I got nothin'

 

My mother always said if you didn’t have anything nice to say, not to say anything at all. It was her way of saying “don’t be mean” and “keep your complaints in your pocket there, bucko.” 

When J went back over, the only thing that felt like an upside at all, was that I was going to write again. Blogging the last time he was over there was how I passed the time, how I chatted with J, how I shared his goings on with our friends and family. I enjoyed the process, and I enjoyed having the time chronicled. 

You may have noticed (or hell, you might not have noticed) that the writing hasn’t happened this time. It’s not because I have mean things to say and am keeping myself from spewing vitriol upon the world (Oh don’t get me wrong. I could probably do that without too much pressing. But let’s be real, that simmers right under the surface most of the time anyway, regardless of J being deployed.) No one needs to hear that silliness, and getting up the energy to spew it just seems sort of exhausting. 

And it’s not that I’m keeping my complaints to myself. Again, I’m certain that I could give you a laundry list of drama if you gave me a minute. But there’s no use in that either, and in the grand scheme of it all seeming very first world problem-y, well, it is. 

To be honest, things are fine. Or as fine as one could expect when a husband is deployed and I’m trying to deal with a 2 year old and a full time job. Most days it’s fine. Some days it’s really great. Some days it sucks bigtime. And most days my job is amazing and accommodating and great. And others it’s incredibly frustrating and I want to walk into the office, flip the bird, quote “Half Baked” to the room, and call it a day (you all know the scene I’m talking about…) 

So yeah…life for me sounds a lot like life for, you know, 80% of the planet, yes? Not a particularly compelling story to pen. And if I’m completely honest with you, dear readers (and myself), I just don’t have the time or energy for writing. This makes me sad a little bit, but it is my reality.

Last time J was over, I would have these beautiful epiphanies and think through these metaphors of what I was feeling and what we were going through for days before sitting down to write. And then I would carve out time to revise and tweak and find the exact words I wanted to express precisely how I was feeling in a very existential and ever-so-slightly-dramatic fashion. 

Know what this week’s epiphany was? That I had gone 8 straight weeks remembering to take out the trash. And you know what the exact words I have to express precisely how I feel about all that? 

“Badass.” 

(Perhaps I shall write a blog post about the metaphor of taking on new home-related challenges and finding ways to accomplish these everyday tasks without J here. Or about how it all seems like a big heap of trash that I need to throw out each week so that I can start again anew... Bleh.)

But seriously folks…it’s the freaking trash. And I’m tired.

I’ve started about 3 different blog posts and deleted them all because they seemed pedantic and whiny and quite frankly not even the least bit interesting. 

I have friends that have reached out to me so kindly, that I just haven’t responded to yet because sitting down to write about, you know, the trash, seems silly. I have friends whom I know very well and who I know are leaving me alone to let me get into my groove a bit before reaching out. I know who you are. Thank you for that. And yes, I owe you a call, too. 

I have Facebook bursts where I will be on for like 24 hours straight posting non-stop. And then I’ll go a week without logging on. To be honest, I’m avoiding anything that looks like news or political commentary or, frankly anything that resembles drama right now (as I always do when J is over…) So any time I feel like someone’s going to post something about how hideous something is in the world, in life, in our government, or blah blah, I turn it off: The computer, my connection with the outside world, and my brain. Hunker down, and make sure to remember to buy milk and toilet paper. Because honestly, milk and toilet paper are sorta the priorities right now. I am blissfully disconnected from most things currently,  and I am totally ok with that. 

And so I’m here to tell you, things here are busy, hectic, non-stop, exhausting, but totally fine. Just like all of my friends lives are busy, hectic, non-stop, and exhausting. And for friends of J’s—he’s fine , too. Marking time. Doing his thing. Passing time in his own busy, hectic, non-stop, exhausting, totally fine (though totally random and other-side-of-the-world) life. For all who have so graciously asked…we’re all good. Exhausted and ever-so-slightly tunnel-visioned right now. But all good. 

So maybe mom’s saying should have been "if you don’t have something to say, don’t say anything at all." And if that’s the case, then mum’s the word here. And that, I think, is a good thing.

4...3...2...1...

 

When the call came in, it was simple enough. “Hey, one of you four guys on this email. We need one of you to take this deployment. Who’s volunteering to go?”

Not surprisingly, no one volunteered.

I knew then that J would end up going though. (It’s what he does.)

“Ok, you guys, if no one volunteers, I’m going to just have to pick one of you.”

And of course for J and me, *that* became the worst part. Having no control. Not being the one to call the shots. Those who know us know that neither J nor I deal well with ambiguity (OR not being the one to call the shots, for that matter.)

So then naturally the wagering began. The what-ifs. The conjectures. Who else is on the list? What are their stories? Their qualifications? What are our chances? How can we get in front of this thing? Like a desperate junkie, I started the mental bargaining…If you just keep him here, I’ll do anything…I’ll be a better person…I’ll give more to charity…I’ll stop complaining about work…and on and on through the familiar list of things people are willing to do to stave off the ugly in their lives.

But none of that mattered, because I already knew (in my heart…) that it was going to be J.

There are a thousand things I love about my husband. One of the most incredible (and sometimes the most frustrating) is his unbelievable sense of duty, of loyalty, and of dedication to whatever it is he has decided to do—of fulfilling his obligations, and for stepping up for those things in which he truly believes are his ills to address.

He decided to be a Solider seventeen years ago. And since then, he has never once shirked a duty; never volunteered someone else to do something he felt to be his job; Duty. Responsibility.

“Well, there are only four of us with this skill set. I’ve dodged this ask before (By the way, this was an interesting little news tidbit for me. I didn’t know that he had done that. Evidently right after Ellie was born, he side-stepped this same, annual deployment ask to stay at home with us.) “I have three years left in the Army…and if this is going to come up every year at this time...and I’ve already missed this once…and there are only four of us who can do this job…”

 Silence. Realization. Resignation. He was going to have go back. If not now, then sometime before he retired in three years. There was no getting around it. It was now or…

“If I go now…you keep your job. Ellie’s younger—she realizes less what is going on. She stays in her routine. You have friends here. Family close. People to help and support you. If we PCS-ed to a new city—new job, no friends or family, Ellie uprooted in a new school, new routine… and THEN I had to leave you guys with no resources…”

All totally valid. And logical. And maddening.

“Yeah, but what if we never got that call? What if you wouldn’t have to go at all ever again? How can I let you *volunteer* for this? Give you up if I don’t have to? There’s no guarantee this comes up again, is there? ”

More silence.

“Let me call someone. I know a guy. What if I can make it only six months? What if one of the other guys on the list picks up the other 6 months? Six quick months. And then I’m back. And then we move together to our last PCS, we do two years there, and then we retire. And we’re done. No more deployment. No more separation.”

More silence. Running thousands of scenarios in my head each second. Watching not my past-life flash before my eyes, but rather all the different future lives I might live depending on how this one decision played out (isn’t that pretty much how life works though? A series of small decisions we make every day which end up mapping out the rest of days…)

What seemed like a lifetime passed in about 7 heartbeats.

 “Yeah. Do it. Make the call. ” I told him to do it. I told him to go.

It didn’t really matter though. It’s what was going to happen anyway. From the first email, I knew. And even if I had broken down and begged him not to go, he would have gone anyway. It’s what he does. It’s his job, yes. But more than that, it’s his heart.

In the next three and a half weeks, when the Army was going back and forth about needing him—about whether or not the assignment was valid—about whether anything would come up again in the next three years at all, I still knew he’d go. I had resigned myself to it. I had mentally already let him go. It was the best decision for our family, and we all knew it. Don’t get me wrong—it was also the absolute shittiest decision for our family. But it was the right one. Because often in life the best decisions we make tend to be the hardest ones.

                                                         *          *        *          *        *

About a week after we had gotten final word that he was for real going and we had settled ourselves to what that looked like, one of my best friends and I had tickets to see my very favorite musicians of all time. Over dinner, pre-concert, he and I were hashing out this turn of events and all the details of what life was going to look like while J was gone.

I was trying to describe how I felt— how there was a certain sense of relief in just making a decision and going with it. Not fighting it. Being totally overwhelmed and sad, and somehow, sort of at peace with it. But I didn’t really have the words. How do you describe what it means to resign yourself to a goodbye, when it’s the last thing you really want to do?

Later that night, at the concert, while Ben Folds was singing it came to me. Ben Folds was saying it better than I ever could in my own words (Ben always does this, by the way. He has been my words when I’m wordless on more occasions than I can count.) And while the song he was singing that struck me so was about a truly difficult break up with someone he loved deeply, the lyrics still fit for what I was feeling and spoke to me.

And there *may* have been tears (tears then…tears every time I’ve heard the song since then…tears when I played the song on the way home from the airport after having dropped J off…)

“I’m letting you go…” says Ben. It may have been predetermined by the Army or God or my husband’s good nature or all of the above, but something about me saying “I’m letting you go” makes me feel like I had some control over it all, which weirdly makes me feel a little bit better.

Since that day, every time I wonder what the hell we’re doing here, it’s the chorus of this song that comes back to me (thanks again, Ben.)

As I walked away from the airport having just put J on an airplane, sobbing face hidden poorly behind super-large shades, all I could hear in my head were Ben’s lyrics. (I will let go, if you will let go…) Not particularly special nor eloquent. Quirky and a little silly (much like me and J and Ben for that matter...) I hope that others can appreciate the greatness of Ben’s simplicity when listening to this song.

And for those of you who have asked how I’m feeling? This is pretty much it.

Ben sings "Cologne"  

Where there's a will...

 

My father passed away in April. 

I miss him tremendously. My father was my anchor to good; the one who kept me grounded to the way things *should* be. Whenever I called, whenever I visited, he was there, with the sweetest smile, the most ridiculous of corny puns, and all the time in the world for me—like that I didn’t live half way across the country; like I saw him every day instead of every 4 months.

He was kinder than most people take the time to be. And humbler than most people believe is real (he’d be mortified by this post, by the way… I’ll post it anyway.) He was also hard on me—the good kind of hard. The kind that when I said I was on the brink of something that felt overwhelming, would force me to talk out the alternatives however painful—to figure out a plan—to find a way to fix it, whatever it was. Or to maybe just accept the reality that it might just suck, and that’s how life was sometimes. 

I honestly never remember him being angry with me or me being truly mad at him. Even in the ugly teenage years when everyone is angry with their parents. Not me and dad. We understood each other on a level that didn’t consist of words. He couldn’t tell you what my favorite food was, but he could tell you precisely why a particular piece of music reduced me to tears (he’d cry too…) Because while we didn’t come to the same conclusions almost ever, we went through a very similar thought process to get to our own individual outcomes. We didn’t think ALIKE, we just THOUGHT alike. 

The days since his passing have included moments of mourning, for certain. But all in all, I can truly say that dad’s passing was a great, great blessing—the quick and unexpected end before the pain and medications came—the cure to his extraordinary loneliness before it became so sharp that he couldn’t breathe anymore. More than any person I’ve ever known, my father was at peace with his life, well before his death, and was profoundly faithful. I don’t know much about much, but I know that if anyone goes to heaven and lives forever in a state of peace and rest and contentment, it is my Father. He had always been ready for what’s next, even if those close to him weren’t ready for him to go just yet.

My father, ever the purist, full of trust and devoid of any earthly belongings (can’t take it with ya) didn’t feel the need for a will—his possessions were few; his debts little; and his trust that we’d know what to do about it when the time came trumped his belief in a lawyer and extra documents and the assigning of tasks and possessions. In the days since his passing, I’ve worked my way through his accounts; his bills; his meticulously hand-written accounts of everything (Turns out, I come by that naturally.) It reminds me of his humanity. It brings me the greatest of joy to see on his credit card bills that even until his last few weeks on this Earth, he was going to the independent art cinema to see a movie, his favorite bar for a cocktail, and his favorite restaurant for a good meal and a quality conversation with whomever was sitting at the bar. These were his routines and the things that made him happy. Thinking about them makes me happy too. 

Two weeks ago, J and I went to a lawyer and got our wills done. Yeah. That happened. Now, I know this is a normal activity for grown up responsible people. To have a plan. To think about the unthinkable. To write things down on paper so that people don’t have to make tough decisions in our absence or pay our bills upon our passing. 

And yet, neither this very grown up rational thinking nor my own sometimes frustrating experience dealing with my father’s estate sans will took away the harsh reality of what we were doing or made me want to be there doing it. 

I’d feel like this regardless of the timing of our visit. But making this trip to the ol’ lawyer right before you get ready to send your husband into a war zone? Yeah. That’s as awful as it sounds. It’s like having to admit out loud the one thing that you’re trying really hard not to admit could ever possibly happen, could definitely happen: The thing you avoid thinking about, all you’re talking about for three straight hours. But we knew that it would be irresponsible for us to not do this. To not have a plan. To not have it all put down on paper. Especially now that Eleanore is in the picture. (Plus, I think the Service makes you do it once you have a family. Not the point, I know…)

Now, I know that lawyers are not paid to be, shall we say, touchy-feely. And I know that as long as we deal with the lawyers who are made available to us free of charge that we don’t have a whole lot to be picky about. Beggars and choosers and that whole thing, right? And I know that these lawyers deal with the whole gamut of service members to include the 19 year-old Joe who wants to leave his new Camero to his 17 year old girlfriend (too real?) I get it. 

But dearest Lord. If that women looked at us and without emotion uttered any iteration of the phrase “Ok, you’re gone, he’s dead, Ellie’s dead, who gets your stuff/ pays your bills/ pulls your plug?” one more time, I was going to jump straight across her military issue big-oak-lawyer desk and make her eat my end-of-life plan. At a time when all I’m working through in my head (and my heart) is counting the days until J and I get to spend the rest of our lives together, having some random lady talk about what to do if that doesn’t happen…it was just too real. And mostly horrible.

But it’s done. And put into a lockbox, never to be opened again. For at least 40 years. 

As I was leaving the lawyers office I realized that all I wanted to do in that moment was talk to my dad. Tell him about how insensitive that crazy lawyer lady had been. How much I didn’t want to think about death. How scared I was. But as much as I wanted to talk to Dad, I realized that I already knew what he would say to me. He’d tell me that sometimes things are hard. And not fun. And that the most important thing is that I was taking care of my family, and if I was doing what was best for them, then I was probably doing the right thing no matter how crappy it all felt. Then he’d remind me I’m a grown up, and I’m strong, and that this would all work out just fine. Part of a plan bigger than me. To have a little faith already. 

And the end of my fictional conversation with Dad? “You know Angie, where there’s a will… there’s a way.” And he would wait in silence on the other end of the phone for the groan that I always gave when he made those sorts of horrible puns. Even through the phone, in my mind I could see his impish grin, so proud of himself. Even through the phone, he’d know I was shaking my head in feigned disapproval. 

We’d end the call as we always did. “I love you Dad.” “I love you too.” 

With Dad, having a will or not having a will didn’t matter. Nothing on a document like that contains a bit of what he left me. And I guess that a grumpy, insensitive, fast-talking, patronizing , lawyer-lady with her wills and paperwork and plans really doesn’t do anything to define my legacy either. What matters, today, as always, is taking care of my family—instilling good habits in the kiddo; making good memories as a family; showing love to one another, and making sure that Eleanore knows some of her PawPaw’s good jokes.

And a will? Meh. If it’s necessary and makes people feel better, then fine. Really, it’s just a document to provide some order in potential chaos. A peace of paper, as it were. 

Pun definitely intended.

24

 

Most annoying show on television?

24. 

Not because I don’t love me some Kiefer Sutherland (because I do.) And not because I don’t like a good action-y, semi-suspenseful, and more than semi-violent television show, because I can get into that on occasion as well. 

No, the part that drives me round the bend is the fact that all this is somehow magically supposed to be happening in 24 hours (spoiler alert—that’s why it’s called “24”.) I mean, I’m all for suspending belief for a bit and going with the concept of the story, but really? 

Now before the haters hate, I’ll own that my meh-ness may be due to my ever-so-slight obsession with order and detail (read: I’m OCD.) But I find myself throughout the entire show focusing not on the storyline (we’re saving the President, AGAIN!) but rather on the practical impossibilities of everything I’m seeing.

 I can believe that someone can go for 24 hours without sleeping. Sure. We’ve all done it. Poorly and with questionable and often hilarious results, but fine fine. Plausible. And I can buy going for 24 hours without eating. I myself would not be someone you would choose to embark upon a road trip with at this point, but, if necessary, I could do it, sure. But going for 24 hours without sleep AND food? Listen Superman, no way you’re doing that AND ass-kicking-slash-saving-the-planet at that point. Clark Kent needs a nap. And…a glass of water…and potentially a bathroom break. (And do we even discuss the baffling issue of where in all the bloody universe one purchases a cellphone with unlimited service areas and a battery that lasts for 24 hours of non-stop use? I mean, seriously. You could make a fortune if you could get a hold of that patent…Whatever. I digress…) All I’m saying is that our Hero here needs one of his super-top-secret meetings to be at a diner with a cup of coffee, a nice burger, and an electrical outlet. And possibly a cot. 

 I guess I just can’t get my head tricked into suspending reality long enough to believe how much he can get done with so few resources in just 24 hours. The range of emotions. And physical exhaustion. The life or death situations. Too much. Not possible. Turning the channel.

 J is being deployed. Again. Suddenly.

 Yeah. I’ll let that sink in.

 It wasn’t supposed to happen again. He’s done his time—so close to retirement. He’d already been given orders for his next assignment. He doesn’t need a command. He was not even stationed with a particular unit. But of course none of that matters. It didn’t matter his rank. It didn’t matter his family situation. Didn’t matter that we already had orders to PCS. It didn’t matter the incredibly short notice or tight timeline they put him on. Didn’t matter that he was stationed in a non-deploying position, separate from any sort of deploying unit. Nope. Particular skill set + immediate need= pack your duffel, Soldier. You’re on! 

On a Tuesday morning we were on family vacation—happy, sunny, relaxed and planning our next PCS move.

On Wednesday morning, he got the email. And an hour later, we were on the phone. Trying to wrap our heads around our new reality. How do we do this? When does it happen? Why so quick? Can we delay? Say no? Ask for something else? Plead our case? 

No. Of course the answer to these things was no. This was happening. (Of course it was. For any of you who know J, you know that he would never ever side-step something he felt to be his duty. It’s not only that this is his job, it’s who he is: It’s what he does. From the moment they said “we need someone to go,” I knew it would be him. And it’s why I love him. But damn, damn, damn.) 

And then the planning started. What happens next? What resources do we have? What resources will we need? Who will help with the baby? How will Eleanore handle all this? Will she even know? What will my job say? Can I handle this on my own? (I’ll have to.) Can I reach out to friends and family? (I’ll have to.) Are we still moving when he gets back? Will I be coordinating that move? (Yes…and…yes.) And Christmas. And Thanksgiving. And Ellie’s 2nd birthday. And…and…and. 

Off the phone. Decisions made. Plans starting to come together. Quiet in my office by myself. First deep breath. And the waterworks begin. I’m profoundly sad. And I’m angry. And I’m proud and frustrated and scared out of my mind.

My poor unsuspecting girlfriend called just about then to catch up and ask about my vacation. (sorry friend...) Trying to relay the information to her only furthered my breakdown into an ever-deteriorating mental state. (In my defense…I had *literally* just hung up the phone with J. And this really did blindside us. Plus, the most mentally and emotionally taxing thing I had had to deal with in the week previous was getting my kid to sit still long enough for me to apply sunscreen. To say that I was ill-prepared for the phone call at that particular moment is a pretty solid truism.)

“You gonna be ok?”

 “Well. I have to be.” 

“No you don’t. It’s ok to be emotional about this. It’s a huge deal. I’d be upset for days.” 

And that’s when I realized that that wasn’t my reality—couldn’t be my reality. I sighed and pulled myself together. “I’ve got 24 hours.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I get 24 hours to process. I get 24 hours to be mad and freak out. And then I gotta be done with it. This is happening. And I am in charge of holding it together at home. And it’s going to be fine. I don’t have time to freak out longer than 24 hours. And honestly, J has to get his head in the game. He doesn’t have the time or energy to be worrying about what is going on at home. I get today to freak out. Privately. And then tomorrow I have to put my game face on and be done with this silliness.”

And so it was. I came home from work that night with our little girl in tow. Eyes dry. Said game face appropriately donned. “Let’s do this.” 

And so we planned. And schemed. And started setting up what life would look like while J was away and more importantly, what life would look like for us upon his return. Teamwork. Resolve. And a plan.

Thursday morning, J got the call to confirm he’d be taking the deployment. (An aside, I’ll leave out the next three weeks’ worth of torture where he was going, then he wasn’t going, then they needed him, then the assignment was no longer valid, then it was a year, then it was a six months, then it was a year but no move afterwards, then it was on, six months, and we still move to the PCS we were supposed to go to in the first place. Three weeks of this. Three.weeks. I’ll offer that little timeline without any additional commentary…other than to say not cool, Army. Not cool.)

But we made it. We made it through the first 24 hours. And we made it through the next 24. And each day after that, 24 more hours, removed from the Big Clock of slowly moving time that gets us to the next thing.

So I guess, when you’re in it, the 24 hours pass. And you come out on the other side stronger, having solved the problem in front of you and ready to face what’s next (I’ll be saving the President in the next 6 months?) 

Perhaps Jack Bauer isn’t so unreasonable. I guess it’s pretty amazing what you can accomplish in 24 hours when you have to. But if Jack Bauer is legit, someone needs to go ahead and grab that cell phone plan for me. I feel like I’ll probably have some important calls to make in the next six months or so.

Losing my Ambition

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I have spent my entire life striving for the next thing.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a hard worker. I’m rarely satisfied with the status quo. And I’m a *wee* bit of a control freak/ perfectionist/ organizational monster (please see previous posts about college nickname “The Binder Bitch.”) I have a really hard time slowing down.

In my life, I have always equated ambition with significant career or educational attainment. This ambition (which I have often used interchangeably with the word motivation) has rarely been solely about personal gain. But rather I have always felt that I must get more knowledge; more credentials, so that I could get a more prestigious job, so that people would take me seriously and so that I could then do good work helping others and say confidently that my life had been worth something:  that I will have made a difference.

Work hard so you can make a difference. That’s it. And in my life, I’ve done whatever it was that I had to do to get the necessary capital to make that happen.

An undergrad, a master’s, a PhD; teaching, professorships, administrating. That’s been my whole life. Thirty-two straight years of slowly working  up the ladder in schools-- from student, to faculty, to administration;  doing whatever it took to reach that next level,  justifying each sacrifice of time in the trenches to being the necessary stepping stone for the grand “what’s next.”

And regardless of my current station, at each turn, I felt compelled to do something more than I did in my last position. Better work. Better title. Better pay. That’s what ambitious hard-working people do, right? They strive to move on to the next measurable milestone. Hell, I’ve even made that the primary pursuit in my vocation—helping students to find their own next better work… title…pay.

Because if you’re not moving on to something bigger and better, you’re stagnating. Or worse yet, you’re moving backwards. That’s what’s been hammered into the heads of all ambitious people of the world ever since the time they decided to start being ambitious. Go big, or go home. Do something or move out of the way so someone else can.

And so this has been my life for as long as I can remember. To a great extent it’s been what has defined me as a person. The always persistent, self-sacrificing, *ambitious* young educator doing anything I could to make a difference in the world no matter what it cost me physically, financially, or emotionally.

It’s weird on that day when you wake up and you realize that the constant, dogged drive to work harder and harder and harder has begun to melt away. And suddenly you wonder why you’re killing yourself to get to the “what’s next.”

My little girl turned four months old this week.

Each day, I wake her up impossibly early. I feed her. I change her. I dress her. And thirty minutes later, I bundle her up, give her to her father, and off she goes to daycare for the day. I then spend an hour and 15 minutes in a ridiculous morning commute where I go and push myself hard for the benefit of many other people for 8 hours or 9 hours or 10 hours depending on the day. And then I rush home as fast as I can (and by rush, I mean get in the car and sit in traffic for another hour and 15 minutes) to pick up my daughter from her father’s arms after her day away. I feed her. I change her. I dress her for bed. And then 30 minutes later, I put her in her crib for the night.

I see my four month old for one total hour each day, yet I spend 2 hours and 30 minutes in the car commuting to my job.

This, my friends, is not sustainable. Something’s gotta give. And much to my surprise, I think it’s going to be my ambition.

Now, let’s be clear. I’ll always be me. I’ll always be driven to make a difference. I’ll always be passionate about education. I’ll always not-so-secretly want to change the world one kid at a time. I’m too old to change my stripes. But I think that the one kid whose world I want to change right now, is my own.

But for the first time in my life, I resent the commute. For the first time in my life, I spend as much time at work thinking about home as I do thinking about work. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel guilty about not reading work emails at home. I don’t bring home paperwork over the weekend. Work just isn’t a priority for me right now. And by “right now” I mean for the first time ever in my life.

It is an alien feeling. Because in the past, I would have said that this feeling equals being lazy or giving up a part of what is inherently me. And the guilt that I feel for not putting to use all the capital I’ve worked so hard to attain all these many years is palpable. Shouldn’t I be striving for something more?  Can I be an ambitious person and put that part of my life on hiatus without losing it forever? I don’t know the answer to that, and that feels a little scary.

These feelings and this cosmic and quite unexpected personal paradigm shift reminded of a conversation I had with one of my dearest friends several years back. She had just decided that she was going to discontinue her PhD pursuit. She said to me, with all the confidence and resolve in the world, “I’ve decided that I’d like a career and a life. And at some point, this might change, but right now, I think I want the career part of my life to be spelled with a lower-case “C.” Not My Career. But just a career.”

I remember thinking at the time that I admired her sincerity and conviction, but that it felt a little like acquiescence. Someone as gifted, as bright, who had so much to give to the world—why on Earth would SHE choose lower-case C? Weren’t people like that supposed to be the ones out busting their own humps to change the world?  I couldn’t imagine a time when I would feel comfortable making that same personal decision. 

I was reflecting on this very thought this evening as I was having a conversation with a dear friend who is living with J and I right now. He is an amazing cook. Has gone to culinary school, owns a restaurant, and does all the shopping and cooking for our house right now as he lives with us. As he was preparing yet another amazing meal for our family, he was telling me about his day at work. He mentioned that his new boss asked him what his hobbies were. He listed several things to his boss, none of which were cooking. When I asked him why not cooking, he looked at me and very simply said, “Cooking isn’t a hobby for me. It’s my passion. That’s different.”

Those two conversations rang particularly true for how I’m feeling right now. I can have a career without having a Career. I can have a passion for education without it being something that envelops all aspects of my professional life. I can continue to have a “strong desire to achieve something, requiring determination and hard work.”

It’s just going to look different than it has in the past. That undying yearning for upward mobility is being slowly replaced by an ever-increasing desire for balance. Time for me. Time for my husband. Time for my child. And time at work, in concert with one another instead of working against each other.

And I can still make a difference and change the life of a child—my own. And I can still work hard at achieving something—I can work to find a balance in my work life and personal life and find an appropriate outlet for my passion in education instead of pigeon-holing that passion into a 60 hour a week vocation.

So maybe I’m not losing my ambition, but merely redirecting it. And  I think I’m at peace with that for now. Something’s gotta give, and soon. And whatever that looks like; that will be the grand what’s next.

A More Explicit Step Two

26 weeks 5 days 

When I was younger, I adored print cartoons like “The Far Side.” They appealed to my quirky, often punny, weirdo sense of humor that was somewhere between intelligent and ridiculous. I felt very sophisticated reading them and understanding the joke (even though, yes, most of them featured talking barn animals. I get it.) 

One of my very favorite cartoons (which I would have sworn was a Far Side until I tried to look it up on the interwebs today, and now I’m not so sure....we’ll call it Gary Larson-esque…) featured two scientists standing in front of a chalk board full of mathematical scribbles. 

On the left hand side of the board: numerical chicken scratches. On the right hand side of the board: an equals sign with more numerical chicken scratches proposing a solution. And right in the middle of the two chalkboards, the phrase:  “Then a miracle occurs.”  The first scientist looks at the second scientist and says (in the very droll voice of all Gary Larson cartoon characters in my head) “I think you should be more explicit here in step two.”

This has been my week regarding life prep for my girl, the River Dancer. 

Because here’s the thing. I’m entering my third trimester. I’m feeling pretty confident that I’ve got this whole pregnancy thing down pat now. I’m enormous. I’m swollen. I’m tired all the time. I lose my balance standing still sometimes.  I can’t sleep worth a damn because there evidently aren’t enough pillows on this planet to build the requisite nest for my slumber nor can our house get cold enough for me to stave off the night sweats.  (Don’t be jealous. I know it sounds super attractive and very glamorous.) I’m getting used to this reality. I don’t much like it, but I get it. I’ve read the books. I’ve kibitzed with my other pregnant girlfriends. This is just my new normal for a while. 

We’ll call pregnancy the left hand side of the above chalkboard. Lots of nonsensical chicken scratches that don’t really make much sense. But there they are anyway, written by very smart people who seem to know what they’re talking about. 

Then, there’s motherhood. I’ve registered for all the stuff. I’ve read the books. I’m prepared for the no-sleep and craziness of those first few months. I’ve been with many of my girlfriends in the first few weeks of motherhood—stayed with them, helped with the dishes and the diapers and all the rest of it—taken care of babies…babysat. I’m pretty maternal. Granted, I know when it’s your own kid things will be vastly different. I’m not trying to pretend like I know what it’s going to be like. But at least I have a frame of reference—in theory, I know what it’s going to take to get the job done. I feel like once Baby Girl arrives, I’ll get the hang of that stuff with her eventually. And we’ll move on to what is our new normal, stumbling through it together.

We’ll call motherhood the right hand side of the cartoon chalkboard. Lots of nonsensical chicken scratches to be sure…but on the OTHER side of the equals sign.   An answer. Something that’s been figured out. A beginning of the next thing;  A starting point for more questions.

The part that no one seems to be prepared for (because no one talks about it) is that whole “miracle occurring” thing in the middle. Not pregnancy. Not motherhood. Not the miracle of life, per se. But rather the miracle of BIRTH, of actually, physically, beyond what is imaginable, expelling the child from your person and into the world.

Now, I do often hear people say things like “Pregnancy is hard. And birth is even harder. But holding your baby for the first time is so so worth all of it, that anything that happens during birth will completely disappear.”

Anything that happens during birth? Hmmmm. Cryptic.

Or maybe it’s that birth is the the shortest of the three stages: 9 months of pregnancy to reflect on; a lifetime of motherhood to reflect on; and a mere (ha!) 2- 24 hours of actual labor leading to birth which happens in just a few minutes. And I guess you’re probably not being super reflective and writing stuff down during that whole person-removal-from-your-lady-parts process. And afterwards, let's be honest...you're wearing some pretty hefty rose-tinted baby goggles (it's like beer goggles...but different.)

Or maybe I’ll be coerced into signing the Secret Pact of Motherhood which requires a Fight Club-esque silence about birth after you’ve participated in it, lest it scare off all potential mothers causing the entire world population to take a dip (First Rule of Birthing: You do not talk about Birthing.)

Or maybe it really is a miracle—a divine intervention that can’t be explained, even if you tried.

MIR-A-CLE from the Latin "Miraculum"; to wonder or marvel at:  an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs

Yeah maybe that’s it. That’s why no one talks about Step Two. Because there are no words of explanation for a miracle. It just sorta happens and you all stand back and marvel at it. I think I like this theory most of all.

As I enter my third trimester, several people have asked me if I’m ready for the big day. I mostly look at them like they’ve got a telephone growing out of their foreheads. What can possibly prepare you for THAT? Of *course* I’m not prepared to push a human being out of my insides. Are you insane?  I literally looked at someone last week who asked me if I was ready for the birthing process and with the drollness of a Gary Larson cartoon character merely asked in return “Are you?” (It was uncomfortable…)

Several people have also asked me if I have written out my birth plan yet. My birth plan? Um…Sure. It goes a little something like this:

Step 1: Have contractions
Step 2: Go to the hospital
Step 3: Get her out of me as quickly and painlessly as possible (i.e. the miracle)
Step 4: Go home and live happily ever after. The end.

(Does this count as a birth plan? Probably not… But wouldn’t it be hilarious if that’s what I showed up with at the hospital? Gah…I just might do it. )

I just think it’s funny that people believe that they can plan for this stuff. I feel like you can’t dictate details when you’re in a moment like that. Birth is Step Two: WHERE a MIRACLE occurs (with the help of doctors and nurses and people that will basically take your birth plan, potentially look at it, and then throw it out the window based on what is actually happening in the room at that time.)

Yet even so, the control freak in me wishes folks could be a *little* more explicit in Step Two, because as much as I want to believe it to be so, I'm pretty sure it isn't actual magic that takes place in the delivery room.

Because of this, J and I will start with the birthing and lactation classes soon (signed up last week!) I’m pretty sure that once we begin with the breathing exercises and the birthing videos in which the magic of birth is broken down for me frame by painful frame, I’m going to take back everything I’ve said here about wanting more information and shall run screaming in the opposite direction like a cartoon chicken with my head cut off.

How about *that* for a Far Side cartoon, Gary Larson.

Lasts and Firsts

24 weeks, 6 days

I hate the phrase “in my opinion.” 

Of *course* it’s your opinion. If it was someone else’s opinion you were spouting, it would be a quote (or plagiarism.) Additionally, tacking “humble” on to this phrase as in, “in my humble opinion” is ridiculous. Anyone who has to throw that in to the conversation probably isn’t really very humble to begin with and is most likely just trying to underline the importance of their point…snarkily (yup, still a word.) 

All opinions are your own, because a person’s opinions are based on one thing only: one’s experiences. At some point, you read something or saw something or did something or felt something or heard something that has lead you to believe what it is you believe. Experience of some kind must precede an opinion. There’s no other way to get one that belongs to you. 

And even then, I’m not sure I trust your opinion if you haven’t actually personally experienced the thing yourself. You can read about mountain climbing or watch people mountain climb or be besties with climbers whilst shopping at REI and wearing a carabineer on your belt at all times (belay on.) Those things will give you opinions on climbing, for sure. But until you’ve actually gone mountain climbing, I don’t think you get to have a legit stance on how hard it is or beautiful or fulfilling. You’re just working from other people’s notes until you’ve done it yourself.

I bring this up as a soon-to-be-first-time-mom because right now, I’m just working from other people’s notes on this whole life as a mother business. I have read things. I have seen things. I can guess based on past experiences how I’m going to react to things. But I don’t get to have a legitimate view on topic yet because I have yet to do it. 

This turns out to be pretty ok, since everyone else on the planet seems to have an opinion that they are dying to share about what it’s going to be like when I am a parent.

Now, first off, don’t get me wrong. I love to hear stories. I appreciate hearing tips. I’ll listen to advice and cautionary tales all day long. Because I myself don’t have any of my own yet. So sure. Give it to me straight, doc. I can take it. 

However. 

It seems like what people *most* like to share regarding what it’s going to be like when I myself am a mom are what I like to call the “List of Lasts.” 

“Enjoy it now, this is the last time you’ll be able to do that (fill in the blank of what “that” is based on whatever conversation you’re having with that someone at that moment.) 

“Ah, if I would have known ahead of time what parenting would be like, I would have done more travel/ eating out/ drinking/ partying/ date nights/ movies/ sleeping/ fill-in-the-blank enjoyable, fairly routine activity, because when you have a kid you won’t be able to do any of that anymore.” 

“Enjoy your alone time with your husband while you can. Once you have a kid that will be the last of that.” 

“Enjoy your beach body while you can…” (Ok, so I’ve never really had a beach body, so I’m feeling alright about this one.) 

“Enjoy being unencumbered while you can…” (Who in the world is really totally unencumbered ever, kids or not? I digress…) 

I even have a small number of single friends (and/ or friends without kids) who have seemingly started to slowly write me off based on their assumptions of how I might deal with The Lasts, assuming that since we soon will have one less thing in common that I won’t want to/ be able to ever go back to doing any of those things on the List of Lasts again. “Can’t talk to her about sleeping in/ traveling/ partying because she’s going to be in mourning for those things for the next 18 years. Best not to include her thus reminding her of her former life…” 

I gotta tell you people, you’re not doing a very good job of selling this whole parenthood thing to those of us who haven’t done it yet. Because for now, your opinions are the only notes I’ve got to work from. And they are bleak. 

Now, I KNOW you’re trying to be helpful and encourage me to take full advantage of the next three months to the best of my ability. And I appreciate the head’s up. But dude. Come on. You’re killing me with regrets I didn’t even know I was supposed to have about a former life I haven’t even left yet. 

Additionally, there is nothing in my past that would indicate to me that having a child is going to keep me from eventually sleeping/ traveling/ having a drink/ playing with my friends in the future. Frequency is probably going to take a hit, for sure. But I don’t feel like I as a person am going to fundamentally change who I am. My ability to get the chance to do the things I love? That’s gonna change, sure. But not the nature of what those things are. Maybe I’m wrong—again, I haven’t been there yet myself. But I just don’t see it happening. And I’d at least like to have the benefit of the doubt until I’ve got some experience proving the contrary. Not a List of Lasts, people. Just a List of Less Frequents. 

All of that said, I do think there’s a silver lining here. I’m pretty confident all you parents out there SECRETLY have another list (but strangely don’t share with newbies): the List of Firsts. 

First sight of your child. Her first smile. First bath. First nap on your chest. First kiss on the cheek. First word. First “ma ma” or “da-da.” First steps. I’m guessing all that stuff is pretty awesome. And totally worth the price of admission. 

Of course, I don’t have frames of reference for those yet because I’ve never experienced them. And maybe that’s why you share your List of Lasts instead—Because I *do* have opinions on those things. But it’s a total downer people, seriously. You gotta learn to spin this thing called parenthood or only the totally boring are going to reproduce.

I blissfully don’t yet know what I’ll miss by being a mom. But here’s what I can tell you from my experience thus far. In the last two weeks, Baby River Dancer (as I like to call her) has started to move constantly. I can feel her now all the time practicing her best Michael Flatley impersonations. Last week, J put headphones on my belly and piped classical music right on in for her and she moved and rolled and kicked the whole time (either a hater or a future Beethoven.) And for the first time this week, I felt her hiccup, which is a strange and alien and amazing feeling. 

These were my Firsts. And they were awesome. And now I get to have an opinion. And based on my experience, these were totally worth any Lasts I might give up for the time being. But then, that’s just one woman’s humble opinion.