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

Time after time

(Originally posted 9/18/2009)
On Sept. 19, 1999, I wrote a letter to myself, to be opened in ten years.

The letter was part of a kit that came with a James Dean calendar bought for me by my new boyfriend, Andy. We’d been dating two days when I spotted the calendar at a store in the new-ish Great Lakes Crossing mall. Calendar stores where everywhere then—the new millennium was coming.

When I opened the calendar I found the “time capsule kit” inside. It wasn’t much of a kit really, just an envelope with a sticker seal stating “sealed in the year 2000” (thought it wasn’t) and a sheet of paper with questions about my life at that point in time.

I sat on the edge of my bed—on the edge of my life, really—thinking of what to tell this future Laurel. She’d be old; Almost 28. She’d probably be married and maybe even have some kids. She’d have gone to college and would know the answers to so many of the unknowns that plagued me.

I don’t remember what I wrote back then, in 1999. I still have the letter though, and tomorrow, in the skin of this older me, I’ll read who I used to be.

Anyway, it got me thinking about how I’d never be able to answer that letter. I can’t send a reply to myself, ten years ago. And besides, what would I say if I could? That became the question gnawing at my brain: What would I want to tell myself in the past about the future I’ve experienced?

My first thought, oddly, was to warn past-Laurel (PL, I’ll call her) about June 5, 2004, when I unexpectedly slipped on the grass at my brother-in-law’s house in Penn. and broke my leg and ankle in three places. It had required a steel plate and eight screws to fix, not to mention three months on crutches and being left unable to work as a barista at Starbucks. I was totally broke, totally dependent on others to help me with basic tasks, and desperately unhappy. In short, it sucked.

Yep, I’d definitely have to want PL about that misadventure.

But then I thought about it. Breaking my leg wasn’t fun, but it was necessary in a weird way. For starters, I was heading into my final semester at Oakland University, taking 20 credits, working two jobs and doing my internship at the Oakland Press. If I hadn’t been forced to take it easy all summer I doubt I could have powered through such a schedule.

Also, the experience gave me insight as to what it’s like to lose an ability to take for granted. While I kind of grabbed that concept at the time, it never fully came to fruition until I began doing my volunteer work for hospice. The man I visit each week is bed-bound. His wife is an amazing person and loves him as much as anyone can love a person, but once in a while she’ll forget to grab him something he’s been wanting at her weekly trip to the grocery store. The only time she can leave to run that errand is the few hours I’m there each week, so it means my friend will have to go another week without that item.

Now, dumb as it sounds, if I hadn’t experienced the frustration of being unable to go get the basic things you need in life when the mood strikes, I’d think “hey, homeboy can go a week until that Diet Coke finds its way in the house.” But now… Now I know there’s no way in hell that man is going to wait another hour for that pop, because I will take my fully functioning body to the store down the road and bring it back ASAP. Because I know. I know that when life is reduced to one room and a series of predictable moments, the little things count. They count big time. Sometimes a whole world hinges on a Diet Coke. And my stupid broken leg taught me that.

So PL shouldn’t be warned, because it was for the best. But what about the various other misadventures of my early 20s?

Should I tell her not to sweat getting dumped by Andy because we end up together and happy? No, that pain was a needed growing experience. Sometimes you can’t appreciate people until you lose them for a while.

Okay then, should I tell her not to stress so much about doing well at college because it all kind of works out? No, fear has always been the thing that keeps me more motivated than lazy. If I knew it’d be okay
I wouldn’t try hard enough to make it through school, and would end up flunking out.

Maybe I’d tell her not to worry so much about Kathryn. That she’d be born healthy and happy and we’d be okay. But honestly, I don’t know that I would ever be able to relax in that way, letter from the future or not.

The major and not-so-major events and inconveniences of the past decade flitted through my memory and I tried to think what, if anything, I could tell PL.

I posed the question to Andy. “What would you tell yourself if you could talk to you of ten years ago?” I asked. I expected something like “buy stock in Apple before iPods were launched,” or “find Megan Fox’s phone number.” But instead he seemed to think about it for a second.

“Hug Spooky more,” he said.

Spooky was our cat that died from feline leukemia shortly after Kat was born. He was gentle and stupid and always seemed somehow breakable. I was never mean to him, but I always wish I’d been a bit kinder.

You can’t stop death like that. Can’t change it. And to know the specifics would only turn the months into a morbid countdown. But to know to just show more love, I think that would be a good thing.

So, while I forget what PL had to say to me, here is my letter to her:

Dear PL (Past Laurel),
You are young and you are stupid, but life holds beautiful things for you. I can’t give you specifics or warnings, but I can tell you this:
Hug more. Love more. Be more forgiving. Trust that what is is what must be. Know it works out as it should.
Be kind to Spooky.
Trust your instincts. Enjoy the ride.
Best,
FL
(Future Laurel)

PS: Buy stock in Apple before they launch the iPod.

For Kathryn, so she might learn hard truths the easy way

(originally posted 8/21/2009)

Since my daughter, Kathryn, is about to turn 2, I thought I would follow in the tradition I began last year of recording some of the things I want her to learn without having to suffer them. I don’t know, maybe there is no true learning without hurting, but in the off chance there is, here’s hoping you can benefit from my mistakes kiddo.

1. One of the most difficult things to do is to let go. To let go of a dream, to let go of a plan, to let go of control, to let go of love, to let go of hope, to let go of a life---there’s almost nothing more painful in this world. There are times though, when there is nothing more essential. Learning when to let go is one of the most important skills a person can master. Accept that loss—and the growth that comes from that experience—is necessary.

2. You can make a halfway decent omlette buy putting all the ingredients in a plastic freezer bag and throwing it in a pot of boiling water. Good to know.

3. There is a limitless number of people out there who will try to tell you about the true nature of God. Most of them think they are helping you, so be kind. Learn when to listen, and equally important, learn when not to. A good sign that it’s time to leave is if the conversation turns to words that are hurtful or hateful, because God’s not in those words. I spent a decent portion of my life trying to make sense of these things, but if I’m being honest, I found God in you. The first moment I knew you were there, the first time I heard your heart beat, the first time I saw you on an ultrasound, the day you were born, and each time you laugh. These are the testaments that made sense to me, much more than any scripture I’ve found. You taught me the depth of love of the breadth of the human experience. And while the gospel you brought was one of joy, it allowed me also to see the value of pain and even of suffering. I don’t think there’s been a handful of days since you were more than a plus sign on a pregnancy test when I haven’t spoken to God, if only to say thanks for your existence. That much, on the subject, I can tell you. The rest you’ll have to find on your own. Just know this; a life with faith in something is richer than a life of skepticism in everything. Try to make your way and find your truth. Sometimes the best we can ask for is the wisdom to see the path we should take, the courage to take it, and the strength to accept the consequences of those things we were meant to experience, whatever they might be.

4. At this age, you talk about animals as being “your friends”. Always do that.

5. At this age, you sing and dance along with any music you encounter, even if it’s a cheesy commercial jingle or just someone humming in the house. Always do that too.

6. At this age, you ask to watch the “kitty-cat moomie” (a Barbie movie with a talking cat in it) about 25 times a day. Knock that crap off. And when you're old enough to read this, expect payback, missy.

7. My friend Wendi gave you some play dough, but she asked to smell it first. She said the scent still takes her back to that same feeling of joy the stuff brings to kids. Find something like that; Some tangible part of your childhood you can revisit whenever you might need to. The smell of printer toner isn’t really the thing joy is made of, and we all need a little instant childhood now and then.

8. I have agonized about your wellbeing since the moment you were thought of. I have lost countless hours of sleep and have worried myself into hysterics about making the best choices possible in regards to your safety and happiness. I tell you this in the hopes that you might keep it in mind if you ever decided to talk on a phone while driving, try recreational drugs, sleep with a guy you barely know, hang out with kids that drag you down, get some giant, stupid tattoo over your entire back, drink even one beer and get behind a wheel, ride a motorcycle without a helmet, pick up a hitchhiker, clone dinosaurs, go tanning, eat cafeteria food, or do any of the seemingly small decisions which could forever change the course of your life and put you in harms way. I have given everything I can to protect you, and would gladly die to keep you safe always. But the thing is, I can’t. One day, your life will be your own to protect. Just know that my heart walks with you, so for both our sakes, be smart kiddo. Especially about the cafeteria food.

9.I know it will probably seem like I do a lot of things just to piss you off. I promise, I don’t. I’m just a person, just a girl, like you, trying to raise you to be the best you can be. And while it’s almost inevitable you’ll hate me from the ages of 12 to 21, I’ll still love you. With all I’ve got. And when that boy I’ve been warning you about breaks your heart, I’ll be there. And when the next one comes along and you go back to pretending I don’t exist, I’ll get over it. You and me are always good, even if you don’t know it.

10. That said, I’m not your friend. I’m not your buddy. I’m not one of your girls (if they’ll even still say that when you read this). I’m your mom. Friend would be easier, but mom is the job I signed up for.

11. I’ve never been great with money, but I think it’s because there’s so many things I value more than it. That said, find a way to always make enough that you can get out of a bad situation if it should arise. There’s nothing sadder than a woman trapped by her bank ledger.

12. Keep a spare deodorant in your car. You never know when that bad boy will come in handy.

13. It’s never too late to redefine yourself.

14. There is actually nothing wrong with having ice cream for breakfast once in a while.

15. Despite what the movies would have you think, true love is hard. It’s also worth the work. It’s always easier to walk away when things get tough, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. Real love ebbs and flows like the tides, sweeping in and out but never completely gone if you can just learn to be patient and keep your eyes on the moon.

16. If you replace the eggs and oils called for on the box of cake mix with a can of pureed pumpkin and a half cup of water you get a totally yummy cake with a fraction of the fat and cholesterol. But I still make your birthday cakes all fatty, because it seems kind of mean to do it up healthy style for a toddler. If you can’t eat real cake now without stressing of the calories then you’re wasting your youth.

17. I was justified in denying you bubble gum. I’m not really telling you that for your benefit, it just needed to be said.

18. Even bad things—the worst things you can imagine—happen for a reason. It may not be a reason that is clear to you in the moment or even in the course of a lifetime, but a reason all the same. Maybe it’s a reason you’d agree with, maybe you’d think it was a pretty crap reason to go through the pain you experienced. Doesn’t matter. Not your call to make. Learn to make your peace with it and let it go because nothing you rage at in response cares and the only one it’s hurts is you.

19. No matter how busy you get, find some way to do some volunteer work. It pays you in a way that matters more than money, and, more importantly, is your responsibility as a sentient member of humanity.

20. Death is not to be feared. Death is a part of life. It is as necessary as the rain and the winds. I’m telling you this because I’ve known a lot of people so preoccupied with the fear of dying that they’ve missed much of the joy of living. Once a week, I visit a man who knows he’s dying, and he’s the happiest guy I know. Then I see people who are young and healthy and they are miserable and consumed with fear. It’s a waste. Life is short. That’s what makes it magical. Celebrate the brevity and find joy in everything. We’re all dying, but we’re all living first.

21. The most important lesson of all; Your momma is always right. I know this because each generation is getting exponentially more right. My great grandma was probably mostly wrong. My grandma was maybe 50-50. My mom is 75-25. But me, I’m battin’ 100. I don’t know where that will leave you with your own kids, but the math don’t lie kiddo. Remember that next time you ask me if you can get your eyelid pierced.

Letting go

(originally posted 7/28/2009)

“Release : re.lease /rɪˈlis/ [ri-lees] verb, -leased, -leas.ing, noun
–verb (used with object) 1. to free from confinement, bondage, obligation, pain, etc.; let go.”

It sounds like such a passive act; To let go. To accept. To allow yourself to be carried by the currents you have been fighting.

But sometimes living in a state of release is the most exhausting work you’ll ever do. Because for a small word, it’s a big idea.

We are taught from an early age that we are the product of our actions and decisions. Work hard and you’ll succeed. Remain vigilant and you’ll be safer. Struggle, fight, and claw your way to get where to where you ought to be. Above all else, remain in control.

But sometimes, maybe, where we ought to be is the place we’ve been struggling to avoid. And the control we had was, at best, an illusion to begin with.

That’s the real kicker. Control. We fight so hard to be the instrument of our own destinies. To convince ourselves that if we make the right decisions, things will turn out as we want them to—as they should.

The problem is those may be conflicting interests. What we want to have happen and what needs to happen may be very different destinations. But these are the days of instant gratifications and boundless self-fulfillment, so that’s a tough idea to comprehend.

In our culture, glory and honor are forged in the struggle. It’s the fight that makes us. But lately I’ve been thinking the more difficult path is the one of least resistance. Accepting that some things will or won’t happen, no matter how much you might fuss, is an act of constant effort. It’s like repeatidly having to exhale when everything you’ve learned tells you to gasp. It’s the ultimate trust exercise, asking you to close your eyes, cross your arms and fall backward into the unknown time and time again. It’s understanding that sometimes this will result in tears and bruises and broken hearts, but believing that those were the experiences to be had here, on this day.

It’s the act of refusing yourself the indulgence of Googleing the ways a thing might go “wrong” and accepting there is no wrong in that sense. There just is what is.

It’s the act of putting down the phone 100 times a day, never allowing yourself to dial that number.

It’s the quite chatter of late-night television used to distract you from thoughts which only lead to the darkened allies of fear and despair.

It’s playing Tetris until 4 a.m. if that’s what it takes to keep from thinking thoughts that will drown you.

It’s believing that sometimes the worst is what’s best, even when there are no answers or reasons to be found.

It’s a straining act of repetition. It’s a mantra for dark and sleepless hours. “Let it go; let it go.” “What happens, happens.” “Proceed in faith.”

And it sounds so easy. Just release the white-knuckle grip you think you have on the steering wheel to your next destination. Just enjoy the ride.

But it’s not. It’s hard, heartbreaking, frustrating, monotonous, gut-wrenching, terrifying, painful, maddening work.

Just like most everything else worth doing.

Breaking the 12 week rule

(Originally posted 7/24/2009)

I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant, and I’m speaking openly about it, despite the fact that I’m only about four weeks along.

Those of you in the know about these things may gasp a little at this faux pas.

There is a rule, you see, with pregnancies, that you shouldn’t share the news of impending baby-ness until you successfully pass the all-important 12 week mark. The reason for this is clear and morbid; pregnancies—all pregnancies—have about a 40 percent chance of resulting in a miscarriage before they reach the 13th week. So to talk about someone who might not come to be, it’s just not done. Not in so public a forum anyway.

The most common line of thought behind this is that the news of a positive pregnancy test is woefully hard to un-share. If you share the good news with a billion people, that’s a billion people who will need to be informed of a loss. A billion people who may, with good intentions, ask how the baby is doing when there is no baby. And that’s hard.

The problem for me, however, in this line of reasoning is the implication that one would continue on as normal, grieving in secret, as though that child that was lost just never was to begin with. That one could somehow go from day to day life without wearing that grief publicly, only slipping back into it along with sweats and fuzzy slippers in the comfort of one’s own home.

Some people can do that. I know I couldn’t.

I’ve never been a secretive person. I wear my experiences on my sleeve and speak openly about those things both painful and joyous. I live that way because I think those experiences –good and bad—are the ties that bind us together in humanity. Though you may not know what it is to suffer my pains, you have suffered, and that connects us. Though you may not have experienced my joy, you have been joyful, and that strengthens us. And frankly, I’ve lived more than enough of my life letting fear dictate my decisions.

Having a baby is the ultimate act of faith. For something that takes place entirely inside of your body, it is remarkable out of your control. Sure, you can do the smart things like avoid the things you need to avoid and take the vitamins you need to take, but most of it is spent as a urgent and whispered prayer.

And the thing is, if I were to lose this baby, it would hurt. “Hurt” here being the biggest understatement of my life. But I would get through it. I would survive it because I’ve seen a painful number of my friends endure the loss of a child. I would get through it because I have faith that things happen as they are meant to happen, and if I am to endure that experience, so be it. And I would get through it because of my friends and family, all of whom would know I was pregnant in the first place, because I refuse to obey the twelve week rule. If the worst should happen, I’ll need you. All of you. Just as I need to share happiness with you now.

So say a prayer for the unborn little someone, who, with some grace, will come to live with us at the end of March. And help me move on if that’s just not to be.

I heard it said once that “A baby is God’s opinion that the world should go on.” And this public shunning of the 12 week protocol is my affirmation that I will proceed throughout this pregnancy with faith, not fear.

And now, with friends, as well.

An open letter to Saint Brigid

(Originally posted 6/7/2009)
One of the most painful things about loss is the way it seems to consume hope, faith and peace in its fires.

The landscape you once knew becomes a post-apocalyptic shell, littered with the ghosts of moments and photographs never to be. Birthday cakes, picnics, rocking chairs and graduation caps. An empty cradle or socks that no longer have an owner.

And in these charred remains, you look to the familiar nooks and crannies where hope and faith and peace have always been tucked neatly away in the past. But sometimes loss is so great, it leaves only the ashes of even those things, which are so desperately needed now.

“Time will right this,” you’re told. “This is just God’s will,” is the other refrain of this macabre chorus. And though you want to believe those words and those people, time passes, and no sense is made of this loss. How many hours before something that cuts this deep begins to scab?

You begin to do the things they say you need to do. You eat food, though it is tasteless. You speak with friends, though they can’t truly relate. You listen to the songs that made you smile in your days of ignorance of the pain that awaited you. But the slide-show of “should have been” continues to play, and the pain still throbs in the place your heart once was.

Time, you learn, can’t right this. Because as wrong as it feels, it is right—whatever that means. Sometimes pain, the deepest pain, is the experience that was meant to be had here. Maybe the reason will never be clear. Maybe, so far as you’re concerned, there isn’t one.

But the planet spins on, greeting the sun anew each day. And after many rotations you notice a shifting in the ash of this strange landscape. Something flitters lightly beneath the char, in the place where faith and hope and peace one were. You gather the courage to investigate and there, budding up against impossible odds, are faith, hope, and peace. And like the phoenix, which must die in the fires when it becomes weak so it may be reborn powerful, faith, hope and peace bloom into something stronger than you have experienced before. They, like you, have been battle-tested, and though scarred, have proven their ability to endure.

Some places, in the burnt remains of your world, are washed clean with the rains. Some of the ashes scatter in the winds, and some damage is repaired with love and family and friends. And some isn’t. Some never can be.

It’s not a fairy tale. You don’t need fairy tales. You didn’t come here expecting a “happily ever after” and wouldn’t believe it if you found it. What you came to learn is that you are strong, even when you are lost within loss. And that of all the things found to be flammable in this heartbreak, those things most essential are not.

Faith, hope and peace will return. They are stronger than even this pain.

So are you.

2 minute epiphany

(Originally posted 4/17/2009)
The two minutes spent waiting for the results of an at-home pregnancy test are about the longest configuration of 120 seconds a person can spend.

Test instructions are specific regarding reading your results; put the test on a flat surface, don’t touch it and wait the full two minutes.

It’s that last one that proves to be so difficult.

Imagine someone walking up to you and announcing “Your life is about to change forever, maybe, but hold that thought while I grab a cup of java.”

As I watch the results slowly creep across the testing window I have vivid memories of the last time I went through this.

Andy and I had been married about a year when some genetic switch was flipped in my brain that told me it was time to start talking babies. I think all women experience this differently— certainly some never experience it at all—but for me it was just like something that had been slumbering in the primal part of my being had been activated. Like I was a sleeper agent for the mommy rebellion and had just been called to duty. And the need to have a child was urgent and insisting.

With Andy though, that wasn’t the case. Maybe some couples would handle this better than I feel we did, but if I’m being honest, the situation led to a lot of frustration and misplaced anger. He saw me as being overbearing and pressuring him into taking a step he wasn’t ready to take. I saw it as the ultimate power-play, with him standing between me and someone I already loved though they had not yet been created. And for a few years we endured more than a few squabbles about laundry or dishes or the remote control that were actually about the baby issue. No one was right. No one was wrong. We just weren’t in the same place about that.

And then we were. Time passed, and one day Andy was ready. And the great science experiment began.

I say that because I think in each of us there is this lingering sense of disbelief that we can grow a person. Then add to that the fact that-- in spite of all we were told in middle school implying all it takes to get pregnant is for a man and a woman to look at each other lustfully—there are actually about a billion things that need to fall into alignment for conception to actually occur, and well, those odds seem dubious at best.

But that pregnancy test, in December of 2006 lit up like a Christmas tree. And the whole world seemed changed.

First, there was the fun part of telling everyone. I told Peanut, my dog, right away. Just seemed like she deserved to know. Her reaction was tempered, to say the least.

Then I made a phone call to Andy, who was at work. I know, I know, a phone call. Not the best way to make any big announcement. But all my plans to wait and tell him in person flew out the window the second that test came back positive. I’ve never been patient, and this news was too big to keep to myself.

After a quick trip to the doctor’s office to confirm the wisdom the pee-stick had offered, it was time to tell the parents. My mom’s reaction was the best because there were no words, just a series of primal-sounding, joyful whoops. Amazing what news of a first grandchild can reduce a person to.

But then, as soon as I realized how much this baby meant to everyone, I was overcome with the fear I would lose her and let everybody down. Sounds silly, but it was suffocating. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus—could only worry.

Days passed, months slipped by and with only a few minor incidents I made it to the end of the whole ordeal. Maybe you can tell from the fact I refer to pregnancy as “an ordeal” that I was never someone that loved being pregnant. For me it was the means to a much wanted end, but not an enjoyable time in and of itself. I never liked feeling that the bloated, unrecognizable body I now had was not my own. I was frustrated by the self-imposed restrictions of anything containing artificial sweeteners, caffeine, alcohol or pain killers. Basically if it wasn’t around when my grandma was pregnant, I wasn’t letting it near my body because I didn’t trust it. And that made things difficult. It was my choice—my hang up—but it was still hard.

When Kat was born I was ready for things to get easier. Now, if you have kids—or even know anyone with kids—you’re laughing at that statement. I didn’t know. I really had no clue just how hard it was. My only frame of reference was sitcoms, and when Ross and Rachel had their baby NOTHING changed. There was just the same life as before, but with this cute little kid cooing at appropriate moments.

But it’s not like that. Not at all. And as bad as the sleep deprivation and the crazy hormones and the constant nursing are, worst of all, for me, was the feeling of overwhelming loneliness. My friends were still young and having fun and living life as I had previously known it. Andy was back at work by our third day home from the hospital. My parents lived an hour away. Don’t get me wrong-- I know others who have had it so, so, so much worse. But for me, it was a desperately lonely time, and I thought I would never want to have another child.

I think I need to clarify that thought; I loved being a mommy. I just felt isolated by the experience. And my daughter was healthy and thriving and it just seemed silly to roll the cosmic dice one more time by having another baby.

It takes about a month after having a baby before you begin to feel like even a shadow of your previous self. At four months things are manageable and by six I was even making progress as far as doing some freelancing, losing the rest of the baby weight and reconnecting with friends who had faded away for a bit. At a year post-partum I was able to eat and drink everything I had before, having successfully met my goal of nursing my daughter the doctor-recommended 12 months. And when Andy spoke about having more kids, I was able to engage him in discussion without bursting into tears or fighting the urge to vomit.

But when I started feeling those oh-so-familiar, telltale, signs of pregnancy, there was no small amount of horror at the idea of diving back into all of that. I did the math in my head and knew nothing would show up on a pregnancy test for a few more days, so I had to let the idea ferment in my head for a while.

Ugh. No cute bathing suits this summer. No wine on warm evenings. No diet coke. No ibueprophen. No coffee. No running the Crim this August.

And the kid would be due in December. Great-- as if I’m not stressed enough about buying gifts that time of year. Then again, it would be fun to have a baby in the winter months. No more enduring the last months of pregnancy in late-summer. And it would be fun to tell everyone again…

I watched Kat run around the playground and other mothers with their own children. Many of them had two or more kids, and they were able to function…

“Momma! Rock!” Kat yelled as she plucked a pebble from the area by the swings.

The enormity of my love for her washed over me. It happens that way sometimes, and is usually a bit unexpected. We fall in love with our children over and over again, each time plumbing new depths of the emotion. And something about the way she was able to get so excited about a rock—and therefore inspire me to appreciate the little things—hit me like a tidal wave of maternal affection.

I touched my stomach briefly, picturing the next little someone who might be growing in there. I thought back to my life before Kathryn. Yeah, it had been easier. And yep, it was entirely devoid of stretch marks. But it was also so much less meaningful. Like one of those hollow chocolate bunnies you get at Easter; Looks greats, but not much going on when you look inside. So, I wondered, who else was I missing out on?

*Bing*

The two minutes were up.

I swallowed the nervous flutter in my stomach and looked at the results window of the test.

Negative.

Those “symptoms” had just been coincidence or in my head. Like my body knew what I wanted before my heart did.

I studied the test a full minute more and fought back tears, confused by the disappointment I felt. How can you miss someone that was never there to begin with? I hadn’t been trying to get pregnant. I wasn’t even sure I wanted more kids.

But now I was.

It was all there for me, in that moment. In seeing that second line missing from the test I realized something else was missing from my life. Someone, to be specific.

And whenever he/she is ready, I am too.

Of that, I’m positive.

The mourner (when the world marches on)

(Originally posted 3/12/2009)

One of the most difficult things about the worst moments in life is not the moments themselves, but the mornings, days, sleepless nights and years that follow.

Because in the moment-- in the initial horror-- there’s shock, and stillness, and disbelief to buffer the reality of the tragedy. Then there’s the coming together of prayers and plans and mourners and movement to distract from the reason for these things.

It’s in the moments when those who have wept with the mourner resume life beyond the veil that the real pain sets in. The loneliness of grieving while others are shopping or jogging or watching reruns or making soup. Because something inside says “how is anyone, anywhere, still able to make soup? How can people still shovel snow today? Why did the paper still come, as if this were just Thursday?”

But to the rest of the world, it is. Just Thursday. Just 8 p.m. Just another day.

This loss was not 9-11. There were no planes, no bombs. No flags will be lowered. How is it that something that feels like the end of the world, isn’t?

Ultimately, each of us must mourn alone.

Sure, others will undoubtedly give pause to a sunset, put in an extra call to Mom just to say “I love you”, hug a spouse a little tighter and give the kids an extra kiss at bed time-- but for them the grief is not all-consuming.

And while people elsewhere debate the next American Idol and pour over emails from the office, waves of grief still slam relentlessly the mourner’s weary brain.

“Why?” “Why?” Why?”

Some answers come. Some don’t. But the world spins on.

And one day, even the mourner makes soup, shovels snow, goes to the store. One day a smile returns, a little rusty, but still in working order. More surprising still is a laugh that bubbles up from someplace genuine-- a far cry from the one of obligation or imitation the mourner has thus far given at certain command performances.

Peace comes in pieces.

The trick is to find what parts are only broken, not shattered.