I don't post here anymore, not because I don't have anything to say, but it's like I've forgotten how to say it. That, and some of it I say in other places now, like Facebook. And then there's some of it that I only say to the people who are involved, in person, in real conversations. Then, sometimes I'm tired, although I'm never tired like I was back in the early days of all of this, so that seems a strange reason to not post. I guess back then, I couldn't acknowledge that I was tired the way I can now.
There's more luxury in my life, now, more margin for error. I run a ship that's not quite as tight as the ship I ran when John was sick and the twins were so small and there were days when every minute felt like a tiny, desperate lifetime. The ship I run now regularly veers of course with no grave consequences and lots of able crew to right it. On this ship, I sometimes choose to not do things rather than to do things—like blog. I read now, whole books sometimes! And go to bed early. Or stay up too late. Or myriad other things I didn't always allow myself to do back then.
I do want to acknowledge, though, that this space and the support I got here got me to the place I am now, and I don't want my silence here to be interpreted as turning my back on that. I'm still here.
Seventeen days ago, April 11, 2014, was the seven year anniversary of John's death. On that day, I posted to Facebook a poem that I found when a friend of mine posted it to her Facebook page. It's beautiful and so right. I will post it below, seventeen days late, but never too late for the sentiment to be right.
Reposting this beautiful poem in honor of John, who died seven years ago today.
To My Husband, Who 33 Years Ago Died at the Age of 33
De mortuis, nihil nisi bonum
Of you dead, I’ve spoken nothing
but good, nodded at over-fond
family memories, the favored first
son who skipped school to sneak
into the new museum. I’ve let
strangers tell our girls how you fell
forty feet taking a leak, behind
the garage, at your graduation party,
never dropping your grilled chicken
leg. Such was not the nature
of the man-to-be, yet these dull shards
are now my own. What else of you
can I offer our daughters, raised
by another man? You are at our table
always—in the gap, the sainted lost
father, shrouded in respect, silence
the price we pay for life. Was it wrong
to let you slip into cliché, pallid
memory? But how could it have been
otherwise? You have been undoing now
as long as you lived. Even the ink in your
notebooks fades. Remember how you
used to read “Dover Beach” and we would
shudder with faux foreboding? Remember
our pleasure when Emily said she didn’t
know how the sun set? Neither did we
then, nor did we much care. But oh, now
to see it rise again, one ribbon at a time.
Maryanne Hannan
Rattle #41, Fall 2013
Tribute to Single Parent Poets
28 April 2014
25 April 2013
Ambition
I've been thinking about ambition lately, both in a general way and also as it relates to the workplace.
I've not read Sheryl Sandberg's book Lean In, but I did read Anne-Marie Slaughter's piece in the Atlantic earlier this year about parenting and working, and I just read in the Washington Post this article by Elsa Walsh about a "good enough" life. While I take issue with Walsh's framing of the "good enough" choice as a woman's decision alone (I think problems with work/life balance are not exclusive to women), the article resonated deeply with me overall.
My boss is leaving her job, and many of my coworkers have asked me if I intend to apply. Many of them then seem quite surprised when I say that I don't, and that the main reason for not wanting to is that I'm not interested in taking on any additional responsibility right now (I also don't feel that I'm qualified). I make enough money to support my lifestyle; while I'd rather have more time at home than I do, most days I leave the house at 8, get home at 5:30, and rarely bring work home; my office is supportive of an occasional need or desire to attend a parent/teacher conference, be in the audience at a school play, or stick around to be there with the refrigerator repair person shows up; I get generous vacation and sick time; my employer contributes a generous sum to my retirement plan. In the imperfect world of work/life balance, I have things pretty darn good.
While I appreciate those benefits and support, I would prefer to see Maddie and Riley more. They are at a stage where we all want to be together most all of the time. For me, someone who wasn't sure she wanted to have kids at all and who then for years (years!) did not feel that deep, Primordial Bond to her children that people talk about, this change is a surprising shift. I had begun to wonder if I was defective in some way, rendered callus and unable to attach to people in the wake of John's death. Maybe that was the case for a while, or maybe that had nothing to do with it at all, but now, now! Many nights these days--after years of sleeping in their own beds--I find one or both of the twins in bed with me at night, and on the nights that doesn't happen, I'm sad. We all feel that our family time is at times infringed upon by our busy social lives. When a school friend wanted to stay at our house until 6 the other night, Maddie piped up, "But our mama time starts at 5:30!"
Oh, sure, they still can make me crazy (Will Riley ever give up the constant picking of his nose? And memo to Maddie: six is too young to start with the foot stomping and the eye rolls. Also: I'm on to you guys. I know you're stalling about going to bed.) But mostly, we just like each other so much right now. They are too young to know I'm not cool, old enough to enjoy great books and listen (at least occasionally) to reason. They are enthusiastic about pretty much everything. They are happy, and being together makes us all happy. I understand how they need me in a way that goes so much beyond their physical care and comfort, so much deeper than a predictable schedule, and I want to be there to respond to those needs while allowing them to face challenges and grow independently of my love and parenting.
So I say no to tossing my hat in the ring for what could be a logical big step up the professional ladder. I feel already stretched to the limit on work, home, family, and social life. If I add to the mix, I don't want that addition to come from work.
Does this make me less of a feminist, not taking all the professional risks that I could? Does it make me an underachiever? Does it make me wise? Or does it just make me the pragmatist that I usually am?
Sometimes I think about what I would do if my not working were a viable financial choice for our family. Would it change how I define myself if having an office job were not part of the equation? I think about what brings me joy and satisfaction. I wonder about my responsibilities in terms of who I am as a person, my family's needs, and society as a whole. Other than the paycheck, what is my job bringing to my personal life, to my children, to my community? Other than the paycheck, what would be lost if I were not doing this job? What would I rather do? Or am I where I need and want to be?
I have male colleagues at my level in the workplace who I assume are being asked about my boss's job and their interest in applying. I don't know what they plan to do so, and I wonder if their thought process around it is the same. As I parenthetically stated at the start of this post, I perceive work/life balance as a family/societal issue, not just a woman's issue, although there seem to be ways that women feel it more acutely than men.
I'm looking forward to an evening with the kids, maybe going out for sushi, definitely reading some Nancy Drew (they are obsessed with N.D. and the Hardy Boys right now), some outdoor playtime in the gorgeous spring. While I'm at work, home is never far from my mind. When I'm at home, I rarely think about work. I'm not sure what any of that means, or what, if anything, I want to change or can.
I've not read Sheryl Sandberg's book Lean In, but I did read Anne-Marie Slaughter's piece in the Atlantic earlier this year about parenting and working, and I just read in the Washington Post this article by Elsa Walsh about a "good enough" life. While I take issue with Walsh's framing of the "good enough" choice as a woman's decision alone (I think problems with work/life balance are not exclusive to women), the article resonated deeply with me overall.
My boss is leaving her job, and many of my coworkers have asked me if I intend to apply. Many of them then seem quite surprised when I say that I don't, and that the main reason for not wanting to is that I'm not interested in taking on any additional responsibility right now (I also don't feel that I'm qualified). I make enough money to support my lifestyle; while I'd rather have more time at home than I do, most days I leave the house at 8, get home at 5:30, and rarely bring work home; my office is supportive of an occasional need or desire to attend a parent/teacher conference, be in the audience at a school play, or stick around to be there with the refrigerator repair person shows up; I get generous vacation and sick time; my employer contributes a generous sum to my retirement plan. In the imperfect world of work/life balance, I have things pretty darn good.
While I appreciate those benefits and support, I would prefer to see Maddie and Riley more. They are at a stage where we all want to be together most all of the time. For me, someone who wasn't sure she wanted to have kids at all and who then for years (years!) did not feel that deep, Primordial Bond to her children that people talk about, this change is a surprising shift. I had begun to wonder if I was defective in some way, rendered callus and unable to attach to people in the wake of John's death. Maybe that was the case for a while, or maybe that had nothing to do with it at all, but now, now! Many nights these days--after years of sleeping in their own beds--I find one or both of the twins in bed with me at night, and on the nights that doesn't happen, I'm sad. We all feel that our family time is at times infringed upon by our busy social lives. When a school friend wanted to stay at our house until 6 the other night, Maddie piped up, "But our mama time starts at 5:30!"
Oh, sure, they still can make me crazy (Will Riley ever give up the constant picking of his nose? And memo to Maddie: six is too young to start with the foot stomping and the eye rolls. Also: I'm on to you guys. I know you're stalling about going to bed.) But mostly, we just like each other so much right now. They are too young to know I'm not cool, old enough to enjoy great books and listen (at least occasionally) to reason. They are enthusiastic about pretty much everything. They are happy, and being together makes us all happy. I understand how they need me in a way that goes so much beyond their physical care and comfort, so much deeper than a predictable schedule, and I want to be there to respond to those needs while allowing them to face challenges and grow independently of my love and parenting.
So I say no to tossing my hat in the ring for what could be a logical big step up the professional ladder. I feel already stretched to the limit on work, home, family, and social life. If I add to the mix, I don't want that addition to come from work.
Does this make me less of a feminist, not taking all the professional risks that I could? Does it make me an underachiever? Does it make me wise? Or does it just make me the pragmatist that I usually am?
Sometimes I think about what I would do if my not working were a viable financial choice for our family. Would it change how I define myself if having an office job were not part of the equation? I think about what brings me joy and satisfaction. I wonder about my responsibilities in terms of who I am as a person, my family's needs, and society as a whole. Other than the paycheck, what is my job bringing to my personal life, to my children, to my community? Other than the paycheck, what would be lost if I were not doing this job? What would I rather do? Or am I where I need and want to be?
I have male colleagues at my level in the workplace who I assume are being asked about my boss's job and their interest in applying. I don't know what they plan to do so, and I wonder if their thought process around it is the same. As I parenthetically stated at the start of this post, I perceive work/life balance as a family/societal issue, not just a woman's issue, although there seem to be ways that women feel it more acutely than men.
I'm looking forward to an evening with the kids, maybe going out for sushi, definitely reading some Nancy Drew (they are obsessed with N.D. and the Hardy Boys right now), some outdoor playtime in the gorgeous spring. While I'm at work, home is never far from my mind. When I'm at home, I rarely think about work. I'm not sure what any of that means, or what, if anything, I want to change or can.
11 April 2013
Six Years
A couple of days ago, Maddie asked me if she had seen her daddy die, and I told her no, that she had been asleep. She took that news with no visible emotion.
John died exactly six years ago today. I'm sure I've written about this day before, more than once, but this is how I remember it now, six years out.
I didn't tell Mads that the door to the twins' room had been open, the distance between there and our room, where John died, a matter of only a few feet. That whole day, it was not clear to me what John could hear, feel, or understand, but I left the door to our room open always, so that the sounds of our life could drift in, just in case. I remember almost nothing about the daylight hours of April 11. The twins went to daycare. I think I ran a few errands. I think a hospice chaplain came to visit John, although maybe that was the day before.
The evening, though, I remember. My mom was with me. We fed the twins, gave them a bath, got them ready for bed, took them in to give John a kiss. It was clear he was going to die soon. We put the kids to bed and called the hospice nurse, and she came, and we sat with John and waited. As with all of those big moments in life, that period of time between when the kids went to bed and when he died seemed to last both an eternity and no time at all.
It was liver failure that killed John, the inability of his body to rid itself of toxins that invaded his body, including his brain, taking away his ability to think clearly. This kind of death is slow and undramatic. He never seemed to be in pain. He was sleeping. Unaware? Unconscious? I don't know. He was sleeping, and his breathing just slowed, and slowed, and slowed, and then it stopped. The hospice nurse then listened to his heart, which kept beating for a while, much longer than I would have expected. And then, she pronounced him dead.
I don't remember crying much. Instead, I remember feeling almost manic. I had an odd, giddy sense of relief that John's suffering was over. For the first time in weeks, I was ravenously hungry. People from the funeral home came, and took John's body away, and then I went to bed. I'm sure I woke up early with Maddie and Riley, and I remember taking them to daycare and starting the wrenching process of letting people know that John had died.
Six years later, that condo has been sold, I've had two different jobs, I've moved across the country, and bought a new house. The twins are in first grade. I'm over 40. The part of my life I lived with John feels dreamy and unreal, certainly not overly rose-tinted, but just so intense that I have a sense of disbelief that it happened and that I kept myself together through it all.
John's brother and his fiancée are coming to town tonight for a long weekend. I like that they are arriving on this day, and I'm looking forward to the time with them, extra time with the twins, an overnight trip to the beach, dinner with my parents.
I never feel the way I expect to feel on this day. I'm never as sad as I think I'll be, but I'm always more preoccupied, unfocused, slower, more patient, more kind. I wouldn't have the life I have now without having had what came before. I don't know what I'd be doing or how I'd be feeling if John hadn't been sick, and at my core, I'm a pragmatist, so I know it's fruitless to try to imagine what would have been.
I've never been much to live in the past; I tend to live too much in the future, thinking about and planning for what's to come. All my thinking and planning had to be radically altered when John got sick, and my grief after John died was very much focused on the loss of the life we didn't get to live together. Today, though, is a day to be in the present, and to remember John.
Love always, Goose.
John died exactly six years ago today. I'm sure I've written about this day before, more than once, but this is how I remember it now, six years out.
I didn't tell Mads that the door to the twins' room had been open, the distance between there and our room, where John died, a matter of only a few feet. That whole day, it was not clear to me what John could hear, feel, or understand, but I left the door to our room open always, so that the sounds of our life could drift in, just in case. I remember almost nothing about the daylight hours of April 11. The twins went to daycare. I think I ran a few errands. I think a hospice chaplain came to visit John, although maybe that was the day before.
The evening, though, I remember. My mom was with me. We fed the twins, gave them a bath, got them ready for bed, took them in to give John a kiss. It was clear he was going to die soon. We put the kids to bed and called the hospice nurse, and she came, and we sat with John and waited. As with all of those big moments in life, that period of time between when the kids went to bed and when he died seemed to last both an eternity and no time at all.
It was liver failure that killed John, the inability of his body to rid itself of toxins that invaded his body, including his brain, taking away his ability to think clearly. This kind of death is slow and undramatic. He never seemed to be in pain. He was sleeping. Unaware? Unconscious? I don't know. He was sleeping, and his breathing just slowed, and slowed, and slowed, and then it stopped. The hospice nurse then listened to his heart, which kept beating for a while, much longer than I would have expected. And then, she pronounced him dead.
I don't remember crying much. Instead, I remember feeling almost manic. I had an odd, giddy sense of relief that John's suffering was over. For the first time in weeks, I was ravenously hungry. People from the funeral home came, and took John's body away, and then I went to bed. I'm sure I woke up early with Maddie and Riley, and I remember taking them to daycare and starting the wrenching process of letting people know that John had died.
Six years later, that condo has been sold, I've had two different jobs, I've moved across the country, and bought a new house. The twins are in first grade. I'm over 40. The part of my life I lived with John feels dreamy and unreal, certainly not overly rose-tinted, but just so intense that I have a sense of disbelief that it happened and that I kept myself together through it all.
John's brother and his fiancée are coming to town tonight for a long weekend. I like that they are arriving on this day, and I'm looking forward to the time with them, extra time with the twins, an overnight trip to the beach, dinner with my parents.
I never feel the way I expect to feel on this day. I'm never as sad as I think I'll be, but I'm always more preoccupied, unfocused, slower, more patient, more kind. I wouldn't have the life I have now without having had what came before. I don't know what I'd be doing or how I'd be feeling if John hadn't been sick, and at my core, I'm a pragmatist, so I know it's fruitless to try to imagine what would have been.
I've never been much to live in the past; I tend to live too much in the future, thinking about and planning for what's to come. All my thinking and planning had to be radically altered when John got sick, and my grief after John died was very much focused on the loss of the life we didn't get to live together. Today, though, is a day to be in the present, and to remember John.
Love always, Goose.
22 January 2013
Kids (Don't) Say the Darndest Things
What Riley said: "I love the fish gun in that game!"
What I heard: "I love the fisting in that game!"
Not the same thing. Not the same thing AT ALL.
That said, fish gun? I never did quite figure out what a fish gun is or why it is so great.
What I heard: "I love the fisting in that game!"
Not the same thing. Not the same thing AT ALL.
That said, fish gun? I never did quite figure out what a fish gun is or why it is so great.
08 January 2013
Connectedness.
I have my blog to thank for many of the things I love most about my life in the here and now. Job? Check. A reader sent me the link to the online posting. Boyfriend? Check. I met him through a reader who has become a close friend in real life. Speaking of which, social life? Check. A fair number of the people with whom I regularly socialize are readers who have become flesh-and-blood friends. Sanity? CHECK. While I don't blog nearly as much as I used to, blogging, the feedback I get on my posts, and the interaction I've had with the Internets have been a vital part of both my grief and parenting processes.
A few of us in the office were talking about parenting the other day. I was saying how much I love parenting six year olds. Most parents do. The ages of six to, oh, eight or ten or something are known as the Golden Years, and it's easy to see why. All of a sudden, the fruits of all of those parenting labors start coming to bear, and you can see your children becoming fully functional independent beings who still love to spend time with you, their parent, more than anyone else in the world. It's great.
For me this is in sharp contrast to the early years with Maddie and Riley, from birth to age three, or even four. I know our circumstances were not ideal in those years. Be it that or just my temperament, I found those years incredibly hard. I can look back now and see the good parts, and there were plenty of happy, rewarding, joyful times that rise to the surface. But, as I shared with my coworkers, I also remember times of extreme isolation and loneliness. I've never felt more alone than I did on nights when I was up at 2 a.m., by myself with two crying, inconsolable babies. What got me through that was thinking about other people who were up with crying babies, too, and knowing that those folks were in that with me, even if I couldn't see them.
I need to feel connected with other people or I feel lost, almost meaningless. It's almost as though something hasn't really happened for me if no one else was there to bear witness to it. This has become slightly less true for me as time has gone on, but it's still the case that I love the company of others. Being a single parent presents logistical challenges, for sure, but for me the biggest challenge of single parenting has always been the isolation. Regular 2 a.m. wakings are thankfully no longer a part of my routine, but even once those passed, in the early years I still found it lonely to deal with all of the work--and the joy--of parenting on my own.
Now that Maddie and Riley are older, I get a lot of social interaction from them. I think that's one of the reasons it's been easier for me to enjoy parenting, and to feel like I'm doing a reasonable job of it, at this age. I also have many more accessible social outlets now. I have an au pair, so there's another adult in the house a lot of the time, plus I have more freedom to go out in the evenings once the kids are in bed. I have El Verdadero. We live close to family. We have a lot of friends. I'm not exhausted the way I was when the kids were babies and toddlers, so I can enjoy and appreciate my social outlets more.
Ever since my blogging frequency dropped precipitously, I've been trying to figure out why. There's no way I'm more busy now than I was when I blogged daily. There's no way I'm more tired or more stressed. There's no way I have less to say. Anyone who knows me can assure those with doubts that I always have something to say.
I think it's this: I have more in-real-life connections than I used to, connections I know I can count on, connections that aren't going away (barring unforeseen circumstances). Sometimes the online connections--the blogs, Facebook, text messages, email, Twitter, all of it--pull me away from my real-life connections. When my access to real-life connections was more limited, I put more time into the online connections. Now I put more time into the real-life connections. It's not that one is more valuable than the other. It's just a matter of not being able to be fully invested in all of them.
I don't know what that means for blogging. This is not an "I quit" announcement by any stretch. It's just an "A-ha!" moment of realization about why the pull to blog hasn't been as strong for a while, and a moment to pause and think about all ways in which blogging has bettered my life, as well as all the ways in which my everyday connections better my life, too.
Thanks, friends, those of the Internet type, the in-real-life type, and those who are both. Here's to 2013: friendships, reading, running, blogging, cooking, connections, and many other things good for us all.
A few of us in the office were talking about parenting the other day. I was saying how much I love parenting six year olds. Most parents do. The ages of six to, oh, eight or ten or something are known as the Golden Years, and it's easy to see why. All of a sudden, the fruits of all of those parenting labors start coming to bear, and you can see your children becoming fully functional independent beings who still love to spend time with you, their parent, more than anyone else in the world. It's great.
For me this is in sharp contrast to the early years with Maddie and Riley, from birth to age three, or even four. I know our circumstances were not ideal in those years. Be it that or just my temperament, I found those years incredibly hard. I can look back now and see the good parts, and there were plenty of happy, rewarding, joyful times that rise to the surface. But, as I shared with my coworkers, I also remember times of extreme isolation and loneliness. I've never felt more alone than I did on nights when I was up at 2 a.m., by myself with two crying, inconsolable babies. What got me through that was thinking about other people who were up with crying babies, too, and knowing that those folks were in that with me, even if I couldn't see them.
I need to feel connected with other people or I feel lost, almost meaningless. It's almost as though something hasn't really happened for me if no one else was there to bear witness to it. This has become slightly less true for me as time has gone on, but it's still the case that I love the company of others. Being a single parent presents logistical challenges, for sure, but for me the biggest challenge of single parenting has always been the isolation. Regular 2 a.m. wakings are thankfully no longer a part of my routine, but even once those passed, in the early years I still found it lonely to deal with all of the work--and the joy--of parenting on my own.
Now that Maddie and Riley are older, I get a lot of social interaction from them. I think that's one of the reasons it's been easier for me to enjoy parenting, and to feel like I'm doing a reasonable job of it, at this age. I also have many more accessible social outlets now. I have an au pair, so there's another adult in the house a lot of the time, plus I have more freedom to go out in the evenings once the kids are in bed. I have El Verdadero. We live close to family. We have a lot of friends. I'm not exhausted the way I was when the kids were babies and toddlers, so I can enjoy and appreciate my social outlets more.
Ever since my blogging frequency dropped precipitously, I've been trying to figure out why. There's no way I'm more busy now than I was when I blogged daily. There's no way I'm more tired or more stressed. There's no way I have less to say. Anyone who knows me can assure those with doubts that I always have something to say.
I think it's this: I have more in-real-life connections than I used to, connections I know I can count on, connections that aren't going away (barring unforeseen circumstances). Sometimes the online connections--the blogs, Facebook, text messages, email, Twitter, all of it--pull me away from my real-life connections. When my access to real-life connections was more limited, I put more time into the online connections. Now I put more time into the real-life connections. It's not that one is more valuable than the other. It's just a matter of not being able to be fully invested in all of them.
I don't know what that means for blogging. This is not an "I quit" announcement by any stretch. It's just an "A-ha!" moment of realization about why the pull to blog hasn't been as strong for a while, and a moment to pause and think about all ways in which blogging has bettered my life, as well as all the ways in which my everyday connections better my life, too.
Thanks, friends, those of the Internet type, the in-real-life type, and those who are both. Here's to 2013: friendships, reading, running, blogging, cooking, connections, and many other things good for us all.
04 January 2013
Hello, 41. Nice to meet you.
Maddie woke up cranky. There are plenty of reasons for this (including the child's least favorite reason: tiredness), but I knew what the reasons were and was mentally prepared for the crabbiness and was able to deal with it in a calm and reasonable manner. By the time I left for work, she was clearly still not her usual ray-of-sunshine self, but there were hugs and kisses and respectful, kind behavior.
How I handled that is proof that I have grown up at least a little in the last year. (Or at least that I'm less tired myself.)
On the other hand, I was driving to dinner the day after Christmas with el Verdadero (the new nickname for That Guy I'm Dating) and a huge semi was tailgating me and then he HONKED at me and then blocked my lane when I needed to move over and when he went flying past me I flipped him the bird and yelled "FUCK YOU!" as loudly as I could, much to el Verdadero's shock and discomfort.
How I handled that is proof that I still have plenty of growing up to do.
My birthday has been spectacular so far, cranky child and all. I got out for a run before work, my work day has been meeting-free and straightforward, I got to meet my mom and stepdad for coffee, I took a Zumba class during my lunch hour, and I've gotten lots of well-wishes from friends and colleagues. When I get home, I'm going to make a favorite pasta with tuna for dinner, then go out for ice cream with Maddie, Riley, el Verdadero and his kids, and my best friend and her family. Then I'll put the kids to bed, change into my pajamas, and probably have a glass of wine and work on a freelance project.
Various people have said to me today, "You worked out twice in your birthday? You're crazy!" "You didn't go out to lunch on your birthday? Where's the fun in that?" "You're cooking your own dinner? But it's your birthday!" "Shouldn't you take a break from the freelance work on your birthday, for crying out loud?"
One of the ways in which I've grown up in the past forty-one years is to have a better understanding of what actions I can take to feel good about myself, and it seems to me that there is no day better for feeling good about yourself than your own birthday. I know that I feel mentally and physically fantastic when I exercise. I know that I feel fulfilled when I spend time with my friends and family. I know that I like to do things with my kids that we all enjoy. I know that I get stressed out and grouchy when I have things I need to do that I set aside in favor of immediate gratification
So maybe some of the things I've done or plan to do today aren't "fun." But I will feel happy about what I've done with my day and myself when it's over, and that sounds like a fantastic birthday.
Apologies if I sound preachy or Pollyanna-ish. I feel happy. It's my birthday and I feel happy. Perfect, no. But today, happy. I'm still puzzling over things: the never-ending search for work/life balance, what to do about kids and videogames, how to be a better manager, how to be a more patient parent. But now, today, for my birthday, I choose good choices and contentment.
Happy new year, everyone.
How I handled that is proof that I have grown up at least a little in the last year. (Or at least that I'm less tired myself.)
On the other hand, I was driving to dinner the day after Christmas with el Verdadero (the new nickname for That Guy I'm Dating) and a huge semi was tailgating me and then he HONKED at me and then blocked my lane when I needed to move over and when he went flying past me I flipped him the bird and yelled "FUCK YOU!" as loudly as I could, much to el Verdadero's shock and discomfort.
How I handled that is proof that I still have plenty of growing up to do.
My birthday has been spectacular so far, cranky child and all. I got out for a run before work, my work day has been meeting-free and straightforward, I got to meet my mom and stepdad for coffee, I took a Zumba class during my lunch hour, and I've gotten lots of well-wishes from friends and colleagues. When I get home, I'm going to make a favorite pasta with tuna for dinner, then go out for ice cream with Maddie, Riley, el Verdadero and his kids, and my best friend and her family. Then I'll put the kids to bed, change into my pajamas, and probably have a glass of wine and work on a freelance project.
Various people have said to me today, "You worked out twice in your birthday? You're crazy!" "You didn't go out to lunch on your birthday? Where's the fun in that?" "You're cooking your own dinner? But it's your birthday!" "Shouldn't you take a break from the freelance work on your birthday, for crying out loud?"
One of the ways in which I've grown up in the past forty-one years is to have a better understanding of what actions I can take to feel good about myself, and it seems to me that there is no day better for feeling good about yourself than your own birthday. I know that I feel mentally and physically fantastic when I exercise. I know that I feel fulfilled when I spend time with my friends and family. I know that I like to do things with my kids that we all enjoy. I know that I get stressed out and grouchy when I have things I need to do that I set aside in favor of immediate gratification
So maybe some of the things I've done or plan to do today aren't "fun." But I will feel happy about what I've done with my day and myself when it's over, and that sounds like a fantastic birthday.
Apologies if I sound preachy or Pollyanna-ish. I feel happy. It's my birthday and I feel happy. Perfect, no. But today, happy. I'm still puzzling over things: the never-ending search for work/life balance, what to do about kids and videogames, how to be a better manager, how to be a more patient parent. But now, today, for my birthday, I choose good choices and contentment.
Happy new year, everyone.
26 December 2012
Newtown and Bad Attitudes
Newtown really messed me up. I am not alone in this, of course. Only those with cold, hard hearts of stone could remain unaffected by Newtown. In the days following the shooting, I felt like I should post something, that I should have something meaningful or significant to say, but no, nothing. And now, nearly two weeks later, till nothing, no. I have plenty of emotions and feelings, but they seem small in scale and I can't figure out an eloquent way to express them and most of them have been expressed better by others already.
I have opinions about gun control and mental health access, but they are not revolutionary, surprising, or insightful. I will say that if the idea of arming classroom teachers with guns ever gains any traction, I will be homeschooling faster than you can say dumbest idea ever. See, gah, this is another reason I haven't written about this. I don't want some kind of Second Amendment self-defense debate in the comments because I'm sick of it, but I'm terrified by the fact that giving more people more guns is a "solution" that anyone is actually considering.
(In any case, who am I kidding, my readership is down far enough to make debate in the comments nigh impossible!)
That those children were the same age as Maddie and Riley made the Newtown shooting that much harder to bear. That one of the children who was killed was half of a twin pair, and that the other twin lived, hit ever too close to home.
Two days after the shooting, I took Maddie and Riley to visit some friends, another set of boy/girl twins. Riley fell asleep in the car on the way there. Upon arrival, I took Maddie and our stuff inside, then went back out to the car for Riley. He was sound, sound asleep, and it took a few seconds to rouse him. When he shuddered awake, he barely registered me, but immediately turned his head, saw Maddie's empty carseat, and yelped, "Maddie!" His heart was racing and his eyes were full of fear. I told him that Maddie was OK, that she was inside with our friends. He couldn't get inside fast enough to verify that with his own two eyes. I sometimes think that Riley is still not totally clear that he and Maddie are two separate people. It's touching, and fragile.
****************************
While I have certainly had my don't sweat the small stuff/children are precious/love every moment/hug them every chance you get reactions in the aftermath of Newtown, the truth is that Riley is driving me insane. He is so full of life, so funny and chatty and energetic. But he is also disrespectful, quick to blame others, and obsessed with videogames. And I wonder how much the videogames have to do with the disrespect and unwillingness to take responsibility for his actions.
Since some short time after the start of first grade, Riley has gone from a sweet, cuddly boy who I wanted to shrink down and carry with me at all times to . . . something else. The tone of his voice is usually bossy and snide, he contradicts me all the time (often just for sport, or so it seems), and the "I'm bored!" incantations are constant. I remind him constantly that the tone he's using and his word choice and body language are not acceptable; he says most things twice these days: once the way he seems to prefer, and once the way that is an acceptable way to communicate with others. It's exhausting to be constantly reminding him about how to use kind words and a respectful tone, to answer questions when he's spoken to.
As for the videogames, I allow Riley to have a limited amount of game time on approved games for either Wii or iPad/iPhone. During the usual school day routine, I'm pretty strict. Videogames are not a daily thing, and he has to do his homework before he can have that time if it's one of his days to have it (Tuesday and Thursday). Then it's limited to the time between when I get home and when dinner is served. I also let him play on my phone if we have a long wait at a restaurant, or if we're traveling by air.
That's all fine. What bothers me is his obsession with it all. At any opportunity, he's angling for MORE. He'll walk up to perfect strangers and look over their shoulders at what they are doing on their phones. When my dad comes to visit, Riley barely says hello before he asks if he can play on my dad's tablet. There are certain friends he'll beg me to see not because he wants to spend time with them but because he knows that those friends have videogames that he might get to play.
This is a type of play that's hard for me to like. It's upsetting to me when after opening a bunch of Christmas presents (Beyblades, board games, books), all he wanted to do was play on my dad's tablet. When I told him no, he actually said to me, "What am I supposed to do?" When I reminded him that he had gotten a bunch of new toys and offered to play a game with him, he sulked. The obsessive/exclusionary desire he has to play with electronics gives me a knee-jerk reaction not to let him do it at all, but then I worry about the forbidden fruit syndrome. Argh.
I try to set a good example about this. I keep my phone put away unless I hear a call/message or need to send one. Absolutely no phones at the table, for sure.
I just don't know how to take this interest and special kind of intelligence of his and use it for good. And I worry about how the gaming/electronics stuff is feeding the bad attitude he has had of late. Or are six year olds often testing limits and learning something by seeing what kind of reactions they get to this type of behavior? I could read books about this, I suppose, but here I am, asking the Internet. Internet, what do you have for me? How do those of you with kids this age (and older) manage the electronics? Do you know where my sweet boy went? How can I get him back?
I have opinions about gun control and mental health access, but they are not revolutionary, surprising, or insightful. I will say that if the idea of arming classroom teachers with guns ever gains any traction, I will be homeschooling faster than you can say dumbest idea ever. See, gah, this is another reason I haven't written about this. I don't want some kind of Second Amendment self-defense debate in the comments because I'm sick of it, but I'm terrified by the fact that giving more people more guns is a "solution" that anyone is actually considering.
(In any case, who am I kidding, my readership is down far enough to make debate in the comments nigh impossible!)
That those children were the same age as Maddie and Riley made the Newtown shooting that much harder to bear. That one of the children who was killed was half of a twin pair, and that the other twin lived, hit ever too close to home.
Two days after the shooting, I took Maddie and Riley to visit some friends, another set of boy/girl twins. Riley fell asleep in the car on the way there. Upon arrival, I took Maddie and our stuff inside, then went back out to the car for Riley. He was sound, sound asleep, and it took a few seconds to rouse him. When he shuddered awake, he barely registered me, but immediately turned his head, saw Maddie's empty carseat, and yelped, "Maddie!" His heart was racing and his eyes were full of fear. I told him that Maddie was OK, that she was inside with our friends. He couldn't get inside fast enough to verify that with his own two eyes. I sometimes think that Riley is still not totally clear that he and Maddie are two separate people. It's touching, and fragile.
****************************
While I have certainly had my don't sweat the small stuff/children are precious/love every moment/hug them every chance you get reactions in the aftermath of Newtown, the truth is that Riley is driving me insane. He is so full of life, so funny and chatty and energetic. But he is also disrespectful, quick to blame others, and obsessed with videogames. And I wonder how much the videogames have to do with the disrespect and unwillingness to take responsibility for his actions.
Since some short time after the start of first grade, Riley has gone from a sweet, cuddly boy who I wanted to shrink down and carry with me at all times to . . . something else. The tone of his voice is usually bossy and snide, he contradicts me all the time (often just for sport, or so it seems), and the "I'm bored!" incantations are constant. I remind him constantly that the tone he's using and his word choice and body language are not acceptable; he says most things twice these days: once the way he seems to prefer, and once the way that is an acceptable way to communicate with others. It's exhausting to be constantly reminding him about how to use kind words and a respectful tone, to answer questions when he's spoken to.
As for the videogames, I allow Riley to have a limited amount of game time on approved games for either Wii or iPad/iPhone. During the usual school day routine, I'm pretty strict. Videogames are not a daily thing, and he has to do his homework before he can have that time if it's one of his days to have it (Tuesday and Thursday). Then it's limited to the time between when I get home and when dinner is served. I also let him play on my phone if we have a long wait at a restaurant, or if we're traveling by air.
That's all fine. What bothers me is his obsession with it all. At any opportunity, he's angling for MORE. He'll walk up to perfect strangers and look over their shoulders at what they are doing on their phones. When my dad comes to visit, Riley barely says hello before he asks if he can play on my dad's tablet. There are certain friends he'll beg me to see not because he wants to spend time with them but because he knows that those friends have videogames that he might get to play.
This is a type of play that's hard for me to like. It's upsetting to me when after opening a bunch of Christmas presents (Beyblades, board games, books), all he wanted to do was play on my dad's tablet. When I told him no, he actually said to me, "What am I supposed to do?" When I reminded him that he had gotten a bunch of new toys and offered to play a game with him, he sulked. The obsessive/exclusionary desire he has to play with electronics gives me a knee-jerk reaction not to let him do it at all, but then I worry about the forbidden fruit syndrome. Argh.
I try to set a good example about this. I keep my phone put away unless I hear a call/message or need to send one. Absolutely no phones at the table, for sure.
I just don't know how to take this interest and special kind of intelligence of his and use it for good. And I worry about how the gaming/electronics stuff is feeding the bad attitude he has had of late. Or are six year olds often testing limits and learning something by seeing what kind of reactions they get to this type of behavior? I could read books about this, I suppose, but here I am, asking the Internet. Internet, what do you have for me? How do those of you with kids this age (and older) manage the electronics? Do you know where my sweet boy went? How can I get him back?
06 December 2012
OMG, duh.
Tomorrow is John's birthday. Forty years ago tomorrow, his mom, as he would say, "dropped the bomb." (Get it? Pearl Harbor day? Get it? That joke got me every time.)
As my sporadic postings here document, I've been overwhelmed and overwraught these past few weeks. An email today reminded me of tomorrow's significance, and suddenly, things came into focus. John's birthday has always been a big grief trigger for me, the biggest one of them all, actually, much bigger than the day he died. Thanksgiving is also charged, both because we got engaged the day after Thanksgiving and because of the emotions and stress that can come from the travel and visit with his family. And the holidays are the holidays: there's just more to do in a life that's already bursting.
No wonder I've been a bit of a mess.
I've spent a lifetime learning how to be true to myself rather than doing what I think is expected of me. It's a huge challenge for me to tune out expectations and "shoulds." When it comes to grief, that means that it can be hard for me to ignore the (loud, insistent, pervasive) societal belief that nearly six years after John died, I should have moved on, or gotten over it, meaning that sadness, anger, and the other unpleasantries of the grieving process should be a thing of the past.
Ha, ha, HA!
Yeah, sure, I've "moved on." I physically moved across the country, I have a new job, the kids are in first grade, I don't cry every day (although I never did), I stopped wearing my wedding rings, I'm in a serious relationship, many people in my life never even knew John or don't know that I'm a widow, my widowed status is not the primary criteria by which I define myself.
But I still miss John. And certain events and times of year and turns of phrase and songs and looks on my children's faces make that missing more acute, and in turn that missing comes out as sadness or anger or crankiness or a lack of empathy about a something seemingly unrelated. The correlation can be so loose as to be lost on me, as it was over these past few weeks. If I can't recognize it, it's highly likely that others don't see it either, especially if they don't think of me as a widow or if they never knew John.
I don't get angry at people who want me to have moved on. Who can blame them? It would be so much simpler and happier if there were a timetable for this, or for other difficult life events. I think that people who are grieving are pushed to "move on" for two main reasons: 1. A genuine desire for the grief-stricken to be happy and unburdened with the mostly negative grief experience, and 2. the well-wisher's inability or lack of desire to deal with unpleasant emotions.
Were such an emotional utopia possible! But it's not. And when I end up feeling addled by grief that "should" be over, it's not always at a time that's convenient for me or Maddie and Riley or my job or anything else. There are plenty of times when I ignore those feelings or take them out on unsuspecting or undeserving folk. In moments more aware, I can acknowledge the feelings, put them someplace appropriate, and move on. Then there are the times like these where I don't even realize what's going on until something makes me smack myself on the head in disbelief.
Tonight I'm going to Maddie and Riley's first Suzuki violin concert. Saturday Riley will play in his first chess tournament. We're reading the final book in the Harry Potter series together. We've moved on because kids grow up and you get out of bed every day and things change whether you want them to or not. I've wanted them to change, I don't resist that. But this kind of change is not the same as an end to grief. It's just life.
As my sporadic postings here document, I've been overwhelmed and overwraught these past few weeks. An email today reminded me of tomorrow's significance, and suddenly, things came into focus. John's birthday has always been a big grief trigger for me, the biggest one of them all, actually, much bigger than the day he died. Thanksgiving is also charged, both because we got engaged the day after Thanksgiving and because of the emotions and stress that can come from the travel and visit with his family. And the holidays are the holidays: there's just more to do in a life that's already bursting.
No wonder I've been a bit of a mess.
I've spent a lifetime learning how to be true to myself rather than doing what I think is expected of me. It's a huge challenge for me to tune out expectations and "shoulds." When it comes to grief, that means that it can be hard for me to ignore the (loud, insistent, pervasive) societal belief that nearly six years after John died, I should have moved on, or gotten over it, meaning that sadness, anger, and the other unpleasantries of the grieving process should be a thing of the past.
Ha, ha, HA!
Yeah, sure, I've "moved on." I physically moved across the country, I have a new job, the kids are in first grade, I don't cry every day (although I never did), I stopped wearing my wedding rings, I'm in a serious relationship, many people in my life never even knew John or don't know that I'm a widow, my widowed status is not the primary criteria by which I define myself.
But I still miss John. And certain events and times of year and turns of phrase and songs and looks on my children's faces make that missing more acute, and in turn that missing comes out as sadness or anger or crankiness or a lack of empathy about a something seemingly unrelated. The correlation can be so loose as to be lost on me, as it was over these past few weeks. If I can't recognize it, it's highly likely that others don't see it either, especially if they don't think of me as a widow or if they never knew John.
I don't get angry at people who want me to have moved on. Who can blame them? It would be so much simpler and happier if there were a timetable for this, or for other difficult life events. I think that people who are grieving are pushed to "move on" for two main reasons: 1. A genuine desire for the grief-stricken to be happy and unburdened with the mostly negative grief experience, and 2. the well-wisher's inability or lack of desire to deal with unpleasant emotions.
Were such an emotional utopia possible! But it's not. And when I end up feeling addled by grief that "should" be over, it's not always at a time that's convenient for me or Maddie and Riley or my job or anything else. There are plenty of times when I ignore those feelings or take them out on unsuspecting or undeserving folk. In moments more aware, I can acknowledge the feelings, put them someplace appropriate, and move on. Then there are the times like these where I don't even realize what's going on until something makes me smack myself on the head in disbelief.
Tonight I'm going to Maddie and Riley's first Suzuki violin concert. Saturday Riley will play in his first chess tournament. We're reading the final book in the Harry Potter series together. We've moved on because kids grow up and you get out of bed every day and things change whether you want them to or not. I've wanted them to change, I don't resist that. But this kind of change is not the same as an end to grief. It's just life.
03 December 2012
Back.
I have spent three of the past sixteen days at home in Oregon. The twins and I went away for the weekend before Thanksgiving (Friday evening to Sunday evening), then left for Michigan early on Monday morning. We returned on Friday afternoon, then I left on Tuesday morning on a trip for work. I returned home yesterday, Sunday evening.
All the travel was good. The Thanksgiving trip, for all the anxiety leading up to it, was our best trip ever to the in-laws. We're all finding our way—although I will not use the loaded phrase moving on—and the kids are at an easier age for both travel and interaction with others. It was good, it really was.
The work trip was good, too. Getting back into the routine of life, though, after two weeks out of the loop, was hard. Work itself was a snap. Things aren't too terribly busy right now, and I was able to just eeeease on in. But at home, kids saved things up for me and got to stay up late to wait for me and they are tired and trying to share all sorts of things that happened while I was away. Meanwhile, I'm tired and launched into both a busy week and the fray of the holidays and I feel every bit as overwhelmed as I did when I wrote my last post.
I'm struggling so much right now to accept where I am. It's one thing, and a hard enough one at that, to accept that my house is not as organized or clean as I want it to be, or that we eat the same five meals over and over again, or that just today it dawned on me that I need to start ordering Christmas presents. It's another thing to be so stressed out that I don't have the patience to be kind when I help Maddie and Riley with their homework, or to hurry along Riley's conversation about his Suzuki violin concert anxiety because the kids are wicked overtired and really need to get to bed on time. My whole body feels siezed up with tension. I feel like I'm doing everything and nothing. Somehow, I'm getting done everything that must get done, but it feels like none of it is done well or right, and I can't figure out what to let go.
I'm saying again what I said in my last post. It all just feels like too much, but I'm at a loss for what to cut back. I was hoping some of the break would help me to feel restored or give me a fresh perspective, but I'm right back where I was before we left.
Maddie and Riley's only extracurriculars are classes that happen at their school right after school, so we don't have classes or activities that are taking our time, ergo we can't cut back there. I have to go to work, barring a major restructuring of our lifestyle. I'm involved in a committee at our church that takes some time, and I'm seriously considering giving that up because I just can't sustain it right now and it's breeding resentment. But the bottom line is that school, work, and the work of a house is as much—if not more—than I feel like I can handle right now. Yet there's not a lot beyond that to trim back, and so I feel stuck.
I have this feeling that if I keep writing about this, some kind of solution or help will reveal itself to me. I apologize to those of you reading, as I must sound like a broken record.
We sang a great song in church on Sunday, and the lyrics seem both a propos and worth sharing. The song is called "Give Light," by a folk duo called Magpie.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Teach peace, and people will find the way.
Teach peace, and people will find the way.
Teach peace, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Stand together, and people will find the way.
Stand together, and people will find the way.
Stand together, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Give love, and people will find the way.
Give love, and people will find the way.
Give love, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Things feel in a period of transition to me right now, and I'm not sure what the transition is all about. I find these periods draining and mysterious. "Give Light" is grounding and hopeful, and with a wise perspective. In a gentler moment tonight, I reminded Riley that he needs to do his best and trust that what happens next is what is supposed to happen. I need to remember that for myself. For tonight, that means get my chores done, order a few Christmas presents, go to bed early. Sing through the hard times (a concept from another good folk song for times like this, by Utah Phillips, I leave you to look up the lyrics on your own). What happens next is what's supposed to happen.
All the travel was good. The Thanksgiving trip, for all the anxiety leading up to it, was our best trip ever to the in-laws. We're all finding our way—although I will not use the loaded phrase moving on—and the kids are at an easier age for both travel and interaction with others. It was good, it really was.
The work trip was good, too. Getting back into the routine of life, though, after two weeks out of the loop, was hard. Work itself was a snap. Things aren't too terribly busy right now, and I was able to just eeeease on in. But at home, kids saved things up for me and got to stay up late to wait for me and they are tired and trying to share all sorts of things that happened while I was away. Meanwhile, I'm tired and launched into both a busy week and the fray of the holidays and I feel every bit as overwhelmed as I did when I wrote my last post.
I'm struggling so much right now to accept where I am. It's one thing, and a hard enough one at that, to accept that my house is not as organized or clean as I want it to be, or that we eat the same five meals over and over again, or that just today it dawned on me that I need to start ordering Christmas presents. It's another thing to be so stressed out that I don't have the patience to be kind when I help Maddie and Riley with their homework, or to hurry along Riley's conversation about his Suzuki violin concert anxiety because the kids are wicked overtired and really need to get to bed on time. My whole body feels siezed up with tension. I feel like I'm doing everything and nothing. Somehow, I'm getting done everything that must get done, but it feels like none of it is done well or right, and I can't figure out what to let go.
I'm saying again what I said in my last post. It all just feels like too much, but I'm at a loss for what to cut back. I was hoping some of the break would help me to feel restored or give me a fresh perspective, but I'm right back where I was before we left.
Maddie and Riley's only extracurriculars are classes that happen at their school right after school, so we don't have classes or activities that are taking our time, ergo we can't cut back there. I have to go to work, barring a major restructuring of our lifestyle. I'm involved in a committee at our church that takes some time, and I'm seriously considering giving that up because I just can't sustain it right now and it's breeding resentment. But the bottom line is that school, work, and the work of a house is as much—if not more—than I feel like I can handle right now. Yet there's not a lot beyond that to trim back, and so I feel stuck.
I have this feeling that if I keep writing about this, some kind of solution or help will reveal itself to me. I apologize to those of you reading, as I must sound like a broken record.
We sang a great song in church on Sunday, and the lyrics seem both a propos and worth sharing. The song is called "Give Light," by a folk duo called Magpie.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Teach peace, and people will find the way.
Teach peace, and people will find the way.
Teach peace, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Stand together, and people will find the way.
Stand together, and people will find the way.
Stand together, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Give love, and people will find the way.
Give love, and people will find the way.
Give love, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
Give light, and people will find the way.
People will find the way I do believe.
Things feel in a period of transition to me right now, and I'm not sure what the transition is all about. I find these periods draining and mysterious. "Give Light" is grounding and hopeful, and with a wise perspective. In a gentler moment tonight, I reminded Riley that he needs to do his best and trust that what happens next is what is supposed to happen. I need to remember that for myself. For tonight, that means get my chores done, order a few Christmas presents, go to bed early. Sing through the hard times (a concept from another good folk song for times like this, by Utah Phillips, I leave you to look up the lyrics on your own). What happens next is what's supposed to happen.
15 November 2012
Dribs. Drabs.
I wrote a long post yesterday. It started out like this:
I am anxious.
The post was largely about the upcoming Thanksgiving trip the twins and I are taking to see John's parents, brother, and sister in Michigan. These trips always make me anxious, but it's difficult for me to write about my complicated feelings around John's family and our interactions in a way that is honest but also honors them. I love them and care about them and value that they are a part of our lives. It's also true that it's a complex, complicated relationship we have, and that part of it is anxiety-inducing to me. I'm trying to focus on the good things that always come from those trips, most notably the joy that Maddie and Riley bring to John's family. It's palpable.
I'm going to leave that at that.
The trip, however, is not the only thing making me anxious. I am generally anxious about all kinds of things. It feels awful.
Most of the time, I pretend that I am fine. I do not make the time to acknowledge that I might be anything other than OK. And really, most of the time I am fine and my life is full to bursting with people I love and things I enjoy; it's too much of a good thing for the most part.
Lately, though, it's just too much. This is cyclical. I'll hum along for a while, then get off track and feel totally overwhelmed, then things will get righted and I'll be OK. I've noticed, though, that after seven years of having full responsibility for various permutations of dying spouse, children, work, and home, the periods of feeling overwhelmed become longer and deeper each time.
I've gotten way better over the years and finding ways to share the burden of responsibility I carry: I pay someone to clean my house, my family helps with the kids, we have an amazing network of supportive friends, having an au pair is life-changing.
And yet. I confess that I still feel overwhelmed. As Maddie and Riley get older, I feel increasingly disconnected from their lives, which is the most disturbing aspect of all of this. I want more presence in their lives in a way I've never wanted that before; that started in kindergarten. I want to pick them up. I want to chaperone school field trips. I want to take them to swim lessons.
Plenty of parents want this, though, so I feel like whiner when I complain about it. I've chosen a certain lifestyle for us that is based upon the fact that I have a job. Could I make a drastic change? Sure. Maybe I should consider it. For now, the idea of considering it feels overwhelming and time consuming. Gah.
I am in a fantastic, delightful relationship, which for the most part is a positive. It makes me a better, more centered person and parent, and I feel happy when we are together. But it takes time, too, sometimes time that I could be with the kids, or time when I could be doing things around my house or doing work or seeing other friends or reading or . . . well, anything. And I don't regret any of that time, but it's time.
Time, time, time. There's never enough of it to do the things you want to do, but lately I feel so crushed by there not even being enough to do the things I need to do. I am not telling anyone anything new here. What I wonder is this: Does everyone else feel like I do, that the solutions available are not truly helpful? It reminds me of simple tips to financial freedom! The oft-repeated advice about how if you put your $5/day latte money into a savings account, soon you'll have a huge nest egg! I KNOW. I'm already doing those kinds of things, both financially and time-wise. I outsource stuff. I've lowered my standards, I have a slow-cooker, we have cereal for dinner sometimes, I ask for help and accept it when it's offered, I exercise. I'm doing all that stuff and I'm still drowning, and I still don't see my kids enough.
I'm in a bit of a state. It will pass. Maybe being away will help. Maybe some of you have tips? Real tips? Not latte money tips? Tales of radical change? Tales of small change that felt radical? Virtual hugs?
I am anxious.
The post was largely about the upcoming Thanksgiving trip the twins and I are taking to see John's parents, brother, and sister in Michigan. These trips always make me anxious, but it's difficult for me to write about my complicated feelings around John's family and our interactions in a way that is honest but also honors them. I love them and care about them and value that they are a part of our lives. It's also true that it's a complex, complicated relationship we have, and that part of it is anxiety-inducing to me. I'm trying to focus on the good things that always come from those trips, most notably the joy that Maddie and Riley bring to John's family. It's palpable.
I'm going to leave that at that.
The trip, however, is not the only thing making me anxious. I am generally anxious about all kinds of things. It feels awful.
Most of the time, I pretend that I am fine. I do not make the time to acknowledge that I might be anything other than OK. And really, most of the time I am fine and my life is full to bursting with people I love and things I enjoy; it's too much of a good thing for the most part.
Lately, though, it's just too much. This is cyclical. I'll hum along for a while, then get off track and feel totally overwhelmed, then things will get righted and I'll be OK. I've noticed, though, that after seven years of having full responsibility for various permutations of dying spouse, children, work, and home, the periods of feeling overwhelmed become longer and deeper each time.
I've gotten way better over the years and finding ways to share the burden of responsibility I carry: I pay someone to clean my house, my family helps with the kids, we have an amazing network of supportive friends, having an au pair is life-changing.
And yet. I confess that I still feel overwhelmed. As Maddie and Riley get older, I feel increasingly disconnected from their lives, which is the most disturbing aspect of all of this. I want more presence in their lives in a way I've never wanted that before; that started in kindergarten. I want to pick them up. I want to chaperone school field trips. I want to take them to swim lessons.
Plenty of parents want this, though, so I feel like whiner when I complain about it. I've chosen a certain lifestyle for us that is based upon the fact that I have a job. Could I make a drastic change? Sure. Maybe I should consider it. For now, the idea of considering it feels overwhelming and time consuming. Gah.
I am in a fantastic, delightful relationship, which for the most part is a positive. It makes me a better, more centered person and parent, and I feel happy when we are together. But it takes time, too, sometimes time that I could be with the kids, or time when I could be doing things around my house or doing work or seeing other friends or reading or . . . well, anything. And I don't regret any of that time, but it's time.
Time, time, time. There's never enough of it to do the things you want to do, but lately I feel so crushed by there not even being enough to do the things I need to do. I am not telling anyone anything new here. What I wonder is this: Does everyone else feel like I do, that the solutions available are not truly helpful? It reminds me of simple tips to financial freedom! The oft-repeated advice about how if you put your $5/day latte money into a savings account, soon you'll have a huge nest egg! I KNOW. I'm already doing those kinds of things, both financially and time-wise. I outsource stuff. I've lowered my standards, I have a slow-cooker, we have cereal for dinner sometimes, I ask for help and accept it when it's offered, I exercise. I'm doing all that stuff and I'm still drowning, and I still don't see my kids enough.
I'm in a bit of a state. It will pass. Maybe being away will help. Maybe some of you have tips? Real tips? Not latte money tips? Tales of radical change? Tales of small change that felt radical? Virtual hugs?
09 November 2012
Doing something every day is hard.
Thanks for the great book suggestions. As much as I've loved reading Harry Potter with Maddie and Riley, I have to confess that I'm pretty excited about being done with that series and moving on to something else, so much so that I'm loathe to dive into another series of books, even though the Benedict Society series in particular holds much appeal for me. We still have 40 pages in HP book 6 and all of book 7 to get through before I have to decide what to do next with the twins, so I've got some time.
Meanwhile, I'm reading a few things all at once: Wildwood, Flourish, and the third Hunger Games book (no link required, I don't think). Also, I will soon be starting 100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do. I'm doing to read that one with, uh, that guy I'm dating; I have yet to come up with a good nickname for him, but wow is "that guy I'm dating" deeply unsatisfying and also totally not reflective of how I feel about him, because "that guy I'm dating" sounds super casual, and my feelings are not.
I digress.
As I was saying, TGID and I are going to read 100 Tricks together (the abbreviation of the title makes it all sound very naughty), which is his idea, and a great one, because we both love to read and we're about to spend a good chunk of time apart because the end of November = insane travel times for me, and the plan is that we'll call or do FaceTime or something like that and discuss the book while I'm away. He came up with this plan independent of my post on reading, hello there, universe, telling me something. TGID once showed up at my house so that we could go somewhere, to a concert, I think, and on the passenger seat of the car was a book that he'd thought I'd enjoy, so he'd brought it for me to look at while we drove; it was a rather mysterious book, and he instructed me to read a few pages then tell him what I thought, which was fun and surprising and thoughtful and sweet.
I digress again, and in my digression failed to come up with a better nickname for TGID, but since I'm not supposed to be blogging about him anyway (his totally reasonable request), the lack of a nickname shouldn't be a problem, really. The problem is that I find it difficult to avoid blogging about him.
What I also find difficult is writing every day, which is why I, well, haven't written every day. I am writing more, by a long shot, which isn't saying very much. It's not every day, though, and while I don't feel guilty about that in the way I once might have at a different point in my life, I do feel wistful. I am in the luxurious position of having lots of things I love to do and lots of people I love to spend time with and not enough hours to do it all. It's difficult to prioritize, but I'm working on finding a place to slot in writing.
I'll end today's digression of a post with a shameless plug for Powell's Books. I've plugged them before—totally unsponsored, I just truly love them—and they are worth plugging again. They are independent, they have an astounding selection, and you can shop used books online as well as new. Free shipping over $50! There is nothing but good about Powell's.
And with that, I am done. For today.
Meanwhile, I'm reading a few things all at once: Wildwood, Flourish, and the third Hunger Games book (no link required, I don't think). Also, I will soon be starting 100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do. I'm doing to read that one with, uh, that guy I'm dating; I have yet to come up with a good nickname for him, but wow is "that guy I'm dating" deeply unsatisfying and also totally not reflective of how I feel about him, because "that guy I'm dating" sounds super casual, and my feelings are not.
I digress.
As I was saying, TGID and I are going to read 100 Tricks together (the abbreviation of the title makes it all sound very naughty), which is his idea, and a great one, because we both love to read and we're about to spend a good chunk of time apart because the end of November = insane travel times for me, and the plan is that we'll call or do FaceTime or something like that and discuss the book while I'm away. He came up with this plan independent of my post on reading, hello there, universe, telling me something. TGID once showed up at my house so that we could go somewhere, to a concert, I think, and on the passenger seat of the car was a book that he'd thought I'd enjoy, so he'd brought it for me to look at while we drove; it was a rather mysterious book, and he instructed me to read a few pages then tell him what I thought, which was fun and surprising and thoughtful and sweet.
I digress again, and in my digression failed to come up with a better nickname for TGID, but since I'm not supposed to be blogging about him anyway (his totally reasonable request), the lack of a nickname shouldn't be a problem, really. The problem is that I find it difficult to avoid blogging about him.
What I also find difficult is writing every day, which is why I, well, haven't written every day. I am writing more, by a long shot, which isn't saying very much. It's not every day, though, and while I don't feel guilty about that in the way I once might have at a different point in my life, I do feel wistful. I am in the luxurious position of having lots of things I love to do and lots of people I love to spend time with and not enough hours to do it all. It's difficult to prioritize, but I'm working on finding a place to slot in writing.
I'll end today's digression of a post with a shameless plug for Powell's Books. I've plugged them before—totally unsponsored, I just truly love them—and they are worth plugging again. They are independent, they have an astounding selection, and you can shop used books online as well as new. Free shipping over $50! There is nothing but good about Powell's.
And with that, I am done. For today.
07 November 2012
Reading
I miss reading books. I used to read so many books. I read all the time. When I was in the Peace Corps, I frequently had days that looked like this:
wake up
read
breakfast
read
lunch
read
dinner
read
sleep
Those were great days.
What I fear is that even if I had a day like that now—I day I consciously devoted to setting aside other things in favor of doing nothing but reading—I don't think I could sustain concentration long enough to make it happen. For starters, I'd fall asleep. But even if I were well rested, the way my mind works has changed so much in the past number of years (10? 15?) that I don't think it would work.
John's illness was the first thing that I recall having a significant impact on my ability to sustain concentration over long periods of time. So much of my brain was immediately mobilized (ack, military imagery associated with illness: something I try to avoid, but it is ubiquitous!) to thinking about his illness, his treatment, our life, the future, that little was left for anything else. I craved the escapist aspects of reading, but it was all I could to to make it through an article in People, much less focus and digest an entire novel.
Parenting certainly dealt my concentration another significant blow. When I wasn't thinking about John, I was thinking about Maddie and Riley. And I was just so damn tired all the time. The only reading I did during those early years was for work, and that, too, was a struggle. At the time, I worked as an editor in educational publishing, doing everything from developmental work with authors to line editing and proofreading of colleagues' projects. I apologize to my employer for what was certainly a significant amount of errors that appeared in my publications during that time.
I thought that over time, my concentration would come back, but if anything, I'd say it's gotten worse, at least in regards to reading. I have nothing but gut feelings and anecdotal evidence to back this up, but I think media plays a role in this. Starting with 140 character Tweets, moving through Facebook status updates, passing by generally short blog posts, up to news articles online or in print when you can find them, the writing I encounter in my day to day life is not long. Maybe that was true before, but there's just so much more of it than there was back in the day—and in Peace Corps there was pretty much none of it. In the Peace Corps days, it was a book or nothing. Now it's everything but a book, and I feel like that's changed the way my brain interacts with print.
Does anyone out there know of research that backs this up? Does anyone have similar feelings? Does anyone have tips on how to cultivate that concentration? I'd like to get it back. As a step in that direction, I'm working on being more mindful of the time I spend interacting with social media, especially in the evenings. I already watch very little TV, but I'm also trying to remind myself that I could read for 45 minutes rather than watch another episode of Grey's Anatomy on Netflix (oh, Grey's, I just can't quit you).
I'm also interested in how to encourage that deep, long concentration in Maddie and Riley. They already have it to a certain extent; their capacity for listening to me read aloud is limited only by my ability to keep going, and they love audiobooks. They are making great strides in reading on their own, and I hope that once that truly comes together for them, they will spend hours and hours and hours reading as I did until my late 20s. I look forward to family reading time in the evenings, each with our own book and I certainly plan to keep reading aloud to them until they decide they don't want me to (which research shows might not happen for a long time, if ever).
One last call: book recommendations, for me or for me to read to Maddie and Riley. The kids and I are about to finish up the Harry Potter series, and we have a solid collection of kids' classics, but I'm not well versed on newer chapter books for the younger set. Do tell: what have I been missing?
wake up
read
breakfast
read
lunch
read
dinner
read
sleep
Those were great days.
What I fear is that even if I had a day like that now—I day I consciously devoted to setting aside other things in favor of doing nothing but reading—I don't think I could sustain concentration long enough to make it happen. For starters, I'd fall asleep. But even if I were well rested, the way my mind works has changed so much in the past number of years (10? 15?) that I don't think it would work.
John's illness was the first thing that I recall having a significant impact on my ability to sustain concentration over long periods of time. So much of my brain was immediately mobilized (ack, military imagery associated with illness: something I try to avoid, but it is ubiquitous!) to thinking about his illness, his treatment, our life, the future, that little was left for anything else. I craved the escapist aspects of reading, but it was all I could to to make it through an article in People, much less focus and digest an entire novel.
Parenting certainly dealt my concentration another significant blow. When I wasn't thinking about John, I was thinking about Maddie and Riley. And I was just so damn tired all the time. The only reading I did during those early years was for work, and that, too, was a struggle. At the time, I worked as an editor in educational publishing, doing everything from developmental work with authors to line editing and proofreading of colleagues' projects. I apologize to my employer for what was certainly a significant amount of errors that appeared in my publications during that time.
I thought that over time, my concentration would come back, but if anything, I'd say it's gotten worse, at least in regards to reading. I have nothing but gut feelings and anecdotal evidence to back this up, but I think media plays a role in this. Starting with 140 character Tweets, moving through Facebook status updates, passing by generally short blog posts, up to news articles online or in print when you can find them, the writing I encounter in my day to day life is not long. Maybe that was true before, but there's just so much more of it than there was back in the day—and in Peace Corps there was pretty much none of it. In the Peace Corps days, it was a book or nothing. Now it's everything but a book, and I feel like that's changed the way my brain interacts with print.
Does anyone out there know of research that backs this up? Does anyone have similar feelings? Does anyone have tips on how to cultivate that concentration? I'd like to get it back. As a step in that direction, I'm working on being more mindful of the time I spend interacting with social media, especially in the evenings. I already watch very little TV, but I'm also trying to remind myself that I could read for 45 minutes rather than watch another episode of Grey's Anatomy on Netflix (oh, Grey's, I just can't quit you).
I'm also interested in how to encourage that deep, long concentration in Maddie and Riley. They already have it to a certain extent; their capacity for listening to me read aloud is limited only by my ability to keep going, and they love audiobooks. They are making great strides in reading on their own, and I hope that once that truly comes together for them, they will spend hours and hours and hours reading as I did until my late 20s. I look forward to family reading time in the evenings, each with our own book and I certainly plan to keep reading aloud to them until they decide they don't want me to (which research shows might not happen for a long time, if ever).
One last call: book recommendations, for me or for me to read to Maddie and Riley. The kids and I are about to finish up the Harry Potter series, and we have a solid collection of kids' classics, but I'm not well versed on newer chapter books for the younger set. Do tell: what have I been missing?
05 November 2012
On Running, Extroversion, and Addiction
[Aside: I just had to correct a there/their typo in my last post. Seriously embarrassing, that.]
I have been running quite a bit. I've blogged about running before, although I'm too lazy to look back and see when I last wrote about my experiences with running. I've been running off and on now for about seven years, but these past three years have been the most consistently on of that time span, and the last year or so has been the most on of the on.
I like to run, just for the sake of running. That hasn't always been true, and, frankly, it's not the main reason I run. My main motivation for running is that I need to exercise to keep my sanity. Of all the things I do for myself—and I've gotten much better at being good to myself over the years—exercise is the most important one. When I exercise, my mental state is better, my physical state is better, I sleep better, I am just plain better overall. Running is an incredibly efficient form of exercise that does not require a gym membership or much special equipment.
Running is also a great way to be social. I'm an extrovert. I usually prefer the company of others to being alone, and I feel unsettled if I go very long without a conversation. Running is a fantastic way to combine my need for human interaction with my need for mental balance. I have strengthened personal and professional relationships through running. I've improved my running by making it a social activity. At this point, I have five standing social running dates per week on my calendar. In any given week, usually at least one of them doesn't happen, but it's rare for me not to get three running outings per week in the company of friends or colleagues.
I find that all kinds of conversations open up when you're running with someone. Something about the combination of being outdoors, engaging in a difficult task together, and keeping motivation up seems to bring up all kinds of conversational topics that might either not come up or be off limits in other situations. Being willing to sweat it out with someone creates a unique openness and bond. I know that some people like to have walking meetings at work, and I think running "meetings" accomplish the same thing.
I will run alone when no one else is available. Sometimes I do running meditations, chanting the Serenity Prayer to my footfalls, or listening to a particularly thought provoking song on repeat. I try to run at least four times a week, usually four to six miles at a time. I did a half marathon in June, and another one in October. I love running races; I usually spend part of the first mile crying at the overwhelming emotion of engaging in such an endeavor with a group of people who has worked hard to get there and reach that goal. I love seeing all the different kinds of people who show up to run races, people you would pass on the street and never have runner be the first word that comes to your mind upon seeing them.
My dad is a recovering alcoholic. He's been in recovery for over 20 years, something I'm super proud of and for which I'm deeply, deeply grateful. I'm also very aware of any habits I have that could indicate addictive behavior, and I see some of that with running. Sure, there are worse addictions to have, but it's the pattern and tendency I keep my eye on, not the specific activity. I tend to be overly devoted to habits; I once made a new year's resolution to floss my teeth daily and then didn't miss a day for something like ten years. Again, not a bad habit, and in neither flossing nor running am I ignoring other things in my life to feed the beast. But I think sometimes about the lengths to which I will go to rearrange my schedule for a run or how upsetting it can be for me if I go for more than a couple of days without hitting the streets. I'm not worried about it, but I'm aware of it, and I feel like there's something to my attitude about it that warrants some caution.
Mostly, though, it brings me joy, a sense of accomplishment, a bit of awe that I'm doing this thing I never in a million years would have thought I was capable of doing. Me, a runner. My mind—and the mind of anyone who knew me up through my late twenties—boggles.
I have been running quite a bit. I've blogged about running before, although I'm too lazy to look back and see when I last wrote about my experiences with running. I've been running off and on now for about seven years, but these past three years have been the most consistently on of that time span, and the last year or so has been the most on of the on.
I like to run, just for the sake of running. That hasn't always been true, and, frankly, it's not the main reason I run. My main motivation for running is that I need to exercise to keep my sanity. Of all the things I do for myself—and I've gotten much better at being good to myself over the years—exercise is the most important one. When I exercise, my mental state is better, my physical state is better, I sleep better, I am just plain better overall. Running is an incredibly efficient form of exercise that does not require a gym membership or much special equipment.
Running is also a great way to be social. I'm an extrovert. I usually prefer the company of others to being alone, and I feel unsettled if I go very long without a conversation. Running is a fantastic way to combine my need for human interaction with my need for mental balance. I have strengthened personal and professional relationships through running. I've improved my running by making it a social activity. At this point, I have five standing social running dates per week on my calendar. In any given week, usually at least one of them doesn't happen, but it's rare for me not to get three running outings per week in the company of friends or colleagues.
I find that all kinds of conversations open up when you're running with someone. Something about the combination of being outdoors, engaging in a difficult task together, and keeping motivation up seems to bring up all kinds of conversational topics that might either not come up or be off limits in other situations. Being willing to sweat it out with someone creates a unique openness and bond. I know that some people like to have walking meetings at work, and I think running "meetings" accomplish the same thing.
I will run alone when no one else is available. Sometimes I do running meditations, chanting the Serenity Prayer to my footfalls, or listening to a particularly thought provoking song on repeat. I try to run at least four times a week, usually four to six miles at a time. I did a half marathon in June, and another one in October. I love running races; I usually spend part of the first mile crying at the overwhelming emotion of engaging in such an endeavor with a group of people who has worked hard to get there and reach that goal. I love seeing all the different kinds of people who show up to run races, people you would pass on the street and never have runner be the first word that comes to your mind upon seeing them.
My dad is a recovering alcoholic. He's been in recovery for over 20 years, something I'm super proud of and for which I'm deeply, deeply grateful. I'm also very aware of any habits I have that could indicate addictive behavior, and I see some of that with running. Sure, there are worse addictions to have, but it's the pattern and tendency I keep my eye on, not the specific activity. I tend to be overly devoted to habits; I once made a new year's resolution to floss my teeth daily and then didn't miss a day for something like ten years. Again, not a bad habit, and in neither flossing nor running am I ignoring other things in my life to feed the beast. But I think sometimes about the lengths to which I will go to rearrange my schedule for a run or how upsetting it can be for me if I go for more than a couple of days without hitting the streets. I'm not worried about it, but I'm aware of it, and I feel like there's something to my attitude about it that warrants some caution.
Mostly, though, it brings me joy, a sense of accomplishment, a bit of awe that I'm doing this thing I never in a million years would have thought I was capable of doing. Me, a runner. My mind—and the mind of anyone who knew me up through my late twenties—boggles.
04 November 2012
The Warehouse Sale
I went to a warehouse sale on Friday afternoon for an athletic clothing company I like quite a bit, Title Nine. In true warehouse sale fashion, the dressing room is one big open pipe-and-draped space with some folding mirrors propped on chairs and empty boxes in the middle for rejected items.
The items on sale include swimwear and bras, so women in the crowded dressing room—it's really a dressing area—are down to next-to-nothing. Some women are there with their kids in strollers, others with friends, others alone.
I tried on a dozen or so things. I found the communal spirit of that dressing room surprisingly comfortable, even comforting. Women who were there solo were asking others for help with a zipper or advice on an item about which they were on the fence. Honest opinions were given to and from friends and strangers. No one appeared to be self-conscious about being half-naked in a created room full of people they didn't know. Kids ran around with rejected clothes, or offered opinions of their own.
There was nothing and everything remarkable about that dressing area. I got from that experience the same feeling I had when I ran an all-women's 10K back in Boston. At our best, people want to make connections with other people and help each other out. Of course, that's easy to do when you are running with people who are celebrating the culmination of their training or who are thrilled to be getting a great deal on a dress. It's a different matter when anything real is at stake.
************************
The news about the devastation wrought by Sandy is sad and troubling. On a personal level, I'm happy that my personal acquaintances in the area are all fine. On a larger scale, I'm moved by the grassroots relief work I hear of my friends and others doing to help those in need. It's so easy for things to be ruined; so hard to make them right again.
***********************
I've already missed a day of NaBloPoMo. I'm not going to let that get me down.
The items on sale include swimwear and bras, so women in the crowded dressing room—it's really a dressing area—are down to next-to-nothing. Some women are there with their kids in strollers, others with friends, others alone.
I tried on a dozen or so things. I found the communal spirit of that dressing room surprisingly comfortable, even comforting. Women who were there solo were asking others for help with a zipper or advice on an item about which they were on the fence. Honest opinions were given to and from friends and strangers. No one appeared to be self-conscious about being half-naked in a created room full of people they didn't know. Kids ran around with rejected clothes, or offered opinions of their own.
There was nothing and everything remarkable about that dressing area. I got from that experience the same feeling I had when I ran an all-women's 10K back in Boston. At our best, people want to make connections with other people and help each other out. Of course, that's easy to do when you are running with people who are celebrating the culmination of their training or who are thrilled to be getting a great deal on a dress. It's a different matter when anything real is at stake.
************************
The news about the devastation wrought by Sandy is sad and troubling. On a personal level, I'm happy that my personal acquaintances in the area are all fine. On a larger scale, I'm moved by the grassroots relief work I hear of my friends and others doing to help those in need. It's so easy for things to be ruined; so hard to make them right again.
***********************
I've already missed a day of NaBloPoMo. I'm not going to let that get me down.
02 November 2012
Halloween with Maddie and Riley
On the subject of things in which I am quite invested: Maddie and Riley. Here are some pictures of them from Halloween. They went as Harry Potter and Hermione Grainger (complete with Crookshanks!). We've been reading the HP books together and are about to finish book 6. We've been at it for about a year, and it's been a real joy to share that whole series with them and see them be engaged by a story for so long.
We had an excellent Halloween, the only limitation being my impatience with the race home from work/race out the door frenzy. I struggle mightily with the transition from work to home each day on the best of days, and on a day when I arrive home only to have children to costume, photos to take, trick or treating to do . . . it can feel really overwhelming.
We got out the door, though, and we trick or treated for two hours. Two hours! For part of that time, we were with friends, and the kids had a blast. I got tired of answering Maddie's endless query, "Can we go to this house? Can we go to that house? What about that house?" You can go to all the houses, child!
Our neighborhood is great. Lots of people really do it up—sometimes to the point of being too scary for me—but this year M&R both had a lot of curiosity about things that in the past had been too creepy for them. They are at least as brave if not more brave than I am at this point.
They got tons of candy. I have three rules for Halloween candy:
No candy before breakfast.
You have to eat your candy at the dining room table.
Disposal: Eat the stuff you like, compost the stuff you don't, all wrappers in the trash.
Yes, they end up eating a few pieces of candy between breakfast and school and yes, they eat a lot of candy after school, but they are surprisingly good overall about self-reagulating, they enjoy the autonomy of it, and they eat quite healthfully most of the time. Plus I don't have to police anything. So we're all happy.
Here they are sorting their candy, at 5:45 a.m. on November 1:
.JPG)
Yes, they still get up quite early most days. We have our peace around this. On this occasion, they sorted their candy individually, then ended up combining it into one box which is now on the dining table. They ask each others' permission before eating anything out of the box. I love how cooperative they are about this and so many other things, and how they think about each other in their actions, almost all the time. Their relationship has been a source of comfort and joy for all of us. They are each others' preferred playmate; they have spats and disagreements, to be sure, but for the most part, they truly enjoy spending nearly all their time together.
Impossible, unthinkable for me not to be completely invested in these two, methinks.
Maddie as Hermione at school for the parade through the neighborhood.
Riley as Harry, Maddie as Hermione (Crookshanks is in the bucket), me as a dementor.
Riley Potter. He refused to wear the glasses once we were done with photos. Oh, well.
We had an excellent Halloween, the only limitation being my impatience with the race home from work/race out the door frenzy. I struggle mightily with the transition from work to home each day on the best of days, and on a day when I arrive home only to have children to costume, photos to take, trick or treating to do . . . it can feel really overwhelming.
We got out the door, though, and we trick or treated for two hours. Two hours! For part of that time, we were with friends, and the kids had a blast. I got tired of answering Maddie's endless query, "Can we go to this house? Can we go to that house? What about that house?" You can go to all the houses, child!
Our neighborhood is great. Lots of people really do it up—sometimes to the point of being too scary for me—but this year M&R both had a lot of curiosity about things that in the past had been too creepy for them. They are at least as brave if not more brave than I am at this point.
They got tons of candy. I have three rules for Halloween candy:
No candy before breakfast.
You have to eat your candy at the dining room table.
Disposal: Eat the stuff you like, compost the stuff you don't, all wrappers in the trash.
Yes, they end up eating a few pieces of candy between breakfast and school and yes, they eat a lot of candy after school, but they are surprisingly good overall about self-reagulating, they enjoy the autonomy of it, and they eat quite healthfully most of the time. Plus I don't have to police anything. So we're all happy.
Here they are sorting their candy, at 5:45 a.m. on November 1:
.JPG)
Yes, they still get up quite early most days. We have our peace around this. On this occasion, they sorted their candy individually, then ended up combining it into one box which is now on the dining table. They ask each others' permission before eating anything out of the box. I love how cooperative they are about this and so many other things, and how they think about each other in their actions, almost all the time. Their relationship has been a source of comfort and joy for all of us. They are each others' preferred playmate; they have spats and disagreements, to be sure, but for the most part, they truly enjoy spending nearly all their time together.
Impossible, unthinkable for me not to be completely invested in these two, methinks.
01 November 2012
FedExed
I thought about building it up, explaining how it was raining and how this particular stretch of highway often gets backed up in a way that seems to catch people unawares. Really, though, none of that is important to the story. What gets the story started is that I had to come to a pretty sudden stop at the interchange between the two biggest highways in Oregon during the morning rush hour. I managed to make that stop, but the FedEx delivery truck behind me was unable to do the same without some help from the back of my car.
I've never been in a real car accident before. I got rear-ended once in downtown Boston, by a car that might have been going 2 miles/hour. I was driving a 1975 Volvo wagon and it was one of those days on which a dozen other worse things had already gone wrong. The driver of the other car and I didn't even exchange information. A couple of weeks after that, my front bumper got clipped by someone who misjudged the distance he needed to make a turn.
Looking into my rear-view mirror and seeing a FedEx truck hurtling towards me was a different matter. I can't begin to imagine what it's like to be in a serious, full-speed, multi-car wreck given that by comparison this was inconsequential. I was stopped, he was trying to stop and going perhaps 15 miles/hour, I don't know, I'm just guessing. There was no place for me to go, or for him to go. That's all.
One car crashing into another makes quite a sound. Finding a way to get over to the shoulder (as it were; it was nothing more than a narrow space about half the width of my car) was challenging in the volume of morning traffic. Then I was scared to get out of my car since there was nowhere for me to stand that was not in the path of the traffic that continued to flow by. I managed to have an Al-Anon moment and remember that doing nothing is a choice; I figured the FedEx driver or a highway emergency vehicle or someone or something else would be by at some point. And that's exactly what happened. The FedEx driver appeared at my door and we we found a place to stand on the protected side of his truck to exchange our information in the rain.
It was all very civil. No other cars were involved, thankfully. Everyone cooperated, with the exception of the other drivers in a rush to get to work, many of whom honked and shook their fists, as though we were deliberately blocking their way.
In the grand scheme of things, it was scary and inconvenient, but nothing more. A week and a half later, I'm still dealing with paperwork and the arrangements to have my car fixed and such. But no one was hurt, no other cars were involved, and the damage was minimal.
Why, then, was it so destabilizing? Once all of our information had been exchanged and I was on my way to work, I took the first possible exit, wended my way down a side street, found somewhere to park, and burst into tears. I proceeded to cry for most of the day, off and on, about everything. People asked me if I was OK, and I cried. People talked about work, and I cried. I got home to a party for our au pair, and I cried. I cried a lot. I even cried some the next day, and the next.
Last week, a coworker told me that her spouse has been diagnosed with metastatic cancer, a terminal diagnosis. Then I got rear-ended. We're in a major transition at our house, with one beloved au pair departing and a new one arriving. Work is full of uncertainty. I don't see as much of Maddie and Riley as I'd like to.
In the most sentimental of ways, what the accident is forcing me to do is come face to face with the fragility of life and the precariousness of being invested. In the wake of John's death, my grief has often been about not getting too attached to things. If you're not attached, you can't have your heart broken. It took John and I a while to find each other, and then once we did, and once I took that plunge into caring so much that I needed someone, that person was taken from me. Since then, I've cultivated an attitude of not caring too terribly much. Sometimes my lack of investment is genuine, sometimes it's full-on Al-Anon fake it 'til you make it. But real or pretend, my life has in many ways been an exercise in not being fully invested. I don't give as much of myself as I could at work; I spent quite a while dating casually but not wanting to be overly involved; I don't get as passionate as I used to get about hobbies or books or movies or other fun stuff; even in parenting, I tend to be less emotionally invested than my peers, or so it seems.
But then that truck hit me. And no, my life didn't flash before my eyes. In the aftermath, though, as I think about how much worse it could have been, and what my coworker is headed into with her spouse, and the number of things we do every day that could go wrong in a heartbeat, I keep coming back to how very much I have to lose. Despite my best efforts, holding back on being overly invested has been a failure.
To realize that there are in fact many things in my life about which I care deeply puts me in a place that feels extremely vulnerable, but also very alive. I believe that being invested is better than not. It's better to have loved and lost, right? Yes. It's been easy and comforting to hum along with the sense that I'm immune to the loss part, and it's silly that a FedEx delivery truck was part of my realization that I'm not. Part of what I want to explore in a more regular writing practice is what I'm invested in and why it's worth it. More on that tomorrow.
I've never been in a real car accident before. I got rear-ended once in downtown Boston, by a car that might have been going 2 miles/hour. I was driving a 1975 Volvo wagon and it was one of those days on which a dozen other worse things had already gone wrong. The driver of the other car and I didn't even exchange information. A couple of weeks after that, my front bumper got clipped by someone who misjudged the distance he needed to make a turn.
Looking into my rear-view mirror and seeing a FedEx truck hurtling towards me was a different matter. I can't begin to imagine what it's like to be in a serious, full-speed, multi-car wreck given that by comparison this was inconsequential. I was stopped, he was trying to stop and going perhaps 15 miles/hour, I don't know, I'm just guessing. There was no place for me to go, or for him to go. That's all.
One car crashing into another makes quite a sound. Finding a way to get over to the shoulder (as it were; it was nothing more than a narrow space about half the width of my car) was challenging in the volume of morning traffic. Then I was scared to get out of my car since there was nowhere for me to stand that was not in the path of the traffic that continued to flow by. I managed to have an Al-Anon moment and remember that doing nothing is a choice; I figured the FedEx driver or a highway emergency vehicle or someone or something else would be by at some point. And that's exactly what happened. The FedEx driver appeared at my door and we we found a place to stand on the protected side of his truck to exchange our information in the rain.
It was all very civil. No other cars were involved, thankfully. Everyone cooperated, with the exception of the other drivers in a rush to get to work, many of whom honked and shook their fists, as though we were deliberately blocking their way.
In the grand scheme of things, it was scary and inconvenient, but nothing more. A week and a half later, I'm still dealing with paperwork and the arrangements to have my car fixed and such. But no one was hurt, no other cars were involved, and the damage was minimal.
Why, then, was it so destabilizing? Once all of our information had been exchanged and I was on my way to work, I took the first possible exit, wended my way down a side street, found somewhere to park, and burst into tears. I proceeded to cry for most of the day, off and on, about everything. People asked me if I was OK, and I cried. People talked about work, and I cried. I got home to a party for our au pair, and I cried. I cried a lot. I even cried some the next day, and the next.
Last week, a coworker told me that her spouse has been diagnosed with metastatic cancer, a terminal diagnosis. Then I got rear-ended. We're in a major transition at our house, with one beloved au pair departing and a new one arriving. Work is full of uncertainty. I don't see as much of Maddie and Riley as I'd like to.
In the most sentimental of ways, what the accident is forcing me to do is come face to face with the fragility of life and the precariousness of being invested. In the wake of John's death, my grief has often been about not getting too attached to things. If you're not attached, you can't have your heart broken. It took John and I a while to find each other, and then once we did, and once I took that plunge into caring so much that I needed someone, that person was taken from me. Since then, I've cultivated an attitude of not caring too terribly much. Sometimes my lack of investment is genuine, sometimes it's full-on Al-Anon fake it 'til you make it. But real or pretend, my life has in many ways been an exercise in not being fully invested. I don't give as much of myself as I could at work; I spent quite a while dating casually but not wanting to be overly involved; I don't get as passionate as I used to get about hobbies or books or movies or other fun stuff; even in parenting, I tend to be less emotionally invested than my peers, or so it seems.
But then that truck hit me. And no, my life didn't flash before my eyes. In the aftermath, though, as I think about how much worse it could have been, and what my coworker is headed into with her spouse, and the number of things we do every day that could go wrong in a heartbeat, I keep coming back to how very much I have to lose. Despite my best efforts, holding back on being overly invested has been a failure.
To realize that there are in fact many things in my life about which I care deeply puts me in a place that feels extremely vulnerable, but also very alive. I believe that being invested is better than not. It's better to have loved and lost, right? Yes. It's been easy and comforting to hum along with the sense that I'm immune to the loss part, and it's silly that a FedEx delivery truck was part of my realization that I'm not. Part of what I want to explore in a more regular writing practice is what I'm invested in and why it's worth it. More on that tomorrow.
30 October 2012
You can't be good at it if you never do it.
Imagine my shock and surprise to log on to Blogger today and discover that I have not written a blog post in over three months.
Shock.
Surprise.
Both.
Yesterday, I interviewed a candidate for a position here where I work. It's a writing job. We talked a lot about the writing process and his approach to that process. The notion of the importance of a daily writing practice came up multiple times in that conversation. About a month ago, I thought about signing up for Alice Bradley's Practice of Writing course, but then I missed the deadline. A couple of weeks ago, someone said something about morning pages to me, and then when I was cleaning some books out of my basement bedroom, I found an old morning pages journal of mine.
Perhaps the universe is telling me something, although I think it's more likely that I have in this moment an awareness of something I already know, and because of that awareness, I see the signs all around me.
I can't be good at writing if I never do it, and writing is something I pretty much never do anymore. NoBloPoMo is two days away. Universe, if you are talking to me, I hear you. I hear you loud and clear.
I can't be good at this if I'm not doing it.
Here I go.
Up next: the story of being rear-ended by a FedEx delivery truck and the shocking amount of emotional upheaval that has ensued in the aftermath.
Shock.
Surprise.
Both.
Yesterday, I interviewed a candidate for a position here where I work. It's a writing job. We talked a lot about the writing process and his approach to that process. The notion of the importance of a daily writing practice came up multiple times in that conversation. About a month ago, I thought about signing up for Alice Bradley's Practice of Writing course, but then I missed the deadline. A couple of weeks ago, someone said something about morning pages to me, and then when I was cleaning some books out of my basement bedroom, I found an old morning pages journal of mine.
Perhaps the universe is telling me something, although I think it's more likely that I have in this moment an awareness of something I already know, and because of that awareness, I see the signs all around me.
I can't be good at writing if I never do it, and writing is something I pretty much never do anymore. NoBloPoMo is two days away. Universe, if you are talking to me, I hear you. I hear you loud and clear.
I can't be good at this if I'm not doing it.
Here I go.
Up next: the story of being rear-ended by a FedEx delivery truck and the shocking amount of emotional upheaval that has ensued in the aftermath.
25 July 2012
We have a winner!
OK, folks, we have a winner!
I chose the winner first thing this morning with some help from the number sequence generator at random.org, but I am not able to log into Blogger at work, so have been unable to make the public announcement until now.
Drumroll please . . .
The winner is . . .
Priscilla! I can't link to her blog as if she has one, she doesn't have a profile that links to it. I have, however, emailed her and heard back from her that she is thrilled to have won and is looking forward to attending. If she lets me know what her experience at camp is like and gives me permission to share that, I'd be happy to pass her insights along to you.
I have to say, I was flattered to be asked to do the giveaway and a bit surprised that so many people stopped by to toss their hat into the ring. My heart has not given up on blogging, but my life has changed in ways that mean that it doesn't end up happening so much. I'm a long way from shutting this sign down or in any other way officially signing off, but I'm not making any promises about posting frequency, either.
Congratulations, Priscilla, and happy camping to all of you attending Camp Widow. I've promised to put the dates for next year's camp on my calendar. Maybe 2013 will be my year to attend.
I chose the winner first thing this morning with some help from the number sequence generator at random.org, but I am not able to log into Blogger at work, so have been unable to make the public announcement until now.
Drumroll please . . .
The winner is . . .
Priscilla! I can't link to her blog as if she has one, she doesn't have a profile that links to it. I have, however, emailed her and heard back from her that she is thrilled to have won and is looking forward to attending. If she lets me know what her experience at camp is like and gives me permission to share that, I'd be happy to pass her insights along to you.
I have to say, I was flattered to be asked to do the giveaway and a bit surprised that so many people stopped by to toss their hat into the ring. My heart has not given up on blogging, but my life has changed in ways that mean that it doesn't end up happening so much. I'm a long way from shutting this sign down or in any other way officially signing off, but I'm not making any promises about posting frequency, either.
Congratulations, Priscilla, and happy camping to all of you attending Camp Widow. I've promised to put the dates for next year's camp on my calendar. Maybe 2013 will be my year to attend.
20 July 2012
UPDATED: Win free registration at Camp Widow! Entry deadline extended!
I'm so happy that there is so much interest in getting a free registration to Camp Widow! At the request of the good folks at Soaring Spirits Loss, I'm extending the deadline to enter my giveaway to Tuesday, July 24. I will choose a winner at random first thing on Wednesday morning, July 25.
Please see details and instructions in the post below.
Please see details and instructions in the post below.
16 July 2012
Are you a widow(er)? Wanna go to camp, for free?
I'm here to give something away.
Sure, I could write about what's going on in my life, and there's a lot to say about that, and it's mostly good (although the six-year-olds [SIX!] are driving me NUTS right now), but I'm not going to take the time to say it because right now is the time for FREE STUFF.
OK, one free thing.
And you can only have it if you are a widow or widower. Sorry to all you others out there.
For the past three years, an amazing group of people at the nonprofit Soaring Spirits Lost Foundation have put together and amazing experience at Camp Widow. They've done it three times on the west coast and once on the east coast, and they are gearing up to do it again in San Diego in a few weeks, the weekend of August 8–10.
I hear that camp features laughing, crying, and drinking, so it's a complete mystery why I've never attended since I love to do all three of those things and I especially love to do them with people who get the death-of-a-spouse thing because they've lived the death-of-a-spouse thing. While I've not gone myself, I know (IRL and in the computer) people who have, and the experience gets nothing but major good reviews.
I have the chance to offer FREE registration to this year's camp to one lucky widow(er), no matter your age, parenting status, gender, current marital status, or point in your grief. Here's what you get:
I also need to tell you what you don't get:
Not sure it's for you? Here are some links to give you more of a sense of what it's all about:
Time's a wastin' as travel plans need to be made. I'm planning to choose a winner at random on Tuesday, July 24 (updated on Friday, July 20).
(Confidential to Supa: if no one enters, can I choose myself? Ha!)
Sure, I could write about what's going on in my life, and there's a lot to say about that, and it's mostly good (although the six-year-olds [SIX!] are driving me NUTS right now), but I'm not going to take the time to say it because right now is the time for FREE STUFF.
OK, one free thing.
And you can only have it if you are a widow or widower. Sorry to all you others out there.
For the past three years, an amazing group of people at the nonprofit Soaring Spirits Lost Foundation have put together and amazing experience at Camp Widow. They've done it three times on the west coast and once on the east coast, and they are gearing up to do it again in San Diego in a few weeks, the weekend of August 8–10.
I hear that camp features laughing, crying, and drinking, so it's a complete mystery why I've never attended since I love to do all three of those things and I especially love to do them with people who get the death-of-a-spouse thing because they've lived the death-of-a-spouse thing. While I've not gone myself, I know (IRL and in the computer) people who have, and the experience gets nothing but major good reviews.
I have the chance to offer FREE registration to this year's camp to one lucky widow(er), no matter your age, parenting status, gender, current marital status, or point in your grief. Here's what you get:
- FREE registration (a $375 value)
- Access to all sorts of fantastic programming on Friday and Saturday
- some meals (see schedule for details)
I also need to tell you what you don't get:
- airfare
- hotel room (discounted rooms are reserved at the conference hotel, and if you want to save $$ by having a roommate, the conference organizers can help you work that out)
- some meals (see schedule for details)
Not sure it's for you? Here are some links to give you more of a sense of what it's all about:
- Discussion about Camp on Village
- Some relevant blog posts to learn more about the event, by Supa Dupa Fresh, who has been there: Review of East Coast event (includes lot of valuable info like what ages attended, how late after the loss, etc.), Party dress
- Ritual (another blog post by Supa; I can't get the formatting to work to run it up on the same line with the other blog posts, argh)
- A video made by Supa, that gives a good sense of the event
Time's a wastin' as travel plans need to be made. I'm planning to choose a winner at random on Tuesday, July 24 (updated on Friday, July 20).
(Confidential to Supa: if no one enters, can I choose myself? Ha!)
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