Drilling into a New Year

I’ve never been a big fan of fitness classes. I can’t keep up with the moves, my 20-year-old t-shirts and shorts are out of place and the walls of mirrors leave no place for klutzes like me to hide. Exercising alone, in the comfort of my shabby and outdated workout attire, has always been much more appealing.

So I was surprised last week when I heard myself ask a neighbor friend if I could attend “Boot camp” with her–at 5:45 a.m. I had no idea what the class involved. Between Zumba, Bosu, Pilates, glide and spin, it’s hard to keep up with all the fitness trends.

When my alarm went off hours before the crack of dawn the next morning, my bed had never felt more divine. The sheets were soft and cool, the blankets the perfect balance of heaviness and warmth.

I scolded myself for volunteering for such a crazy idea. Nevertheless, volunteer I did and now my friend was counting on me to pick her up. So to Boot camp I must go.

Just twenty minutes after leaving the cozy nest of my bed, my nose was pressed against a dusty gym floor while a stop-watched carrying drill sergeant disguised as a small, blond fitness teacher stood overhead counting my push-ups. The name of the class suddenly made perfect sense.

During the next 45 minutes we ran lines and shuffled across the floor like high school hoopsters in slow motion. We did push-ups, sit-ups, burpees, squats, and jumping jacks. “Come on guys. This is suppose to be a sprint,” drill sergeant Jen scolded.

The Christmas truffles I had been eating for weeks shook like rocks in my head and the gingersnaps and frosted sugar cookies I ate the night before didn’t seem like such a smart bedtime snack. Thank goodness I remembered to grab a water bottle. It was gone half way through the class.

The final five minutes were dedicated to sit-ups. My red face looked like it would explode under the pressure of pulling myself up. I figured, in between grunts, that it had been at least 10 years since I had done a full sit-up. My abs had been sleeping a long time and clearly preferred to remain in slumber.

I cheated my way through the last of those, laid lifeless on the mat during the cool down, and shuffled out of the class.

“Isn’t that a great workout? Doesn’t it go fast?” my friend said cheerfully on the way home. Fortunately she didn’t wait for my response.

For the next couple days, normal functions like sitting, standing, and walking required considerable concentration. My whole body hurt. Laughing was torture. My only choice was to return to class in hopes of loosening up those stiff and neglected muscles.

Despite the pain, I have returned to the class three more times. The hour is grueling, but my classmates are motivating, the instructor is challenging, and I love how alive I feel when I drive to work.

Best wishes to all who are launching fitness goals in the New Year. May you find your inner drill sergeant—or a good Boot camp class—to keep you going.

Christmas is Patience

Some friends and I are studying the fruit of the spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness and self control. It’s an amazing study – one I’ve completed before and embraced again because of the “fruit” it produced last time. I need more fruit.

One of the exercises in the study involves learning the American Sign Language expressions for each of the nine fruits. The sign for patience brought me to tears. You make a fist, place it thumb side down on your upper lip and move your thumb down over your closed lips, stopping under your chin. It’s a little difficult to demonstrate in writing, but it looks like a sign for shut your mouth.

I think I wrote about this the last time I completed this study but it bears repeating. Patience means “Keep that sharp comment to yourself.” I should check my actions with that sign when I feel my patience dwindling.

Patience can be hard to come by for kids and adults in our house. We had to wait 20 minutes at a coffee drive through on Sunday morning and tension was so high by the time we received our order we barely mustered a thank you for the woman who handed us our drinks. Merry Christmas. God bless you!

It’s embarrassing to admit, but I know we aren’t alone. I watched two young women in a large SUV nearly run a sedan off south 7th street last week when the car wasn’t going fast enough. They eventually weaved hazardously through the traffic and roared past the “slow” car only to sit next to it at the very next stoplight.

Christmas is associated with a variety of feelings and states—joy, hope, generosity, peace. This year, I’m noticing how much Christmas has to teach us about patience. The word isn’t emblazoned on Christmas ornaments or stocking holders but Christmas is swaddled in manger of patience.

Adults need patience to manage the extensive list of Christmas preparations on top of our already packed everyday lives. We need patience to deal with crowded stores and streets and with additional bills. Sometimes we need patience to interact with family members we only see at the holidays.

For children, Christmas is a grueling test of patience. Weeks, days, hours and minutes creep by until the moment when they can finally rip the wrapping off their gifts or rush to the tree to see what Santa delivered.

Ultimately, though, these are small and relatively simple exercises in patience. A friend said to me last week, “If only we spent as much time decorating our souls as we spend decorating our homes for Christmas.” There’s a lot of truth to that.

What are we decorating and why? Why are we buying and baking and giving?
What Christians are really preparing for is the arrival of our Savior—perhaps the ultimate test in patience. In this respect, the Christmas Season is a metaphor for Christian living. We share generously our gifts, serve our family and friends, remember the less fortunate, spread joy and good cheer, sing praises, all with the hope of someday meeting our Savior.

May we walk patiently through the remaining days of advent and beyond, using all of our Christmas preparations and celebrations as an opportunity to decorate our souls for Christ.

A classic Thanksgiving battle: Woman versus turkey

A small container of lumpy potatoes is all that remains of Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday.

Christmas promoters have been trying to overtake Thanksgiving for years. We had just finished counting our Halloween candy when one radio station started playing Christmas music 24/7 and an eager neighbor revealed an impressive display of Christmas lights.

In stubborn protection of Thanksgiving, we refused to hang our outdoor lights during the many calm and balmy November days. It wouldn’t be Christmas if we didn’t have to prop a ladder on icy sidewalks and wrestle with frozen lights in a brisk December wind.

So, our home was all gourds and leaves for our Thanksgiving gathering that included 11 adults and 7 children—a manageable number yet big enough to feel like a party.

I have a habit of underestimating these tasks and feeling more confident than I should. “I’m keeping it simple,” I tell myself. “Just the basics.”

I delegated the pies and stuffing, and a friend at work inspired me with a promising recipe for the most memorable turkey ever: a champagne turkey.

I’ve tried many methods for cooking gobblers – the bag, the deep fryer, soaking in brine. All have left me wanting. Surely, the champagne turkey would end my search. I looked forward to satisfied looks and glowing praise from guests after the first juicy bites of this succulent, flavorful turkey touched their lips.

My Food Network mentor, the Barefoot Contessa, inspired me to stay up late on Thanksgiving Eve to prepare the bird. Just like her, I would be ready in advance, a carefree host calmly offering my guests refreshing holiday drinks and laughing gaily with them rather than sweating in the kitchen.

At noon, everything was progressing as planned. Just a few more details and I would join the guests. I put the turkey in the oven in preparation for a 3:30 meal, fried bacon for salad, sautéed mushrooms for gravy and cleaned up the kitchen.

Two hours had passed so I checked the bird. The meat thermometer didn’t even register a temp. Weird. I turned the oven up to 400, poured myself a Kir Royale and went to work on more “final” details. Then I cleaned the kitchen.

At 3 p.m., the temperature had only advanced a few more degrees—so much for a 3:30 dinner. I poured myself a different champagne concoction and stole turkey drippings to make the gravy. Then I cleaned up the kitchen.

At 4:30 p.m., our kitchen looked like a bunch of college boys had been living in it for a month. The stove, island and counters were filled with prepared food or dirty pans. Every serving bowl and spoon we own was in use. And the turkey barely registered 150 degrees.

At this point, I decided guests could either suffer salmonella or have Thanksgiving dinner without turkey. Their choice.

I stomped downstairs and transferred title for the turkey to my husband. He retracted the recliner and dryly suggested we could order pizza (to the chuckles of all our guests.)

I threatened him with the sharp end of the meat thermometer.

He pulled the bird out of the oven, began carving it and declared, “Oh, it’s done. This is definitely done.” It wasn’t as dry as turkey jerky, but let’s just put it this way. There wasn’t any leftover gravy.

Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday, but I’ve officially resigned as cooker of holiday meat. Santa, please bring my husband a new meat thermometer. I don’t want to eat pizza on Christmas Day.

Observations from the bleachers of the 2010 election

The election is over. North Dakotans, and most Americans, are sighing with relief. No more ads.

We’re all too familiar with the template:

Dark, sinister music plays. An ominous voice relates a list of dreadful misdeeds or characteristics. “This bad guy supports putting oil wells on stage at Medora’s Burning Hills Amphitheater.” “That bad guy votes with Satan, I mean Nancy Pelosi, 97 percent of the time.”

Cue bright, cheerful music and a upbeat voice expressing meaningless platitudes. “But ‘good guy’, he’s respected and trustworthy. He’ll hold the line on spending, care for seniors and bring home the bacon. He’ll ignore special interest groups -- except of course yours (wink wink).” He will. Honest. Believe me -- I’m a nameless person with a trustworthy voice being paid to say this.

The scripts are so dim and predictable it’s laughable. Campaign staffers even mock them.

I love politics, but today’s political landscape is discouraging. Leadership of our nation seems to have been reduced to an NFL football game, a perpetual rematch of Vikings versus Packers.

Rival teams struggle for field position, develop their strategies and occasionally steal plays from each other. Commentators scrutinize every fumble or touch down. The pundits, cheerleaders and a dwindling group of fans devour it. But a growing mass of spectators tunes it out.

Politics is supposed to be about policy. We elect people to develop laws that significantly affect our lives.

But political campaigns today, at least the part that reaches most people, are rarely about policy. It’s about personality. In order to simplify messages into 30-second ads, political parties and consultants brand the personalities involved.

In 2008 Bush was the “bad guy” roped around Republicans like a noose. This year, the Republicans copied this play and choked Democrats with Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid.

Political consultants advocate strongly for these and other negative tactics. “They work,” they argue, and go back to writing talking points. I’ve long accepted this rational, but the endless assault of attack ads in North Dakota’s Congressional race – sometimes three or four in a row – left me wondering why. Why is this an acceptable?

I could give my kids Dramamine every night to make them sleep rather than struggle through the bedtime routine. I could start smoking to lose weight. We could open a new credit card and charge a family trip to Hawaii to help make winter more tolerable.

All of these tactics would solve the problems at hand, but that doesn’t make them responsible or smart.

So it is with negative ads – those that go beyond pointing out someone’s record to degrade their personality. “Be a man!” one recent North Dakota ad condemned. Maybe this “works” but it’s seriously undermining our political process.

Political consultants need to chart another path. Candidates must insist on it. The rest of the responsibility belongs to us. You know, we, the people.

Rather than relying on 30-second ads to inform us, we must invest some time, just a modest amount, to understand the background and experience of candidates. How are they qualified for the positions they want and where do they stand on issues that matter deeply to our American way of life.

The Internet is full of resources to do this. Think of it like making your own fantasy football team of political leaders.

Peace has returned to the airwaves for now, but it’s temporary.

Cue eerie music and creepy voice. “… We’ll be back … ”

The next election is just around the corner. Dare we hope it’s more positive?

In admiration of little boys

My husband and daughter were gone last weekend, so my boys, five and seven, invited a buddy to sleep over. Oh for a hidden camera to preserve the spirit of these three boys who exist for one purpose: to squeeze the life out of every waking minute.

Sports consumed them for the first couple hours. Sammy exploded into the house to report that he had hit a baseball all the way to our porch window. He seemed surprise by my response. “Did you break it?” What an irrelevant thing to ask a five-year-old after the biggest hit of his life.

Later, they took over the swing set – not swinging or sliding or using any of the accessories for their intended purpose, of course. The ladder was on the ground. They spun the horse in circles, wrapped the swing around the top bar, and scaled all the walls except the one intended for climbing – the rock wall.

I dragged them on a short errand to my parent’s house. There they found a jumper and invented a wrestling/jumping/basketball game, the spontaneous rules of which they each understood perfectly.

The promise of pizza and pop drove them bonkers, and effectively bribed them away from the jumper. While they waited for their gourmet meal, they waged a Nerf gun War of Terror in our basement. Their impressive arsenal of arms includes a crossbow, pistols, rifles, lasers and even an automatic weapon that delivers Velcro-tipped bullets at an alarming force.

I find them in every corner of our house including, most recently, the bottom of my purse. I fully expect to walk into a meeting someday with a bullet dangling from the back of my jacket.

As we concluded our perfect meal, the clock struck 7:30. The October sky was already dark.

“How’d you like to go for a night walk?” I asked.

All six eyes widened and sparkled and the boys burst forth with a collective, “Yaaahh!” For a moment, they looked at me sideways in disbelief, as if I had just offered them an endless supply of Laffy Taffy and three uninterrupted hours of Wii.

As we prepared for the walk, one of them said, “You know, there’s been a lot more crime here lately.” The others solemnly agreed. They grabbed a flashlight and armed themselves. Not with weapons from the Nerf cache -- that would be foolish. “We’d lose the bullets, mom.”

No, they grabbed a device dreaded by all hardened criminals: rubber bands. We set out -- our loyal chocolate lab and a fearless band of rubber-band-bearing boys -- unafraid of any danger we might face at dusk in Bismarck.

For the entire 20-minute walk they discussed various plans of attack should we encounter “night robbers.” Wrestling, shooting them in the eyes and knocking them where the sun doesn’t shine were the most popular schemes.

Fortunately, we made it home without incident. After a competitive game of Sorry Sliders and their favorite creatures-of-the-desert book, they had consumed the day’s final drops of life. The three tireless tykes were tuckered out.

I kissed them and left them with their rubber bands and bullets to defeat the bad guys of their dreams.

Little boys -- marvels of energy, courage, curiosity and competiveness. Sadly, these qualities don’t always conform to the designs of modern childhood. Still, let us nurture not suppress the best of these traits so our future men might fulfill their potential to lead, defend, love and live life to the fullest.

Searching for Life's Easy Button

My daughter wants to learn how to play guitar. We are thrilled about this so two years ago we bought her a cute half-size instrument, found a wonderful young teacher and added guitar lessons and practice to our schedule.

That was the easy part. Everything since then -- not so easy. She quickly discovered that, while the gear and the lessons can be purchased, the skills to play a guitar cannot. Whenever the struggle comes to a head, she insists tearfully, “No mom. I don’t want to quit. I just don’t want to practice.”

Oh, how I can relate. I have a long list of aspirations – playing the guitar, speaking Spanish, writing a book, learning to knit. But somehow I lack the time, focus and probably the passion to make them a reality.

One of the inconvenient truths about life is that we can buy a lot of things to make our time on Earth easier – self-cleaning ovens, drive-through food, automatic sprinklers, remote car starters, and any number of “I” items (I-phones, pods, pads, tunes, books).

But most of the things in life worth having can’t be bought or gained through a short cut. Apple doesn’t offer an I-PerfectMarriage, I-MedicalDegree, I-ScratchGolfer.

Nowhere is the lack of convenient shortcuts more evident than in parenting.

Our youngest is struggling a bit to adjust to pre-school. On the first day, a spiffy new pair of shoes was enough to inspire him through the door. But the novelty of the new shoes has long since worn off. Lately when I drop him off he wraps his arms and legs around me like a spider monkey and insists he’s staying with me.

Removing a nimble five-year-old who is clinging to your back with all four limbs is impossible to do gracefully while wearing high heels and carrying a giant pink purse. Especially when, in my heart, I want to stay with him, introduce him to friends and keep him comfortable.

Would my presence ease his transition or rob him of an important chance to learn how to make friends and adjust to new situations on his own? Oh for an I-ParentingDecisionMaker to tell me.

For parents, every day is a replay of “to do or not to do.” Should we confront the mean friend on our child’s behalf, protect them from a bad teacher, buy them what they want, restrict their access to TV or video games, say no to junk food and soda, lobby a coach for more playing time?

When should we intervene and when should we leave them to fight their own battles and learn their own lessons? Where’s the “easy button” to help us find this delicate balance?

Our instinct is to make things easy and comfortable for our kids, to fix their mistakes and protect them from bad consequences. But good things rarely come easy or without effort. Convenience doesn’t build character.

The best and most loving approach might very well be to let them struggle through some hard times, learn to deal with pain and disappointment and hopefully gain the confidence, compassion and strength of realizing they can.

For kids and adults alike, money can’t buy a shortcut for that

Fall is Here

I did something last week that I haven’t done for months -- wore long pants running. I hated to take this step and debated trying to ignore the thermometer, but the previous day found me shivering in white capris and sandals that I naively wore in protest to the changing temps.

Let’s face it. Fall is here.

A few weeks ago I was celebrating the best summer ever. But the air today is altogether different. The undertones are undeniably cool and the dominoes of a new season are beginning to tumble. New routines, responsibilities and hobbies one-by-one shut the door on summer and transition us gently (please oh please gently, and slowly) into winter.

It begins with clothes. Fall means jeans and sweatshirts, and for women especially the return of socks. Wool, corduroy or “Russels” are clearly premature at this point, but cotton is much too breezy. Denim and fleece are just right.

Food also takes a major turn. Fall means soup and chili – the easiest comfort foods. I miss having these no-fail options to turn to in the summer when the clock strikes six and we realize the dinner angels forgot to bless our home with food or inspiration for it.

Fall means the return of school routines. Amen and hallelujah. Parents everywhere are celebrating this.

Don’t get me wrong. I treasure the freedom of summer, but enough is enough. Our kids were beginning to sound way too much like Sponge Bob and Patrick. They stayed up late, played all day and ate so many freeze pops I began to worry their teeth might take on the brilliant rainbow hues of these cheap treats.

So long freedom, hello 8:15 bedtimes and two glorious hours of mostly quiet adult time. One of these days I might actually watch a television show or balance the checkbook again.

Fall also means the end of potted plants and their incessant need for water. I’m sick of ours, and secretly hope for a freeze so I can quit watching them slowly die from neglect. Don’t tell, but I’m cheating on them already anyway. I noticed some very attractive pumpkins at the farmer’s market the other day. The dainty pink petunias that brought me joy all summer will soon be withering in the garbage can, replaced by rough and ruddy hay bales and gourds.

Finally, fall means new hobbies. My poor hips and bunions are begging me to return to the lap pool, something I just can’t do until the snow flies and temperatures plummet. Golf clubs will soon be replaced with shotguns. And Sunday afternoons will find families and friends gathered together for the great (and often futile) tradition on these Northern plains: cheering for the Vikings or Packers.

Welcome fall! Enter slowly, make yourself at home, and please stick around for a while. I have lots of jeans to wear.

Bidding Farewell to the Best Summer Ever

I’ve been cyber-stalking my 26-year-old niece all summer. She has a Facebook album titled, “The Best Summer Ever – 2010.” It’s loaded with pictures of her and other beautiful Denver singles camping, climbing mountains, attending outdoor festivals and generally celebrating the freedom of their age and singleness.

In late July I realized young people in the Rockies don’t have a monopoly on the “Best Summer Ever.” We’ve had a pretty amazing summer too, kids and all, right here in North Dakota. So, I started my own “2010 The Best Summer Ever” Facebook album.

I’ve only uploaded a few photos so far but I’ll get to that, perhaps in 2023 when my kids graduate. Meanwhile, here are some highlights of our Best Summer Ever.

Medora: Quaint, safe and carefree, my kids fell in love with Medora. They were enchanted by the musical, especially the gunfight at the finale of course. The collection of toys at the Doll House and the Old West playground also proved entertaining.

But most impressive to them was their ability to walk everywhere in this spiffy little town, from one end to the other, without a single care. We did this several times. They never once asked for a water park.

Downstream Campground: This must be one of the nicest campgrounds in the state, and it provided the perfect backdrop for a legendary travel video that I’ll upload on the state tourism site just as soon as I finish it. Right after the “Best Summer Ever” album.

Fort Union. Historical interpreters bring this rather modest attraction alive. My kids hauled firewood in exchange for arrowheads, watched a metal smith make tools and ate cornbread cooked over fire in a cast-iron skillet.

In its day, Fort Union was a major trading post, carrying fabric, tools, beads, sugar, paint and many other imports from America and Europe. Fort Union was North Dakota’s first Wal Mart. Who knew?

Lake Isabel, Fourth of July: Sunny, hot weather set the stage for a glorious day of swimming, tubing, eating, watching fireworks and learning how to water ski. Our friends keep urging us to buy a cabin there. Why would we do that, we wonder, when we have an open invitation to hang out at theirs?

Rounding out the “Best Summer Ever” memories in North Dakota are a picture-perfect day on Lake Sakakawea, Raging Rivers, biking the trails in Bismarck, Junior Zookeeper and Sleepy Hollow art camps, Bismarck Baseball League, wine cruises on the river and a garden bursting with herbs and veggies.

My only regret is that two good weeks of summer, probably the most pleasant, remain but the kids are already back in school and we’re forced to behave as if summer is over.

Let’s change this goofy school schedule. Meanwhile, plans are underway for The Best Summer Ever Part II, 2011, featuring the Fargo Air Show, the Peace Gardens, Lake Metigoshe, canoeing down the Little Missouri, camping at Jamestown Reservoir, Frost Fire Theater and much more. I love this state.

Early in our marriage, I often whined when Mike’s work took him away from home overnight.

He had little patience for my complaints. “People leave their families and ship out to sea for 10 months at a time,” he insisted. “That’s hardship. This is not. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Growing up the son of an airman, Mike lived in a half dozen different places. He then served in the Navy and traveled the globe for six years on a Naval oiler, which apparently is even less glamorous than it sounds. Despite being young, single and childless, he struggled with the loneliness of long assignments at sea.

A few weeks ago, the last of the 650 North Dakota soldiers who served in Kosovo as part of a multi-national NATO peacekeeping mission returned home. Bismarck’s own Brig. Gen. Al Dohrmann commanded the force, which included troops from six countries and was the largest single deployment of the North Dakota National Guard since the Korean War.
It was not as dangerous an assignment as some have been, but it was long and affected many. These folks were separated from their spouses, children, parents and friends for nearly a year. Three hundred forty three days away from their own beds, fridges, hobbies, cars, bathrooms, blankets and affection of any sort from their family and friends.

They left behind 485 children. Included among the soldiers were mothers (uff da); a few parents of newborn babies (ugh); and at least 12 soon-to-be-dads with pregnant wives (ouch).

I suspect everyone in North Dakota knew someone who was deployed. We had three friends on the mission, and witnessed up-close the sacrifices these military families make in service to our country and world. The solo parents at home coordinated the first day of school and the last, umpteen practices and parties, holidays, trips, birthdays and milestones. They consoled, advised and disciplined alone.

I calculated conservatively that just one of these moms managed more than 900 family activities and events while her husband served in Kosovo. Everything from the mundane (dental appointments) to the monumental (a 60th anniversary) was up to her.

Meanwhile, the guardsmen lived in small, no-frills rooms, spent Christmas with fellow soldiers and missed countless daily moments with their family.

According to the North Dakota National Guard, our guard has mobilized more than 3,500 soldiers and 1,800 airmen since 2001. About 150 North Dakota guardsmen are currently serving overseas. We can all be proud of the fact that North Dakotans volunteer for service in the guard at a rate that’s more than four times the national average.

Military service is more than a job -- it’s a way of life that demands sacrifice from the whole family. Where would be today without people who are willing to make this sacrifice? It’s a disturbing thought.

Welcome back KFOR 12 service men and women. Thanks to you and your family members for not only believing in peace and freedom, but for undergoing real hardship to help maintain it.

What habits are defining you?

My mom and I took a week long road trip recently – just the two of us. Preparing for the trip, we set 4 p.m. as our targeted departure time. Three hours later, we finally hit the road.

While traveling we listened to an audio presentation by author and speaker Matthew Kelly. The subject was “Becoming the Best Version of Yourself.” The difference between average people and people who achieve greatness comes down to one thing, he says. It isn’t courage or brains or beauty. Not wealth or wisdom.

The difference is habits. Accomplished people are guided by great habits. I reflected sheepishly on our three-hour delay and my habit of tardiness.

We can learn a lot about leaders by their habits. Theodore Roosevelt was a voracious reader. Benjamin Franklin worked relentlessly. Mother Teresa’s habit was charity – she was singularly committed to it.

Closer to home, Ed Schafer’s endless energy stemmed from his dogged commitment to mid-day runs. John Hoeven is known for disciplined decision making.

We all have habits, good and bad. A big part of parenting involves nurturing good habits in our kids, habits perhaps we wish were our own. Flossing daily, eating vegetables, reading, telling the truth, sharing.

Experts say it takes 30 days to create a good habit. Six years later, we’re hoping our children soon learn the habit of saying please. Despite the seemingly endless reinforcement required, we press on with our kids, knowing that developing good habits now will be far easier than breaking bad ones later.

On a recent field trip with girlfriends, I asked about their best and worst habits. Several cited yelling or nagging. Others confessed to being chronically late. I’m habitually trying to overcome both of these bad habits, which stem from a more basic problem: over-estimating how much I can do.

Whether writing a column or packing for a trip, I frequently underestimate how long it will take This leaves me scrambling at the end, barking at my kids and trying to pull off my best work with far less time than necessary.

In the spectrum of bad habits, this one isn’t the worst. It does, however, create a lot of needless stress. The perpetual rush foils our efforts to face the world calmly and in good cheer, from noticing something cool or someone in need.

This is the problem with bad habits: they often come in multiples. Staying up too late makes people oversleep, impatient, tardy, under productive, too tired to exercise and more likely to overeat.

Some people claim to be creatures of habit, but in many ways we all are. We might have big goals and lofty ideals but ultimately our simple, daily habits -- constructive or destructive – determine what we accomplish. They draw us closer or further from the person we want to be.

Whatever good I’m able to achieve one thing is probably for certain. I’ll be late.

Let’s not be fools about food

My kids stared at a glass of bright green, frothy liquid I whipped up for their snack. Before they could turn up their nose and object, I enthusiastically announced, “Check it out -- Shrek Shakes!”

Whatever hesitation they initially felt vanished with those two magic words – Shrek and shake. They happily slurped down and asked for seconds of the vitamin-packed banana and yogurt concoction that gets its bold color from several heaping cups of fresh, raw spinach.

My husband, salesman that he is, mastered marketing food to the kids much sooner than I did. They cheer for Daddy’s World Famous Beans (a.k.a Van de Camp’s with extra mustard and brown sugar). And, in side-by-side taste tests, Daddy’s World Famous Pancakes (a.k.a. Krusteez powdered mix) regularly outperformed my genuinely homemade buttermilk pancakes. That is, until I launched Mommy’s World Famous Homemade Pancakes.

Despite the pathetic lack of originality of these names, our kids remain convinced that the daily hash we sling under the “world famous” banner lives up to its billing. (Maybe they aren’t that bright.)

Their gullibility is funny, until you consider how well the same tricks work on us. Restaurants promote Grandma’s cottage meatloaf, juicy Angus thick burgers, and hand-scooped, triple-thick milk shakes. And the tempting names move product.

Food psychologist Brian Wansink has spent his career researching the psychology of eating and has identified dozens of hidden persuaders, like marketing, that influence our food choices and often cause us to overeat.

For example, we will eat more out of large bowls and large plates, in the company of friends, when faced with great variety (buffets, Thanksgiving dinner), when we’re distracted (by books, television or a movies), and when we believe the food is suppose to be good (i.e. the juicy Angus thick burger).

His book, “Mindless Eating: Why We Eat More Than We Think,” is filled with results from his studies and outlines nine strategies for “re-engineering” our food choices and influencers. The book is both fascinating and practical.

Rather than restrictive diets calling for unsustainable changes that usually leave us face first in a gallon of ice cream, he argues for “stealth health.” These are small, positive changes that we can incorporate subtly into our lifestyles to become more healthy long term.

Some of his suggestions include:
1. See all you can eat: Plate your meals and snacks. Minimize seconds. Never eat out of a large bag or box and leave extra food on the stove not the table.
2. Make overeating a hassle not a habit. Put tempting foods in an inconvenient place. Store cookies in the freezer rather than a cookie jar. Place candy dishes across the room not beside the couch.
3. Be a good gatekeeper. If there’s no soda or Pop-Tarts in the house it’s hard to eat them.
4. Use the 50/50 rule: Reduce the size of your plate and fill half of it at every meal with fruits and vegetables.

Bookstores are filled with diet books, many of them best sellers, yet 63 percent of Americans are overweight. The truth is eating is fun and dieting stinks.

Wansink’s approach seems more realistic. Understand the influencers behind our eating habits and use them to our benefit. Rather than mindlessly gaining weight we can mindlessly lose or maintain our weight for a healthier lifestyle.

Time to make some cool, refreshing Shrek shakes.

Can you control your happiness or are you at the mercy of genetics, fate and/or your thoughtless spouse? http://ping.fm/TqGBn

If a stranger offered you a free hug, would you accept it? http://ping.fm/ky6iJ

Fake your way to a happier heart

During college, my friend and roommate at UND’s Selke Hall was struggling to adjust to campus life during her freshman year. We tried a variety of things to perk her up, but nothing seemed to work. She was hopelessly homesick.

At one point I was out of ideas and tired of her blue attitude. I blurted out in frustration, “Schultzie, sometimes when you aren’t happy you just have to fake it until you are.”

Happiness can be an elusive pursuit. People seek it in many ways –through spending or saving, drugs or alcohol, working incessantly or not at all. It can be the rational for marriage or divorce, caring for others or focusing on purely selfish pursuits.
Some people who seem to have everything, are perpetually miserable. Others have very little or have experienced repeated, dramatic loss and yet continue to face the world with a smile. What a puzzle.

Last week I received a video about an Australian man with no arms and legs. He can swim, cook, get up and down stairs and live independently. He has every reason to be angry and dejected about his life – to roll in the misery of life without limbs.
But he’s chosen instead a good attitude and strong faith, and that has propelled him out of the wheelchair and into a fully engaged, inspiring life.

Happiness is the subject of volumes of research and books. Some people assume that our temperament is prewired and there’s little we can do about it. Research rebukes this.

In one recent study conducted in England, scientists examined 900 sets of twins and concluded that genetics accounts for about 50 percent of happiness. The remaining 50 percent is related to environmental factors like relationships and careers. In other words, half of our disposition comes from choices that we control.

Research also shows that people’s actions aren’t so much a product of their mood as much as their mood is a product of their actions. The simple act of being nice, cheerful, and optimistic can improve your mood and your happiness.

Writer Gretchen Rubin spent a year experimenting with theories on happiness. Her book, The Happiness Project, is an account of her year. On her blog and website, www.happiness-project.com, she explores factors contributing to happiness and offers tips for people to pursue their own happiness project.

Her 12 personal commandments offer some concepts worth considering. I particularly like her pledge to lighten up, let it go, enjoy the process, and of course, act the way you want to feel.

She emphasizes this again in what she calls Four Splendid Truths of Adulthood. “One of the best ways to make yourself happy is to make other people happy; One of the best ways to make other people happy is to be happy yourself.”

There are many strategies for happiness. For me, the most effective and lasting one begins on my knees. But sometimes, that knee-jerk advice to my friend when we were teenagers is the first step. Treat others kindly, put on a smile and before long it might very well be real.

Went to Toy Story 3 this weekend and loved it. Very clever and funny. The story is interesting and even has a message. And the toys are better than ever.

Amazing to think how many families barely survived 75 years ago trying to make a living off land that rested on top of so much oil http://ping.fm/ujnK1

Gaining wisdom from our fathers

My dad was born in 1929, the oldest boy of six children growing up on a small farm near Ryder, N.D. He spent his childhood working on those dry, windy prairies trying to help his family squeeze a living off land ravaged by the Great Depression.

Rocks were often the most plentiful crop, and the necessities for daily living were scarce. One of my dad’s earliest memories is of his mother saving the banana for Jell-O so everyone would get a taste of the exotic fruit.

This was the environment that shaped my dad’s (and mom’s) worldview. No wonder he scrapes mold off food, refuses to buy garbage bags when grocery sacks are plentiful and uses the insides of envelopes for notepaper.

With Father’s Day around the corner, I find myself reflecting on some of my dad’s wisdom for living. Perhaps these will sound familiar or trigger other memories of your own dad.

1. Get an education. When my dad completed high school, he wanted to stay and farm. But his dad wouldn’t let him. “Duane, you can always farm. Get your education first. No one can ever take that away from you.” Prudent advice from a man with limited formal schooling. Those words have echoed through eight kids, 31 grandkids and I suspect will keep ringing for generations to come.

2. Go figure. When my brother Dave was a kid my dad tasked him with fixing a broken appliance. “But dad, I don’t know how,” he protested. “Well, figure it out. That’s what I’d have to do,” dad said. So Dave did, and proceeded to learn how to fix or build just about anything. With hard work and an understanding of “basic physics,” few problems or challenges have been too big or risky for my dad to tackle.

3. Politics matters. I can still see remember watching Richard Nixon’s resignation speech on TV when I was about five. My dad realized as a young businessman that decisions in the political world had very real implications for him and his family. Being informed and involved isn’t an option it’s our duty.

4. Be a good steward. Everyone is born with gifts. It’s our responsibility to tend and multiply them. This means getting up, going to work and taking care of yourself, your kids and your community. It means living within your means, making do with what you have (even if it’s moldy food) or doing without. It’s not a complicated philosophy but somehow we have wandered far from it.

5. Play to win. A few years ago I remember scolding my son when he was whining after he lost a game. My dad watched the scene unfold and commented to me later. “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.” Winning isn’t everything, but whether in business, sports or relationships, be there to do your best and win.

6. Seek change. People often grow complacent with age. It’s easier to stick to the comforts of the known rather than to see opportunity in something new. My dad has instinctively chosen the latter. His resume includes everything from hat sales and dance schools to cattle and commercial real estate. At 80, he routinely trades stocks online, wears a cell phone on his hip, and is still trying to decide whether Quickbooks or Quicken is the right business software for him.

As a child, my dad’s old-fashioned lessons were rather aggravating. Now, I find myself trying to instill remnants of these values in my own kids, who are growing up in a culture where cleaning up dog poop is considered a big job and bananas with too many spots are dismissed as “rotten.”

Anyone have a field of rocks that need to be picked?

Birth of a Saleswoman

Our 8-year-old likes to play Barbies, dress up and dolls like most little girls. But her favorite past time has very little to do with these typical childhood games. Her first passion is door-to-door sales.

When I was a kid, I hated having to knock on doors selling magazine subscriptions or candy bars for my school or club. Unfortunately for our neighbors, our daughter loves this.

The minute she receives her school raffle tickets she heads begins hitting people up with a practiced pitch that emphasizes purchasing not just one ticket but a whole book. She joined Brownies this fall and the highlight of that was selling Girl Scout cookies.

But she doesn’t need an organization to inspire her door-to-door sales. When she was four, she and a friend made cards and scoured the neighborhood selling them. After her first failed sale, she ran home, tears streaming down her face. “She didn’t have to say it so mean mom,” she said. “She could’ve said it nice.”

A few breaths later she had shaken it off and bounced away, determined that someone else would be inspired to purchase her creations.

Elizabeth has initiated countless lemonade stands, the most popular kid marketing scheme. The fact that we live on a cul-de-sac, however, makes for awfully slow sales in the middle of a workday. She’s learned the truth of the mantra, “Location. Location. Location.”

Last summer she set up a spa and offered manicures, pedicures and makeovers to anyone who could afford them. She designed invitations, delivered them to the most likely clients, prepared lemon water for her customers, hung up her sign on front of the porch and waited to get rich. Two customers later she was totally satisfied with her success.

Elizabeth’s entrepreneurial spirit is contagious. This weekend, her brothers set up a plant sale in our front yard. They conned me into buying them each a pack of impatiens, which they then divided and sold at twice my cost to anyone who walked within earshot of our house.

Our friend Mitch stopped by and said he’d take three but didn’t have the money on him. When a few minutes had passed and Mitch hadn’t gone home to grab his cash, Sam interrupted the conversation with an urgent question. “When is Mitch going to pay us? They aren’t fwee ya know.” Sam’s not as smooth as his sister.

Elizabeth’s latest venture is dog baths. She gathered a kit of supplies – a leash, shampoo, a brush, pet treats and doggie breath mints -- and was heading down the street seeking business before I knew what she was doing. She and her pal offered willing four-legged friends the full spa treatment for just two dollars. Quite a deal, I thought.

She marched next door to Bill’s house first. Bill, who owns a sweet and docile black lab, has paid a pretty penny over the years for warm, watery lemonade so I’m sure she expected an easy sale.

When she came back without a dog to wash, I thought that might be the end of her latest business venture. But, she was un-phased. “Who else has a dog?” she said, looking with determination down the block -- her box of doggie spa supplies resting on her hip.

Before I could respond, she was already out of our yard. She had dollar signs in her eyes, which were clearly set on a neighbor three houses away where four dachshunds with bad breath were surely waiting for some doggie pampering.

Perhaps it’s the innocence of her youth, but I hope she is always able to see the opportunity that exists beyond every closed door.

Marathons prove you're stronger than you think

It seems like every other person I meet is heading to Fargo this weekend to run in the marathon. I love it!

I was supposed to run in the race this weekend, but that’s a different and not-that-interesting story. My heart will be with the runners - my family members who are coming from many states to compete and one brave friend in particular. Kathleen Wrigley had brain surgery last September that left her with significant and possibly permanent impairment in her sight.

Most people would spend time nursing their wounds and feeling sorry for themselves. Not Kathleen. She trained for the marathon, as she says, for one simple reason, “Because I can.”

People often say they could never run a marathon. Most are wrong. Some health or mechanical issues might be “game enders,” but watch a person with no legs wheel across the finish line and explain to me why you can’t do it.

It’s been 20 years since I ran a marathon. When I finished I told myself I would do it every decade as a commitment to staying strong. That was a good idea. Running a marathon is a powerful experience, one that benefits your mind more than your body. And it reinforces some of the most basic truths of life.

The biggest challenge isn’t finishing the 26.2-mile race – that’s the fun part. Training is the challenge. Logging hundreds of miles on a treadmill, track or pavement can be lonely, boring and painful. Your mind plays tricks on you. Halfway through you tell yourself it’s silly, too much, not worth the effort. A bad run fuels doubts about your ability to finish. More than once you want to quit.

The thousands of people who will complete the marathon this weekend worked through all of those challenges. It was hard and not much fun at times, but achieving a big, worthy goal never comes easy. Convenience doesn’t build character.

Tapering is a vital part about preparing for a marathon. With the hard training behind, runners spend the final weeks before the race storing up their energy. My friend Bob, who is running his first marathon on Saturday, told me last week, “I hate tapering. I feel so lazy.”

What an incredible statement about hard work. After running 18, 19, 22 miles at a time, a short run of 10-12 miles seems almost pitiful it’s so easy. Hard work changes the mindset of the human brain. After a while what was once impossible becomes second nature.

The training and tapering are vital, of course. Without investing in that, the marathon experience would be miserable. But for those who are ready, finishing the 26.2 miles will be easier than they expected.

Why is that? It’s the fans. People line the streets virtually the entire route of the Fargo marathon and that level of support and enthusiasm fuels every competitor more than the world’s best energy bar.

And isn’t that how life is? We work so hard and do our best, but when times are tough or we face a difficult challenge, it’s energy from others in the form of love and encouragement that gets us through.

The ultimate lesson of a marathon is that, regardless of whether you ever chose to run one, we are all much stronger than we imagine. Whether your goal is getting in shape, getting a degree or being a better parent, make a training plan, work harder than you think possible especially when you have setbacks or doubts, and accept the love and support of others who want to help you succeed.

Most of all, stick to it for one simple reason: Because you can.

Disney doesn't 'measure up' for Sam

I have vivid childhood memories for a family vacation I never took.

My parents, clearly under the influence of some kind of judgment-altering drugs, loaded all seven of their kids in a station wagon with bald tires and pulled a pop-up camper out to California for a month-long tour of the West Coast. The year was 1967 and I was “just a twinkle in their eyes,” as my dad always said.

I remember this trip as if I was there only because I had to watch and re-watch it on 8 mm home movies throughout my childhood. The two favorite clips featured my siblings riding the tea cups at Disneyland and a large hippo at a zoo relieving himself in a pond. We never tired of watching that bowel movement and played it over and over, forwards, backwards and in slow-motion.

I was indignant throughout my childhood that my parents took that trip without me. Looking back, I’m struck by the fact that this “trip not taken” even registers in my childhood memories. Of all the sacrifices my parents made and blessings I received as a result, why do I remember this?

It illustrates one of the most unjust aspects of parenting. We can work so hard and do so many things right, but ultimately we have no control over the things that our kids will most remember or be influenced by.

I’m remembering this because we recently returned from a family vacation at Disney World. It was a great trip, filled with “magical moments” and a few heaping helpings of whining, bickering and standing in line.

Despite our best efforts, I fear our son Sam might walk away with one overpowering memory of the trip: rejection. Just a few notches too short, Sam was left on the sidelines for most of the thrilling rides like Rockin’ Roller Coaster, Expedition Everest and Primeval Twist.

When asked to describe his favorite part of the first day, he replied with sarcasm far beyond his four years, “Oh yeah. I know. The part where I couldn’t ride any of the cool rides because I am too little.”

He was still taking the rejection hard at the end of the week. When he measured less than the necessary 42 inches for a log ride at Sea World, I argued with the gatekeeper that he had qualified all week for similar-sized rides at Disney. “Sorry lady. No exceptions,” he said flatly.

As we walked away, Sam hung his head, lifted his palms toward the sky and said, “What is this? Honey I shrunk the kids week?”

The trip required consultation and guidance from two massive “Doing Disney” manuals, the setting of a daily alarm and ridiculous outlays of cash. Yet, despite all of this planning and effort we can only hope that our kids will remember the happiest and most magical Disney moments rather than the fact that they were too little for the really fun stuff.

I guess justice is finally being served for the ill feelings I harbored so long over the family dream vacation I wasn’t born to see.