With uncertainty

One of the most frustrating things about life is how uncertain it all is. I mean, there you are, doing your thing, and it’s pretty much the same thing you do every day. Sure, there are variations, but we are creatures of habit, so we tend to seek the comfort of patterns. So there you are, going about your nine- to- five activities, and someone flies a plane into the World Trade Center. And then nothing makes sense, because that’s not the sort of thing that just happens on a Tuesday. And the whole world-- the one you’ve fought so hard to force into comfortable arrangements-- seems fragile and terrifying.

You remember that feeling right? We all do because it was one of those times that the world fell apart for all of us at the same time. But there are many, many of those moments-- the ones that make everything feel uncertain and breakable-- in a lifetime.

Because it never makes sense to lose a child. There’s never a practical time for a car accident. Never the right day of the week to find out someone you love has cancer. Never a good month for a war.

But these things happen. Tragedy points its finger indiscriminately, regardless of our plans. So here’s the question: If you could know the future, would you?

It would be nice to know it all works out. There have been more nights than I could count that I’ve wished I could have a glimpse of what’s to come to see if things will be okay.

But if I knew it wouldn’t be the same. I think the point of life-- in part-- is simply to experience it. All of it; The beauty and the horror. Fear is part of the tour. Uncertainty and the exhaustion it brings, too.

I don’t know when any of us will die. I don’t know when the next cataclysmic event will fall. Don’t even know when I‘ll need to break out the next Band-Aid. And if given the choice, I don’t think I’d want to.

Faith is born in those moments of anxious insecurity. Strength, compassion and courage too. Those characteristics don’t come cheap, and ominous disquiet is the price we pay to acquire them.

Keep your chin up, your heart open and your head in the moment. The future will figure itself out--good or bad (but probably some of both).

See you there.

The myth of perfect timing

There is no such thing as “the right time.”


It’s a myth-- a fairytale we cling to even when logic would tell us to let it fall to dust.

Maybe it’s because if it were true-- if there were a perfect time to take life’s bigger chances-- we could be ensured a happy ending. And that would just be… well… that would be wonderful. Risk without risk. But as we hold out for the time that feels right enough to guarantee a “Happily Ever After”, we miss out on just plain ol’ “happy.”

Movies and folk wisdom would have us believe that there will be a perfect moment to go after that which we most desperately want. We’re told there will be a “right time” to reveal a crush, chance a kiss, make a change, pop the question, have a baby, buy a house, start a business, chase a dream… but like I said before, there is no such thing as “the right time.”

Life is a series of moments, some better than others. And the best and worst part of it all is you never know when you’re going to run out of those moments. Don’t let fear of taking that leap of faith allow you to bypass the opportunity to make something great.

Andy and I were married for about four years before we decided to try and have a baby. It had been a source of discord in our marriage because I felt ready for kids years before he did. But eventually things all came together. We were building a house, we both had good jobs, I was done with school… it was the perfect time.

Except when I was two months pregnant Andy lost his job, my job cut my hours, we (briefly) lost health insurance, construction on our house was months behind schedule and we were left living with my in-laws for an indefinite amount of time. See, even the perfect moment is just that-- a moment. And moments are fickle lil’ things, and they can go from “perfect” to “decidedly crappy” in a heartbeat.

We had suddenly found ourselves in about as un-ideal of a situation in which to have a baby as a married couple can be. And yet somehow, even in that most non-perfect moment, things turned out as well as we could have ever hoped. Just as perfect timing doesn’t guarantee everything will work out, bad timing doesn’t mean that it won’t.

The thing is, there’s never enough money. There’s never enough security. Things are never just as you’d want them and even if they are, they might still fall apart. There is no “right time.”

But there is this time. This moment. Right now.

Take this as your sign, if you were waiting for one. Take that chance, make that leap of faith, and pursue that dream, whatever it might be. Kiss the girl, make the call, take the job, buy the house, seize the moment.

Because it might not be perfect, but it’s yours. Don’t let it pass you by.

Perchance to dream

“I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.” ~Hamlet


Most of my dreams, since 7th grade, have been nightmares.

Why 7th grade? Couldn’t tell ya. Maybe I have some post-traumatic stress disorder from puberty or something, but whatever the reason, that’s when it started.

At first I figured it was just a phase. Everything seemed in flux at that age, and I assumed the whole thing would pass by high school. But the bad dreams stayed and got more disturbing. Eventually I started trying to get rid of them and was told they were something called “night terrors” because of the particularly graphic nature of the dreams and because they would sometimes cause me to react in real life (think sleep-walking but with punching and yelling).

Turns out there’s not a whole lot they can do about a thing like that. Some people are just prone to unpleasant sleep. And while there have been instances it’s been scary (the time I almost killed our cat because I thought he was on fire and I was trying to put it out) or embarrassing (the time I ran outside in nothing but a skimpy nightgown yelling at non-existent car thieves, resulting in a very awkward moment with my former neighbor) it’s mostly just an inconvenience.

But last night, after bad dream number 3,402 ( this one involving tornados, sea monsters, dead tigers and electric ghosts) I decided I’ve finally had it. Seventeen years of nightmares. That’s more zombies, clowns, serial killers, dead loved ones and alien abductions than anyone should have to experience in a lifetime, even if they are technically sleeping.

Back when this started, back when I thought it would pass, someone told me “dreams are God’s way of screaming at you what you refuse to hear in the daytime.” That seemed a little folksy for me, even back then, but I do think dreams mean something. The way that I have my own little subconscious house of horrors-- there’s got to be a reason. And if there’s a reason, there’s a solution. Maybe if I can figure out what these things mean-- what God has been yelling at me, as that woman said years ago-- maybe I can break through the parade of boogey men that marches through my mind most nights. Maybe I could just sleep, like most everyone else.

If nothing else, I’m sure my cat and my neighbor would be grateful.

Navel idea

The Great Navel Piercing of 2002 went a little something like this:

I was out of town with my friend Paige visiting our friend Stephan at Ferris State University. Someone, somehow decided we needed to head to the new tattoo parlor-- just to look. I had gotten a small tattoo on my back (insert “tramp stamp” joke here) when I was a few months shy of 18 and wasn’t looking for any more ink, but Paige and Stephan were both open to the idea. We spent a decent amount of time there, talking to the shop owners and perusing the different designs, but neither of my friends found anything they wanted permanently etched onto their skin.

I felt bad about taking so much time there not getting anything. Or at least that was my excuse for letting the possibilities of what kind of alterations I could make to myself roll through my mind. And then I noticed the body piercing station. For 20-year-old Laurel, the choice was obvious.

See, at 20, I was in the brief, brief period of life where I had no one to answer to but myself. I was old enough that I didn’t feel completely under the authority of my parents, and young enough that I wasn’t yet married. I didn’t spend every waking minute dissecting the long-term implications of my every decision. I wasn’t this Laurel-- the one who reads articles about the best way to cook grilled cheese with genuine interest and who uses the words “poo-poo” without a hint of irony. Every square inch of my body belonged to me and me alone, and at that moment, I knew exactly what one square inch of my body was missing: A belly piercing.

The process took about 3 minutes, from start to finish, and I loved the result. Even at 20 I never ran around showing my stomach, but my new little barbell was there and I knew it, and that was enough.

Andy hated it immediately. He had already outgrown the teen he was-- bleached hair and pierced ears-- to become the much more conservative version of himself he is today. He hates tattoos and body piercing, and I had one of each. But in all honesty, I really didn’t care. I loved him, but back then, I still had some things that were just for me.

I made him a deal I’d take out the belly piercing when I got pregnant-- partially to placate him and partially because the idea of a big, pierced, Prego belly made me queasy.

True to my word, the day I found out I was pregnant with Kat in 2006, I took out the piercing. Because I always read into everything to deeply, I felt like I was tucking away the remainders of my not-so-rebellious youth. And it made me kind of sad.

Along with my belly rings I put away my plans to go sky diving, my dreams of owning (or hell, just riding) a motorcycle, and my late nights at the bar. Because despite what they say, you can’t have it all, and I was willing to trade that life for this one. I was responsible for someone else, which meant I had to take care of myself. My body, suddenly, was no longer mine and mine alone.

I all but forgot about the piercing until yesterday, when it began to itch a little. It occurred to me that I’m done having kids, and I could put the old belly barbell in. Andy was horrified at the idea. He reminded me, in no uncertain terms, that I’m too old for that sort of thing (at 28 ?!?!). And while most of me-- the apron wearing, cookie baking, POINTS counting, diaper changing, wifey/momma me-- agreed, something long forgotten spoke up from some dark recess of my brain and said “dooooo iiiiiit.”

So I did. Or at least I tried. I dug out the old metal and tried to reclaim my not nearly misspent enough youth. But it turns out I had outgrown it. Literally. The hole, while mostly still there, has closed over just enough that I’d have to re-pierce a little bit of it. And while I could accomplish that goal with a little rubbing alcohol and a safety pin, I choose instead to take it as a sign.

That part is done. It was fun, but it doesn’t last forever. And that’s for the best.

But for now, I’ll take comfort in knowing that somewhere, beneath the thickly layered façade of the uber-domesticated housewife, there’s the scar-tissued reminder of the slightly spontaneous, slightly irresponsible, slightly pierced version of myself. And she is bad ass.

Baggage; Yours and mine

It’s shocking how weighed down we are.

We like to think the story begins with us. Maybe that’s the problem. Because none of us is the whole story. We are the sum of our genetic parts-- a history made of lives upon lives, all culminating in us. Humanity traveled a long way to bring each of us into existence , and like any other traveler, it brought baggage.

Lots of it.

In an easier world, relationships (friendships, loves and acquaintances) would be as simple as me + you. But it’s really so, so much more complicated than that. It’s me, my parents, their parents, their parents’ parents and on and on,--back through to the beginning of history-- and you, your parents, their parents, anyone who affected them… you get the point. And each of those people that came first-- each one that had to happen for us to happen-- each was a real, complete person. Which means they had their own beliefs, fears, prejudices, abuses, addictions, dreams, losses and cravings. And each of those things leaves a mark, eroding into the character of a person in a way that is irreversible and undeniable.

Maybe it would be better if the experiences of a life were contained to that life. But they aren’t. Because like I said, experiences shape people, and those people, shaped by those experiences, raise children who are shaped by the consequences of those experiences. For better or worse.

Relationships are difficult because they mean setting aside hundreds of years of collective experiences and deeply ingrained beliefs. I’m not just mad because you didn’t pick your socks up, I’m mad because generations of people before me taught me it is unacceptable to leave socks on the ground (okay, not really, just making an example). And you’re not just mad because I’m nagging you, you’re mad because you saw someone else in your family nagged and swore never to be treated that way. And that person, in turn, allowed the nagging because they had experiences that convinced them it should be tolerated, and so on.

Every argument--be it with a spouse or a co-worker or a stranger on the freeway-- has a chorus of voices behind it. The baggage of every mistake or lesson learned the hard way since Adam and Eve.

Maybe that’s why people are so angry now. Maybe it’s just getting too heavy and we’re tired of carrying so much.

It’s hard stuff to put down. It’s difficult to let go of prejudices, beliefs, faults, feuds and crusades. It’s hard to live entirely in ourselves, taking each experience for what it is and not for what it reminds us of.

But who knows how many trips ‘round the sun we each get? No day is guaranteed. And there’s no way to possibly live life fully bogged down under so much baggage. So lets put these things down now, as much as any person can. Because I appreciate all those lives that made mine possible, but now that I’m here, I want to live it-- with nothing more than a carry- on an a diaper bag.

What gets lost along the way

I remember the exact moment I realized what I really wanted to do with my life.

I was covering an odious Monday night school board meeting, and an executive session had been called, leaving me twiddling my thumbs and counting the seconds that dragged by until the meeting would resume. While those in attendance waited, a young father scooped up his small daughter and zoomed her around the room making airplane noises while she screamed in delight.

“I want to do that instead,” I realized.

Journalism is a funny beast. You have to really, really love it because the pay is crap, the hours are worse than crap, and everyone within shouting distance of your circulation is more than willing to say you’re crap if you write something they disagree with. But I always felt like it meant something. Not much, maybe, but I tried to do some good and highlight some truth.

But that night, covering that meeting, I realized there was something I’d love doing even more; Being a mom.

Fast forward three years and here I am, Mommy Mommerkins McMom. Mrs. Mommy Mommerkins McMom, actually. Full time stay-at-home mom extraordinaire.

And since this was my choice, and it is all I wanted, it should be enough, right?

But it isn’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids with everything I’ve got. I never regret the choices I’ve made. But if I’m honest with myself (and you, I suppose) I would have to say there are times when I find myself wanting something more.

Everything I am today is defined in relation to my kids. Everything I do, everything I plan, everything I hope, it all revolves around them and my husband. The meals I cook, the diapers I change, the shows I watch--all of it. There are days when I feel like somehow the person I am got lost along the way.

I was going to write things that mattered. I was going to earn money and be recognized and respected for my place in society. My teachers told me I had potential, and I believed them.

And maybe I let us all down.

I wouldn’t trade my time with my kids. And logically I know what I do matters, even if it is ephemeral and unskilled. And it’s with no small amount of guilt that I write these words, because I know, as deeply as anyone can know anything in this world, that I am blessed.

But I’m also lonely. And most of my witty pop-culture references are wasted on the three and under crowd. And I really, really hate watching movies about Barbie. Really.

I’m lucky. I’m so, so lucky. I know that. And this should be enough.

So why isn’t it?

Past imperfect

The past has a funny way of rising up to meet us. Issues and anxieties thought long since left to dust are found reanimated and hiding in the quiet recesses of the present, waiting to infect the day.

In a way, the past is a vampire.

It rises from its rightful resting place to drain us, feeding on the moment, leaving only an anemic shell of the now. The past can steal the blush of the present. And it just won’t stay dead.

Mistakes, missteps and mishaps; accidents, betrayals and tragedies; old debts and old flames; bad decisions and overwhelming failures-- all these things are out there, just waiting to trip us up when we start feeling too comfortable.

The reason we can never fully rid ourselves of these monsters is because they make us who we are. They ushered us into the skin we now inhabit, and that gives them license to stop by, uninvited, whenever they might choose.

Whether your past-vampire (it’s a phrase now, I’m copywriting it) is a bad credit score, a crappy ex, a loss you can’t move on from or a few too many beers before driving, it’s the bad parts of a life that shape us most dramatically. They teach us appreciation, patience, endurance and the importance of forgiveness. And like anything valuable, these lessons come with a high price.

The only real question is when do we get to stop paying.

Why did they have to make these limited edition? I loved these!

Vicious hope

There are so many things in this life to be afraid of. Terrorists, maniacs, clowns, high fructose corn syrup-- the list goes on. But of all the scary things in this scary world of ours, for me, one of the most terrifying is hope.


For a such an innocuous seeming four letter word, this baby can throw a mean left hook. Because hope robs us of the comfort of finality. If a thing is bad, and will always be bad, we can make our peace with that. We’re surprisingly resilient as a species, finding ways to endure even the bleakest conditions.

But telling us there’s hope things will get better--that a change is coming-- that leaves us open for a kill shot to the spirit. Because to see the light before being cast back into the blackness is worse. It’s cruel, really.

To say a thing is or is not, that is tolerable. To tell us to allow ourselves to dream of what might be, that holds a certain horror. Allowing a heart to warm to an idea; A better place to live. A second chance at health. A baby. True love. A great job. Achieving a dream. Forgiveness. Redemption. Success. Peace. To dangle these things before us, allowing us to believe them possible at last, only to lose them again, is beyond excruciating.

But why? Why would it hurt to lose what you never really had to begin with? Hope.

See what I mean? Tricky lil’ bugger, isn’t it?

But vicious as it is, hope is necessary. Without hope for what might be, none of us would ever move beyond what is. And those times hope blossoms into reality almost compensate for the devastation it leaves when it withers in the mind.

A life with hope is a scary thing indeed. The only thing scarier is a life without it.

Commencement speech

It’s graduation season, and that means it’s time for individuals of great acclaim and accomplishment to come forth and give inspirational commencement speeches to the classes of 2010.

For some reason I was overlooked for this honor. Apparently having all the lyrics to “Dr. Horrible’s Sing- Along Blog” doesn’t qualify me as impressive enough of a person to impart my brand of wisdom on those kids in the stupid hats. But why let a little thing like nobody caring to hear my thoughts stop me from expressing them?

Ahem:

“Commencement” is a word that means “beginning.” No, forget that-- everyone says that. If there’s one thing people are eager to tell you again and again as you pack your books and prepare to venture out of the hallowed halls and into the real world it’s that this is the beginning. And yeah, they’re kind of right. But it’s also an ending.

People don’t like to talk about that much because it’s taken for grated that endings are sad unless they include the phrase “happily ever after,” and nobody is foolish enough to hand out that promise along with your diploma. Personally, I think being “ever” anything-- even happy-- sounds a little dull, but I digress.

The thing is, this part of life, right here, is an ending. And while those of you who have excelled in this little microcosm of the universe may have some troubles with that, for the rest of you it may just about save your life. Because all those places you never fit into before are gone now, as are the people who have made existence in these parts difficult. And though new people and difficulties will inevitably take their place, you will never again have the same strife you knew here, because time, mercifully, changes us, and the people you see here seated near you will cease to exist as they are today in a remarkably short amount of time.

There will come a time, not so very long from now, when you realize you are not the version of yourself you were today. And that’s probably okay. Because it’s that real-life education-- the courses taught by loss and pain and need and success and obligation-- that will inform this future version of yourself. But such change is as hard as it is necessary. And probably nothing I say here today can make it any easier. Just in case though, here are some of the things I’ve picked up along the way. Make of it what you will.

• You never realize how sick or hurt you can actually stand to be without seeking help until you pay your own medical bills.
• There is life beyond Ramen Noodles.
• It’s not as easy to get pregnant as they make it sound in sex ed.
• Most of what you’ve learned in school can be forgotten, leaving you none-the-worse for it.
• People are never exactly what you’d think them to be.
• Most of the things people say “build character” actually just break spirit.
• There’s something deeply satisfy in doing something just because you want to.
• We have to look out for one another. That may just be the point of all of this.
• Never trust a clown.
• Y’all are going to regret skinny jeans-- trust me on this one.
• Gauging your ears , piercing your face and/or getting any tattoos still visible in a short sleeve shirt will ensure you will have significantly less earning potential in your life unless you’re going to be a bouncer, a musician or something else along those lines. If your need to express yourself outweighs your need to make a comfortable living then that’s completely valid, just know the deal going in. “The Man” still runs the world, and the man frowns upon that sort of thing.
• There will be times when you have to choose between being a good person and being a good employee. Side with humanity. Jobs come and go but there are some wrongs you can never undo. No paycheck is worth that.
• Everyone’s got troubles. Even the jerks.
• One of the most empowering things you can learn is your ability to redefine who you are at any given moment. Those things that tie us to who we think we have to be are mostly smoke and mirrors. Most are only a reality because we believe them to be so. Dust all that off and remember who you want to be, and start being that. Now.
• Be kind. Not because you have to be, not because you’re seeking some karma points and not because it looks good on a resume. Just do it because it’s what you were meant to be.
• Don’t waste your life waiting for it to begin.
• The easy thing is rarely the right thing. The right thing rarely comes with a big paycheck.
• Be grateful. Even for the hard parts.
• Forgive people. Even if they don’t care, it’ll make life easier for you.
• Know that no matter where life may take you, you have something of value to teach someone else. Even if it never ranks high enough to warrant a commencement speech.

Five things I will never say in front of my daughter

Nothing teaches us the power of words more than watching a child learn to speak. Navigating the murky waters of a language is no easy task-- and that goes for the grown-ups too. Words are powerful, and should only be un-caged from our mouths with the utmost care. But we all know that’s impractical. No one, parent or otherwise, can be mindful of every utterance every moment of every day.

We all screw up and say things we wish we could take back-- a situation made infinitely worse when it occurs in the presence of our kids.

And while I’m sure my children will hear a litany of four letter masterpieces fly past my lips along with some undoubtedly colorful phrasing for bad traffic situations, spilled paint, or tight pants, there are some things I will try exceedingly hard to never say in front of my kids-- specifically my daughter.

1. “I’m fat.”
This one is hard for me because, well, I’m a woman. Moreover, I’m a woman who has grown up in a society that worships at the cult of thin. And I would be lying if I were to pretend I haven’t said on more than one occasion : “This is America; There’s no such thing as too skinny.”

For me, that will always be a little true. I know, logically, that I’m not fat. But I will never be able to look at my body and see any less than five disposable pounds lingering just beneath this skin. For me, there’s no such thing as too skinny.

This way of thinking is diseased though. I caught it somewhere along the way, and while I can’t cure it within myself, I will do my damnedest to keep from infection my daughter. So while every fiber of my being may ache to make derogatory comments about my body, I will shut my foolish mouth in front of Kathryn. And while society will tell her a thousand times over that we are all too fat and should do nothing short of self -flagellation when passing any reflective surface in penance, I will not. She may catch this sickness, but not from me.

2. “That’s gay.”
Because while it’s superficially little more than a colloquialism, the underlying implication is that gay means bad. And I reject that idea with every fiber of my being.

3.”Stop asking ’why.’”
Okay, I think I’ve already blown it a few times here because nobody asks “why” more than a two year old, but I hope to God she never stops. Because life, taken at face value, is dangerous. We all need to question the information we are given and the reality we are told to accept. To fail to do so is to invite unscrupulous behavior and unchallenged tyranny.

Teachers, doctors, newscasters, politicians and yes-- even parents-- should be questioned. Information is power, and I want my daughter to always seek greater meaning and hidden truth. Even if that mean spending 25 minutes explaining why I won’t put ketchup on her ice cream.

4. “I’m so stupid.”
I do stupid things. I make stupid decisions. I have stupid hair. But I, as a person, am not stupid. And putting myself down in front of my daughter will only make her think it’s okay for her to be equally cruel to herself.

5. “This is hopeless.”
Because it never is, really. There’s always hope. Even when it seems like there isn’t.

There are other things, of course. I will never say things that are racist or encourage (or allow) her to be cruel to animals. I will fight like mad to instill within her a sense of empathy and teach her the dangers of allowing yourself to think of any group of people as a “them,” since it’s all “us,” really.

I’m not entirely naive. I know she will hear all of those things again and again, sometimes from people she loves and respects. And she will have to come to her own decisions about why she will or won’t say them, as will Josh. There’s every chance they will learn these things and believe them to be true.

But not from me.

Unmasked

“The makeup’s all off
Who am I?
If the magic’s in the makeup
Then who am I?”
-No Doubt, “Magic’s in the Makeup”

One of the first things you learn as you cross into adulthood as a female is you’re never pretty enough. The message is reinforced through movies and television and glossy magazine covers. Airbrushed images of tanned and toned perfection are dangled before you, giving the impression that if you could just find the right mascara and the perfect pair of jeans and drop five more pounds you too could attain such beauty.

And let’s face it ladies; Beauty is power. Nothing makes men stupid like a beautiful woman. It wins the possessor of those charmed physical attributes everything from free beers at the bar to a better chance at getting a job to an easier time making friends. Doors are opened both figuratively and literally. Society seeks and rewards beauty.

But it’s never enough.

I was never the pretty girl in, well, anything. Not in school, not at jobs, not in general. Mercifully, there were only a few times though where I was the ugly girl-- mostly I was little miss mediocre-- but those few instances of being the uggo in the group sent a clear message: As much is beauty is rewarded, ugliness is punished. Fat is treated with scorn and an assumption of laziness. A big nose is grounds for ridicule. Pimples mean you’re dirty. All mean you are unworthy of basic decency.

Maybe it’s the fear of how bad ugly can feel that drives the need to always wears masks made of makeup and mascara. Maybe it’s the barrage of commercials telling us we need can never smell good enough, never have teeth white enough, never be thin enough, never have hair that’s shiny enough and never find heels high enough to be worthy of the happiness promised to us if we could just be better. Or maybe as a gender we’ve just allowed ourselves to be bamboozled.

Most of my adult life I’ve been terrified to go as far as the mailbox without makeup. And it’s not because I think I’m so hot that I need to diva it up for the passing motorist who might briefly glimpse me as they drive by. It’s because I bought the hype. The person I am, the natural me with pale eyelashes and glasses, with blotchy skin and dark under eye circles-- that person is unfit for society.
But somehow, somewhere along the way, that all changed. I wish I had some epiphany- provoking incident to relay to you. Maybe the birth of my daughter or the death of respected, if not traditionally beautiful woman. But the truth is, it’s none of those things. I just got tired of wearing masks.

That’s not to say I’m chucking my Cover Girl or my stilettos-- those things are fun when you want to play the role. They are, at their best, a means of expressing aspects of your personality that would otherwise remain invisible. But that other person, the one with unpolished fingernails and grubby running shoes and teeth tinted by coffee sipped during meaningful conversations-- that person’s okay too. Not beautiful in the traditional sense, but not someone only to be seen through a veil of artificial attempts at an unattainable perfection.

Lipstick’s fun. I’m just made up of more than that.

The great breastfeeding debate

One of the first things I learned about being a parent is that no matter what you are doing in relation to your children, somebody always thinks you’re doing it wrong. And while everything from whether or not to circumcise to working vs. staying at home is a potential minefield for criticism, it seems nothing inspires as many tense words and raised eyebrows as the question “breast or bottle?”

It’s enough to make any new mom downright nostalgic for the ol’ “paper or plastic” decision.

I think the reason for the topic being so heated is two-fold: First, there’s nothing more basic in parenting than feeding your child, and because it is universal it is something literally every parent who has raised a child has done, and therefore has an opinion about.

Second, in our society breasts are equated with sex, and nothing fuels a debate like adding sex to the fire.

As a mother, there are so, so many things to consider when deciding whether or not to breastfeed. For me, though, it came down to this: I was biologically able to do it and it was the best thing for my children.

So does that mean I think anyone who does it differently doesn’t love their kids as much or is a worse mother? Nope. Do people interoperate it that way? Yep.

The sad truth is whichever feeding method you pick, someone who chose differently will see your decision as a rejection of their own parenting style, and mothers take that crap personally.

I say all that because I can’t help but think it plays into this next issue :breastfeeding in public.

I’ve never seen anyone, anywhere, object to bottle feeding a baby in public. I’ve personally gotten some odd reactions to bottle feeding a baby pumped breast milk in public. But nothing, nothing gets some folks queasy and ready to rumble like the sight of a baby being breastfed out in the open.

The debate about this is multifaceted but mostly boils down to three camps: “That should not be done in public.” “ That can only be done in public if I can’t tell that’s what you’re doing,” and “That can and should be done in public.”

Each reaction is valid. We as, as society, have an aversion to bodily fluids of any sort being expressed in a public place. I think that’s why so many people suggest women only breastfeed in bathrooms: “That’s where I put anything coming outta my body lady, you do the same.”

Also, again, breasts equal sex to most people, and anything sexual in public is a no-no. Is it right? Is it the fair? Who or what is to blame? Doesn’t matter. Not here, anyway. Sometimes you just have to accept the reality you exist in for what it is at that particular moment.

Finally, I can’t help but feel some women who used formula take this blatant breast baring as a public rejection of their own mothering style. And in fact, I think some women who do publicly breastfeed do so almost militantly, as if to say “That’s right, this is my choice and you can just deal with it.”

And I’m not saying any of that is necessarily wrong.

Equally valid is the belief that women who are nurturing their child in the most natural --and medically advocated-- way, is not something on par with pooping, to be done only in bathrooms. And while we’re on the topic, those of you who say “do it in the bathroom,” I can tell you from personal experience how unpleasant it can be to breastfeed a baby while someone is dropping a log in the next stall. Not a great time.

Talk of needing to be discreet only reinforces the idea that a nursing baby is something shameful, and that our bodies are not to be seen in that way. And even if that’s not how it’s intended, that’s how it feels.

The simple truth is, when it comes to this topic, you can’t win. Moreover, the thing they don’t tell you at the doctor’s or at the hospital or in the magazines or articles or news segments or any of the other billion places they foist the need to breastfeed for a year on a new mother is that in doing so you are making the decision to be very, very lonely. Because unless you are comfortable making others uncomfortable, or spending prolonged periods of time with your newborn in a public bathroom or attaching a baby to your nipple in front of your father-in-law or uncle or brother or any other male aside from your husband (or baby daddy…whatever) you are choosing to be alone.

Because when people come over in droves to see that cute lil’ bundle of joy, they don’t want to see that, so prepare to be hidden in the bedroom while everyone else chats happily. And if you want to go out to do anything, know your time away from the house is limited to --and this is as the very most, if the sleeping baby gods are smiling upon you-- two hours, including travel time. And if you do need to be gone longer you need to pump milk for the occasion and that takes no small skill with timing and not to mention a very expensive machine.

It gets easier. Times passes quickly. A year in a lifetime of years isn’t really so much. And hey, by four months old you can start with cereal and other foods. But it’s still a very lonely time while you live it.

I don’t breastfeed in public. I am, at my core, a people pleaser and hate the idea of making others uncomfortable when I could just inconvenience myself instead. In fact, I never even use the word “breastfeed’ when it can be avoided because despite having done it for a year with Kat and two months so far with Josh, it still seems icky and embarrassing to me. But the logical part of me knows that’s a little twisted. I’m doing what they all told me to do. I’m doing what is supposed to be the best thing for my baby. But it’s still a dirty little secret most days.

And I don’t see that changing in a time where it will help me, but I can’t help but hope when my own daughter chooses between breast or bottle, it isn’t actually a choice between bottle or social isolation.

Binders

One of the best gifts I ever got was a book of quotes from my friend Meredith. And while just a plain ol’ “someone famous said this” style of quote book would have been nice, this was a book she made filled with actual quotes she had collected said by a group of us who worked together. She made copies for each of us and the pages captured moments of conversations we’d had over about a year’s time. Whenever I read those words I can hear the voices behind them and remember the moments they represent. In their own way, those words are more powerful than photographs for how they capture the blush of that time.

I hadn’t known it until then, but Meredith is a quote junkie. She collects quotes from famous people and friends alike. And while you may wonder about the attraction in other people’s words, Meredith sums her fascination up as such:

“Here's what I think: Quotes are therapy. Finding the perfect quote for the way you feel just means that, at some point, someone else was thinking what you're thinking, and you're not alone.”

And while she didn’t know it, that quote of hers perfectly describes one of the main reasons I write these…thingies. Whatever they are. To discover or to inform that some experiences are universal. At some point, someone else was thinking what I was thinking, or what you are thinking. That we are not alone.

Odds are, you haven’t experienced all of these things. But probably, at some time in your life, you have --or will have-- experienced one of them. Births, deaths, love, loss, failure, need, apathy, ambition, embarrassments and nostalgia are trans-cultural, universal things. But at the time they can still feel so isolating, so lonely. It can feel as if no one else has ever felt that hurt or ever experienced such love.

But then, in writing about it, I usually find that someone, somewhere connects with what I wrote. Not a lot of someones, but I’m not building an army here. I’m just looking for proof than none of us are alone in this.

Each post is like sending up a flare-- either in response to something I see someone else experiencing or something I’m struggling with myself-- and more often than not someone will pull over to the side of the information super highway and pause long enough to give assistance in the form of a kind word or some helpful feedback.

Just knowing that these moments--the big ones, the small ones, and the ones that require a really strong carpet cleaner-- aren’t mine but rather ours is empowering in a vital way. These are the things that bind us. Though the names and faces and details may change, we are all living different variations of the same stories again and again.

To quote Meredith, “…you’re not alone.” And these things remind me that neither am I.

The ride of your life

(Originally posted 4/6/2010)
Waiting at the top of “The Power Tower” at Cedar Point. That’s what waiting to have a baby is like.

For those of you who have never been on that particular thrill ride, allow me to explain. The Power Tower is a drop ride, meaning all it does it take riders 240 ft. up in the air before dropping them straight down for a free fall/ bungee feeling. And while I could go on and on about the thrill of the fall, I would argue it’s the moment before you drop that makes the ride.

It’s all about anticipation, you see. First, you decide this is a ride you want to go on. Maybe it’s to prove something to yourself, maybe your friends are pressuring you, maybe you just always planned on going on it or maybe you took a wrong turn on the way to the teacups. Regardless, you’re in this long line, and you’re watching everyone ahead of you take their turn. Finally, you are ushered into your seat and buckled in for the ride, which starts with a jerk and makes a “click, click, click” sound as you slowly begin your ascent to the sky. Click, click, click-- and the world you know starts looking further and further away. Click, click, click, as you inch impossibly higher. Click, click, click, as you begin to wonder why the hell this sounded like a good idea in the first place. Click, click… then nothing. You’ve taken this ride as far as it goes and even though there was frustration in the wait and terror in the climb, that’s all nothing compared to this new sensation, as you dangle so far removed from the safety of solid ground and the anticipation of what’s to come. And for a moment, there’s no clicking, no climbing, just the breathless pause before the drop.

That moment, to me, is the same as the last few days before having a baby. You know it’s coming. You’ve known all along that this was, God-willing, the end point of this ride. You waited your turn and have been impatient to just get this thing going so you can hit the snow cone stand. But then there’s that feeling of standing on the precipice of great change, but not knowing exactly when it will happen or how it will feel or even if it will really all be okay in the end.

It’s only a moment in time. Barely long enough to take a breathe, really. But it’s also somehow timeless, existing in a vacuum separate from the reality that is and the one that will be. And it’s awful, but also strangely wonderful.

And then someone, somewhere pushes a button and you drop.

And it’s fun and terrifying and exhilarating and exhausting and endless and brief. And then it’s over.

Suddenly you’re back where you started, but it’s different somehow. Your feet aren’t as steady and the sun seems too bright. The logical part of you says it’s you that has been changed by this experience, not the world itself, but the world seems removed from that which was normal nonetheless.

And it takes a while to find your footing again, but you do. And it’s not clear if reality becomes what it was or you just adjust to what it is, but things eventually feel normal again.

At some point, though, you find yourself looking back at that ride--remembering everything from the wait to the pause to the drop-- and smiling. Because it was one hell of a ride, and you’ll never regret taking it.

You may, however, realize that if you ever want to go on it again, you should skip the breakfast burrito. Live and learn friends, live and learn.

An open letter to my unborn son

(Originally posted 3/6/2010)

Dear Josh,

Hi! It’s me, your mom. We haven’t actually met yet, but you’re on your way into this big, bright world soon. The thing is, as soon as you get here it’s all noise and confusion and having to learn to breathe something other than amniotic fluid. After that it’s bugs and trucks and dirt and things that have slime on them. And then it’s all explosions and sports and (ugh) girls. Then it’s mortgages and home repairs and finding some sports car to compensate for your fading youth. Then, who knows, probably something with cyborgs.

But before all that, before the world steals these last moments of peace from us, I want to make sure I tell you a few things.

First, I just want to be honest: I have no clue what to do with you. Great thing to hear from your primary caregiver just before being launched from the womb, right? I mean, no worries on the basics-- your sister was kind of the lab rat for that (no, don’t call her a lab rat). Diapers, baths, feedings, nasal aspirators and those little clear things that go in every electrical outlet in the house-- I’ve got that stuff down.

It’s just the, well, boy factor I’m concerned about.

The majority of my friends with kids have sons, and they all assure me I’ll figure it out and it’ll be so much fun and you’ll be my buddy… blah blah blah. Truth is, I am a girl (believe it or not) and because of that I get what life is like being a girl. I understand the appeal of flying ponies and obnoxious Barbies and songs about love. Not really my thing, but I get it.

GI Joe, wrestling, Transformers, boogers, sports, poop jokes, scabs, foods that are deep fried and smothered in cheese, fart sounds and boobies are not my thing (okay… maybe if it’s a really funny poop joke.) And yeah, you have your dad for all that guy stuff, but that still leaves me wondering where we connect.

With your sister, the bonding is easy. Some popcorn while watching the Oscars, some My Little Ponies and some time playing princesses and she’s all set. And yeah, we all play dinosaurs and farm animals and pirates, but I know what to do with all the stuff that comes after this. Shopping and pedicures and bad movies with Sandra Bullock -- no worries.

But with you, I worry all you’ll ever know of me is the mean, mom stuff, because I don’t really know what else to do past dinosaurs and pirates, and how long can that last? Until you‘re 30, 45 max? And even though we haven’t met, I love you so, so much, and I want to do better than that for you.

So here’s the deal kid; you lead the way. I’ll show you the stuff a mom has to teach you. It won’t be as fun as the stuff dad brings to the table, but somebody’s got to remind you to wear pants when you leave the house. And I can meet you in the middle on the poop jokes and dumb cartoons-- we’ll always have Spongebob Squarepants. But some of this stuff, the boy stuff, I’m going to have to let you do your own thing with and meet you when you get there.

Maybe I’ll get lucky, and you’ll get into running or horror movies. Or maybe I’ll get really lucky, and musical theater will be your thing. But if I’m really, really, really lucky, you’ll find your own passions, and because I love you, I’ll love whatever you make your own.

In the meantime, be patient with me. Remember that I used to be a normal person before I became the frazzled, muttering, shell of a woman I’ll probably turn into (that, you can blame on the Barbie movies.) Remember that I’m always trying to do what’s best for you, even if it’s not going to make you like me. In return, I’ll try not to dress you in too many sailor suits.

Oh, one more thing: I know you want to get out of that womb. It’s cramped and dark and really hard to find a decent martini. I get all that, I do. And if anybody asks, I’ll tell them the reason I want you to stay in there a little longer is because your room isn’t finished or your clothes aren’t ready or any of the other very practical, very true reasons I have to want you to bake a little longer. But between you and me, part of it-- a very big part of it-- is that while you’re in there, I can protect you. I have literally wrapped myself around you, forming a protective mommy layer between my little man and the world. And the world is lovely, really; I’m a big fan of the world. But it’s also dangerous. There are guns and bombs and earthquakes and tornados and germs and governments and wars. There are people who text while driving, shoot without thinking and leave the bar when they should have called a cab. There are STDs and trans-fats and there’s really bad “smooth jazz.” There’s middle school. And love that will destroy you and loss that will cripple you. There are sprains, breaks, cavities, hernias, flat head syndrome, and environmental toxins. Apparently peanuts are some kind of threat now, I don’t know. There are clowns and really, really, bad daytime T.V.

And despite all of that, I truly believe in the depths of my being that this world has more love, compassion, kindness and understanding than any of that bad stuff. If I didn’t , I never would consider trusting you to this existence. But for all the faith I have in the ultimate goodness of the universe, I like being able to shield you just a little bit longer.

So kick all you want, buddy. Pop my ribs, punch my pelvis and bring on the contractions. The world has been waiting for you. It can wait a little longer.

I love you.

Mom

Someplace still

(Originally posted 2/3/2010)
There are times in life when the only question left is “When’s it going to stop?”

When the waves of misfortune slam so relentlessly with heartbreak after heartbreak, catastrophe after catastrophe, that all that’s left for us is to throw our hands in the air and scream to whatever forces in this universe we might believe in “When’s it going to stop?!”

When we are so far past beaten -- past defeated-- that we wonder why no divine referee has called an end to this boxing match in which you were horribly outclassed to begin with. And still you fought. Gave it your best shot, put up your metaphorical dukes and raged against the assailant set against you. And when the bell rung after that round, and you had impossibly survived, you had no time to even catch your breath before something bigger was unleashed upon you.

And why?

Why the cosmic beat-down? Didn’t you do everything the way they said you should? Didn’t you play by the rules they established? Wasn’t that you, out there, day after day, year after year, living life the way good folks are supposed to? Is this your reward? Pain. Stress. Grief. Heartbreak. Loss.

“Well thanks. Thanks for that,” you mutter to a suspiciously unresponsive sky. “Thanks for that extra kick when we were down. Thanks for making sure there was no chance, NO CHANCE, that we could get out from under this.”

You feel flares of a familiar anger-- something left from your time fighting perhaps, back when there was still something to fight for. But those embers burnt themselves out long ago. Now, in this moment, you are to tired even for anger. There is only the echoing numbness of failure and defeat.

That, and two questions:

“Why?” And “When’s it going to stop?”

And if life were made of the stuff of inspirational ballads or the stories we tell our children, those answers would come. They would come because that is the reward a hero is due. They would come because you fought and cried and bled for those answers. They would come because if nothing else about this can be fair, at least here some justice could be found.

But life is made of something else. And of all the things woven into this rich tapestry of pain, answers are absent amongst the threads.

So who is to blame? Yourself? Life? God?

It doesn’t matter, you realize. You’re past blame. Maybe even past wanting to know why. Maybe.

But you still want to know, still NEED to know; “When’s it going to stop?”

And the truth, you realize (because this isn’t an inspirational ballad or a bedtime story for the kiddies) is… never.

As long as we live, we hurt. As long as we draw breath there will be pain, and disappointments, and failures, and missed opportunities, regrets and heartbreaks.

And while there is little solace in that lesson, there is also one more truth:
Pain is as constant as joy. But pain leaves scars where joy leaves only whispers. It’s easier to remember the pain, because it has brutalized us in a way that is palpable. It’s more difficult to remember the reason behind a smile or beneath a giggle. Those moments leave us with nothing tangible to help us remember them when they are needed most. But they happened. And they continue to happen, even in the midst of grief. Even when they seem impossible.

No one ever asks God “Why?” when a healthy baby is born. No one questions the callous universe when a loving hand makes contact with your own. No one seeks the justice behind a smile.

And why should we? Those moments are just part of life. Those things are just the way things go when they go well.

And this is just how life goes when they don’t And while it‘s not much, that may be as much peace as there is to be had here.

The good will come and go. The bad will too. Again and again. Because that’s life; The good and the bad. And fair or not, that’s the price we pay to live it. Chock it up to the cost of admission for one hell of a ride.

That, and accept that some days the best we can hope for is just to land someplace still.

Before the fall

(originally posted 1/21/2010)

It’s a strange thing to wait for Death. A morbid little waltz comprised of hushed phone calls and staccato words. Life, in its normal order, is put on pause or tidied up in preparation for something that can’t be prepared for-- not really. Deadlines and plans hang in a strange state of flux, waiting to fall or shift or be postponed.

And while all are aware of the reason for the shuffle from routine and the impending sense of change, Death is rarely addressed by name. It is talked around and through but rarely about.

Death is never expected, even when it is. Even when we know it is coming-- even when we have accepted that it is, in some ways, best. It never fails to surprise, as it works with lazy precision to shatter familiarity like glass.

It arrives, in these instances, like a tardy and indifferent guest of honor. There is never enough fanfare for the one it has come for, never sufficient farewells. Even when there is.

Sudden death, obviously, is different. The inconvenience of it all is blunted by the shock. There’s no time to fret about the periphery details. “When should I get my plane tickets?” “How much work will I miss?” “What will we do with the kids?” Those things don’t matter because the violence of the moment shows us that they don’t. We only process that we must go, that it is necessary, that we are needed. Those other, lesser worries fall to their rightful place in line, though they must still be addressed.

But when death is prolonged, they work their way uncomfortably into the conversation. They rage against their displacement from the natural hierarchy of your concerns. They refuse to be ignored, and the guilt they bring with that refusal is greasy and unforgiving. How can we be worried about a project at work even as we wait for the phone to ring with anticipated bad news? How can we be preparing clothes for a funeral that has yet to have a body? How can we live the mundane details of a life while death is so near?

But that’s the thing about life; It goes on. Even in the midst of death. Even when it’s inconvenient or lacking in poetry. Even when it seems wrong.

Strange and inappropriate thoughts persist because even as death looms, life looms larger. And while it may seem crass, it’s also strangely beautiful. There’s grace in the mundane, and hope lives inside each moment which strives to reclaim that which is typical. We go on. We pause, we mourn. But we go on.

That’s life. And death too, I suppose.

Remarkable

(Originally posted 1/4/2010)
When you get right down to it, I think all each of us really wants is to matter.

To know that in some small way, the world is different for our having been here. To see that lives have been affected by our actions or decisions. To believe we won’t be easily forgotten when we are gone.

We each want, in our own way, to be remarkable.

Some people seem born ready to meet this challenge. You know who I’m talking about. The person who owns any room they walk into. The student so gifted teachers stand back in awe, proud just to lay claim to any part of molding this genius. The woman with a hundred “best friends”, each of whom would assign her a place on their speed dial, the position of Maid of Honor in their wedding and the title of Godmother to their children. The man who effortlessly finds wealth and influence and wears them like a well tailored suit. The person who, instead of just talking about changing the world, does.

I always kind of hate these people. It’s hard to see someone fall effortlessly into a thing you so desperately crave for yourself. But then again, I suppose I always love them too, since I seem to have a surprising number of friends who fit this description.

Don’t get me wrong-- we all love our friends. We all think them talented in their own ways. But what happens when the people in your social circle are exceptional even to those unfamiliar with all the little details usually needed to elevate a person to the position of “extraordinary” ?

I have friends who are, by any standard, talented musicians, artists, photographers, comedians and philosophers. I have friends who are remarkable in their beauty or awe inspiring in their ability to bring change to a world in need. I have friends who are, as I type this, working to help children who have cancer, engineering some modern marvel, seeking social justice, running newspapers or being “that person” that is most essential to a happy life to more people than I even know.

My friends are teachers and lawyers and social workers and independent thinkers and fashionistas and, oh yeah, a bunch of them save lives for a living. EMS workers, 9-1-1 operators and police officers-- you know who you are.

Worst of all are the writers. The gifted writers who have published works in actual books or who became actual journalists, not just hacks who feel lucky if two people click “Like” on a Facebook note, like yours truly. The ones who write the things we feel and make me wonder why the words look so beautiful when left to their minds to assemble. They are the worst, because they are the ones who actually do the only thing I ever thought I had a shot at doing, but who prove me wrong because their talent next to mine is calligraphy to crayon.

Because like I said, all each of us wants, really is to matter. And while we all rejoice at the successes of good people and acknowledge that any greatness in the world benefits us all, there are times when a small, selfish voice says “Why not me?”

We all want to be remarkable. But what happens when you are an unremarkable person in a group of remarkably remarkable folks?

What I tell myself, is that we are all blessed in our own ways. Cliché, yes, but it helps keep jealousy at bay. The choices I’ve made will never yield spotlights or book deals or rasping thanks from the family of a loved one saved by my hand.

But.

But I was given a child. Two, soon. And while a lot of people take that for granted, I never, never will. To me, that alone is an extraordinary opportunity-- one I’ve seen too many amazing people denied to ever take lightly. More than that, my meager talent has afforded me the opportunity to work from home, writing small things for small paychecks, allowing me to spend my days beside a small person as she grows to do big things.

Because we can’t all be remarkable. The thing that makes some people extraordinary is the fact that some of us are cast in the role of, well, ordinary. We get to clap when they bow, laugh when they joke, sway to the music they make and marvel at the moments they have captured.

And that has to be enough.

So, while I will still, no doubt, get thinly veiled looks of pity when seeing another successful friend who asks “what are you doing these days?” or even fade entirely from the minds of rising stars moving to places my vague influence won’t reach, I’ll tell myself that though I’ll never be much to very many, I’ll be all I can to the those who need it.

Because all we really want is to matter. And in this small way, I know I do.

Death be not proud

(Originally posted 11/18/2009)
“Everything, everything ends.” ~Death Cab for Cutie, Meet Me at the Equinox

When I think of death, I think of strawberries and kittens.

I know. Not the way most people envision the most morbid of subjects. But the first human death I experienced was my grandfather’s when I was very young. So young, that my parents decided I would only be scared and confused by a funeral. My brother and I spent the afternoon at a farm picking strawberries and chasing kittens the day Grandpa was buried.

It didn’t take long for the rank funk of death to permeate my sunny memories. At some point, I became aware of mortality in the way that all kids eventually do, and was convinced each time my parents left the house they would die. I’ve always done better processing things if I know the “why” behind them, so my mom was smart to explain to me that the reason I was feeling this overwhelming anxiety was probably because I was suddenly aware that everything—everyone— ends at some point. And I was projecting my own fear of the unknown onto my parents, because dealing with death in those terms was somehow more tangible than thinking of it in broad, sweeping strokes. Sounds a little overly analytical for a kid, but it helped.

It wasn’t for a few more years that I discovered death, in fact, does paint this world with broad strokes. Coloring some areas of life so deeply that no part of them remains unsaturated by his touch; Dulling and muddying the brightness of others, just wisping shadows on the rest. But no part of the landscape is untouched.

When my grandmother died my junior year of high school, there were no strawberries or kittens. There was an unexpected plane ride to a muggy airport in Florida. There was the steady beeping of machines and the quiet murmurs of people with white coats and scrubs. There were tubes and drips and sighs and tears. Worst of all, there was waiting. Waiting for an unseen visitor no one would address by name to come and make his appearance at this strange gathering.

Then came the planning and the phone calls. A funeral service filled with warm words and chilly conversation. But it made sense. Death, in that case, had taken his proper turn in line. Once we grow old, we die. I understood that.

The next death never made sense.

Mike was 17. We were all 17. But Mike was never allowed to be any older. It was a car accident. There were no strawberries or kittens then, either. There were hallways filled with sobbing students, shocked not only by the sudden loss of a friend, but also by the forced realization that even the young and the good could be stolen by Death.

I remember almost everything about that funeral, but most clearly I recall the eyes of his parents. I wish I could forget that part. Nowhere was the injustice of a life left so quickly more visible than in those eyes. And in that moment, though I was years from having my own kids, I knew that of all Death’s cruelties, this was the worst; The loss of a child. Because it’s not the way it’s supposed to be. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair.

Death doesn’t care.

Time passed, the way it does even when it seems almost blasphemous that it does so.

I came to understand a little more of grief and learned a healthy respect for the way life can change in a blink and a phone call.

Words like “cancer” “heart problems” “diabetes” “stroke” and “hemorrhage” took their rightful place in my mental card catalogue of horrors, filling the spots vacated by boogey men and monsters.

By working with Hospice, I learned a little of the silent beauty of death. Unfair, unyielding, and cruel as it is, Death is a necessary guest at the party. For one thing, his unseen presence makes everything else seem that much more meaningful. Moments wouldn’t mean as much if they weren’t temporary. Colors wouldn’t seem as bright if not for the shade he casts so unpredictably. Saying “I love you,” wouldn’t seem so necessary. And none of our own children, or their children, would have their moment in this world if we each clung to it without release. Death clears the path for life, however unevenly or indiscriminately.

But even as I write that, I know I’m still trying find respite from the fear by explaining the “why,” just as my mom did all those years ago. I’m still looking for death to be strawberries and kittens.

Maybe, just maybe it is. Maybe it’s life that’s the hard part.

27: The year in review

(Originally post 10/21/2009)
With my 28th birthday a week and a day away (don’t strain yourself doing the math, it’s Oct. 29) it’s time for my annual year in review. While most people tend to examine their year’s accomplishments and shortcomings around January 1, I always look from one birthday to the next.

I could write an essay about my big search for meaning these past 12 months, or my decision to have another baby,or my brushes with success and overwhelming failures.

I could do that, but I’ll be lucky if anyone—me included—even takes time to see the highlights of this year. So without further blah blah blah, here’s my list of some of the stuff I’ve picked up along the way as a 27 year old:

• Of all the people you might disappoint in this life, the worst is yourself.

•Sometimes there’s nothing like achieving a goal to make you realize you need to reevaluate your priorities. It’s okay to stand back and admit “I don’t want this anymore.”

•Nursery rhymes are terrifying. Seriously, Jack cracks his skull open, a baby falls from a tree, Peter pumpkin eater traps his wife in a gourd and a dish has an illicit affair with a spoon. What is this stuff?

•The more you are exposed to real tragedy, the more difficult it is to be sympathetic to minor inconvenience painted as tragedy. That said, to minimize every small pain that plagues a life is to deny a valid piece of the human experience, meaning, by saying “it could always be worse” nothing is ever allowed to feel bad, and sometimes pain is justified.

•Of all the things to be thankful for, forgettable days are high on my list. It’s the days that will forever divide your life into a before and after that are tough.

•There’s a thin line between being accommodating a being a doormat.

•The longer you’re with someone the less you actually see them. At this point Andy could grow a tail and I could sprout wings and I doubt either would notice for at least hours, if not days. That doesn’t mean that you stop finding each other attractive, only that the qualities of that attraction become deeper and less visible.

•No one should die alone.

•I knew I was worrying too much about feeding Kathryn a balanced diet when she referred to wanting more lunch meat as wanting “more protein.”

•From what I’ve heard, most people go through life thinking bad things won’t happen to them, in a “that happens to other people, not me” way. I, however, go through shocked when bad things happen to other people and NOT to me. My immediate reaction is always “I can’t believe it would happen to someone else, I always thought that would happen to me!” How screwed up is that?

•You get what you tolerate.

•Love is a choice you make again and again. It’s not always as easy as falling. Some days, it’s more like trying to fly. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep trying.

•Dear high school: I forgive you. Middle school: maybe next year.

•We need to help each other. The differences that we’ve had pounded into our consciousness for so long are not only divisive, they are weapons of mass distraction. We all love, we all hurt, we all want to keep our children safe, we are all temporary. The rest is just there to keep us from realizing how connected we really are.

•Horrible things happen to amazing people. What makes them amazing is their ability to find life beyond the shadow of that pain.

•All of my favorite stories fall into three categories: 1. Less-than-compelling plot with an amazing wordsmith propelling the story (ie; The Catcher in the Rye. Nothing happens in that book, but the way Sallinger tells the story of that nothing is phenomenal). 2. Amazing plot with an un-exceptional author (ie; The Twilight Saga. That story was so juicy it would have fought through being written like appliance instructions). 3. Great story, great author (ie; The Harry Potter series. Smart writer, captivating story).

•Despite what the magazines say, there is no unspoken war between working moms and stay-at-home moms. We’re all moms, and somehow the universal experience of getting pooped, peed and puked on overshadows issues of taxable income. Go figure.

•It isn’t always fair. In fact, it’s rarely fair. It just is. Make of that what you will.

•The odds against a thing happening don’t matter if you’re the 1 in a million.

•I am not defined but what I eat, what I read, what I watch or who I vote for, and I’m
finally past putting much stock in what other people think in regards to those things.

•I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I have very few regrets and if given the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

•It all goes by so fast. Even the days that seem to drag on forever.

•We do what we have to do to survive, even when something seems so big it ought to make us lay down and die.

•I want to be liked. I’m okay with that. More than that though, I want to be honest, because otherwise being liked is nothing but shadow puppets anyway.

•I will never be beautiful like the women in magazines. I will stop making such a big deal about that because I have a daughter, and it would devastate me to see her try and live up to those same shallow and unrealistic expectations of beauty.

•I think I’ll always get downright giddy about birthdays. And I don’t care that the cool thing to do is to act nonchalant, I like making a big, doofy deal about it. Life is a gift, and I don’t take it lightly.

•It is possible to have a love/hate relationship with “Goodnight Moon.”

•I’ll never be a successful writer. Not in the sense of having a substantial audience or making real money or making any real change in the world. But In the past year I’ve written things that people have told me have eased their pain, made them laugh, made them cry or made them think. I have left some tangible piece of my heart written down for my daughter to have when I am gone, and have been able to earn enough money schilling my knowledge of AP style to put food on the table while being able to stay home with my child. I’ll never be a successful writer, but in some ways—some important ways—I’ve still found success. And those little comments of encouragement mean more to me than any of you will ever know.

•I will never stop grieving my dead pets. I will probably never be able to hear about someone else’s without crumpling into tears.

•Apparently I am a sucker for any story involving either A) vampires or B) someone with tremendous power whose only soft spot is for love. I have no clue what that is about me, but apparently that’s my thing.

•The meaning of life is to experience it. I think it’s that simple. The love, the loss, the need, the hurt, the pain, the thrill, the thrall, the laughs, the late night talks, the campfires, the exhaustion, the forgiving, the rage, the release and the redemption. Just take it all in, accept it for what it is and what you can learn, and move on. But what do I know? I’m only 27.

In defense of Bella

(originally posted 10/16/2009)
Lately I’ve seen a number of editorials criticizing Twilight heroine, Bella.

I understand why the books make easy fodder; For starters, the series is popular, and there’s nothing like tearing down something the stupid ol’ general public has swallowed up like ding-dongs to induce mass amounts of self-righteous satisfaction.

Additionally, the books are marketed toward the decidedly un-elite group of readers known as teenagers, so telling them in painful detail why the love-sick leading lady is no one to be admired can seem akin to doing some sort of public service.

But I’m sick of it.

Admittedly, I consume an awful lot of the literary equivalent to junk food. I read more Stephan King than Herman Melville—but it doesn’t mean I’m stupid or uneducated. It just means I admit that while crème brulee is wonderful, sometimes you just want a Big Mac. Sometimes, junk is good. Sure, it won’t enlighten us in any big way, it won’t look prestigious sitting on a book shelf, but it’s satisfying in a way that is fun and easy.

It is this pervasive attitude that by embracing the story of Bella and Edward—a 17 year old girl who falls slavishly in love with her vampire soul mate, abandoning her own safety and future simply to be in his presence-- we are somehow spitting in the face of the women who fought for equality that I find offensive.

First of all, last I knew, “equality” does not mean “dominance” or “superiority.” It means, well, equal. So for all the nay-sayers insisting that Bella does us great cultural harm by not constantly having the upper hand in her relationship, I say ”Phhhhhllllllttttt.” Yeah, that was me typing out a farting sound I’d make with my mouth. Like I said, l can appreciate low-brow.

No one, living or undead, should look to be the one constantly controlling a relationship. Love is about give and take and the unending search for equality. In these books, Bella suffers for love. Edward suffers too. They both pain and pine for each other. They both hold powerful sway over the other. Guess what? it’s not about gender inequality. Love’s a bitch, for men and women. That’s the truth and that’s the plot. So ease off.

Another common criticism is that Bella has no hobbies aside from caring from her father and loving Edward. As for the caring for her father, I find the stereotype that men are little more than infants left burning their dinners and mismatching their socks more offensive than the idea of a teenager being considerate enough to make dinner for a single parent working long hours. Also, in the context of the book, the father and daughter have an incredibly difficult time expressing their love to one another, and I read this as Bella’s unspoken way of showing her father the affection she could not otherwise communicate.

As far as the all consuming nature of Bella’s love for Edward…uh, Hello! Have you recently spoken to a teenager—or anyone for that matter—in the throws of new love? It IS all consuming. Stupidly, painfully all consuming. So whether the author wrote Bella pining for Edward at cheerleader practice (something that wouldn’t fit for such an introverted character) or pining for him over her calculus homework, it would be unrealistic to have a desperately in love teenage girl acting any other way than desperately in love.

Speaking of calculus homework, I’ve even read criticisms that Bella isn’t shown doing enough school work in the books. Wait… give me a minute for this one.
…
…
…

ARE YOU SERIOUS? THIS IS A BOOK ABOUT HOT FRICKIN’ VAMPIRES, FAST CARS, ETERNAL LOVE AND EPIC FIGHT SCENES. IF I HAD TO READ EVEN ANOTHER PARAGRAPH ABOUT 12TH GRADE HOMEWORK I WOULD BREAK DOWN IN TEARS AND POSSIBLY SEIZURES. DO YOU WANT THAT ON YOU CONSCIENCE?

Sorry, I shouldn’t have gone all upper-case like that. But C’mon! Nobody, NOBODY wants to spend their time vicariously reliving their high school syllabus.

Finally, lets throw everything else I said out the window and assume, superficially, the critics are right. Bella is a subservient, weak-willed, love struck, mild-tempered woman. Now get ready for it because I’m about to drop a big ol’ “she said wha????” bomb:

So what?

Since when did the right for women to be outspoken, strong-willed and unattached become the responsibility that they be so? Are we, as women, honestly to be so pigeonholed? Doomed only to assume the “I’m a strong, independent woman” personality traits deemed befitting a generation of women privileged to have the option to behave as such? Sorry, but being told who you have to be—in spite of your true nature—is oppression. It is the opposite of what people fought for. Women can be sassy, classy, rich and righteous . They can also be meek and mild and soft and passive. That’s freedom.

So back off Bella, you self-righteous literary critics. And c’mon. Admit it, the whole reason you're blasting the character is so you could have an excuse take a break from reading War and Peace and have yourself a nice, tasty, trashy, Big Mac of a book.

Things you can put down now

(originally posted 10/4/2009)
In 1997 I went with some friends to the local movie theater to see “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion.” I spent an absurd amount of time working on my hair and makeup and picking out the right thing to wear, because in high school movies aren’t about movies, they’re about guys. Actually, when you’re a straight 15 year old girl everything is about guys, but I digress.

I watched the movie about two women venturing back into the murky waters of the high school social strata via their high school reunion. They decided to impress everyone who had been mean to them by inventing impressive—if fabricated—lives, including their being the inventors of Post-it notes. It blew up in the faces. There was a helicopter and a choreographed dance number. It seemed the way a high school reunion should be.

I hadn’t thought much more about the film until my mom mentioned it in reference to my upcoming 10 year high school reunion. “That was about a 20 year reunion. I remember, because they were all old,” I told my mom.”Are you sure? I think it was a 10 year,” Mom answered. I looked it up and sure enough, mom was right. Had I really thought 27-29 year olds were “old?” Had I ever been that person?

I started thinking about how the person I was in high school was someone else entirely from the person I am now. As if more proof was needed to cement the idea, I recently read a letter I wrote to myself to be opened in 2009 back in 1999—the year I graduated. The person behind the scrawling print on the aged paper wasn’t a bad person, but she was also not someone I could relate to now at all. She had seen very little of life or love or loss or pain or redemption or failure or success. Those are things time brings us, if we are lucky. They are the things that take us from who we were to who we hope to become. And that Laurel, the 17 year old one, hadn’t been weathered by them yet, and was less polished for it.

The letter was helpful in regards to my decision to go to this reunion, because prior to reading it I’d just been thinking in terms of the people who were mean to me in high school or who I hoped to show up. Suddenly I realized those people-- the popular ones, the mean girls, the guys who didn’t notice me—they don’t exist anymore. They stopped existing 10 years ago, when life started to happen to them too. Each of us has been changed. Each has been eroded and shaped and polished with experience and hopes and failures and loves and deaths and kids and mortgages and passports and mistakes and joint checking accounts and faith and dogs and promotions and marriage and divorce and the realization that our parents are real people, not gods or demons. And while none of us been shaped by all of those things, each of us have been touched by some of them. And those things change you. Any grudges born now at the people who wronged us in the past are born at ghosts. You might as well throw punches at an echo as hate the kids you knew in high school.

It was liberating, really. All those things, those petty things we carry from our teen years, could finally be set down. I felt the bone-deep relief of setting down weights I’d forgotten I’d even decided to pick up.

As I got ready for the reunion, I didn’t feel any need to “show” anyone. I didn’t need to impress anyone. I just wanted to be able to represent myself as I felt I actually was—no more no less. And while I did agonize over what to wear, it wasn’t because I wanted to reemerge through the years as a sexpot, but just that I hate going anywhere feeling like I’m not looking like me, if that makes sense.

When we first arrived, the room was set with several long banquet tables. My old lunch group gathered around two tables near the back of the room. The “cool kids” still had their own table too. I still wasn’t part of it. The only difference was this time, I didn’t want to be, and didn’t feel purposefully excluded. They wanted to catch up with their old group, I wanted to catch up with mine.

After the meal people began to mingle in a way that would never have happened in high school. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I think it was more back to my earlier epiphany. We had new things in common, and old things that seemed very unimportant and very, very far away. I felt no hesitation in approaching anyone. Homecoming court and stoners, band geeks and honor society, cheerleaders and drama kids—all had been touched by the same years I had. And I’d lived flashes of each of the roles they had pigeonholed themselves into in high school in the years since graduation, so I felt an odd sense of understanding for who they’d been. More importantly, there were no more band geeks or cheerleaders, there was no more homecoming court. There were moms and dads, husbands and wives, people worried about their careers and deadlines and the economy, people with hopes and dreams and pains a million miles from where they were when we donned our grad caps all those years back. Just people.

There was no helicopter, no choreographed dance routine (unless you count the hustle). And while I strongly considered telling people, ala Romy and Michlle, that I invented Post-its, no one asked. They were too busy sharing stories of their kids and laughing about how dumb we all once were.
I laughed too. We were dumb. The cliques were dumb. The stigmas were dumb. The worries and troubles were dumb. The anger was dumb. And it was all done and gone. And we were all the better for it.

As I left the room filled with more of us than have been together since graduation, I was quite a few pounds heavier than I was way back then. I’d never felt lighter. I’d left the last of my weighty high school issues with my empty water glass in the banquet room. I came home and hugged my parents, who had been watching Kat, kissed my sleeping child on the head and thought about how happy I’d been to have finally had a date (my husband) for a high school function.

Okay, so it’s not as climatic as leaving my reunion in a helicopter. Still seemed a pretty good “happily ever after” to me