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.