If you have never seen Andy Andrew's "The Seven Decisions" I highly recommend it. You could also buy his book called "The Traveler" from any major bookstore.

For me, hearing his words while listening to 'The Seven Decisions', was the single catalyst that changed the direction of my professional, and therefore, personal life. He didn't even say anything that was terribly surprising or what you might call a 'lightbulb moment'. In fact everything he said was pretty much in accordance with the way I already live my life; universal laws you might say. You know... things like: 'what goes around comes around' and 'you get what you give' or 'do unto others as you'd have them do unto you.' I just needed to hear it all in a different way. In very focused, driven and positive terms.

However there was one particular decision that resonated within my heart.

I will Persist Without Exception.

I had been mulling a tiny idea around in my head. Something creative, something positive. A small newsletter written by women, for women as encouragement and to bolster their self-esteem. I envisioned about four to six pages with inspirational quotations and things like tried and true family recipes. It was a great little idea, perfect for me to manage while working full time. Something to build and grow. To create.

My day job hadn't been filling me up and I was tired of working really hard for a company, a division, a corporate entity that continually reaped the rewards of my precious time and talents. I wanted something of my own. A business of my own. Something big. Something that would allow me to contribute my passions, my energy and my intentions to the world.

Then I saw The Seven Decisions.

I will Persist Without Exception.

I continued to dream about the venture. I don't even know when it happened but one day I was telling people about my women's 'magazine'. I was building a website. I was attending business conferences and networking with really brilliant female entrepreneurs. I kept writing and working, scheming and dreaming and the stars began to align.

Every spare second that I have, I am working on this project. I am working on the business plan, developing a marketing scheme, selling advertising spaces, researching legal terms, necessary insurances and obtaining quotes to have the project made into a product.

I will Persist Without Exception.

This has been the fastest, craziest three months of my life. I am short on sleep, stressed to the max and burning the candle at both ends. And I am damn content. Hell, I am happy.

I am learning new things at a breakneck pace. I am consistently working at layouts, designs, ideas, fonts, articles, photos and advertisements. I am certain that I will make some big mistakes along the way... heck! I've made some mistakes along the way already... this won't be so bad. The key will be moving forward at all costs. Making a ton of progress by working at this dream a little bit every day.

There is nothing that anyone has said or could say that would deter me from this journey. I am excited and energized. The people that I adore the most in my life are 150% supportive of my ideas, my committment and my time.

I must admit, when I am still and overly exhausted, I get fearful of the changes (even the good ones). I feel guilty for time spent on work that could be spent on extra snuggling. Overwhelmed by the shear volume of publishing and magazine stuff that I still need to learn.

But I will persist.

Without exception.

I was born and raised in central Saskatchewan. From our farmyard I could see miles in every direction. Flat, rolling, golden prairie; east, west, north and south.

Anyone who has ever lived in Saskatchewan knows exactly what I am talking about. There is a joke about being from the flat prairie and being able to watch your dog run away for three days. It is an exaggeration, but not by much.

Now that I live in Alberta I only make it 'home' a couple of times a year. This Spring Break, we traveled to see my husband's parents in Regina, made our way to Saskatoon, saw my Grandmother and then traveled to Kindersley which was my home town. The last stop before heading back to Lacombe.

It has taken me five days to decompress from work and relax enough to get 'the feeling'. But today, right after we left Saskatoon, it came to me. The building excitement that one gets when they are almost home.

The city disappeared in a moment behind us and suddenly before us was a sea of dusty, bland, old-gold stubble fields, umber grassland and bleak spring prairie stretched out as far as the eye could see.

And it was absolutely stunning.

One of the most incredible things about the prairie in Saskatchewan is the horizon line accentuated by clear blue sky.

There are very few trees in the central and west central portion of the province where I grew up. The land meets the sky halfway and those living skies can leave a person breathless.

In the winter, when the ground is white, the sky is still robin's egg blue. In the spring, when the snow has gone and the showers haven't yet removed the dust from the world, even in the dismal dinge of newly uncovered earth, the sun still shines like summer. Brilliant and blinding. In the summer months when the grass is long and sweet and the grain is baby new and green, the warm winds will blow and the sky fills with gigantic white pillowy clouds that move lazily over the landscape in shapes and shadows. By fall, the land is ripe and rich, plentiful and golden; an ocean of wheat that ripples in waves. Pure praire wool. It is a simple and lovely landscape, far undervalued for the most part by those who whiz through in their cars on area highways.

But I don't care.

We hit the #7 highway this morning with a cup of black coffee and no radio reception and it was glorious. For the first time in weeks, and even months, my heart was at ease and my mind was still. The world was good, all because all I could see for miles was prairie.

My family doesn't have land in Saskatchewan anymore. The farm sold, as did my grandparents house. We were forced to move forward.

I wish there was a reason for me to stay a while. A farmhouse to go home to. A dusty driveway to walk down. A prairie pasture for me to lay in; with sage and Buffalo Bills. Crocuses and tumbleweeds. The bluest of blue skies and neverending prairie sea.

But there isn't and I have to be okay with that. I will be tomorrow, when we get in our vehicle and point towards Alberta. I do love the life we live together there.

Saskatchewan is no longer where I reside, but it is still my home.

I'm a prairie girl at heart, and prairie people are intensely loyal. To thier own and to the land.

My dad is buried on the prairie. My aunt Jane. My dear grandfather. I will be too when I am old and tired. My heart longs for the silent warm winds of summers here, and my soul dances through the fields when the grain is long and green and sweet.

Just like any real woman on the run, I find it VERY difficult to go from full speed ahead to a complete and total place of relaxation. On any given day, I run from the moment I hit the floor in the morning until the moment I flop into bed at bedtime.

But I am on 'holidays' right now... we packed up at 8:00 Saturday morning and drove nine hours with four kids to my Out-Laws place in Saskatchewan. You know what that is like; at least four suitcases, two backpacks, shoes, crayons, paper and coloring books, MP3 players, toys, books, snacks, drinks, and at least one pee-break per person. Meal stops and stretch breaks. We arrived at my husband's folk's house at around supper time and while they are lovely, calm and generous people, we are sleeping in strange beds, living out of the suitcases, trying to keep up with picking up toys in the kids spaces and tripping over each other in a battle to get to the one teensy bathroom on the main floor.

I know I am supposed to be resting and still; re-filling my cup. It is a 'holiday'. I am supposed to be able to lay in front of the TV, play in the nearest park with my kids and sleep in as late as I want to. I told my friends before I left home: 'I am taking my runners and my sweatpants, and I will be running and sleeping.' BAH! What was I thinking?!? Although my routine has changed and my pace is slower, my mind continues to roll on at a hundred miles an hour.

Because I am so passionate about my work, I am missing my office. I am aware of upcoming deadlines and things that I need to be doing. I thought I would be able to work from the computer here and get SOOOOO much done, but I can't find five freakin' minutes where someone isn't looking for me, the kids aren't fighting over the Dollar Store toys, and I don't feel obligated to be visiting instead of working, reading and researching.

The work isn't going anywhere. It will still be waiting for me when I return home in a few days. I should just put it all away and focus on being present in this moment.

WHERE IS MY BLOODY OFF SWITCH?

I will never get this moment back. These minutes right now that I am madly typing away, listening to conversations in the kitchen and laughter among family. My girls are arguing over toys and I have been yelling over my shoulder at them to 'stop it, or I'll send you downstairs to play!' Meanwhile, I have been trying to squeeze in reading and researching in any spare moment, wishing I was anywhere but here. Exactly where I should be.

How sad.

Sometimes being a real woman on the run means going so hard and so fast all the time that we lose sight of what is really important at the end of the race. Keeping up with the Jones', being the top achiever in the company, balancing more than anybody else, having more, being more, accumulating more. None of it REALLY matters.

I've got to slow down and enjoy the ride. Every moment that I rush around trying to accomplish, achieve and complete, I miss the here and now.

This moment, I am missing watching my children play with their elderly grandparents. I am missing the laughter and the sharing of stories at the kitchen table. I am missing out on sharing a cup of coffee with the love of my life. I am so wrapped up in 'running the rat-race' that I haven't even paid attention to the view as I race on by.

As important as this project is to me, I will not get it all done this week. All my software programs are on my home computer. All my team is enjoying Spring Break with their family. All I am doing right now is stealing my time away from the people I love. Not once has my husband said, 'shut down and come be with your family.' He is so supportive of this magazine that he knows that I am madly reading and writing; scheming and dreaming. My children are waiting for me, patiently, to come join them in their play. My Out-Laws, who are old and WISE, probably wonder what the hell could be so important that I disappear so frequently into a book, a pad of paper or the computer.

Life continues on whether I am present or not. I don't want to miss the moments. My work will still be here when I get home on Friday.

This moment won't.

I think I found the off switch.

You won't hear from me again this week.

I'm on holidays.

You'd think by child number four, I'd have it all figured out.

My fourth child will be five years old this year. She is 'the baby'. Like many other parents before me have done; I've tried to hang on to her 'babyhood' for as long as possible. Delighting in her every new experience. Her cute facial expressions. My husband and I still take turns (nightly) getting out of bed at two or four a.m. for trips to the bathroom, chilly shoulders, a drink of water, nightmares or an itchy back. We deal with things like kinked necks and chiropractors on a regular basis and she gets her way... at meal times, at playtimes and at bedtimes.

Her older siblings dote on her as much. She has been hauled around, snuggled, babied, cuddled, coddled and cooed over for the last almost five years. We have enjoyed every moment, but it is now getting out of hand. She is one smart cookie. She's got it all figured out. Whine and look what happens. Pout and someone jumps. Moan and there is a desired reaction. Pose and watch them say awwww! I can't blame her for her behavior. I 've created a monster! I have done her no favor by allowing certain patterns to develop.

Over fourteen years, my mantra as a parent has progressed from: 'What the hell am I doing?' to 'Learning curve straight up' to Survive today!' to 'I can manage this.' to
'I'm doing a pretty good job of being a parent.'

That eventual confidence luckily didn't become cockiness or complacency. Somewhere along the way I discovered certain truths about parenthood. I grew and those discoveries about parenting and my own self, lead to the development of my current mantra:

The single goal of parenthood is to raise a contributing, functional adult.

I forget that now and then (cause I'm human) and I let things slide. At the end of a long workday, it can be easier to give in to a whine than to buck up and enforce the rules. When I have been gone to meetings three nights in a row and guilt gets the better of me, I tend to overcompensate with lower expectations. When I am overloaded mentally, taxed physically and drained emotionally, it is easier to bribe her with play, give in to her demands, offer what she wants. But it isn't what she NEEDS.

It may seem easier at that moment, but I pay the price for cutting corners in the short term and she will pay the price in the longterm. What am I teaching her by giving in to every whimper, pout and whine? By babying her along; allowing her to remain small? What do any of us gain by staying small? In thought, in word, in action?

Short term; instant gratification. Long term; unrealistic and self-centred expectations.
Hmmm. Hard now or hard later?
What do I want for her?
For me?

It's time to encourage the baby to grow up a little bit.
It is the way I can love her the most.

My Aunt Jane was stunning. She was beautiful, articulate, brilliant, talented, altruistic, loving, bright, generous, loving and a firecracker. That's the short version. She could also be larger than life, sharp tongued and entirely intimidating upon demand. That's the ouch factor.

Not one to be played, messed with, taken advantage of, or manipulated; she used her intuition to guide her and her words to make absolutely no mistake; she was not one to be messed around with. More than once in her bright life, she tuned some poor suspecting bugger in with a soul-deep stare and white hot words. Not abusive - okay well not entirely abusive - but commanding and penetrating. She was a force to be reckoned with. She could be a little scary when she wanted to be. But man, she got things DONE! THE SMART THING ABOUT HER WAS SHE NEVER CARRIED ANY RESENTMENT OR ANGER WITHIN HER BECAUSE SHE SPILLED IT WHEN SHE REALLY NEEDED TO. No b-s-ing Aunt Jane.

We loved her that way. The beauty of genetics is - in our family, we women all carry a little Jane inside of us.

So, I'm standing in line at the pharmacy today, like I do once a month, and have done every month for 22 months. In the same pharmacy I have used for all my prescriptions for the last eight years.
I am picking up the medicine that my son needs to use daily, for allergy-related swallowing problems. (Yeah, not fun.) He needs the medicine.

Every month for twenty two months, due to the superior health plan that I pay into through my work, I have not actually paid a cent for prescriptions. Naturally I am shocked when she says my benefits have been deferred to my husband's benefit plan.

'Bah-loney!' I say aloud and ask her to call, as I have not been notified of this change. She is helpful and calls and three people fall in line behind me.

A few minutes later, she hangs up the phone and informs me that because his birthday falls in the calendar year first, his company is first to receive the claim. My company has refused to accept the claim. I am seriously annoyed. Who decided that? When? and Why didn't anyone tell ME about it?
This means I will have to pay for my medicine today, send in the receipts and wait for a cheque in the mail.

I am pissed off, but what I am going to do about it?

She packs up the medicine and hands it over. I almost poop my pants in the lineup when I see the total.

A hundred and ninety dollars?!?!?!

Suddenly I feel a wave come over me, a surge of power that shoots up from my core and boils in the back of my throat. The poor woman working behind the counter in the pharmacy doesn't realize she is preparing to meet Aunt Jane.

I calmly but pointedly begin.... "A hundred and ninety dollars?!?!? What if I didn't have two hundred dollars for my son's medicine? What if I was a single mother and couldn't pay for this today? What would that mean for my son? What if I was a little old person who couldn't buy heart medicine today? Why wouldn't I have been notified about this change before it was made. Someone should've contacted me. Why the hell am I paying every month to a benefit program off my salary when they deem how and when I can use it?!?!?"

No one cares, nor do they look interested or affected, nor can they do anything about it. So I pay for my son's medicine and leave the store dialing my cell phone.

Now, I am not so foolish that I do not realize that the lovely pharmasists working behind the counter have NO control over the multi-gazillion dollar health comany that sucks money monthly out of my pay and then decides when and how I should be able to use it. AND I realize that I kind of look like a hot-head.

But Monday, my 'former' health care company meets Aunt Jane.

A quick lesson for readers new to blogging.

Google Definition: Blog is short for weblog. A weblog is a journal (or newsletter) that is frequently updated and intended for general public consumption. Blogs generally represent the personality of the author or the Web site.

If that is completely true, readers of the Real Woman on the Run weblog already know a lot about me; including that I am busywife and mother and business woman, am a tad neurotic, deeply loyal to my friends and family and that I talk waaaaaay too much.

If you are a talker too, here's a tip for responding to the weblog that 'speaks to you'.

Below each post there is small blue text that says 0 Comments/0 Trackbacks. If you were to click on the words 0 Comments with your curser, you will be redirected to a simple screen where you can enter your name, email and anything you would like to say, add, reject or dispute....

There is a little cryptic of several letters and numbers... type them into the box and hit POST. Your text will be added to comments. When finished, the small blue text below the weblog will read 1 Comments/0 Trackbacks.

I do not know what a trackback is yet, I will keep you posted.

I am a hair failure.

I have had short hair, like Pixie short, since I was five. I have had gamine cuts (think Halle Berry in 007) and mushroom cuts (think Dorothy Hamill). I have had perms and streaks; dyed it red and worse yet, platinum. I have 'grown it long' only once, in the early nineties. I grew it out to please my then long-term boyfriend (now long-gone boyfriend). Like many people, men and women alike, he believed all women should have long hair. I was overweight and unhappy with myself. I wanted to be desired. Long hair is sex-kittenish. Long hair is for bombshells. Long hair represents the beautiful people. So, I began the ugly fight and started to grow it out.

Once I survived the initial horrid shaggy-do with no style and my hair got long enough, I got a bad perm. (Is there a good perm I wore it pinned up with combs (anyone my age or older knows what those are) or a banana clip everyday. Mmm, foxy. Ladies, there is nothing foxy about a banana clip, unless you have on a Jane Fonda bodysuit and legwarmers to go with it. Occasionally I pulled back the front half into a Jack Nicholson mini Sumo-wrestler pony-tail. Picture it.... sweet.

And so the cycle has gone. Grow a little, chop it off. Grow a lot, chop it off. I do this routinely.

Like the hair sucker I am, I maintain a cycle. I will decide to grow out my normally short and style-less hair. Then I fight with it for six months. Every morning I push it into all sorts of positions to accommodate that transition from over the ears to almost at the chin. Six months of cursing at the curling iron, trying to find and buy the one brand of mousse or gel or pomade that will work a miracle on my fine, limp, straight-as-a-pin hair. Then it begins. A seething, uncontrollable urge to rip my hair out at the roots when it doesn't lay the way I want it to. Soon I am pasting it back off my face with a headband. Mmm, foxy. Shows off the Robert DeNiro mole on my forehead beautifully.

Why do I torture myself? I have spent upward of 40 minutes on my hair in the morning. Did I mention I have four kids in my house? That I have a full time job to get to? I have breakfasts to make and kisses to dole out. Nothing puts me in a crankier mood than messing around with my hair for forty plus minutes in the morning only to have it do whatever it wants anyways. (Except for changing my clothes four times because I am having a 'fat day'.) And so my hatred for long-ish hair percolates within me like hot coffee in an old urn.

Finally one morning, I snap. In a fit of wild fury I wield my scissors like a weed-whacker and begin to assault my chocolate locks. I come at it from the left, then the right. The left, the right, the left, the left some more. Then I sit on the sink and open the medicine cabinet door and work backwards, running my hair between my fingers and snip-snip-snipping away. As the sink fills with hair, my anger dissipates. Soon I am trimming up the edges and neatening the last remaining stragglers. Yes, for those of you that gasped; I cut my own hair. Yes, I am aware that this is dangerous. What can I say? I march to my own beat. I do it all the time, and have for years.

I carefully lay the scissors down and smile. There I am. Cutting off the longer pieces is always a bitter-sweet reunion for me. I am disappointed with myself for ruining my 'beauty' and delighted that I am reuniting with a friend I haven't seen for six months. The newly short and crisp cut is the 'me' I know and love.

I have yet to figure out exactly why I do this to myself. This 'grow, cut, grow, cut' thing.

Since I was a teenager and then a young woman, it has been perfectly obvious to me that the feminine mystique is draped in satiny, luscious, curly, sexy locks of raven, brunette, auburn and blonde. Ask any nine year old girl what a pretty woman looks like. She will tell you she has at least two of these things: Long hair, pretty fingernails, red or pink lipstick, big boobs, is skinny and wears high heeled shoes.

The belief that women are only truly beautiful with long hair is one of many beauty myths that are sold to us from a tender age at an enormous cost. They rob us of our energy, our value, our self-esteem and our 'realness'. I have wasted a tremendous amount of time and energy trying to change my outer self and beating up my inner-self in the process. Each morning that I stand in the mirror and force myself to measure up to the one standard of beauty that I haven’t been able to achieve, I label myself a beauty failure.

At the risk of sounding like SNL's Phil Hartman character, Stuart Smalley ('I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and doggone it, people like me.'); I am perfect just the way I am. I met a handsome and talented man about ten years ago who thinks I am beautiful in every way. He met me with short hair, fell in love with me with short hair and married me with short hair. He has also watched me fight with it, grow it out and pin it back, only to chop it all off, over and over and over again. He has no problem with my hair. Apparently only I do. (Oh, there’s a shocker.)

The thing is I actually love my hair when it is short. I refer to it as my ‘power’ cut. I feel strong and bright and unique when I wear it. In a world of trendy cuts; long and sleek, wild and curly, smart looking lengths; my clipped cut sets me apart. Not many woman aim for short, style-less hair. Maybe I just get bored with my short hair and need a change from time to time.

While boredom is likely (who wants the same hairdo for thirty-two years it is equally possible that I am simply aiming for a vision that I will never allow myself to be. When I begin growing out my hair, it doesn’t take long before I feel like somebody else. I cannot lie to you though, if I could blink my eyes and have hair like Jennifer Lopez in an instant, I would.

But one day, I’d wake up and be too bloody tired (between career, family and housework) to mold, shape and tease one more tendril. I’d start by sticking it in a pony tail, then put it in a braid, and before you know it, I’d be wearing a dollar-store headband to keep it out of my eyes.

Then, out of the bathroom drawer would come the scissors. A little off the left, the right. The left, the right, the right some more. After a while, I’d lay the scissors down. There I am. Hello, beautiful.

Changing lanes, changing gears, changing clothes, changing your mind. Changing direction, changing focus, changing jobs, changing trends. Winds of change, time for change, make a change, begin to change. Change of habit. Change your pattern. Change your life. Those words are much easier to speak than to do.

What makes change so hard?

There is probably a highly acclaimed Dr. of brain-iology out there somewhere who could tell me exactly what happens metaphysically within me when I am faced with making a change in my life. Small change (like daily diet) or big change (like career switch) most likely prompts some kind of alteration in brainwaves that are detectable to the trained eye in a fancy laboratory test. Even though tests might pinpoint exactly where making change affects us greatest (in the head, I am uninterested in the scientific results.

Some people find change easier to adapt to than others. Some people thrive on change; finding jobs and relationships stagnant after a while. Still others cling to old habits and familiar circumstances, finding comfort and security in the consistent.

I think I may be best represented in the first category. I find it easy; 'going with the flow'. I may even lean into thriving on change. Not the shake-up-the-snowglobe-swirling-out-of-control change that comes with a sudden and drastic life-altering moment, but the re-arrange-my-living-room-once-a-month kind. Okay, so I am no daredevil.

Reinventing yourself is a hard change to make. Think about it. Changing eating habits and changing thoughts about what we find tasty and appealing. Changing your attitude towards moving your body; creating a habit of movement. Changing the way we treat ourself. Deciding that we will no longer be a doormat. Deciding you are worthy of respect and fair treatment, changing the rules of relationships and then being strong enough to be the sole enforcer of that change. HARD. Changing lifelong patterns of coping (or not coping) with stress and anxiety. HARD. Changing your viewpoint - from cynical to optimist. HARD. Challenging and changing the way we navigate love relationships; valuing yourself enough to hold out for what you deserve instead of settling for what is simply tangible. HARD.

If you are looking to make any kind of change in your life, there are many sources for assistance. There are thousands of books about making all kinds of change. A hundred and one doctors and psychologists and life coaches offering solutions and ideas and strategies for making successful change. You can buy them and you can study them. Do the pre-tests-for-change and the check-lists-for-change and the home-work-at-the-end-of-the-chapter-for-change. Lots of well-educated and experienced people write brilliant and inspiring ideas that will assist you in changing your life. There are MANY happy, fulfilled and rich people making tons of money off of helping people like you and me make all sorts of changes.

But here's the thing. Change calls for courage. You can read about it. You can study up on how to do it. You can research it. Analyze it. Think about it. Practice it. But at the end of the day, all the reading, coaching, studying, rationalizing and analyzing in the world isn't going to make making a change any easier. Radical change calls for radical courage. You just have to do it. Day by day. Moment by moment. Second by second, if that's what it takes.

All the reading, writing, wishing, praying, hoping and beating-the-shit-out-of-yourself-for-not-changing-sooner does you not one bit of good - if you don't just take a stand and do it differently.

Day by day. Moment by moment. Second by second, if that's what it takes. One foot in front of the other making baby steps to big changes.

Generally speaking, this isn't a good thing.

Every pore in my body, every cell in my brain, every receptor and transmitter in my psyche... soaks up what is happening in the world around me. Due to the sheer volume of negative information being thrown out through media (radio, newspapers and television) and on top of that, the negative opinions and attitudes I encounter in a day's 'work', sometimes little ol' me feels like there is a big ol' dumptruck sitting on my chest. Like today.

Today I have a boulder lodged somewhere between my breastbone and my shoulder blades. I have been soaking in tension where I work. People coming in and out of my office to dig in 'community' file cabinets, messing up my quiet spaces. Government officials, non-stop telephone calls, no authority on site today to handle the messy stuff. A set of stitches, an accident report, dirty dishes, mounting paperwork, and NONE of it is mine. (Except for my period, which is of course mine, and while it doesn't stress me out, the wave of additional hormones probably is affecting the way I am responding to all of it.)

I don't intentionally allow things to get to me. It is the way I am built. I don't 'detach' from pain, trauma and human-suffering very well. I can't 'tune out' on demand and while I don't WANT to carry additional stress, once I hear it or see it, it takes me a long, LONG time to shake. Whether it is the little stuff, like bearing witness to a co-worker's plight or, big stuff, like upset children with unstable home lives... those stresses one-by-one attach to me. Like barnacles to the bottom of a boat.

As I age it gets worse! For example: if I watch a high intensity action/thriller movie and then try to immediately go to bed, there is no sleep to come! My entire body has trouble relaxing. My 'fight or flight' response goes into overdrive. I lay awake, stiff and tense, simmering in stress hormone. Not long ago, a lovely Aunt of mine shared a horrifying story about being the first upon the scene of a fatal collision; I worried about her, the deceased and the deceased's parents for several days. It didn't even happen TO me. (thank the sweet Lord and no offense Auntie)

There must be some sort of a technique I could learn in order to surrender and release the accumulated tension. Maybe tai-chi or some kind of meditation that would clear my thoughts and let the stress out. Yoga. Spa treatments. Confession. Adovan. I don't know. I could just see me now, trying to downward dog myself into a state of total zen. Bum in the air, deep breathing, practicing a state of calm while on the inside thinking: dry-cleaner, reconcile accounts, OHM, roast at 325, muffins for grade one, finish business plan, stain treat the dress shirt, OHM, deliver birthday present, guitar lesson, get to gym, OHM, followup with authorities, eye appointments, groceries, OHM... until from my zen-like state I would open my eyes, look between my ankles, see the dustballs rolling around the laminate, get pissed off and grab the vaccuum.

Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the gift of empathy. I am a compassionate person; very intuitive and I read people very well. These skills assist me in being an excellent communicator, great listener, decent friend and terrific mother and wife. They also ensure that I have a strong sense of fairness and justice and that my social conscious is never asleep. I couldn't imagine never feeling a sense of care or empathy for another human being (or creature. Unfortunately for me, it also means that I subconsciously offer to help others carry the load they bear. And I don't need to.

Sometimes taking good care of oneself means doing a little 'housecleaning.' Taking out the trash and weeding the garden. How much of the extra crap I am carrying around with me is actually mine to own? How much of it belongs to someone else? What can I do to keep ME as healthy and focused as I can be? I need to practice packing up the stuff I 'borrowed' from everybody else and return it to them. If I got rid of everything that was not mine to worry about... how much would I have to worry about?

Very damn little.

Who was the knucklehead who came up with throwing the clock back and forward throughout the year? Okay so not only does it completely throw off the milking schedule of cows, but children don't fare well for a week surrounding the change. Sunday morning, I was loving it. This morning, NOT so much. Every teacher, man, woman and student I encountered today was completely OUT of sorts.

Okay well it turns out, that Daylight Saving (no S) Time was first implemented between 1914 and 1920 to make better use of exactly that - daylight. Many people love it as it allows them brighter evenings and longer sunny days. Equally as many despise it, for screwing up their sleep patterns and upsetting the laying habits of hens. Go figure. Who knew chickens could tell time?!

All I know is that as an employee in an elementary school, the effect that is seen in children and adults alike is undeniable. It is a brutal adjustment to make. Long faces on exhausted mothers; teary children whom normally are content; angry outbursts from those who already suffer from attention deficit or behavioral difficulties. I know at my house around dinner time, there were lots of yawns. My four year old fell asleep at 7, which was supper hour a day ago. Guess what that means? She will awake just as I nestle into my lovely warm bed.

On a positive note, milder temps and longer sunny days mean a brown swirling gutter of melted snow speckled with trash. Within two weeks, we will see April, and soon the grass will brightenand lift, along with the hopes and spirits of all us weary souls lost in the doldrums of a long winter.