There are probably a billion pages of literature written about the art of giving, but I bet there are very few that speak of the art of receiving.

My goal of simplifying things this holiday season is off to a good start.  In an effort to make things easier, I directly asked the children what they each wanted for Christmas from Santa.  I have a ten-year old who is hanging on to Santa for dear life and the rest of them have heard me repeat enough times that “if you don’t believe, you don’t receive.”

Each of them responded in line with his or her personality.  The eldest sent me her gift ideas with URLs attached.  Bless her.  Our second daughter gave me some vague idea of things she wants by category, i.e. she wants to be surprised.  The third one told me that other than a basketball hoop, he doesn’t need anything.  Ridiculous.   Thankfully the youngest has a list a mile long and he has even indicated that he may need doubles of certain items in case the first one breaks.  That is what I call practical.

The art of receiving applies just as easily to birthdays.  I have never understood why a person does not want to make a big deal of his or her birthday.  I believe that everyone should celebrate the day of their birth for the world is a better place just for having them in it!  Mine is April 19^th and I will happily send out reminder e-mails for those who forget.   A few years ago my mom decided that she would only buy birthday gifts for the ten grandchildren.  This is the same woman who gave our daughter twenty-six Christmas presents when she was six months old so she is obviously not short of ideas.  Thank goodness Mom responds well to guilt, so THAT campaign was short lived and her own children still receive birthday goodies.

Last week I was running around like a nut, arriving at a friend’s house to pick up one of the kids at 8 pm.  When I entered the kitchen, my friend told me to sit down and then she proceeded to serve me dinner.  I am sure she didn’t think much of it, but I hope she knows that being on the receiving end that night meant everything to me.

We have all been taught that giving is what makes the world go round, yet there is equal grace in receiving. So, this holiday season, when you are on the receiving end, accept what is given with gratitude and smile in the knowledge that you are loved.  

© Olga Drozdova | Dreamstime.com

Below are excerpts from a monthly column I wrote in March 2005 in my role as a Junior League president.

“Recently, I have spent time with a lovely nine-year old girl who has been ill since late December.  She has been on and off medication her whole life, but this illness is different.  Bouts of severe joint pain coupled with fevers and other symptoms have left a team of doctors baffled.

When she first started getting sick, we discussed the possibility that maybe all of this would lead her to her “life work.”  Maybe she would become a doctor or a nurse who would work with children.

As my little friend’s illness stretched into weeks of doctor visits and invasive tests, we spoke again about her “life work.”  All of the adults spending time with her – teachers, tutors, family friends and doctors – told her that her bravery and kindness inspired and motivated them.  She and I discussed that maybe her “life work” had already started.  Just being she was enough to change those around her for the better.

When I asked permission to write about her in this column, she simply replied, “Of course, Mommy.” “

This child is now a beautiful sixteen-year old young woman who just happens to have rheumatoid arthritis.    She is working on her third degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do.  To earn her last black belt, she had to break two blocks of cement with her palm.  Those are always fun conversations to have with her doctor. 

She plays piano beautifully and she is finally wearing Pointe shoes for ballet.   Her determination to succeed is something to behold, and now her goal is to be a neuroscientist.

These past few months have been hard.   Her body was very well behaved for a few years, but now it is reminding her of her illness with a vengeance. She is a high school junior, and due to the vagaries of our educational system; the university where she will start her “life work” will depend on the success of this year.  Rather than make her wobble, her situation makes her even more focused to move forward.

I do not tell you our daughter’s story to elicit pity, but to remind us all that we need to step back and look around us at those whose paths are made narrow by circumstance.    We need to view them with awe, as I believe they are often the beacons of light that give the rest of us strength.

This is the time of year when we all look ahead to January, setting our goals and resolutions for the New Year; ones that will help us continue our “life work.”  Let’s promise each other to simplify the noise around us this holiday season and keep our paths narrow so that we may embrace those things that prove that our journeys here are meaningful and blessed.

She read this over my shoulder and when I turned to ask if I might send this into cyberspace, she again smiled and said, “Of course, Mom.” 

Christmas season begins in our house the day after Thanksgiving.  Every year my stress level escalates to the point that December 26^th, the least favorite day of my childhood, is now my favorite.

This year I will be doing things differently.  It started last week when I decided to put our ample number of Christmas decoration out.  I gave myself the chance to do it over a few days, and to really examine each piece for its meaning.  Each child has his or her own tree, filled with personal decorations received each year.  I put Danielle’s tree up on Thursday morning, and through my tears, I looked at the year on each of the ornaments and it took me on a journey of her life and her interests.  

On Friday we left for Syracuse to spend a few days with my sister-in-law and her family.  This was planned as a distraction from the fact that Danielle will not be celebrating Thanksgiving here in the States for a few years.  Upon arrival, my four-year old nephew threw himself into my arms as if we hadn’t seen each other in ages.  Two weeks is a long time when you’re four!  His three siblings immediately started to tell me all about their Thanksgiving and how excited they are about Christmas.  We rode a mountain coaster together and most of us went on these crazy fast zip lines.  That night three generations attended a showing of “The Muppet Movie.”  We all loved it.  The next day some of us went Christmas shopping in a town where Dickens characters milled the streets, a holiday tradition.  Others attended a college football game and that night, fifteen of us played a not-so-friendly game of Trivial Pursuit and had a blast. 

Sure, the presents under the tree are exciting, but the children in our family made it clear this week-end that their joy is found in being with each other, doing the simple things that form the strongest bonds of family.  They chatted excitedly about the Christmas menus that have been the same for about 100 years, making s’mores in the wood burning stove, sipping hot chocolate, seeing their cousins from Ohio and finally seeing Danielle!  Not one mention of new video games or Legos was heard.

For our family, the wonder of house is built on the foundation that we are indeed celebrating the birth of the one we view as our Savior.  Your family may celebrate the miracle of a scant amount of oil burning in a lamp for eight days or a myriad of other traditions.  

My goal is simple. My actions this holiday season, when seen through the eyes of a child, will be ones that celebrate their innocence and show them love.  What greater gift is there?

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.