You don’t make time for healthy living. You take it.

It was a typical Monday, a fresh start at tackling too much to do with too little time, something I hadn’t achieved in any prior weeks. I walked in the door later than normal following a school board meeting.

The girls were busy in the kitchen preparing dinner. “Hello Mom,” they both greeted me with actual eye contact and smiles. “We thought we’d help out by getting dinner started. We are sautéing ground Italian turkey to serve with red sauce on whole wheat noodles,” said Maggie.

“I’m chopping zucchini, red and green bell peppers, sweet onions, and mushrooms,” said Emily so we can sauté them too because I knew you’d want to have some vegetables too.

“Why don’t you take a seat on the patio and listen to some music for a few minutes,” my husband said as he came in from outside carrying an empty garbage can.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Garbage day is Tuesday, not Monday.”

“I just wanted to get a head start,” he said. “That way we’ll have more time on Tuesday night to take a walk together after dinner. I picked up some salmon by the way. I thought we could grill it. It’s already in a marinade.”

I sat on the porch with an iced diet soda and slice of lime. Finally, after all these years, my family has realized how hard I work and decided to pitch in and help out. I guess all that begging, pleading, and complaining finally paid off. It only took 12 years.

“It’s 6:04 on Monday morning. WKNE staff meteorologist Pat Pagano is calling for a scorcher: hazy, hot and humid with temperatures in the `90s. Sounds like a day for the beach, not for the office,” the radio rattled me awake. I reached for the snooze button.

It’s Monday morning. I have to approve payroll, distribute the minutes, and book the board room.

What a silly dream. Yet for so long that’s exactly what I was hoping would happen. One day my family would recognize all I did for them and start to chip in more around the house so I could have more time for me. That is not how it happened.

I used to think my husband would step over my limp, lifeless body on the floor to get to the remote control after I had, like an obedient mare, worked myself to death.

I tried chore charts, cleaning nights, and smiley stickers. But I still owned all the tasks that way. No one else ever took responsibility for them. I was desperately trying to charm others into doing “my” work. Instead, I just walked away from it all to do what I wanted to do for me. I spend time picking out recipes, shopping for fresh foods, cooking healthy meals, and exercising everyday. I put these as priorities for me, pushing doing other people’s laundry lower on my to-do list.

Messes are patient. They will wait for me to come back. But an amazing thing happened. My husband found where we keep the toilet brush after all those years. My daughters learned how to operate a washer and dryer. And I learned how to accept and appreciate the ways in which they do these things. They aren’t on my timeframe. They aren’t up to my standards. It is hard to even tell the difference before and after a teenager cleans the bathroom. The broom doesn’t seem to reach into corners of the kitchen. The recycling bin spills over before it helps save the planet. But they are finally doing what I always wanted because I didn’t do it for them.

How do I find the time to exercise, eat right, work full time, and lead Weight Watchers groups? I don’t make the time. I take the time. I simply claim it for me before someone else snatches it up.

Never too old to go out and play

It took my husband and I fifteen minutes to get to Goose Pond on our bikes, but I was much farther away than that from dirty laundry, unreconcilled bank accounts, and toothpaste splattered sinks.

I passed through a door when I entered the forested trail around the edge of a round pound. I was no longer a middle aged woman with a to-do list that could occupy a team of six.

I was seven years old. I pranced over exposed tree roots, jumped over puddles, hopped rock to rock across streams.

I was clever. I stalled to contemplate crossing wet, mucky stretches of trail, certain I had found a better route than all who had passed before me.

I was a goddess. I stepped out onto a slanted rock that overlooked the sparkling pond. I was on stage before the reflective water framed in blue sky and green trees. I stretched my arms out to the sky feeling the sun’s warmth on my face. Not tired, burdened, or stressed, I felt alive.

I was brave. I ventured into unchartered ways along the shoreline, discovering a fallen tree across a section of pond. I took a deep breath and stepped on board, placing one foot in front of the other. One-third of the way across, I called out to my husband, “I don’t know if I can do this. I shouldn’t be carrying my new cell phone.”

“It probably wasn’t such a good idea,” he replied. “You do have vertigo.”

“That was not the right answer,” I said. “I can do this. I will do this,” I said. I safely crossed to the other side.

I was an artist. On one of the few wooden bridges over bubbling brooks, I stopped to employ all my senses. My eyes scanned the many shades of green: vibrant glowing mosses, saturated warm maple leaves, and cool blue spruce needles. My skin felt the cool refreshing air rising from the brook. I could even taste the damp, dewy cool. My ears took in the rushing of water over rocks as it hurried past itself to the pond. I wanted to memorize it.

I was a naturalist. Stopping sharply mid-bounce, I landed softly and crouched slowly. A beaver was about a yard away from me chewing a green branch in the water. His big warm brown eyes and wide cheeks made me smile inside and out. His wide flat tail floating behind him, never rising to slap the water in warning, as I slowly passed him.

I was defiant. When we got to the cement damn where water runs across a wide flat stretch, I crossed the shallow flow in a march, purposely splashing as I went.

I was fulfilled. I got back on my bike muddier, sweatier, and wetter than before. The next door I crossed was into my house.

“Emily dropped the big bottle of brand new dishwashing liquid and the top broke off and it is all over the kitchen floor,” Maggie announced. In the same breath, without pausing a millisecond, “Can I go downtown with Min then to Hoffies with her and Grace so we can all go to the movies and sleep over Kelsey’s? Will you give us rides right now?” she asked.

By taking time for me, I was better able to be me.

Last Things First

When I brought my second child home, my good friend Fiona told me, “Last things first. When the baby goes down, don’t do the dishes or vacuum. Those things will get done somehow. Instead, read, write, or call your Mom. Those are things that otherwise might not get done.”

Fiona was wise and right.

It’s Saturday morning. There are piles of laundry, mail, and DVDs. From where I sit in the living room I can see three pairs of my husbands shoes—one resting on a dryer sheet. The floor has a light dusting of microwave popcorn and pretzel crumbs, remnants of someone’s movie fest. Are those movies overdue?

I should pick up. I should sweep. I should mop. No I should walk away.

Why am I obligated to clean up after everyone else? Tragically, my husband can’t see dirt. It’s a common condition associated with the Y chromosome. He walks right by it completely unaware of smears or crumbs. He even tracks in mud, grass, and horse manure without any knowledge that his boots have left a trail of deposits. What doesn’t make sense to me is why he asked me where I had gone in the station wagon to get it so muddy. I told him the living room.

My children are like irresponsible boaters, leaving a massive wake that rocks and tosses other boats without regard. Where ever they’ve been you’ll find evidence: empty cracker boxes, cereal bowls with a quarter inch of milk, flip flops, nail polish, nail polish remover, cotton balls, hair ties, crumpled tissues, gum wrappers, lip gloss…

I’m no one’s Cinderella. My husband and children all have hands and feet. Otherwise why would I be looking at so many of his shoes? What are my teenage girls putting nail polish on?

Cleaning up after themselves isn’t their top priority. Why should it be mine? “Last things first,” I say. “But why am I always last?” I ask. “Not anymore,” I answer.

It’s a beautiful day. I’m going to ride my bike to Goose Pond and hike around it. I’m going to give the horse a bath and groom his tail. I’m going to feed my soul instead of enslaving it in housework. Then I’ll come home and leave dirty tracks across the kitchen floor to see if anyone notices.