Thoughts

It’s not you, it’s … well, sometimes it’s you

March 21, 2018

Dear Desperately Seeking Representation,
Thank you for reaching out to me about this project.

I’m sorry this is a pass for me.

Right now my list is very full, and I’m fortunate that business
is very good so I can pass on projects that are not only
good and publishable but ones I really like. That’s a good
problem for me, but it just stinks from your
viewpoint.

I strongly encourage you to query widely. Other agents have more room
on their lists and are able to take on more clients.

Please think of this as redirection rather than rejection.

Very best wishes to you!

Brenda Boobenshlauts
Literary Agent to the Stars

“Redirection rather than rejection.” That’s some next-level breakup lingo there, folks.

You should know that this is an actual email that I actually received (for the most part). It came in response to a lofty step I took out onto a ledge protruding from the top floor of a building I’d never been in and knew very little about. It came from me taking a chance that didn’t quite pay off or pan out.

It’s cool. I can talk about it.

It’s amazing how ballsy we are in hypotheticals, isn’t it? How highly we think of the three-months-from-now version of ourselves when we’re feeling all big and aspirational. It’s not uncommon for me to set overly ambitious, unattainable goals when it comes to fitness or food restrictions, but when I sat down to make my 2018 resolutions, I wanted to throw something new in the mix. I wanted to get out of my literary La-Z Boy and dip my toes into a new pond. The publishing pond.

[laughing] Isn’t that so cute?

Back in January, I promised myself I would write something outside of this blog space and my day job space, and I would woman up and bravely send it out into the world, no regrets. At that time, I didn’t consider the boomerang laced with dismissal and disinterest that would come back to catch me in the kisser. I wasn’t thinking about the soul-crushing flood of failure that would infiltrate and poison my inbox.

And yet, the flood came.

To date, I have been told “thanks but no thanks” in a dozen different ways by a dozen different strangers. I’ve received short, shitty rejections, and softer it’s-not-you-it’s-me rejections. I’ve been rejected by men and by women. I’ve been rejected from six different states. I’ve been rejected more times today than I’ve used the restroom. Maybe I need to drink more water?

And now that I’ve scraped my pride up off the public bathroom tile, I’m starting to crawl toward the gratitude. I’m thinking that, in a day when we so often only offer our successes and posed portraits to our peers and connections, it’s interesting to explore the unfiltered side for a vulnerable sec. To hold the microscope up to the passes and disappointments, instead. I feel like you can’t really have one without the other. You can’t appreciate cupcakes unless you’ve had anchovies, right? That is to say, you can’t savor an achievement without knowing the taste of failure, too. And boy did I get a pu pu platter this past week.

I sent thirty-something proposals for a side passion project out the door the same week I was talking to the team of a well-respected public figure about another exciting extracurricular opportunity. While, by our third exchange, I think both sides sensed that it wasn’t the best fit, they were the ones to finally call it. Even though I helped slice the lemons, the juice of the rejection still stung. It stung because my mind had created an idyllic version of the situation since I so badly wanted it to fit. And it stung because I was already sipping from the trickle of rejection I’d triggered earlier in the week with my ill-fated proposal. By Friday, I felt like I was drowning in disappointment. Drinking it from a fire hose.

But – here comes the gratitude – the universe has this way of giving and taking. The pendulum tends to come back polished with purpose. It’s rare that hindsight doesn’t hand us some degree of handsome justification. It might take a few years, but a bad break almost always leads to a future happiness. Opportunities are kind of like Dominos in that way; as each one passes, it taps the next one in. Some are good and some are bad, but you can’t get to your future unless you fall down a few times and then put it behind you.

I find this push and pull – these highs and lows – in writing for sure, but also in marriage, in friendships, in parenting and in my relationship with myself. I might look around some evening and all my chicks are getting along and the house isn’t a catastrophe and there’s lots of cuddling going on, and then an hour later Sloppy Joan decides to make cupcakes out of shaving cream and cotton balls. I might get my workouts in six days in a row and finally see the scale move a pound, only to wake up surrounded by Taco Bell wrappers and Halo Top lids on Sunday.

It’s the pulse of life. Success surges and subsides.

And so must failure.

Rejection.

Redirection.

So, what to do after you’ve gotten your ass kicked, wrapped up and handed back to you with a bow on top? I guess, see it as a gift. Gabrielle Bernstein once posted, “ If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.” And I think that’s the faith and the hope that you get to hold onto when nothing else sticks. When your plan falls apart.

So, Brenda Boobenshlauts didn’t buy into your proposal. Or your idea didn’t fly in the staff meeting. Or you ate all of the ice creams. Or you didn’t get nominated or picked or recognized.
You don’t stop trying. It’s not supposed to be easy. You knocked and no one answered. The key didn’t fit. It just wasn’t your door.

Sometimes it’s a product of effort, sure, but sometimes it’s a product of timing. I think about JoJo and Spike. Remember last winter during basketball season, when Spike wouldn’t go on the court? She felt overwhelmed and small and incapable until that very last game when she got out there and flung that ball up toward the hoop. Not one of us cared that she missed.

When Hank asked if we should sign them up again this winter, I was convinced it was a waste of time, but he persisted. Last Saturday was their last game and I was almost sad to see it go. They both did so well, and scored almost every single game. That’s right, Spike scored almost every single game. The timing was right. She’d grown, both in stature and self esteem. She knew what to expect, and that the worst thing that could happen would be that she’d miss. So she shot.

I think about what a loss it would have been if I’d let last year’s poor experience poison this year’s opportunity.

As a writer, I can’t count the number of times a first draft or story idea got shot down like a fat turkey on Thanksgiving morning. But also, how many amazing opportunities and notes of thanks I’ve received. And most of the time, the amazing opportunities come just on the other side of the gut punch. The good stuff takes the sting away when the pendulum pushes back in my direction. I just have to have faith it will come back around.

If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.

Brenda Boobenshlauts was not my door.

The glitzy side hustle was not my door.

Now I have to stand tall on tomorrow’s front stoop and dare to try again. I haven’t sent my last proposal. I haven’t seen my last rejection. But I’ve got a ring full of keys and I’m huntin’ down my door.

(P.S. This was a letter I needed to write to myself, and I thank you for letting me put it here in this space.)

Pages, Wanderlust

Biscuits in the Spotlight

March 13, 2018

So, something really sweet and unexpected happened … I was featured in the Women Spotlight for the March/April issue of kit magazine for my time on the Appalachian Trail! To say I feel undeserving is an understatement, but I’m incredibly grateful for the platform and hope it will inspire someone else to pursue a dream they’re keeping in their back pocket.

There are times still when I can’t really believe we’ve gone on these adventures. And, as we gear up to head back out for our third go of it, times I can’t really believe we’re doing it again. But I count these hours in the woods and on the sides of mountains as some of my most treasured, cold and miserable as they might have been at the time.

If you’re a new visitor to Desperately Seeking Superwoman, welcome! Follow closely and I’ll take you on a crazy journey down a winding, dizzy path of parenting, self discovery and the pursuit of balance. Or just stick around for the hiking stories. That’s cool, too.

For your convenience, I’ve bundled our AT adventures up so they’re a little easier to navigate. And I hope you’ll check back in April to read about our next leg, a 50-mile stint in Georgia.

TRIP No. 1

Makin’ Biscuits in the Woods, Pt. 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Thanks for the Biscuits

TRIP No. 2

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 28.3-30.7 + Springer Mountain
Miles 0-6.2
Miles 6.2-14.3
Miles 14.3-21.1

BONUS!
If you’re old to DSS but new to kit magazine, check out this interesting interview I did for them with Valerie, the minimalist. It changed me into a woman who thinks twice before impulse carting on amazon.

Thoughts

The 36 questions you need to ask somebody now

March 2, 2018

Last Wednesday night, my husband of a decade and I put on our fancy-ish, semi-stretchy outfits and treated ourselves to a gluttonous belated Valentine’s Day dinner. We really don’t date enough. Every time we find ourselves chickless with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine, we rediscover just how much we like each other.

We’ve been sitting at tables with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine (or pizza and soda cocktails, depending on the decade) for more than 17 years. We’ve covered a lot of ground, both in diet and dialogue. As you pass through the seasons of life, you fall into certain conversational potholes. In our teens, it was all who are you and how did you get so amazing? In our 20s, it was all friends and weddings and first jobs and apartments. In our 30s it’s the kids, our jobs, our house and the kids.

I love my girls, my work and our home, but after awhile, talking about only the adult parts of our lives makes me feel ever so slightly like the lead character in an indie film. You know the one … he/she’s disconnected, an inactive participant in the fleeting hours of his/her fleeting years. They typically come alive after daring to pursue a very uncharacteristic journey or relationship. In real life, the plot twist isn’t written in. You have to spice up the script yourself.

About a week ago, a sweet friend from work passed along a podcast she thought I’d enjoy. The Science of Happiness features research-based topics for living a meaningful life and is co-produced by the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley. The episode she recommended was “How to fall in love with anyone” and it led me to the 36 questions.

The 36 questions! It’s starting to get good, guys. Stay with me.

(This is the nerdy, fascinating part.) The 36 questions were originally developed in a lab by a guy named Art. Art was focused on creating, not love, but friendships. But not just any friendships. Friendships between people who otherwise hated each other. People who felt a strong prejudice against a particular group of people. The scientists (Art) wanted to see if having someone who held prejudice complete a get-to-know-you interview with someone from the group which they disliked would change or reduce the negative taste in their mouth. In short, could a good ole Barbara Walters sit down break down racial tensions? And wouldn’t you know … it did. Now, those are some damn good questions.

So, this author, Kelly Corrigan, who was the primary guest on the podcast, took Art’s research-proven technique for feeling closer to the people you hated and applied it to romantic partners and married couples, because, you know, why not?

She focused on couples who’d been together for some time. “You think there’s no discovery left and how sad is that?” she said. Her confident conclusion is that sitting down and asking your loved one the 36 questions will open a whole new can of conversational worms. “The thought of hearing your spouse say something for the first time, not just to you, but possibly to anyone, that’s powerful. Intimacy is predicated after all on telling someone something you wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

See, the trick is: You have to ask the questions.

Remember when you were first dating your husband/wife and you’d stay up late relentlessly probing for every little morsel of information? You collected their history crumb by crumb, devouring the sweet story of their life up until the point you entered it.

And that’s where you grew up? And what was your childhood like? Were you a bad kid or a good kid? Did you have any hobbies? Did you win any awards? And how did that make you feel? Were you close to your parents? Why is that? How would you say your relationship is now? Were you a good brother? What’s that scar? Did it hurt? Did you ever do that again? So you don’t have your tonsils?

When did I stop asking the questions?

If I had to guess, it was probably around the same time we added a second kid, went to man-on-man coverage and took jobs where we had to wear slacks and closed toe shoes, but it’s really a hard thing to gauge retroactively.

I don’t know everything there is to know about Hank. I couldn’t possibly! By our very nature we’re changing every second, in our thoughts, in our cells. I guess I just forgot that it’s my job to keep going back for the crumbs. It’s still a sweet story, his story. He still wants to tell it, even though he says he doesn’t. We all want someone to witness our time here.

There’s a whole process on the website for how you should conduct your interview. Myself, I like to just lob one at the old man when he least expects it, or he’s stuck at a fancy restaurant with me and we have to appear to be having adult conversation to fit in with all the other adults wearing sweater vests and cell phone belt clips.

“So, I listened to this podcast Angie recommended about these 36 questions …” I started [Insert spiel about the premise and prejudice, Art, etc. and so on.]
“OK”
“But I forgot the paper with all the questions.”
“You were going to bring a paper to our Valentine’s Day fancy dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“K”
“Anyway, the only two I can remember are, ‘Have you ever thought of how you would die?’ and ‘What was the last song you sang to yourself?’”
“I mean … really … I’m not good at this stuff.”
“C’mon. Have you ever thought about how you would die?”
“I guess old age, something sudden and catastrophic, or a horrible illness.”
“I hope it’s old age.”
“I know you do.”
“What was the last song you sang?”
“I mean, with the kids I’m always singing something from a Disney princess show or some stupid thing. But just like 2 seconds of it and then another thought pops into my head.”
“I remember another one! ‘What was the most terrifying day of your life?’”
“I don’t really remember that stuff. I know I was scared when you had surgery after JoJo was born (a story for another time). And I’m sure I was scared when Dad had cancer. But I just don’t hold onto those things.”

At this point, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the 36 questions were working their magic whether he wanted to believe they would or not.

We kept on like that through our entrees. Then I veered off script and brought up the subject of getting a new dog when our current dog crosses the rainbow bridge, and things took a turn. But still, 3 of the 36 questions had proven to be pretty dang great.

So now I want more. I want more time (I wouldn’t be mad at more fancy dinners, either) and more crumbs. I want to stay up late rediscovering my husband of a decade and all the strange, phenomenal thoughts that go through his 30-something head and settle back into his soul a bit. I mean, if I don’t ask him the questions, who will? Our children? Their major inquiries of late revolve around gravity and the purpose of butts. Someone has to steer this ship in a deeper direction.

You can find the questions here and the podcast here. I hope they help you reconnect with a parent, sibling, friend or partner. Maybe even try them on someone ya hate! Happy discovery and conversation, friends.

Thoughts

Peace by piece (let’s make it a thing)

February 13, 2018

I have, through a series of fortunate events, been introduced to and befriended a mindfulness expert, Dr. Dave. I just love the guy. He’s one of these folks who holds people with his eyes and controls your attention through the inflection in and pace of his voice. He slows way down when he’s making the point he most wants you to absorb. It’s like performance art, watching this guy explain the overthinking mind, I tell ya.

All that to say, he’s a pretty captivating soul, but mostly, I love the guy because he does beautiful shit like this …

A few weeks back, a group of us were working on a video project with Dr. Dave at his house, which is always kind of a rewarding exercise in itself because his home is very curated and collected and cool. It spawns a lot of creativity, which is my currency of choice. Plus, interview someone on a chair in a lobby and then interview them on their couch in their living room and just see which comes out more engaging. It’s a pathetic contest.

Anyway, we were standing in his kitchen, contemplating his gracious offer to make coffee, when he threw a standard Dr. Dave curveball out. “Guys, I want to start today by setting an intention.” Aw yeah, here we go! Intentions! [Oprah voice] He reached into his pocket and pulled out three puzzle pieces. He placed one very deliberately in my hand, then each of my coworkers’ hands.

“I want you to look at the glossy side of the piece. What colors are on it? What textures did the artist capture? What bigger image might this piece be a part of?”

We all obediently ran our fingers over our pieces, quietly, pregnantly.

“OK, now turn it over. What do you notice about the other side? What does it feel like?”

We complied. It looked and felt like cardboard.

“Now, I want you think about a word. One word. I want that word to be your intention for the month of February. Think about something you want to work on or focus on. What is your word?”

We only get one?

“You know,” he continued, “sometimes it can be hard to see the big picture when we’re only focused on one small part of it. But if you set your intention, it can help clear out some of the noise and give clarity.”

Classic Dr. Dave. That insightful son of a …

This was the shot from the gun at the starting line for me. Not the idea of setting an intention. I mean, I employ mantras in loads of different ways: To get through a long run … “one more step, one more step, one more step …” Or a long car ride with three tiny, disgruntled passengers … “you’ll miss these days, you’ll miss these days, you’ll miss these days … Or even to walk away from breakroom brownies … “skinny jeans, skinny jean, skinny jeans …” But this was more complex.

Strap on your seat belts, guys. We’re going full speed into Metaphor Town!

Let’s say life is a puzzle, with, we’ll call it 100 different pieces (if you’re lucky), and each piece is a different intention; A different facet of your character, awareness or behavior you’d like to strengthen. If you invested a bit of yourself in every single one of those pieces, you’d feel pretty great about the project by the time it all came together and it was ready to be put away, right? Do you smell what I’m steppin’ in? What Dr. Dave was steppin’ in?

You can set an intention for the day.

Set an intention for the week.

For the month.

For the year.

You could take everything apart, figure out what needs fixing or focus and then fix or focus on it. Piece by piece. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. Year by year. However much you can break off and handle at one time, handle it. Maybe it’s one small thing – like an hour more sleep – and that’s all you want to focus on for 365 days. I think that would be lovely!

This whole thing – this puzzle – might just be the secret to realistic change. It’s a guide to showing yourself grace and getting down into the gritty work in digestible, manageable doses. Every yahoo with a 50+ piece jigsaw under their belt knows that big results don’t come together by dumping the whole mess out on a table and going hog wild. No! Things really only start to come together when you have a plan. A strategy. They come from pulling all the edge pieces out first and starting there, maybe from a corner.

Yes, a corner!

Think of what your corners might be … C’mon, what are your biggies? For me, it’s patience, presence, health and growth. If I can get to a good place in those four areas, I think I can love with as much love as my heart can hold and live with as much life as my spirit can imagine. Maybe start there. With your four corners. The “need to haves”. Then … break it out from there with the “nice to haves” that tie back to your “need to haves”. What are the other pieces of the puzzle for you?

My intention for February is “awake”. (Remember, Dr. Dave only gave us one word.) It’s a state of being that often eludes me. I’m upright. I’m dressed for the part. I’m crossing everything off the list, but I am not always seeing things. I’m not always tuned into the people I’m doing things for or the reasons I’m doing things to begin with. I’m a frequent flier on the autopilot express, and my intention is to quit hitting snooze and wake the F up. Most importantly, the word “awake” ties back to one of my four corners: Presence.

So, now it’s your turn. I mean … if you want it to be. You could even go so far as to buy an actual puzzle from an actual store and write actual words on the backs of actual pieces. It’s your call. Blow it up and put it back together, word by word. An intention isn’t a contract or obligation to anybody but yourself. You can pick what those pieces say and you can pick your pace for putting it confidently into place before picking up the next one.

It’s your life, your puzzle. Eventually, it all comes together.

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Kids

Jealousy and a tough awards season

February 1, 2018

Jealousy. The green-headed monster. Riding the bitter train to Envy Town. The desire to possess what someone else possesses or garner the attention someone else has garnered is a totally natural, entirely ugly impulse.

I still remember crowding around a modest 20-inch television in the corner of our kitchen, the camcorder hooked up to the inputs, to watch a video of my older sister reading her winning entry for the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. essay contest. Mom had tears in her eyes. Dad got nostalgic about his writing days in college. At school, they announced her name over the loudspeaker. She had a certificate with a gold seal on it, which made it worth a million dollars in my mind. I was in third grade, she was in fifth, and all of this was very much a big deal.

When I won the same contest two years later, it just wasn’t the same. The shine of victory had been dulled by repetition. There were no tears. Hell, i think we even skipped the banquet where the winners read their essays. It wasn’t the first time my sister did something ahead of me, better than me. But it was one of the first occasions I can recall vividly. That sting of a sibling outshining her housemates. The taste of ice cream in someone else’s honor.

Everybody has those memories! We’re born with comparison and competition coursing through our veins. I remember thinking the attention I received for my own accomplishments just wasn’t as significant as the embarrassing amount of praise my brother – the football player and only boy – or my sister – the equestrian with the shy disposition – got. Of course, their memories are likely skewed the other way. And, in hindsight, the truth is, we were all loved an appropriate amount for three children who experienced predominantly mild, occasionally notable success, and acted like jerks much of the time.

But see, the trick to that clarity rests in the hindsight. When you’re in it, you can’t see it through the green. These days, my view is from the other side of the fence. The parents’ side. And it ain’t pretty, folks.

Last week, Hank and I received an email from the principal at the girls’ school:

[Paraphrased]
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Spike’s Parents,
It is my pleasure to inform you that your kindergartener, Spike, will receive our Perfect Panda award for displaying this month’s life skill, integrity. Please join us at our school assembly to surprise your child and present her with her certificate on Tuesday, January 30.

Sincerely,
Spike’s Principal

I closed the email and immediately jumped on chat. He was already there …

Hank: Go Spikey!
Me: Right?!
Hank: JoJo’s gonna be pissed.
Me: Right.

See, what you don’t know is that the school gives out these awards every month throughout the school year. And every month for the past 2.5 school years, our JoJo has come home with a sad, shattered spirit after learning she, once again, was not named a Perfect Panda. Spike, as the universe would have it, came in and cleared one just five months into her academic career. That burns a bit on the way down.

This was tricky. As the parent, you certainly don’t want to detract from one child’s accomplishment. But when you have an emotionally fragile child, you don’t want them spiraling, either. What to do … What to do …

I took every opportunity to initiate damage control early. For instance, when JoJo scored in her game Saturday, but Spike did not, I was quick to point out that Spike cheered for her big sis even though she didn’t get a bucket earlier in the day. JoJo nodded and smiled at her sister across the backseat. Then returned to her pack of Oreos. (Quick side note: What the hell is going on with the snacks at youth sporting events guys?)

Then I turned things up a notch. It was Sunday morning and all three of the chicks were tearing each other apart. I hit that boiling point that all parents hit after so many consecutive minutes of tattling and whining and sister-on-sister hate hitting.

“Go get your sisters and get in here!” I spewed to Spike.
[The three girls filed in, noses to the floor, and sat down in a row.]
“Mom, she–”
“I don’t care.”
“But she–”
“I don’t care.”
[sighs]
“Here’s the thing, ladies” I began. “We are a tribe. The five of us. We don’t hurt each other. We don’t put each other down and we don’t touch each other out of hate. Over everyone else, we have each other’s backs. Do you understand?”
[hesitant nods]
“Who knows what integrity is?” I asked. (Remember, Spike didn’t know she was getting the Perfect Panda award yet. Pop quiz, suckers.) JoJo raised her hand.
“OK, what is it?” I prompted.
“It’s how you follow the rules.”
“In a way. It’s also what people think of when they think of you as a person. So, let me ask you … What kind of person do you want people to think of when they think of you? You want them to think you are a _____ girl.”
“Brave and kind,” JoJo said.
“OK, brave and kind. Good. Do you think a brave girl calls her sister stupid?”
“No.”
“Do you think a kind girl calls her sister stupid?”
“No.”
“How about you?” I asked, pointing to Spike.
“Kind and does the right thing.”
“Great. Does a kind girl say she hates someone?”
“No.”
“Is telling someone you hate them doing the right thing?”
“No.”
“And you, Sloppy Joan. What kind of girl do you want to be?”
“A princess girl.”
“K. Do you think a princess gets to be mean to people?”
“Yes.”
“No. She doesn’t! So, here’s the bottom line. Stop before you say and do things and ask yourself if a brave girl would do that, or a kind girl would say that. Got it?”
They gave a collective, half-hearted yes, but I wouldn’t be satisfied until they gave each other the obligatory forced group hug. I made ‘em hold it, too.

(Happy byproduct of this fairly typical Come-to-Jesus exchange, it had never occurred to me before that moment to ask them what kind of person they wanted to be. I’d always just told them what kind of person they should be. It was interesting and worth revisiting.)

The momentum from the atta-boy lasted into the evening. They even had a party to celebrate each other, including Hershey kisses on toothpicks and glow rings strung together to form a disco light. I felt like Carol F-ing Brady. I was riding a high, though history told me it was temporary. I even convinced myself that JoJo might just surprise us, I truly believed it. I wanted to believe it.

One Manic Monday later, the day of the ceremony arrived. At 1:50 p.m., we sat waiting in a room adjacent to the gymnasium while all the students got settled into the bleachers. We lined up outside the doors. Two children from each grade would be recognized, and, of course, kindergarteners would go first. I was fidgeting. “Calm down, mama,” Hank warned.

Then he turned to the roars of cheering and applause coming from the gym. “Man, the principal is like a rock god. I wonder if he goes home and tells his wife he totally killed it.” It was true. The dude was absolutely slaying the 5-11-year-old demographic. Every punchline landed.

“And February 12 is Mooooovie Night!” [roaring applause]
“Don’t forget we’re collecting Box Tooooops!” [cheers and high fives]
“And on March 1, the middle school orchestra is cominggggg!” [losing their minds completely]

Then it was time. “Alright, it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. We’re going to honor our Perfect Pandas now. These students demonstrated integrity in their classrooms during the months of December and January. Let’s start with kindergarten … Spike! Come down and receive your award from a surprise guest!” Out we walked, to a sea of tiny smiling faces and frantically clapping hands.

Our girl was waiting at the bottom of the steps, wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and nutella remnants on her cheeks. We leaned down, hugged her and took our place on the red line, facing the crowd.

“I don’t see her,” I said, through my teeth, scanning for JoJo. “Do you?”
“I’m looking.”
“Oh, there’s her teacher.”
“Op, there she is.”
“She’s crying.”
“She’s definitely crying.”
“Oh, she’s losin’ it.”

We kept smiling. Everything’s good here. Nothing to see. It’s all happy joyful love in our house.

Once they’d made their way through the fifth graders with integrity, we took a seat to watch the rest of the program. Jon Bon Jovi came back to the mic. “Now, to introduce our new life skill, respect, here is the entire second grade class.” Ohhhhhhh shoot … I had completely forgotten about the song! JoJo had to come down and sing in front of everyone! She’d mentioned it this morning. The only question now was, could she rally?

She couldn’t.

With her fingers firmly in her mouth and cherry juice-colored tear tracks down her cheeks, my eldest daughter stood in front of the entire student body and barely mumbled through “It’s about respect, check it out, check it out.” . Her eyes were locked on us, her trader parents and her award-winning little sister. I gave her the best thumb’s up I could muster. Hell, I even shoulder shimmied a little to try and hypeman our way through this nightmare. Nope.

When the program finally came to a close, we walked to the group of second graders. As I approached JoJo, her teacher stopped me.

“She was already having a bad day,” he warned. “Then she took this pretty hard. I think it sent her over the edge.”
“We anticipated that. Thank you.”

He’d barely walked away when I felt her bury her hot crying face in my thigh.

“Hey, JoJo! You sang so well!” I lied.
“It’s no fair that Spikey got a Perfect Panda,” she said, putting all her cards right down on the table.
“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” Hank said.

But the torture wouldn’t stop there. JoJo stood and looked on as Spike posed for group photos, then parent pictures, and then one with the rockstar himself. It was almost too much for one girl to take. How do those Oscar losers do it?

On our way back to the car, I hung back with my big girl. I put my finger under her chin and tilted her face up toward mine. I could see straight through her eyes down into her heavy heart.

“Hey you. I know this is hard, but it would mean so much to your sister if you told her you were proud of her.”
“OK, Mama,” she said.
“You don’t have to. But I know she wants to hear that from you.”

And that brave little girl, she did just that. She got the words out, whether she meant them or not, and I was proud of her. Really proud of her.

Of course by the time I got home that night, JoJo’s true fury over her sister’s recognition had boiled over and we were facing a full-blown hatefest. She didn’t want to see Spike’s certificate again. She didn’t care about the stuffed animal they gave her. She thought it was crap we were having dippy eggs and bacon for dinner just because Spike picked them. Why does she get everything? My third-grade self totally got it.

But I made the decision not to let jealousy hijack this moment for Spike. She’d earned that award. She was killin’ it in kindergarten and that was something to celebrate. So, as we all sat down to our sunny-side up entree, I raised my glass and asked everyone to join me in congratulating our Spikey on a job well done. No one took a knee. The tribe showed up.

Afterward, JoJo came into the basement with me so we could work out; beachbody and American Ninja Warrior training, respectively. As I got all my gear lined up, I decided to try to parent my way through this thing just one more time.

“JoJo, can I tell you something?”
“Sure Mom.”
“You love our family, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well a family celebrates each other’s victories. They’re there for each other when someone is down, and they’re there for each other when someone is up. Today, it was your turn to celebrate your sister. And maybe tomorrow she’ll be celebrating you. It’s just the way it goes, honey. Try to remember that, OK?”
“Yeah, OK,” she said, before ninja kicking a tower of blocks across the room.

Sometimes I think parenting is like American Ninja Warrior. Maybe even harder. Obstacle after obstacle, with water hazards all over the damn place. You can strategize all you want, but odds are, that shit’s still gonna get ya.

When dealing with a sensitive soul, the big questions become: When do I shield? When do I step back? And when do I support as needed? My JoJo, with her tender skin, has some pretty rough days, but her sister winning an award for integrity just shouldn’t be one of them. A win for someone in our home should be a win for all of us.

One day, she’ll see that. When hindsight’s on her side.

Pages

John O’Leary is on fire

January 18, 2018

On an icy Wednesday, on one of those strange days that follow Christmas but fall before the New Year, with 10 minutes to kill before my Panera order would be ready for pickup, I decided to drop my books off at the library. Then, for whatever reason, I decided to browse, which I never do. I picked up a book called “On Fire: The 7 Choices to Ignite a Radically Inspired Life” by John O’Leary, after an endorsement from Brene Brown on the cover caught my eye. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it would be silly for me to chalk this up to chance, as I’m fairly certain the universe – that saucy little minx – placed this audiobook in my weary little hands because she knew I would need its words in my heart and in my life.

You know how I get when I love a book. When it takes the air out of my lungs and quickens my pulse and reroutes the pathways in my mind. I get a little excited. I can not tell you how much I adored this work, particularly with the benefit of hearing it spoken by the voice of the author. If I could put the whole thing into this post, I would do so, for fear you won’t seek it out for yourself. It’s that good.

But that would be cheating you out of the opportunity to experience John’s journey at your own pace, in your own way. (Which you should!) So, instead, I will share just a few of the takeaways that I need to put in this space so they can stay with me always.

A bit about John.
When he was 9, John O’Leary decided to play with gasoline. A choice that would forever change the trajectory of his life. Laying in the snow, experiencing excruciating pain and watching his family home burn, John asked his sister to go back in the house, get a knife and kill him. He couldn’t live with the pain or the anguish of his actions. She didn’t. She told him to fight instead.

He was burned over 100 percent of his body and was given no chance of living. When his mom came to the hospital to see him, he asked her if he was going to die. “Do you want to die, John?” she asked him.

Do you want to die? He decided that he didn’t. Instead he wanted to fight.

Finding your why.
Throughout the book, John pauses to identify various “inflection points” in his journey. Personally, I’ve always referred to these as crossroads or gut-check moments. The times when you can go right or left and you may or may not know it at the time, but that decision will have an impact on your life. Do you want to die? is certainly an inflection point. As is coming to a boiling point with your child or a tough point in your marriage. There are inflection points every day. But I love in “On Fire!” when John says:

When you know your “why” you can endure any “how”.

It’s about reaching into your pocket and pulling out your compass when it counts. We get wrapped up in the tasks and activities and the appointments and the expectations, but that’s not your why. Your why is so much more than all that noise. Your why is that thing that, when nothing else works, pulls you through. It’s your true north. It’s your kids and your spouse and your life and your faith. It’s what whispers to you when you hold your palm over your heart. Your why is everything. When you have your eye focused on your why, you are invincible. A superwoman.
It’s also the source of your ignition statement.

An ignition statement is like a mantra. It’s something you can say to yourself, write in your journal, tape to your mirror, that, in the midst of the ordinary, gets you going. And it should start with “Because …” John’s ignition statement is, “Because God demands it, my family deserves it, and the world is desperate for it.” Another example he offered was, “Because I want to make someone smile, even if it’s only God.”

Abandon the idea of ordinary. Go for gratitude.
Toward the middle of the book, John urges readers to “realize that you are not a mistake. You were made with a divine purpose.” It’s easy to dissolve into the mundane cadence of our individual lives. To take your eye off the why. We wait for the big things – the weekends away, the weddings, the new babies, the winning ticket – and in doing so, risk missing all the joys in the ordinary. The sound of children laughing, the smell of a home-cooked meal, the feeling of pajamas (read: taking your bra off at the end of the day). There’s so much to celebrate in that space between the big things.

And gratitude will get you there. Gratitude ensures that you always have enough. It turns a meal into a feast, a house into a home. And there’s always a choice. John tells a story of his father, who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. One afternoon John asked him how he stayed so positive. Through his answer, he showed his son that everything, even the seemingly devastating things, are gifts.

He was thankful for the days he couldn’t speak or leave the house, because they gave him time to reflect. He was thankful for the care his wife gave him. That she loved him so much, and he loved her. In days that seemed dark, he saw only the light.

Fear vs. love.
Make no mistake, you can be busy but not effective, breathing but not alive, and up out of bed but far from awake. The trick is to pursue significance over success, and significance is rooted in love.

So often we default to fear. But fear is rooted in what might happen, while love is about embracing what comes, no matter what. Fear suffocates. Love liberates. Again, you have a choice. You can fall into love, stay in love and it will decide everything. Or you can fall into fear, stay in fear and it will decide everything.

John encourages you to choose to let go of fear and instead, act from a place of love. And to wake up! Wake up to your life, to your loved ones, to the moment. After all, the greatest weapon on this earth is a soul on fire.

As a side note that’s much more than a side note, earlier this month, we lost my Aunt Marlene after she suffered a stroke. Among many things, she was a fierce cheerleader and champion for this blog. Scroll through the comments on my Facebook page and you’ll see what I mean. She left a piece of praise on nearly every post. Even the really crappy ones. There, under my turdy text, you’ll find a note from Marlene.

On November 28th:
“I read this piece through my tears as you truly have found the joy we should all be seeking. You have also been lucky to develop the insight that makes you such a warm, loving woman. You are your parents’ daughter. I love you, Courtney for passing along the joy. Thank you.”

My aunt battled a number of health issues throughout her life, three bouts of cancer and fatty liver disease among them, For much of her later years she was practically a prisoner in her own body. She was limited in what she could do and where she could go. And yet, the comments. The positive, encouraging comments. There was still joy to be had and love to give, so long as there was air in her lungs.

It’s fascinating and tragic how you never know when the last time you see someone is going to be the last time you see someone. My cousins, Marlene’s children, both shared moving tributes to their mother at her memorial service this past weekend. They were so poised and profound and made their mother so proud. In their hour of grief, they gave others peace. It was a gift to be in the room. And what I took away from their words, and John O’Leary’s words, is how insanely important it is to give an abundance of love to everyone you pass, every day. How urgent joy is. Just how much your presence is required to feel like an active, breathing participant in your life.

I’ve been working on my ignition statement. It changes often, but always I’m thinking of my aunt, and her family and John O’Leary. So far, my thoughts have brought me to this: “Because I am blessed to be able to do so. Because there are mountains yet to climb. Because I want to live, long and lovingly.”

Get this book. Find your ignition statement. Love boldly and without fear. Stand close enough to the spark that you live a life inspired … a life on fire.

Thoughts

Resolutions: lean and clean in ’18

January 3, 2018

Happy New Year, party people! My gosh, there were times during the last 365 days when I wasn’t sure we’d see the ball drop again, but we got there. Somehow. And thank goodness, too, because Mariah just couldn’t leave things like that. I rang in 2018 with the two oldest chicks (Sloppy Joan passed out to Spirit about an hour shy of the mark), my in-laws and my bro. It was everything you’d expect from 35 … a well-glazed ham, a counter full of Crock-Pots and a red wine hangover that began before I even went to bed.

I’m sure it comes as a shock to no one who reads this thing regularly that I am a huge sucker for the new year. As a seasoned ball dropper myself, I relate to the ceremony of it all. Admittedly, I get super romantic about the promise of a fresh start; the optimism, the possibility, the lies I can tell myself in the two weeks leading up to January 1, and the way I almost totally believe them.

I spend a lot of time plotting out my resolutions. I take them seriously, and I love stumbling across other people who take them seriously, too. It makes me feel validated and more secure in my ill-fated hopefulness. But to find those people, you have to kiss a lot of frogs first. You have to hear eight thousand times, “resolutions are a joke,” “I don’t believe in that shit,” and “My resolution is to stop making resolutions.” (So witty, that last one.)

Goal-setting is not everyone’s glass of Sunny D. I get it. Far be it for me to hate on someone who’s satisfied with the way their life is rolling along. That’s commendable! Grab a cup of joe and cuddle up with that joy, I say! Just don’t be a dick to those of us who still consider ourselves a work in progress, k?

So, what’s to become of this desperate little seeker in 2018?

After much deliberation and polling my social circle and complete strangers alike, I have arrived at my list for the year ahead. There are always some repeats from previous lists, either because I didn’t get the job done last year, or because I’m enjoying it so much, I want to keep going. This year’s no exception. I’ve already walked a bit down the path on some of these and, either wandered off into the woods to drink moonshine with the natives, or have miles yet to go.

2018 Resolutions

  • No sugar + No dairy
  • Very little meat + fish
  • Meditate at least 15 minutes a day, every day
  • Exercise in some fashion 6 days a week
  • Write something (non-DSS or work related) and put it out into the world
  • Less things, more experiences
  • Create space to love myself and my life

No sugar + No dairy.
We’ll hit this one right out of the gate, starting January 2. The hope is, we can really focus on these big bad guys for 30 days and then just carry that momentum forward. Not new information here, but the sweet stuff is public enemy No. 1 for this mama. Sucrose, fructose, maple, honey, cane, corn, brown, molasses … you name it, I’ll roll something in it and eat it. I can’t get enough. The butter, the cheese, the milk, the ice cream, I can tackle those lovely temptresses. Especially with so many semi-palatable replacements.

Very little meat + fish.
This one is also at the top of the list, but we’ve already started tiptoeing down the vegan path. I’d say our carnivorous consumption is down at least 50 percent. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that sometimes, a juicy burger or BBQ pulled pork sandwich just really gets my cavewoman heart a pumpin’. But, I will also say that, after going 14 days with no animal products, eating a pound of cow feels like swallowing a sofa. The sooner we can all get on board with easing up on things that moo, squeal or cluck, and being more mindful about the care they were given when they roamed the earth, the better off our planet will be.

Meditate at least 15 minutes a day, every day.
I’m phasing this one in after 30 days so I don’t completely fall apart before we hit February. I’ve had Headspace on my phone for months, that orange circle taunting me every time I see my home screen. When I make it happen, it makes me so happy. I have this recurring meditation. My mind just automatically plays it. It lives somewhere deep inside me and when I let some quiet in, it surfaces like a hug from my calmer self. The problem is, I rarely let the quiet in. I’m going to get better about that.

Exercise in some fashion 6 days a week.
Between Beachbody OnDemand and my gym membership, it should be harder for me to miss a workout than to get one in. But nevertheless, I often find 500 excuses to sidestep the sweat. For my sanity, I need to get back into a routine and start moving. I’m toying with trying a trail race in 2018, and would also love to find a spin class that fits into my schedule. Working toward a goal is always the best motivator so we’ll see what my fitness journey looks like over the next 365 days.

Write something (non-DSS or work related) and put it out into the world.
By far the most intimidating resolution on my list, I have a few ideas I’m staring at from a 3,000 foot view. I would love to do some research, get some words on paper, and send them out into the universe wrapped in lots of genuine love and intention. We’ll see, we’ll see … the thought is both exhilarating and nauseating.

Have you ever seen the movie First Knight? So good! Well, in it, King Arthur of Camelot (Sean Connery) dies and a bunch of knights, including Lancelot (Richard Gere) float his body out to see on a bunch of twigs and then, once he’s far enough away from the shore, shoot flaming arrows at it to light him on fire as Guinevere (Julia Ormond) looks on. In my mind, those twigs and body are my work and the flaming arrows are the publishing world. Clearly I have some issues to work through.

Less things, more experiences.
A favorite returns in 2018! I love, love, love this idea. I have stuff. I have a house full of gadgets and gizmos and garments and groceries. When I look around, i feel both blessed and burdened. To be honest, I would give most of it up in exchange for the chance to stand on a mountaintop with my tribe. I love smelling the air in a space I’ve never seen and seeing the reflection of the world in my daughters’ eyes. No blanket scarf or super juicer can top those moments. When it comes to spending money, insert a pause and consider putting your pennies toward places rather than pieces.

Create space to love myself and my life.
This is obscure perhaps, but also, so clear to me. I jam pack my days with the tiny functions of my family. Lunches and ponytails and bus schedules and Instant Pot recipes and baths and pajamas and Judy Blume books. I can easily fill the five waking hours a day I spend with my husband and chicks with tasks and caretaking. This does not make me unlike every mother in every corner of this planet. But between the morning, work and evening rush, there has to be a little room to breathe. There has to be some unscheduled space. I need to create a place to play. I don’t know what that looks like, but I know it’s lacking right now.

I can only explain it by sharing the way I feel when I hike. When I don’t have cellular data, or an agenda, or a plethora of first world amenities, I feel liberated. Like I’m opening my wings after keeping them under a lead jacket for months. But I don’t think it’s just the scenery. I think it’s cutting the tether to my everyday. I’d love to find a more convenient, accessible way to achieve the same freedom.

What are your resolutions for 2018? If you’re into that sort of thing. Whatever the goal, I hope the next 12 months are full of tender, sweet moments and joyous, soul-stirring triumphs. I wish you loud giggles – from your own belly and those of little ones – and restorative quiet. Glennon Doyle always says, “We can do hard things.” And I think I’d like to do some of those hard things this go around. Giddy up!

Thoughts

How the strep stole Christmas

December 29, 2017

We have been positively drowning in holiday cheer over here. Well, holiday cheer and the white-hot throat daggers of strep. Both, equally and with the exact same amount of dedication. With just 5 days till Christmas, my true loves gave to me …

4 sweats and shivers,
3 blades to gargle,
2 swollen lymph nodes
And a bug that left me feeling shitty.

But it came in tasteful, shiny wrapping paper, so, ya know …

Being sick this time of year is such a treat, because there are so many sophisticated films to take in (i.e. the Christmas Prince) (But, for real though, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) and a brutal fever is the perfect way to sweat out some of those Christmas confections you’ve been stuffing into your mouth hole.

As the mother, finding yourself bedridden for two days before the jolliest weekend of the year is not unlike playing Ebenezer Scrooge in a local church production of A Christmas Carol. You’re a ghost, looking in as your spouse carries on dutifully in your absence. This is what baths would be like if you weren’t around. This is what the dinner rush would be. This is how laundry would be folded. It would all march on without you; Slowly. Wrinkly. Whiney.

The chicks passed the ick like a filthy baton. Spike kicked it off strong, followed by JoJo, who was trailed, not far behind, by Sloppy Joan and myself, simultaneously. But it’s interesting how the sickness materialized, festered and then vacated each of their little bodies. I have found, in my eight years of mothering, that, when under the weather, my girls often fall into one of the following personas:

The Walter White.
This is the kid who leaves for school in the morning smiling and talking about weekend plans and how wonderful their cinnamon toast is and comes back to you an hour later entirely deteriorated, a completely different person. This is the scenario that always brings the most passive aggressive school nurse shaming. You just know she’s wondering why you sent your kiddo off in such bad shape. Little does she know she was so good just 3 hours earlier.

The Jo March.
This is the kid who gets crazy emotional and affectionate when she’s sick. She talks about what a wonderful mom you are, how you should go and enjoy frozen yogurt without her, and how sad she is to be missing the opportunity to play with her sisters whilst she’s ill. Always with giant cartoon teardrops in the corners of her eyes and an endearing redness in her cheeks.

The Katniss Everdeen.
This is the kid who comes down with the ick, goes to your bed and sleeps for 48 hours, waking only for medicine and a drop of water. She goes into a self-induced coma to recoup and reemerges like a true badass. Classic Katniss.

The Sixth Sense.
This is the kid who, after just 24 hours, makes a miraculous recovery. She’s running around the house and jumping off the coffee table so you send her back to school. Three days later she comes home with a 103 temp and hot tamale tonsils. You just don’t see it coming!

We shook off the strep just in time for the major festivities. Unfortunately, the burning little bitch gave way to a barky, brutal cough that left all three chicks barfing in their sugar cookie-filled pie holes. Nothing says Merry Christmas quite like hacking over Grammy’s hamballs.

But we’re coming out on the other side now. I’m almost 90 percent sure of it. I took some time off, which I used almost exclusively to find homes for all the new shit we had stacked in our living room. This, of course, was only made possible by throwing away all of last year’s new shit. The thing that truly scares me is that year by year, gift by gift, all of these treasures are finding a nook and a cranny in my home. But my home isn’t exactly getting bigger, right? So eventually I feel like I’m just going to wake up in FAO Schwarz. My house is slowly morphing into the apartment from Big. The toys are taking over and their army is mounting by the minute.

Anyway, with all the Amoxicillin flying around I didn’t get a chance to really wish all of you who spend 10 minutes a week with me on here a warm and Instagram-worthy holiday. I hope it was filled with warm cinnamon rolls and cocoa, lots of smiles around the tree and at least one thing you truly wanted for yourself.

Much like the strep, I’m ready to shake 2017 off like a labrador comin’ out of a car wash. Let’s rally and kick some ass in the new year.

Kids

Little JoJo in the jungle: a tale of survival

December 8, 2017

My oldest daughter – my JoJo – is the second coming of both my face and my fits. And she is struggling to find her place among the elementary elite.

It started when … well it started getting really bad with the arrival of a solution to an 8-year-old dilemma, the Nipit. The Nipit is a genius product my mom discovered through the power of Amazon that’s worn on the elbow and prevents a child from bending their arm enough to get their respective digits to their mouth to suck. While it lacks in discretion – it’s bright, primary colors with loud velcro straps – holy heck it works. I’ve seen my girl with her fingers in her mouth once in the last three months. For a girl who was getting her suck on in the womb, that is nothing short of miraculous.

But, as is the case with most red and blue arm braces, it didn’t take long for the kids at school to take note. It’s different, which means she’s different, which means she’s “weird”, which means she has a giant red target right in the center of her tiny little back. Thus, the bullying began.

I’ve thought about this a lot in the last few weeks, and I’ve come to some clarity. I think the issue is, when we look into our child’s eyes, we see someone different. We see an unborn baby that got hiccups every night during our 9 o’clock show. We see the little human who turned everything upside down in the best, scariest way possible, and made us a mother or a father. We see a toddler whose hair grew in from the back forward and stuck straight up while she watched cartoons on lazy weekend mornings. We see her first birthday and her tricycle. We hear the crinkle of her diaper between thick, wobbly legs coming down the hall and her first words … “dada” of course.

When I look at my daughter, I feel her letting go of my hand on the first day of preschool and her pleading eyes when big change came. I feel cuddles from the best spooner on the planet and hear her telling me, at 4, that she was heading off to college just like Steve from Blue’s Clues. I hear her laugh. I see her crooked, gappy smile and pure, well-intentioned heart. I see a thousand tiny little pieces of myself, with her daddy’s build, walking out the door every single morning.

But that’s what I see. And I am her mother.

What kids see is another little second grader in a sea of 7, 8, 9 year olds, crowding the playground and trying not to do anything odd enough to get noticed. They don’t find her to be special in any of the ways that really count. They aren’t looking for that. They’re looking for different. They’re looking for a crack, an opening. They’re waiting for her to get comfortable enough that she shows something they view as a weakness or an eccentricity. If it lends itself to a nickname or a chant, all the better.

When the tiny opening presents itself, they put their toe in first, maybe a snide comment or whisper to a friend. Then they put in their leg, then torso, and eventually their whole body busts down that door, lashing out with hateful, belittling words that feel so good to them, so empowering. Because kids know no consequence. They know instant gratification and survival of the shittiest. It’s jungle rules out there and everyone is potential prey.

In his book, “Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Ever Seen”, Christopher McDougall wrote: “Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the lion or a gazelle. When the sun comes up, you’d better be running.”

I send my little girl out the door every morning as this special ball of memories and potential, and the second she steps off the porch she’s reduced to bait. And do I blame the kids being unkind? Hell no! They’re just relieved they aren’t the girl with the brace on her elbow. And I totally get it.

Because no one wants to be that girl. Growing up, I had spacey, jagged teeth and a swoopy, horrible set of bangs for a good few years. I had girls pass notes to my BFFs saying they shouldn’t play with me anymore. I had days where I curled up in my mom’s arms, as she rubbed my back in her mustard yellow fabric covered rocking chair with the melodic squeak. Ask any adult and they can name their bully. If they can’t, they were the bully. It’s a rite of passage in some ways. Unfortunately. Stupidly.

It all came to a head recently, as one particular girl turned up the torment on my babe. We’ll call her Delores for the sake of anonymity and movie trivia. Delores has a girl gang. They think JoJo’s a big baby for sucking her fingers (predictable, easy), and they make sure she knows it on a daily basis. We’d been doing the usual coaching behind the scenes … Don’t fight hate with hate … The meaner they are, the kinder you should be … If you feel sad, tell a teacher … Just ignore her … Maybe she was having a bad day or she’s sad about something. Nevertheless, it persisted.

It persisted until earlier this week when JoJo decided to express herself about it. In a drawing. On the back of her homework. Where she’s throwing a bat at Delores’ head. And it’s labeled “JoJo’ and “Delores”. Needless to say, her teacher wasn’t thrilled.

Spike was waiting by the door for me that evening. “Mom, I’m not going to tell you what’s going on, but I will tell you that JoJo got in trouble and she has to go see the counselor tomorrow and if the counselor wants to, she can send JoJo to the principal’s office.” I walked into the living room to find my little criminal, sitting on the couch, red streaks from old tears subtle on her pale cheeks.

“You’ve taken a situation where someone was bullying you,” I explained, “and turned it around so that you are now the one doing the bullying. Do you see why this is wrong?” She nodded, her bottom lip curving down like a fat, grumpy fist in an animated feature. JoJo is certainly my creative chick, and this devilish doodle was, I’m certain, just a way for her to express her frustration, but regardless, it’s not how we roll.

Her teacher referred her to the school counselor, which, to be honest, I was a little relieved about. Finally! A professional can step in here! Somebody equipped with a degree and Inside Out dolls.

The day she was scheduled to meet with the counselor, JoJo was pacing the kitchen, whining. “I don’t want to go to the counselor’s office, Mama. I’m scared. What if I get in trouble?” I challenged her to be brave, and to be honest. I challenged her to step up to all the feelings of anger and sadness and loneliness she’s been feeling and share them with a grownup who could help. (And who she’d listen to more than her own mother.)

And then, I watched her step off the porch and go back out into that dark, vast jungle. Exposed and vulnerable and wearing her Nipit like a juicy, raw steak around her neck on the grasslands. A giant piece of my heart went right onto the bus with her and drove away.

I thought about her all day. I waited for the phone to ring. Maybe the principal would call and say she was suspended for the drawing. A black blemish on her spotless record. Maybe the counselor would call and tell me what a bad mother I was for waiting so long to alert them to the situation. Maybe her emotions would swallow her whole and I’d have to come get her.

But the phone never rang, and soon it was 5 o’clock.

I can always read the general temperature of our household within seconds. When something is wrong with one of the kiddos, it’s like walking into a room carrying balloons and a birthday cake after everyone else was just told someone died. So on this day, I was very tentative coming in from the garage.

“Hi, Mama!” JoJo greeted me. My whole body unclenched.
“Hi, JoJo!”
“Mom, I met with the counselor today and it was great. I didn’t get in trouble for the drawing and she told me I should tell Delores that what she’s doing is hurting my feelings.”
“Right. That’s great, JoJo!”
“Yeah, I feel so much better! Can I call Dad and tell him?”
“Of course.”

And just like that, progress. A touch of healing for a wounded little soul. She would live to roam the prairie another day.

I, of course, immediately sat down to type a teary note of appreciation to the school counselor, positive she had no clue how thankful I was for her 5-minute pep talk with my daughter. Positive I was being a little over emotional and positive I didn’t care a lick.

And the rest of this week has been better, though I know it’s not the last we’ll hear of Delores and her girl gang. The oldest child is such an experiment. They bring this stuff home to you, and you never know whether they’re being transparent or dramatic. You don’t know what’s normal and what’s a five-alarm fire. All you have to go on is your instinct and your own experiences as a child. (I mean, aren’t we all just projecting our childhood onto our own kids anyway?)

You just want to scream from the top of the school gymnasium, [in the voice of an Indian chief] “This is my daughter, JoJo! She is strong and funny and would be a really great friend! I am proud of her! And if you screw with her, I will squash your milk carton in your tiny horrible face.” But that’s not considered acceptable grownup behavior.

It will always be hard to hear. I’m the one who carries her stories, and because of that, I know what a treasure she is. I have the backstory. I’m invested, mostly because I grew her.

I’m the one who knows she called penguins “herbies” for years, even though everyone thought she was saying “herpes”. I’m the one who put her hair in long, flowing pigtails and cut the feet out of her penguin jammies so she could wear them a few months longer. I am in this thing for the long haul.

And I could sell her good points like popsicles on the Fourth of July. She likes to climb really tricky trees and eat Nutella straight from the jar and she can sing every word to every song from Descendents 2. She dabs like a boss. She’s a talented artist and can turn any strawberry into a rose too beautiful to eat. She always wears two layers of clothing, even in the summer, and changes into her pajamas within an hour of getting home from school. She did hygge before hygge was a thing. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be friends with that girl?

There aren’t a lot of choices here. She has to keep going to school and I have to keep watching her step off our porch, bait though she may be. I can’t change the dichotomy of children, the hunters and the hunted. I can’t make my daughter’s skin thicker, no matter what I feed her at home. The only thing I can do is rock her when she wants me to and keep track of her stories, so she always has someone to remind her just how special she is. Someone who’s invested. Someone who isn’t going anywhere. Someone who, after all the deep lessons have been offered and her worries put to rest, will turn away from tiny ears and say the thing that everyone really wants to say.

“Ah, screw Delores!”

Thoughts

The truth about monsters and men

December 1, 2017

“This is getting out of control!” It was Hank, sending me an instant message in the middle of the day.

“Uh oh, what’s wrong?” I responded.
“First Matt Lauer and now Garrison Keillor!”

I knew what he was talking about right away. I knew because a friend I was close to once upon a Matt Lauer crush had text me the morning’s headline. (That crush had extinguished entirely years ago, after Ann Curry’s abrupt departure and his dickish reaction to the whole situation. I like Ann Curry. She’s that perfect blend of wicked smarts and genuine compassion.) But Hank and Garrison Keillor … That’s something else entirely.

The news of Mr. Keillor would shatter Hank. I can’t tell you how many times my husband (who I often theorize to be 87 years old at heart) made us all listen to Prairie Home Companion on a long Sunday drive. Or how many times he’s read the book “Daddy’s Girl” to the kids. He knows it by heart … “O baby won’t you dance with me … Little baby bouncing on my knee … Wave your hands and shake your feet … Ooohh baby you’re so sweet .”

He keeps it in his top dresser drawer so he’ll always know where it is, the spine soft and worn from his rough fingertips. Now I wonder if I’ll ever hear the lyrics leave his lips again. Those melodic lines, sweetened by his comforting voice under an 8 o’clock moon.

“It makes me sad and scared,” Hank went on. “For you and for our girls. That you have to live in a world where this happens. Where it’s something you have to think about.”

(That’s why I married this one, guys.)

While I assured him that everything was going to be OK. That we would raise our girls to know the boundaries of what’s right and what’s wrong and how to be strong and speak up and speak out and find power in their voice. I don’t think it soothed his burning thoughts.

And it left this interesting questions, too: What is Garrison Keillor to us now, if not a magnetic storyteller and master of words? Is he simply to be known from this day forth as an imposter? A predator? A monster? What’s to become of all those characters left in Lake Wobegon?

Comedians, TV dads, distinguished newsmen, business moguls, film producers, playwrights, media executives, acclaimed actors, presidents and politicians … their talents and contributions obliterated entirely because they couldn’t follow the simplest of unspoken rules. Because they made the mistaken, narcissistic assumption that their power would override the prerequisite for consent. Because they operated under the foolish pretense that they were desired by every woman, simply because she knew his name.

Maybe it’s us. Maybe our expectations are just too high. Maybe it’s too much to expect someone with a gift for music or narrative or business to also be an upstanding citizen of this planet. For them to share something with a woman without expecting something physical in exchange as payment for their genius or attention. Maybe it’s too much to expect that someone tick all the boxes when it comes to character and human decency.

Maybe.

But then, I know many men who tick all those boxes.

Men who expect nothing but mutual respect in return.

I will teach my girls that this world is full of monsters and of men, but more of the latter. And that it’s important to recognize the difference. I guess I started the lesson the day I married their father. The day I picked him and all his decency out of the pool of potential suitors and said, “Yes! That one! I like what he stands for. I shall do life with him, forever.” I think it has to start with strong male figures. It has to start with celebrating the men who aren’t in those headlines. The ones who respect a woman’s mind and humor over any curve or inch of bare skin.

And then you have to offer them awareness. Because their dad can’t protect them always. And neither can their mom. But I can sure as hell encourage them to use their words for justice and their breath for equality, and that they have to grow louder when no one is listening. If a time comes when I need to, I can show them the army of brave women coming forward to say, “This was not right,” and how, sometimes, though not always, consequences do exist. Victims do have the final word. They get their power back.

That’s what I can do.

And as for Mr. Keillor and his brethren of offenders, what a disgraceful party you chose to attend. My only hope is that this onslaught of accusations and dismissals might settle into a wealth of healing, for all those involved. For the men and the woman … and the monsters as well.