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. 

Day 8 (November 19, 2016): Hark, Hear the Bells!

Last night, as I was heading into Jewel, I heard it . . . that unforgettable "ding, ding, ding" that's as much a sign of the season as candy canes and Black Friday commercials. Of course, the clanging emanates from the bell ringer standing alongside the Salvation Army's red kettle. (See http://www.salvationarmyusa.org/usn/red-kettle-history.) It's a familiar sound that will echo from now until December 25, but it's fundamentally far more than that. 

The ringing that fills our ears after a round of grocery shopping brings us down to Earth. It reminds us that it's the time of year to dig deep down (even if we don't feel like it) and find not just loose change, but those parts of ourselves that are still flesh-and-blood and fueled by kindness. Platitudes aside, here's what I mean:

During the past week, Jewel might as well have been renamed "Realm of the Rude." Not staff--but fellow-shoppers. I've gotten snark after wandering into the express line (which I honest-to-God hadn't even noticed was an express line) with one item over the limit. I've had a woman ahead of me shoot me looks that would freeze Queen Elsa because my apples came too close to her Fannie Mae Meltaways on the conveyor belt. In the parking lot, drivers are alternately giving each other the bird and verbal expressions of how truly "wonderful" we can all be during the most wonderful time of the year.

So, a trek out to buy coffee filters and take advantage of Eddy's "buy one, get one free" special runs the real risk of devolving into a meet-and-greet session for local Oscar the Grouch wannabees. People--myself sometimes included--go into defensive posture, avoid eye contact, aim to get in, get out, and seemingly detach from even the simple interactions that distinguish us from hyenas. Happy holidays, everyone!

Back to the bell though. What's its transformative power? After all, I'm implying that it can turn the hardest of Dickensian characters in a warm, Jello-esque glob of good will, right? To quote my sixth grader, 'kind of, sort of, maybe." I suppose it depends on each of us and where we are at any particular moment. To me, however, the bell brings me back. Not to Christmases past, but to the reality that this world can be a rough place to eek it out--and that we're all capable of making it a bit easier via (can you guess it?) kindness.

As a reference author, I've written a book on the Salvation Army. Do I agree with all their alleged positions on modern socials mores? No. Do I (overall) respect the work the SA does, especially around the holidays? For sure! Do the red-kettle bells do something for me personally? Absolutely?

First of all, they zap me out of crabby zombie mode. Even if I don't have a dollar to drop in the kettle, I put my peevishness on hold for a minute. Why? Well, as I fly out of Jewel, typically having purchased way more frivolous indulgences than not, I see someone who's often been standing in the cold for several hours straight. Someone who's got a tough job if ever there was one--convincing people who are hell-bent on Grinchiness to give, to open up, and to get back to being a person who feels a sense of social responsibility. Not an easy gig that. As a result, I always find myself compelled to at least say "Hello!" to the bell ringer, regardless of whether I make a donation at that very moment. And you know what? When I don't have any spare singles or quarters lying at the bottom of my purse or coat pockets, bless the bell ringer--he/she still returns a smile and a greeting with an even bigger smile and greeting. Thus kindness becomes contagious, and I leave Jewel having been bitten by the bug.

Ideally, when I do have something to slip into the red kettle, one or all of my kids are with me. And, every time they are, I can see their little minds begin turning. "Why do we put money into that red bucket, Mommy? Why does that man ring the bell? What do you mean--not everyone gets a lot of toys for Christmas? Why? Wait, I have a great idea! If we give up some of the toys we don't use anymore . . ." So the bug bites again. Now they're thinking about what it means to give and be kind. And now they'll think about it whenever we hear the bell ringing over the red kettle, which adds up to quite a few occasions throughout the holiday season. For all these reasons, the bell ringer is a big game changer in my book, as well as a chance to keep us kind (versus varying versions of Ebeneezer Scrooge). 

The game-changing kindness: The bell-ringer not only collects money for the Salvation Army; he/she helps banish the Grinch hiding out in many of us. 

How it changed the game: For me, the sound of the bell is a reminder of how to be a human being again. It also serves as a jumping-off point for discussions with my children about why kindness and giving are important. 

How it could change my/your game: The holidays are touted as the most wonderful time of the year, but they can fast turn into a source of stress, crabbiness, and the exact opposite emotions than what they're supposed to embody. Luckily, reminders exist to prevent us from forgetting the important stuff. The bell's a reminder, so we have no excuse not to remember to be kind.  

Day 7 (November 18, 2016): A Tale of Homecoming Kindness

With autumn comes cooler weather, Halloween costumes, turkeys, football, and . . . homecomings. Whenever I see high-schoolers getting into a limo or taking pictures in a local park, a little part of me goes back to that time (roughly about the same time the Pilgrims were disembarking the Mayflower, if you ask my kids) when I was either sorrowing over or celebrating homecoming. 

I recall spending way too many hours worrying if I'd be asked and, if I was, what I'd wear. Sometimes, homecoming was disillusioning; other times if was exhilarating. Now, as a mother, there are moments when I laugh at how naive I was to assume the same adolescent shenanigans would one day seem insignificant to me. The truth is, they're more significant than ever--they just feature a new cast of characters.

Granted, none of my brood are quite old enough for formals yet, but I can already taste the jitters, the anticipation, the inevitable broken hearts, and the unforgettable moments that I kept framed and on my desk well into my years at Northwestern. And then . . . there are scenarios like the following, made all the more relevant because one of my children has special challenges/needs: http://www.littlethings.com/homecoming-dance-surprise/?utm_content=buffer55fd6&utm_source=ild&utm_campaign=ild&utm_medium=Facebook.

When I read this, my first thought went to my son, CJ. He doesn't have Down's. Nevertheless, being diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) doesn't always lend itself to finding a partner on the playground--or a date to the school dance. That said, my son's peers have forever been a phenomenal bunch; they go out of their way to high-five him both in and out of school, and he gets invited to birthday parties from both his gen-ed and multi-needs classes. All the same, elementary school is a whole different ball game than high school; people change, and so do their priorities. So, I perused the article above, I asked myself--"Will CJ have a date when it's time for his homecoming?"

The answer is . . . I don't know. However, what give me faith are people like the kids in this story. Not only Daniel's date (who seems AMAZING), but the countless other classmates who helped plan a night that went beyond his wildest expectations. The best part is that they didn't see a disability--they just saw a person who required a little kindness to make the same memories that so many of us take for granted. In the wake of a political race in which one of the candidates (and now our president-elect) so shamelessly mocked a reporter who perhaps wasn't the "same" as everyone else, we need more notes to self of how/why there's another way to go. Now more than ever, kids--and adults for that matter--could stand a reminder that kindness is always a bigger game-changer than close-mindedness and ignorance. 

The game-changing kindness: Through multiple acts of kindness, teenagers gave one of their classmates a homecoming to remember. 

How it changed the game: Daniel's story started with the sadness of rejection but ended with a celebration of friendship. 

How it could change my/your game: Our differences/challenges/needs are part of us, but they don't define us. Kindness allows us an incredible gift--to look beyond labels and preconceived ideas and the pain of judgment. By letting it shape our day-to-day lives and decisions, we go back to that place where we're all human beings, memory-makers who share what truly is a wonderful life. 

Day 6 (November 17, 2016): Cause Everybody Hurts . . . Sometimes

I am not a big believer in putting Band-Aids on bullet wounds. The fact is, not all problems have a quick fix; not all broken hearts can be put back together lickity split. As REM says, "Everybody hurts sometimes." And, when it's your time to hurt, kindness doesn't necessarily function as gauze that stops the bleed. Instead, what it does do is serve as a balm--something that eases the pain and, gradually, allows us to recover.

Today was one of my REM sometimes's. At about 9:00 AM, the school nurse (whom I sincerely believe is one of my children's guardian angels) called me while I was driving. Always calm and compassionate, she told me C.J. (my 10 year old) had just had a seizure. 

This is not new territory for us. CJ had his first seizure in the spring of 2009, when he was two. We found him stiff as a board in front of the television and, at first, assumed the worst. Later, we learned that we were merely seeing one of the many ugly faces of what would soon be diagnosed as my beautiful little boy's seizure disorder. 

Several years, multiple medications, and two neurologists later, and . . . here we are. Normally, CJ only has seizure activity in the wake of an illness. A high fever that spikes fast is a typical trigger. That said, our last 24-hour EEG in June 2016 came back clean as a whistle. So far, CJ's had a four-star school year, and my husband and I were lapsing into a quiet, contented, Depakote-laced lull. It was all good--until it wasn't.

Fortunately, he's okay. He doesn't remember a thing, and the staff at his school were completely on their game. Today, CJ had Arby's for lunch and spent the remainder of the afternoon talking to my mother about the apps on his cell phone. He smiled at me, and I smiled back at him. Like most moms I know, however, I can out-act Bette Davis when circumstances call for it. So, if it comes to cases, I'm capable of a doting grin even when it feels like I've taken a bullet to the gut (or the heart).

Before now, I didn't blitzkrieg social media with the 411 on this morning's events. Yeah, I can always use the good vibes and prayers generated by a Facebook post, but--cards on the table--I was a hot mess. All the same, I ultimately unloaded to two of my best friends in the world. They also have children who have struggled with a seizure disorder. They also understand how, as one so aptly noted, "You never get used to hearing your child just had a seizure, no matter how long he's been living with a seizure disorder." Like the school nurse I mentioned above--and all the staff at my son's school really--they also grasp that the uncertainty and pain of the aforementioned challenges don't generally come with the guarantee of a quick fix.

How long will CJ require treatment for a seizure disorder? Was today because of his growing body--or some other mystery trigger? What if he has a seizure when he's crossing the street or taking a bath? What will happen when my husband and I aren't here to worry both for and about him? These questions represent boo-boos that even a Band-Aid as big as kindness won't adequately cover.

Nevertheless, my friends and the wonderful people at CJ's school (Edison) didn't try to slap a Band-Aid on what, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, was my broken heart today. They didn't reassure me with false promises or trite slogans like, "God never gives us more than we can handle." What they did do was remind me that they're here for me, check in with me throughout the day to ask how CJ was doing, and ask if my family needed anything. They showed me the kindness that I needed to ease some of the hurt I was feeling . . . so I could smile back at my son. And they reinforced something that all of us inevitably benefit from hearing, regardless of the particulars of our pain--we're not alone in it. Everybody hurts sometimes--and sometimes kindness is enough to keep us going until the wounds heal. 

The game-changing kindness: By showing kindness and compassion, two of my dearest friends didn't give me a magic fix to a complicated problem--but they gave me what I needed to push onward in the here and now.

How it changed the game: It reminded me that, though everybody hurts, kindness = never having to be alone in our pain. 

How it could change my/your game: Sometimes we don't need to "solve" all the complex issues all at once. By showing kindness (even if it's just to say, "I'm here for you"), we show others how to hope. In my book, that's way better than any Band-Aid. 

Day 5 (November 16, 2016): Got an Hour to Be a Human Being?

Recently, my sixth grader approached me regarding several grave matters. These included 1) whether or not Harvard would potentially be a good college for her, 2) the nuances of talking to boys, and 3) the equally baffling nuances of talking to peers in general.

#1 was easy. The answer is, yes, it would potentially be a great school for you, especially if you get a scholarship.

#2 and #3 . . . well . . . Maria is my oldest, so we often chart unexplored waters together when it comes to navigating the historically complex mother-daughter dynamic. However, as I started discussing the aforementioned topics with her, I was quite confident that I was ROCKING IT. In fact, I sounded so good that I didn't realize how long my soliloquy had become. I just kept spouting platitudes the way Moby Dick pushed water through his blow hole. And her eyes kept getting glassier and glassier.

At long last, I paused to take a breath and asked her if anything I was saying made sense. (I mean, how could it not? I had lectured her on values and self-respect and staying true to oneself, etc. It was all really good stuff, the kind of adages one sees on throw pillows in outlet stores.) 

Maria, in her brutally honest fashion, responded to my question with, "Kind of, sort of." Yes, I was shocked that she didn't lap up my gilded droplets of wisdom, but, at the end of the day, I'd rather my kids find the guidance they're seeking than further my illusion that I'm the Dalai Lama. So, I then asked her if she would prefer talking to Maddy--one of our babysitters whom we see several times a week (and who happens to be in high school). Suddenly much more enthusiastic, Maria replied that, yes, she'd like that, since "Maddy is more familiar with this century." Mic drop.

All ageism aside, I got it. And, after recalling every profound chat my mother and I shared before I turned 18, I had an epiphany: It's not that our talks weren't tremendously meaningful in the grand scheme of things; it's just that they didn't necessarily mean a whole lot to me when I was in the "then and there" of things. Bearing this in mind, I approached Maddy as she helped me with preschool pickup last week. 

Now, for those of you who--like me--have lost touch with the life of a high-school senior, it's busy. They're visiting colleges, studying, doing extracurricular activities, and (even on top of that rather onerous load) often working. To us dinosaurs, high school now seems like the very definition of the glory years, but, in reality, it can be a damn demanding period. It follows that I hoped Maddy would say yes, though, in my mind, I would have understood 100 percent if she said no. 

However, one of the many reasons we like Maddy is that she is incredibly kind. In hindsight, I shouldn't have been surprised by the fact that, when I tossed out the idea of heart-to-heart'ing with Maria, she didn't hesitate. In fact, she set a time and date: after school, today. I was pleased--my daughter was over the moon. Granted, she tried to play it cool, but she's still at a stage where, thank God for small wonders, she can't hide much from me. To her, Starbucks with someone in high school/a person she respects and admires is a pretty big deal. To me, my daughter having Starbucks with someone in high school/a person she respects and admires is a game-changing act of kindness.

It may sound simple, but let's not kid ourselves. Speaking only for myself, I guzzle anything from Starbucks on the fly. Every now and again, my friends and I toss out the idea of doing coffee, but making it happen is another story. After all, we're busy people in a fast-paced world. Actually sitting down in a coffee shop entails us rearranging the moving parts in our iPhone schedules the same way a puzzle addict is compelled to forever fiddle with a Rubik's Cube . . . or so I tell myself.

If I'm being totally honest though? Yes, carving out 60 minutes for someone I care about requires a certain level of skill and dexterity. But let's call it what it is--kindness. You know the famous ad campaign that was a feather in the cap of dairy farmers everywhere: "Got Milk?" Well, here's one for humanity: "Got an Hour to Be a Human Being?" We all do, and we all know it. It's merely a question of choosing to set aside a few precious minutes in the name of being kind. Our sitter has clearly figured out how to do this at a far tenderer age than I did. I hope, by extension, my daughter will look at people like her and learn how to do the same. 

PS: Maddy, if you read this, I fought back my journalist's instinct and didn't ask Maria much beyond, "How was Starbucks?" (Okay, okay, I resisted the urge to be Nosy Nellie.) Suffice it to say, however, the kid walked in with a smile on her face, a steely focus on her homework, and the conclusion that she wasn't "going to worry about boys right now anyways." Apart from my gratitude for exemplifying kindness, please accept my thanks for driving home some extremely crucial points. They're big ones for any soon-to-be 12 year old (especially if that soon-to-be 12 year old is hoping to eventually earn a scholarship to Harvard ;-))

The game-changing kindness: Someone chose to take time to be kind--even in a world where we all fancy ourselves extremely busy, highly important people.

How it changed the game: It exemplified how kindness should be a priority because, at the end of the day, we're all human beings. It also reinforced to another person that she matters . . . that she is more important than a schedule written in ink, smudged across a dry-erase board, or lit up on an iPhone. 

How it could change my/your game: We always say time is precious. But, like anything precious, one day we'll run out of it. While we have it, why not use it to change our lives and the lives of those around us by showing kindness? 

Day 4 (November 15, 2016): Kill Them with Kindness!

People are definitely edgier than normal. I feel it at the grocery store, when I visit my mom, and even--believe it or not!--on social media. During the past week, I've seen ordinary discussions evolve into a far nastier two-step than anything you'd ever get from the Jets and the Sharks. 

On the one hand, I understand why. Election years are always a bit uncertain, and this one feels very much like we're in the final scene of Joe versus the Volcano. It doesn't seem as if we have a whole lot of control over what we're leaping into. Whether the end result will be dire or not so dramatic remains to be seen.

Nevertheless, the events of the past week have lent themselves to an abundance of snipping and snarking, just in time for the holidays, no less! So, it's extremely refreshing when you hear of someone nice killing someone (who perhaps isn't being so nice) with kindness. 

Tonight, on social media, a friend reported how she did just that. We've all been where she was--on the tail end of another driver's ire. To be frank, there are some days where I AM the angry driver . . . honking, muttering under my breath, and displaying not quite a case of road rage (but definitely exhibiting behaviors that could put me in the "at-risk" category). And then there are days where I'm my friend . . . startled by someone in another lane gesticulating wildly and acting as if I just hurled a brick at their windshield. In this latter scenario, I'll be even more frank, I am rarely the height of maturity. I won't delve into the boring details, but suffice it to say my reaction all too often involves a digit that isn't Thumb-Kin or Pointer Finger. Normally, I don't stick around to evaluate how my fellow-motorist feels about my universally recognized salute. Naturally, I don't imagine it puts a smile on their face, but what choice do I have?

Well, as my friend described this afternoon, I could kill them with kindness. Getting back to her story, she responded to the other driver's conniption fit with a smile and a wave. At first, I chuckled to myself. I thought, "That's actually brilliant--what better way to PO someone who clearly needs a swift kick in pants!" But then I realized I was missing the boat. And it's a boat I shouldn't be viewing from the dock because it's one I tell my kids about all the time. It's the boat on which we can't control how other people act . . . but can control our response to them. 

As a mom, I run out of explanations for why bad things happen to good people. And as a control freak, I recognize that our emotions are about control, whether they should be or not. No one likes being hurt or scared or angry; those feelings are impossible to predict, prevent, or tuck away in neat little rows when we're done with them. What we do have power over is our reaction to them. It's true that we can give as good as we get, but where does that get us? Taking the high road isn't always as fun as dishing out road rage. Ultimately, however, the other driver always drives off. When we're left in the dust, we still have to live with who we are, and we have some choice in deciding who that is.

Plus, what's the harm in potentially showing someone else that things aren't as bleak as they seem? Not everyone's a monster, not everyone's a hater, and not everyone would just as soon give the single-digit salute as smile. We never know why a person is frustrated or sad; that other driver may have lost a job or, worse still, a loved one seconds before turning their keys in the ignition. The moment in which we respond to them is just that--a moment. Nevertheless, the manner in which we do it can be game-changing.

The game-changing kindness: Someone responded to unkindness with kindness.

How it changed the game: It allowed her to walk (drive) away a better human being--and possibly helped someone else do the same.

How it could change my/your game: We can't control how everyone acts, and that's scary as hell. But, by controlling our response--and tempering it with kindness--things aren't as Topsy-Turvy as they seem . . . even right now!

Day 3 (November 14, 2016): Far More Than a Haircut

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I find myself realizing exactly how good I have it. No matter how much griping is like a second language to me at times, I'm damn fortunate. If I'm out of food, I go to the store. If I'm tired (and assuming everyone else is asleep,of course), I cuddle under my comforter. I rely on my cell phone, TV, and credit cards like they're vital organs--items I couldn't live without. And, if something is unpleasant enough, I have the ability to turn away from it . . . to block it out. Not that turning away is the right thing to do--it rarely ever is--but, if I want to, I can.

However, one thing I learned last week was that not everyone enjoys the same luxuries and latitudes. For many people, facing hatred, fear, and judgment is an undeniable part of existence itself. Sometimes the ignorance others show them is rooted in racism. Other times, it's the result of sexism or homophobia. The truth is, our world is chock-full of "ism"s and "phobias" that represent more ugliness than Dorian Gray's portrait. And, for the men, women, and children at their receiving end, it's impossible to turn away or block out the belligerence, subtle as it may seem at times. 

Our nation's homeless are the perfect case in point. We walk past them, often quickening our pace as we do. We avoid making eye contact, and we try to push them out of our minds. Why shouldn't we? After all, they're a reminder of a social responsibility we've failed to shoulder--and of a form of suffering we don't choose to contemplate. For the homeless, however, turning away isn't so simple. They're all too familiar with the pain of being ignored, condescended to, and inspiring fear, hatred, and judgment. 

A gloomy picture, no? It is, except that there are people out there like San Diego salon owner Ginger Rich. Rich provides free haircuts to members of the local homeless population. Because, as Rich recently stated during an interview with NBC 7, she once was homeless. 

Now, I can't imagine that's a happy memory for her. I'm ashamed to admit that, if it was me, it's one of those recollections I'd likely try to banish to the recesses of my mind. But what's the price of forgetting, of turning away? How much compassion and empathy do we sacrifice to have only happy thoughts? 

As I read about Rich (see http://www.nbcsandiego.com/news/local/I-Love-Him-Salon-Provides-Haircuts-and-Kindness-to-Homeless--401044375.html), I realized that she gives out more than haircuts. She restores dignity to people who are far too frequently treated as less than human. The beauty of the theme of this story is that it's applicable to so many stories involving marginalized groups. The terrible reality we met head on last week (in the context of everything from KKK parades to chants of "Build the wall!" in school lunch rooms) is that we have the power to strip others of a sense of belonging and, even more fundamentally, humanity.  But a far greater truth is that we also have the ability to restore what we, as a society, sometimes take away--through kindness. 

The game-changing kindness: Someone made the choice to not turn away from those who need kindness the most--those who can't always turn away from the ugliness of hatred, fear, and judgment.

How it changed the game: It demonstrated how we have the power to choose kindness . . . and, by extension, restore faith in humanity.

How it could change my/your game: The world can be ugly, but it doesn't have to be. Right now, so many people are worried about where we, as Americans, are headed. I can't say it's an invalid concern, but--thanks to our ability to choose kindness--we're not powerless when it comes to addressing it. 

Day 2 (November 13, 2016): My Thomas

So, when I started this blog, I promised myself I wouldn't focus too much on my own kids. I'm a self-confessed Facebook over-poster when it comes to my children. Photos, updates, brag moments, b^tc*y moments--you name it. They're my life, but I also understand they're not everyone else's. And I am the first person to eye-roll when other parents launch an "Aren't MY kids adorable" assault. Still, what is that saying we all hear so often? Charity starts at home? Well, so, too, does kindness. Therefore, indulge me on Day Two.

My son, Thomas, is seven. He's the proverbial middle child in a lot of ways. He's sensitive yet independent, and he's neither the loudest crier (Lauren, my baby) nor the biggest boss (Maria, my oldest). As the non-squeaky wheel, it's not that he gets overlooked--but there are occasions when I'm reminded that I'd do better to remember how special he is.

When Thomas was born, he was only with me a few minutes before he started having respiratory problems. Of all my six birthing experiences, it was the scariest. Anyone who's had a baby whisked off to the NICU can probably relate. Suddenly your world is teeming with white lab coats and blue scrubs, and your baby feels millions of miles away (even though they've just wheeled the bassinet across the room). 

For our week-long NICU stay, I felt like most of what I did was cry. Granted, a week isn't all that extensive compared to the war stories I've heard from my friends. Still, time is relative when your postpartum hormones crash and your infant is somewhere besides the nursery YOU prepared for him at YOUR house. 

However, in that week, the acts of kindness I knew are too many and magnificent to list here. Late-night calls from nurses just to let me know how Thomas was doing, extra time pediatricians spent answering my questions, and the forever amazing friends and family who dropped off meals, babysat my two other children, and kept me sane. 

Fast forward seven years. I fully believe that some of the kindness my son demonstrates today must have been "infused" in him through his contact with all those incredible people the first week of his life. I tend to over-complicate, overthink, and over-talk. Thomas is the diametric opposite. He keeps it simple, and he keeps it real. Of course, he's no saint. He bickers with his siblings quite a bit, and we've already tackled topics such as fibbing and sassing. Yet there are moments that he astounds me with how big his heart actually is. (And no, I don't mean the moments when he tells me I look gorgeous because he wants to use the Wii-U for 15 extra minutes.)

Fast forward again--to this week. It's been a whirlwind of emotions for many people. Whether you're ecstatic, dejected, optimistic, or pessimistic about the future, it may feel as if someone took your mood and transformed it into a ping pong ball. Unfortunately, I, for one, don't do well when my state of mind bounces too erratically. In some cases, I've even been known to project a little pent-up aggression on those nearest and dearest to me. Case in point . . . this past Wednesday.

I snapped, I sniffled, I rolled my eyes, and I lost patience over silly things like (literally) spilled milk. I argued with my husband and kids about the most ridiculous and mundane of issues, and I never felt like I came out winning or making any semblance of a point. (Perhaps it's because, in 90 percent of those cases, I probably picked the arguments in the first place.) When you're on that type of road, you know somewhere inside you that you need to pull over and turn off the ignition for a second. Unfortunately, I find that it's those situations when we all tend to accelerate--gun it until we crash. In any event, that is where I was headed. 

Then I got the picture. A portrait, made by none other than my son. The picture made me look a lot nicer than I had been to him all day . . . a lot more hopeful, too. He created it, he said, because he wanted to cheer me up.  He explained to me how he drew the eyes the way he did and why he picked a certain shade of brown for my hair. Suddenly, I went from wanting to lay into a punching bag to wishing I could hold him just a little bit closer for a little bit longer. And so I did. And so I turned off my ignition for a minute, restarted it, and started heading back to my happy place.

The game-changing kindness: Someone showed kindness to a person who perhaps (at that moment) didn't seem like she deserved it. 

How it changed the game: It demonstrated how something as simple as a Crayola masterpiece can change a person's perspective for the better. 

How it could change my/your game: Right now, we're living in a polarized world. We all put up walls that should never go up, and we all have the power to help other people tear their walls down. Sometimes a simple act of kindness can touch another person in a way you'd never even imagine. You may not see it immediately, but that doesn't mean it's not happening. And kindness doesn't translate into submission--you don't have to give up being with her or rooting for him. All it means is that you're supporting another human being who needs support . . . and exemplifying the way every American (and everyone for that matter) should behave.