It’s Mother’s Day. This is not a holiday I love, since it focuses the household’s total attention on — well, me. In fact, I’ve usually grit my teeth through the obligation of the day, as I’ve long been convinced it is actually a day for everyone else to feel better about how they treat their mom. If it were, in fact, a day made by mothers to celebrate mothers, it would be a day when mothers would congregate and drink together, or perhaps go to a day spa, or at the very least, everyone left you alone to do what you want, when you want.

Like today.

I’m at a point now where I have friends who are observing this day for the first time since their mother’s passing. I have friends who have come to terms with the bittersweetness of their memories, and I have friends who are lovingly caring for their mother even as this day unfolds. After losing the only grandmother I’ve ever known, I can certainly relate to the pain of losing someone dear but, personally, I always feel somewhat detached from this holiday. I don’t speak about being adopted often, but the clues are there if you look for them. In fact, until recently, I’ve seldom even thought about it at all. But occasionally, there are days — like today — when the thoughts seep in around the corners of my consciousness, unbidden.

Does she ever think about me? Does she even remember me?

I don’t have any answers. Most adopted kids have these kinds of questions and many spend significant time, money, and effort to seek out the answers which will allow them some sort of closure. I’m one of the luckier ones, all things considered; I have a father who could tell me all about her if he so chose. Her name. What she looked like. Why they decided to lie to me, for many years, that she had died in childbirth. But to this day he is forever silent on the subject, adamant in his refusal to share any information whatsoever.

You wonder why I’m so skewed.

For a long time, I worried the scarring of my childhood would make me incapable of creating loving relationships with my own kids. As it is, I’ve never been the doting mother; I’m not even sure how to define the kind of mom I’ve been. I do know that, somewhere along the line, I’ve tried to instill love and respect and compassion. I’ve tried to teach, but I’ve let them make mistakes, even when I knew the lessons would be difficult. I’ve tried to give them the space to lead their own lives, make their own choices, and live with the knowledge that I would always love them, even if I didn’t like some of the things they did. We established early on that they could always come to me and ask me anything and I wouldn’t lie to them. This has occasionally come back to bite me, like the conversation in the car where they wanted me to explain what a blow job was (thank you, middle school). I kid you not. But that’s another story for another time. With beer.

I think, in the end, motherhood comes down to this: doing your best to do what’s best for those you love. Keeping the lines of communication open, no matter what the cost, and for always being available to pick up the pieces when things go wrong. I don’t think it matters if we’re adopted, or if we had poor parenting examples when we were growing up. I think it’s inherently deep down inside of us all, although some of us may have to dig down really deep to uncover it (sometimes with the help of therapy). So many of my friends are incredibly loving, caring, amazing moms, and I wish them the best days of construction paper cards, macaroni necklaces, flowers, breakfasts in bed, phone calls from college, and love. You really do reap what you sow, and it can be beautiful, even if you’re convinced that you have no business pretending to have that elusive maternal instinct.

Like Dorothy discovers in The Wizard of Oz, it was just really there inside you, all along.

This post originally aired on April 4, 2013 in the-fitness-blog-that-shall-not-be-named. For backstory, read Out in the open.

I don’t think I can count the number of times I’ve tried to start an exercise program. Certainly more than all my fingers and toes combined. Even this year, despite my deep aversion to New Years resolutions, I decided I wanted to start again in January. *eyeroll*

Pretty sure you can see how that turned out.

Then several things happened in a vague, ostensibly random order that seemed to be the Universe conspiring to get me off my ass. The first was that I was in Staples and ran into an old friend of mine. We stopped to chat, right next to a stand of Fitbits. I’ve not had the best success with them, as I’ve already killed two — one, death by washer and the second, dock fail. But really, another one? Well, it was January, and I was probably loopy on something, and ended up buying one, thinking something along the lines of “third time’s the charm!” Yeah, right. (By the way, I did immediately lose the USB charging cord and had to buy yet another one, but so far the Fitbit itself is still intact.) I totally love the data stream that comes from them, and I especially love that they track sleep patterns. There’s motivating factor number one.

The second was a group of Les Mills instructors defecting from my gym to set up their own group class studio close to my house. They were looking for people to participate in a study, and I got in. For four weeks, I attended the new BodyVive class and gave feedback. The important takeaway here was that I had some very kind people gradually getting me motivated — and since it was a study, I knew I couldn’t cop out. I had to make it three times a week. So I went, and gradually, you could tell my cardio was improving. It was slow, but I could see it. There’s motivating factor number two.

Then the weirdest thing happened. I got a very last minute chance to go to SXSW. That in itself should have had NO IMPACT, but I remembered the last time I was in Austin for a conference, I didn’t have the right shoes for all the walking (or the lungs, but let’s not go there). So this time I packed my Keen sandals and got moving. And with the warm weather, and the walking, and my Fitbit, I discovered I’d typically walk at least five miles each day at SXSW.

Can you imagine? FIVE. MILES. A. DAY.

And since I had been doing the BodyVive classes, I had the cardio to keep up. I actually enjoyed the walking. I was amazed to see I could get to 10,000 steps every day. My feet were fine, and I just kept going. Success, it is addicting. Motivating factor number three, right there.

So fast forward to my return to Pennsylvania. I have to tell you, it sucked. I went from 80 degree weather in sandals to 40 degree weather in coats. With snow and wintery mix coming down every other day. Total suckage. I had been so excited about coming home and walking to and from the studio, and then reality slapped me in the face. I could feel the backslide set in.

And here’s motivating factor number four. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll be honest with you: it’s called frustration. There are a bunch of things that fall into this category, and they elicit a bunch of strong reactions — reactions that need to be exorcised from my brain, body and spirit. And somehow, that ended up with me on the elliptical machine at the gym. At first it was maaaaybe three times a week for thirty minutes. And then I remembered my nutritionist set the goal at an hour a day, five days a week. I wondered how far I could go in an hour. And for whatever reason, it works. I put my earphones on, I step up to the machine, punch in the workout (right now it’s interval training), and I go. And I go. Go, Robin, go. Right now I’m consistently getting 4 miles in — and I never thought I could say that. When I’m finished, I’m hot, sweaty, soaked, and definitely winded.

But I’m 4 miles farther than I was the day before. And that’s what I focus on.

So, this is where it’s at. I don’t know if I can leverage this into a long term thing, but I’m damned well going to try. And let this be a lesson to those of you who don’t believe you have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting motivated. Sometimes, it’s the little things that you never figured on that get you there.

Go, Robin, go.

Actually, I do it a lot. While Renegade is my primary site, I write in a number of blogs. I write at the studio for Firebrand, and I write my own knitting blog, I write for the Web Conference, and somewhere, hidden in the Tumblr-Posterous-Instagram-Path detritus that is my life, I have a fitness blog. For the longest time, it’s been a collection of half hearted reboots and restarts, only to be left to languish inactive once again between the occasional guilty glance from me. I don’t promote that blog because, quite frankly, it’s kind of painful to acknowledge. I realize I champion transparency and openness, but there are times when transparency can be a little too… transparent. And when the light of day is focused on poor performance and repeated failure, it’s really hard to withstand the glaring judgement of people who are crowded around the windows, peering in at you, silently (if you’re lucky) judging how you look, discounting your value. Discounting you. To me, that blog is a representation of my personal failure.

So I hide that blog.

I think that, for the last ten years especially, the space in my head has been incredibly full of noise and, when there’s so much noise, you find that you must selectively filter. Focus on what you can, what you’re good at, and let the other stuff settle back, forgotten, into the noise. But in the last year, all that noise in my head has slowly dissipated. People have left, jobs have changed, life has slowed down. Now I find, with the noise gone, I’m having a hard time with the silence. Ironic, isn’t it? But without the ambient noise clouding my thoughts, they now take on a life of their own, and I find it almost impossible to ignore that insistent internal voice in my head. The one that points to The Things I don’t want to deal with. Like, you know, my health. (Yes, yes that IS code for weight. How did you know?) So against all that is holy, I dusted off that blog and started blogging once more. Slowly. Haltingly. Random posts when I felt it necessary. Necessary to sort out my thoughts, document the victories, exorcise the setbacks. And slowly, haltingly, there has been progress. Like most things in life, little bits of success begets more success. More success means that the setbacks aren’t quite so devastating. Aren’t quite so painful. And eventually, you find yourself in a new place.

You find yourself in a place of light.

photo credit: BanjoL cc

In this particular area, the area we shall call fitness, I think I have discovered my place of light. There’s a lot of running there. And movement. Dare I say it, perhaps even a sense of satisfaction. Definitely peace. It’s a new space for me, and I can’t guarantee that everything will go swimmingly, but I feel much more confident about being in it. Confident enough that I feel I can open up and be transparent about it. I realize this might be working things a bit backwards, but sometimes you just can’t control how you process. Or at least, I can’t. Blame the Muse, since that bitch didn’t tell me we were going to be blogging about this until it was too late. (Awk.ward.)

So now you know.

Over the next few weeks, I’m going to be slowly adding the posts I’ve published on that other blog here on Renegade. Yes, I could link to the blog itself but, you see, that blog still represents some version of failure for me, and now I’ve changed. I’m in a different space, and I think those posts should be in a different space too.

It’s time to be out in the open.

Now it’s finally possible to put all the pieces together at once. Several months ago I was fortunate enough to stumble over the work of one Martin Hawksey (@Hawksey), who took the time to figure out how to keep your Twitter archive fresh by automatically updating it using a combination of Google Spreadsheets, Google Drive, and Google Apps Scripts (and this is where I can’t help but say GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY! Okay, done now). You can even take it one step further by hosting it on your Google Drive, with the option of keeping it private, or making it publicly viewable for all. For example, here is my Twitter archive, going back to my first tweet in February 2007. It updates every evening, without any work on my part.

This. Is. Awesome!

So how do you get this archival goodness? First, go to your Twitter account settings, scroll to the bottom of the page, and you should find the “Request your archive” button. Once your request is processed, you’ll get a download link emailed to you. Download your zipped archive, unzip it, and upload it to your Google Drive. This is your starting point.

From here, Martin has done all the work for you. His blog post explains how the process works. It’s really straightforward, and you can work straight off his instructions on his Google Spreadsheet template (complete with the Google Apps Scripts he’s already coded into it).

Still confused? No problem. He’s so thorough, he’s created a video that shows you how to set everything up and start using it. I’ve embedded it here so you can see just how easy it is.

I think this mashup of applications and archiving is really exceptional, and I’m incredibly grateful that @Hawksey posted this detailed account of how to make it happen (also, hat tip to my friend Alan Levine — @cogdog — who found it in the first place and helped to spread the word). This is the reason I love my online community that is the Twittersphere. @Hawksey is really good about keeping this worksheet updated but, if you’re anything like me (and frankly, who isn’t?), you get a brainfart and can’t see the next step. Let me know if you have any questions in the comments.

In the meantime, go forth and archive.

Ahhh.

Or consider this scenario: During a difficult evening while paying respects to a colleague I’ve been on a first name basis with for several years, two different people turned to family members to introduce me and said, almost verbatim,”This is … Robin2go,” then turned back to me helplessly, confessing, “I can’t seem to remember your last name. You’re just simply Robin2go.”

Why, yes. Yes I am.

As odd as this might sound, this is not an uncommon occurrence in my life anymore. Robin2go is the online moniker I adopted many years ago. People like to ask me how I came up with it, and I wish I had a better story. Part of it was simple — I wanted something that used my name, but not all of my name; I wanted a stand alone moniker that was recognizable, but still not completely traceable. Coupled with the fact that, growing up, I was always on the move, across the United States, around the world, never in the same place twice. Robin2go just made sense, and voilà. So it began.

If you’ve seen me present, or even if you’ve attended an event I’ve been at, you will most likely walk away with a very clear mental image of the Robin2go persona. Simply put, you either love me or you hate me. There is no gray area here. Somehow, I’ve become a personality of sorts — and I really find that odd. Because for years, I’ve been made to feel badly about who I am. I should be quieter. More refined. My mouth is too big, my laugh is too loud. Some of that was my upbringing (my father wanted an engineer, my mother wanted a diplomat’s wife. You can only imagine the depths of their despair to this very day).  I was a failure at fitting into the nice, neat package people wanted me to be. And if that sounds crazy to you, then this will sound like sheer lunacy: for a long time I actually thought I was doing it wrong and redoubled my efforts to blend in. How did that work out? Not well. I was so not me, and I realized I had to decide who was really the insane one here — me, or the rest of the world.

In the end, after much reflection and some well deserved therapy, I decided it was the rest of the world who was insane. And I made one of the biggest decisions of my life. I decided I didn’t give a shit about what the world thought about me, mostly because it was killing me to be someone I wasn’t. So I stopped censoring myself. Instantly, I became much healthier. I also left the job that wanted me to be a mindless automaton. I thought I could do it, but it turns out, in the end, I really couldn’t be something I wasn’t.  Instead, I found people who wanted the full package — both the brains and the personality. Life got much better then. It got even better when social media hit, and I started making the rounds of the higher ed speaking circuit. I was fun, a little naughty, and somewhat memorable. What’s so memorable? I have no idea. I tell bad jokes and I adore wordplay. I have a relatively large vocabulary. I can use innuendo in a sentence — both figuratively and literally. And  I love people. I love new places and new people that I would never have otherwise met. I may not remember your name, but by god, when I am with you, I am 100% in the moment and I am 100% with you. 

I suppose I am what they call the life of the party. I can walk into a room and be completely at home. Crowds of strangers have never bothered me. In fact, it’s gotten difficult to walk into a room anymore where there isn’t somebody who knows who I am (Norm!) and will vie for a moment to connect. People will actually come up to me and say, “You’re Robin2go, aren’t you?!” Why, yes. Yes I am. To be honest, I seldom enter a room quietly. I guess it’s my thing. I’ve been dubbed “a force of nature” in the higher ed community. Okay, that’s fair. And I talk to everyone. Yes, everyone. But I do it in typical Robin2go fashion, and it leads to some interesting observations by others. I’m brash. I’m bold. I’ve heard “you’re very … direct, eh?” on multiple occasions. Why, yes. Yes I am. And I’m not apologizing for it anymore.  Being Robin2go is both a blessing and a curse. Not everyone can roll with that. They think they can, but really, they can’t. And they back away. So be it.

What I have to constantly remind people is this: there is always another side to the coin. Conferences actually take a lot out of me. Whether I’m planning an event or simply attending, I am on. I can’t help it. The energy kicks in and I am ready to be in front of people. But at the end of a conference, I am spent. My reserves are shot, and it takes me a couple days to recover and be ready to engage again. If you see me fall offline over the weekend, it usually means I need to disengage and walk away for a bit. It’s not you — it really is me. But it’s something I have to do, because I can’t drink from the firehose — and then entertain everyone — all the time. It’s exhausting.

I’m also terrible at remembering people’s names or in what context we’ve met. I rely on my gregariousness to hide that fact, much to my chagrin. And I always second guess my talks and my workshops. I will be up the night before, tweaking a talk, and still not be certain if it’s ready for prime time. Did I give enough information? Did I talk too much? Were there too many geek jokes? Was there enough time for questions? Do people even really care about what I’m saying? The worrying is a never ending cycle. And you may not believe it, but I’m shocked when the cool people want to hang out with me. In truth, I’m a relatively private person. Oh, don’t get me wrong — I’m incredibly friendly and very open, but the number of people I’ve let into the innermost, intimate circle over the years are few and far between. Perhaps I have trust issues (clearly). Or perhaps it’s that I hate being vulnerable (which, in retrospect, makes blogging an odd choice, but that’s a post for another day). Whatever the case, I hold back, and rarely does anyone notice. They’re all too happy to enjoy the loud and funny persona that is my natural defense.

It’s clear many people believe the Robin2go persona is the complete truth of who I am — and it is definitely a very real part of me. But real people are multifaceted. Like a Polaroid, the complete picture takes a while to come into focus. Most people won’t stick around long enough to work through the layers of complexity. It’s just easier to believe the hype. Personas are easily digestible bites — a single facet, if you will. And when you realize that, you begin to understand how it is that I can stand in a crowded room and be very much alone.

As I sit here in the coffee shop, finishing up this post, I laugh at something a friend says. And sure enough, a woman comes up to me and says, “I know you! I’d recognize that laugh anywhere!” and we have a laugh together, hug, ask about one another, and then she moves on. I don’t have the heart to admit to her that I don’t remember how I know her, just that her face is familiar and I take my cues from her approach. This is the story of my life.

So the next time you see me — or hear me, because, let’s face it, that’s the greater probability —  by all means, say hello. I want to have a great conversation with you. I hope that our time together is memorable for both of us, and I imagine we’ll share a laugh or two. But realize that all those people around me? Those are the cheerleaders, the ones who love the Robin2go persona, and are drawn to it like moths to a flame. It’s not the whole truth; it’s a mesmer, if you will. It’s just the easiest part of me to put out there, and the one that so many people are starting to adore.

It’s a veritable cult of personality.

I remember, when I was younger, these types of terroristic attacks used to happen to other people. We were safe in America. We were untouchable in America. We were insulated from the Bad Things and the Bad People.

How times have changed.

photo credit: Instant Vantage via photopin cc

I remember on 9/11 being gripped with fear of knowing there were people I knew, people I loved working in the World Trade Center. My mind was frantic, wondering if they were alive or dead. How many more of my friends in New York might have just happened by the Towers, victims of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I was in Boston a month ago, visiting friends. I had former coworkers running in the race. I had friends along the route, cheering on runners. When the news broke today, I felt the same icy grip of fear all over again. How many people were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Too many. Families from Sandy Hook were at the finish line, and what was supposed to honor the families of the shooting victims was, instead, a cruel juxtaposition of pain and loss all over again. Setting explosions to go off at the precise opportunity to ensure the most casualties, like the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City. So much anger. So much hatred.

I feel like this world is slipping out of control. I feel like this is what going mad must be like.

I thought it was safe to go back into the water. And even here I was wrong, as news of someone jumping through a sixth story window to his death has flooded my timeline. As it is the middle of the night, that is all I see. That and the image of a still body, covered with a sheet. I think about the parents who will receive the middle of the night phone call about their son. I feel a precursor of their keening grief. So much death. So much loss. So much unbearable pain.

I want to write about happiness. I want to write about joy again. But today, today I have been overwhelmed by darker things. I am tired, exhausted from the day’s events, but sleep outpaces me, and I cannot stop my mind from racing. I lie in bed and question my concept of safe. I question my concept of hope. I feel awash in grief.

I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it’s a very, very
Mad world, mad world
Enlarging your world

Mad world.

image credit by @Boston_to_a_T

Truth be told, I hate April 15 with a passion. Mostly because I’m a procrastinator. In fact, right now, I’m struggling to get my extension filed, since things changed this year and we are going to need all the deductions I can pull out of my… pocket.

And just as I start writing to whine about my own life, news of the explosions at the Boston Marathon rocks the Twitterstream. Two explosions have gone off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, and police have found a third suspicious incendiary package. Everything is still unfolding right now, panic and chaos everywhere, and I flash back to New York City and the World Trade towers. We have no idea how far this will go, how many more devices they will find. Dead phones. Injured runners. Scared onlookers, all trying to make cover. My heart pounds furiously as I watch people urgently tweeting for responses from friends and loved ones. I can’t even begin to tell you how horror stricken I am at this news. I started to tweet, “Why the HELL would somebody do this?” but then I realize that our post 9/11 world is now like everyone else’s world, where targets are chosen to cause the most destruction and loss of lives. It’s such a cold, calculating consideration, and I cannot fathom the mind that works this way. It’s so difficult to witness the devastation, the lives that have been lost or changed forever. And once again, I watch the EMTs, the police, the firefighters and first responders working with people, helping the wounded, clearing the area, and I thank God for them. That they are there. That they do the jobs they do. As Fred Rogers said, “Watch the helpers.”

And suddenly, my life is put back in perspective, and I realize that some things are far more taxing.

Pray for Boston.

I marvel at how nine weeks has changed him. When he left, DangerBoy was an 18 year old with a boyish face, a quick smile, and a lean build.  There was nothing boyish about the young man talking to us now. So much of his physical build had changed. Gone was the boyish face. Now there was bulk in the form of hard muscle, the result of dropping and giving what must easily be thousands of pushups by now; strong, broad shoulders from carrying rucksacks on marches and training runs; a washboard stomach from hours of sit ups and “getting smoked” —  a platoon’s discipline for infractions. Though his hair had always been short for the last several years, now it was buzzed and I could see the scar in his hairline, a remnant of eleven staples in a more youthful time. A time which feels to me like a lifetime ago.

There was a quiet confidence that hung from him as he spoke. This was new. While things had always come easily to DangerBoy, this was confidence borne of experience. His mannerisms were of one who was relaxed, but only a half beat away from being at full attention. The military jargon easily spilled from his lips, having started the conversion to the vernacular as soon as he’d signed the enlistment papers, but now there was no hesitation, no stumbling over unfamiliar acronyms. This was his language now. It was as second nature as the military time he used, which became amusing when he tried to convert back to civilian time.

The Army had done an admirable job of fast tracking the maturation this young man. While I’m sure he missed us, his world now revolved around his duty to the US Army and his fellow soldiers, not around his family. That is part of the art of military training, as is weaning the family from constant contact with their soldier. He now slept, ate, and lived his training as if his life depended on it — which it, in fact, does. I found myself watching his face as he talked about some of the more somber components of combat training, of resolving the cognitive dissonance of the mindset that combat requires. Every so often there was the barest glimpse of vulnerability, easy to miss if you weren’t looking. Soon, even that glimpse would be gone.

He talks about the Ranger contract he’s earned. Some soldiers who came into Basic with Ranger contracts have lost them, either through injury or lack of focus. I know he is full of pride at garnering one of the few available contracts; the only one in his platoon, in fact. I love that he has found his niche, that he is beginning to accept his leadership capabilities and that his discipline and focus have made this possible. I regret I didn’t recognize this sooner. But I know too well the reality of this badge of honor. Rangers are an elite combat unit, and they don’t say “Rangers lead the way” for nothing. These are direct action raid forces, always combat ready, mentally and physically tough. These are the teams that go into the bad stuff first. I think of Afghanistan. I think of North Korea. I think of this young man facing us, already well trained to be prepared for situations I don’t want to think about. Trained to handle them so I don’t have to think about them, so that I can sleep well. I think about my years in the Middle East, living in an environment that sometimes turned hostile to American expatriates, and how the instability was a way of life. How we personally sidestepped tragedy by a week (my own story could have been very, very different than what it is today). How grateful I was to eventually leave the region and get back on American soil. How grateful I was to be American with rights, freedoms, and all that goes with that double-edged sword. And part of what goes with it is the reality of this boy in front of me, believing in our freedom so completely that he is willing to risk his life to protect us and keep us safe.

I back away from this line of thought. This was neither the time nor the place. This was the time to focus on the smiles, the sibling banter, and the excitement of being able to talk with each other around a table, pretending we were together once again. Before he hangs up, he has a message for me: he wants me to know it’s good I’m going to Google I/O. There will be other graduations I can make. Graduations from more difficult, more mentally challenging, physically grueling training. My throat catches, and I nod. I nod at the young man who has always been older than his years, and I try to memorize his new face and mannerisms. Finally, with regret heavy in the air, we agree it’s late and we should hang up and let people get to sleep. We send our love back and forth, and the screen goes blank as the Skype call is disconnected. Silence hangs heavy in the air. It was almost like leaving him all over again.

My thoughts return to the present, and I look around the vacant dining room once again, noticing the little things. The sun climbing higher in the sky. My cup of coffee, now cold. The laptop, closed. I think of the young man who now wears a uniform like a badge of honor, determined to honor his mother, his father, and his country. My pride, my fear, my hopes, my love for him all fight to be heard above the cacophony of my brain and my heart.

I blink back tears and realize, to my surprise, this is what freedom tastes like.

Even now, with people grown up and mostly out on their own, I still feel a slight irritation when I’m forced to switch my focus from work to home. My kids have somehow turned into nice people (for the most part), and I’m quite frankly relieved. Pretty sure it’s mostly due to the dependability of TheCop, but who am I to argue?  I do know, however, that I am definitely ready to focus on me. It’s been a long time coming, and I’m impatient to be rid of the ties that bind. (After all, how can I miss people if they don’t leave?) I’ve found a coveted new professional freedom and I’m trying like hell to claim it. Networking provides connections. Connections provide opportunities. Opportunities promise discovery of potential.

So imagine my delight when I discover I’ve received an invitation to Google I/O as a result of my networking at SXSW. THIS. IS. HUGE. It’s a chance that you don’t turn down lightly, lest the gods of future opportunity frown upon you. And why would I?  This is FANTASTIC! I’m incredibly excited, and already making mental plans and side notes. Without so much as even checking with TheCop, I click the link to register, at the same time pulling up my calendar to block off the dates. And lo and behold, to my horror, those dates are not blank. I have a serious conflict. Those are the dates for DangerBoy’s graduation from Basic Training. Those are the dates I’m supposed to be in Georgia, on a hot, dusty Army base, watching my youngest son march around before being sent off somewhere in the service of his country.

Goddammit.

I try every possible scenario in my head, desperate to make this work. I even consider risking the wrath of TheCop and letting him go down by himself while I head west, until I realize that is probably matrimonial suicide. Also, I really want to be there for something that’s important to DangerBoy. Finally, I resign myself to the inevitable fact that I am indeed going to have to let this opportunity pass me by.

Goddammit.

And herein lies the rub: it’s not that I don’t love DangerBoy (or the others), and it’s not that I don’t miss him deeply. I’ve been there for all the scraped knees, the bloody wounds, the missing teeth, the multiple ER runs for all the stitches, staples, and concussions; the fractured fingers, the mother’s day teas, the artwork, the hugs, the tears, the growing up, the going away. Every single thing, I’ve been right here, ready to drop and run to pick up the pieces without notice, my heart doing summersaults through pain, through joy, through tears. I’ve done my job to the best of my ability. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m now no longer necessary to the process, and I’m okay with that. Really. Yet even now I’m being pulled back, feeling the guilt of parental responsibility one more time, and know I am going to decline. I close my calendar, full of regret, and I sit quietly. I try not to think about it too much, because I’m not sure my heart and my mind are ready to reconcile this conflict of parental versus professional.

I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t conflicted.

Later that evening, after a frustrated workout at the gym, I came home to discover a letter from DangerBoy has arrived. TheCop opens it and reads aloud, while I sit down at my laptop. There is big news: DangerBoy has earned himself a Ranger contract with his hard work, which means he will not be leaving for Texas, but rather staying at Ft. Benning to go through Airborne school. That means the graduation we’ll be attending will be in June instead, and I dutifully move to mark it on the calendar. We’re excited; this is what he’s pushed himself for, setting the gold standard for himself and putting everything he had into meeting it. To know he’s gotten his brass ring is sweet news, and I am full of pride and happiness for him. As I turn back to the screen, the realization hits me: We’re now going to Georgia for a June graduation. June. Which makes Google I/O totally doable. I am elated! I can hardly believe my luck. I pull the laptop towards me and click on the tab I’ve been loathe to close. I fill out my information, hit the submit button and, in a matter of twenty minutes, my life has done a 180 degree turn.

Once the deed is done, I reflect on the fortuitous turn of events, and how it has worked out so well for me. Gradually, my thoughts wander back to DangerBoy and his amazing opportunity, and slowly I realize that he still will be going through Basic training graduation, only now, he will be alone. His family won’t be there in the stands, applauding him, and he won’t have family there to be with the day before, on Family Day. We won’t be there to applaud his successes until four weeks later, when there are new successes. And now there is guilt. Now there is internal bad parenting talk.

Goddammit.

I told you. I’m conflicted.

Now that was a problem.

Currently I’m following about 500 people on Twitter. You wouldn’t think that’s so bad but, as I perused the list, I couldn’t help but notice I had to pick through more and more accounts which were no longer relevant to my life just to find one that is. Which, of course, gets me thinking about Twitter in general, and my use of it specifically. I’ve written before about why and how I use Twitter (cautionary warning: link goes to a really long, though still relevant, post) and my struggle to stay above the high water mark. It’s a fast and fluid medium which, like any other content stream, requires constant curation. I believe there’s an art to creating a useful content stream — though, as always, your mileage will vary. My personal recipe goes something like this: start with people you know and like, add people from whom you can learn amazing things (not mutually exclusive groups, that), and mix in new people you’ve met and are trying on for size (and content). Sprinkle with a few thought leaders, add a healthy dose of humor, and let marinate. Adjust as necessary. Revisit and repeat. The result should be a relevant mix of content for your life, and if you aren’t getting relevancy, it’s up to you to fix it.

So today, I am revisiting my content curation. There are a lot of accounts in my stream as a result of my extensive speaking, training and event management over the years, including people I’ve taught about social media, and helped them merge from the onramp into the high speed traffic. Rationally, I know these people aren’t adding to my twitter stream, but emotionally, I feel guilty just thinking about cutting them off. The problem remains, however, that I’m doing myself — and you, if you’re following me — a disservice if I don’t get things under control. In the past year I’ve made some major changes in my life, refocused my career interests, and adjusted my world view. My Twitterstream simply doesn’t reflect all that change. So I’ve decided, guilt or no guilt, I’m clearing out the deadwood and taking no prisoners. Those who don’t tweet often but are still interesting are going into lists, and those whose professional paths have changed sharply from mine are just going away. That, along with reviewing my lists (if you aren’t using lists, I want to know just how you manage to stay sane), should get me back in the saddle of awesomeness.

And if you actually notice that I’ve unfollowed you, I want you to know that it isn’t personal, and that it isn’t you. It’s me. Well, maybe it’s a bit you. But at least I’ve got a terribly guilty conscience about it.

PS. Sara? Happy Birthday a day early! And thanks for inspiring this post. Every so often, Growl is my friend.

creative commons image by zeldman.

Back in my reckless youth when I was newly out on my own, I lived in New York City. Few people realize I was actually born there, and it was the first time I’d returned to my birthplace, living in an apartment with a textile designer and an artist. I had leveraged my meager marketing and advertising experience into an internship at Grey Advertising (which has left me with the unfortunate tendency of forevermore spelling gray with an e, not an a). I reported directly to the Director of Marketing, a woman of formidable power — think Meryl Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada. (Not kidding.)

When her assistant was hired away to run the office of a small but fast-paced political consulting firm, she called me a week later to see if I wanted to join her. While I wasn’t looking to leave Grey, I agreed to meet with one of the two partners over lunch. It was one of the most bizarre interviews I’ve ever had. He was reviewing the latest :30 spots they’d just cut for a client and could barely take his eyes off the television screen while he asked throwaway questions about my qualifications. To this day, I’m not certain he ever really listened to my answers, but twenty minutes later he said, “Okay, I guess you’re hired.”

And suddenly I found myself with a new job.

The one rule I had to remember was this: whenever The Other Partner called, I was to immediately hand him off to the office manager. He travelled 21 days out of the month, was always on the go, expected to get what he wanted when he wanted, and had no patience for fools. Dick Sykes never waited for anything or anyone. His reputation proceeded him, and I was terrified to speak to him. On my third day I picked up the phone and suddenly found myself on the line with Sykes. Whether I liked it or not, I was on, and it was trial by fire. As it happened, my travel experience and ability to get things done made my interactions with him easy.

Three days later, I was Sykes’ personal assistant with double the salary.

From that moment, while I made sure Sykes’ life rolled smoothly, he taught me about political campaigns, shooting commercials, placing media buys, creating benchmark surveys, playing hardball and, oddly enough, what integrity was in an industry that was decidedly devoid of it. There was no telling him no, so whether I felt ready for the task at hand or thought it well over my head, I had to make it happen. His confidence in me was contagious, and I learned to project it, whether I felt confident or not, because it got things done — and he always had my back. I had senators, governors, FedEx and American Air on speed dial. It was the first time I felt a professional trust, and it positively impacted my work. Whether running surveys at the phone banks or handling political hot potatoes at the most inopportune times, there was always something to learn, and it was always fun. I even went to California to help manage a grassroots campaign for a local ballot proposition. Just another first and another layer of trust. That was the era of my life of 60 hour weeks and where I learned to wear a lot of black, since it was easy to drop at 2 am, sleep for 4 hours, get back up at  6 am, dress and be out the door again.

Some of the lessons Sykes taught me were easy to learn. Others took years before I finally realized they were bigger lessons, lessons that needed to sink in. I learned that strength of character and personal integrity were powerful components of leadership. So was being unafraid to make the tough decisions, or to show people you care. Sykes was a master of taking care of people who were important to him. Though we were based in New York, Sykes was rarely there (in fact, I worked for him for five months before I ever met him). He traveled non-stop three weeks out of four. The third week of every month, however, he was in Hawaii, on the island of Molokai, to be with his two sons. Nothing changed that. Not clients, not elections, not business responsibilities. His priority was his relationship with his boys, enough so that he rented a place close to his ex-wife so the boys’ lives wouldn’t be disrupted when he entered and left again. Because Sykes flew almost daily, he racked up enough miles to bring his parents to the island from Wisconsin every winter, as well as his favorite nephew. I got the message:  work hard, play hard, but remember to keep your loved ones close at hand.

I spent almost three years working for a man whose leadership has become my measure for others. Personal accountability. Honesty. Laughter. Trust. Expectation of the best job you can deliver. Integrity when few others could point to their own. And never did he speak of leadership; he simply lived it. As a man, he was formidable. As a mentor, he was inspiring and empowering. I haven’t thought about Sykes in years. And yet, I realize I reference the gifts he gave me on a daily basis.

I guess it’s true. You never forget your first.