Snow plow with Timmy.  (at My office HR - Stratton )

Snow plow with Timmy. (at My office HR - Stratton )

Law of Least Resistance

Just for today, make the decision to practice defenselessness. When you find yourself involved in a discussion in which you feel compelled to take one side over another or express your opinion in order to sway that of another person, instead, gently let go of the need to defend your point of view. Make a commitment to follow the path of no resistance in other ways throughout your day. Witness how effortlessly your day unfolds as you practice letting go and accept things just as they are. 

Deepak Chopra Meditation

Top Quotes from my Dad - Labor Day Weekend Visit 2013

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"Hey Baby! Your cat is a total dick”  (to me)

"When I die I want you to dump my body in the backyard and let the animals eat me".  Seriously, you want me to throw your naked dead body in the backyard and let you decompose while Mom tries not to throw up every time she tries to open a window?  "I want to return to nature"  Sorry Dad, that’s disgusting, illegal and it’s not happening.

"Tell her to shut up" (to Chip referring to my mother)

"The world hasn’t learned anything and the world will never learn anything"

"Does Rand Paul actually believe the shit he says?"

"I had too much medicine last night"

"I need a nap"

"Baby!  whoa whoa, no texting and driving!  You know better!  What’s wrong with you?" I’m not driving Dad.  Mom is.



Katharine Hepburn at the Festival Theatre in Stratford, Connecticut, in 1957, where she played The Merchant of Venice and Much Ado About Nothing.


Could she be anymore beautiful?


Katharine Hepburn at the Festival Theatre in Stratford, Connecticut, in 1957, where she played The Merchant of Venice and Much Ado About Nothing.

Could she be anymore beautiful?

(via modernhepburn)

To All the Mothers That Didn’t Win Mother of the Year

This is for all the mothers who didn’t win Mother of the Year.  All the runners-up and all the wannabes.  The mothers too tired to enter or too busy to bother.

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars so that when their kids asked “Did you see my goal?” they could say “Of course, wouldn’t have missed it for the world”, and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s OK, honey, Mommy’s here.”

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see.  And the mothers who took home those babies and made them homes.  For all the mothers who run car pools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes.  And all of the mothers who don’t. 

What makes a good mother, anyway?  Is it patience?  Compassion?  Broad hips?  The ability to nurse a baby, fry a chicken and sew a button all at the same time?

Or is it heart?  Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?  The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?  The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

I think so.

So, this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies.  And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn’t. This is for reading “Good-night Moon” twice a night for a year.  And then reading it again, “Just one more time.”

This is for all the mothers who mess up.  Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2-year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoes before they started preschool.  And for all the mothers who chose Velcro instead.  For all the mothers who bite their lips when their 14-year olds dye their hair green.  Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won’t stop.

This is for mothers who show up for at work with spit up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purses.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.

This is for the mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves.  This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can’t find the words to reach them. 

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation.  And mature mothers learning to let go.  For working mothers and stay at home mothers.  Single mothers and married mothers.  Mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you.  So hang in there.  And better luck next year.  I’ll be rooting for you.