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Being Kind Matters

Being Kind Matters

Tuesday morning as I was shoveling our driveway after the non-blizzard-blizzard of 2015, a small, but meaningful, gesture reminded me about the importance of kindness. It was about 5:30 in the morning, still dark, and with the wind-chill, it felt like 6 degrees. Or at least that’s what my iPhone told me as I bundled up to head out into the cold. I’d had a warm cup of coffee, sent out my morning e-mail, and I knew I had to head out there. The snowfall was much (much!) less than predicted, so I knew my husband would be heading into work. One thing I’ve learned about shoveling while living on the East Coast is that it’s important to shovel before the car dives over the snow. Once that happens, the snow gets so stuck to the pavement that it will eventually ice over and cause mayhem for a good few weeks. It’s annoying, but it keeps me motivated to get out there as quickly as possible to get that white fluff out of the way. So, armed with coffee, hat, gloves, boots and a coat, I headed out into the dark to start the process. Don’t get me wrong. I like being out there in the quiet. It’s great exercise, it’s peaceful, and well, it’s hard work. And you know what the hardest part of the driveway is? Shoveling that 10 feet in between the end of the driveway and shoveled pavement of the street. Because what inevitably happens, is the snowplows drive by and create a lovely wall of snow at the end of the driveway that the car either has to drive over, through, or yours truly has to shovel. Those of you that get to enjoy snow in the winter know what I’m taking about. It’s a drag. That snow is heavy with dirt and salt, and it’s hard to pick up. At about 6:10, I’d cleaned off half of the driveway, including those lovely 10 feet at the end. As I’m heaving shovelful after shovelful, I see the flashing yellow lights, and I hear the rumbling of the snow plow as it heads up my street. I look over, and sure enough….a new wall of snow, right where I’d just shoveled. I took a deep breath, and kept going on with my work. I knew I’d just have to go back and to that part...

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My Mornings…

My Mornings…

Most of you know that I get up at 4:30 in the morning…I know, I know. Most people just stare at me with big eyes when I say that. I’ve always loved the mornings and been an early riser. When I was young, I remember waiting (rather impatiently) for the rest of the family to wake up so I would have people to play with. At twelve and thirteen, I would wake up before school to go jogging, or read. As a woman climbing the ranks of the corporate ladder, the mornings became my solitude. My time to run, be alone, and plan the day. As a new mother, I found myself longing for the days when the early mornings were my own. I grew to love those early mornings with my kids. Well, for the most part. *smile* Now that the kids are a little bit older and they sleep in, I use the time for me again. When I was working Marianne Williamson several years ago, she told me she meditates first thing in the morning. She won’t read her e-mail, look at the news or talk to anyone until she’s done that. I remember just looking at her. I’m sure I was giving her the same big-eyed stare that I now get from others… So she responded with, “Why would I ever let the world have its way with me before I’ve declared how it’s going to go?” And from that day on, I’ve tried to get up early and set the day in motion the way I like to. With a warm cup of coffee in my hands, a 20 minute meditation and a notebook that I’ve been creating from scratch for two years now. When people started asking me how I get so much done, or how I got on The Today Show for Better Way to Italy in just nine months, I realized I should probably start sharing what I do! I use the mornings to positively create my day. It’s the time before I hear, “Mommy, mommy!” or “Sarah! Sarah!” “Ring, ring, buzz, buzz…” etc. In the silent moments before dawn, I can arm myself against the onslaught of coming demands. When I take the time to create my day before the world has had any input, I get to face my day on my own terms. This makes a big difference...

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Rachel Mednick: Founder of Lucy & Leo

Rachel Mednick: Founder of Lucy & Leo

I had the great pleasure of sitting down with Rachel Mednick, founder of Lucy and Leo, organic clothes for kids. Not only is she a delight as a person, she’s smart, focused and the clothes she creates for kids are beautiful. Rachel started her company “accidentally” when she gave her new niece, Lucy, a onesie five years ago. Turns out that onesie started a whole line of clothes, all made in America with organic fabric. Yep. Organic fabric. Check out the video below to learn how Rachel picks her fabric, her advice for people just starting out and how she deals with shiny ball syndrome. You can check out Rachel’s clothes by heading over to...

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Marissa, Let’s Have A Chat

Marissa, Let’s Have A Chat

I have admired you for a very long time. You and I started out as Product Managers at the same time. Look at you now! One of the youngest CEOs ever, and you did it while pregnant. Absolutely incredible. You’re the one who thought about making the two “o”s in Google into pumpkins, starting Google’s signature logo changes. So great. As a woman who came up through Product Management, I was in awe. And a little bit green with envy. Brilliant and simple. I may not know you personally, but I feel like I do. I realize this might be a bit of projection on my part, but the admiration is real. Very real. Then came your memo telling Yahoo employees they could no longer work from home. My immediate reaction was to come to your defense, but I’m finding that really difficult. You have quite the task in front of you, and I do not envy this task. Many times throughout my career, usually as the only woman in the room, I’ve been asked to deliver something that feels impossible. The pressure is high, the air is thick with anticipation (and dare I say testosterone), and usually, fear. I wouldn’t want to have to perform for shareholders who’ve been through what Yahoo’s shareholders have been through. You were hired to perform, and I know you take that seriously. It’s what makes you very good at what you do. I’ve read articles that suggest you’re working Yahoo into a prize fighter, after it has spent years on the couch with potato chips and ice cream. I’ve heard conjecture that some employees were on the payroll, long after people didn’t realize they were on the payroll. Yikes. Clearly, that should be addressed immediately, and without excuses. Anyone would agree that is both unethical and just blatantly unacceptable. So, you have understandably brought down the axe. But here’s the thing that’s troubling me. You did it the way most men would do it. I’m sure a few people just balked at that sentence. I’m OK with that. I mean what I wrote. Listen, I like men. We all know that many men have done incredible jobs as CEOs, leaders and fathers. I mean no disrespect to men. But you’re not a man. You don’t have to do this the same way a man in your position would do it. You can...

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Resilience

“This is going to hurt,” the doctor said to me while holding a giant needle pointed directly at my knee, which was swollen once again. “Thanks doctor, but I’ve got a pretty high tolerance for pain,” I replied. You bet your *#$ I do. Why? Because I’m a mom, that’s why. Growing up in my whiney family, I didn’t want to drink the Kool-aid and join the party. After listening to them, I really didn’t see the point of listening to myself whine as well. I decided I would be tougher. And before I became pregnant, I thought I was pretty good at it. When I first realized I was expecting, I was overjoyed constantly. During those first six weeks, I didn’t understand what all the whining was about. And then at six weeks and one day, my first real wave of nausea hit and all of the sudden I got it. I whined…and told everyone about it. I just couldn’t help myself…it was the worst nausea I had ever felt. But eventually I got my bearings (week sixteen helped) and rode out the rest of my pregnancy pretty well. I told everyone I was feeling alright and mostly reserved the aches and kicks for my husband’s ears. When labor hit, I was also unprepared for the pain. I had taken the classes, read the books and trained as much as I could and still. Still, I found myself shocked at the intensity of each contraction. I just couldn’t wrap my head around the pain; it felt too expansive and unrelenting to possibly understand. When I finally got the epidural silent tears of relief spilled down my face, as I was told not move while the needle went into my spine. I profusely thanked the nurse who held my hand and promised her anything she wanted. That gratitude has not faded, even to this day, some three years later. I am sure had I not received an epidural, there would have been even more pain that would have made those earlier hours laughable. I’ll never know, and I’m okay with that. Still, the pain taught me something. It taught me how to survive. That I was able to physically and mentally go through what I did is a badge of courage and honor. It now knowwhat I am made of, what I can withstand, and what I can recover...

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Declaring My Independence

When I was young, July was one of my favorite months. It was a huge month for family trips and parties. My mom has eight brothers and sisters and I have some twenty-eight cousins – double that now, as they’re almost all married.  The Forth of July was my grandfather’s birthday, and celebrating the holiday with sparklers, cherry pie and a trip to a water park with my cousins was so exciting that it makes me smile with joy to this day. I actually remember not being able to sleep the night before we’d leave on our big weekend trip to Cherry Hill – a park and water park about an hour away from my home. It was planned all year long, everyone had mobile homes or campers that we drove into the park and stationed them under the thousands of cherry trees that lined the grounds. We would have cherry fights, eat cherries until our mouths were red, we’d play miniature golf, swim and go down water slides for house on end. And there was nothing like the smell of my Aunt Pat’s pancakes and bacon in the morning on the campgrounds. My older cousins would take the time to do our hair after a day in the pool, sometimes we’d even get to do our make up (that was always one of my favorite parts!). But as the years went on, fewer of us went, until finally the holiday at Cherry Hill was no more. The older cousins started getting married and having kids of their own, and new extended family functions to attend. Our parents started to age and suddenly rigging up the camper and packing enough clothes, towels, sunblock, Pepto-Bismol and pancake mix for the whole family wasn’t something that was worth the energy. Eventually, I moved 2,000 miles away from my hometown. Away from Cherry Hill, my twenty-eight cousins and these family traditions. With that move, I also got away from over-eating, a strict religion, a certain amount of rigidity and I found my own stride. This isn’t to say that I don’t love my family and that they aren’t very important to me. They are, and I miss them terribly during the summer. But, the move I made some fifteen years ago did me a lot of good as I learned that the way my family did things wasn’t the way every family...

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