50 Plus Yoga Instructor Dee Greenberg

Dee Greenberg is a dynamic yoga instructor.  Check out her website at www.50plusyoga.com. This is her first entry on our blog.  Welcome, Dee!

Sometimes an impending birthday takes on great meaning. For me, turning 50 was quite a wake up call.

And now, at 58, it’s interesting to reflect back on a time where, relatively speaking, I felt very young, at least compared to how I feel now.  I’m sure you know how that goes.

There is something to be said for the old adage: “older and wiser.”  And for those of us who are consciously and intentionally evolving – it does seem as if  ”wiseness happens.”  I’d hate to think that with each passing day I was getting a little bit dumber.  And obviously depending on the state of our health, it may feel like our minds are getting dimmer, not brighter.

That’s why I practice yoga!  I hope to keep my light bulb shining well into what is sometimes referred to as “old age.” And not only do I want my light to shine, but I also very much hope to experience this thing we call old age.

But let me go back in time for a moment.  At 50, I was single, living in Boston, recovering from a dysfunctional relationship and still feeling somewhat beaten up by it.  I was also self-employed, but without any clear goals or prospects for the future.  I had been teaching yoga for 3 months.

So basically, you could summarize my condition at 50 as more or less “spinning my wheels.”  My life lacked purpose, momentum and most importantly, goals.

And then all of that changed, seemingly in the blink of an eye.  At 50 plus, my life began to take shape in an entirely new direction and I am happy to say that now, 8 years later, my life no longer lacks purpose, momentum or goals.

The catalyst for this change was a chance meeting I had with a very extraordinary yoga instructor named Shiva Rea.

I stumbled into a week long workshop with her totally by chance.  She rocked my world, and I am a different person today as a result of the 8 consecutive years I spent studying yoga with this most gifted teacher, who became my mentor.

OK , well,  actually there was one other very significant thing that occurred that same year.  On my 50^th birthday, I was at a 4 day yoga retreat nestled deep within the heart of the Catskill Mountains with another very gifted, world class yoga instructor named Dharma Mitra.  Over the course of that weekend, I took a good, long, hard look at my life, and I set some goals for my yoga practice.
There were 2 very difficult arm balancing, inverted postures in which I wanted to gain proficiency.  So I set a goal at 50:  I *would* focus on these 2 postures and gain proficiency.  Two months later,  I stumbled on the aforementioned teacher who would become my mentor for the next 8 years and lead me towards that proficiency.

My purpose in writing this post is to spread my message to the world, which is this:

Life Begins at 50!  Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

All right, let me say it a different way: Life begins at 50, or 60, or 70,  or whenever YOU decide it begins!  The actual chronological number is completely irrelevant.  Life begins whenever you decide to begin to live fully in the moment.

So go ahead and decide.  Let your life begin right now!

Gwendie

Gwendie, who writes occasionally for this blog, has been struggling with cancer for the past four years.  She just suffered another setback, as she describes first in an email she sent and then in a blog entry–but, amazing woman that she is, she is still managing to keep her incredible, positive outlook on things.  I think Gwendie should be a role model for all of us in how to meet life’s challenges head-on and never lose hope.  As my friend Barb said, Gwendie is “living with cancer, not dying from it.”  Jane

Gwendie’s email: Well, guys and gals, it had been a relatively quiet several months here in Gwendieland until about 3 weeks ago when I suddenly “lost” my voice and developed a dry cough.  After considering (and eliminating) the various possible causes (virus, allergies, bacterial infection), a CT scan confirmed that I have more and larger tumors in my chest and neck.  So the assumption is that the loss of voice is related to something pressing on my larynx or perhaps a nerve that innervates the voice box.

Anyhow, of course that means a change in treatment.  So, Monday I’ll be starting a batch of new (to me) drugs.  For those of you who have seen me with short frizzy white hair, forget that look.  It’ll be gone soon.  Hopefully the replacement, should we ever get to that, will not have the frizzy component.  And if you call me, I can at the moment speak only in a croaky whisper.  Also, I may be heading off to Duke Medical Center for a consult there.  Sigh.  But at four plus years and counting (since diagnosis), I can’t complain.  Well, I could complain, but I won’t.

AND HERE’S HER BLOG POST:

I’m shifting gears again.

I’ve been in “drive” for a number of months, cruising along with the same meds, the same side effects, the same tumor markers, for long enough now that it—the condition—was beginning to feel “normal” (to paraphrase Prince Charles—whatever “normal” is).  Anyhow, the bizarre night about 3 weeks ago when I kept waking up with a sharp cough (and now realize I was probably trying to catch my breath) was the beginning of the shift in the gears—a slide toward reverse, which I hope will somehow come to a stop and then shift again, probably at the beginning, into first gear—slow and with lots of effort, but hopefully, quickly move into second and third and even fourth or overdrive—although I’d be more than happy with third gear!

Just not this reverse, please.

Not only do I not like the physical symptoms, but it scares me.  I’m not a big fan of backing up.  Going forward has always felt a lot better to me.  Oh, my.  This analogy is bringing on a cough.  A bad sign that I’ve slipped out of neutral again into reverse. Damn these gears, shifting without any input from me.  Well, I’m ready to take control again.

Bring on the new chemo and let’s shift back into first gear.

We had to take her to the vet in Clayton, an hour away from our farm in Rocky Mount, and she hadn’t been in a vehicle since we’d first gotten her.  We’d always had to drug her with Ace to get her there for regular visits, and even then, she drooled, panted and tried to escape from the truck for the first 30 minutes.  I figured that by the time we’d get there, she’d be practically asleep– but I knew it would be stressful on her system.  The vet wanted to try her coming without drugs.

On the fourth trip there, we made it, with just some hard breathing, and Ems was the perfect lady in the waiting room.  She let the vet techs draw her blood with no problem.  Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.It worked—for a while.  Her appetite returned.  We had read that a high-protein diet would combat the cancer, so she feasted on stew beef, pork chops, turkey burgers and chicken.  No more biscuits for treats: she had beef jerky.  As a vegetarian, I’ve never bought so much meat in my life.  Thank you, Costco!  My carnivore stepson, who became Emmy’s personal chef,  also benefited from this diet–probably not in a good way.

She was eating and maintaining her weight and energy, so we had high hopes for the follow-up ultrasound to see if the tumors had shrunk. We were wrong.  But, since they hadn’t gotten any bigger either, we took that as a positive sign.

Emmy had always been a tough character.  She appeared a little over seven years ago near the road in front of our farm, limping—probably from a run in with a car—and we had to trap her to catch her.  She was just about the homeliest dog you can imagine, maybe a cross between a pit bull and a sharpei.  Plain black and tan, and tough.  We were afraid to let her near our other dogs, so somehow she ended up ruling the kitchen, prime real estate that I’m sure the other dogs grouched about.  She wouldn’t go in a crate, wouldn’t ride in the car.  She was highly opinionated.  She didn’t like thunder and would bark for hours at a storm: she wasn’t afraid, just pissed off by it.  And she didn’t like people other than us.  There were two instances where she actually bit people, one being the horse vet.   (How embarrassing!)

She seemed destined to live out a solitary canine life, until Otis came along.  Otis appeared in my yard in Hillsborough, an obviously purebred pitbull, wearing one of those massive spiked collars and dragging a huge chain behind him.  My first thought was to look for my cat, but I quickly saw Taff checking him out from the barn.  I got the chain, and Otis obediently followed me into my kennel.  He had little wounds on his cheeks.  I took his picture, printed it out, and took it to the convenience store, about two miles away.  About an hour later,  I went back and took it down.  He didn’t deserve to be chained, and if those wounds were from fighting, I didn’t want him to go back to that environment.  I decided if he was a beloved pet, I would check for lost ads, and if they didn’t care enough to look for him, then I would find him a better home.

That was wishful thinking—because, although I did post him at my vet’s and asked a couple of people if they were interested in him, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere.  But he was scary looking.  I walked him on a leash, and this was before I had my knee replaced, and one day I fell, on him, and I thought I was going to die.  I looked at him; he looked at me.  We were both scared of the other.  I think it was at that point that we jointly realized we had nothing to fear.

Otis didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but I was afraid to let him in with our other dogs, so, with Emmy in the kitchen, Otis took over the living room and the couch.  This arrangement went on for a while, until we finally had had enough of the put-one-out-then-take-out-the-other-one stuff.  We took them out together on leashes.  The two of them walked along as if they’d known each other for years.  I think they saw they were evenly matched, so there was no need for that aggressive silliness.  After that, they became inseparable.

So, along with my stepson, Otis reaped some of the benefits of the new diet.  As Emmy got thinner, he got fatter.  He loved her beef jerky treats.  But Otis also seemed to know something was wrong.  Ems didn’t run out the door so much any more, and she didn’t rush down the fence line after the squirrels.  She did enjoy sunbathing, which is what she did all the time.

She did it on her last day.  She lay in the sunshine with Otis.  I saw him give her kisses.

When I went to the truck to take Emmy, Otis jumped in.  At first I got him back out.  Then I selfishly let him jump back in.  No one else was going with me, and I wanted his company on the way back.  I also thought that Emmy would be calmer with him along.  I always struggle with when it is the right time to let go.  But the chemo wasn’t working.  Emmy wasn’t eating.  She was losing weight, and her breathing was becoming labored.  To an outsider, I suppose it would have been obvious that the time had come–but it is so hard to say goodbye.  The vet made me feel better.  She said she would rather see an animal come in before they get to a crisis and everyone is stressed.

Otis and I drove home.  My daughter sent me a text picture of Otis and Emmy.  Not wanting to stop and text her back, I just sent a picture of Otis back.  She asked, “Did Otis go with you?”.  I stopped and wrote “Yes”.  She wrote,  “Makes me think of Up.”(the movie).  I wrote back:  “Of the couple or Doug, the dog?”  She replied, “The couple”.

Emmy’s buried now in our front yard– right by the fence where Otis runs to chase after squirrels.

Jane

I just heard about a website that may be of interest to our readers:  the North American Menopause Society’s website at www.menopause.org.  It’s got all kinds of interesting information, so it’s certainly worth a visit!  Also, they now have a special extra resource:  a whole page about sexuality and menopause.  Who knew?!  I’ll just attach the press release they sent, since I might get too embarassed if I tried to summarize it:

Annice

Sending a Shout-Out to our beautiful women over 50 who’ve been asking about writing a post on the oops50.com blog.

We invite you (all women over 50) to share your stories and experiences with our readers.  We know there are tons of subjects you care about because we know, like us, you never tire of speaking your mind!  And, don’t forget to ask your mothers, sisters, cousins, friends, colleagues, etc.  We all have intriguing and important stories to tell.   We’ll take your article (not more than 250 words) and we’ll edit it, post it, and promote it.

Some of favorite categories are: Friendship,  Aging parents, Children/Grandchildren; Cooking; Gardening; Pets;  Relationships; Health and Wellness; Spirituality; Menopause; Sleep (or the lack of); Work; Retirement (I wish); Starting Over; Books; Films; and of course, if you are inspired, you can always write about Death and Taxes.

If you’re interested, please contact me at: Annice@oops50.com and I’ll send you our guidelines.

I’m all Ears

Annice

My Gazpacho is better than yours.  Okay, I said it, and it’s true.  I’ve been serving and enjoying this wonderful gazpacho for a very long time.  I wish I could say it’s my creation but in fact, it comes from the cookbook, GOOD FOOD from FAR & WIDE : Favourite family recipes from the United Nations International School 1975.  And of course there is a story there.

In 1975, I visited New York with college friends, and took a tour of the U.N. because I knew one day I would work there.  I was young, ambitious, and wanted an international career.  On my way out of the gift shop, I purchased the cookbook.  I’m not sure why I did, because I was living in a dorm and never cooked.  I’m guessing it was the cheapest thing I could find.  Well, I never did work for the U.N. (although I did work for the World Bank and had many colleagues at the U.N.) but I am grateful for their cookbook.  I must’ve used it hundreds of time over the last 35 years (OMG!  Has it really been that long?) and one of my favorite summer recipes is the Gazpacho on page 22.

I’m sharing it now because it’s been unusually hot here for the mountains (90 degrees plus!), and it’s simply the best meal on a hot summer day.  Just serve it with corn on the cob and you’re done.  Oh, a blueberry cobbler would be the perfect dessert and with all those anti-oxidants, it’s just got to be healthy.

It seems appropriate that I credit Mrs. Henry Kent (whoever she is) for submitting the recipe. While she doesn’t appear to be from Spain judging by the name, she sure knows how to make a Gazpacho, so here goes:

Serves 6

5 or 6 ripe tomatoes, chopped (or 2 cups tomato puree) – I use real tomatoes
1 onion chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
1 cucumber, chopped
2 cups tomato juice
1/3 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons vinegar
1 – 2 cloves garlic (finely minced)
1 teaspoon salt
Tabasco or other hot sauce to taste (my addition)

Blend tomatoes, onion, green pepper and cucumber at high speed for 30 seconds.  (I pulse it in my blender but don’t overdo it). Pour into large bowl.  Combine tomato juice, olive oil, vinegar, garlic, and salt (add hot sauce here if you like) and add to soup.  Refrigerate overnight.  Serve with croutons on top, and an ultra thin slice of green pepper for color.

Prep time: roughly 15 minutes.

That’s the recipe in the book – follow it closely – you can add more garlic if you like, and if you like hot like I do, add some Tabasco.  Also, I don’t like it pureed completely (like pea soup) – I leave some pieces in it, NOT chunks, but very fine pieces of vegetables.  Lastly, if you make it early in the morning, it will be ready in the evening, but if you leave in the fridge overnight it will be perfect.

So when you’re enjoying your Gazpacho this summer, don’t think of me, but Mrs. Henry Kent (probably the wife of some diplomat) whoever and wherever she may be!

Kippy Bracke, lives in  Minnesota, where she was born and has family.  She has a love of travel, something which was developed in her at an early age as an army brat.  She recently left corporate America and has a part time job as a Tour Director with a travel agency. 

 It came as a surprise; it usually does.  I am a Tour Director, and I was scheduled to take a group to California when I started experiencing discomfort—which I thought was indigestion.  My mother, a retired nurse, suggested that I see a doctor before I leave and follow up with further treatment, if necessary, when I come home. No problem getting in to see the doctor on Thursday afternoon.  He started with the usual questions and poking and prodding.  He finished all of this with the suggestion that I get a Cat Scan.  And so it began……

 The doctor called me at home that night (yes, you read that correctly, at night and at home) – results of the Cat Scan indicated a large mass on my ovary;  he recommended that I cancel my trip and come in the next morning for additional consultation with an oncology gynecologist.  I saw the oncologist the next day, and a whirlwind of appointments, surgery and acute anxiety started in rapid succession.

 I was in a state of shock.  Cancer.  It brings all kinds of terrible thoughts.  It can be a death sentence.   How could this happen?  I am in good physical shape; I have watched my diet; I exercise; I don’t smoke.  Why was this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?  I cried.  Self pity had set in. Friends and family surrounded me with love and support.  If I have learned one thing from this ordeal, it is that the only things that really matter in this world are faith, family and friends.  As I struggled to understand and deal with all that was happening, it was the conversations and tears  that we shared that kept me going.

My surgery occurred within a week of the diagnosis.  I had what I describe as a hysterectomy on steroids – all things that are removed during a normal hysterectomy plus a few other organs due to the cancer.   After surgery, the oncologist said I had Stage 2 cancer and that the cancer appeared to be contained within the tumor.   I was not completely awake and out of the anesthesia, but this registered with me –- I remember smiling (don’t know if I actually did, but it felt like I did)  My husband and parents were at my bedside;  we were all relieved that the cancer had not spread.

Our happiness, however, was short lived.  The doctor had said that they always biopsy surrounding tissue, in the event that there are any microscopic cancer cells.  So, when the doctor came back the next day with the news that 3 small cells had been found on my lymph nodes, the nightmare began anew.  Thoughts of death and chemotherapy started to consume me.   I cried again.                          

 The proscribed chemotherapy protocol was a newer one, one that they have had good success with.  I was told that there was a 75-80% chance of getting into remission with completion of all sessions.  I was also told that approximately 40% of patients who start this protocol are unable to complete it because it is so aggressive  – 6 sessions consisting of 3 treatments each (one intravenous injection and 2 injections directly into the stomach cavity).   Preparation for treatment—implanting the ports for administration of the drugs—started  after I left the hospital, and my first treatment occurred within two weeks of the surgery

 Somewhere between my first and second treatment, self pity was replaced with self preservation and determination.  It quickly became clear that this ordeal was going to be very difficult and take all that I had.   I was determined to complete all sessions.  I jokingly told my husband that the next 6 months were going to be all about me.

And they were.   I forced myself to eat when I had no appetite and food tasted terrible. I sucked on mints and lemon drop candy to suppress the metallic taste in my mouth. I walked and exercised when I had the energy but no inclination. I focused on my body to understand reactions to the many medications. I concentrated on my medications, in order to take them at the right time to ward off nausea and pain. I ate bran flakes to fight off constipation.  And the list goes on.  And so my life progressed – day by day, week by week, month by month, always focused on getting to the other side.  The other side meant an end to the chemotherapy, the return of my appetite, and most off all, spring and all that spring brings:  new beginnings.

 It was also between my first and second treatments that I started losing my hair.    Hair loss is the most obvious sign of cancer and a constant reminder that it is a life-threatening disease.   I thought I was prepared, having purchased several scarves and a wig.  But like so many other things, preparation doesn’t always allow one to deal with reality when it arrives.

It started slowly.  A few strands in my brush soon became handfuls of hair.   And although the hair loss started slowly, the decision to shave my head came quickly.  I couldn’t handle the slow, tortuous process of watching it fall out.  It was time.  I made an appointment, and, later that same morning, went into the salon, my scarf in my purse.   The stylist, recommended to me by the woman who sold me the wig and scarves, had a private work area, a good sense of humor, and a box of Kleenex.  I couldn’t watch, so I kept my eyes looking downward.  When he finished, I looked up and stared into the mirror, not knowing whether to laugh or cry—so I did both.    I felt a terrible loss but was relieved that this step was over.    As I put on my pink scarf, I remembered what a good had friend told me – “It’s your badge of courage, wear it with honor”.   So I held my head high as I left.  I knew that I was going to earn this badge of courage.    

 That night, I took off my scarf and got into bed to watch the news before turning out the light.  Mozart ,our yellow lab, loves to sleep in our bed.   I heard her coming upstairs, and, as she jumped onto the bed, she immediately froze, staring at me.  Her body tensed, the fur on her back rose, and she slowly leaned forward.  She didn’t recognize me!  I laughed and called her name, coaxing her to come.  She slowly approached: what stranger was in her master’s bed?  As she came near, she put her nose to my head and sniffed from one end to the other.  I’m not sure what was going on in that little brain of hers, but she finally did process that it was me.  And then she proceeded to lick my head!  Ah Mozart – just thinking about her brings a smile to my face.   We call her our “therapy” dog because she’s been such a great support through this whole affair. 

Kippy with Mozart

The last two sessions were tough.  I was anxious to complete my treatment and move on to whatever lay ahead.  When friends or family members asked how I was doing, I replied that I was going to finish, that it wouldn’t be pretty, and I’d crawl to the finish if necessary.  Well, I was right.  It wasn’t pretty, and I limped over the finish line. I finally completed the regimen on February 3.  I had made it to the other side. 

I am now in a state of remission and relieved that the treatments are over.  I know that I reacted quickly and well to the chemotherapy, but have asked very few questions about the prognosis.   I have no control over what might happen and have, therefore, chosen to live each day to the fullest.  Besides, I didn’t go through the hell of chemotherapy to waste my future away! 

When this ordeal started, I kept my focus on the other side and the new beginning I hoped it would bring.  How fortunate I am to have this opportunity now in front of me.  It is spring here in Minnesota, and when I look outside, there is renewal all around – grass and flower sprouts and buds on the trees.  When I look in the mirror, I see my own spring and renewal – hair growth on my head, my eyebrows and my eyelashes, and hope for the future.  It is a new me. 

My story ends with my reintroduction to God.  Most people diagnosed with cancer turn to their religion for support, and I am no different. I was raised in the Catholic Church, but have not attended church regularly as an adult.   During my chemotherapy “recovery” weeks, I started attending the very short 8:15 am mass at the nearby Catholic Church where I was married.  The people at this early service are elderly and are regular attendees.  When I started going to mass, it was difficult, and I cried through the service, not knowing how to pray or what to pray for. 

 It was after mass in late October when I experienced a life-changing event, one that helped me cope with this new challenge I’d been given.  As I was leaving church, tears still falling onto my cheeks, I heard a voice behind me:  “I’m a cancer survivor.”  I turned around, and an older woman approached me, and said:  “You have to believe, and you have to pray”.  As I nodded, unable to speak, she again said :  “You have to believe and you have to pray”.   She then asked me my name and said “Kippy, I will pray for you.”  I remember thanking her; l didn’t even ask her name; I have never seen her since. 

 As I continue to re-establish myself with God and my religion, I often think of her message.  I have found peace within and now understand what to pray for – not a healing but the strength to handle whatever is given to me and a reminder that there is life after death.

Looking back,  I now know why, throughout this whole process, I was so focused on getting through the treatments to the other side – it would be a time of new beginnings, both inside and out.

Secondly, and this is the part I like the best, you approach each meal  (and each snack) with the 1-2-3 system, checking off three things to make sure you’re getting the balanced nutrition you need:  1) protein 2) carbs and 3) fat.  If you start by asking yourself, “Where in this meal/snack will I get my 4 ounces of protein, 1-2 cups of good, unstarchy carbs, and 1 serving of fat?”, you’ll be able to handle whatever comes at you.  I like the approach:  it simplifies my life.  It also keeps food solidly in its place as balanced nutrition instead of all the other dangerous things it can turn into, such as romance, fun, glamour, comfort, therapy, etc.  It’s also beautifully uncomplicated, so I don’t have to be carrying around a calorie counter everywhere I go.  The final part of the plan:  remember portion control!  I just need to remember to use a small plate and make sure that 2/3 of that plate is made up of fruits/veggies/whole grains and 1/3 is lean protein.  I like it! 

We also talked about low-calorie alternatives for delicious treats, such as mashed cauliflower with garlic and Greek yoghurt in place of mashed potatoes–but that’s a whole other subject.

These two, totally unrelated topics just happen to be on my mind at the moment, and, since this is a blog, with no rules, I’m going to write about both of them.  First of all, I’d like to explore my decision to join the weight management program at our local hospital.

 Well, I’m too fat. That’s the main motivator.  Secondly, even though (and because) I have had no motivation to do anything except eat for the past year or so, I’m now at a point where my body is telling me to stop.  My ankles are hurting.  My back is hurting.  I’m tired of toting this weight around.  So, when I heard about this program and saw the wonderful results on a dear friend of mine, I started thinking about doing it.  Then, another wonderful friend of mine called me up and said she wanted to do it and would I go to the information session with her.  It all seemed like fate.  Finally, my mother, God rest her soul, always wanted me to go to one of these programs, and I resisted and resisted when she was alive, so, in a way, it’s a kind of tribute to her that I’m going now.  I’ve signed up to do a program that, among other horrors, involves twelve weeks of liquid diet.  It sounds pretty daunting, but I’m determined.  I’m trying to silence the voices in my head that are saying, “But you might have a heart attack from the stress or, at the very least, give yourself a migraine!” by concentrating on the fact that there will be doctors checking on me every step of the way.  I’m also trying to avoid the “last supper” routine of eating so much before the program starts that they’ll have to wheel me in there on a gurney.  Best of all, I’m excited about the program and eager to get started.  The program promises that I’ll lose at least 10% of  my original weight, plus another 10% of my remaining weight after that first weight loss.  So, I’m fired up and ready to go.

 I’m going to blog about it for two reasons:  1) there just might be someone else out there who is considering the program, and my blogging might help them to see what it’s all about and decide if it’s right or wrong for them and 2) I’m figuring if I have to tell the world how I’m doing, I might actually stick to the program!

So, for the foreseeable future, part of my blog each week is going to be about the program and my progress!  Wish me luck!

 On another topic:  let me take just a minute to talk about how wonderful it is when children grow up and turn into mature human beings with their own thoughts, opinions, attitudes, etc.  I’m seeing this process in my teenagers every day, and I’m floored by it.  Seems like just last week they were making stupid choices and getting themselves in one fix or another, and now, here they are, acting grown up and sane and loving and smart and capable, and I just need to put out there to the world how wonderful that is!  Just to give you an example:  my 19-year-old son called me last night to tell me about a Russian novel he’s reading for his college literature course, and I could sense the excitement in his voice.  Or another one:  my 22-year-old is making her way through a very difficult year, but she’s managing not to sink down into the drama of the campus life around her.  Instead, she’s focusing on doing her work and letting the drama roll on past!

 Mothers of new teenagers who are presently going through hell:  take it from me, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s glorious!

That’s it for now.  More next week!