Day 16 (November 27, 2016): You Belong.

"You belong." Two little words that have such amazing power over us. We all need to feel like we're part of something bigger; none of us prefer to be islands unto ourselves. Yet there are moments when membership comes at a cost; nowadays, being in the "wrong" group invites everything from sideways glances to hate crimes. Ultimately, belonging can prove polarizing, and we find that we morph into those lonely little islands.

Yet it doesn't have to be that way. For example, a friend of mine recently shared the following image via social media. Perhaps you've already seen it:

Check out http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/man-holding-you-belong-sign-outside-irving-mosque-texas-racism-a7442966.html for further 411 on the man holding the sign. 

I don't know this Texan personally, but he has nonetheless become one of my personal heroes. What he accomplished with his signage is absolutely brilliant . . . he didn't bridge a gap; he used kindness to demonstrate that there's no gap to begin with. In actuality, the gap is only in our heads and, sadly, sometimes in our hearts. 

We are all members of one America. That beautiful truth existed before November 8, didn't evaporate on November 8, and will inevitably survive countless future November 8's. We are only a nation divided if we allow ourselves to be; we only lack a sense of belonging if we rob others of the same.

America is a country built on diversity and compassion and, yes, KINDNESS. It's a country that belongs to the man in the picture and so many men, women, and children like him. Whoever understands and respects that will always belong here. 

Day 15 (November 26, 2016): Kindness That Keeps Us Human

I'm going to piggyback off of my Thanksgiving post. I bit the yuletide shopping bullet--and went to a major department store to scout for deals. I found them and loaded my cart (which also contained my four year old, Megan) full of treasures. Then, after about two hours of dodging staff, other customers, and countless carefully placed Christmas displays, I prepared to check out.

Our checker looked like she was shy of 20 and was extremely sweet, though she--understandably--appeared exhausted. The line behind me snaked across the store, and Megan was beginning to potty dance in the front of the cart. At long last, our final item was scanned, bagged and . . . cue the anticlimactic music . . . the computer system powering the register crashed. 

It seemed like a highly audible mingle of sighs, clucks, and utterances that all equated to some variety of, "Oh, crap" arose from the shoppers behind me. For her part, Megan renewed her potty jig with extra vigor. I smiled at the cashier, who did her best to smile back, but we were both thinking the same thing. No, no, no. Our telepathic exchange got spiced up with a few silent expletives when a senior employee stopped by and casually tossed out, "Yeah, you'll have to see where you are when everything reboots. You might have to ring her up again."

Now the chorus line behind me went from guffawing to clearing out like a case of plague had been announced over the PA system. As they scattered to other lines, we were left alone--the crazed computer system, the barely 20-year-old tired cashier, the almost 37-year-old cranky shopper, and the four year old who was about to explode 20 feet from a public restroom. What next? Maybe the raptor from Jurassic Park would burst through the automatic doors and personally take a dump on the mixing bowls I hoped to inscribe as Christmas gifts. 

Well, I was wrong on the raptor part. Instead, a manager came over and started chatting with the cashier. At first, I felt slightly annoyed. Nice for him to be cracking jokes with Ms. "Not Even 20" when I was wiped, dying for a Diet Coke, and about to be spritzed with preschool urine. After a few minutes, he turned his idle prattle to me--Had I seen the batteries on sale? The great thing about them was that they're in combo packages of both Double and Triple A! I think I looked at the poor guy like he had three heads.  I also believe I mumbled a response along the lines of, "I just nearly spent $### here; I'm not looking to up the tab."

Despite my pessimistic sarcasm, the manager just smiled back at me and did something I often find myself incapable of . . . exuding pleasantness in the face of pissiness. He said he understood but just thought it was great that they sold combo packs of batteries since he and his wife were always looking for either one or the other. His kindness softened my hard, crusty edges a bit, and I asked him how long he had been at the store that day. He laughed, kind of rolled his eyes, and said he was working well into the wee hours and then returned at 6:00 AM. (It was now almost 6:00 PM.)

It hit me. This man, who had been on his feet far longer than I had--and who had dealt with far more insanity that had filled my day--had come over for no other reason than to be kind. To the 20-something who was on her last legs, to my crabby, crotchety self, and to my nearly-at-capacity daughter, whom he gave a sticker. He didn't have to, and it didn't erase the problem of the downed register (which DID, thank God for small wonders, resurrect itself). But the manager made a choice to be kind and, in doing so, kept us all just a bit more human. 

I thanked him, thanked the relieved cashier who helped me place the rest of my bags in my cart, and was eventually back in my car. dashing my daughter toward the solace of her princess potty. As I did, however, I realized that there are moments where kindness is all it takes to help us rise to the occasion . . . to meet the challenges life throws at us head on. It's a lesson I'll probably need to think about more than once as I tackle my shopping list this holiday season. Honestly, however, it's wisdom that I should undoubtedly keep with me all 365 days of the year. 

Day 14 (November 25, 2016): A Controversial Kindness

With the holiday, I fell off the wagon a bit and am backtracking. On that note, for today--Day 14--I thought I'd focus on a kindness that doesn't get enough coverage. In fact, it's perhaps even a bit controversial.

"Be kind to yourself." Four words I have heard many times. We all have. But they're easier spoken than implemented. And why?

For starters, we assume they run contrary to an idea many of us are raised with . . . put others first. As a wife, mother, and writer, there's something about relaxing or (shudder) sleeping that inherently makes me feel guilty. If I'm at rest, I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing, whether that's reading a bedtime story or putting down new sheets or beginning a manuscript.

Of course, in reality, that is insane. Indulging myself (if you can call it that) every now and again only endows me with a sharper skill set. But that's now how we, as a society, roll. We're always striving to run faster, churn out increased productivity, and zoom ahead of the next guy (or gal, as it were). The truth is, when we slow down and breathe--when we're kinder to ourselves--we're capable of being kinder to everyone else, as well. The irony is that, this side of a few years ago, I was preaching this very principle during an interview conducted by another blogger. See http://thestir.cafemom.com/baby/102274/baby_mama_of_the_week. 

As I reread her piece for the first time in years, I reflected, "Huh. Wow, was I at a different place mentally." I mean, telling other moms to be patient with themselves and not stress out over the small stuff?!? What was I taking? And where is the bottle with the magic happy pills now?

All kidding aside, here I sat earlier in the evening, beating myself with an iron-clad stick . . . over my lapse in blogging. Before that, I was anxious about the fact that I had snapped at my kids, though it was over an issue that frankly warranted more than the little snark I tossed their way. And let's not forget the million other topics that prompt so many of us to self-flog. What was the end result of all my "Bad Katie!" moments? Nada. Except that I found myself grouchier and more inclined to spoil the day than I had been when I first woke up.

That said, I'm all about whipping lemons into lemonade, partially via this blog. So, I'm giving myself a pass. I'm going to allow myself to have had a human moment--one of the many I should probably permit myself more often. I'm going to bed earlier (well, earlier than normal), and I'm going to be kind to ME. Self-serving, you say? A little. Maybe. Part of a bigger picture though? Absolutely. You see, when I wake up tomorrow, I'm not going to be stinging . . . the way you feel after a brutal workout the day before. On the contrary, I'm going to wake up ready to reach out and hug the people around me, whom I love--and who deserve 100 percent of the kindness that I deserve to show myself. 

Day 13 (November 24, 2016): Kindness That Keeps Us Where We Belong

Happy Thanksgiving! This year, I contemplated a concept that's never crossed my mind in the past . . . pre-Black Friday shopping on Thanksgiving. I mean, who doesn't love a good deal? Besides, one could argue that strolling through Target might potentially serve as a form of post-gorging workout. 

As I said, I toyed with the notion. Then, I set it aside, along with my fantasies of any evening aerobics. Part of my decision was due to a factor I cannot deny--sheer laziness. Yet there was also a nobler reason for my choice to don my PJs and TV binge with my pre-teen daughter: I really can't abide the idea of Thanksgiving morphing into nothing more than Black Friday Come Early. This is one of the few days of the year where we allow our lives to be more about our families and friends than any of the distractions. That's sacrosanct, and, as such, shouldn't be tampered with.

Of course, it was easy enough to call a no-go on the shopping insanity from the comfort of my couch. But, as I indulged in a second slice of key-lime pie (yes, we needed a break from pumpkin in our house), I realized the same decision requires a bigger game-changing act of kindness from the store owners who opt to stay closed on Turkey Day. (See http://www.clark.com/stores-closed-open-thanksgiving for a list of retailers who shut their doors in honor of Thanksgiving.) On the one hand, the choice probably does cost them some sales. On the other, there's more to business--and life, for that matter--than layaway plans and the slam of cash registers. 

I tried to picture it--Thanksgiving away from my family. Sure, I could simply plan our festivities earlier, but it would be there . . . that nagging knowledge that I'd ultimately have to leave them and, instead of staring at cherubic faces besmirched with Cool Whip, I'd be forced to achieve eye contact with hoards of crazed shoppers. Truthfully, it's a scenario that sounds like the stuff of nightmares. 

Meanwhile, the alternative is a perfect case in point of kindness in action. The aforementioned manufacturers put their employees' happiness (and the happiness of their families) ahead of the almighty buck. Kudos to them for demonstrating what it means to be kind on a day when kindness should be the undeniably resounding theme. And, though I'm but one shopper, rest assured I'll be reviewing the names in the link above before I decide where to brave the insanity tomorrow.

Day 11 (November 22, 2016): Love Actually Is All Around.

Less than 48 hours before Thanksgiving, I find myself thinking about the people who always remain in our lives. Despite the roadblocks that day-to-day chaos sets in the way, these individuals never quite leave us. So where does that sticking power come from? It's not money; I've experienced any number of relationships that were only really rooted in the green stuff. Money is great, but it's not the superglue that holds us together. Neither are fear or ambition. No, the Elmer's that cements friendship and love is a lot tougher than any of that. It's kindness.

For me, a case in point is a family that my family has been friends with since I started kindergarten--the Pezzas. Looking back, I lived a lot of my childhood at the Pezza's house. David, my age, was a classmate and partner in crime. We wrote plays together, conducted seances together in his upstairs closet, and basically created that imaginary play space that I really wish more kids today, including my own, understood and sought out. David's younger siblings, Chris and Mattie, also featured into these adventures. To me, the proverbial only child, they were the closest thing to honorary brothers and sisters that I'd ever have. 

A play date at the Pezzas was always a good time, but their house eventually became much more than that to me. When I was in fourth grade, my dad was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. That was April 1990; he was gone by June of the same year. During the months in between, I often crashed at the Pezzas' after school while my mom shuttled back and forth between suburbs and city to be with my dad in the hospital. 

I still recall David, Chris, and Mattie providing me with endless hours of entertainment and laughter, even when they were bickering with each other. Their company was a welcome distraction to my heart breaking as a man I adored vanished far faster than I could cling onto him. Their Aunt Renee offered the same sense of relief as she helped me with homework, did my hair, and somehow kept my mind from wandering back to a hospital room I'd never visit. And, of course, I'll never forget how effortlessly Mr. and Mrs. Pezza (Dave and Paula) made me feel at home, as opposed to treating me like a charity case . . . the girl who was too young to be a latchkey kid but too old to not comprehend the loss that was playing out a little more with every passing moment. About a month before my dad succumbed to his illness, Dave--an attorney--came to our house to assist my parents as they hurriedly put together a will. It was an act of kindness my mother still remembers to this day.

Following my father's death, the connection stayed strong. Then, after I got married and had my first two children, Paula--a realtor--undertook the rather ominous challenge of selling our condo and finding a bigger abode to accommodate us. It was literally YEARS of off-and-on house hunting; not because she wasn't a total pro at her job, but because our circumstances kept changing, and we'd periodically take our first place off the market or revise our notions of what constituted our dream house. Paula was a trooper through all of it . . . patient, vigilant, and as committed to looking out for my family's interests as she had been decades before. Ultimately, she successfully sold our condo in a market where condos were a dime a dozen and "new construction" was the local buzz word, though all we had to offer was "built sometime in the 1960s." She found us our current home, as well, and, with the births of each of our next four babies, it became the address where she dropped off gifts or meals as a I recuperated from the joy of labor.

Through all of this, I read about what was happening in the lives of my former childhood pals--the Pezza kids--via social media. Every so often, I'd catch snippets of a post that reminded me why I love and respect their family so much. Probably little things to them but big things to the people who benefited from their countless displays of kindness--helping feed someone who was down on their luck or speaking out to support the idea that everyone deserves to be treated with empathy and compassion. 

Then, today, I happened to stumble upon the following post by Paula:

A small token of thanks today in an effort to return kindness. A store employee ( I assume a cart collector because of the way he was bundled up) was in line at the coffee/snack bar. He was next but when I walked up he insisted I go ahead of him. So I did. While I was waiting at the other end for my drink I told the woman behind the counter to take his order and that I would pay for it but not to tell him until after he ordered. She did . The look on his face and how thankful he was, was priceless. I'm guessing the cost of his little order was probably what he cleared in an hour working outside in the cold. His simple act of kindness reminded me that there is good around us and how blessed I truly am. He made my day!

What strikes me about this statement is the beauty of Paula's perspective. As a writer, I pride myself on knowing how to spin things. As a friend, I also know the Pezzas. Her story isn't about what she gave--though the manner in which she "paid it forward" is undeniably admirable. If you read her words closely, Paula's post is more about how grateful she was for what she received--a reminder that the world is a kind place filled with kind people. Her "spin," if you can call it that, offers a framework that more of us should fall back on with far greater frequency. When we give, we do get something in return. And the particulars of that gift are best summed up in  my favorite Hugh Grant quote:

"If you look for it, I've got a sneaking feeling you'll find that love actually is all around."

Thanks to the Pezzas, that was certainly the conclusion I reached when I was ten, wondering why my world was crashing down around my ears. They reinforced the same idea as I grew up, grew my own family, and grew to realize what precious commodities love and kindness are. Today, I am still reeling from recent footage of insane politicians hailing Hitler in 2016 . . . and from the tales of woe and human despair that seem to ooze across both social media and good, old-fashioned print publications. We need to hear those tales because it's up to us to stop hatred in its tracks. But we also need to hear stories of the people who will always be with us--because they will always fuel the kindness that our world is in such dire need of, perhaps now more than ever before. 

Day 10 (November 21, 2016): Hamilton . . . How Kindness Doesn't Always Take the Form of Retreat

Okay--this one may prompt some brows to raise and some eyes to roll, but so be it. Kindness is more about heart than facial features anyways. So here it is . . . Hamilton.

You'd have to be living under a boulder the size of Mount Everest to not have heard the epic tale of how VP-elect Mike Pence got a talking to over the weekend. Except here's the thing--he didn't really get a "talking to." Per http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/hamilton-broadway-cast-addresses-mike-pence-audience-work-behalf-all-us-949075, the cast of Hamilton spoke thus:

"We are the diverse America who are alarmed and anxious that your new administration will not protect us, our planet, our children, our parents or defend us and uphold our inalienable rights, sir. But we truly hope this show has inspired you to uphold our American values."

Okay, I'm going to tackle the quote above from an editor's perspective. (Not a woman whose rights are called into question by a lot of what our newly elected leaders stand for. Not someone whose friends herald from a racially, ethnically, and sexually diverse population that is sincerely worried about what their future in this country looks like. Not a mother who has to explain all of these dilemmas to her children while reinforcing that America is built on kindness and compassion. Just an average "did you dot your Is and cross your Ts" editor.)

1) The words "alarmed" and "anxious" do not equal "angry" and "determined to bring you down." You feel alarmed and anxious when your kid is sick--when someone or something you LOVE is seemingly jeopardized. 

2) The words "protect" and "defend" (or derivatives thereof) are often heard in the context of a plea. Or in a statement involving patriotic pride. For example, "I am honored to have a father who earned a Purple Heart protecting and defending our nation."

3) The word "sir"--it's not a four- or five-letter word, people. It connotes respect and the notion of one proud American addressing another.

4) The words "hope," "inspired," and "values" . . . need I go there? They are not typically words used to levy an insult or wound the hearer. On the contrary, they're frequently connected to a pretty basic concept--KINDNESS.

Now, let me take off my editor hat and play Mommy for a minute. A lot of critics of the Hamilton cast are decrying that they addressed him in front of his kids. Hmm. As a mom, I personally am pretty damn grateful when my progeny get to see a respectful attitude and powerful advocacy in action. And, if the cast had heckled Mr. Pence or slung insults at him or belittled him in any capacity, you wouldn't be reading this post. 

You see, the folks behind Hamilton pulled off something pretty brilliant last week. Yeah, they made a statement, but they did it how it's supposed to be done. Without polling the cast, I'm guessing some of them might fall into one or more of the groups of people who, based on recent events, HAVE been heckled. Who HAVE been insulted and bullied in the wake of the election. Still, they didn't run with Hammurabi's old adage, "An eye for an eye." Instead, their words and actions were more reflective of another famous slogan. Does that "Do unto others" quote ring a bell? 

The thing about kindness is that it doesn't have to be a form of retreat. Kindness comes in many forms, and we're capable of displaying it to our friends and our enemies and everyone in between. Kindness is about what we say, but it's also about how we say it. It's the grace we demonstrate as we push for and support the ideals that matter to us. As Americans . . . and, more basically, as human beings. In my book, the Hamilton cast got it right this weekend. I hope--as I'm sure they do--that what they said and how they said it helps Mr. Pence get it right, too. 

Day 9 (November 20, 2016): A Christmas Story

In the spirit of being totally honest, "kindness" hasn't been my MO the past 48 hours. I'm feeling brutally tired, am prepping for a marathon run of parent-teacher conferences for several of my children, and am pissed off that half of the items I purchase (from Barbie dolls to socks and mittens) seem to fall into an abyss from which they never return . . . usually just moments after they enter my home. 

I know, I know, break out the violins, and call the calligrapher to do invites for the one-woman pity party. Actually, don't. The great thing about being a mom of six kids, a wife, and a work-from-home writer is that I don't have much time to revel in my own sob stories for long. And, even if I did, that's not how I was raised. 

So, not to Julie Andrews it, but when the dog bites, when the bee stings, I do in fact rely upon remembrances of my favorite things. (Spoiler alert! Many of those things involve kindness.) Inevitably, one of them also involves my husband, Carl. Well, many of them really, but the making of the memory I'm about to describe took place back in 1999.

That December, I had only been dating my future better half about two months. To be honest (yet again), I really wasn't too sure how serious either of us was about the other, and we were both mutually okay with that. I was only a sophomore, and he had just finished applying to law school. We met at a frat party and had gone on a few dates, and it was fun. Obviously, I thought he was a decent enough guy, but I can pinpoint the moment I went from having that perspective to falling in love with him.

During my sophomore year, I was philanthropy chair of an academic fraternity/sorority at Northwestern. We had done a Halloween bash for local kids on campus, and, as the holidays approached, we turned our attention to our next gala. We had plans in the works to host a Christmas party at a nearby shelter for women and children. I put together craft projects and cheap little stocking stuffers, and we brainstormed a few games to do with the kids. It was all looking pretty good, but I realized I was missing one key element--Santa Claus.

Crap. I was a journalism major, I told myself, not some kind of thespian. Plus, I had no intention of disillusioning Suzy and Tommy with my high-pitched Santa impersonation. I asked around our group, but I didn't have any takers for the part. At last, I breathed in and decided to grab the bull by the horns (aka, really learn what kind of guy I was drinking margaritas with on the weekends).

Looking back, I shouldn't have been surprised that Carl agreed to help. Initially (and though I'm rather ashamed at my egotistical pessimism now), I kind of smirked to myself and thought, "Well, obviously, I'm just that incredible that he'd do anything for me." I do believe he knew tackling Kris Kringle wouldn't exactly hurt his chances of putting a smile on my face, but--knowing my husband as I now do--it was so much more than that.

The day of the party, Carl got in the red suit, beard, wig, and stocking hat we had waiting for him. As we wrapped up Christmas carols and amateur ornament-crafting, he made his big entrance.  Never have I seen so many little faces light up at once--faces that, when you stared at them long enough, revealed some mightily sad stories. The children we were singing "Frosty the Snowman" alongside came from abusive situations. This Christmas, they weren't at home, waiting for Santa to slide down the chimney. They were here, at the shelter, where the gift of a safe, peaceful yuletide season was potentially as good as it was going to get.

The partygoers took turns sitting on Santa's lap, whispering their wishes to him, and revealing how they had been good all year long. It was a tableau I will never forget in a million Christmases, especially when it came to one little boy, who was probably no more than seven. At first, he just stared up at Carl, aka St. Nick. He was in awe, but whenever Carl boomed out a "Ho, ho, ho!" in an overly dramatic voice, the child flinched and appeared to instinctively recoil. As I watched him, I realized--and one of the shelter coordinators later confirmed--that he wasn't particularly accustomed to the idea that men can be kind.

But the thing is, my husband was and remains today one of the kindest people I know. He can be gruff and doesn't always say a lot. Yet, beneath the overly practical engineer and sometimes sarcastic attorney, there lies a tenderness and sense of empathy that isn't easily rivaled. I saw it that day back in 1999, and it's what's led me to decide then and there that Carl wasn't just someone I had fun with on the weekends.

Speaking quietly and exuding patience with every gesture, he won over the little guy who had clearly witnessed more than any little guy ever should. By the time we had left, this child had shared his Christmas list with Santa, and he had a smile on his face. Later, Carl revealed to me that he felt badly, not just because the kid was obviously traumatized, but because it wasn't insane to assume that he wouldn't get everything he had asked for. We both knew that maybe he wouldn't find a bike waiting for him under the tree Christmas morning, and that was gut-wrenching. Nevertheless, the man I would marry in less than three years had given him something else that I sincerely hope served him well over the years. 

On days that I classify as "rough," I remember that. I recall how there are people whose suffering far exceeds anything I've ever had occasion to potentially whine about. And I realize there are also people who can be game-changers . . . Santas who offer hope and kindness in a world where miracles are often rare, but where hope and kindness are frequently miracles in and of themselves. I should know. I'm married to one of them.