present with my daughter, a coworker saw a framed quote in my office. The space had been converted from a storage closet just a few weeks before, and I made room for a few personal items including the quote which read Go Confidently in the Direction of Your Dreams. “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams into the closet?” he laughed. I . . .
I dare someone to talk with their besties as much as I do with mine. Every day, we connect, leaving Voxer messages that are 6, 8, 13 minutes long. We've been known to max out the allotted 15-minute message and have to start another one. If I ever go missing, I think Lorae and Janean may realize it before anyone else. Can you tell I've been listening to one too many episodes of Crime Junkie? Who cares that we live hours apart? In fact, when I see these girls for an overnight in Richmond at the . . .