A letter to Evie on her 9th birthday

Dear Evie,

Nine years. Nearly double-digits. It’s hard to believe that I’m writing to you again already.

Eight was great. You went to your first rock concert, you learned to snowboard, and you tried kayaking. You joined your first basketball team; I think you found your sport. You’ve become a big fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, and you made a board game based on her books for a school project. You love Pokemon, Minecraft, and Phineas & Ferb. Your Harry Potter fandom is unabated, and I’m excited to take you to Universal Studios to buy a wand and taste Butterbeer.

You’re a good kid and a nice sister. Felix joined you at Excelsior Elementary this year as a kindergartener, and you always look out for him. Seeing you walk him to the bus stop, help him with his coat, and race to give him the first hug at the end of the day fills my heart. He thinks the world of you, and it’s easy to see why.

Also, Teddy and Rosie.

That time I went to a Prince concert instead of going to bed like a regular grownup

There were plenty of reasons for a responsible adult like me to skip this concert: It was a weeknight. We have kids. It was the same night as an important work event. I like going to bed at 9 p.m.

Sam and I tend to regret the adventures we don’t take more than the ones we do, and we’ve lived in Chanhassen for 6 years and never seen Prince. We enlisted a neighbor to watch the kids, and we bought tickets for the 11 p.m. show (so I could still attend the work meeting. I am responsible, after all.)

After an hour of waiting on a bus, in which I began to question my ability to stay alert through this endeavor, we were dropped off at Prince's home/studio/concert venue Paisley Park, aka the white buildings with purple lights that I drive past on my way to the gym. We were briefed and re-briefed on the Paisley Park Rules:

1. No cell phone use

Code Red

The first time, it seemed unusual. “Psst… Code Red!” “What?” “Over there!”

As I walked toward the locker room at my gym, I heard whispering from a group of teenage employees who were folding towels. The words “Code Red” sounded serious, but their expressions were decidedly not.

The second time, it seemed personal. “Code Red, locker room.” I looked over my shoulder, and one girl and two boys were huddled, whispering, giggling.

I don’t know if “Code Red” is my nickname (due to hair color, perhaps?) or if it’s their secret phrase for people whose appearance they find amusing, but I walked away convinced that the teens were making fun of me. There’s plenty to make fun of: I’m overweight and awkward, even though I’ve been working out regularly for years. I wear silly, colorful headbands. I do not fear the brutal honesty of leggings.

And yet, those kids cut me down. For a moment, they made me feel like my 14-year-old self who signed up for summer school gym so that I could avoid the judgmental stares of my classmates.

Christmas in Translation

This post was originally published on Anastasia Vitsky's blog.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Poland. It was the country my parents fled, the place whose oppressive regime and limited options drove them to immigrate to the United States before I was born. Poland was the wreck my family had swerved to avoid, the baseline used to discredit my teenage dramas (“You could have been born in Poland! Then you would have NO designer jeans!”). It was like an estranged relative, both conspicuously absent and undeniably present in my family.

Circa 1984, not in Poland

My Whole30 Odyssey: I ate real food for 30 days; here's what happened.

Have you ever been in a relationship that makes you miserable, in which you consistently make terrible choices, but you're unable to detach because I love him! or She's my best friend! - and then you finally take some time apart, see the situation with clarity, and realize you were being a fool?

Do you ever run so many programs on your computer that it starts slowing down, crashing, whirring, and the only solution is to hold down the power button, wait a long minute, and start fresh?

These two metaphors come to mind as I reflect on the last month. My toxic relationship was with food, and my body was the tired computer that needed a hard reboot.

I had gained 20 pounds in 6 months. Some of it was residue of a fun summer of travel and socializing. Some of it was due to mindless snacking and joyless overeating. All of it combined to make me feel tired, run-down, and defeated. I wanted someone to tell me exactly what to do, and so I turned to this program I'd heard rave reviews about.

My Whole30: A View From Day 8

A week ago, I began a month-long odyssey known as Whole30. No sugar, grain, dairy, legumes, or alcohol. No artificial sweeteners, chemicals, or heavily processed food.

If you're the sort of person who's interested in other people's eating habits, you're probably thinking one of three things:

a. Rock on. I tried this/heard about this/eat like this every day.

b. That sounds vaguely interesting, but also impossible, because I'd never be able to give up ___.

c. What is wrong with you?? Giving up entire food groups? That's insane.

The first time I heard about the Whole30, my reaction was firmly c. I grew up with four food groups, in a world where bread was wholesome and milk-drenched bowls of cereal were "part of a complete breakfast."

Farewell, Preschool Mom.

I won’t get the empty house.

Stay-at-home mothers talk about the silence, the stillness, the freedom, the joy, and the little bit of longing they feel when the school bus drives off and they find themselves alone at home for the first time.

I’m a working mother. Evie and Felix are daycare kids. I’ve been packing lunches and writing names on jackets since they were in diapers. Our house is empty on most weekdays, and only the cats are home to enjoy the stillness. The transition from preschool to kindergarten shouldn’t be a big deal.

And yet, it is.

When that little boy with the lion keychain on his backpack walks to the bus stop with his big sister, a phase of my life is officially over. Preschool Mom is done.