3 magic words

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If any of you are like me -- and I have a feeling there are a few of you -- after reading the title of this post, you're likely scanning the text to discover as quickly as possible the three magic words of which I write. Well, this post doesn't work that way because the three magic words are unique to each person; no generic magic words to be found.

That's right. There's three for me, and there's three for you ... and you ... and you.

Let me explain: Many of you will remember my recent lament about not having epiphanies upon reading articles in MORE and O magazines. Though I've yet to have an epiphany, I did recently read a life-improving article in O, written by Martha Beck, O's goal-achieving guru in residence. The article, loosely translated, describes a new method for achieving one's goals. And since reading it, I've been a little less consumed with epiphanies and more focused on reaching my goals ... with the help of three magic words.

In the article (http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Goal-Setting-Strategies-from-Life-Coach-Martha-Beck), Beck tells the reader to imagine she's achieved an ultimate goal, to actually visualize what achievement of that goal looks like. The ultimate goal for me, the one I visualized in detail, was making my living off my words, through published books and my blog.

Yay for visualization. But that's not the end of the exercise.

Beck says to then think of three adjectives for how you would feel upon reaching such a goal, three words describing your psychological takeaway upon such an achievement. Beck's rationale being, basically, that it's often not the actual achievement we desperately seek, but the feelings and emotional payoff that would accompany the achievement.

In terms of achieving my writing goal, the three adjectives I came up with were creative, empowered and financially secure.

But wait -- that's still not the end of the exercise.

Beck continues by saying that instead of focusing so hard on that specific goal, you should focus on using those three magic words you came up with. She encourages you to engage in actions or tasks that would lead you to feel one or more of those words, even if the tasks aren't directly related to that original goal. Because, again, it's not the goal that soothes the soul, Beck says, it's the feelings we imagine resulting from that goal that we desire. The goals may still be achieved but they're no longer, in and of themselves, the end-all, be-all.

Believe it or not, I think Beck's right. Since doing the exercise, I've focused on tasks and activities that make me feel creative, things that make me feel empowered, things that contribute to being financially secure. Most of the tasks relate to only one of the adjectives at a time, and many of the activities have nothing to do with becoming a well-paid writer. Yet I feel more content about my career goals, my career path.

Because of my improved attitude about my career goals since this little exercise, I thought I'd apply it to another goal/dream of mine to see if it does the same -- the dream of having all my family living nearby ... my children and my grandchildren, all within easy visiting distance.

So I visualized the scenario, the goal, in detail, and I came up with three adjectives related to achieving it. Hence, going forward I will pursue activities that elicit feelings associated with my three new magic words: nurturing, intimate, memorable.

I've just set about putting my new magic words into action, so I'm not sure where they will take me. But I'm crossing my fingers that the three adjectives related to my family goal are as magically effective as those regarding my career goal have been. Even just a smidgen of the magic will be much appreciated if it can ease by the slightest bit the burden of having chunks of my heart living 815 miles away.

It's worth a shot, I believe. I'll share the good news of its effectiveness with you once I see that the magic's in motion.

Abracadabra, here goes!

Photo: Wikimedia Commons

Today's question:

Following Martha Beck's exercise, what is one of your three magic words?

"Black Swan," the grandma version

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A letter to my daughter:

Dear Megan,

My “Black Swan” title refers to the film of the same name depicting dark competition amongst ballerinas

I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't comment on the blog post you wrote about your gratitude for Preston's grandma -- Bubby's great-grandma -- who came through for you when you needed a babysitter for sick Bubby last week. I know the absence of a comment from me was rather conspicuous as I have commented on every one of your posts since you started your 365 Days of Gratitude series. Except that one.

Here's the thing: Everything I considered saying would have come across as snarky and insincere. Maybe not to others, but certainly to me. Because I know that inside I have a growing resentment -- maybe more accurately, a growing disappointment -- that when you and Preston chose to move to the desert to be equally removed from both your parents in the mountains and his in the midwest as you started your life together, it ended up meaning -- unintentionally, I know -- that his grandma, who lives less than an hour from the destination you chose, automatically by virtue of proximity, got the role in your life and Bubby's (and soon Birdy's, too) that I wanted.

I agree that Preston's grandma is a wonderful person for Bubby, and I'm glad you have help when you need it. But, like I said, that's the role I wanted, and it saddens me to see the glowing reviews she gets for doing what I want to do. Her role should be great-grandma; the role of grandma should be played by me. But because I'm far away, I lost out. In so many ways.

Further salt in the wound, once Preston's parents move there this year as they've planned, followed by his sister and her fiance and, eventually I'm sure, his brother, I'll lose out even more -- your family will lose out more -- as his entire family will have the role in your lives that your family wants. Or at least wants an equal share of. But because your lives and home are there and our lives and home -- which we won't leave -- are here, we get the secondary role.

Yes, it was all unintentional. And yes, there's nothing you can do about his family moving there. But still, I'm resentful. I'm disappointed. And pats on the back for successfully maintaining a long-distance relationship with my daughter and my grandchildren are of little consolation. I don't like the long-distance role; I want a role with more stage time. I know it simply can't be -- regardless of the reasons why -- but that doesn't make it any easier.

I'm a young grandma and it's fairly early in the grandparenting phase, so I know I will eventually have the role I want: the role of doting grandmother who gets weekly interaction, who covers babysitting shifts on a regular basis and in emergencies, who hosts Easter and Christmas gatherings for family who won't travel on those holidays, who attends Grandparents Day at school, who attends children's recitals at church. I will get that; I know that. Unfortunately, it just won't be with your children, my first grandchildren. And it won't be for quite some time, as your sisters certainly -- luckily, actually -- won't be having kids any time soon.

So in the meantime, while I wait to garner that role of a lifetime, I will do my best to not come across as snarky, to not appear resentful, to not wear my disappointment on my sleeve regarding the role I desperately wanted, the role I sadly missed out on.

Which is exactly why I didn't comment on your post.

Love,

Mom

Today's question:

What role have you missed out on, in personal or professional situations or otherwise?

Shattered illusions

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When I visited Bubby earlier this month, it took no time at all for my illusion of him to be shattered.

You see, Megan shares photos of Bubby all the time, and we Skype fairly regularly (except for the last few weeks when Megan's computer's been on the fritz). Because of the photos and the Skype sessions, I've been led to believe that Bubby's a big boy.

But he's not. And I learned that right away.

When I landed in the desert, Preston picked me up from the airport and we drove the nearly one hour to their house, where Bubby and Megan awaited my arrival. Preston pulled in the garage, we got out, the door to the house opened, and I heard gleeful calls from Bubby and Megan as I headed to the trunk to collect my things. I couldn't see Bubby, but I heard the pitter-patter of his bare feet coming around the back of the car to greet me.

Then he made it around the corner of the car ... and stopped me in my tracks. For standing before me wasn't the big boy I had expected to greet me, but an itsy-bitsy munchkin.

Instantly, my fear that Bubby had grown so much since I'd last held him that I'd no longer be able to hold him vanished. Instantly, the idea that the camera adds 10 pounds became a reality -- a reality multiplied to seem like even more considering those 10 pounds were added to a barely-over-30-pound frame.

Yes, Bubby may act like a big boy and look like a big boy in photos, but he's still so very much -- as his mom calls him -- a peanut.

A peanut that is just over 30 inches tall -- still quite short of a yardstick.

A peanut that can barely reach the door handles throughout the house.

A peanut whose head only slightly rises above the top of the bathtub when bathing.

A peanut that is just one little-boy-head taller than the average-sized golden retriever.

Even though photos -- including those I took myself so I know they're not Photoshopped -- make Bubby look long and large, I know now it's an illusion, that my grandson is not a big boy.

Truly, my grandson is a peanut.

But that's just fine with me because he's a peanut this grandma can easily lift to see into the display case when choosing from the 31 flavors at the ice cream parlor.

A peanut this grandma can easily carry up the long flight of stairs to his bedroom after he falls asleep in the car.

A peanut this grandma has no trouble holding up to the mirror so together we can laugh at his funky robot hat.

A peanut this grandma can easily lift from the bathtub, wrap in a towel, and carry to his bed for pajama time.

A peanut that easily fits in this grandma's lap for hugging and rocking and reading bedtime stories.

There's no way around it: Bubby is a peanut. And that's okay. Because this grandma is huge lover of peanuts.

Especially peanuts that go by the name of Bubby.

Today's question:

What is your favorite food featuring peanuts?

Emergency in the desert

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Emergencies in the desert are far different than the ones I'm used to in the mountains. Monday morning, there were a few hours to kill before I had to return to the airport and hop a plane back to the mountains. Preston had left for work, and Megan, Bubby and I were relaxing, chit-chatting over this and that and some coffee.

Bubby had just commenced looking one more time at the "There's Going to be a Baby" book from my Grandma Bag when, all of a sudden, he let out a screech, pushed the book away, jumped up from his spot on the floor, and raced to the front door as if a fire alarm only he could hear had just gone off.

But Megan apparently heard it, too. She jumped up from her chair and followed Bubby, shouting, "We gotta hurry! Look out the window! Bubby ... here ... out the window." She pulled open the living room blinds as Bubby, far too short to see out the window, became visibly distressed.

Then Megan grabbed up Bubby -- who danced nervously, unsure of what to do and nearly pawing at the front door -- and quickly unlocked one deadbolt on the front door, then the other. She threw open the door and, with Bubby firmly in her arms, raced out onto the porch.

Where they stopped in their tracks.

And looked down the street.

"The garbage truck!" Megan shouted in glee, and Bubby heartily seconded her exclamation.

Then they both froze and patiently waited as the rumble and roar of the garbage truck became louder and louder and finally -- halleluiah! -- stopped right across the street.

The garbage man did his duty as Megan and Bubby stood transfixed.

Slowly, the banging and clanging truck scooted up to the next house. Then the next. Bubby's eyes never left the glorious garbage hauler -- the most wondrous thing in his world.

As it continued on its route, past Bubby's house, past the neighbor's, Bubby and Megan waved.

"Buh-bye, Garbage Truck!" they said as the rumbling and bumbling vehicle headed up the block and out of sight.

And me? All I could do -- after grabbing my camera to capture the emergency in action, of course -- was think Thank God. Yes, thank God such a thing didn't happen while I was the one and only adult in charge of Bubby. For I have never, ever experienced such an emergency. Not in the mountains ... especially not in a houseful of non-garbage-truck-loving little girls.

If I had been the sole adult when the seemingly silent alarm went off in Bubby's head, I surely would not have known what to do.

Hard as it is to admit, I must say that Megan and Preston returned home to relieve Gramma of her Bubby duty just in the nick of time. Clearly, a disaster averted.

Today's question:

If you were to look out your front door right this very minute, what would you see happening out there?