Thanksgiving in my family also serves as the official beginning of the Christmas season.  Despite the fact that some decorations already went up today at my house, I vowed that this year I would give Thanksgiving the respect it deserves.

Global events have created one of the bleakest years a long time.  Our own politicians are arguing about the direction of America, world leaders wait for the next military strike and the economy shows no signs of recovery.  Yet, even in the slightest of cracks, anyone can find the light if he is willing to open his eyes wide enough.

I know that a dark cloud will hang over the festivities on Thursday, as our eldest will not be with us.  Yet, I give thanks that she is blissfully happy at St. Andrews.    Our second daughter is being plagued at every turn this school year by a return of her rheumatoid arthritis symptoms. I give thanks, though, for how she handles each challenge with grace and acceptance, always moving forward to reach her goals.

The economy has forced many of us to simplify our lives and to fully appreciate what we do have.  What were we all chasing, anyway?  In my case, the uncertainty of the future convinced me to pursue my dream of running my own businesses.

Whilst outside today, I saw a honeysuckle that is obviously confused by this window of warm weather.  The fact that it was alone in the garden allowed its beauty to be overwhelming.

Snow and power outages are most likely in my near future, but that means there will also be time for knitting, snowmen, hot chocolate and nights by the fire.  

Over the next few days, think about all of the things that seem wrong in your life.   Then think again and look for the light in each of them.  I guarantee you will find something for which to give thanks.

Finally, I am grateful to all of you for taking a few minutes each week to read my words.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I have been surrounded all my life with women who are meticulously put together every day.  My mother has gotten her hair done twice a week for at least 45 years, a trick she learned from my grandmother.  Mom still dresses meticulously and always looks like she stepped out of the pages of a magazine. The accessories always match and she changes her purse every day to match her outfit.  The thing I admire most about these two women is that as classy as they are, they own equal amounts of warmth and kindness. 

As for me, I strive for the warmth and the kindness, but the rest simply exhausts me just thinking about it.   I have gotten by (until now) with a greatly reduced sense of vanity.  Lately, though, the tide has turned.

A few months ago it came to my attention that my look could best be described as “schlubby.”   My mirror told me.  Hmmm.  If I continue in this direction I will soon be facing looks of great pity in the supermarket.  Thus began my physical overhaul.

I started with my wardrobe.   Whenever I received an invitation that read  “country casual”, “festive attire” or “business formal”.  I interpreted it to mean “clothes that fit.”   So, I purged my closets and then attended a few CABI parties.   Such fun!   Aren’t I earning my own money again?  Yes, I am, so between my earnings and Brian’s earnings I was covered.  

Moving on to jewelry, I reached out to my friends in the worlds of Silpada, Premiere and Stella & Dot.  More happiness!  I might even need a second jewelry armoire.

Even my shoes were subject to great scrutiny.  I now own only 20 or so pairs, but don’t panic, there is always Zappos.

Then to make-up, as in I am starting to do my face every morning.   OK, maybe every other morning.   Everyone was right.  Lipstick does brighten up your face.

Now, to my hair.  That is a saga in and of itself.    As for the hair not on my head, I have been getting waxed or lasered for years.  At least this was covered.  Of course, there was the awkward moment a week ago when the 10-year old asked me what a Brazilian wax entailed.   We are a VERY modest family, so a visual of any sort was completely out of the question.  Somehow I stammered that it was a bikini wax that was high and tight, like a military cut.  That seemed to be enough of an answer for him.

The big challenge remains to be the hair on the top of my head.  Everyone in the house is taller than me so they feel it is OK to comment on the grey hair on the top of my head.   So, this Friday I am off to the salon.  It seems that my appointment is going to take at least three hours.  Seriously?   There was great discussion when I made the appointment as to whether I was going to get a glaze, a panel or something else.  These words are meaningless to me so I told them to surprise me.  I’ll let you know next week how this adventure turns out.

The last piece of this puzzle is of course, my weight.  I continue to work on it at home and in the gym so I presume that one day I will be an ideal size. Too bad I didn’t live a few centuries ago.  Renoir would have found me divine!

The key to all this change is simple.  I’m only able to move forward because I finally embraced who I am and what I look like.  Every curve, every wrinkle and every grey hair has been earned honestly.  So, please let me ask you something.   Your friends and family already know that you are beautiful where you are right now, so why not believe them?

Twenty-two years ago I had the good fortune of being able to start a new direct  marketing division at Hearst Magazines.   Those were heady times, and the money was flowing freely all over the place.  There was no better place for a woman to be than in sales.  I stayed there for ten years, leaving only due to Brian’s relocation to London.

I had many peers and a few mentors.   One of my mentors, Rosemary Montroy, was the type of person that everyone should have in her life when she starts her career.   Rosemary already had grown children when we met.   She was one of the key figures at Direct Media, one of the biggest direct marketing companies around.    The offices are still located in Greenwich in a stunning setting at the bottom of a hill, with a stream running in front of the building and a waterfall to the side.  As one of Direct Media’s main clients, I spent a lot of time with Rosemary.  She introduced me to all of the industry legends and showed me the ropes.   Most importantly, she showed me how to treat people well and earn their respect.   She was “mama” to so many.  

Rosemary and I would meet for dinner during my time in London and in the first few years of my return to the States.  As in so many things, life got in the way and we lost touch, though we always knew what the other was doing through our mutual industry friends. 

I received a phone call in September, 2009 that Rosemary had passed away.  She was only 64.

Her wake was packed.  Amidst the sadness there were many hugs as I came across old friend after old friend, most of whom I had not seen for twelve years.  We promised to keep in touch and we have done exactly that.   Thanks to these wonderful women I slowly gained the confidence to go back into the world of those who earn a paycheck.

Three weeks ago I found myself standing in front of the Direct Media building for the first time in fourteen years. The name of the company has changed and the parking lot was not as full as I remembered.  My old friends inside are now the seasoned veterans.

The only way to get into the building is to walk over a short wooden bridge.   As I made my way across on this beautiful fall day I started to cry.   It was wholly unexpected.    The memories came flooding back and for an instant, I was thinking about the pictures of my little girls that I brought to show Rosemary.    My dreams were still intact and my confidence was brimming.    We would chat about a great new promotion or of the many deals we would make with other companies.   Then, of course, there would be a gaggle of us going off to lunch.

How could I know that all of these years later I would again have my foot in the door of the industry, albeit from a different angle?   Those little girls are now young women who owe so much to their wonderful high school just down the street from these offices.   Two of the women with whom I worked live in my school district, and another dear industry friend fights her own battle with cancer.  So far, she is winning. 

As I dried my tears on that bridge, it hit me.  The journey may be different but the dreams are the same.  Thanks, Rosemary, for watching over me still.

Happy Monday!   Thanks to all of you who have stopped to tell me they read this blog every week and to all who are sharing it with their Facebook friends.  I appreciate it so much.

A few days ago I started taking apart the master bedroom and the accompanying office.  I only touch a piece of paper once and I clean out every room at least once a year.   Normally, this causes my husband and children to run around the house clutching their most prized possessions.

At one point I was quite overwhelmed with the pile of papers, clothes and other personal belongings all over the floor.  After spending a good ten seconds in self-pity, I put on those big girl panties and dove in!   Sorting and tossing paper was the easy part.  After an hour or so the office was done.

Now all I had to do was tackle my clothes, bags and shoes.  There were all of the clothes that I bought last year after I woke up one day to discover that the body fairies had made me larger.  Those clothes ranged from matronly to frumpy.  (Note to friends:  An intervention would have been in order.)  

I stared at all of the piles of clothes in size 6, 8, and 10.   Why did I own so many turtlenecks?   Do skinny people not get hot flashes?   Gone.  Ultimately, half of my clothes and shoes were put in bags for an upcoming tag sale.

The last group I sorted was my handbags.   I was shocked to discover that not one handbag was ready for the giveaway pile.  In fact, I almost fainted when I realized that it has been at least five years since I bought my last expensive handbag.   I covet bags and jewelry and I have never been apologetic.  The jewelry is covered by my large Italian-American family and my husband, but the bags are my responsibility.  When you visit me in the nursing home I will be covered in baubles and my bag will match that day’s tracksuit. 

It finally dawned on me….the economic drain of supporting my children caused me to go HANDBAG SOBER.   It is an insidious thing, I tell you, something that creeps up on you slowly.   When a person starts her own direct sales business, a good sponsor will always ask for her  “Why?”   Most people respond along the lines of building a secure financial future based on a steady stream of residual income.   That is a wonderful goal that I share with all of my fellow business builders, but at least I am truthful enough to tell you that going into Louis or Furla or Gucci with reckless abandon would mean the pinnacle of success to me!

No matter what your goal, go for it!    At the end of the day, we are living in dark times in which our fellow humans are turning on each other in despicable ways.  

The rest of us need to keep moving forward.  I, for one, will never give up on that flicker of light that is always within our sight.   It doesn’t matter if that light takes the form of a child’s hug, a smile from a stranger or yes, even a handbag.   Just promise me that when you are bathed in it, you will take the time to bask in the warmth for a moment.

I have decided that guilt is a constant theme in my life and rather than try to resist it, I am going to embrace it.    My entire cellular structure is pre-programmed with generations of Italian-Catholic guilt neurons so who am I to try and deny evolution?  

Let’s start with the general life phases of guilt.  First, there is sibling guilt, as in “I probably shouldn’t have convinced my youngest brother that he is adopted just because mom has no pictures.”  Then there is school guilt of “I really should have started that paper before midnight due to the fact that my parents pay for me to go to this lovely private school.”   I was a do-gooder in the homework department, so I stole that one from our eldest daughter.

The pattern of guilt continues until you hit the all consuming pinnacle, MOM guilt.    This particular type of guilt starts the second your first child is born and assumedly ends when you take your last breath.  What follows is my journey to date and the corresponding guilt rating, 10 being the highest:

First daughter is born and I return to work full-time.   (10)

Second daughter is born and I return to work part-time.   (6)

We move to London and I finally get to be an at-home mom.   (0)           

After two months, I am bored to tears of being an at-home mom.  (7)

I decide to have third child to fill up free time.    (2)

Third child never sleeps and is all consuming so the girls                  

are virtually ignored.  (9)

Decide to have fourth child but the third is still all consuming so now

I have to hire a nanny to handle the above-mentioned third child. (5)

Several years of exhaustion follow. (0)

Exhaustion ebbs but when I wake up I discover that I have two children in private school during a terrible recession and I still have a nanny. (8)

My blog is one day late.  (11)

So here I am, six weeks after I decided to go back to work, building two businesses of my own and creating sales opportunities for a wonderful outside company.  I am obviously incapable of doing anything on a small scale.  The guilt opportunities exist aplenty.

I know Danielle is really happy at school in Scotland, but I know little else.   Our second daughter is having a heck of a junior year between her workload and her health issues and I wish I could take her pain away and make it mine.   The seventh grader doesn’t talk about his schoolwork and I probably should spend more time probing.   The youngest has had a stomachache for three weeks and it only dawned on me today that it is probably due to the huge amount of medication he has to take for Lyme .  My newest addition to the guilt pile?  I often wish that I could be left alone and work 20 hours a day because I love what I am doing so much.

My youngest went to school yesterday despite his stomachache because I had an important meeting. I promised him that if he needed me, I would be back home at lunchtime.

My cell phone rang at exactly 12:15 and I didn’t even look to see who it was.   I drove directly to the elementary school where my ten-year old was waiting for me. About a half-hour later he turned to me and told me how much he enjoyed my company.   He then told me he noticed how happy I was these days and that simple fact made him happy, too.   If my children can accept my new journey with such open hearts, why shouldn’t I?

So, wrap that guilt up and embrace it, lest you miss one minute of the joy that is always a minute ahead of us.

   I  made a new friend on Thursday. She made me realize that in my blogs I have never mentioned my dad.   Dad is a 76-year old Italian-American who broke all the stereotypes for men in his generation.

I am the oldest of four, two girls and two boys. Growing up, he always told us that women were smarter than men but that we had to work twice as hard to get half as far.  He expected us girls to be well educated and follow our dreams.  Dad reminded us constantly to appreciate that our mom is a brilliant woman who sacrificed her career for us.  One of his famous sayings is that when they married, he and mom decided that he would make all of the big decisions and she would make the small ones, yet in 47 years a big decision has never come up.

Whilst many parents made their children earn their trust on a regular basis, Dad trusted us implicitly to make the right decisions.  The best example of this trust was my being allowed to attend the public high school, despite earning a scholarship to a nearby private school.  He picked me up from my visitation day, and he must have sensed my misery.  We made a deal on the ride home that I could go where I wanted as long as I kept up my grades.  We both kept our side of the bargain and my high school years are among my happiest.

When he left education to go into international business, life around my house became very interesting.  He would often travel for weeks at a time and when he was home, many of the people he met in his travels became house guests.  They were of every race and religion and I found out later that many were in government intelligence in their respective countries.  Thus, we grew up in a home without prejudice, except of course, if you were ignorant.  We children weren’t spared this bias.  We were all allowed to have our own opinions, but woe to the one who couldn’t back it up with at least some semblance of fact.  I am sure this daily discourse is why I make sure that my children know all sides of an issue before an idea is formed.

Despite his respect for us children as individuals, we knew very clearly that my Dad had no interest in winning popularity contests with us.  During one of his summers home from law school, my brother decided to keep up his existing social hours. One morning Dad told him that he had to stop coming in so late as my mother couldn’t fall asleep until everyone was home.  My brother tried telling Dad that this was really mom’s issue, not his.  My dad nodded in agreement, and then asked my brother if he would like to pack his car and return to D.C. that moment or after he got home from work.  Problem solved.

Over the years, I have learned about my father’s quiet, consistent generosity.  Whether it was for a family member in need, one of his students or a stranger in need, Dad did what he could, even if he had little to spare.

My dad is presently working on a book about all of his views on life and his numerous adventures.  It will be a great read.

The now infamous Madeleine and Brian debut run took place on Saturday night at the Disneyworld Wine and Dine Half Marathon Relay.  I am happy to report that we posted a respectable time of under three hours thanks to my husband’s very long legs.  

As many of you know, this whole thing started months ago as a dare from my younger brother, Mark.  It then evolved into an intervention trip to cheer me up when Danielle left for college.  Mark has been running for over twenty years.  My sister-in-law, Pam, ran the NYC Marathon last year to celebrate turning 40.   Brian, we found out, can run a 10-minute mile, which he did for six consecutive miles on Saturday night.  Since he trained very little it was a surprise to us all.  I always thought my children got their athletic ability from me.  Anyway, I knew I needed a serious training regime to compete with these overachievers.

I was supposed to start training in January.  I tried for a month or so and then I decided I had plenty of time so why hurt myself?  Next thing I knew, it was June.   I got winded running to the mailbox.  During the summer I ran as often as I could, hating almost every minute of it.   

So here we were in Orlando, with four days to get ready for the race.  Here’s what happened.  Pam and I sat by the pool on Wednesday and then treated ourselves to a lovely dinner and a fireworks display.  We did a training run Thursday morning at 7:30 am.  Having never run in such humidity, I was pretty sure my lungs were going to come out my nose.  Then we spent the rest of the day in two Disney Parks (the men met us mid-day) and enjoyed a late dinner.   On Friday, we made sure we were amongst the first to arrive at ESPN Sports Center to pick up our race packets, as we needed to go and conquer both parks at Universal.  After that we went to Disney Village and then enjoyed another late dinner.  At this point, I figured that having aching feet was part of the training prep for seasoned runners.  I was wrong.  No one else had aching feet.

Saturday arrives and we head back to ESPN to get ready for the race.   After two hours of listening to peppy Disney cast members leading everyone in song and dance, we were corralled to our various areas.  My group started at 10:20 pm.    Within a few minutes of running, I felt a searing pain run up my right Achilles tendon.  This was a tad concerning as I ruptured my left one six years ago.   Luckily, after two miles, my legs were numb so the pain was gone.

At around mile 3, I just started to run as hard as I could.  I may not have run like the wind, but certainly like a small draft.  Soon enough, we entered Animal Kingdom and I could see the relay line where Brian was waiting to start his leg of the race.  Once he took off, I crossed my finish line and a medal was placed over my head.  How I love bling!!!!  I got in line to get my picture taken with my medal. 

Then something unexpected happened.  I started to cry.  Whilst the first 40 years of my life were pretty darned charmed, the past six have not been much of a picnic.  I’m certainly not complaining, as I know life happens to everyone.  I cried for the daughter I miss terribly and for the daughter who dances en pointe despite toes curled by a cruel disease.  I cried for our parents’ health struggles and for my 97-year old grandmother who lies patiently waiting for God to call her home.   

I didn’t realize how much of myself was invested in this race until it was over.  I left Florida on Sunday feeling grateful for all of the blessings I do have – family that loves me, children that still need me, friends who support me in ways that I will never be able to repay. 

The most important result of this adventure is that it is my turn to set the dare.    So, Mark, here it is.  All four of us will run the full 13.1 miles next year but this time, you will be wearing a tutu and wings.  I get to pick the color.

Danielle has been gone a week and it is already starkly apparent that the reality inside our home has changed.  I always looked at myself as a “girl” mom, despite the fact that I also have two boys.  Our second daughter is a junior and when she is here she is usually in her room studying. So, that leaves me with the twelve and ten year old knuckleheads.  Before you call social services, keep in mind that I used to refer to them as the “idiots” but it made my mom really angry.

To be clear, I adore my sons.  I just don’t understand 99% of their behavior.  In one short week they have brought out parenting skills that I did not know existed.    Who knew that the best way to get their attention was to bellow directly in their faces?  The five minutes beforehand yelling their names is obviously a warm-up.    

Now we can do some math.  If a 130 lb. object and a 168 lb. object move at equal speeds across a space of twenty feet, what happens when the two objects meet?  Their mother screams “If you bleed on the carpet, I will kill you!”  In fact, most of what I say to the two of them ends in a death threat.  More great parenting.  I have NEVER had to threaten the girls with their lives. 

Then there is the bodily function issue.  It seems that the boys think it is a grand idea to yell “safety” whenever one of them passes wind.  Even my husband is saying it now.  Again, the girls and I would endeavor with great determination to keep those types of events private.  Once someone yells “safety”, the other males in the room need to yell “doorknob.”  Don’t ask.  I have no idea.

Let’s move on to responsibility.  This is the fourth week of school, I believe, and it has just come to my attention that neither of my sons knows the location of his musical instrument.   Another family first.  I have an uncanny ability, like most moms, to be able to find a lost object without even turning my head.  Believe me, I have searched the house and there is no trumpet or baritone here.  At least the piano is still in the same spot.  

The whole boy sports thing is mind boggling to me.  “I asked you ten minutes ago if you were ready for practice!!”   “Did you just put that mouthguard that was on the garage floor in your mouth?”  “Yes, I know that is where you leave all of your sports equipment, but that is really gross.”  “No, I have no idea what happened to your cup and no, your brother isn’t wearing it.”   “Fine, borrow one from your friend.”     Ugh.

Finally, I am getting used to being greeted after school with, “Hi Mom.  What do you have for a snack?”

I am sure that none of this behavior is new, but I had previously been able to hide in the warm glow of knowledge that my girls take their personal hygiene seriously and that they care if their clothes are clean.  

Now that the “boy” mom adventure is upon me, I am more grateful than ever that I am working.  At least that makes sense to me.

We dropped Danielle off at university yesterday and we will see her again for Christmas.   Our daughter and I are both the eldest of two boys and two girls with an eight-year gap from top to bottom.   Life’s been a bit hectic these past eighteen years and I have no idea how we got to this point so quickly.

I’ve sensed a purposeful distancing from me on her part these past few weeks.  I know that she had to do this in order to make the break from us.

She knows that I am not the least bit worried about her, even though she is on a different continent.  She is so ready for this phase of her life.  Yet, does she know how proud I am of her?  That I see the same sense of adventure in her that I once owned?  Does she know how desperately I want her to be happy?  Or, that I will never try to stop her from following her dreams, no matter how far away they take her from me?  Does she know how much her siblings look up to her?

It brings me back to twenty-eight years ago when I was dropped off at college.   My mother hugged me goodbye as she cried quietly.  I was a bit impatient as I knew that on the other side of her embrace were my new adventures.   That evening my roommate was waiting for me to go to a freshman social.  I told my mom not to worry, I smiled and I turned and walked away.

History does repeat itself.  We took Danielle to Tesco’s to buy some snacks for her room.  Her roommate was waiting for her so they could head out to a social event in their hall of residence.  She hugged her dad and then gave me a big hug as I was quietly crying.   She looked me straight in the eye and told me she would be fine.  She smiled and waved and I watched her walk confidently into her building.  Did she know that as she was walking a chunk of my heart leapt onto her shoulder, ready to stay and watch over her forever?  Probably not.

My mother must have felt all of these things all those years ago and for that, I have to say,  “I’m sorry mom, I didn’t know.”    I’m just grateful that I finally know now. 

  My ten year old son just asked me what he was doing when I first heard of the horrors of 9/11.  I reminded him he was napping since he was only six months old.  Interestingly enough, I had the TV on for just a moment, rare for a weekday afternoon.  I turned it on to watch the second plane hit live.

A short while later I was picking up the girls from school.  British and American parents alike were desperately trying to piece together what was happening.  All of our spouses were being evacuated from their offices in London as no one knew what might happen next.

My house phone rang for hours as relatives were using me as a conduit. They could not make phone calls from the east coast to elsewhere in the States but they were able to make international calls.  I hail from Montclair, NJ, a town populated by many who work in lower Manhattan.  I knew instinctively that friends were lost.  It would be several days before I knew how many.

British friends dropped by all of the next day to check that my family was OK.  It was not something they wanted to ask on the phone.

Three days later I boarded a plane to Italy as one of my closest friends lives there and she had not yet met the baby.  We attended Mass on Sunday and I watched the worshippers cry as the priest dedicated his homily to the victims.  I understand enough Italian to know that his sympathy was mixed with fear.  Fear that if America were taken down, so went all of Europe.

Ten years later the world watched as we commemorated the day.  I tried to stay away, but I was transfixed this morning as every name was read.  Though clergy were excluded, two Presidents, a mayor, a governor and countless family members spoke of God’s promise to carry us forward.

Whilst most of the world continue to pay homage to the ruins of their past, we took an area of immense destruction and rebuilt something beautiful, paying homage to a city moving forward against all odds.

America lost its innocence ten years ago and today we live in a very uncertain coming of age.  Tomorrow, then, holds the promise of a country all grown up.