Goodbye, 1st Grader

And just like that, Kate the Great, you walked out the front door to your first day of 2nd grade. You wore your new, flowery Matilda Jane dress and your giant, glittery headband bow, with your sponge-curled hair and took your new Wonder Woman lunchbox from Grandma.

But before we get too far into your 2nd grade year, I need to complete the almost impossible task of capturing, in writing, my 1st grade Kate.

Let's see...where do I begin? In 1st grade, you LOVED to sing. You dressed up like little orphan Annie and sang “You’re Never Fully Dressed without a Smile” at the school variety show. You especially loved show tunes (a la Annie and Frozen), and any top 40 song you hear on the radio, happy or sad, from any decade.



You sing all the time. You sing when you’re cleaning your room, when you’re taking a shower, when you’re in the bathroom, when you’re brushing your hair. You turn questions into songs when you ask me something. You sing in the car. You sing while you play, or do puzzles, or draw pictures. With Broadway bravado, and sometimes like you’re in the opera. And you know you’re good. When I asked you if you'd like singing lessons, you proclaimed "Nah, mom. I don't need 'em."

In 1st grade, you were tender hearted and kind. You cried at ASPCA commercials, and begged me to let you send all your piggy bank money to help them save animals. You cried when you watched Edward Scissorhands, and every time you saw any character in a movie treated unfairly. Your heart feels the pain of others. It’s called compassion, and I’m so glad you have it – and that you act on it. As my Aunt Judy once said to me when I was just about your same age, I hope you never lose your little girl heart.

In 1st grade, you were also strong-willed. You rarely hesitated to tell someone if they hurt your feelings. I hope you always use your words to express how you feel, to protect your heart and the hearts of others.

In 1st grade, you learned that you loved yoga, thanks to an afterschool enrichment class with a particularly passionate teacher. You proclaimed that you want to take karate (I promise this will be the year!), declared you weren’t so crazy about lacrosse (although I’m hoping you’ll reconsider); you still say you won't play soccer (because there's “just too much running”), and you still get great joy out of baseball. Especially running the bases.

Oh, Kate, every person in the stands loves to see you run those bases. You do it like you do everything in life – enthusiastically, with your whole heart, and a giant smile – usually jumping up and down and cheering when you arrive.

I hope you keep trying new sports and testing which ones bring you joy, because I love to watch you play…anything and everything. You are strong, and fast, and whether you realize it or not, you have a natural athletic ability. I hope you’ll continue to use that ability to test and surprise yourself with all the amazing things your body and mind can do.

Your 1st grade year saw you toothless, and to your sister’s chagrin, you lost most of your teeth before she did! Dear God, I love your toothless grin! And I still cannot believe that you pulled one of your top teeth out on your own, with dental floss, and let me pull out the second one with the ol’ door trick. You’re a brave one, Kate.



In 1st grade, you made your Daddy laugh out loud every time you said “aposta,” which is your Kate-pronunciation of “supposed to.” You also made us laugh when you said we were going to “the Obama’s” for vacation, when we were going to the Bahamas. We never corrected you, because we don’t ever want those Kate pronunciations to change.

In 1st grade, you still adored Cal. You met two years ago, when on the first day of kindergarten, you proclaimed that he simply must have been a 3rd grader because he was so tall. Soon after, you declared him as your best friend, and at the end of your second year in class together, you were still eating lunch side by side and playing at recess every day. I will never forget when Cal came over for a play date, and you immediately took him to the back porch and started showing him photo albums of you as a baby, telling him your life story, while he patiently sat there, sipping on a Caprisun and waiting for you to ask him to jump on the trampoline. I love your sweet friendship and I find myself hoping that its tenderness remains as you both grow older.



As a first grader, you also still fondly remembered your pre-school best friend, Sam. You treasured your friend Oliver, and you had an innate desire to want to protect his sweet and sensitive heart.

In 1st grade you adored Grandma -- and cried every few days, at random times (but mostly at bedtime), because you missed her…even though you always see her multiple times each month. Although you started sleeping in your own bed when you were 3 years old, you at some point decided that it's less lonely to sleep smack dab between your daddy and I. So every night for the past year or more, you have brought Pillow Pet and Mousie and Teddy (and sometimes an odd assortment of additional characters) into our bed. You neatly fold Pillow Pet's bumble bee wings flat, lay your head down on top of him and ask "Momma, will you tickle my back and sing me some lullabies?" And you almost always say “I love you mommy,” as you drift off to sleep.

1st grade Kate discovered the Disney Channel (I held out as long as I could); and although I only let you watch one or two shows, you would watch back to back to back to back to back episodes of Good Luck Charlie and Girl Meets World....for days on end, if I let you.

1st grade Kate LOVED dresses. If given the choice, you would wear the same five or six dresses in rotation, ever more. The bright pink fit-and-flare. The red-white-and-blue fit-and-flare that is so short it that almost shows your bum. The purple and pink dress that you think makes you look like a teenager. Your ‘lemonade’ dress and the orange flower skirt Grandma made you.

You loved your cowboy boots, too. And Wonder Woman. You loved your hair accessories, particularly headbands. You started out 1st grade with an adorable, short bob that cradled your lovely, contagiously smiley little face; and you finished the year by asking me every few days how much longer it’d be until your hair would be as long as Ella’s.



In 1st grade, your big sister Ella is your biggest nemesis. It's Ella who elicited the majority of your eye-rolling...your most dramatic sighs. Your loudest cries about the inequities of life. But it was also for Ella that you emptied your entire piggy bank to purchase a $12 bouquet, to give her after her performance as 'a chick' in The Little Red Hen. It's also Ella with whom you will play blocks and Shopkins and ‘house’ and a million make believe games, for hours on end.

1st grade Kate loved catching lightning bugs and butterflies. Jumping on the trampoline. Devouring gummies and gushers and chocolate and any other candy you could find.

In 1st grade, you hugged me all the time. Your arms wrapped around my hips, your head rested on my belly or side, and you always said “Mama, you’re so warm!” Your little hand confidently grabbed mine when we walked across the street or in the grocery store. I love the feeling of your hand in mine, and I love how willingly and how often your hand reaches out to me. I know this hand-holding is fleeting, and I savor it.

If I'm sitting on one end of the couch, trying to work on my computer, you always want to sit right next to me, hugging my arm, rendering it impossible to type. And I hate ever having to tell you to scoot over. I wonder if you will ever know how perfectly you fit by my side and in my arms.

In 1st grade, you told me that you loved me, all the time. You kept your room tidy (perhaps because you never slept in it!) and loved to color and paint – for hours and hours. I have boxes upon boxes filled with your artwork…your rainbows and lions, your coloring book pages and stained glass windows and beautiful starry skies. I hope you always remain a confident artist, and that you always feel the kind of true, rare joy you felt as a first grader, every time you would create.

1st grade Kate was the pickiest. eater. ever. You ate waffles, blackberries or raspberries and yogurt for breakfast. Nutella and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. And for dinner? If wasn’t noodles, grilled cheese, mac and cheese or Quorn brand chicken nuggets, it was a melt-down.



In 1st grade, you started reading chapter books, and you loved the fairy series that Grandma passed down from summers a decade ago or more , when cousins Olivia and Molly read them. During the summer, you would read your 20 minutes a day, sitting on the kitchen counter, or laying on your bedroom floor. You’d excitedly proclaim that you’d finished another chapter. I loved the look of complete pride on your face when you realized, again and again, that you could, and were, reading chapter books.

My 1st grade Kate was truly exceptional at loving and caring for younger children. You couldn't resist them. You sought them out...at the park, at the pool, at PTA meetings, at swim meets...wherever we were. You cared for them like a tiny mother. Talking to them in the sweetest of voices, saying the most encouraging things. Smiling at them and laughing with them and taking joy in every funny or sweet thing they do. You would gently touch their cheeks and talk about how badly you want to squeeze them. You would color with or play with or otherwise care for them for hours, even while other kids your age were busy playing with each other. You’re a born nurturer and protector, Kate, and I love that about you.



The summer of your 1st grade year, I watched your beautiful skin grow more golden each day, under the summer sun...and your brown hair grow beautiful streaks of blonde. You had a chocolate milk mustache the majority of the time. And an ever-present, gigantic smile that radiated joy.

While I will always fondly remember my 1st grade Kate, I’m so excited to see how your heart and mind and many talents grow in your 2nd grade year. I feel like the luckiest person in the world to have a front row seat to the greatest show on earth – seeing my Kate the Great grow and shine.

Good night, 2nd grader

Here we are. When I started writing this post, it was the beginning of the summer. "The summer of Ella and Kate, 7 and 8." And now, I sit here on the night before the first day of school, telling myself I just can't get to a single thing on tonight's 'to do' list before finally finishing this post.

Because tonight, Ella Bella, when I was putting you to sleep, you said softly, but enthusiastically, to yourself, "Goodnight, 2nd Grader." And I realized...before you wake up to your 3rd grade year, I need to capture just a little bit of the magic that was Ella Bella, my 2nd grader.



In your 2nd grade year, I watched my 'little girl' transform into more of a 'big girl.' You're not quite a tween...not yet. But you are tall and lean and strong. Once what I would've called a 'girly girl,' you now call yourself a 'sporty girl.' You're a little feminist, believing that girls can do everything and anything boys can do, and reminding me again and again of lessons about fairness that I've tried to teach you along the way. Lessons I too often forget myself.

In 2nd grade, when you asked what you should wear to a fancy dinner, I off-handedly said "I don't know honey, one of your girly dresses," and you corrected me. "Mom, do you mean one of my fancy dresses? Because 'girly' can mean sporty or fancy. There's nothing necessarily 'fancy' about being a girl."

"Touche, my smart girl," I thought. "You're right." And I thanked you for correcting me.

In 2nd grade, you discovered your love of soccer -- or, maybe better put, you discovered that you love competition on a field. You played on an all-boy baseball team last year and joined a girls' softball team this year. You loved swim team, and playing soccer at recess and chasing boys -- mostly to prove to them that you're fast, and you can catch them. In 2nd grade, without hesitation, you climbed to the top of a rope in a grown up gym -- a rope that neither I nor your Daddy can climb. You had the time of your life at Camp Mary Orton, and didn't think twice about spending the night in a tent. In 2nd grade, you discovered just how strong and fast and capable your body is. You love to use it. Your confidence with every inch of your body -- how it looks and how it works and the amazing things it can do -- fills me with joy. I hope you hold onto that confidence as you continue grow into the lovely grown-up woman I know you'll someday be.

In 2nd grade, you became a voracious reader. You sometimes read 4-5 books at one time. You read graphic novels and C.S. Lewis series and biographies on political leaders. You were perhaps most partial to books about strong female characters like Hillary Clinton and Susan B. Anthony and Helen Keller. You again wanted to be a strong female character for Halloween, and you chose Maleficent...not the evil version from the cartoon, but the brave, strong, powerful and kind Maleficent from the movie of the same name. You also love jokes and magic tricks and making people laugh.



In 2nd grade, Ella Bella, you listened. You listened to every word I said. And for now at least, my words matter to you. I know this because I hear you echo my words -- weeks and sometimes months after I say them. Like the times we've talked about what words you can use to respond to a classmate who's being unkind...and I've heard you, weeks or months later, use those exact same words to deal with a tough situation, when you don't even know that I'm listening.

In 2nd grade, I saw my own facial expressions in your face, every day. The funny ones, and the angry ones, and the exasperated ones. The sarcastic ones, and the expressions that say "are you serious?" without saying a word. And each one makes me laugh.

In 2nd grade, you developed a very strong internal barometer for fairness and social justice. When you hear or see someone in a movie or in person or on TV, doing or saying something unkind...you look at me to confirm what you feel and know in your heart. That their words or actions are wrong. And you almost always want to talk about the best way to respond to those injustices. I love that you feel that compassion. That you know that compassion is God's way of telling you to take action. And that your first response is almost always to want to use your words to intervene.

Because in 2nd grade, you grew even more confident in your voice. You know who you are and you know right from wrong and you have learned not to be afraid to use your voice to stand up for yourself, or someone else. I pray that your voice and your convictions continue to grow stronger.

In 2nd grade, you still loved hot dogs and waffles, yogurt and berries. But you also learned to love shrimp, even shrimp scampi. And you won't complain if we ask you to eat chicken or steak. You'll try new foods without complaining...with a sincere interest and open-mindedness that I would never have thought possible just a year ago.

In 2nd grade, you finally lost some teeth -- and you were brave enough to let me pull some out with the good ol' door trick. You adored and doted on your younger cousins Camden and Kenley, Greyson and Lachlan. And you loved every second you got to spend with your older ones, too. You loved sewing with your Nana and visits with Gramps and Grammy and being spoiled and doted on by your Grandma and Papa.

In 2nd grade, you became cool and confident. I watch you in school, and you are a leader. You have an easy way about you. You are comfortable in your own skin. You like who you are. I am grateful.

In 2nd grade, you became even more of a sparkling conversationalist. You can talk to your grandparents on the phone for an hour. You can discuss current events, or history, or your favorite book, or what's going on in your life. And you already know to ask questions so you can learn what's going on in the lives of others, too.

In 2nd grade, you shed (most) of your interest in hairbows and frilly dresses. You like Under Armour sweatshirts and asked for "tall socks" (like the boys wear), and fell in love with your white, Converse high tops I got you for Christmas. You enthusiastically played a "baby chick" in the 2nd grade musical, and you cheered on your friends who joined you on stage.



In 2nd grade, you were a good friend. On the last day of school, you brought home an award from Mrs. Burmester. It said "Kindest encourager." My heart filled with a mix of pride and joy and I thought to myself...there simply isn't any award on earth I'd rather my girl earn. Not just in 2nd grade. But in life. Mrs. Burmester also wrote "Enthusiastic learner!" on the award -- because she saw, like I did, that you went to school every single day with a big appetite to be smarter than you were the day before.

In 2nd grade, you loved your American Girl dolls, your shopkins, your princess barbie dolls, your doll house, and playing with teeny tiny things in your room. You loved carrying bags -- backpacks, shoulder bags, messenger bags -- and filling them up with small but random things you might need -- like pencils and journals, a random assortment of small toys and sunglasses. You happily played in your room, alone, for hours on end...creating little worlds in its corners...worlds that only you understand. You played with your friends for hours at a time, too. You've grown more diplomatic with time, but in 2nd grade, you still loved to be the director...the one in charge of determining the game that'll be played. I pray that I, and your teachers, and the other grow ups in your life, continue to nurture that leader in you, even as we also remind you that sometimes, being a leader means working extra hard to carve out roles so everyone can play, and everyone can shine.

In 2nd grade, you still adore your Poodle. Just today, you brought him to the movies and to our 'back to school dinner.' And you sleep with him every night. Your art teacher Miss Koontz says you managed to work Poodle into almost every single art project in your 2nd grade year. (Just as you did the two previous years.) And you still bring him most places we go. You pack a suitcase of seasonally appropriate clothes for him when we go on vacation, and whether it's Halloween or Christmas Day or a baseball game, you always dress him for the occasion. You are such a responsible pet owner and best friend. When we went to the Chicago Field Museum in your 2nd grade year, it was you who realized that we had misplaced Poodle, and it was you who calmly ran by my side to search for him, before we (GRATEFULLY!) found him in coat check, moments before the museum closed for the night.

In 2nd grade, you adored your home. When we briefly considered moving to a house just down the street, you insisted that we promise never to move, because you love your house just the way it is and you love sharing your backyard with your best friend Lily. You reminded me that to want something 'bigger' or 'fancier' is silly. Because in every way, we already have everything we need, right here, right now.

My precious girl, your 2nd grade year was amazing and inspiring and beautiful and funny and, like you...a dream come true. I thank God for letting me have this gift of being your momma. And I can't wait to see the you that 3rd grade shows me.

How lucky we are to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard

So here it is again, Teacher Appreciation Week. And here I am again, just a few weeks away from one of my babies leaving kindergarten forever.

As we were getting ready for bed one night this week; I was wrapping up a few gifts for teachers. One of the gifts was for our beloved kindergarten teacher, Mrs. G. When I was done, I called over to Kate, who was sitting at the counter coloring, and told her it was time for bed.

She said “OK,” but her voice was shaky. I looked over, and could tell she had been thinking about something that made her sad. I asked her what was wrong.

“Mommy,” she said, big tears now streaming down her face, “I don’t want to leave Mrs. G!”

She ran over to me, and buried her little tanned face in my skirt. I could feel her tears soak through. I picked her up and hugged her. I told her that we’d see Mrs. G after school was out for summer; and that she could still see her every morning and at lunch and even after school, next year and the year after that, all the way til 6th grade.

“I know Mommy. But that’s not enough. I want to stay with her forever. In her class. Forever. I want to stay in kindergarten with Mrs. G forever,” she sobbed. “I vu-got (forgot), Momma. When I was with her all year, I was having such a good time. I vu-got it would be over. I vu-got I’d have to leave.”

I felt the tears stinging in my eyes, now, too. I felt the flip-flop in my stomach. I felt the familiar lump in my throat. You see, this is my second time having to accept that kindergarten with Mrs. G is over; as my daughter Ella had to leave her too, just last year. And truth be told, I don’t think Kate is overreacting. I completely understand how she feels.



As a matter of fact, I feel almost selfish – feeling so sad that kindergarten is again coming to a close. I feel like I hit the lottery not once, but twice, and, after having the joy of spending all the money on exactly everything I wanted and needed, I have no right to complain that the money has run out. Any family would be blessed to have a teacher like Mrs. G once in a lifetime. We get her twice, and still – it’s not enough?

Nope, it’s not.

Our family has been so beyond blessed that both of our daughters got such a magical kindergarten experience. And now, our Ella Bella is wrapping up a great first grade experience, too. I keep reminding myself (and Kate) that life goes on, and that more lovely school experiences are ahead of us. I keep reminding her not to be sad that kindergarten is over – but to be grateful that it happened. But I can't disagree with her. It's hard.

If you’re wondering what’s so magical about it – you can check out this blogpost from last year, this time – recapping Ella’s incredible kindergarten experience. Kate’s has been every bit as magical. Except this year, I took more time away from work, and had the privilege of volunteering in Mrs. G’s classroom even more than I did last year. I got to see her in her groove, for a few hours, three days each week,sometimes more.

I got to experience the whole dreamy year – again. And still, it wasn’t enough. But I don’t know if I could ever get enough of watching Mrs. G.

I don’t know if it could ever get old. Watching shy, unsure kindergartners evolve into brave, confident, passionate learners – under her loving care. I don’t know if my heart could ever grow tired of watching how she masterfully challenges them, nurtures them, loves them and feeds their thirst for knowledge. I don’t know if I could ever grow tired of the humility I feel when I’m around her. When she leaves a near-silent room of studiously working kindergartners in my care for 3 minutes – to go to the bathroom – and returns to a rumbling roar of emerging chaos.

Because as much as I know and love and adore each one of the students in her class – I just don’t have the same magic – or better stated – the same presence or skill – that she has, when it comes to lovingly directing a kindergarten chorus of kiddos. How does she always have control of the room, while never once ever squashing a single one of their little spirits? While never once ever raising her voice, or losing her temper?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. But I never grow tired of watching the magic unfold before my eyes.

We live in a world where it seems like everything that’s bad or wrong or sad or ugly gets magnified. I find myself watching this woman and the magic she has with her students, and I wish that everyone in the world could have this amazing, priceless gift I have been given. To spend time watching this incredibly gifted teacher, with her students, day after day. It is everything that’s right with the world.

Mrs. G has God’s eyes, I swear. She sees the best in even the most rambunctious kindergartner. She delights in their idiosyncrasies and every one of their personality quirks. She sees each one of them as a gift on the first day they enter her classroom; and then she spends each year lovingly unwrapping each one of those precious gifts – delighting in every surprise and special moment along the way.

I used to think that teaching was a great job. And it is. But not for the reasons I thought. I thought of it as a laid back job, where you’d get to inspire kids and end the work day before other professionals; and have the whole summer off, care-free. I got the inspire kids part right. But through her example, Mrs. G has shown me that I got the rest of it wrong. Totally wrong.

Mrs. G has shown me that to teach the way she does – to be the absolute best – means that teaching is quite nearly a 24-hour-a-day job. The 4, 6 or 12 crafts she does with every student, for every unit, to ensure her lessons are visually, permanently punctuated in their little minds? They take hours and hours to prepare for – well after the school day ends. All the hand-made, bound, laminated books she makes of special class experiences – so children can learn to read while bringing the magic of their kindergarten experience home to their parents? Those books aren’t put together when the students are in school. They’re put together hours before school starts, or when the rest of us are eating our dinners or going to bed.



When children enter her classroom on day one, not reading a word, and then transform into fully literate readers – many reading at 1st and 2nd grade level? That’s the result of an incredible amount of hard work, endless assessments, preparation and one-on-one time she spends with each student. And as efficient as she is, all that work just can’t happen during the regular school day.



Being an amazing teacher like Mrs. G means having to take some days "off" to care for a sick family member, and worrying about ‘your kids’ every day that your gone; wanting to make sure that they don’t miss a single special experience you had planned for them.

Being a teacher like Mrs. G means putting aside whatever you’re dealing with in your personal life – be it a sick family member or a health issue or the never-ending duties that come with also being a fantastic mama – and making 20-some 5-and-6-year olds the complete focus of your attention, every day, from 8:15 a.m. until 2:45 p.m. when they leave. (And the focus of your partial attention, every waking moment of your day.)

It means greeting each child with a sincere smile and a hug every single morning, regardless of how tired you may be. It means expanding your heart to also have room for the first and second and third and fourth and fifth and sixth graders who still love and remember and adore you – and who still religiously stop by your room for an extra dose of love and encouragement, every single morning, without fail.

Years after she is no longer their assigned classroom teacher, Mrs. G intuitively knows that she is so much more than a one-time teacher to them. She is the power of a hug and a welcoming smile. She is stability and nostalgia for their younger years. She is an ever-present friend. She is love. The kind of love that doesn’t know the end of the school day, or even the end of the school year.

Mrs. G has a rare and special gift. She was born to do this work. And for the rest of her life, regardless of what society or social media or the board of education says, I want her to know that she quite simply has the best and most important job in all the world. And every day, she does that job better, and with more heart and enthusiasm, than anyone I know.

Mrs. G has made my sweet Kate-Kate more loving and more compassionate. My little girl who could only read a few words on day one of kindergarten is now reading at a level expected at the end of a first grade year. But far more important than that…far more important than what any academic assessment would say…Mrs. G has helped Kate develop into a leader among her peers. She has helped strengthen her intuitive ability to know, and to do, what’s right. She has nurtured Kate’s love of learning, and made an infinitely more confident student. She has taught her how to be brave and kind. She has taught her how to be a better student, friend, daughter and member of the community. And for that, I can never repay her.



Mrs. G loves A.A. Milne. So I guess it makes the most sense to end this post with words from one of her favorite authors.

How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

Thank you, Mrs. G, for showing Ella, Kate and me everything a teacher can be. Thank you for setting the bar so high, and for making it so hard to leave your classroom. Know that we will all three forever consider ourselves your students. And that you have changed our lives, for the better, forever.

Forever our Rah-Rah

So it's just about one week til "summer" as we know it is officially over for the year, and both of my little girls will be headed to elementary school. Ella to 1st grade and Kate to kindergarten. Kate asks me every day how much longer she has to wait til school starts. And Ella is so excited about 'back-to-school' that she's already 20 steps ahead of us, making lists of all the activities she wants to do in December to celebrate Christmas. Happily, neither one of my girls is all that sad about end of summer days.

I thought I'd be sad about this milestone -- both of my girls going to elementary school. But I'm not. Maybe that's because elementary school is still so fun and shiny and new. Not just to my girls, but to me.

The one thing I'm not excited about...the one thing that makes my heart feel heavy...the one thing I've avoided thinking about (like. the. plague.)...is that back-to-school also means that we will no longer see our Rah-Rah every week. Rah-Rah, for those of you who don't know, is our beloved Sarah Johnson -- the woman who's been my girls' nanny for five years, also known as their entire lives. For perspective, this is how tiny my people were when Rah-Rah first came into their lives. (Ella couldn't say her name back when she was 17 months old, so she said "Rah-Rah." And it stuck.)



I just don't even know what I can say to tell you how strange it will be for us to not see Rah-Rah every week. It's different than saying goodbye to a teacher, or even a daycare provider who's been with a child since babyhood. It's like a member of your very close family -- like a favorite aunt, or your sister -- one you see every single week -- moving away.

To be clear, Rah-Rah isn't moving anywhere. She lives less than 10 minutes away. And I know that we will see each other (often, I hope!). I know that she'll always feel like family. That she'll forever be one of those friends, to me, and a touchstone, for my girls, who means so much that she'll always just be part of us. For all of that, I am so grateful. But I'm still sad that we won't get to see her every week.

I've been thinking and thinking about how to mark this milestone. What gift can I give that would show our appreciation? What words could I ever use to express how much her presence in our lives has meant to us? I still don't have the gift part figured out. But here, I want to try the words.

Sarah Dietze Johnson. We miss you already. We miss your long, shiny, gorgeous red hair. We miss your bright eyes. We miss your smile -- and we want you to know that we never once took for granted that you greeted our children with that smile every single time you walked into our door at 8 o'clock in the morning. Every time you greeted them at the end of a school day. At the end of every nap, and the beginning of each new phase in their lives.

I love looking back at the (shamefully few!) photos I have of you and the girls...because in all of them, they are just crazy, mad, in love with you.





We want you to know that we understand. We totally get the role you have played in raising our daughters. Kate has known you since she was 3 months old and Ella doesn't remember her life without you in it. You have spent 8 hours a day, 3 days a week with our daughters, for five years. I'm really bad at math. But that's a lot of hours. That's more time than anyone except Chris and I have spent with them. That time. Sarah, that time in our girls' lives. It was precious. It was so, so precious. I don't know if I could have left for work on all those mornings, had I not known that I was relinquishing those precious hours of my girls' lives to you.

You, who I knew would delight in the funny, bright things they say. You, who I knew would take just as much joy and pride in dressing them, and brushing their hair, and ponytailing and braiding and crafting and playing as I do. You, who I knew would reinforce our efforts to teach them to be kind. You, who would make sure they said their please's and thank you's.

You, who loved our girls as your own babies even before you had your own.



You, who would put them in time out when they deserved it, but laugh when they found a way to fanagle out of it.





You, who would lay down with them and sing them lullabyes so they would take naps. You, who would hug them when they cried. You, who would worry about them when they were sick. Squeeze them when they got off the bus or when you picked them up from preschool. Clap for them, while smiling ear to ear, during ballet class or when they would say a new word or learn a new skill.



You, who took time from her actual wedding to squeeze and shower attention on two little girls who were amazed that their nanny was a real, live, princess.



You, who I always knew I could trust. Trust to never harm my girls -- to love and protect and care for them as they were your own.

When Ella's beloved Poodle was lost and she cried for two days straight, it was you who saved the day (the year? our lives?) when you found Him, wedged behind the headboard of the playroom bed.



You, who was the first to feed Kate from a bottle. You, who was there to care for Ella overnight when Kate was in the hospital. You who made that night so special that Ella didn't truly realize her little sister was seriously sick.



You, who were sick to your stomach, just as we were, when Ella was being seen in the Oncology ward at Children's Hospital for those dreaded weeks. You, who cared for my babies when I was so dreadfully sick that, for 2 full weeks, I didn't even know my name, couldn't open my eyes and could barely get out of bed. I was sad to miss those two weeks with my girls. But even as I lay like a drugged up zombie in bed, I never once worried about them, because I knew they were loved and cared for by their daddy at night, and you -- all day long.

As the girls grew older, I watched with pride and joy as I saw them shower your children with the same love and affection that you had showered on them since they were babies.







In bringing Case and Drew into our home all those days, it has been you who has given my daughters the opportunity to know that all-consuming love that we feel for them. Words can never describe how deeply Ella and Kate love your children. How much joy they get every time they hear Case call them "La La Bella" or "Dee Dee." They both got to be big sisters, and little mamas, to your beautiful babies. And I do believe that getting to play that role has been one of the greatest and most fulfilling experiences of their 5- and 6-year-old lives.



I remember how I felt, as a 7-year-old girl, when my half-sister and then half-brother were born. How having them in my life somehow made my heart feel bigger, because so much more love needed to fit inside it. How I realized that life was not about me. How I realized how much more fulfilling life was when I focused on the needs and wants and joy of other people, instead of just on my own. And I am so grateful that my girls now know that same feeling. Case and Drew may not be 'siblings' to Ella and Kate, but as far as we are concerned, they may as well be. Ella and Kate love your children as they are their own brother and sister. And they have learned as much about unconditional love from their relationship with your children as any 'blood relation' ever could.

Sarah, if I wrote for hours, I couldn't capture all you've been to us. I sometimes wish I had stayed home full time with my girls. But in those moments, I always remind myself that if I had stayed home, my girls would not have had the gift of knowing and loving you, and Case, and Drew. And Map too.





And as much as I treasure every moment with my girls, I wouldn't change a moment of their first 6 years, even if I could. Because their lives; their sweet, smart, sassy little souls; their personalities, their senses of 'self,' their very beings just wouldn't be the same had they not known, and loved, and been loved by you.

Sarah, please know that you will always have a special place in our hearts. You are so much more than a nanny to us. You are a dear friend. You are The One Who Knows Our Girls As Well As We Do. You made sure our girls felt love every hour we couldn't be with them. You are a member of our family -- one we have the blessing of choosing -- for life. We will always love you. We will always be grateful for you. You are welcome in our home any time, all the time, forever and ever. Lord knows I don't have to clean my house or even brush my teeth in order for you to come over, because you've seen us at our very worst.

Sarah, it really is true that it takes a village to raise a child. The Sugars, as you call us, are so, so grateful for the incredibly important role you have played in raising Ella and Kate. Thank you for being a constant source of love and brightness and joy in their lives. And ours. Thank you for sharing your children with us, and for helping prepare our girls for a Very Grateful Life. You will forever be our Rah-Rah, and we will love and adore and be grateful to you. Forever and ever. Amen.

Teacher Appreciation Week: Why I love ‘Mrs. G.’

Let me be honest. I have been waiting for months for Teacher Appreciation Week. And no, I’m not a teacher. Although I kind of wish I would’ve been. But that’s a different post.

I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to capture in writing all the ways I just, simply, ADORE my daughter Ella’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. G.

First, I should be clear – I wasn’t particularly excited to send my first-born child to elementary school. I knew I was, well, kind of lawfully obligated to send her. And that she’d probably love it. That she’d probably learn so much. Make new friends. Grow. But I still had the pit in my stomach. So many fears and questions, which ran like a constant ticker tape in my mind.



Would her teacher be kind? Would she be loving? Would she ‘see,’ really see, my girl? Would she know how precious and special she is? Would she foster Ella’s natural excitement for learning, or would she stifle it? Would she challenge Ella while also making her feel accepted and excited to learn? Would she help both Ella’s mind and heart to grow?

Now, as we approach the end of Ella’s kindergarten year, I can look back and smile at those questions. Maybe they’ll emerge again, at another time, an older age, a different teacher, a different school. But right here, right now, as summer is fast approaching, I simply could not have LOVED or been more grateful for Ella’s kindergarten experience. Every single second of it.

Yes, some of that gratitude is rightfully directed to the school. To its welcoming culture. To the amazing women who seem to run the entire school from the ‘central command center’ humbly called ‘the office.’ To the principal who gives the kids high fives as they enter the building and walk the halls. To all of Ella’s ‘specials’ teachers, who have nurtured her love of art and reading and music and play. To other great parents who have raised the great kids who are Ella’s classmates. To the children themselves – who are just so sweet and smart and dear.

But more than anything, I attribute this deep sense of gratitude to Ella’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. G. Mrs. G. is, quite simply, more than I ever expected, better than I ever imagined possible.

I have the privilege of volunteering in her class for just an hour or so, one day a week. And it’s hands-down, the happiest, most fulfilling hour of my week. I love the time with the kids. I love the time with Ella. But mostly, I love watching Mrs. G.

I love Mrs. G. for starting out the year with the book “How full is your bucket?,” and for teaching my girl, by example, every day, how she can fill her own ‘bucket’ when she focuses intently on ‘filling the buckets’ of the people around her.

I love watching Mrs. G. kneel down, eye level with each child, to read with them or ask them about a story they’re writing – or to ask them how they’re feeling, or to give them a hug when she knows they really need it.



I love hearing and watching her read stories to the children – with her eyebrows raised, commanding their full attention with her intonation and voice fluctuations and pregnant pauses and facial expressions. I love how she plays classical music as they work independently on their projects, and how most days, they are so engaged in their work, that you can hear every note of that music. And know they’re listening, really listening to it, too.

I love that she makes learning so very much fun. Corporate leaders of the world – if you want to know how to inspire your employees to give you their best work – how to create a truly engaged workforce of employees who strive to learn and grow and thrive – please visit Mrs. G’s class. You can come during her unit on ‘the continents’ (which, by the way, I learned in the 5th grade and in the dullest, most boring way) and listen to the 5 and 6 year olds gleefully sing 4 different songs, which they’ve memorized by heart, while you simultaneously get a cultural lesson about what it’s like to visit Italy, or France, or China – and hear every syllable of the word “Au-stra-li-a.” You watch how she teaches her class about the complexities of the African Rain Forest, while they physically build one out of paper, floor to ceiling, in a corner of her classroom. You can wonder what these kindergarteners imagined about their own leadership potential when they helped create “Mount Kindergarten” for one of the few, small, uncovered areas of Mrs. G’s wall, with individual self-portraits of each classmate emulating the likes of presidents Washington and Lincoln.

In each of these instances, it’s not that she makes learning so much fun that ‘they don’t even know that they’re learning.’ It’s that she makes it so much fun that they know they are learning and they LOVE it. They crave it. They want more of it.

I love Mrs. G.’s dress up days. Knowing, for example, how much more the children will remember the nursery rhymes they read and re-read at the beginning of the year, because they all had the chance to come to class dressed as their favorite character.



I love that Mrs. G. invited horses – real, live horses – to class during her farm unit. That she invited loved ones to school to help her students build bird houses – with real hammers and nails – during her ‘tools’ unit.



I love that these little 6-year-olds, most of whom, like my Ella, could only write their name on the first day of school, just independently wrote 10-page non-fiction ‘books,’ complete with ‘about the author’ pages, written in third person.

I love that she taught our children the true meaning of the ‘holiday spirit’ AND the true power of the amazing things they could accomplish together, as a team, by giving them the opportunity to plan and implement a school-wide ‘Gingerbread sale,’ during which they raised hundreds of dollars and other donations for a local family in need.



I love that Mrs. G. doesn’t call her students ‘kids’ or ‘children’ or even ‘class.’ She calls them ‘friends.’ All the time. Every time. When she’s trying to quiet them, it’s “Friends, it’s getting noisy. Work quietly please.” When she’s congratulating them, it’s an enthusiastic “Friends! You have done a great job this morning!” It may seem like a little thing. But it’s a big thing to the little people she teaches. Because this simple word makes them feel respected and valued. Which, I believe, is another reason they come to school every day excited to learn.

I love that Mrs. G. so quickly learned the unique personalities and needs of each child, and intuitively seemed to understand how to respond to the unique needs of each one. I love that Mrs. G. has taught Ella to be such a brave reader and a brave learner. And that Mrs. G. has taught Ella and her classmates that the only real failure is the failure to try.

I love that Mrs. G. so clearly, so obviously loves teaching. I love seeing the ear-to-ear smile, the utter delight on her face when she sees a new creation by of one of her aspiring artists – especially when she can tell that child put in extra effort and focus to make it their very best work. I love that she meets every single child where they are, and celebrates their accomplishments as individuals – knowing that each one of her ‘friends’ will learn differently, and at different paces and levels, every day.

So with this post, I thank Mrs. G. I thank her for creating a loving, nurturing, challenging and inspiring environment for my Ella, and hundreds of other little people over the years, to learn.

I thank her for not letting ever-evolving ‘assessments’ and new standards and other public school bureaucracies, which are beyond her control, kill her spirit or her love of teaching. For finding a way to make sure her kindergartners get to experience the Amazon Rain Forest, the Cherry blossoms of China, the romance of Paris, the food of Italy…the complexities of the English language, the knowledge that ‘research’ can bring. I thank her teaching them that they can find whole new worlds in books. For showing them, by example, that you really do get out of life what you put into it.

I thank her for going above and beyond what’s expected by any ‘common core,’ and for her diehard commitment to making learning fun. I thank her for leading by example. For showing her ‘friends’ the importance of being brave and kind. For loving each student, even when they’re difficult. For filling their buckets, and igniting their love of learning, every single day.

I thank her for making school feel like a home away from home for my little girl, and for making Ella feel every bit as loved and ‘seen’ and valued as she is when she’s with me – if not moreso.

Mrs. G., I thank you for being the best example of the word “teacher” that I could ever ask for. Thank you for so much more.

On Teacher Appreciation week -- thank you for being you.

Love Flash Mob for Greyson

Last year, I posted about my extraordinary brother and sister-in-law, Ryan and Brittany, and their beautiful, inspiring, gentle and love-filled little boy, Greyson. Who's just one month younger than our daughter, his cousin Ella. If you want to read all about these awesome parents, and their extraordinary son...check out this old blogpost. I promise your heart will feel better and stronger and more tender, all at the same time, just by reading their story.

In that post, I explained that Greyson has Tuberous Sclerosis, a disease that affects 1 in 6000 babies born in the United States each year. I explained the impact this disease has had on Greyson's life, and his parents' lives. I explained how each year, Greyson's parents pull a big ol' team together -- Team Greyson -- for their local "Step Forward" walk a thon, which raises money to cure Tuberous Sclerosis. But most importantly, I explained how inspiring and awesome Greyson and his parents are. And I asked my friends to consider making a donation -- of any amount, $5, $10, $25 -- (every amount counts!)to Team Greyson. And Chris and I promised to match every dollar our friends donated.

We were humbled when our friends and family contributed almost $1000 to Team Greyson, which we were honored to match. We were amazed and inspired that so many friends -- many of them we're connected with through Facebook but don't often get to see in person -- took the time to show love and support for our darling Greyson.

This year, Chris and I are very excited to take the girls down to Tennessee, in October, to attend our first Step Forward for a Cure event. Ella and Kate LOVE their cousin Greyson. I mean, they adore him. Every time these kids get together, it's a love and hug and kiss and squeeze and play fest. There are never any arguments or melt downs -- at least not related to hanging out with each other. It's just complete adoration...this beautiful cousin love.



Ella and Kate don't understand this disease. But they understand that Greyson has been in the hospital more than anyone else they know, and has experienced more 'ouchies' in his five years than most grown ups do in a lifetime. They know that he may not always run quite as fast as his brother Lachlan, and that he doesn't right now use as many words as they do. But they also understand that their cousin is brave. And kind. And, above all, that he is pure love. Every day. All the time.

They know Greyson is special. But we're excited for them to be part of this event that is a very tactile, real-life, visible way to physically show him how much they love him, and to see so many other people there, supporting and loving and cheering him on, too.

This walk-a-thon is extra special because Greyson's incredible momma, Brittany, is chairing it. And for that reason, we not only want to be physically be there to show our support, but we want to do our part to make sure this particular walk a thon raises more funds than any one before it! We also want to help make this event extra special, because there's so much to celebrate. Greyson has been seizure-free for more than a year! He is not only walking, but able to jump on a trampoline...he's a whiz on the iPad, and uses it every day to learn new concepts and words. And although this little boy has always been fluent in the language of love, he's building his actual vocabulary bit by bit, every day, too.

So that's where you come in. If you're reading this, I invite you to check out Brittany's blog, where she talks about Greyson and Tuberous Sclerosis and its impact on their family.

And I ask you to please be part of this little Love Flash Mob for Team Greyson, by making a donation -- in any amount at all -- to this year's Step Forward For a Cure walk-a-thon.

Yes, one goal of this Love Flash Mob is to help raise funds to cure this disease that takes so much away from so many. But another, equally important goal, is to show Ryan and Brittany and Greyson (and his little brother Lachlan) that people near and far, people whom they've never met, some of whom live hundreds of miles away, are inspired by them. Support them. Believe in them.

And love them. Just like Ella and Kate do.





Thanks friends. Let's do this!

40 Life Lessons I've Learned from Your First 40 Years

Back on our 6th anniversary, I shared a list of reasons I love Chris Schumacher. He’s pretty awesome, so that list grows every year. To celebrate his 40th birthday, here are 40 life lessons I’ve learned from his first 40 years. Happy birthday, my love.

40. Whether it’s a man who’s literally on fire or a child who needs a meal, be the person who rushes to the aid of others, instead of the person who looks away. You’ll be amazed at how actions like that will magnify your own joy and love of life.

39. Judge Judy is awesome. She’s Chris’s favorite. He makes our girls watch Judge Judy so ‘they can learn what kind of boys to never date.’ She’ll teach you never to date a boy who asks you to pay for his cell phone, or to give him a loan, or to bail him out of jail; and to never pay for anything in cash and to always get receipts.

38. Follow through with the promises you make to yourself and to others. Chris always does what he says he’s going to do. He promised me on our wedding day that I’d never had to take the trash out. And 7 years later, by God, I never have. This man has never broken a promise to me, and I can’t recall a time he’s ever broke a promise he’s made to himself or someone else, either.

37. Ditch the drama. Drama is good for acting and great story telling. But as a regular fixture in a person’s life, it’s just draining. This single lesson alone has improved the quality of my life so significantly.

36. Do less talking. More listening. (OK, I still struggle with this one. But Chris is a master.) It’s one of many qualities that makes Chris a great friend and successful at work, too.

35. Assume positive intent and seek to see the good in others. Don’t make assumptions about the bad intentions of others. Like drama, it’s draining, it’s unproductive and it sucks the joy out of life. Plus, you know what happens when we ‘ass/u/me.’

34. Forgive easily and often. It’s the best way to unburden your heart, soul and mind so you can focus all three on happier, more inspiring things. I’ve known Chris for more than a decade and can’t think of a single grudge he’s held on to. It’s one of the reasons he’s one of the happiest, most content people I know.

33. Surround yourself by people who inspire you. If that means you need to make new friends, invite new people to join your team, get a new job or move to a new neighborhood, do it. You are all too often a reflection of those who surround you.

32. Think and act big. If your wife suggests making a $100 donation to an incredible orphanage in India, suggest instead that you sponsor a child at that orphanage for the entire year. Thinking and acting big…that’s how people make a real difference in the world. It’s also how they inspire others to do the same.

31. Be intentional. Whether you’re pursuing the girl you think may be the love of your life, or a new career, or a dream of serving others, do it passionately and with intention. It’s the only way to accomplish anything meaningful.

30. Laugh often, and make others laugh too. Chris makes me laugh every day, usually at myself. It’s one of the reason’s he’s so fun to be married to.

29. Be a good friend. Fly to Chicago for one of your best friend’s 40th birthdays. Make that trip to Memphis for the surprise birthday party for your younger brother. Be the guy other guys can talk to about that problem at home or work, because they know you’ll give them advice, if they ask for it, that encourages them to be their best possible self.

28. Be the change you want to see in the world, even when it’s socially hard. If that means being the only guy in the room to stand up and say ‘that’s not funny’ when another guy is telling a joke that demeans women, or prostitutes, or any other group, then do it. You can’t make a real difference in life if you’re not willing to take risks to do the right thing.

27. Do random, nice things for other people – especially for people who can do nothing directly ‘for’ you in return. Like stopping on the freeway to help a woman whose car broke down, then driving her to get it fixed, then giving her the money for the repairs…because your heart hurt to know she’d have to use two weeks of her McDonald’s paycheck just to be able to drive to work.

26. Be careful with money, but remember you can’t take it with you when you go. That means making sure you’re planning for retirement and education and weddings and other future stuff…while also using money to live a meaningful life and bring joy to others, today.

25. Put your heart out there. The reason I fell in love with Chris more than a decade ago is that he had the courage to say and write words that expressed his heart, without fear. That’s a brave and vulnerable quality all at the same time and it’s one of the reasons he’ll lead a life with few if any regrets.

24. Share your passions with others. There’s a lot to be said about humility. About quietly doing awesome things, every day. But there’s also a lot to be said for sharing your passions with others. Whether your passion is about growing your business or helping abused kids, you can inspire others by sharing your passions with others.

23. When you’re wrong, say you’re wrong, say you’re sorry, then move on. Everybody’s wrong sometimes. There’s power in admitting that, and in admitting when it happens to you. But there’s little point in beating yourself about mistakes or failures. Learn from it, make it right if you can, and move on.

22. There’s a difference between persistent tenacity and stubbornness. Pursue dreams with the former. But in arguments, debates, important relationships and in the face of change, forget the latter. Like drama, stubbornness will suck the joy right out of your life.

21. Keep old friends and make new ones. I love that Chris is still close with the first friends he ever made in Westerville, Ohio, in elementary school. I don’t get their inside jokes, but I love that they have them. Just like I love that the fact that Chris makes new friends EVERYWHERE he goes. Our Christmas card list is never-ending, because this man is a collector of friends and people. He has an open heart and an open mind and makes new friends that give him new perspectives on the world, at every phase of his life.

20. Be loyal. Always. I’ve never heard Chris say a bad word about a friend, a colleague or a person he cares about.

19. Don’t gossip. See #20. I’ve never heard Chris say anything about anyone, ever, that he wouldn’t be willing to say to that person’s face.

18. If you really love hot dogs, eat hot dogs. You only live once. But remember to work out with trainer extraordinaire, Ashley Quint afterward, so you can still be in better shape at 40 than you were at 16.



17. Be generous. You know that warm feeling you get when you put a dollar in the Salvation Army red kettle at Christmastime? Magnify that by about a million. That’s what you get in return when you use your money to serve others in bold ways.

16. Thank your parents. Tell them in person, and in written word, and in deed, how you feel about them. Make sure they know how much they mean to you and how much you appreciate them. You can even buy your mama an iPad or make your dad a scrapbook when they retire. Yes, you can make a scrapbook even if you’re a dude.

15. Poor fashion choices are a really bad reason to overlook a potential date. That’s right. When I met Chris, he had one pair of black dress pants from Meier (the grocery store), and once took me on a date wearing a khaki linen shirt with no collar and puffy pirate sleeves. Now he gets all his clothes from Nordstrom, has more button down dress shirts than anyone I know and even has a few pairs of ‘euro’ shoes and ‘euro’ pants. Personality traits usually don’t change. Fashion sense apparently can. And even if it doesn’t, it’s a really silly reason to miss out on a totally awesome person.

14. Be thoughtful. That girl you just met on Match.com yesterday, who you really liked? Send her a gift for her birthday, which is tomorrow, even though you’ve only met one time. That friend’s little boy who’s getting tests and procedures in the hospital? Send him that Lord of the Rings lego set to brighten is day. These little acts of thoughtfulness may win you the love of your life, or strengthen a friendship, or just make a little boy smile. The payoff is always worth it.

13. When you’re invited somewhere, go. You’re tired from working and it’s raining and you really just want to lay on the couch and watch TV? Chris gets it. But he always appreciates when people have the thoughtfulness or courtesy to invite him somewhere. And unless he absolutely cannot go, he always accepts. And he always shows up. And in doing so, he shows those around him respect. And that he cares.

12. Don’t let other people rain on your parade. Your opinionated wife thinks it’s a terrible idea to build a pergola inside your new office; and thinks it’s an even worse idea to install a grass carpet underneath it? If you’re super psyched about it, who cares? Do it anyway. Two outcomes are possible. Either she’ll be wrong and have to admit it (see #23) or she’ll be right, in which case you’ll be the one who has to live with it anyway.

11. Allow yourself to be inspired by others. Whether it’s a great idea from a business ‘competitor,’ or a story you hear on TV about an organization that’s making a difference in the lives of children, allow yourself to be inspired. And then act on that inspiration. And then give them credit for inspiring you. That’s how awesome things happen.

10. Value and honor the past but live in the present while planning for the future. This man literally has a watch that doesn’t have numbers on it. It just has ticking hands and the words “past, present, future.” He treasures fond memories of the past. Lets go of bad ones. He enjoys the present, always. But he’s so responsible, so committed to securing a future for his family, that part of his mind is always planning for a positive one.

9. Stop worrying. Chris is a pragmatic guy and sees zero point in worrying. He lives the example that “worrying doesn’t empty today of its troubles, it empties tomorrow of its strengths.” When Ella was very, very sick, getting tests in the Oncology ward at Children’s Hospital, Chris was strong and steady. He was caring, he was concerned. But he ‘worried’ as little as possible and encouraged me to do the same. Because we couldn’t be the parents Ella needed if we were consumed with worry. And worrying would’ve accomplished nothing.



8. Believe in others, and help others succeed. Whether that means starting a scholarship for future social workers who want to make the world a better place or helping a friend or client find a new job, do it. Emerson really knew what he was talking about when he said that “to know even one life breathed easier because you have lived, that is to have succeeded.”

7. Jealousy is pointless. So stop coveting whatever your friend or neighbor has. If you’re jealous of something someone else has, chances are you’re not as grateful as you should be for what you already have. And if you want something someone else has got, then see #31 and #11. Instead of being jealous, allow yourself to be inspired by what others have. Then be intentional. Create a plan and commit to achieving something that inspires you. I’ve never known Chris to be jealous of anyone, although I’ve seen him be inspired to do, create and achieve great things by the examples of others. Perspective is everything.

6. Remember that being without some of the things you ‘want’ is an essential part of being happy. Maybe that means driving the used car you bought 6+ years ago, and committing it to driving it til it reaches 200,000 miles, because even though you can ‘afford’ a new car, you know you don’t ‘need’ a new car. And because you like the idea of making yourself reach some financial or work or other goal before you ‘earn’ the right to by yourself that new car.

5. Don’t complain. I honestly cannot think of anything Chris Schumacher has complained about in the past 10 years. He may suggest ways something can be improved. But the man does not bitch. Maybe because he’s grateful by nature. Maybe it’s because he’s pragmatic and doesn’t see the point. Whatever the reason, it’s one of many qualities that make him a great guy to be around. He’ll never bring you down.

4. Listen to that still, soft voice inside you. It’s called your conscience, which I believe is God speaking to you. When it tells you to care about something, listen. Even if that means dedicating some Saturday nights to driving in a van in the wee hours of the morning a shady area of town with some social workers…with just the hope of bringing help and hope to women who are forced to make a living on the streets. Even if that means committing to the discipline of giving a greater amount of money away…every single year…to help those children in need … the ones God put on your heart. Whatever it means, do it. That still, soft voice is what makes you human, and it’s what keeps you real.

3. True wealth and true success have nothing to do with money, social standing or titles. They have everything to do with how you treat others (especially children; and people who can do little ‘for’ you), the life choices you make, the experiences you create, and the way you respond to life’s challenges. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world because by those measures, I know few people who are as ‘wealthy and successful’ as Chris.

2. Dads…can be…awesome. I didn’t grow up in the same house as my dad, and he hasn’t talked to me in about a decade. I’m not sure I ever really had an appreciation for the incredible impact a father’s love can have on a child, until I saw Chris with our girls. He’s everything a dad should be. He’s loving and caring. He’s involved. He never misses a special event. He never yells but he’s firm when he needs to be. He provides for their every need. He leads by example. He’s always their champion. He’s everything I never knew a dad could be.



1. Choose the right life partner. In college, I saw a poster that listed the top 10 “Secrets of Success.” #1 was “Marry the right person. This one choice is the single most important factor in determining your happiness or misery.” I couldn’t agree more. Every aspect of my life has improved exponentially since I met Chris Schumacher more than a decade ago. He’s made me a better person in every way. And his kindness, generosity, intelligence, determination, drive, passion and love have built a life I could never have even imagined before I met him. Happy 40th Birthday, Chris Schumacher. I can’t wait to spend the next 40 by your side.