4100weeks

Sometimes all you need is a sewer and some acorns

I spend a lot of time alone with my kids — a 6-year-old son, Griffin, and 4-year-old daughter, Hope. I work part-time, with part of that from home, and I’m a divorced parent, so we’re often together, just the three of us. My work schedule is something I feel incredibly grateful for, since I have no idea how other single parents manage to juggle it all — full-time jobs, raising their kids, dealing with activities and homework, and doing all the shopping, laundry, and mundane tasks that keep a household purring, or at least sputtering, along.   

But all that time together has its challenges. So I’ve been stocking up on outside toys for the summer. Achilles had his spear. I've got a jump rope, a fling toss game, and some sidewalk chalk. My weapons need some sharpening, though. Because usually I’m just chasing a ball around while one, or both, of the kids gets distracted by a pile of dirt or a pointy stick. Sometimes, I offer helpful instruction: “You can’t hit the ball if you keep putting the bat on top of your head” or “There’s no tackling each other in jump rope.” And after about 2.5 minutes, the kids lose interest, I'm discouraged, and we’re left trying to figure out what to do with the next few hours.

The other day went like that. A morning of good intentions gone awry. Then we were off to do errands, and on the car ride home, my daughter fell asleep. When we pulled up to our condo, I needed to figure out what to do. If you're a parent, you know that waking her wasn’t an appealing option.

So I parked in a space near the grass of our condo, rolled down all the windows, and Griffin and I sat outside. Because we had to stay right next to the car, we couldn’t retrieve our trusty outside toys, so we made do with what we had. At first we played with his Star Wars Lego set, which he had been carrying with him, and pretended to have a battle. It’s one of Griffin’s favorite things to do, but I don’t have much stamina for pretending to blow things up. I made it longer than 2.5 minutes, but not by a lot. Now what?

There were a bunch of acorns on the hill we were perched on. I picked one up and threw it. It gave me an idea. For the next hour, Griffin would collect acorns, and we would pitch them down the slope toward the sewer grate, a few feet below. First person to get 10 in was the winner. Griffin hit 10 first but immediately decided to up it to 15, then 20, and finally 30. We both love games and enjoy a little competition so we got into it — dividing our pile of acorns evenly, each taking turns tossing them, laughing, and doing a play-by-play.

After each round, Griffin would run down the hill to collect the missed shots and run back up with his bounty. He was delighting in this little game, and the more fun he had, the more fun I had, too. When Griffin edged out a 30-29 win, he threw his hands up in the air and, with a little jump yelled, “I got 30 acorns in the sewer!”

In the last hour, all I had done was throw 29 acorns in a sewer but I felt pretty victorious too. We had made something out of nothing on that sunny afternoon. And it reminded me that sometimes those unscripted moments are the most satisfying. Lesson of week 2,250: To feel content and connected, the kids and I don’t really need all that much — sometimes all it takes is a few acorns and a sewer. 

The unquestionable power of avocados and friendship

Even though it was only a Tuesday, it was already a long week. Two projects at work were careening off track. Differences of opinion about raising the children were building with my ex-husband. I had just done my bills and….well, that was simply depressing. To top it off, it was a dark, drizzly day. Not enough rain falling that it felt cleansing. No, it was just a half-hearted sputtering of rain.

One of my friends at work shot me an email: take a break for a lunchtime walk around the Fens in Boston? The Fens is a marshland and park area that gets its name from nearby Fenway Park, where the Red Sox play. I look out my window and debate momentarily but I need a break and good company, so I agree.

I draw the strings of my hood tightly, but while that cuts into my peripheral vision dramatically and makes me look like a teal lollipop, it does little to keep my face dry. My friend is having her own challenges this week, and as we walk along a path by the river, we talk about what’s on our minds. Work hassles and relationship questions. How should I deal with adding an entire new section into this book in a matter of days? What did that guy I went on a date with mean when he said he didn’t want any expectations? How can I convince that doctor to turn his edits to a health article in on time?

Then our scope broadened to questions we both seem to be circling lately: Are we as happy as we want to be? What do we need to feel more content? What’s missing? How can we feel more of a sense of connection and build stronger support networks?

As we walk through a community garden where flowers are starting to bloom, we admit we’ve both been feeling lonely and restless about our lives. Knowing that someone else is grappling with the same sorts of questions is somehow comforting. My friend is bright, attractive, creative, so seemingly together and happy. But she understands how I’m feeling and is longing and hoping and uncertain too. And the simple act of walking, the feel of my feet hitting the dirt path, the act of propelling myself forward lifts my mood. I’ve given up on the hood. Nature has the upper hand here, as it often does. And even the spray of cool water on my face feels good.

 After a couple of laps around the park, we head back to the office. This morning was bagel day, a weekly tradition where someone brings in breakfast. There are leftovers in the kitchen. I mention that I’m craving an avocado salad and my friend says she has an avocado. Soon we’re chopping up her avocado and foraging through the leftovers for more ingredients. “Cooking” with her – cutting up a ripe tomato, adding cubes of cucumber, crumbling in feta cheese – is cathartic. Maybe it’s the act of working together to create something colorful and delicious. Maybe it’s the sense of sharing what we have, but by the time I scoop the salad and a side of watermelon onto our plates, my day has changed.  I feel much more peaceful, connected. I’m feeding myself well – literally and figuratively.

As a medical writer, I’ve written about the power of mindfulness, engaging your senses in the moment. I haven’t actually put that knowledge to good use, but now I’ve stumbled into it and found just how profound it can be, at least for that hour. Lesson of week 2,247: Be mindful and seek out connections that are nurturing.

Where to next?

 I’ve been feeling restless lately. Yearning for a little more. Wondering where I want my life to go next.

The last three years were full of change, not of my own choice at first. A divorce left me as a single mom of a one-year-old daughter and three-year-old son. The split was sudden and shocking….at least for me. Talking to others who have divorced has convinced me that’s often the case — one partner is making an exit strategy, starting to build the supports for a new life, while the other has little clue that the life they built together is already quietly being dismantled. “We” is about to hit its expiration date, and like a nectarine gone mushy and bad, the split is foul, messy, and unpleasant.

I was left reeling, sad and confused. There were plenty of tasks that soaked up days and then months: sobbing, negotiating, setting up a visitation schedule, hexing my ex, gathering mountains of paperwork, leaning on friends and family, more negotiating, going to court, and selling my house. Eventually, settling more happily into a new town, a new condo, and a new life.

For most of that time, getting through was the goal—just managing the change, helping my children adapt as easily and happily as possible, and finding some solid ground beneath our feet. Now, though, life has settled down. The kids and I are feeling at home in our new place, and my son (now a kindergartener) loves his new school. We’ve adapted to the new rhythm of our lives. We’re content. So now what?

I’ve already got 2,247 weeks behind me. When I did the math, I had to do it a second time. 2,247….How is that possible? So using the 4100 weeks guidelines that leaves me with….1,853. It hardly seems enough to learn what I want to learn, see what I want to see, and become the person I want to become.

At first, the divorce felt like too much—too much pain and stress, too much uncertainty, too much to manage. Now though, it feels freeing. I find myself feeling more confident, more eager to define my life on my terms—more myself than I’ve been in a long time. I’ve been presented with a new opportunity: a chance to chart a new course. But to where? What do I want my life to look like in a year? 5 years? What makes me happy? What am I passionate about? Other than ice cream and my kids. Because while both are sweet and delightful, I’m hankering for something more. More adventure. More connection. More joy.

I want to grow as a parent and a person. I want to make sure that the remaining 1,853 weeks don’t slip away, practically unnoticed in a sea of laundry to be washed, school lunches to be packed, kids to be shepherded to dance or soccer, and appointments to be on time for. All that needs to be done, certainly, but my hope is to find out what brings pleasure and meaning to my life and what makes me the best parent possible to my kids—and to pursue those things consciously. In short, I want to squeeze the most out of my remaining 1,853 weeks. This site is already giving me the nudge I needed to commit a little more fully to that journey. Here you’ll see my steps and missteps along the way.